Chapter Thirteen

 

"So, what's first on the list?" J.B. asked.

 

J.B. and Mildred were standing together for the second time in the front room of the tiny clinic Dr. Michael Clarke called an office. It was two hours after Ryan's battle, after the cuts had been wrapped and the broken toes taped. Winded and bruised, the one-eyed man had accepted his winnings from the pit organizers.

 

Ryan had passed the credit chit to J.B., and they'd agreed to meet as soon as the Armorer had obtained the two pairs of glasses.

 

"You sit. You wait," Clarke replied, having stepped out of the back of the establishment when hearing J.B. and Mildred enter. After J.B. had shown him the credit chit from Ryan's fight in the pit, the doctor had most anxiously instructed them "not to leave his sight."

 

Mildred couldn't help but be amused by the fact that Clarke dressed the part of doctor. He wore thick horn-rimmed bifocals, a long white lab coat, conservative necktie, conservative shoes.

 

"What if we're in a hurry?" Mildred said, enjoying the brief, satisfying rush of power. After the way they had been previously treated when entering Clarke's office the previous night, it felt good to see the little balding man squirm. Now that J.B. was flush, the self-appointed physician was eager to see to their wants and needs.

 

"I'm with a patient right now," Clarke explained.

 

"Maybe you needed to make an appointment, Johnno, wait, that's what you tried to do last time we were here."

 

"Could be," the Armorer agreed, warming to the game. "Hey, Doc Clarke, you want me to come back?"

 

"No, I want you to wait."

 

J.B. sat down slowly. "Make it quick."

 

"Of course."

 

"Say, Dr. Clarke? I do have one question before you go," Mildred probed.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Are you an ophthalmologist or an optometrist?"

 

"Neither. I never could tell them apart."

 

Mildred smiled, feeling oddly the way she imagined Doc must feel when catching her in an error. "An ophthalmologist is a medical doctor who can practice surgery and diagnose"

 

Clarke interrupted her. "I was joking. I know the difference. But working with such crude instruments keeps me from practicing surgery. I do the best I can. If you want to be smug about it, I suppose I'm nothing more than a glorified optician."

 

Bingo, Mildred thought, but she didn't want to antagonize a man whose services they needed, after all. "Just curious. That's all."

 

 

 

MOMENTS LATER, Clarke reappeared. "I am sorry for keeping you, Mr. Dix. Please come back with me."

 

"You want company?" Mildred asked.

 

"No," J.B. replied, his tone sharp.

 

"Whoa! Excuse me for asking!"

 

The Armorer's tone softened. "I mean, no. I'd rather do it myself."

 

Mildred looked at her lover with an odd expression. "I'll wait out here, then."

 

"This shouldn't take long," Clarke told her. "Usually what eats up the time is the trial and error of matching the right lenses to his eyes. I don't have the luxury of writing him a prescription and sending him on his way. We have to go through the boxes, hoping to find frames and lenses in the same package that fit."

 

The examining room was lined with cabinets on three sides, a salmon pink series of upper cabinets and lower cabinets. A black countertop ran along the tops of the lower. The fourth wall was cabinetless, and dotted with various eye charts and diagrams of the interior of the eye.

 

Some gear J.B. didn't recognize was on wheels in a corner. Four three-legged stools were lined up along one of the cluttered counters.

 

"You do a lot of business? With glasses, I mean," he asked.

 

"Sure. No matter what, you've got people with failing vision. I do some work with contact lenses, too, but those are much more troublesome to match up to an individual and finding proper cleaning fluid's a bitch," Clarke replied as he peered intently at J.B.'s open eyes. His attention was drawn to the white slashes of the various adhesive bandages on J.B.'s frowning visage.

 

"What happened to your face, if you don't mind my asking?"

 

"Cut myself shaving."

 

"On your forehead?"

 

J.B. gave the optician a scathing look. "That's why I need glasses."

 

"Very well," Clarke said, letting the matter drop. "But I warn you now, you're going to have to talk to me if you want my help. I have no use for a man who grunts and speaks in monosyllables. If I'm to treat you, I must have your cooperation."

 

"Okay. I'm used to keeping my own counsel."

 

"You don't have to with me, not in here. Did you know that before predark, half the population of the United States wore some kind of glasses or corrective lenses?"

 

"Half?" J.B. said dubiously. "Don't see that many people running around with specs anymore."

