Doctors (42 page)

Cruikshank and his assistants were again deep in thought. Finally, Mike remembered. “The day after last year’s incident, that black guy kind of objected to Professor Cruikshank bringing in new dogs just for the final experiment.”

“That would be Bennett Landsmann,” the dean offered.

“Yes, sir, I believe that’s his name.”

“If he’s the perpetrator, I’m afraid we’ll have to hush this up,” the dean commented.

“Come now, Courtney,” Cruikshank retorted. “Just because the chap’s a Negro—”

“I didn’t hear that,” Holmes replied sternly. “Now, Dr. Cruikshank, may I speak to you privately?”

The professor motioned to his junior men, who quickly made themselves scarce.

Then he demanded, “What the hell is the big secret?”

“I take it the name Landsmann doesn’t mean anything to you, Lloyd. Don’t you read
The Wall Street Journal
?”

“Of course.”

“Then you may have read that Federated Clothing has just bought out Royal Leathercraft—wholly owned by Mr. Herschel Landsmann—for twenty-eight million dollars.…”

“And?”

“To mark the occasion, and to express his gratitude to the university for educating his son, Mr. Landsmann has given us a donation—which he insisted be anonymous—of one million dollars.”

Cruikshank whistled. “My God. Do you know the young man?”

“Yes, a bit—and he’s a solid citizen and he doesn’t seem the type. It’s very possible he isn’t the culprit.”

“I guess that means we’re still stuck with a lunatic stalking the halls.”

“Let’s not get carried away, Lloyd, he’s only killed a few dogs.”

“So far, Courtney,” Cruikshank cautioned.

*    *    *

A group of them stood outside the gynecology examination room, uneasy in their ill-fitting white coats. They felt slightly fraudulent, pretending to be experts when they were little more than tourists in a land to which they had no visa.

Grete Andersen emerged, a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

“How did it go?” asked a nervous classmate.

“No problem. The patient was really happy to see a woman examiner who
knows
what it feels like.” And she undulated off, while one or two of them fantasized about what examining
her
might be like.

Barney’s name was called. He entered the room tentatively and was taken aback by what he saw. For his patient was already lying in the “lithotomy position,” her heels in stirrups with a paper sheet draped across her from the waist down—so
she
would be unable to examine him examining her. A small blue-white spotlight was illuminating the precise area he would scrutinize.

Following correct medical procedure, a female attendant was present, as chaperone and assistant. She helped him don his surgical gloves, then moved away so he could perform the examination.

Barney looked at the patient. She was a peroxide blonde in her middle forties, perhaps a little heavily made up.

“Hi,” he said in what he hoped would be a reassuring tone, “I’m Dr. Livingston and I’ll be doing a cervical checkup just to see if everything’s okay. Please be relaxed and be sure to tell me if it hurts. I mean—it shouldn’t hurt. I’ve done this thousands of times.” (This was an addition that Skip had suggested privately.)

To which his patient replied with a single word: “Bullshit.”

Refusing to believe what he had heard, Barney proceeded to examine the external genitalia to see if they were inflamed, atrophied, or otherwise. Gingerly he separated the labia and dictated to the nurse, “No vaginal discharge, no abnormalities of the clitoris.”

A further perusal assured him that the thighs, mons veneris, and perianal region were all normal.

Now it was time to use the speculum. He picked it up from the tray—it was the Pedersen model that looked roughly like a duck’s beak. It felt cold and he asked the nurse to run the hot water tap so he could warm it.

Once again he told his patient to relax. Then, taking a deep breath, he separated the labia with the gloved fingers of his left
hand and inserted the speculum into the vagina in a downward direction (to avoid the urethra).

He reached the cervix with, he thought, minimal discomfort to his patient. At least, all he heard was one murmured “Oh shit.” Okay, he was there. Now it was time to fix the blades in an open position by tightening the screw lock at his end. He then took a cervical spatula and gently scraped the interior of the vagina for mucus, which he put onto a specially prepared slide. Then he handed the Pap smear to the nurse who would—at least theoretically—send it to the lab to be analyzed.

He had to spray the slide with some kind of cytologic fixative to keep it pristine. Trying to lower his voice half an octave—to sound older and wiser—he ordered, “Spray please, nurse.”

