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As stunned as he was at the news, Oswald almost laughed out loud at the word estate. He had never had more than two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank in his entire life.
The doctor continued. "Believe me, I wish the diagnosis had been better." And the doctor meant it. He hated having to hand out bad news. He had just met Mr. Campbell, but he had liked the personable little guy at once. "Are you sure you don't need me to call anyone for you?"
"No, that's all right."
"How will this news affect your future plans, Mr. Campbell?"
Oswald looked up at him. "Pretty d amn adversely, I would say, wouldn't you?"
The doctor was sympathetic. "Well, yes, of course. I just wondered what your future plans may have been."
"I didn't have anything in particular in mind ... but I sure as h ell hadn't planned on this."
"No, of course not."
"I knew I wasn't the picture of health, but I didn't think I was headed for the last roundup."
"Well, as I said, you need to get out of Chicago as soon as you can, somewhere with as little pollution as possible."
Oswald looked puzzled. "But Chicago is my home. I wouldn't know where else to go."
"Do you have any friends living somewhere else--Florida? Arizona?"
"No, everybody I know is here."
"Ah ... and I assume you are on a limited budget."
"Yeah, that's right. I just have my disability pension."
"Uh-huh. I suppose Florida might be too expensive this time of year."
Never having been there, Oswald said, "I would imagine."
The doctor sighed and leaned back in his chair, trying to think of some way to be of help. "Well, let's see.... Wait a minute, there was a place my father used to send all his lung patients, and as I remember the rates were pretty reasonable." He looked at Oswald as if he knew. "What was the name of that place? It was close to Florida...." The doctor suddenly remembered something and stood up. "You know what? I've still got all his old files in the other room. Let me go and see if by any chance I can find that information for you."
Oswald stared at the gray wall. Leave Chicago? He might as well leave the planet.
It was already dark and still freezing cold when Oswald left the office. As he rounded the corner at the Wrigley Building, the wind from the river hit him right in the face and blew his hat off. He turned and watched it flip over and over until it landed upside down in the gutter and began to float like a boat on down the block. Oh, the h ell with it, he thought, until the frigid air blew through what little hair he did have left and his ears started to ache, so he decided to run after it. When he finally caught the hat and put it back on his head he realized he was now wearing wet shoes with no socks, a wet hat, and he had just missed his bus. By the time another bus finally came, he was completely numb from the cold plus the shock of the news he had just received. As he sat down, his eye caught the advertisement above his seat for Marshall Field's department store: MAKE THIS THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER. START YOUR CHRISTMAS SHOPPING EARLY THIS YEAR.
It suddenly dawned on him that, in his case, he had better start early and it might already be too late. According to the doctor, if he did live to see it, this Christmas could be his last.
Not that Christmas had ever meant much to him, but still it was a strange thought. As he sat there trying to comprehend the world without him, the bus jerked and lurched in short spurts all the way down State Street, now packed with bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic and loud with the angry sounds of the blaring horns of frustrated people. As more passengers began to crowd onto the bus, they weren't in such a good mood either. One woman glared at Oswald and said to her friend, "Gentlemen used to get up and give a lady a seat." He thought to himself, Lady, if I could get up, I would, but he still couldn't feel his legs.
After about five minutes, when he could begin to move his fingers, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the brochure the doctor had given him. On the front page was a photograph of what looked to be a large hotel, but it was hard to make out. The brochure was faded and looked as if it had water damage, but the print underneath was still legible:
THE WOODBOUND HOTEL
IN
THE SUNNY SOUTH
UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
Horace P. Dunlap
Formerly of Gibson House, Cincinnati, Ohio
Deep in the southernmost part of Alabama, along the banks of a lazy winding river, lies the sleepy little community known as Lost River, a place that time itself seems to have forgotten.
(continued on the next page)
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