Doctors (18 page)

“Won’t you stay and have that drink?”

“Sorry, but I’ve a pile of work waiting for me.”

“Good God, why is everybody around here so conscientious? Listen, one tiny shot of scotch won’t hurt.”

Against his better judgment, Barney was mildly fascinated by this character. He requested a Coke.

“With lemon? Lime? A touch of rum to make it a Cuba Libre?”

“Neat, thank you. Just a little ice. Uh—are you a med student?”

“Why on earth else would I be inhabiting this dreary dormitory?”

“Yeah, I guess that figures. Up till a few days ago this room was occupied. I mean by someone else.”

“Poor bastard.” He handed Barney a glass and then poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal.

“Did you know Maury?”

“Only by name and number—if you get my drift. I understand there was some family crisis or other. Anyway, I was counting on that sort of thing when I kept my housing plans loose for this year. I just didn’t think it would happen with such fortuitous celerity. Did you know the
pauvre con
?”

“He was a nice guy,” Barney said sternly.

“Wasn’t it Hemingway who said ‘nice guys finish last’?”

“No, it was Leo Durocher, formerly of the Brooklyn Dodgers.”

“Fancy that—
I’m
Lance Mortimer—and I have yet to meet anyone at Harvard Med who could remotely be described as anything but a ruthless, overambitious son of a bitch.”

“Including you?”

“
Especially
me. I intend to be a millionaire before I’m thirty-five.”

“In that case, wouldn’t you be better off at Harvard Business School?”

“Christ, you’re sanctimonious. Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn,” he answered crisply. “Do you care to pass judgment—or water on that, Lance?”

“Don’t be silly, I’ve heard it’s a marvelous place. Lauren Bacall comes from Brooklyn, doesn’t she?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, if she’s good enough for Bogart, she’s good enough for me.” Mortimer smiled as if tossing off a witty
mot.
“I think I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Likewise—why don’t we leave it that way?”

“Oh, come on, old buddy,” Lance coaxed, “what do they call you back in Brooklyn?”

“Lots of things. But my friends call me Barney or Livingston. I answer to both.”

This was also cause for laughter. “You do realize that all your patients will rib you with ‘Dr. Livingston, I presume?’ ”

“I don’t intend to be treating patients who ‘presume,’ Lance. Now if you can keep your hi-fi down to a dull roar, I’ll go study some Histology slides.”

“Histology slides?” Lance reacted with histrionic amazement. “Do they actually permit you to take those precious specimens of human tissue out of the lab?”

“A few at a time.”

“And what are you using for a microscope?”

“The specialty of the house—an ‘A.O.,’ ten bucks for the term.”

“But that’s monocular—and from the Stone Age!”

“My word, Lance, does nothing around here live up to your exacting standards?” Barney asked.

“Please, Dr. Livingston, you misread me. I was merely going to offer you the use of my little jobbie—” And he removed the felt cover from a shining ultramodern
binocular
microscope that was sitting on his desk.

“Wow!” Barney exclaimed—before he was able to stop himself.

“Nikon—state of the art from the friendly elves in Tokyo. I’ve got two, actually. I’ve also got two
complete
sets of the slides we’ve seen in lecture.”

“How’d you get them?”

“I won’t say until you revise your low opinion of me—”

“What makes you think I have one?”

“Everybody does. Until they come to realize that beneath my obnoxious exterior beats a heart of stone—and a brain of steel. Simply stated, Barney, I’m a born winner.”

“If you say so,” Barney muttered grudgingly. “Now tell me how you got those slides.”

“You can guess
how
I got them. The only detail you lack is how much I paid the poor-fish third-year student who runs the projector. And that comes under the heading of medical confidentiality.”

Barney had had enough. He turned toward the door, tossing a dismissive, “See you around, Lance,” over his shoulder. At which the young man leapt from his Eames chair and chased after Barney like Apollo pursuing Daphne. “Hold on a minute, Livingston—don’t you want the microscope?”

“To be brutally frank, I don’t relish the prospect of feeling indebted to you.”

“But I told you—I’ve got two of them—and duplicate sets of the slides.”

Barney could not stop himself. “Lance, do you have two of
everything!
”

“Well, yes. Most things.”

“Two cars?”

His classmate nodded. “Just second-hand Corvettes.”

