Doctors (9 page)

Back in the kitchen they began to pool their mutual ignorance of illegal medical practices and tried to rack their brains for a plan.

It was almost as difficult for Barney to listen as it was for Laura to speak. In his mind, rage was fighting a pitched battle with compassion.

Laura knew two other Midwood girls who had been in her predicament. Each had taken a different measure to solve the problem.

One had paid fifty bucks to a shady character in a dingy two-room apartment on the fifth floor of a tenement near Red Hook. The experience had been horrible and she had been extremely lucky to end up in one piece. As she told Laura, the guy was so filthy she could see the dirt under his fingernails.

The second girl had told her parents who, though horrified, had arranged for an abortion under sterile medical conditions. But this alternative involved going to Puerto Rico—and during the summer vacation, when her absence did not arouse any suspicion.

“Barney, what the hell should we do?” Then, ashamed, Laura quickly corrected herself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said ‘we.’ It’s my problem really.”

“No, Castellano, just stay loose and we’ll find a safe solution. Now, first of all, are you absolutely sure you’re pregnant?”

“I should have had my period two weeks ago. I’m usually regular as clockwork.”

“Okay, then we’ve got to find a real doctor—closer than Puerto Rico. I sure wish to hell we could ask your father, I mean, pretend it’s for someone else—”

“No, Barney, he would see right through it. I’d rather die than have him know.”

She turned away. Her whole body began to shake with muffled sobs. Barney stood, walked around the table, and took her by the shoulders.

“Laura, I told you I’d take care of this.” And he thought to himself, I only wish to hell I knew
how.

All of Sunday, Laura’s problem drove everything else from his mind. By evening, he had managed to convince himself that he would be able to find someone at school the next day,
somebody he obviously just hadn’t thought of, someone who knew the ropes.

The two friends hardly exchanged a word as they rode to school Monday morning. Barney was struck by the fact that everything seemed normal. The girl sitting next to him was the same person he had known for so many years. Except now she had someone else’s baby growing in her.

When they parted in the front hall, he began to stalk the corridors. After every class he was like a hunter seeking his prey, glancing intently at every passing face. At lunchtime he scoured the cafeteria, still to no avail. By one o’clock, he had made no progress at all.

He arrived at the pharmacy and began sorting through the prescriptions already packed for delivery. As usual, Mr. Lowenstein came over and gave the future doctor a short discourse on the properties of each drug. Barney listened politely, then swept the packages into a small canvas bag and headed out into the piercing cold where he could at least be alone with his thoughts.

It was only on his way back that it suddenly occurred to him. What about Mr. Lowenstein? I mean, he knows almost as much as any doctor and he’s in daily contact with dozens of them. Why not ask him?

Because if he gets angry, and I’m pretty sure he will, I’ll lose my job.

But then, as he was taking off his galoshes, he glanced at his employer. The pharmacist had a kind face, no question about it. And even though there was no apothecary’s equivalent of the Hippocratic oath, he knew the old man never gossiped. When there was a prescription for something potentially compromising, like the time one of his customers had contracted gonorrhea, he would have Barney watch the store while he delivered the penicillin himself, never giving the slightest hint of where he was going.

There were less than fifteen minutes before closing time and Mr. Lowenstein was already locking up the dangerous drugs when Barney approached him and asked if he had a moment to chat. “Sure, Barney, what’s on your mind? If it’s a raise, you can relax. I was planning on giving you one next month.”

“No, no,” he replied quickly, “it’s about a certain problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Well—uh—” he hesitated and then blurted quickly, “a girl I know is in trouble.”

The old man studied Barney’s face and murmured, “And do I take it you’re the gentleman concerned in this unfortunate business?”

Barney nodded.

“This is terrible,” the pharmacist said, but without anger. “What do you think we sell contraceptives for? Young people, if they want to get mixed up in this sort of thing, they should at least take the proper precautions. To be frank, Barney, I’m very surprised at you.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause as neither seemed to know whose turn it was to speak.

Finally Barney brought himself to ask, “Is there any way you can help me, Mr. Lowenstein? Believe me, I’m ashamed to be asking you, but she’s desperate—I mean, we both are. I don’t want her to go to some back-alley butcher. That would be risking her life.” He then felt terribly uncomfortable and apologized, “I suppose it was wrong to talk to you about this.”

The pharmacist sighed. “Barney, what was wrong was getting this young woman in trouble. But if for some reason the two of you can’t get married—and at your age that seems like the case—I suppose you have to take the other alternative. Mind you, I don’t know whether it’s right. I’m not God. But I’ll give you what help I can.”

A feeling of enormous relief swept over Barney. He wanted to throw his arms around the old man.

“Lock the store and come into the office,” his boss commanded.

Barney hurriedly obeyed and entered the pharmacist’s cubicle. He was writing a telephone number on a small index card.

“Don’t ask me how I know this,” he cautioned, “but from what I hear, this man is extremely careful. He even prescribes post-operative antibiotics just to be on the safe side.”

Barney studied the card. “Dr. N. Albritton—in Pennsylvania?”

His employer shrugged. “It’s the best I can do, my boy, I’m told he sees patients on weekends, so that would make it a little easier. More I cannot give you. So?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“So, do you intend to make such a call from your own home? Sit down and do it here.”

As Mr. Lowenstein tactfully left the room, Barney, in a state of mild shock, dialed the long-distance operator and asked for a number in Chester, Pennsylvania. A few moments later, he
heard the doctor’s calm voice wishing him a good evening. Now came the hard part.

