Doctors (21 page)

“Hello, Barney,” his friend replied tonelessly, without turning his head. “Thanks for coming. Amazing sun, isn’t it? Sort of like God putting a shiny copper penny into a slot to buy us a skyful of stars.” He still did not turn his head.

“That’s a lovely metaphor, you should write it down.”

“I don’t write anymore,” he muttered.

Since Maury would not face him, Barney walked around his chair and leaned against the railing of the porch. Now he could see why his friend was so fascinated by celestial light; his own eyes were like burnt-out electric sockets. The sight made Barney shudder.

“How’s Medical School—am I sorely missed?”

“It’s kind of a drag, actually. And I miss you, Maur. The guy that’s in your room now is a real asshole.”

“There’s someone in my room? I thought they’d board it up or quarantine it or something so nobody would catch—”

“Stop knocking yourself,” Barney interrupted, putting his hand lightly on Maury’s shoulder. “I bet you’ll be back with us by spring.”

“Don’t futz me around. I’m gonna be here forever.”

Barney gazed into those chillingly empty eyes and thought to himself, This poor bastard was better off when he was manic. At least he was alive.

“Hey, come on, trust me, willya? I’m practically one-eighth a doctor. You’re gonna be okay, Maur. You’re gonna come out of this and be another John Keats, just like you said.”

“Keats died at twenty-six.”

“Yeah, right,” Barney responded, ill at ease. “That was a lousy example, I guess. But you know what I mean.”

Then there was silence. Why? Barney wondered. He knows goddamn well what I’m trying to say. Why won’t he let me cheer him up? Why’s he so intent on pulling me down into the abyss with him? And why did he ask me to come out here in the first place?

They sat for a few minutes without talking. Then, out of nowhere, Maury whispered, “They’re zapping me.”

“What?” Barney knew what he meant but didn’t want to believe it.

“The doctors call it ECT—Electro-Convulsive Therapy,” Maury explained, in the same gray tone of voice. “My fellow inmates call it ‘zapping.’ You must know about the machines they have to fry your brains.…”

“Shock treatment—you mean you’re getting shock treatment?”

His friend nodded.

Barney was overwhelmed with disgust. He had always associated electricity with punishment. Shocks for antisocial aggressive types; and for the homicidal, the supreme chastisement—the electric chair. But why this poor harmless guy? …

“It’s supposed to cure depression.” He shrugged and added, “Anyway, my father thinks I’m better.”

“Has he been here to see you?”

“No. I mean he’s a very busy man and San Francisco isn’t what you’d call around the corner.” He sighed deeply and continued, “But he calls. He calls Dr. Cunningham, the chief shrink, and makes sure the guy is taking care of me.… Hey—I
made you come all the way from … wherever … and I haven’t asked about you. Or your wife.”

“I’m not married,” Barney whispered, growing steadily sicker at heart.

“Oh,” Maury answered in a childlike tone. “Didn’t you have something to do with that tall blond girl? …”

“Laura,” Barney said, nodding. “Laura Castellano. She’s just my friend.”

“She was good-looking, I remember that.”

“Good,” Barney said, forcing a smile. “If you can talk about pretty girls, then you must be on the way to getting well.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘well’ in psychiatry,” Maury said with an air of plaintive resignation. “You just progress from one kind of sick to another. You’ll be learning that soon, I’m sure.”

“What idiot doctor told you a stupid thing like that?” Barney snapped.

“My father,” Maury mumbled. “As far back as I can remember, he always said that.”

As he drove back up Interstate 86 Barney spun the dials of his car radio, hoping to find something to mollify the dull ache in his gut. But all he could get with any clarity was Hartford’s WFDR, a station exclusively devoted to show tunes. And the trumpetlike voice of Ethel Merman blasting out the brand of frantic, mindless optimism so typical of Broadway seemed an ironic mockery of Maury’s plight.

He pulled into the first Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike, ordered a 3-D burger (which tonight seemed to represent Disillusion, Depression, and Despair), and tried to force himself to eat.

“Gosh, you look down, honey,” said the sympathetic, frizzy-haired waitress. “Did you lose your girl or your job?”