“The same color, though, I’ll bet.”

Again, Lance nodded affirmatively. “It seemed more practical.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” And then, swept up by his own morbid curiosity, Barney probed deeper.

“Two girlfriends?”

“There I make an exception.”

“Oh?”

“I find women less reliable than cars—so I usually keep three or four on my active list.”

“Oh, well, that sounds—uh—practical.” Barney knew he was navigating in uncharted waters, but convinced himself that he’d enjoy trying to discover what made this character tick.

“Of course, you only have one mommy and daddy.”

“What is this, Twenty Questions?”

“Sorry, I just got a little carried away. And I wouldn’t want to borrow a microscope from a guy who was—for lack of a better word—‘anal acquisitive.’ ”

“You’re a little weird, too. You talk like a would-be shrink,” Lance concluded affably. “I like that. You can borrow one of my cars anytime you need it.”

“Thanks,” Barney remarked casually, and began to gather the various pieces of Lance’s super microscope, so he could escape before his benefactor had a change of heart.

“When do you want these back?” he asked, as he lifted the carton of slides.

“No rush. You can keep them all term if you like. I can always get another set.”

“You’re fantastic, Lance.”

“You mean you actually like me?” Mortimer asked with what seemed genuine astonishment.

“Sure.” Barney smiled. “You’re one of a kind—or maybe I should say two of a kind.”

He made ample use of the microscope. It was an exhilarating experience, looking at slices of connective tissue colored by the hematoxylin and resin stain. He was dazzled by the shimmering patches of pink and blue—an ordered chaos that resembled some of Jackson Pollock’s paintings. Indeed, only now did his lab instructor’s claim take on retrospective validity: “
Histology and art history are complementary esthetic disciplines.
”

Just after eleven he felt the need for a carbohydrate fix. En route to the downstairs candy machine, he stopped at the phone to share his excitement with Laura.

An irate female answered.

“If this is for either Grete or Laura, I’m hanging right up.”

He recognized the voice. “Hey, Alison, it’s me, Barney—you know, we met over Leonardo’s dead body.”

“Oh, hello,” she answered, “how’s your dissection coming?”

“Great—how’s yours?”

“Not too bad,” she replied. “I guess you want to speak to Laura, huh?”

He sensed her loneliness and decided to make the supreme sacrifice.

“Uh, Alison, would you like to meet for coffee a little later?”

“Oh,” she said, caught off balance, for she was unaccustomed to even the slightest interest in her as a person.

“Gee, Barney, I’ve got a lot more studying to do tonight. Could we make it another time?”

“Sure, sure,” he replied, inwardly relieved. “Is Laura there?”

He heard the smack of the receiver rebounding from the stone wall as Alison stormed off to fetch Laura.

And, curiously, she answered angrily as well. “Hey, I’m trying to study, who the hell is this?”

“Who were you expecting—Marlon Brando?”

“Oh, sorry, Barney. What’s up?”

“Would you believe I’ve got a complete set of our Histology slides and a Buck Rogers Nikon to look at them?”

“God, how’d you ever get that?”

“Listen, it’s too long and thrilling to tell you on the phone. Do you want to come over here and look at beautiful sections of lung tissue stained in silver—not to mention a kaleidoscope of other goodies?”

“Absolutely! How about right now?”

“No, better make it half an hour … I’ve got a counseling session.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, see you around midnight, Counselor.”

“Sit down, Hank.”

“I know how busy you are, Barn. I won’t take more than three minutes of your time.”

“Well, sit anyway. Why risk getting varicose veins.”

Dwyer nodded and perched himself at the edge of the bed.

“Okay, Hank baby. Shoot.”

His visitor began to fidget and barely managed to speak. “Barney, I’ve got this problem. I’d be very grateful if you could give me your advice.”

“Sure, sure,” he answered, and inwardly thought, What the hell makes him think I know more about
anything
than he does? “What seems to be the difficulty, Hank?”

Dwyer’s perplexity seemed to fill the room. Finally, he epitomized his dilemma: “Sex.”

“What do you mean?” Barney asked uneasily.

“I’ve got this problem about sex,” Dwyer continued, wiping his palms on his sweater.

Oh no
, Barney’s instinct for self-preservation was shouting
to him. Send this character to a real shrink or you’re gonna have guys jumping out of the window on you every night!

