thinking.
Yesterday’s examination by Dr. Philip R. Meade was one of the things that kept replaying in his mind, the primary thing. According to Meade, his condition-atrophying optic nerves in both eyes, aggravated by a form of “systemic choroiditis,” or disease of the middle layer of tissue deep inside the eye-had not advanced to any marked degree. But neither had it improved, of course. Prognosis: still negative. Meade had administered a cortisone treatment, even though the last ophthalmologist he’d consulted in California had told him the condition had advanced beyond the help of such treatments. The good doctor had also administered bland professional sympathies, the usual recommendations as to what the patient should and shouldn’t do, and a stronger codeine prescription to relieve the pain of his headaches.
Jan had asked him about blackouts, if they could become a symptom of his condition; he was careful not to admit that he had already had one, saying only that he “understood” they might be a by-product of intense eye- related headaches. Meade said blackouts were possible-given the rarity and seriousness of Jan’s particular eye disorder, many symptomatic complications were possible-but his professional opinion was that Mr. Ryerson need have no fear of “memory impairment,” especially if he avoided undue stress.
So much for Dr. Philip R. Meade.
He drove straight down Highway 5, mile after mile, mile after mile. And many more miles to go before I sleep. Traffic was thinning out, at least, now that rush hour was over, he could drive at a steady sixty-five, ten above the speed limit, but nobody observed the speed limit on Highway 5. Salem, Albany, Eugene, coming up on Cottage Grove. Coming up on nightfall, too, and still a hundred and fifty miles left to drive. Maybe he should stop for the night in Cottage Grove, or on down the road in Roseburg. Pack it in early, get an early start in the morning. No, he didn’t want to spend another night in a motel. Four strange walls, closed in and alone, and worse when he shut off the light. The dark. It was like being a child again-afraid of the dark.
Country-and-western music blaring at him from the radio. “She Got the Gold Mine, I Got the Shaft.” For God’s sake. Was that supposed to be amusing? He rotated the knob, found a classical station. Something heavy, ponderous-Bach fugue? Terrific, just what he needed. The knob again. Sports-talk program out of Eugene, somebody complaining about the Oregon Ducks football team being perennial losers and poor competition for Pac- 10 powerhouses like USC and UCLA. Fine, good. Complain away, my friend, all your worries should be confined to ducks, Oregon or otherwise.
Pretty country on both sides of Cottage Grove, mountains rising, farms tucked away in the folds of the hills. But he couldn’t enjoy it. Roseburg next-and full dark when he got there. He turned off on Highway 42, the two-lane state road that connected Roseburg with Coos Bay on the coast. Sixty miles to Coquille, then a dozen miles on winding Highway 42-S to Bandon, then another twenty miles or so from there to Cape Despair. Close to a hundred miles altogether, part of it mountain driving, and already he felt fatigued and gritty-eyed.
Headache starting up, too. Just a small one, but he kept monitoring it, gauging its intensity, trying by force of will to prevent it from worsening. If it did get worse, if the bulging started, then he’d have to stop somewhere for the night. No more driving when he was suffering that way. Too dangerous-and he’d promised Alix.
Better take a rest stop soon, get some coffee and something to eat; no food since a small breakfast, and his stomach had set up an insistent growling. Call Alix, too. Eight-thirty now; she’d be wondering why he wasn’t already back. Worrying, and he didn’t want her to worry.
A truck stop’s neon sign swam up out of the night ahead, blue and red and yellow; the colors looked watery at the edges. He pulled into the parking lot, drove past a couple of drawn-up semis, and found a place to park. At the upper end of the lot, where another driveway connected with the main road, two kids were trying to thumb a ride. They never learn, he thought. Don’t they know it’s dangerous to hitchhike these days? Don’t they care? No, it wasn’t that. It was just that they were young, and when you’re young you never think about death, you never think it’ll happen to you.
The diner was half full, hot and noisy, the air thick with the smell of fried food. There was an empty stool at the far end of the counter; he sat down and, without looking at a menu, told a waitress he’d have coffee and a burger, no fries. A corridor ran past the kitchen nearby, to the restrooms in back. He went along it, found a telephone on the wall between the restroom doors, found some change in his pocket, and called the lighthouse number collect.
The line hummed seven times, eight, making him nervous, before Alix answered and accepted the call. “Where are you?” she asked. Relief was plain in her voice. “I was starting to worry.”
“Diner outside Roseburg. I got a late start.”
“I wish you’d called earlier.”
“I should have, I’m sorry.”
“… How do you feel?”
“Not too bad. A little tired, that’s all.”
“You’re not having one of your headaches?”
“No. Don’t wony.”
“It’s still a long drive from Roseburg, isn’t it? Are you sure you’re not too tired…?”
“Positive. I should be in by eleven.”
“Well, if you’re sure… ”
“I’m sure,” he said. “Everything all right there? You took a long time answering.”
“I was working on the Eddystone sketch.”
“No problems or anything?”
“Jan, you asked me that this morning when you called. And last night. Do you expect something else to happen?”
“No, no. I guess I’m still a little spooked after Saturday night, that’s all. I’ll see you around eleven.”
“All right. Take care.”
“I will.”
He went back to the counter, sat down, drank coffee while he waited for his hamburger. Why didn’t he tell her the truth about Saturday night? Didn’t want to frighten her. Not that there was anything to be afraid of now; it was finished. Wasn’t it? Yes, he’d handled Novotny just right on Sunday-forceful, without being belligerent or unreasonable.
Still. He’d feel better once he was back at the Cape Despair Light with Alix. He hadn’t liked the idea of leaving her alone; he wouldn’t do it again.
But will she leave me alone when she finds out?
He couldn’t get the possibility out of his mind. In his more optimistic moments he believed the fear was irrational; they’d been together so many years, been through so much together, and nothing had yet weakened the bond between them. And yet the fear was still there. And the fear kept him from telling her what he faced, what they both faced, in the very near future. So many people had left him in his life, some of them for reasons beyond his comprehension; was it really so irrational to think she would too? That graphic design company meant so much to her… no way could she undertake a job like that, with all its travel and other demands, when she had a blind husband to look out for. How could he even expect her to? He couldn’t; he wasn’t that selfish. Yes, he was. He didn’t want to lose her, and he wouldn’t, but he was terrified he would. Irrational…
His headache was just a little worse now.
He pressed both eye sockets with thumb and forefinger. Food might ease it. If not, one of the codeine capsules nestling in his coat pocket. Meade had warned him against taking the medicine while he was driving, but if he took just one, with plenty of coffee…
His hamburger arrived. Tasteless, but he ate all of it, even ate the orange slice that came with it. And he was still hungry. He ordered a slice of cherry pie a la mode and ate that and drank three more cups of coffee.
None of it did his head much good. The pressure remained-constant, but muted and tolerable. All he had to do was hold it at this level and he wouldn’t have any difficulty driving; his thoughts were still perfectly clear. He shook out one of the codeine capsules, swallowed it with the last of his coffee. His nerves felt jangly from all the caffeine, but at least that would help keep him alert. He paid for his meal, left a tip, went out to the station wagon.
The hitchhikers were gone; he wondered vaguely who had picked them up. He wouldn’t have, even if they’d still been there. Bad idea, picking up hitchhikers; dangerous on both sides.
He began to drive again. Radio blaring rock music, all dissonance and shrieks that scraped like a file across
