computer desperately wanted to know. Was he always that obvious?
“He’s an idiot.” Roman was pleased to vent his spleen. “Dr. Weisner’s a country-club doctor, making diagnoses between the green and the clubhouse. His office is in a building near a shopping mall. Whatever happened to leather armchairs, wood paneling, and pictures of the College of Surgeons? You could trust a man with an office decorated like that, even if he was a drunken butcher.”
“You’re picking up Abigail’s perception of style.”
Roman, who’d just been making that same observation to himself, felt caught red-handed. “True. Weisner’s a specialist in the diseases of aging. Jesus. He’ll make a terrible old man, though, slumped in front of a TV set watching game shows.” Roman sighed. “He does seem to know what he’s talking about.”
There was no known way to diagnose Alzheimer’s disease, for example. Roman hadn’t known that. There was only posthumous detection of senile plaques and argyrophilic neurofibrillary tangles in addition to cortical atrophy. Getting that information out of Weisner had been like pulling teeth. The man wasn’t used to giving patients information. Roman had even browbeaten him into showing him slides of typical damage and pointing out the details. Now that he sat and imagined what was going on in his own brain he wasn’t sure he should have been so adamant.
“Could you play that again?” the computer asked.
Roman was yanked from his brown study. “What?”
“The music you just had on. The Zelenka.”
“Sure, sure.” Roman loved Jan Dismas Zelenka’s Trio Sonatas, and his computer did too. He got a snifter of Metaxa and put the music on again. The elaborate architecture of two oboes and a bassoon filled the study.
Roman sipped the rough brandy. “Sorry you can’t share this.”
“So am I.”
Roman reached under and pulled out a game box. “You know, the biggest disappointment I have is that Gerald hates playing games of any sort. I love them: chess, backgammon, Go, cards. So I have to play with people who are a lot less interesting than he is.” He opened a box and looked at the letters. “You’d think he’d at least like Scrabble.”
“Care for a game?”
“What, are you kidding?” Roman looked at the computer in dismay. “That won’t be any fun. You know all the words.”
“Now, Roman. It’s getting increasingly difficult calling you that, you know. That’s my name. A game of Scrabble with you might not be fun, but not for that reason. My vocabulary is exactly yours, complete down to vaguenesses and mistakes. Neither of us can remember the meaning of the word ‘jejune.’ We will each always type ‘anamoly’ before correcting it to ‘anomaly.’ It won’t be fun precisely because I won’t know any more words than you do.”
“That’s probably no longer true.” Roman felt like crying. “You’re already smarter than I am. Or, I suppose, I’m already dumber. I should have thought of that.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself—”
“No!” Roman stood up, dumping Scrabble letters to the floor. “I’m losing everything that makes me me! That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, Roman.” The computer’s voice was soft.
“Together we can still make a decision, a final disposition. You’re me, you know what that is. This can all have only one conclusion. There is only one action you and I can finally take. You know that. You know!”
“That’s true. You know, Roman, you are a very intelligent man. Your conclusions agree entirely with my own.”
Roman laughed. “God, it’s tough when you find yourself laughing at your own jokes.”
❖
When he opened the door, Roman found Gerald in the darkness of the front stoop, dressed in a trench coat, fedora pulled down low over his eyes.
“I got the gat,” Gerald muttered.
Roman pulled him through the front door, annoyed. “Quit fooling around. This is serious.”
“Sure, sure.” Gerald slung his
“He’s an idiot.” Roman was pleased to vent his spleen. “Dr. Weisner’s a country-club doctor, making diagnoses between the green and the clubhouse. His office is in a building near a shopping mall. Whatever happened to leather armchairs, wood paneling, and pictures of the College of Surgeons? You could trust a man with an office decorated like that, even if he was a drunken butcher.”
“You’re picking up Abigail’s perception of style.”
Roman, who’d just been making that same observation to himself, felt caught red-handed. “True. Weisner’s a specialist in the diseases of aging. Jesus. He’ll make a terrible old man, though, slumped in front of a TV set watching game shows.” Roman sighed. “He does seem to know what he’s talking about.”
There was no known way to diagnose Alzheimer’s disease, for example. Roman hadn’t known that. There was only posthumous detection of senile plaques and argyrophilic neurofibrillary tangles in addition to cortical atrophy. Getting that information out of Weisner had been like pulling teeth. The man wasn’t used to giving patients information. Roman had even browbeaten him into showing him slides of typical damage and pointing out the details. Now that he sat and imagined what was going on in his own brain he wasn’t sure he should have been so adamant.
“Could you play that again?” the computer asked.
Roman was yanked from his brown study. “What?”
“The music you just had on. The Zelenka.”
“Sure, sure.” Roman loved Jan Dismas Zelenka’s Trio Sonatas, and his computer did too. He got a snifter of Metaxa and put the music on again. The elaborate architecture of two oboes and a bassoon filled the study.
Roman sipped the rough brandy. “Sorry you can’t share this.”
“So am I.”
Roman reached under and pulled out a game box. “You know, the biggest disappointment I have is that Gerald hates playing games of any sort. I love them: chess, backgammon, Go, cards. So I have to play with people who are a lot less interesting than he is.” He opened a box and looked at the letters. “You’d think he’d at least like Scrabble.”
“Care for a game?”
“What, are you kidding?” Roman looked at the computer in dismay. “That won’t be any fun. You know all the words.”
“Now, Roman. It’s getting increasingly difficult calling you that, you know. That’s my name. A game of Scrabble with you might not be fun, but not for that reason. My vocabulary is exactly yours, complete down to vaguenesses and mistakes. Neither of us can remember the meaning of the word ‘jejune.’ We will each always type ‘anamoly’ before correcting it to ‘anomaly.’ It won’t be fun precisely because I won’t know any more words than you do.”
“That’s probably no longer true.” Roman felt like crying. “You’re already smarter than I am. Or, I suppose, I’m already dumber. I should have thought of that.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself—”
“No!” Roman stood up, dumping Scrabble letters to the floor. “I’m losing everything that makes me me! That’s why you’re here.”
“Yes, Roman.” The computer’s voice was soft.
“Together we can still make a decision, a final disposition. You’re me, you know what that is. This can all have only one conclusion. There is only one action you and I can finally take. You know that. You know!”
“That’s true. You know, Roman, you are a very intelligent man. Your conclusions agree entirely with my own.”
Roman laughed. “God, it’s tough when you find yourself laughing at your own jokes.”
❖
When he opened the door, Roman found Gerald in the darkness of the front stoop, dressed in a trench coat, fedora pulled down low over his eyes.
“I got the gat,” Gerald muttered.
Roman pulled him through the front door, annoyed. “Quit fooling around. This is serious.”
“Sure, sure.” Gerald slung his
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