Doctors (12 page)

“What the hell are
you
doing here?”

Boyish Ken Cassidy, recently elevated to the post of Columbia Varsity basketball coach, was astounded to see a ghost from the past among the fresh-faced sophomore candidates for the team.

“I’m here just like everybody else, Mr. Cassidy, sir,” Barney Livingston said with excruciating politeness.

“Come off it, don’t waste my time.”

“This is America, sir. Isn’t everyone entitled to an impartial judgment?”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Take your constitutional rights. Go out there and bounce a ball so I can bounce
you.
”

In the initial round, Barney was the only one who sank a shot. And under the boards, he was like an octopus with elbows.

At the end, he had wrought such havoc with the rookies that even the straitlaced coach had to break into a smile.

Oh, what the heck, Cassidy thought, I’ll take this clown as fifteenth man. At least he’ll give the other guys some aggression during practice.

Now that he felt affluent, Barney would call Laura at least one night a week. She could barely wait for February when Columbia would be coming up to Cambridge to play Harvard.

“Castellano,” he warned her, “your milquetoast Harvard guys are gonna see the meanest gutter rat who ever lived.”

All during the long bus ride from Morningside Heights, while the rest of the team slept, Barney was wide awake, churned up, ready to unleash himself.

The team ate an early training meal at the Harvard Varsity Club. There were still another four hours to kill before game time. But Barney had made other plans for this hiatus. He strode as quickly as possible through the icy Cambridge streets to the Harvard Square subway station, where he caught the train to Park Street, then changed to a tram that let him off two blocks from Harvard Medical School.

He arrived fifteen minutes early at the wood-paneled office of Dr. Stanton Welles, director of Admissions.

Keenly aware of the legend that Harvard Medical School took not just the finest, but also the most fearless, Barney used the waiting time before his interview to concentrate on the answers he had prepared for the inevitable question: “Why do you want to be a doctor, Mr. Livingston?”

(A) Because I want to comfort and heal the suffering in the world. No, too obvious.

Or perhaps

(B) Because your unrivaled research facilities will enable me to discover new cures, cross new frontiers. Like Jonas Salk, preventing tragedies like little Isobel. No, too pretentious.

Or maybe

(C) Because it’s a guaranteed step up the social scale. True, but nobody would admit it.

Or even

(D) Because I want to make a lot of money. (Could be credited for candor—might be rejected for crassness.)

Or better

(E) Because I always looked up to Luis Castellano and want to be a caring man like him.

And

(F) Because a callous doctor caused my father’s death and I want to show up all the lousy guys like him.

Answers (E) and (F) at least had the benefit of being genuinely sincere. Still, were they good enough?

Before he could meditate further a voice called out, “Mr. Livingston?”

He looked up. Standing before him was a tall, lean, distinguished-looking man in a three-piece suit that could only have been Brooks Brothers 44-long. Barney leaped to his feet.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, very nearly saluting.

“I’m Dr. Welles. Thanks for taking the trouble to come and see us. Shall we step into my office?”

Barney entered a room decorated with an awesome collection of laminated kudos. Besides diplomas, there were memberships in all sorts of societies (national, international, royal, etc.). Not to mention letters signed by what seemed to be every U.S. President since George Washington.

The director ensconced himself behind a grand mahogany desk, and Barney sat straight-backed in a traditional Harvard chair (colonial style—tan wooden arms and a polished black frame bearing the school’s insignia in gold).

There was what seemed a long silence. Barney leaned forward, arms on his knees, body poised as if waiting for a jump ball.

At long last Welles opened his mouth and asked, “Do you think you have a chance tonight?”

Barney was taken aback. What kind of trick was this guy trying to pull? How was he supposed to handle this one? Politely say he would do his sportsmanly best? Say that he hoped they would kick the shit out of Harvard? Or ask how can we talk of basketball when there is so much illness and suffering in the world? He rejected all of these alternatives.

“I think so, sir,” he replied politely.

But the next question was also from left field.

“Care to put a bet on it?”

Barney could not even come up with a single alternative. So he replied, “Not really—I mean, how would it look if I ended up putting ten bucks in your hand? It might seem like a bribe.”

