Free American Boy by Larry Watson Page B

assurances, I still had my doubts. When I rang the doorbell and Dr. Dunbar answered, I was prepared to be sent back the way I came.
    “Come in, Matthew, come in,” he said. “Johnny’s in the kitchen. Or what was the kitchen. I believe it’s been converted to an anatomy lab.” Nothing in his demeanor suggested that he wasn’t pleased to see me.
    Johnny had laid out poster board on the kitchen table, along with paper, clay, colored pencils, small bottles of model car paints, a portable typewriter, scissors, tape, glue, and a few of his father’s medical books. For our project we planned to capitalize on our reputations as doctors-to-be, and depict ways that major organs could fatally malfunction. Johnny was a talented artist, and he’d drawn on the poster a body with arrows and labels listing the location of major organs. I had some skill with modeling clay, and I molded miniatures of a few organs, both healthy and diseased. We planned to glue these to the poster or arrange them on their own cardboard plaques. Labels would offer brief descriptions of the organ and the symptoms and consequences of disease. The project was an elaborate and visual analogue of the thought I’d had when Dr. Dunbar informed me of my father’s death. I know where the spleen is, do you ?
    “I’ve seen operating rooms that weren’t as messy,” Dr. Dunbar said as we surveyed the kitchen.
    Johnny tossed me a lump of clay. “Make me a liver.”
    “With or without cirrhosis?”
    “With,” Johnny said. “Definitely with.”
    “I would think,” said Dr. Dunbar, “that you two would want to avoid that topic. At least in my presence.”
    Johnny laughed at the remark.
    Mrs. Dunbar came into the kitchen wearing her fur coat. “There’s cold chicken in the fridge. Or heat up a pizza if you’d prefer. I know it’s futile to ask you to clear off the table when you’re finished, but if you could at least leave enough room for us to have breakfast tomorrow that would be much appreciated.”
    “Genius,” said Johnny, “likes things messy.”
    “Really?” said Mrs. Dunbar. “Well, I’m sure your sisters would prefer not to stare at a model of a perforated bowel while they eat their Cheerios.”
    “Genius can’t be rushed either.”
    “And did you explain that to Mr. Lannon when he gave you a due date for your project?” asked Dr. Dunbar.
    “He’ll understand.”
    “Don’t be too sure of that.”
    The twins came in wearing their matching red wool coats. As a concession to individuality, however, Janet wore white furry earmuffs and Julia a blue knitted cap.
    “What kind of cake do you want?” Julia asked Johnny. “We’ll get you any kind you like.”
    This was no empty promise. Every year at Saint Bartholomew’s Carnival the twins bought ticket after ticket at the cakewalk. And their perseverance always paid off. The previous year they brought home five cakes.
    “Chocolate,” said Johnny, “with chocolate frosting.”
    “Hey,” I added, “don’t I get to put in an order?”
    “Oh Matt. Everyone knows you’ll eat anything.”
    Did they? I didn’t even know that about myself.
    “Remember,” said Mrs. Dunbar, guiding the twins out the door and then linking her arm in her husband’s. “Cold chicken in the refrigerator.”
    Halfway out the door, the doctor turned back to us to add with a smile, “And I don’t want to come home to the smell of cigars.”
     
    As soon as they left, I questioned Johnny about what had happened after I was kicked out of the house, both that night and in the days since.
    “I don’t remember much,” Johnny said. “After I fell out of the baby buggy, everything’s sort of a blank. When I woke up the next day I didn’t feel too bad. Thirsty as hell, but that was about it. No headache. No upset stomach. Then I had a bowl of soup and I puked my guts out again.”
    “What about Louisa putting you to bed? What was that like?”
    “Damned if I know. I woke up in my own bed, but I