“Neither,” Barney replied, “but I think I’m about to lose my temper.”

He got five bucks’ worth of change from the cashier, went to the phone booth, pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket, and dialed San Francisco. After three rings there was a reply.

“Dr. Eastman’s office.”

It was his answering service.

“Uh—could you tell me how to reach the doctor? It’s fairly urgent.”

“Are you a patient?”

“No, no. I’m—I’m a doctor, actually. Name’s Livingston.”

There was a brief silence and a clicking sound, which suggested that wires were being spliced and reconnected.

And then a man’s calm baritone voice: “Yes, this is Dr. Eastman.”

“Uh—it’s Barney Livingston, Doctor. I’m a friend of Maury’s. I was the last guy to speak to him before he—you know—jumped.”

“Oh, of course. Did you get my little note?”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor,” Barney replied, thinking once again of the brevity and lack of emotion in Eastman’s letter of thanks. “Actually, that’s how I got your number.…” Eastman was not exactly helping to keep the conversation alive, so Barney had to keep taking the initiative. “Uh—I’ve just been to visit Maury, sir—”

“That seems beyond the call of duty,” the doctor remarked.

“He’s a nice guy, sir. I like him.”

“I’m pleased to know that. He generally has difficulties interacting with his peers. Now how can I help you, Mr. Livingston?”

“It’s Maury who needs the help, sir.”

“I don’t follow.” There was now a hint of annoyance in the psychiatrist’s voice.

“Dr. Eastman,” Barney continued, trying to maintain his composure, “do you know they’re giving your son shock treatments?”

“Of course.”

“Well, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, sir, I’ve just visited your son. And from what I saw, he’s a lot worse than he ever was.”

“That’s not what I hear from Dr. Cunningham,” Eastman retorted. “Besides, what makes a first-year medical student qualified to pass judgment on his superiors?”

“Doctor,” Barney said earnestly, “all I ask is that you take the time to come and see how these treatments are incinerating your son’s brain—”

“That’s totally unnecessary, Livingston. I’m extremely familiar with the procedure and in my view it was exactly what was indicated for the boy’s depression.”

It became increasingly evident to Barney that Dr. Eastman was deliberately avoiding the use of the phrase “my son.” As if to absolve himself of any responsibility for Maury’s unhappy state.

“Dr. Eastman, I beg of you. Please don’t let them zap Maury anymore. He’ll be okay. Just let him heal in peace.”

There was a brief silence, punctuated only by slight transcontinental static.

“Livingston, I’m grateful for your concern and I’ll certainly take up this matter with Dr. Cunningham. I hope you’ve had a good Thanksgiving.…”

Barney was speechless.

“Good afternoon, then,” the doctor said in calm and frosty valediction.

Barney hung up and then leaned against the phone like a defeated boxer.

He returned to the medical stockade a little after eight. The library was still open, so he went over to search for the latest literature on ECT. He read feverishly, scribbling notes on index cards. Apparently the strongest indications for shock therapy were (
a
) immediate high risk of suicide, (
b
) depressive stupor, or (
c
) danger to physical health for a variety of reasons.

Granted, Maury was all of the above, but even the strongest advocates of this procedure emphasized that it should be used only when time was of the essence. What the hell was the rush? he asked himself. Maury was just sitting there on the porch, weaving metaphors like an old woman embroidering a sampler.

And there were side effects. In every case there was at least some memory loss, although the studies suggested that this was usually transient. But what if Maury didn’t happen to conform to the statistics? Would his powers of recollection be permanently impaired?

Wasn’t it Thomas Mann who defined genius as simply the ability to gain free psychic access to past experience? Was not memory the artist’s most precious possession?

Maury was an intelligent, sentient, creative guy who deserved at least a fair chance to develop into a full human being. At the very least, to stand or fall on his merits and not be struck down by the thunderbolts of an uncaring Zeus.

These zappers treat mental illness as if it were a gangrene of
the brain—to be cut out. There is no human skill involved, Barney decided. When I’m a psychiatrist I’ll try to heal those inner wounds, make people whole. And no machine can do that.

