Read Sleight of Hand for Free Online

answer.
    â€œDid your mom and dad have a fight?”
    She squirmed in her chair, a sure sign that the subject made her
uncomfortable. I gave up. When I finished my tea, I said, “I have to go now. I need to see some other patients. But I’ll be back tonight to check on your dad. Meanwhile, it’s up to you to take care of him.”
    â€œOh, I will.”
    â€œI know you will, Lolly.” I picked up my bag. “He’ll probably sleep all afternoon, but if he wakes up, give him some tea and … some toast, if he wants it.”
    She listened to my words as if her life depended on them.
    â€œAnd if he complains of pain, give him these.” I drew a bottle from my bag and spilled two tablets of Percocet on the table.
    Always the perfect hostess, Lolly followed me to the back door and saw me out. She waved as I boarded my bike. The last I saw of her, she was plodding down the drive toward the mailbox.
    Â 
    Â 
    As my fatigue began to wear off, my mind started to work again, and the thoughts it churned up were not pleasant. They were mostly medically oriented. I buried the criminal aspects of the case. I would dig them up later and examine them. I knew my limitations. I could handle only one thing at a time.
    The operation was just the beginning. Now I had to deal with the postop period—keep the hand free of infection and pray that regeneration wouldn’t occur. Preventing infection would be relatively easy if I was careful with the dressings and Max didn’t do something stupid—like take a shower without waterproofing his hand. But the second danger was out of my control. If the neuroma nerve of his index finger—on the side next to his thumb—decided to regenerate, it could ball up, become rigid, and destroy his pinching mechanism—the single most important function of the human hand. The one that lifts us a notch above the rest of the animal kingdom. The most important stage in an infant’s development—the ability to grasp. I should know. Once upon a time I was a pediatrician, I thought ruefully. Also, regeneration is extremely painful.

    As I pedaled my bike, I suddenly became aware of my right hand, the way Lucy, of “Peanuts” fame, one day became aware of her tongue. That was all she could think about: tongue, tongue, tongue. At present, all my right hand was doing was lightly gripping the handlebar—and occasionally, when I applied a little pressure, steering the nose of my bike. I began to think of all the other things my right hand could do. Like signaling a turn, adjusting the straps on my straw basket, and, most important, giving the guy who cut in front of me the finger. Others came flooding in:

    tie a shoe,
pick a flower,
throw a ball,
catch a ball,
swat a fly,
unscrew a jar,
turn a doorknob—or a page —
peel a banana,
sign a check,
write a letter,
open a letter,
paint a wall,
hammer a nail,
button a button,
stir soup,
make a fist,
clap.

    A Zen saying came to me: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” I gave a short laugh at my black humor. Oh my god, the list of things you couldn’t do with one hand was endless. Not the least of which was running a printing press! Under normal circumstances, a printer needed three hands—even if he employed a printer’s devil.

    I dropped the subject. It was too depressing. Instead, I began to think about my patient’s personality. Max was gruff and threatening, but—with a shock—I realized he didn’t really scare me anymore. I had detected an underlying tenderness in his treatment of Lolly. That’s probably why I hadn’t totally believed his crazy threats. And his pose as a shabby farmer-printer didn’t ring true, either. There was a force to this man. And the woman in me detected plenty of testosterone under that fake facade. If he had been younger, I might even have been attracted to him. Squelching that silly thought, I concentrated