Doctors (55 page)

Now and then Ben and Robin went off together to explore New England. Hannah was certain that on one of these trips she was consulting with officials at Harvard about the possibility of transferring.

Robin was a raven-haired fellow Oxonian who had won a
much-sought-after exhibition to Lady Margaret Hall where she was reading physiology.

What had made her achievement all the more remarkable was that she was South African. And—at least in Bennett’s eyes—shared with him a singular quality: she was neither black nor white. For she was born in her native country’s no-man’s-land for racially mixed “Cape Coloreds.”

The Landsmanns liked her immensely. She was full of good humor and, despite all she had gone through, not embittered. And it was clear to them that Ben was totally smitten.

Just before Labor Day, when they all drove Robin to Logan Airport, they affectionately promised one another to spend Christmas together. They assumed that holiday would coincide with an engagement party.

And yet, to his parents’ astonishment and sadness, after less than a week of Med School, Bennett announced without emotion that he and Robin had broken up. There were no details given—and none demanded.

“He’s a grown man,” Herschel argued, “and he doesn’t owe us any explanation.”

Though he still went to the Cape every August, after that summer he was always alone. Again, they never asked him why. But in the summer of 1963 Bennett did not come at all.

“I’m going down to join Dr. King’s March on Washington,” he told them on the phone.

There was silence. Neither of his parents knew how to react. The papers had reported numerous threats of violence by white supremacists. Although they knew Bennett wouldn’t throw the first stone, they were equally sure that he would be the first to spring into action if one came from the other side.

At last Herschel responded, “I admire Dr. King and I’m proud you’re going. But Bennett, promise you’ll be careful.”

“I will. Don’t worry,” Bennett answered. “I promise not to engage in conversation with anybody wearing a sheet.”

Herschel replied with a nervous laugh, “Goodbye. But call and let us know you’re okay.”

“I will. Love to you both.”

When they had hung up and rejoined each other in the kitchen, Herschel suggested to Hannah, “Why don’t we go for a walk?”

“At this hour? In the dark?”

“Come on,” he urged, “we’ve got the moon and when it’s
shining on the seashore it’ll be at least as bright as Cleveland in winter.”

So they put on sweaters and went out to stroll hand in hand along the peaceful desolate beach.

“All right, Herschel,” Hannah said at last. “What’s on your mind?”

He seemed to be watching the waterline recede as he finally answered, “Well, it had to happen some day.”

“What?”

“We’ve lost the boy,” he whispered.

“Lost? Because a twenty-eight-year-old won’t come to see his parents at the beach?”

“Adopted parents, Hannah. Ben’s going home.”

“His home’s with us,” she said.

“No, my darling, we have to count our blessings. We just had him on loan. His home is with his people.”

O
n August twenty-eighth, 1963, the crowd seated in the hot sunshine before the Lincoln Memorial in Washington numbered nearly a quarter of a million. Every one of the District’s six thousand policemen had been mobilized. Four thousand Marines were poised on standby. But the march had taken place without the slightest incident. For this multitude was not a rebellious mob but a congregation heeding the call of Martin Luther King, who had “subpoenaed the conscience of the nation.”

There were speeches by representatives of Civil Rights groups, ranging from the venerable NAACP to the newer, more activist Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the more volatile Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). But
whatever their conviction, all of them were galvanized by Dr. King’s passion.

His words brought the gigantic, cheering congregation to its feet. Many, overcome with emotion, began to cry. Some fifty feet from where Bennett Landsmann was standing, a young black woman collapsed, victim of the scorching sun and fever of excitement.

Ben pushed his way through the crowd that quickly clustered around her, shouting, “I’m a doctor, I’m a doctor.” In an instant he was kneeling at the girl’s side.

“Is she okay?” asked several members of the crowd hovering nearby.

He nodded. “We’ve just gotta get her to one of the first-aid stations fast.”

“There’s one right around the side of the monument,” a youth replied, pointing beyond President Lincoln’s marble chair. “I’ll lead the way.”