 

"I know. In those days, increased life expectancy was the cause for the added eyestrain. See, around, oh, I don't know, the year 1900 or so, the average life span of an American was only forty-seven years. More disease and harder work combined to kill a man much earlier then, and this was around the same time when his vision began to fail anyway due to natural causes."

 

"Everything's got to wear out," J.B. said.

 

"Agreed," Clarke replied. "However, by the year 2000, a man's life span had increased to seventy-five years."

 

"Really."

 

"Yes. So, not only were people living longer, but they were better educated, which meant more reading, and much of the technology was vision driven, which caused even more wear on the eyes. Television and comp monitors. Very bad."

 

"Not anymore," J.B. remarked wryly.. Clarke continued with the explanation. "Then, after we managed to take out most of civilization with nukes and chems and God knows what else, another hundred years pass and in a century's time the life expectancy rate has dropped to a dreadfully low figure."

 

"How do you figure that?"

 

"I keep my own records. No census bureau to track it anymore," Clarke said breezily. He gestured to one of the stools. "Now, please sit over there, on the edge of the stool, and face me."

 

J.B. did as he was told, grateful the stool was covered with a spongy yellow pad. "I'm going to hold up a finger"

 

"I'm not drunk, Doc."

 

"This isn't a sobriety test," the optician replied with a smile. "This is for ocular movement. When I hold up my finger, please watch it as I move it back and forth. Keep your eyes glued to the finger, but don't move your head."

 

"All right."

 

Clarke continued to speak as he moved the finger in a broad H-shaped motion. "I would daresay due to disease and malnutrition, even with today's shorter life spans, many men and women could use a pair of glasses. Children, too. But expense and ignorance conspire to keep them trapped in their self-imposed blur, squinting and straining to the see the world around them."

 

J.B. thought of some of the squalid conditions of the villes and outposts he'd traveled through, and of the faces of the poor and helpless he'd seen. "There are parts of Deathlands where lousy vision could be considered a blessing, Doc," he said quietly.

 

"Quite. When did you receive your first pair of eyeglasses, Mr. Dix?" the optician replied, mirroring Ryan's question from earlier that day.

 

"Way back. I'd noticed my vision was starting to go in my early teens. I was having trouble with distance, but up close was fine. Reading wasn't getting harder."

 

"Waityou read?" Clarke asked in a surprised tone of voice.

 

J.B. glared at the doctor. "Hell, yes, I read."

 

"No reason for anger, Mr. Dix. Just making sure for my records. What do you like to read?"

 

"Information on blasters. Rifle and pistol journals. Blaster specs. Anything I can find, use, and tuck away in my brain. Even the history of the weapons long gone and extinct. I like to know about them all, just in case I ever do see one."

 

"Practical, I suppose."

 

"Damn straight. But like I say, my eyes were starting to bother me, so I'd been trying to figure out how to get some specs. Then I got lucky. I got them in a trade. Rolling medicine man in a horse-drawn wag. Had pills, needles, bottles and a big steamer trunk of glasses. I sat down and started trying on pairs until I found a set that worked. The guy had been around and seemed to stay out of trouble since he was legit. Lots of bullshit artists pretending to be docs, Doc." J.B. said pointedly.

 

"Yes, I've met a few," Clarke replied, unruffled. "So you knew even then your vision needed correcting?"

 

 

"Like I said, it wasn't so bad then. I could read fine . Needed help seeing far off, but I could shoot if squinted down hard and refocused."

 

"I had wondered by your demeanor and weaponry if you might be a sec man. With your reading interests, that confirms my suspicions."

 

"I just try to get by, and I need my eyes to do it."

 

"Would you read the letters off the chart on the wall behind me, please?" Clarke stood and took a thin wooden pointer. He gestured with it to the top of the chart. "Start with the third line."

 

 

J.B. automatically squinted and said " Q, G, T, X."

 

 

Clarke rapped the stick on the chart, creating a popping sound on the heavy pape r. "Without squinting, please.

 

_ J.B had to make himself not follow the reflex. " Q, G, T, X ," he said, as much from memory as actually being able to see the printing.

 

The optician lowered the pointer. "Fourth line."

 

"E, D, O no, wait, Q, P."

 

"Fifth line."

 

" B, U , or is that a V ? Shit, those letters are tiny'"

 

Clarke didn't respond. He lowered the pointer to the next level. "Sixth line."