Welles laughed. “Quite right. I never thought of that. Tell me …”He paused, then asked, “What drew you to basketball?”

By this time Barney had assumed Welles did not regard him as a serious candidate.

“Because there are no polo fields in Brooklyn, sir.”

The doctor gave a little smile. “Hmm. Never thought of that, either.” Then he rose, offered his hand, and said cordially, “It’s been nice meeting you, Livingston.”

“But sir, aren’t you even going to ask me why I want to be a doctor?”

“I think you said it all quite eloquently in your application essay. I found it very moving. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that a group of us at HMS are lobbying in the State House for a ‘Good Samaritan’ bill. So that doctors won’t be afraid of attending to a patient who’s unconscious—like your father. Sorry I’ll miss the game tonight but we’ve got to dine with some visiting firemen from Tokyo. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other next year.”

Heedless of the icy patches on the sidewalk, Barney skipped like a child down the street toward the tram.

The crowd in the Indoor Athletic Building was sparse. Columbia was not exactly a big draw. As the visiting team took the floor, the applause was perfunctory. And only one person felt inspired enough to shout encouragement.

“Let’s go, Livingston!”

Barney smiled and, dribbling with one hand, waved with the other.

Good old Castellano, my one-man fan club. But there were actually two ardent supporters—the person sitting next to her was clapping heartily as well. No doubt this broad-shouldered, Harris-tweeded individual was that “parfit gentil knight” of the two last names, Palmer Talbot. My God, he looks even preppier than Ken Cassidy, our all-American coach!

Three minutes or so after the game began, Barney was Columbia’s first substitution. More cheers from Laura. Determined to show her all he had learned since she had last seen him in action, he really poured it on. His enthusiasm took its toll: before the first quarter ended, he had already fouled out. Coach Cassidy was furious.

“What are you, Livingston, some kind of animal? What the heck happened to your subtlety?”

“I guess I left it in New York—sorry.”

And all through the second half he sat on the bench, head bowed, trying not to look at Laura.

After the game (which Harvard won easily), Laura rushed across the court to embrace Barney. And introduce Palmer. “Nice to meet you at last,” said the handsome (and taller!) Harvard man. “Laura’s always talked so fondly of you.”

“Oh,” Barney replied, trying not to act as insecure as he felt. “Too bad you caught me on an off day.”

“Come on,” Laura consoled. “Some of those calls were pretty dubious. I think the refs were biased.”

“Please, Castellano,” Barney replied, “don’t humor me. I was cottage cheese out there.”

“Speaking of cheese, I hope you’ll be joining us for dinner,” Palmer offered cordially.

Shit, Barney thought to himself, I was looking forward to being alone with Laura to tell her about this afternoon.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

They went to Henri Quatre, an elegant little bistro on the second floor of a wooden house in a narrow alleyway just off Boylston Street.

“We assumed you’d be tired after the game, so we took the closest place,” Palmer explained as they were leaving the gym. “And they do serve a reasonable approximation of haute cuisine.”

Feeling insecure, Barney was unable to decide whether the guy was talking down to him or was just physically taller.

They sat, making small talk but unable to find common ground.

Palmer, it turned out, had been graduated the previous year—magna cum laude in Art History, as Laura mentioned when her reticent beau did not. It also turned out he had been on the second eight in crew. He was now in his first year at the Business School (majoring in money?).

He seemed genuinely interested in the topic Barney had chosen for his senior essay: “The Image of the Physician in English Literature.”

“I do hope you’ll quote Matthew Arnold’s wonderful lines about wanting to avoid ‘the doctor full of phrase and fame’ who comes in ‘to give the ill he cannot cure a name’—or words to that effect.”

No, Palmer, Barney thought to himself, those are the poet’s
exact
words. In fact, he had to concede that this Palmer Talbot was pretty impressive. He might even go as far as to say Palmer was a nice guy.

“By the way, Barn,” Laura inquired, “how’d your interview go today?”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?”

Barney was bursting to tell her everything—but not before an audience. So he simply shrugged and stated, “Let’s just say it was not as bad as my nightmares, so don’t worry.”