Careful to keep her head elevated, Bennett picked up the patient and ordered the milling crowd to clear a path. Moments later they reached the shade of a white tent flying a Red Cross flag.

“Hey, somebody—we’ve got a bad case of hyperthermia. I need an I.V. of saline and some cold towels stat. And let’s get a blood pressure.”

“Stay loose, brother,” a volunteer called out. “Just lay her on the cot and I’ll go get the doctor.”

“Take it easy, girl,” he replied. “I
am
a doctor, so give me a hand, huh?”

As the volunteer helped Bennett stretch out the unconscious woman on a cot, he could not keep from thinking, Jesus, right here in the shadow of Abe Lincoln with Martin Luther King’s words still reverberating in the air, this soul sister didn’t take me for a real medic.

Just then an official doctor responded to the call and, rushing to the scene, began to laugh.

“Landsmann, where the hell’ve you been all afternoon? I could really have used some help.”

It was Laura. He smiled broadly.

“Castellano, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“What does it look like—baking cookies?”

One of her student assistants arrived on the run carrying an I.V. apparatus and a bottle of saline solution.

As Laura set up the drip, Bennett inserted the needle into the forearm of his still-unconscious patient.

“Just like the old days, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She smiled. “But it seems like a million years ago that we were injecting oranges.”

Laura wrapped a nylon cuff around the comatose girl’s right arm, and pressed her stethoscope to the inside of her elbow.

“God,” she exclaimed, “blood pressure’s sky-high. We’ve got to wrap her in wet sheets.”

“Do you have any?”

“I’ve got a pile of towels and a few cans of cold water. That’ll have to do. I’ll get them while you take her clothes off.”

Laura dashed off and Bennett turned to look at the young woman. With the tube going into one arm, it would be impossible simply to remove her T-shirt. He grasped it by the neck and tore it down the middle.

She had not been wearing a bra. Her breasts were now completely exposed. Bennett suddenly felt a twinge of embarrassment.

Laura returned with the wet towels, and the two of them swathed the young woman from back to chest.

“What about her pants?” she asked impatiently. “We’ve got to wrap her legs, too. Hurry up and take her jeans off.”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered, trying to regain his clinical detachment.

“Come on, Landsmann,” Laura urged, “I’m getting soaked from these towels.”

Bennett tore open the bronze snap at the front of the Levis, unzipped the fly, and began to pull down her trousers. The jeans were so tight that he was dragging off her underpants as well. An instant more and she was entirely naked. Her abdomen was firm and flat, her coffee-toned thighs beautifully shaped.

Before he could chastise himself for unprofessional thoughts, Laura dropped several towels in his hands and ordered, “Okay, Ben, finish looking, then make sure she’s covered. I’ve got half a dozen hyperthermics I haven’t even started on.”

Before Bennett could reply, Laura was out of earshot. He knelt down by the Sleeping Beauty and reviewed the procedures for treating heatstroke he had memorized in Med School.

The important measures had been taken but he knew there was still a chance—depending on the gravity of her condition—that she might start convulsing. He checked her I.V., for she needed both salt and liquid badly. Then he knelt again and started to massage the only uncovered parts of her body, her feet and hands.

After several minutes the first aid began to work. The young woman started to shake her head as if trying to pull herself from unconsciousness, and then she awoke.

“Where am I?” she muttered groggily. “What’s all this stuff wrapped around me? I’m cold.”

“Good,” said Bennett, “that’s a good sign.”

“Who are you?”

“Don’t be frightened, you’re in a Red Cross tent. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Dr. King … ‘I have a dream’ … What happened after that?” she asked.

“Well,” Bennett said, smiling, “I guess you had a dream, too.”

“In other words I fainted, huh?”

He nodded. “You had one helluva case of hyperthermia. You still do, so lie back down. Think you can take liquids orally?”

“How the hell else do people take them?” she retorted with a little smile.

“Ah,” Bennett replied, “take a look at your arm, it’s been drinking for the past half-hour. But you’re starting to act sassy so I guess you must be getting better. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Anita—and I would like that glass of water. What’s
your
name?”

