Turn of Mind

Yes. I found an old checkbook in my bureau. And as soon as it cleared, Fiona went through all my drawers and confiscated it.

The bitch.

A chip off the old block.

You said it.

He taps his fingers on the table in an almost recognizable rhythm. Dahdah-dah day-day-dah dah- DAH-dah-dahdah.

You’re sharp today.

Yes.

Interesting how it comes and goes.

Interesting isn’t the word I’d use.

We are in the den because the cleaners are here, and they’ve chased us out of the living room and the kitchen, our usual haunts, and we can hear the approaching roar of the vacuum, the rattle of mops and pails as they work their way toward this final room.

I’m curious. Will you even remember this conversation tomorrow? Mark is standing by the television, idly clicking through James’s DVD collection of classic movies. There wasn’t a noir film that James didn’t know by heart.

I may. I may not. It all depends, I say. I watch as Mark pulls out Du rififichez les hommes, rejects it in favor of White Heat.

So I shouldn’t say anything I might regret? He flips open the plastic case, takes out the silver disk, places his finger in the center hole, and spins it around.

It depends on the source of regret. Would you regret it because it was a cruel or otherwise despicable thing to say, or because I would remember you saying it? I ask.

Probably the former. I tend not to have regrets unless there are repercussions. He smiles at this, puts down the DVD on top of the television, and takes a seat opposite me. His jitters seem to be subsiding. How about you? he asks. Any regrets? Although his tone is derisive, I get the feeling he really wants to know.

I was the opposite, I say. I never let the possibility of repercussions influence any decisions I made.

What about your medical decisions? Weren’t you concerned that decisions you made could have certain effects? Like, for instance . . . death? His dark face is exaggeratedly solemn. He is waiting to catch me out in something. I won’t let him.

Those are outcomes. Outcomes are different from repercussions.

I would have thought they were synonyms, he says.

There are nuances, I say. I am warming to the discussion. Anything is better than another endless chat about nothing over tea with Magdalena. A repercussion has the nuance of being punishing, I say. An outcome is simply a result. You do something, and you have an outcome. An output for an input.

And were you always pleased with the . . . outputs . . . of your actions?

I was not pleased with the outcomes of some of my surgeries, certainly —a small percentage, but nevertheless they existed. But I made the best decisions under the circumstances. Those were not mistakes. They were decisions that had outcomes.

Mark is silent for a moment. You’re on top of your game, certainly, he says. No one could pull a sly one on you today.

That actually makes me smile. He sounds about ten, just having been caught smoking cigarettes with Jimmy Petersen behind the Jewel.

Why? I ask. Did you hope to?

He doesn’t answer, instead changing the subject.

Did Amanda talk to you?

About what? Oh. Did you hit her up, too?

Well, I’d gotten a nice check from you. It would have been tasteless to approach you again so soon.

And what did she say?

So, she didn’t tell you? Odd. I would have thought that was the first thing she’d do.

No. She liked to keep her own counsel. So what did she say?

She laughed at me. Told me to stuff it up my nose.

That sounds like Amanda.

It was infuriating. I could have killed her. Mark fidgets in his chair. Oh. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.

Said what?

You know. He looks at me. Or maybe you don’t. Never mind.