"Somebody has to.
Each with an arm still around the other, they crossed Wisconsin and followed M Street's gentle down slope toward Rock Creek.
"So you're not disappointed? " Brad said.
"What do I have to do, " Duncan said, 'have it tattooed on my forehead?
No. En-oh. I am not disappointed."
"That's such an awesome relief, I can't tell you." Brad had told him he wanted to get together and talk about the future, his plans for his own future. Duncan had suggested dinner. њt turned out Brad hadn't so much wanted to discuss what he planned to do with his future, as what he planned not to do.
And he did not plan to go to medical school.
Years ago, before his public lapidation by the Guidelines committee, before managed care snared the medical profession in its tendrils, Duncan would have been bitterly disappointed .
But tonight he was almost thrilled.
"Why should I be upset because you don't want to spend another eight-to-ten years in brain-busting study for the privilege of answering to panels of political appointees? The only thing medicine's got going for it anymore is job . , , security.
'"Yeah. People will always need doctors, I guess." "That they will.
But the doctor-patient relationship is eroding. There used to be an almost sacred bond between a doctor and a patient that no one could break. The examination room was the equivalent of a confessional. The intimate secrets that used to be hieroglyphically recorded in our crabbed shorthand and hermetically sealed behind the inviolable walls of our offices are now open to any government or insurance company hireling who wants to see them."
"So I've got to be careful what I tell my doctor."
"-Damn right. And for your sake he's got to be choosy about what he sets down on paper. ' "Sounds pretty grim. But none of that's why.
The main reason is it's just not my thing." He gave Brad's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Just what is? " '"I don't know, Dad. I just don't know." Duncan sighed. So many of this so-called Generation X seemed to have no-idea what they wanted or where they were going. Duncan couldn't understand that. All his life he'd wanted to be a doctor.
He'd set a course for it when he was a child.
Never could he recall even an instant of uncertainty.
Maybe that was why he felt such kinship with Gin. She was as determined to do things her way as he'd been at her age. Her way wasn't his, but he could forgive her that, she'd see the error of her ways. She was almost like a daughter. Maybe he'd subconsciously slipped Gin into the empty place within that he'd reserved for Lisa.
Yes . . . like a daughter. After all, he'd given her life in a way, sewing her insides back together.
But not knowing the next step . . . the anxiety that had to cause.
What uncertainties roiled through Brad when he lay in bed at night, asking the dark where his life was headed?
"Whatever you decide, I'm behind you. Any time you, " "Faggots! " Duncan started at the word and glanced around. To his right, three shadowy figures slouched in predatory poses in a darkened recessed doorway, each with a bottle or can of some sort in hand. Light from the street reflected from their bare scalps. He kept walking.
"Skinheads, " Brad whispered and began to pull his arm from around Duncan's waist.
Duncan grabbed his wrist. "Don't you dare." "Dad, they think we're, " "Are you going to let them be the arbiters of how a father and son can walk down the street? " "I know how you are with the never complain, never explain stuff, but these guys are crazy." Duncan reached his free hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers around the metal cylinder there.
"Maybe I'm crazier." The M Street-Wisconsin Avenue area had always been the tacky section of Georgetown. A farrago of trendily overpriced boutiques, bars, clubs, and evanescent restaurants ranging from upscale ethnic cuisine to Little Tavern Hamburgers, peopled by roaming demimondaines and boulevardiers in search of something called fun.
Folksingers had peopled the cafes in the early sixties, giving way to the hippies at the end of the decade. Discos came and went in the seventies. Through it all, the Georgetown street people had upheld a noble tradition of remaining determinedly dissolute but generally good-natured.
Until lately. Strolling the area these days was like navigating a third world bazaar. The boutiques bedizening Wisconsin's terminal slope were cheaper and gaudier, nobody seemed to speak English or be on speaking terms with a bar of soap, and lumpen denizens panhandled on every corner. The slovens of the grunge cadre were as unwashed as the hippies of old, but they lacked the latter's sense of style and humor.