 

J.B. didn't reply. He squinted, waiting for Clarke to tell him to stop. Not that an admonishment from the doctor would have mattered since the squinting didn't help.

 

"I can't see the sixth line," J.B. admitted.

 

"Very well." Clarke stepped to one side and wheeled over a large device that appeared to be a high-tech pair of binoculars mounted on a bracket between two enormous steel drums, one per side. He rolled the unwieldy apparatus up to J.B.'s face and lowered the binocular section until it was even with the Armorer's eyes.

 

"Is that bad, not being able to see that line?" J.B. asked.

 

"No. I wish you still had your other pair of spectacles so I could compare your vision with and without them, but we'll have to make do."

 

"What's this hunk of metal I'm peeping through?"

 

"This is a corrector, Mr. Dix. I am going to switch by hand various kinds of lenses inside this device until you are able to see the eye chart more clearly. This is a much quicker way and can be handled without putting on and taking off a thousand pairs of glasses. We'll start with the right eye. Each time I change the lenses, let me know if you can see better, or if the lens has decreased your vision even further."

 

Several minutes passed, with J.B. informing Clarke which lens worked best. The small man made notes on a sheet of paper as he worked. Finally he opened both sides of the binocularlike device and allowed J.B. to peer through at the same time.

 

"This is great," the Armorer said enthusiastically.

 

"I can see even better than I could with my old glasses."

 

"I'm not surprised. Vision changes over time, Mr. Dix. Still, twenty-forty vision in one eye and twenty-thirty in the other with corrective lenses isn't very good eyesight."

 

"Good enough for me."

 

Clarke wheeled the correction mechanism back to the corner and took up his seated position in front of J.B. once more.

 

"Now comes the hard part," he said. "I have to find an existing pair of lenses and frames. I have no way of manufacturing or cutting the glass myself."

 

"Actually I need two pairs. How do you get glasses, anyway?"

 

"I buy them. I have a standing offer of jack for any pair of prescription glasses in decent condition. One fellow brings in pairs by the dozens." While talking, Clarke picked up an eye patch from the table.

 

"What's the patch for? I thought we were finished," J.B. asked.

 

"It's not a patch, it's an occluder. I'm going to run an accommodative and convergence test. At your age, you need to know what kind of physical shape your eyes are in, and a few more tests will give you a complete exam," the optician replied. He paused and shrugged. "Well, as complete as I can do anyway. We might as well finish. You are paying for the package."

 

"Guess so. Go ahead, then."

 

A reader card was moved up to each of J.B.'s eyes while the test was conducted. Clarke then used a pocket pencil flash to see if his patient's pupils responded properly by constricting.

 

"Mmm," Clarke said. "Your left eye, which is your strong eye, isn't responding according to procedure."

 

"What does that mean?"

 

"I want you to be honest with me. Your future eyesight may depend on it. I need to know when you first noticed that your glasses perhaps weren't as effective as before. Take firing with your blaster, for example. Are shots you were making previously now taking longer to line up? Are they as accurate as before?"

 

"Well, I suppose I noticed some vision loss a year back. Mebbe two. Hard to say."

 

"I understand. On a day-to-day basis, one doesn't notice such things," Clarke replied. "Describe what you are seeing right now."

 

J.B. snorted. "Well, I see you."

 

"You're looking directly at me. Use your peripheral vision. What's to the left? No, dammit, don't move your head!"

 

J.B. froze, angered by the doctor's outburst, and angered by what the optician had stumbled onto, a deep secret the Armorer hadn't even dared admit to himself.

 

"II Doc, I don't know," J.B. whispered. "I can't see to the left all that well."

 

Clarke kept his voice modulated, professional. "To the right?"

 

J.B. hesitated before answering, "Even worse."

 

"Yet straight on?" Clarke stepped out and faced him.

 

"I see good. Perfect with those lenses you tried out."

 

"The loss of some of your peripheral vision, is it like looking down a tunnel at times, Mr. Dix?"

 

"Yeah. Exactly. Some days it doesn't bother me at all. Other times I have to be careful. Hasn't been life-threatening yet."

 

"I fear it will be depending on when it flares up and what your situation entails. Have you told anyone about the problem? Your lady companion?"

