María kept her eyes trained on the
silver cigarette case that Dr. Templeton clutched in his right hand. She studied the byzantine design on the
case’s surface. At first, María believed
that she saw the outline of a horrific, satanic face but, after a few moments
of concentration, she discerned the contours of a rose, an overblown and
sensuous example of the flower. In one
fluid movement, Dr. Templeton popped the case open, withdrew a cigarette,
snapped it shut, tapped the cigarette on the smooth back of the case, and slid
it back into his jacket for a tweedy hibernation. The doctor then snatched a wooden match from
a weighted leather cup on his desk and struck it on a rough patch on the side
of the cup. The flame billowed red and
blue and then subsided to a flicker before he drew it near the cigarette.
Taking a deep drag, the doctor
lowered his head and looked over his glasses at María. He allowed the smoke to leak from the corners
of his mouth and then, as if in irritation with the mechanics of smoking, he
blew the remaining smoke from his nostrils with all the strength of his lungs
so that he looked like an angry dragon.
The plumes of smoke rose and then lingered about the doctor’s unruly
bush of red hair that seemed to spring from his head as if trying to escape.
“What else?” asked María in English.
Dr. Templeton looked sad,
fatigued. “There’s nothing else,
really. The cancer has gone on too long
for us to do anything.”
“And the time. How much did you say?”
The doctor sighed. “Six months to a year.” He put his hand on María’s shoulder and he
was surprised that she did not shake, but stood rock still. The nurse tried not to make much noise as she
went about picking up and putting away medical files in the back of the office.
María averted her eyes from Dr.
Templeton’s. She stared at a beautiful
calendar that hung over the doctor’s massive oak desk. At the top of the calendar was the year
“1943" emblazoned in bright blue ink, with little Easter bunnies peeking
from behind the numbers while colored eggs rolled about the foreground. She imagined that her son would love that
calendar.
“Here,” the
doctor said handing a small brown bottle of pills to María. “There’s nothing wrong with using these when
you have to. If the pain eventually gets
too great, we can talk further.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Pray for me.”
Dr. Templeton blushed so that his face matched his
hair. He coughed. “Yes, Mrs. Isla. Of course I’ll pray for you.”
María imagined the
Doctor’s prayer rising up to heaven like cigarette smoke and she smiled. All she needed now was a dime for the
streetcar.
[“Silver Case” first appeared
in Vestal Review.]
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