“Right now it’s Gunga Din. Stay loose while I go fetch the H20.”

He dashed off and in a second returned with a cup. “Here, drink this,” he said, propping her up with his right hand, “it’s got electrolytes.”

“It’s got what?”

“All kinds of ions to replace the minerals you’ve lost.”

“You talk just like a doctor,” she remarked.

“Well, maybe I am one,” he joked.

“How much longer do I have to stay here like a mummy?”

“Just till we’re sure you’re okay. In the meantime I’d better try to get you some clothes.”

“Clothes? Shoot—what happened to what I was wearing?”

“I’m sorry, I had to tear it off—in the performance of my clinical duties.”

“Come on,” she teased, “I bet you had a nice long look.”

“Whatever you say,” he added with a grin. “I did manage to salvage your jeans though. Are you here with anybody else?”

She nodded. “A group of us came up from Spelman College in Atlanta.”

“Good, then I think they’re right nearby. I saw a bunch of girls waving a school pennant. I’ll go see if one of them’s got a shirt you can wear.”

Outside the tent, the afternoon heat had at last begun to abate. Bennett found a covey of Anita’s friends, one of whom had retrieved her knapsack when she fainted and now handed it to him.

“Aha,” he said as he approached her cot again, “you really came prepared. Did you maybe think you’d get invited to the White House?”

“Don’t jive me, brother. By the time The Movement gets itself together, there’ll be someone with a lot of soul right up there in the Oval Office. And I don’t mean vacuuming the floor.”

“You actually think we’ll live to see that?” he asked sincerely.

“Brother, I won’t die till I do—even if I have to hang around a hundred years before I croak. What’s
your
dream?”

“Well, at this stage in my medical career I’d say it was to get a night’s sleep.”

“That’s all, Doc?”

“My name is Bennett. And yeah, if I really want to go all the way in surgery I’ll be lucky to sleep twenty hours a week for the next five years. Matter of fact, I’m supposed to be on duty at this very minute. But I conned one of the more liberal residents into taking my shift—which means when I get back tonight I’ll have to work for maybe fifty hours straight.”

He stood up.

“Which reminds me—I’ve got to hustle to make my seven-thirty plane. Can I drop you anywhere, Anita?”

“You mean from the plane?”

“Are you smoking, or are you always this kooky?”

“Except when I conk out from heatstroke, I’m a barrel of fun.”

Bennett looked at his watch. And then he looked again at Anita, quickly weighing the possible alternatives. If he caught the flight he would lose the girl, but if he stayed, the hospital might “lose”
him.

He watched as two of her college friends helped Anita into a fresh T-shirt. She was some woman.

Oh, what the hell, he thought, I may not ever get another chance like this.

“Uh, Anita, might I have the pleasure of inviting you—and your friends, of course—for a little farewell meal before we go our separate ways? I think I should keep an eye on you and be sure you’re forcing liquids.”

Anita said yes. Her fellow co-eds were even more enthusiastic.

“Great,” he responded, “just let me sign off with one of my colleagues.”

Bennett dashed inside and found Laura starting yet another saline I.V.

“Thank God the sun’s going down,” she said as she saw him approach. “Can you wait awhile so we can have a drink, Ben?”

“Sorry,” he replied with frustration. “I’ve just made a previous commitment.”

“Okay.” Laura smiled knowingly. “I realize how serious your commitments are. Some other time, huh?”

“Sure, sure. By the way, how’s Palmer?”

She sensed he was anxious to leave so she simply uttered, “Fine. I’ll give him your regards.”

As he hurried off, Laura thought to herself, Palmer
is
fine, and
I’m
fine for that matter. It’s just our marriage that’s sick.

During dinner at a nearby Sloppy Joe’s, Bennett could not help wondering why Anita had insisted that her friends sit next to him while she sat across the table.

Except for this enigma, all of them had fun. The afternoon’s demonstration had been powerful. They had something to be proud of. Bennett checked his watch again. The final shuttle was now airborne. He would have to stay the night in Washington.