A Case of Need: A Novel (11 page)

“Men friends? Women friends?”

“Both.” He shrugged. “But I don’t really know. She only mentioned it to me once or twice, in casual references. Whenever I tried to ask her about it, she’d laugh and change the subject. She was very clever about discussing only what she wanted to.”

“Did she mention any names?”

“Probably, but I don’t remember. She could be maddening about names, talking about people casually as if you knew them intimately. Using just their first names. It was no good reminding her that you’d never heard of Herbie and Su-su and Allie before.” He laughed. “I do remember she once did an imitation of a girl who blew bubbles.”

“But you can’t remember any names?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

I stood to go. “Well,” I said, “you must be very tired. What are you on these days?”

“Surgery. We just finished OB-GYN.”

“Like it?”

“It’s O.K.,” he said blandly.

As I was leaving, I said, “Where did you do your OB?”

“At the BLI.” He looked at me for a moment and frowned. “And to answer your question, I assisted on several. I know how to do one. But I was on duty at the hospital Sunday night. All night long. So there it is.”

“Thanks for your time,” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

A
S I LEFT THE DORMITORY
, I saw a tall, lean, silver-haired man walking toward me. Of course I recognized him, even from a distance. J. D. Randall was, if nothing else, distinctive.

¹
The English court physician who, in 1628, discovered that blood circulated in a closed loop.

²
A doctor cannot change his name after receiving his M.D. degree without invalidating that degree. This means that there is a great rush in the final weeks of med school among doctors flocking into court to change their names before they receive their diplomas.

T
HE SUN WAS SETTING
, and the light on the quadrangle was turning yellow-gold. I lit a cigarette and walked up to Randall. His eyes widened slightly as he saw me, and then he smiled.

“Dr. Berry.”

Very friendly. He held out his hand. I shook it: dry, clean, scrubbed to two inches above the elbow for ten minutes. A surgeon’s hand.

“How do you do, Dr. Randall.”

He said, “You wanted to see me?”

I frowned.

“My secretary,” he said, “told me you had stopped by my office. About the chart.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “the chart.”

He smiled benignly. He was half a head taller than I. “I think we had better clear up a few things.”

“All right.”

“Come with me.”

He didn’t intend it as a command, but it came out that way. I was reminded that surgeons were the last autocrats in society, the last class of men who were given total control over a situation. Surgeons assumed the responsibility for the welfare of the patient, the staff, everything.

We walked back toward the parking lot. I had the feeling that he had come especially to see me. I had no idea how he knew I was there, but the feeling was very strong. As he walked, he swung his arms loosely at his sides. For some reason, I watched them; I remembered the neurologist’s law of swinging arms.
¹
I saw his hands, which were huge, all out of proportion to the rest of his body, huge hands, thick and hairy and red. His nails were trimmed to the required one-millimeter surgical length. His hair was cut short and his eyes were cold, gray, and businesslike.

“Several people have mentioned your name to me lately,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

We came into the parking lot. His car was a silver Porsche; he stopped beside it and leaned casually against the polished fender. Something about his manner told me I was not invited to do the same. He looked at me for a moment in silence, his eyes flicking over my face, and then he said, “They speak highly of you.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“A man of good judgment and good sense.”

I shrugged. He smiled at me again, then said, “Busy day?”

“Busier than some days.”

“You’re at the Lincoln, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re well thought of there.”

“I try to do a good job.”

“I’m told your work is excellent.”

“Thank you.” His approach was throwing me off; I didn’t see where he was going. I didn’t have to wait long.

“Did you ever think of changing hospitals?”

“What do you mean?”

“There may be other … possibilities. Openings.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m quite happy where I am.”

“For the present,” he said.

“Yes, for the present.”

“Do you know William Sewall?”

William Sewall was chief pathologist of the Mem. He was sixty-one and would shortly retire. I found myself disappointed in J. D. Randall. The last thing I had expected him to be was obvious.

“Yes, I know Sewall,” I said. “Slightly.”