The atmosphere was as blowzy as ever, but the mood had turned grim.
Despite a new mall and brighter lighting, the Georgetown street scene, like everything else, was changing for the worse.
What a world. What a screwed-up world.
They moved out of the pedestrian traffic and turned right onto 2gth, Duncan had parked the Mercedes on the hill that fell away toward the C8cO Canal. He was just turning the key in the lock when something whizzed by his head and smashed on the sidewalk half a dozen feet away.
" Faggots! " The light wasn't as good here as up on M, but he had no trouble recognizing the skinheads. The three of them were trotting down the hill. They must have belonged to some sort of gang because they all wore jeans, black leather jackets, and fingerless black leather gloves. One carried a Budweiser can, one was empty-handed but repeatedly pounded his fist into his palm, and the guy in the lead carried some sort of metal pipe.
"Shit, Dad, " Brad said. "Let's get out of here." Duncan's mouth was dry. His legs urged him to run but his feet seemed anchored to the pavement. The thugs were too close and moving too fast. No time to get in the car, get it started, and maneuver out of the parking spot.
His heart began to hammer as he pulled the little cylinder from his pocket and held it down by his thigh, out of sight.
"Time to make some faggo-burgers, " said the leader, grinning as he raised the pipe and charged. His two companions were close behind.
"Hey, listen! " Brad shouted. "We're not, " "Quiet, Brad." Duncan's thumb found the trigger atop the little cylinder. It slipped and swiveled in his sweaty palm. His hand shook wildly as he raised the canister and shot a stream of liquid at the leader's face.
It missed, arcing past the raised pipe to splash against the throat and upper chest of the second in line. As that one gagged and turned, throwing his arms across his eyes and mouth, Duncan adjusted the stream and caught the leader square in the face. He dropped the pipe and fell to his knees, choking, clawing at his eyes. Meanwhile the third skinhead had run into the second, who had skidded to a stop and doubled over. The two went down in a tangled heap.
"Fucking Mace! " screamed the third.
Duncan caught him square in the mouth with a squirt and that was the last he heard from him.
Duncan sagged back against his car, gasping, panting as if he'd run a marathon. He could feel his underwear sticking to his sweaty skin.
How long had it taken? Three seconds? Five? Seemed like so much longer.
Whatever the interval, the three attackers had been reduced to writhing, wheezing, groaning, gagging, cursing lumps of blind flesh.
'"Thank God, Dad! " Brad said. "I didn't know you carried Mace. ' Actually it was pepper spray, five-percent capsicum. Duncan had never had occasion to use it before now. He was impressed. And almost giddy with relief. He held it up to the light.
"Not exactly a Wayne thing, I know, " Duncan said. "But since I'm not exactly a street fighter, I figured it was the prudent thing to do.
" He slipped the canister back into his pocket. "Maybe we should, '' The rattle of steel on concrete made Duncan turn. One of the skinheads had picked up the pipe and was on his feet, careening their way. His eyes were puffy slits, streaming tears. He couldn't see. He had to be homing in on their voices. Duncan lurched out of the way as he saw the bar swing wildly in his direction. It left a chipped dent in the car ender near where he'd been leaning an instant before.
Rage flared in Duncan. Impulsively he grabbed the steel shaft of the pipe and ripped it from the staggering skinhead's grasp. Then he swung it like a bat, catching him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling into his two companions, who had struggled to their hands and knees.
Duncan found himself standing over them, flailing away with the pipe, "You . . . " muttering through clenched teeth ". . . dirty . . . " as he cracked a head, ". . . filthy . . . " broke a rib, ". . . rotten .
. . " crushed a nose ". . . Iousy . . . " Then someone had hold of his arm and a familiar voice was shouting in his ear.
"Dad! For Christ sake! Dad! " He turned. Brad's face was inches from his, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.