What Are the Symptoms Dear?

John D. MacDonald What Are the Symptoms Dear?

Michael Thomas Rigsby dreamed that he was at a booth at some sort of a midway. They were serving baked potatoes on sticks, the way, in the lost years, candy apples had been purchased. They looked steaming and delightful, but when he tried to eat them they had no more substance than spun sugar candy.

Frustration awakened him. The windows were gray. The luminous dial* of the alarm said four. There was a great gnawing in his stomach. After a time he got up, careful not to awaken Annabelle who breathed deeply beside him.

He squinted at the light inside the refrigerator and saw nothing that looked remotely filling. He settled for a glass of milk, and even that seemed to have little substance.

Back in bed he began to worry about himself. Could a man who liked his work and had a relaxed approach toward life get ulcers? It seemed as if, of late, hunger pangs were always with him. That had been a wonderful steak Annabelle served last night — as much an esthetic experience as a meal. Annabelle was a fine cook, indeed. Even Mickey and Sis had eaten hugely, and at nine and ten their appetites were sporadic.

Worries nibbled at him and it was a long time before he could fall asleep again. When he got up there was a fine tart smell of coffee in the house, but it gave him no lift. He felt dull, frail and ancient. In the bathroom mirror his cheeks looked a bit gaunt, he thought, his eyes slightly sunken.

The gray suit was back from the cleaners. He put on the trousers, and as he was threading his belt through the loops he stopped in dismay. The trousers fitted perfectly. And these were the ones he had been planning for months to take to the tailor’s to have them let out.

He sat on the bed. Sudden loss of weight — that was one of the bad signs. The doctors always told you to watch out for that.

Well, there was no need to scare the family, he decided, and so he went out to breakfast wearing a brave smile.

“What big white teeth you have, dear,” Annabelle said, with her morning kiss.

“All the better to eat my breakfast with. Mickey, you forgot to comb your hair.”

But as he ate a breakfast of orange juice; an egg, some new kind of cereal with fruit on it, and two cups of black coffee, he forgot to maintain the air of cheerfulness. He caught Annabelle looking at him with a rather strange expression.

“How do you feel, dear?” she asked.

“Fine, fine!” he said with massive jovial cheer.

“I thought so,” she said, and his respect for her intuition sagged a bit in the middle.

As soon as he had a chance, in the middle of the morning, he left the office and crossed the street and put a penny in the scales in front of the five and dime. The needle quivered and stopped at one ninety-three. A mechanical fortune appeared in another slot, YOUR PERSONAL CHARM IS YOUR GREATEST ASSET.

Michael stepped off the scales. He had passed two hundred a year ago. When a man was six feet one he had a right to carry a little weight. Sudden and inexplicable loss of weight. He stood in the dismal sunshine. The will and the bonds were in the safe deposit box, along with the insurance policies. Hospitalization was paid up. As he crossed the street again he realized he was walking with a faint stoop. He straightened his shoulders carefully.

It took an effort of will to make the phone call. “Why do you wish to see the doctor, Mr. Rigsby?” the nurse asked.

“Ah...  just a general checkup,” Michael said. He laughed a bit hollowly.

“Let me see...  a week from next Tuesday at two-thirty in the afternoon. Will that be convenient?”

“I...  I guess so. Thanks.”

Twelve days to bear the weight of fear, the uncertainty. Michael damped his jaw and decided he could do it.

But by Sunday afternoon, with the kids out and he and Annabelle alone in the house, his courage was very shaky indeed.

“Mike, pet, you’ve looked out every single window in the house,” she said. “Is something wrong at the office? Forget to pay your taxes?”

He suddenly knew he had to share this with someone. He moved the hassock over close to her chair, sat on it wearily, and said, “Annabelle, I didn’t want to worry you until I was absolutely certain. But...  well, I’m afraid I’m a sick man. A very sick man.”

There was quick concern on her face, and a small heart-felt gasp. “Oh, darling!” she said, and took his hand in both of hers.

“You understand, I’m not sure what it is yet. It’s been coming on for some time. Very slow and insidious. Last Thursday I was certain. I’m seeing Barnes a week from Tuesday.”

“What are the symptoms, dear?”

“The usual, I suppose. A feeling of depression. Continual hunger. Weight dropping dangerously.”

Annabelle released his hand and leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and gave him a wide, bright, disgustingly cheerful look. “I see.”

“What do you mean, you see? My God, I’m dwindling away and you act as though I was talking about...  a broken spring in my watch.”