“He will soon retire—”

“Timothy Stone is second man there, and he’s excellent.”

“I suppose,” Randall said. He stared up at the sky. “I suppose. But many of us are not happy with him.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

He smiled thinly. “It isn’t widely known.”

“And many of you would be happier with me?”

“Many of us,” Randall said carefully, “are looking for a new man. Perhaps someone from the outside, to bring a new viewpoint to the hospital. Change things around a bit; shake things up.”

“Oh?”

“That is our thinking,” Randall said.

“Timothy Stone is a close friend,” I said.

“I don’t see the relevance of that.”

“The relevance,” I said, “is that I wouldn’t screw him.”

“I would never suggest that you do.”

“Really?”

“No,” Randall said.

“Then maybe I’m missing the point,” I said.

He gave his pleasant smile. “Maybe you are.”

“Why don’t you explain?”

He scratched the back of his head reflectively. I could see he was about to change tactics, to try a different approach. He frowned.

“I’m not a pathologist, Dr. Berry,” he said, “but I have some friends who are.”

“Not Tim Stone, I’ll bet.”

“Sometimes I think pathologists work harder than surgeons, harder than anyone. Being a pathologist seems to be a full-time job.”

“That may be right,” I said.

“I’m surprised you have so much free time,” he said.

“Well, you know how it is,” I said. I was beginning to be angry. First the bribe, then the threat. Buy him off or scare him off. But along with my anger, I had a strange curiosity: Randall was not a fool, and I knew he wouldn’t be talking this way to me unless he was afraid of something. I wondered for a moment whether he had done the abortion himself, and then he said, “You have a family?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Been in Boston some time?”

“I can always leave,” I said, “if I find the pathological specimens too distasteful.”

He took that very well. He didn’t move, didn’t shift his weight on the fender of the car. He just looked at me with those gray eyes and said, “I see.”

“Maybe you’d better come right out and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It’s quite simple,” he said. “I’m concerned about your motives. I can understand the ties of friendship, and I can even see how personal affection can be blinding. I admire your loyalty to Dr. Lee, though I would admire it more if you chose a less reprehensible subject. However, your actions seem to extend beyond loyalty. What
are
your motives, Dr. Berry?”

“Curiosity, Dr. Randall. Pure curiosity. I want to know why everybody’s out to screw an innocent guy. I want to know why a profession dedicated to the objective examination of facts has chosen to be biased and uninterested.”

He reached into his suit pocket and took out a cigar case. He opened it and withdrew a single slim cigar, clipped off the end, and lit it.

“Let’s be sure,” he said, “that we know what we’re talking about. Dr. Lee is an abortionist. Is that correct?”

“You’re talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“Abortion is illegal. Furthermore, like every surgical procedure, it carries with it a finite risk to the patient—even if practiced by a competent person, and not a drunken …”

“Foreigner?” I suggested.

He smiled. “Dr. Lee,” he said, “is an abortionist, operating illegally, and his personal habits are questionable. As a doctor, his ethics are questionable. As a citizen of the state, his actions are punishable in a court of law. That’s what’s on my mind, Dr. Berry. I want to know why you are snooping around, molesting members of my family—”

“I hardly think that’s the word for it.”

“—and making a general nuisance of yourself in this matter when you have better things to do, things for which the Lincoln Hospital pays you a salary. Like every other doctor, you have duties and responsibilities. You are not fulfilling those duties. Instead you are interfering in a family matter, creating a disturbance, and attempting to throw a smoke screen around a reprehensible individual, a man who has violated all the codes of medicine, a man who has chosen to live beyond the limits of the law, to thumb his nose at the dictates of the framework of society—”

“Doctor,” I said. “Looking at this as purely a family matter: What would you have done if your daughter had come to you with the news that she was pregnant? What if she had consulted you instead of going directly to an abortionist? What would you have done?”

“There is no point in mindless conjecture,” he said.

“Surely you have an answer.”