“I can’t help it, Barn. I’m absolutely petrified. I mean, they only accept about five or six women a year.”

Palmer interposed with an interesting, if questionably relevant fact. “In Russia the majority of doctors are women.”

“Are you suggesting I apply to the University of Moscow?” Laura gibed.

“Not at all,” Palmer protested. “I don’t ever want you to leave Boston.”

At eleven-thirty they were standing in front of the gym where the rest of the Columbia squad had already boarded the bus for the long ride back to New York.

“Are you sure you won’t stay over?” Palmer asked amiably. “I’d be glad to put you up at the B-School.”

“No, no—thanks, but I’ve got a load of studying to do.”

“I must say, all you Brooklynites certainly are ambitious.”

“Well, it goes with the territory,” Barney responded with as much levity as he could muster. He shook Palmer’s hand, kissed Laura goodnight, and turned away, preparing himself to face his teammates’ mockery about his laughable performance that evening.

Laura’s grades were high. Her recommendations were genuinely enthusiastic, so she knew she would make it at least as far as the interview. But in her case there would not be the usual two appraisals—standard for male applicants—but three. Here again she capitulated to the inequity.

Her first encounter was with James L. Shay, M.D., a noted internist, in his Beacon Hill office dominated by a large window overlooking the sailboats on the Charles.

“You’re a very pretty girl, Miss Castellano,” he remarked, peering at her over his half-moon glasses.

“Thank you,” she replied. (What else could she say—You’re not bad yourself, Doctor?)

“A girl like you should be getting married and having a bunch of nice kids, don’t you think?”

“With due respect, sir, I don’t think medicine and motherhood are mutually exclusive.”

“But they are, my dear. Believe me, they are. It’s impossible for a woman to pursue a full-time and really fruitful medical career without doing irreparable harm to her children. Now, you wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

Laura was still unsure as to whether he was serious or just testing her.

“I take your point, sir—”

“Good, good—”

“So I’ll never get married and just devote my life to medicine.”

Dr. Shay peered over his glasses. “Surely you can’t be serious, Miss Castellano?”

This was the crunch. But after only a millisecond she responded, “I thought it was you who wasn’t being serious, Dr. Shay.”

The interviewer had no riposte. He sat for a moment, fumbling with some papers, then rose with a tiny smile and said, “Thank you for coming by, Miss Castellano.”

She left his office knowing she had won the round, but fearing she had lost the vote.

In a small cubicle in a lab at “643” (as the insiders referred to Building D at 643 Huntington Avenue), Louise Hoffman, Ph.D., a biochemist in her mid-thirties, proved almost more anxious to assert than to inquire.

“I’ll be perfectly honest, Laura,” she began. “I went through college wanting to be a doctor, too—and I was accepted by HMS, so this isn’t sour grapes. But the life of a woman doctor on the hospital floors is a daily humiliation. Some of the men simply refuse to acknowledge your right to be there. Look, you’ve got a good brain. Why not become a research scientist, where at least you won’t be treated as something only slightly better than a mop?”

“But I want to change that—or at least try,” Laura protested. “If we all shied away from clinical medicine because it’s a rough ride, we’ll be mops forever.”

Dr. Hoffman smiled. “You’ve got a lot of spunk, Laura. I think you’ll make a wonderful doctor. That’s only”—she paused dramatically—“if you survive Medical School.”

Two down and one to go. Laura knew the final session—the psychological evaluation—would be decisive.

Dr. Paul Gardner saw his patients in a tasteful, red-brick annex to his home in Chestnut Hill. Laura arrived promptly at six-forty, and ten minutes later the doctor beckoned her into his office. When she caught sight of the couch she thought for a split second that she might be asked to lie on it. But Dr. Gardner motioned her toward a chair. In an instant, he was back at his desk, notepad open.

“So?”

“I beg your pardon, Doctor?”

“So you want to be a doctor, Miss Castellano.”

“Yes sir.”

“Any special reason?”

At least this guy was making some sense. “Well, to begin with, my father’s a doctor.…”

“Ah, and so you feel a rivalry with your father?”