 

"No."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Why worry her? I use my eyes constantly. Last thing my friends need is a half-blind buddy doggin' their heels," J.B. said, and then he glared at the blurry image of Clarke he could see before him. "You know what this is, don't you?"

 

The doctor hedged. "Without proper testing, I can't be sure"

 

"So, do the test!" J.B. snapped.

 

"I can't. I would need a measurement of the intraocular pressure of the eye to be able to say for sure. The process is called tonometry, and it involves a special probe and I don't have the device. Even if I did, I'm not sure how to perform the test correctly. Your cornea would have to be anesthetized, for one thing, and such procedures are beyond me."

 

J.B. sighed deeply, dreading what else the optician had to say and needing to hear it all the same. "So, what's causing the problem?"

 

Clarke stood up and opened a cabinet, removing a well-worn green hardcover book with full-color illustrations of the human eye. He pointed to various ones as he explained. "High pressure inside the eye causes damage to the optic nerve, Mr. Dix. Understand, your eyes, all of our eyes, have a remarkable drainage system. Fluid comes in and goes out from within the eyeball, keeping the pressure consistent and higher than that of the outside atmosphere so the eye doesn't collapse."

 

"Like diving, when you're underwater. Come up too fast, you get the bends."

 

"Yes. Like that. What has happened here is that your drainage system has gotten clogged. Continual pressure creates a subsequent loss of the visual field, which is what is creating your 'tunnel vision.'" Clarke hesitated, and licked his lips. "This condition is called glaucoma, and it sounds like you've progressed beyond the early stages."

 

"Dark night." When J.B. spoke the words, even he was aware of the black humor the epithet now held.

 

"It's not your fault, Mr. Dix. The process is gradual and insidious. You might have decided your continual loss of sight was due to age or old glasses. It's not like you woke up one morning completely blind and had to deal with the problem that way. From what I've read, and the other cases I've encountered, there isn't a damn thing you could have done to stop it from happening." J.B. stood up, pacing the room. "No cure?"

 

"There were medicines once. Eye drops. Even surgery. All lost. I can tell you what needs to be done, but I can't help you in doing it. New glasses, yes. Those, I can find. Surgery or medicine, no. I'm not trained and I don't have the drugs."

 

"Yeah, pulling the glasses off a dead man's eyes doesn't take much in the way of brains," J.B. said angrily.

 

"I perform a service," Clarke said. "You don't have to get nasty about my methods. There are no longer any one-hour eyeglass-manufacturing stores. I'm telling you like it is. Without more tests, I'd still be guessing to the extent of the damage. From the journals I've studied, this disorder is so highly individualistic that treatment had to be specifically tailored to each patient's condition."

 

"There's got to be something I can do to stop this," the Armorer said.

 

"Well, there is to a small degree. Existing nerve-fiber damage is irreversible, but you can try and slow down any further injury. Some people have higher than normal pressure in their eyes due to their blood pressure, alcohol abuse and stress. You need to keep the pressure down as best you can manage."

 

"My blood pressure is okay and I'm not an alky, but I tend to spend a lot of my life under stress," J.B. stated, still standing and pacing.

 

"I can tell you that one characteristic of the disease is that pressure within the eye is caused due to changes in the rate of aqueous-humor formation"

 

"What's that?" J.B. asked, cutting the man off.

 

"The fluid buildup, Mr. Dix," Clarke said patiently in the warmest vocal register he could summon up.

 

"It fluctuates during the day, usually high in the morning, less as the day goes on and it declines during the night. When you're sleeping, it declines even more."

 

"Guess I should look into joining the freezie program," J.B. remarked bitterly.

 

"Temperature doesn't affect the pressure one way or the other," Clarke said, misunderstanding the reference.

 

"How long? How long until I go completely blind?"

 

"There's no way of knowing. A year? Ten years? Twenty? All cases are different. With treatment, we could end this immediately. Without it, who can say?"

 

J.B. pondered this for a long moment.

 

"Well, a man I used to know once told me, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.' I'm still one of the best shots in Deathlands and by God, that's something. And I still see pretty damn good, too, or I will once you fix me up with some new specs."

 

"Yes. I can do that."

 

The Armorer pulled out the twisted remains of his other pair. "Why don't we find some that look like these."

 

"I'll do my best."

 

J.B. reached out and caught the shorter man by the shoulder, turning him.

 

"And Dr. Clarke? This is our little secret."

 

The doctor shrugged. "Very well."