Ninety minutes crawled by. Sylvia was getting a headache from the tension, and muscle aches in every part of her body from sitting in the back seat for so long. She was about to suggest to Ba that they get out and stretch their legs when it started to drizzle. Then she saw Alan threading his way through the park6d cars in their direction. He opened the door on the other side and hopped in.

"Well?" she said, holding her breath.

"I've got one."

She gasped. "A tumor?"

"No. A brain—a perfect one. No problem."

Without thinking, she threw her arms around him and clutched him.

"Oh! I'm so glad!"

Alan returned the hug. "You're glad! Let's celebrate!" He pulled a cassette from a pocket and handed it forward to Ba. The interior of the car was soon filled with falsetto "Oooohs" and basso "Bowms."

"Good lord!" Sylvia laughed. "What is that?"

" 'I Laughed' by the Jesters. Great, huh?"

"It's awful! I can't believe you listen to Doo-wop!"

His face fell. "You don't like oldies? They're not all Doo-wop, you know." He leaned forward. "I'll tell Ba to turn it off."

"No," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. She had such an urge to touch him. "I like some of the old stuff, but listening to it all the time seems like such a dead end."

"You could say the same about opera… or Vivaldi."

"Touche."

"Wait'll you hear the next one!" he said. He was like a teenager.

"That's 'Maybellene' by What's-His-Name!" she said, recognizing it almost immediately.

"Chucker! The Berry!"

"Chuck Berry! Right. I didn't think anybody listened to him anymore."

"He's the best. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys—they all borrowed from him. And he's the man who got me into rock 'n' roll."

He leaned his head back as he settled into the seat.

"Let's see… it was back in the summer of fifty-five and I had two passions in the world: rocket ships and the Brooklyn Dodgers. On summer nights I liked to listen to the Bums in bed, but the noise of the radio would keep my younger brother awake. So my father bought me a little Japanese radio— shaped like a rocket, of course—that had a tiny earplug instead of a speaker; you tuned by pulling up or down on the aerial in the nose cone.

"And so it was on a hot, muggy August night as I was trying to tune in the Brooklyn Bums that I came upon this strange music with twanging bass and some guy singing about chasing a Cadillac and a girl named Maybellene. I'd heard of Elvis but had never actually heard his music. In those days a kid listened to what his parents listened to. And my folks listened to stations that played stuff like 'Mr. Sandman,' 'How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?', 'The Tennessee Waltz', 'Shrimp Boats Is a-Comin', and so forth. Get the picture? Those songs did nothing for me. But this! This went directly from the radio to my central nervous system. And then that manic guitar solo in the middle came on—here it is. Listen!"

Sylvia listened. Yes, it was certainly manic. So was Alan. She could almost see the tension pouring out of him.

"Anyway, I sat up in the dark, electrified by what was shooting out of that little earplug. It was my rock 'n' roll epiphany. And to top it off, the DJ—I later learned his name was Alan Freed—said something like, 'So nice, we'll play it twice,' and he did! He played the same damn song twice in a row!

"That was it—I was converted. Still liked the Dodgers, but I kept the radio tuned to WINS all night except during the commercials, when I checked out the score of the game. While my folks blithely assumed I was up in bed listening to the national sport, I was really listening to what some people called nigger music."

And I was worried about his memory! Sylvia thought with a mental shake of her head.

"You're really into this stuff, aren't you?" she said.

Alan shrugged. "It makes me feel good. And I need some good feelings these days. What else can I say?"

"Nothing more. That's what matters."

"Here comes 'Florence' by the Paragons," he said. He grinned at her as he sang along with the falsetto opening.

She winced at his sour notes. She felt so close to him at that moment, and realized with a bittersweet pang that she was very much in love with a man she could never have.

___25.___

Alan

"What are you doing?" Alan asked as he entered their bedroom.

He had rushed upstairs to tell her about the CT scan.

Ginny's reply was terse and she didn't look up when she spoke.

"I should think that would be pretty obvious."

It was. She was taking clothes from her closet and her drawers and placing them in any of the three suitcases lined up in descending order of size on the bed.

"Where are we going?" He knew with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that there was no "we" involved here, but he used the word anyway. The drum of the rain against the windows filled the room as he waited for an answer.

"Florida. And it's just me. I… need some time to myself, Alan. I need to get away and just think about things for a while."

"You mean about us."

She sighed and nodded. "Yeah. Us. What's left of us."

Alan stepped toward her but she held up a hand. "Don't. Please don't. I just want to get away by myself. I can't take it around here anymore."

"Everything's going to be all right, Ginny. I know it."

"Oh, really?" she said, throwing a pair of slacks into the big suitcase. "And who's going to make it all right? You? You made a fool out of yourself in front of the Board of Trustees! You've lost your hospital privileges! You can't even get into the office with all those kooks around it! And all you do is hang around the house and have conferences with Tony about how to keep from losing your medical license altogether!"

"Ginny—"

"Nobody wants to know us anymore!" Her voice rose steadily in pitch and volume. "It's like we're living in a vacuum. All our friends either have something else to do when I call or don't even bother to return my calls. They think I'm married to a nut! And I can't argue with them!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"It's not just me! Tony may be on your side, but I'm sure he thinks you're coming unwrapped, too!"

"Is that so?" Alan was suddenly angry—with Ginny and Tony for their lack of faith, and with himself for expecting them to accept something as bizarre as his power without seeing it for themselves.

He went to the phone at the bedside. "Okay. If I can prove that I'm not crazy, will you stay?"

"No games, Alan. And no deals."

"Will you give me a chance?"

"I've got a six o'clock flight out of JFK. If you can change my mind by then, fine. But I hope you won't mind if I finish packing."

Six o'clock! That gave him five hours. He didn't know if he could—

He dialed Tony's business number and told him to go next door into his office and take a file marked "Timetable" from his desk, then bring it here to the house. Tony agreed, although he sounded hesitant.

Alan paced the first floor of his home like an expectant father while Ginny labored upstairs with the suitcases. Then a rainsoaked Tony was at the door with the folder. Alan snatched it from him, told him to wait, and took it to his study.

He pored over the figures, dimly aware that Ginny had come downstairs and that she and Tony were exchanging worried glances behind his back. He saw at once his mistake on the day of the board hearing. Again, it was his memory that had failed him—he had been only forty minutes off with his calculation of the arrival of the Hour of Power. Forty minutes! Forty rotten minutes! If the meeting had started an hour later, he would have been golden. Instead…