After the Plague by T. C. Boyle Page B

ask—stay away from the patients. And I’m not really asking.”
    It was raining the next morning, a cold rain that congealed on the hood of the car and made a cold pudding of the sidewalk out front of the house. I wondered if the weather would discourage the Jesus-thumpers, but they were there, all right, in yellow rain slickers and green gum boots, sunk into their suffering with gratitude. Nobody rushed the car when we turned into the lot. They just stood there, eight of them, five men and three women, and looked hate at us. As we got out of the car, the frozen rain pelting us, I locked eyes across the lot with the bearded jerk who’d gone after the girl in the white parka. I waited till I was good and certain I had his attention, waited till he was about to shout out some hoarse Jesus-thumping accusation, and then I gave him the finger.
    We were the first ones at the clinic, what with the icy roads, and as soon as my brother disappeared into the sanctum of his office I went straight to the receptionist’s desk and flipped back the page of the appointment book. The last entry, under four-thirty the previous day, was staring me in the face, neat block letters in blue metalpoint: “Sally Strunt,” it read, and there was a phone number jotted beneath the name. It took me exactly ten seconds, and then I was in the back room, innocently slipping into my lab coat. Sally Strunt, I whispered to myself, Sally Strunt, over and over. I’d never known anyone named Sally—it was an old-fashioned name, a hokey name, Dick and Jane and Sally, and because it was old-fashioned and because it was hokey it seemed perfect for a teenager in trouble in the grim sleety washed-out navel of the Midwest. This was no downtown Amber, no Crystal or Shanna—this was Detroit Sally, and that really appealed to me. I’d seen the face attached to the name, and the mother of that face.
Sally, Sally, Sally.
Her name sang through my head as I schmoozed with Fred and the nurses and went through the motions of the job that already felt as circumscribed and deadening as a prison sentence.
    That night, after dinner, I excused myself and strolled six cold wintry blocks to the convenience store. I bought M&M’s for the boys, some white chocolate for Denise, and a liter of Black Cat malt liquor for myself. Then I dialled Sally’s number from the phone booth out front of the store.
    A man answered, impatient, harassed. “Yeah?”
    â€œSally there?” I said.
    â€œWho’s this?”
    I took a stab at it: “Chris Ryan. From school?”
    Static. Televised dialogue. The roar of Sally’s name and the sound of approaching feet and Sally’s approaching voice: “Who is it?” And then, into the receiver: “Hello?”
    â€œSally?” I said.
    â€œYes?” There was hope in that voice, eagerness. She wanted to hear from me—or from whoever. This wasn’t the voice of a girl concealing things. It was open, frank, friendly. I felt expansivesuddenly, connected, felt as if everything was going to be all right, not only for me but for Sally too.
    â€œYou don’t know me,” I said quickly, “but I really admire you. I mean, your courage. I admire what you’re doing.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œChris,” I said. “Chris Ryan. I saw you yesterday, at the clinic, and I really admire you, but I just wanted to know if, uh, if you need anything.”
    Her voice narrowed, thin as wire. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œSally,” I said, and I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was feeling, but I couldn’t help myself, “Sally, can I ask you something? Are you pregnant, or are you—?”
    Click. She hung up on me. Just like that.
    I was frozen through by the time I got back with the kids’ M&M’s and Denise’s white chocolate, and I’d finished off the beer on the way and flung the empty bottle