Right of Thirst Read Online Free PDF Page B

myself descending the stairs toward him. I wasn’t alone; an old woman was praising him effusively for his efforts, her voice thin and quavering, and he glanced at her abstractly, as if he’d heard her words a thousand times before and had little use for them. A few others handed him last-minute checks. He smiled and pocketed them without looking at the amounts. The room was nearly empty by then. I hesitated, a few feet back, waiting, but then he saw me, and before I could retreat he spoke.
    â€œDid you have a question?” he asked.
    â€œI enjoyed your talk,” I said. “But I didn’t bring my checkbook.”
    â€œWe have a Web site where you can contribute.”
    â€œI’m a physician, actually,” I said, which caught his attention.
    â€œAre you interested in volunteering?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe.”
    â€œWe could probably use you,” he said. “Let me give you my card. Please contact me anytime.”
    He pulled it from his shirt pocket, and handed it to me.
    â€œHow did you get into this work?” I asked, taking the card. It was thick cream, embossed with gold letters, like something a banker might offer, or a lawyer.
    â€œThat’s a long story,” he said.
    â€œWhen are you going back?”
    â€œNot any time soon,” he said. “It’s where I belong. But I’m much more useful here. Someone needs to raise the money. That’s what keeps us going.”
    I was about to reply when the projectionist, who had descended from her booth, touched him lightly on the shoulder.
    â€œI don’t usually do this,” she said, shyly. She was a small, thin woman in her late seventies, and I’d seen her before, from a distance, at other lectures. Standing beside her, I realized that she had a fine tremor in her left hand. It leapt out at me like a flag: she had early Parkinson’s disease. I knew it at a glance, and I was sure that no one around us, least of all Scott Coles, had any inkling of this fact. I’ve had that experience many times over the years, the sense of secret knowledge that my profession has given me, and yet, as she opened her checkbook, I found her affliction unexpectedly moving. She hunched over the podium, and wrote a spidery sum carefully on the line, the final check of the evening.
    He thanked her sincerely, and smiled, and then she turned away and filed out with the others. I waited as he picked up his bag.
    â€œWhere are you going now?” I asked.
    â€œI was going to get something to eat,” he said.
    â€œLet me buy you dinner,” I said, impulsively, though I’d already eaten. “I’d like to hear more about what you’re doing.”
    He gave me a quick, assessing look.
    â€œAll right,” he said, after a moment. “If you’re serious I’d be happy to talk about it. But I can’t stay long. I need to get an early start tomorrow.”
    â€œI understand,” I replied.
    â€œI didn’t catch your name,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Scott.”

CHAPTER SIX
    It was the most expensive restaurant in town, along the main street, an easy walk from the lecture hall. It was the kind of place visiting parents took their newly grown children, and the negotiations of adult roles began. Sons and daughters, boyfriends and girlfriends and introductions. We’d taken Eric there a lifetime ago, for his high school graduation, and toasted him.
    We stood outside in the warm evening.
    â€œThis is fine,” Scott Coles said, glancing at his watch. It was a little after eight. Though the restaurant was only half full, it took nearly fifteen minutes to be seated, and five more before the waiter appeared.
    As I ordered a salad, I expected him to choose something similarly modest. But without hesitation he ordered the fillet medium rare, a full bottle of merlot, and an appetizer.
    â€œYou’re not eating