Skeletons

Marshall Goldberg, MD



Milos Bednarik was in the habit of stopping off at a neighborhood tavern, the Tam-o'-shanter, on his way home from work each afternoon. He went there to quaff a few beers, shoot a few games of snooker, and ogle the bouncing breasts of the braless, T-shirted waitress. Above the bar a block-lettered sign read: TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE! Unknown to Milos Bednarik, it was also his last.

Milos, a Croat by birth and a machinist by trade, was a robust man in his mid-forties whose youthful ambitions gradually had been pared down until he fit uncomplainingly into the slot his
adopted country provided for him. Though a passably talented metal sculptor, he accepted the
meager recognition of his artistry along with the meager rewards of his clock-punching,
union-protected factory job without complaint.

Years before, shortly after emigrating from Yugoslavia, he had been drafted into the U.S. Army and sent to Korea. He vowed then that if only the Lord let him survive the gook infantry, he would never complain about anything again. The Lord, busy as He must have been at the time,
had kept His part of the pact, and so had Milos. Not that he had much to complain about. So what if he was going bald and his gums were riddled with pyorrhea? He had a steady job, a devout and
frugal wife, and his own home in a Springfield, Massachusetts, suburb.

His childhood in Nazi-occupied Yugoslavia had given Milos the instincts of a survivor, which had helped extricate him from many dangerous scrapes in adult life. Ever since Korea, though, he could not shake the notion that he was living on borrowed time, and lately he had begun to suffer qualms that this extra time might be running out. He had no idea what was producing this morbid state of mind and he didn't take it too seriously. In his younger years, such a premonition would have kept him constantly on guard. But living so long in America had instilled such a sense of security, even complacency, that this once he chose to ignore it.

Along with most people, Milos Bednarik had long ago learned that too much of any good thing, be it fast cars or favorite foods, could be harmful. What he had no way of knowing was that in 'his case "too much" would tam out to be a single molecule.

He had wakened that morning with a stuffy nose, a scratchy throat, and a dull ache behind his eyes, which signaled the start of another head cold. He had medicated himself with several aspirins, which made him sweat, and antihistamine pills, which parched his mouth. But by afternoon he had grown feverish, and the air-conditioned coolness of the tavern made him shiver
periodically.

"Nervous from the service, honey?" cracked the waitress as she waited beside Milos for the bartender to fill an order.

Woozily he twisted his neck around while still leaning against the bar and tried to focus on the twin mounds of cotton-covered flesh inches away. Talking boobs? Milos wondered for an instant. Then, he straightened, turned to look her up and down, and grinned.

"Coming down with a cold, I guess."

"Yeah?" she said with mild interest. "Head or chest?"

"Head," said Milos.

"Then you ought to see a doctor."

"What for?" Milos protested. "It's just a cold."

"Yeah? Well, you never know about colds. My boyfriend thought he had a cold and the doctor told him it was hepatitis. Bet you didn't know you could catch hepatitis from screwing?"

"No," Milos said, bemused. "I sure didn't!"

"Well, you can. So now he's my ex-boyfriend. But if I were you, I'd go see a doctor. Why
take chances?"


Milos Bednarik left the Tam-o'-shanter at five P.M. and drove across town to the office of Dr. Emil Dubic. He had met Dubic, a fellow Yugoslavian emigrant, shortly after Dubic arrived in Springfield. Milos had been one of his first nonmedical friends in the area and one of his first
patients after he entered private practice. Initially he had liked Dubic's zest for life in the United States and his dedication to his intern's duties at the hospital. But marriage to the daughter of a wealthy local banker had changed his friend. Dubic's wife, who doubtless would have preferred a Boston trained specialist for a mate but settled for a Yugoslavian-trained general practitioner, made sure he dressed properly and moved in the right social circles-which did not include evenings out with factory machinists, even if they were fellow Croatians. Although Dubic still worked long hours in his office, Milos was well aware that the time he gave each of his patients grew shorter and shorter while the list of lab tests he ordered on them grew longer. That was the reason Milos had not gone to see him when he developed a prostate infection a year ago. But now, despite the waitress's warning, he was reasonably sure he had only a cold.

Dubic's office wag located between two sprawling, low-rent housing developments. Milos pulled his Chevrolet into a parking space beside a sleek, silvery Mark IV Lincoln that he knew belonged to Dubic. He was relieved to see only two patients, an obviously pregnant woman and an elderly man on crutches, seated in the waiting area. Dubic's receptionist took his name, located his medical record, led him to one of six examining stalls, and told him to disrobe.

Milos had barely managed to shed his street clothes and slip on the skimpy johnny handed him when one of Dubic's nurses entered the stall to take his temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. She then asked if he'd had a chest X ray, electrocardiogram, complete blood count, and serum cholesterol taken on him in the last six months. Ignoring her skeptical look, Milos claimed that he had. The last time he had answered honestly, it had added eighty dollars to his bill.