Without another word she handed him a bottle of—no, it couldn’t be—Revlon hair lacquer. He stared at her in disbelief. She smiled and replied ingenuously, “That’s what
all
the doctors use, sir.”

“Oh,” Barney replied. “Yes, of course. Many thanks.”

He was halfway through. Now the manual. As he held his hand out and the nurse squeezed lubricant on his fingers, he thought it might be good bedside manner once again to reassure his patient. But, paradoxically, having probed her private parts he was now embarrassed to look her in the face.

“Okay,” he said confidently, but with his eyes averted, “if we just stay relaxed this next part won’t hurt a bit.”

To which his patient replied, “
I’m
relaxed.” Which did wonders for Barney’s confidence.

Putting his left palm on her abdomen he began to insert his lubricated fingers into the vagina, at which point he heard the disconcerting sound of the patient breathing in low rapid breaths.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked anxiously.

“You forgot to tell me to do this, Doc. Short breaths keep the abdominal wall from tensing.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. Many thanks.”

With his patient gently guiding his left hand, he was able to locate the uterus and determine its position, size, consistency, contour, and mobility. Then he swiftly checked the ovaries, and, in the words of the great not-quite-doctor Elsas, “got the hell out.”

He concluded the visit with a gallant “Thank you, ma’am, you’ve been a good sport.”

“Thanks, kid, you weren’t too bad yourself.”

*    *    *

At the best of times meals in the cafeteria were strictly stag affairs, though Laura was frequently an exception to this. But tonight even she conjoined with others of her gender.

It was a natural reaction. For the female students alone had truly empathized with the creatures whose heels were fixed in the stirrups as they opened their private parts to the maladroit manipulation of the opposite (tonight it was more like opposing) sex.

But the men were not insensitive to the fact that several of them had caused their patients anxiety, discomfort, and pain.

Bennett was one of the most penitent. “I know I hurt this woman,” he kept repeating. “She sort of stifled her moans. But I just couldn’t find the cervix. Anyway, it felt like hours till I did.”

“I’m glad I didn’t get yours, Landsmann,” Barney remarked frankly. “I mean, my patient had more fun than I did. When she wasn’t putting me down she was just sort of laughing under her breath. Who the hell would want to be a gynecologist?”

“Oh, come on, Livingston,” Lance protested. “These weren’t garden-variety Mary Poppins types. These were pros.”

“What do you mean, pros?”

“You’re a jock, Livingston, let me put it in sporting terms. What Bill Russell is to basketball, these gals are to sex.”

Barney’s jaw dropped. “No way—you’re just putting us on.”

“Really,” Lance replied. “Scout’s honor. The next time you want to do a pelvic on one of them it’ll cost you twenty-five bucks at the Hotel Berkeley.”

“Cheryl, why the hell didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

“Hank, I wasn’t sure. I mean, how did you know?”

“Well, as it happens, I could see by the color of your cervix.”

“I don’t understand. Are you angry because I’m pregnant, or just because I didn’t tell you?”

He took a moment before answering. “A little of both, I guess. I mean, haven’t we got our hands full with the twins? How are we going to pay for all this?”

“Your Harvard insurance will cover the maternity part. What other sacrifice is involved?”

“Well, you may not think so, but I regard sexual deprivation as a sacrifice.”

“Not
all
the time, Hank. I mean, modern obstetricians say—”

“Don’t tell me what doctors say, dammit—it’s
my
place to tell
you.
And don’t say you were enthusiastic after the twins were born. I practically had to rape you.”

“Are you trying to say we should have used some sort of birth control?”

“Well, there are pills—Enovid, Ovral—on the market now.”

“We’re Catholic, remember?”

“Oh, come on, honey, join the twentieth century. I bet you even John F. Kennedy’s wife is on the Pill.”

“She happens to be pregnant right this minute, Hank.”

“Jesus, you’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?”

Suddenly tears were coursing down Cheryl’s cheeks. “I don’t know you anymore, Hank. You’re blaspheming all the time. You keep shouting at me. I thought I was marrying a saint, and you’re turning into a monster.”

