False Accusations by Jacobson, Alan (great novels of all time .txt) 📕

down the freeway. At two o’clock in the morning, he was glad that it was such an easy drive. He could have made it with his eyes closed...which almost occurred on several occasions.

Madison parked his car in the semidetached garage and entered the house via the back door, trying to be quiet so as not to wake the dog. Fortunately, Leeza had thought of it, and as usual whenever he had a late or emergency surgery, she left him in the kitchen so he would not bark from upstairs and wake the children.

Madison received a few slobbery licks from Scalpel and pacified him with a couple of pats to the head. Sitting down at the table, he began to leaf through his mail, which Leeza had evidently picked up from their private mailbox while she was out. There was a reminder notice about a leadership retreat for the board of directors of the River City Theater Company, and a letter signed by him to the board members of the nonprofit Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation, or CCMR, informing them of a date change for their forthcoming meeting. Leeza’s going to love this. Another two meetings.

The theater company retreat he could probably skip, but the CCMR board was a different story. CCMR, which helped people with mental retardation assimilate into society, also provided resources to parents who needed to understand the law or navigate government bureaucracy. But most importantly, it supplied programming so adults with special needs could socialize in a positive environment.

Madison initially became involved with the consortium when he brought his younger brother, Ricky, who had been born with Down syndrome, to one of its programs eight years ago. Over the course of several months, it had helped instill the social confidence Ricky needed in order to function in society, and it educated him and his parents on the various agencies that offered job training and placement for adults with disabilities. As a debt of gratitude, Madison agreed to serve on its programming committee. That was followed by a seat on its board of directors, which led to his acceptance three years later of the vice presidency and then, two years after that, the presidency.

He put the meeting notice off to the side and continued with his mail. There were bills from SMUD and AT&T, and one from the American Heart Association reminding him of his thousand-dollar pledge. At the bottom of the pile was a catalog from Hammacher Schlemmer. As usual, Leeza had filtered out the junk mail. He had too little time to bother with get-rich-quick schemes and the endless stream of low-interest credit card offers.

He shoved the pile of papers aside and removed his shirt. Even though it was the middle of the night, the temperature outside was still around 80, which meant that it must have climbed near 110 in the late afternoon. With a separate central air-conditioning unit for each floor, Leeza often raised the ground floor thermostat to 80 during the night. He opened the refrigerator and closed his eyes for a moment. The cold air felt good.

He pulled out a couple of cartons of Chinese food—Leeza must have ordered in—and he popped them into the microwave. He really didn’t feel like eating—the cozy sheets and Leeza’s body beckoned—but he knew if he didn’t put something in his stomach, he would awaken with a splitting headache. As it was, he would probably feel awful in the morning, but he did not want to compound it.

After eating, he went upstairs without the assistance of the elevator—it would make too much noise and wake everyone—as much as he could have used it. His knees felt like they needed a quart of oil, and his arches ached.

He stopped by the boys’ rooms as he walked down the hall, and peeked in on them. He planted a kiss on their cheeks, tucked them in, and trudged into his bedroom. Throwing his clothes in a pile by the bed, he glanced at the clock: it was 2:31. He fell onto the mattress, rolled onto his side to give Leeza a kiss, and was asleep before he reached her lips.

CHAPTER 9

AS MADISON SLEPT, he dreamed of being devoured by a giant whale. His face was soaked, he was engulfed in water and he found it difficult to breathe. Finally, shaken from his sleep, he realized it was Scalpel licking his face with a huge, slobbering tongue. He threw a hand up and swatted the dog away as Elliott jumped in the bed and shouted, “Daddy!”

“Wake up, sleepy head,” Leeza said. “What time did you finally get home last night? I waited up, but fell asleep after Leno’s monologue.”

His eyes were plastered closed. As he struggled to pry them open to snatch a look at the clock, Elliott sat down on his stomach. “What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.”

He moaned. “Seven...”

“You’re lucky. I let you sleep. The kids had me up an hour ago.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t get to bed until two-thirty.”

“Two-thirty? Why so late?”

“Where’s Jonah?” he asked, moving Elliott off him.

“In front of the TV, watching Sesame Street.”

Madison closed his eyes. Leeza picked up a pillow and hit him. “Get up! We’re going to Marine World today, remember?”

“Yeah, Marine World!” Elliott yelled.

Madison rolled out of bed, feeling like a stiff board, and lumbered over to the shower. The cold water would wake him up. He had done it many times before in medical school and during his internship at Sacramento General.

Everyone dressed quickly while Leeza reheated the pancakes for Madison for breakfast. He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a copy of the Sacramento Herald in front of him. He scanned the front page and shook his head. “Remind me to cancel this rag. The Bee’s a lot better.”

“Surgery go well yesterday?”

“It was a bear, but the guy will be able to walk, probably pain-free. Fourteen hours. My feet still hurt.”

“You’re not Superman anymore.”

“Shhh...” he said, bringing an index finger to his lips and