He was turning a bright crimson. The veins in his neck stood out above his starched collar. He pursed his lips, then said, “Is this your intention? To slander my family in the wild hope of helping your so-called friend?”

I shrugged. “It strikes me as a legitimate question,” I said, “and there are several possibilities.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Tokyo, Switzerland, Los Angeles, San Juan. Or perhaps you have a good friend in New York or Washington. That would be much more convenient. And cheaper.”

He turned on his heel and unlocked the door to his car.

“Think about it,” I said. “Think hard about what you would have done for that family name.”

He started the engine and glared at me.

“While you’re at it,” I said, “think about why she didn’t come to you for help.”

“My daughter,” he said, his voice trembling with rage, “my daughter is a wonderful girl. She is sweet and beautiful. She doesn’t have a malicious or dirty thought in her head. How dare you drag her down to your—”

“If she was so sweet and pure,” I said, “how did she get pregnant?”

He slammed the door shut, put the car in gear, and roared off in a cloud of angry blue exhaust.

¹
A paralyzed man will swing a paralyzed arm less than a good arm.

W
HEN I RETURNED HOME
, the house was dark and empty. A note in the kitchen told me that Judith was still over at the Lees with the kids. I walked around the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator; I was hungry but restless, unwilling to sit down and make a sandwich. Finally I settled for a glass of milk and some leftover cole slaw, but the silence of the house depressed me. I finished and went over to the Lees; they live just a block away.

From the outside, the Lee house is brick, massive, New England, and old, like all the other houses on the street. It had absolutely no distinguishing characteristics. I had always wondered about the house; it didn’t seem suited to Art.

Inside, things were grim. In the kitchen, Betty sat with a rigid smile on her face as she fed the year-old baby; she looked tired and ragged; normally she was immaculately dressed with an unwilting, indefatigable manner. Judith was with her and Jane, our youngest, was holding on to Judith’s skirt. She had begun that just a few weeks earlier.

From the living room, I heard the sound of the boys playing cops and robbers with cap pistols. With every bang, Betty shuddered. “I wish they’d stop,” she said, “but I haven’t the heart …”

I went into the living room. All the furniture was overturned. From behind an easy chair Johnny, our four-year-old, saw me and waved, then fired his gun. Across the room the two Lee boys were huddled behind the couch. The air was acrid with smoke and the floor littered with rolls of paper caps.

Johnny fired, then called, “I got you.”

“Did not,” said Andy Lee, who was six.

“I did too. You’re dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Andy said and fanned his gun. He was out of caps, though, and made only a clicking noise. He ducked down and said to Henry Lee, “Cover me while I reload.”

“O.K., partner.”

Andy reloaded, but his fingers were slow, and he grew impatient. Halfway through he stopped, aimed his gun, and shouted “Bang! Bang!” Then he continued.

“No fair,” Johnny called, from behind the chair. “You’re dead.”

“So are you,” Henry said. “I just got you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Johnny said and fired three more caps. “You only winged me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Henry said. “Take that.”

The shooting continued. I walked back to the kitchen, where Judith was standing with Betty. Betty said, “How is it?”

I smiled. “They’re arguing over who got whom.”

“What did you find out today?”

“Everything’s going to be all right,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

She gave me a wry smile. Art’s smile. “Yes, Doctor.

“I’m serious.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, putting a spoon of apple sauce into the baby’s mouth. It dribbled out over her chin; Betty scooped it up and tried again.

“We just had some bad news,” Judith said.

“Oh?”

“Bradford called. Art’s lawyer. He won’t take the case.”

“Bradford?”

“Yes,” Betty said. “He called half an hour ago.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Just that he couldn’t take it at this time.”

I lit a cigarette and tried to be calm. “I’d better call him,” I said.

Judith looked at her watch. “It’s five-thirty. He probably won’t be—”

“I’ll try anyway,” I said. I went into Art’s study. Judith came with me. I shut the door, closing off the sounds of gunfire.