He could not bear the sight of her crying. He took her in his arms and whispered, “I’m sorry. I must be overworked or something. Actually I think it’s great. Maybe this time we’ll have a boy.”

Barney was immersed in study when there was yet another series of knocks on his door.

“Hey, come on,” he grouched, “can’t you see that
DO NOT DISTURB
sign?”

“Hey, loosen up, Barn,” came a voice from the other side. “This is your distinguished colleague, Dr. Landsmann.”

Well, Barney thought to himself, at least Ben isn’t here to ask my spiritual advice. (Come to think of it, why not? He’s the only one who never has.)

He opened his door. “Quick, Landsmann, I’m studying to be a doctor. What’s happening?”

“I bring earthshaking news from Olympus!”

“Which is?”

“The Malpractice Cup—”

“No way,” said Barney, waving his arm as if to hold off a missile. “There’s no force on earth that’s going to get me back on that court.”

“Calm out, Livingston,” Bennett said jovially. “Listen to the tidings I bring.” He reached in his jacket pocket, withdrew a piece of paper, and handed it to his agitated friend. “I suppose
there’s one of these waiting in your mailbox as well—this year’s competition is canceled.”

“What?” Now Barney’s face betrayed disappointment. “Why?”

“Well, the official word from Dean Holmes is something to the effect that medical studies involve too much dedication to allow for such frivolities.…”

“Like hell. What’s the real story?”

“Well, my humble guess is that since the Shysters have now got—in addition to Mack the Truck, who’s still only in his second year—two new freshmen who’ve played in the NBA, Dean Holmes is going the Falstaff route.”

Barney nodded. “ ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ And, no doubt, the series will resume as soon as the Truck and his Trucklets graduate.”

Bennett smiled. “I think we ought to have a drink to celebrate. I’ve hidden two bottles of suds outside your door.”

Good man, Bennett. I wish I had more guests like you.

Barney kept the celebration brief, since he was expecting Suzie. Scarcely a half hour after Bennett’s departure, there was another knock on Barney’s door. And it was not followed by Suzie’s dulcet voice.

“Livingston’s not here,” he called out.

“Please, Barney. I’ve got to see you.”

It was Laura. Her expression reflected her tone. She looked on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry, Barn, I know I’m being a real pain in the ass. But it’s something that can’t wait.” She entered, carrying her green book bag behind her.

“Sit down,” Barney offered hospitably, pointing to his twelve-dollar, fourteenth-hand easy chair.

She shook her head. “I’d rather stand, if it’s okay. I was doing some extra work in the lab so I didn’t get my mail till just now. That noble Father Francisco Xavier was helping my mother clear out the house when he found what he calls a treasure trove of my father’s writings. There’s one in particular that shook me to my boots.”

“Can I see it?”

“It’s in Spanish.” She fumbled in her book bag for the tan envelope. “Read the first one. I’ll translate if you have any trouble.”

She handed Barney a sheaf of yellowing lined paper. He
scanned the first page, and read, “
Llanto para un hijo nunca nacido.
” He looked up at her.

“Elegy for an unborn son,” she translated.

“I understood that,” Barney said softly. “I was just a little surprised that he carried his fantasies so far.”

“It wasn’t a fantasy. It’s about a boy he had to abort from a woman.…”

“Your mother?”

She nodded. “It seems that she was pregnant when she was wounded—though neither of them ever bothered to tell me. And Luis had to sacrifice the child—his
son
—to save her life.” In a futile attempt to shrug off this burden, she commented, “It’s pretty lousy poetry.”

Barney stood, took her hands, and led her to the chair. “Will you sit down, for chrissake?”

She obeyed him mutely. He tried to offer some mitigating insights.

“This explains a lot of things, Castellano. I mean, not just his obsession with having a son, but the fact that I’ve always felt your mother was angry at him for something. Now we know why.”

She looked at him, dark rings around her wide blue eyes. “And what the hell good does knowing do? Luis resented the fact that I was alive and his ‘son’ wasn’t, and
she
resents the fact that I’m alive and my sister isn’t. I feel like obliging both of them and jumping out the window.”

“No way, Castellano. I can tell you from personal experience that a leap from this height will merely break your bones and send you to the loony bin. My professional advice is that you remain alive.”