“Uh, Hank, don’t you think you should talk this over with a—you know—qualified person?”

“No, no, no, Barney, I’m positive a guy with your experience can help me out.”

Oh well, Barney joked inwardly, somebody must think I have charisma.

“Okay, Dwyer, spill it out.”

“You know I was gonna be a priest?”

“Yeah.”

“And I think I told you why I dropped out?”

“Yeah, something along the lines of ‘the world, the flesh, and the stethoscope.’ ”

“It’s Cheryl. Cheryl De Sanctis. I lust after her. I’m obsessed about her day and night. I can’t study, I can’t sleep, I can’t learn anatomy because all I want to do is—”

“Sleep with her?” Barney suggested.

“Yes, Barney. You see, I knew you’d understand.”

“Frankly, I don’t think I do. Because so far I haven’t seen any problems, unless Cheryl is married—or a nun.”

“For God’s sake, what do you think I am? She’s just a great girl from my parish—teaches kindergarten. Her family’s very religious.”

He paused, and then with a groan of longing added, “And she’s got the greatest pair of jugs you ever saw.”

“Oh,” said Barney, trying to grope for a conclusion, “but she doesn’t dig you—is that the problem?”

“No, no, she loves me and I’m pretty sure I’d love her even if she didn’t have an incredible body. But last night she phoned to say she’s coming up next weekend and wants to stay in my room.”

“That’s no problem, Hank. I mean, as far as I know, the only things we’re not allowed to have in our rooms are handguns and reptiles.”

“I think she wants to go all the way.”

“Great,” Barney replied impatiently, thinking, I should only have such problems.

“Then you think it’s okay, huh? D’you think we should commit fornication?”

“Hey, look, Dwyer, I’m not a moralist, but it seems to me that if two adults really love each other, that can include sex—”

“Before marriage?”

“Are you seriously considering marrying her, Dwyer?”

He nodded. “I love her, Barney. Now, do I take it I have your blessing?”

“I think you ought to regard it as something a little more secular—like encouragement. I mean, after all, I’m not your priest. Which reminds me, how come you didn’t go talk to one?”

“A priest would have told me not to.”

Before Barney could consider the manifold implications of this spiritual dialogue, there was a knock at the door.

Dwyer glanced at his watch and rose to go. “Hey, it’s past midnight. I’m sorry I took up so much of your time.”

Laura’s cheery voice called, “It’s me, Livingston—are you alone?”

Dwyer looked embarrassed. “Gosh, Barney, I sure wish you had a back door.”

“Please, Hank, it’s only Laura—”

“Whatta you mean ‘only’? You’ve got the best-looking girl in the class coming up to your room at midnight. How do you do it?”

He quickly turned and opened the door.

“Hi, Hank.” Laura smiled. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Likewise,” he answered shyly.

“No problem. I just dropped by to see if Livingston’s microscope lives up to the advance publicity.”

“Oh, sure,” Dwyer agreed, totally baffled. Then he hurried off to telephone his inamorata.

“O
h, oh, oh, to touch and feel a girl’s vagina. Ah, heaven.”

“Laura, not so loud, we’re in
Boston
!”

Palmer Talbot’s face had turned the color of the lobster he was eating. His eyes darted self-consciously to the faces of the neighboring after-theater diners in Steuben’s restaurant.

Laura was amused. In the course of innocent small talk, Palmer had casually asked her how she and her fellow classmates were able to cope with “the vast quantity of tedious trivia they keep force-feeding you.”

She had replied that over the years medical students had concocted several useful mnemonics, unforgettable phrases that could evoke instant recall of vital information from the dusty back shelves of the mind.

“For example?” he had asked.

“Well, there’s an absolutely foolproof way of memorizing the twelve cranial nerves—the electric wires that transmit orders from your brain to various parts of the body.” She had then cocked her beautiful blond head and declaimed, “Oh, oh, oh, to touch and feel a girl’s …” et cetera.

At which point the discomfited Palmer had his fit of social apoplexy.

“That sounds like something Barney might invent.” He smiled.

“Hell no, I told you it’s a classic—part of the folklore. For all I know it may go back to Galen or even Hippocrates. Believe me, it’s a stroke of genius. How else would I be able to reel off ‘olfactory, optic, oculomotor, trochlear—’ ”