“Arthur has not let David do a full physical since his retirement party, Martha,” Clara said, her voice brisk.
“He said he was fine when I asked him last month.”
“He tells everyone he is fine so they will stop looking too closely,” Clara said. “You need to ask the receptionist when his last actual appointment was.”
I looked at the brick clinic building, where the autumn wind was chasing dead oak leaves across the empty parking spaces.
“I do not want to go behind his back,” I said, adjusting the silver wedding band on my finger.
“You are not going behind his back, you are keeping him from sliding into an early grave,” Clara said.
I opened the passenger door, the cool Ohio wind catching my wool cardigan as I stepped onto the asphalt.
The clinic lobby smelled of rubbing alcohol and peppermint floor cleaner, the quiet hum of a fluorescent light overhead filling the empty room.
Dr. David Evans stood near the reception desk, writing something on a clipboard, his wire-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his nose.