Vanderbilt Hall swarmed with gaily chattering students. There was even a crowd around the piano singing Christmas carols. Maybe it would be business as usual tomorrow, but everyone seemed determined to savor this holiday break to the full.

In the cafeteria Barney caught sight of Grete Andersen carrying a tray with food that seemed composed of the same stuff as the linoleum floor. He marveled at the way she made even a camel’s-hair coat seem like a tight sweater. She undulated over to a corner where Laura was already holding forth to a couple of interns.

He decided to join them.

“Hi, guys,” he greeted.

“Ah,” Laura called out, “the mysterious traveler. Is it still a state secret, or can you tell us where you’ve been?”

“I was at Cape Canaveral, helping them put a turkey into orbit.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Livingston,” Laura complained, “we’re not a Senate Investigating Committee.”

“Let’s just say I was with a friend.”

“I bet she was cute,” Grete cooed, vouchsafing him one of her radiant smiles.

“Okay,” Barney said. “I confess. I spent the day with Jayne Mansfield, sort of going over … anatomy problems.”

“You know,” Grete murmured, “I’m almost prepared to believe you.” And then she added as she moved off, “Maybe that’s why you never call me.”

The other students gradually peeled away to return to their cells and hit the books once again. Finally Laura and Barney were alone. She looked him in the eye. “You’re going to tell me the truth, aren’t you?”

“Hey, look,” he said uncomfortably, “I really can’t. I gave my word.”

She gestured histrionically. “Hey, once upon a time we used to be friends.”

Barney seized the moment.

“Tell you what, Castellano, I’ll trade truth for truth. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll tell you where I was, if you tell me how you did in the Biochem exam.”

Laura hesitated, caught off-guard. Then, smiling sheepishly, she said in confidential tones, “Would you believe—eleven?”

“No.”

She patted him on the shoulder and gave him a lighthearted “ ‘Night, Barn. Don’t forget tomorrow’s The Big Day’ in Anatomy. As Grete might say, you’ve gotta be ‘up’ for that.”

“The human penis …”

It was evident from the relish in Professor Lubar’s voice that this was one lecture he never tired of. As a pedagogical tool, he had a large-scale model of the organ before him. It had already stimulated much conversation among the students—all of whom were present—some having even arrived early.

“This is the male organ of copulation and, in mammals, urination. It is cylindrical, pendulous, suspended from the front and side of the pubic arch. If you were to refer to it as a ‘phallus,’ you would be incorrect, for that is only a valid description of the penis in its state of arousal.

“The human penis can vary in length from five to eight inches, none of which has any physical bearing on the male or female enjoyment of sexual intercourse. Some of you may have heard talk of organs in excess of one foot, but this is mythology—or perhaps someone encountered a horse in the dark.”

No one laughed. They restrained their facial muscles out of respect for the professor, their cadavers’ genitals, and, most of all, their own.

Lubar held up his penile icon as he discoursed on its three columns of tissue: the urethral orifice, the prepuce, and the life-creating contents of the scrotal sac.

He paused to comment with a wry grin, “I hope you’re all following this.” And then he asked a question. “Can anybody tell me what occurs when hyperemia of the genitals fills the corpora cavernosa with blood?”

For a moment no one reacted … overtly, that is. Could he actually be referring to? … Could he possibly mean? …

So for no apparent reason the professor called on Laura.

“Yes, Miss Castellano. The result of hyperemia is—?”

“An erection, sir.”

The class breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why is it,” Lubar asked, “that despite the preponderance
of male members in this class only Miss Castellano is familiar with the well-known phenomenon of penile erection?”

No one responded.

Never one to lose the opportunity of cracking a joke at the expense of his female students, Lubar catechized Laura.

“Can
you
think of any possible explanation, Miss Castellano?”

“Perhaps I’ve just seen more of them, sir,” she replied casually.

The professor circumspectly retreated into
Gray’s Anatomy
, suggesting that the class begin a careful dissection of the day’s featured organ. Those with female cadavers were told to visit a neighbor. And so they set to work.

It was curious. Though after nearly three months they thought they had become inured to the cutting of human flesh, most of the students winced at least inwardly as they began this dismemberment.