He tried to pour out his problem as quickly as possible while still being vague enough to protect Laura’s identity. But the physician did not seem to want many details.

“I believe I understand the nature of the case. Would it be convenient for you to visit my clinic this Saturday morning? It’s just outside Philadelphia.”

“Sure, sure, of course. We’ll be there any time you like.”

“Well, let’s say eleven, shall we?”

“Yessir, yessir, absolutely. Thanks a lot.”

But the conversation was not over. “Mr. Smith, I assume you are aware of my fee.”

“No, no, but we’ll bring the money, don’t worry. Uh, exactly how much is it?”

“Four hundred dollars. Cash, of course.”

Barney was speechless.

Finally, the physician’s voice asked politely, “Does that change anything, Mr. Smith?”

“No, no, no, that’s fine,” Barney hoarsely replied.

As soon as Mr. Lowenstein returned, they tossed on their coats and left through the back door.

Barney was overflowing with gratitude. He turned to his employer and said emotionally, “How can I ever thank you, Mr. Lowenstein?”

The old man stopped and looked up at Barney. “By never mentioning this to anyone.
Ever.
”

“Jesus Christ, Barney, how the hell am I going to get four hundred bucks? I’ve got less than fifty in my bank account. We’re right back where we started from—and there’s
nothing
we can do.” She began to cry again.

He answered without hesitation. “Listen, Castellano, we’re going on Saturday and everything’ll be all right.”

“What about the four hundred?”

Barney smiled. “No sweat, I’ve got nearly that much in the bank.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “But you worked like a dog for that money. You were saving up for college.”

“It doesn’t matter. That dough is mine to do whatever I want with. So let’s not waste time discussing it anymore and just figure out what the hell we can tell our parents when we disappear Saturday morning.”

Laura was overwhelmed with a feeling she could not precisely define. Finally she murmured softly, “I know it sounds stupid, Barn, but I’d have done the same for you.”

“I know.” He nodded solemnly.

After school the next day, Barney went straight to the Dime Savings Bank and withdrew the $387.56 in his account, while Laura emptied hers of its $46.01 and went to buy the bus tickets—$6.75 each, round trip.

Barney plotted their journey as thoroughly as Hannibal crossing the Alps. Greyhound had a bus leaving at seven that reached Philadelphia just before nine in the morning. That would give them two hours to get out to Albritton’s clinic.

Mr. Lowenstein gave Barney the day off, and they told their parents they would be trying to get standing room tickets for the matinee of
Antony and Cleopatra
with Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. Since they’d leave early in the morning, they’d have breakfast at Nedick’s in Times Square. And afterwards they might even go to Lindy’s or Jack Dempsey’s for a sandwich and cheesecake, so they might be home a little late.

It was past midnight and Barney was still tossing in his bed, trying to sleep. Suddenly he heard what seemed like the sound of pebbles thrown against his window. He looked out into the backyard and recognized Laura’s silhouette. An instant later he was standing with her.

“Barney, it’s come—my period’s come.”

“No—you mean it was a false alarm?”

She began to laugh and cry. “Yeah, Livingston, yeah, a false alarm. Isn’t that great?” She threw her arms around him and they hugged.

“Castellano, you don’t know how happy I am for you,” he whispered.

“Hey, Barney,” she remarked fervently, “I’ll never forget this. I think you’re the nicest guy who ever lived.”

T
o no one’s surprise, Laura was accepted to Radcliffe—on full scholarship. She was ecstatic at the prospect of attending the college for Harvard’s stepsisters, since this would place her in the best position to storm the ultimate citadel—its Med School.

Barney’s joy was considerably more subdued. Columbia had accepted him, all right, but on a tuition-only scholarship.

“You’ll still be able to play ball, won’t you?” Laura asked.

“Only if they practice between midnight and four
A.M.
,” he replied bitterly.

Determined to experience campus life to the full, Barney found a job that would earn enough money both to continue his contributions to the family budget and allow him to live in the dorms.

On July first, he became assistant night doorman at The Versailles, one of the fashionable apartment houses in New York’s most elegant arrondissement. It was exhausting but lucrative: by Labor Day he had earned enough to cover his first term’s lodgings.

Suddenly, it was time to say goodbye to Laura—a moment he had been unable to acknowledge all summer long. Even when he had gazed out of his window and watched the two sturdy Railway Express men lug Laura’s trunk into their van a week earlier, he had not allowed himself to consider what the event portended.

The night before she was to leave, they sat side by side on the backyard steps, gazing at the outline of the long-neglected basketball hoop.

“Scared, Castellano?”

“Petrified is more like it. I keep thinking I just got accepted by mistake and that I’m gonna flunk every course.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I know the feeling.”

They fell silent again. Then suddenly Laura whispered, “Shit.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Dammit, I wish you were gonna be in Boston, too.”

“Hell, I wish I were playing for the Boston Celtics, but we’ve got to face reality.”

“I don’t think I like facing reality.”

“Then how the hell are you gonna be a doctor?”

“I don’t know,” she answered candidly. “I really don’t know.”

Radcliffe College annually published a pamphlet called
The Freshman Register.
It contained the names and pictures of all the incoming girls so they could more easily get to know one another.

But it was a far more valuable document to the Harvard men who could, like racehorse tipsters, study the fillies and circle the probable winners.

In 1954, the photograph of Laura Castellano was ringed in every copy—as evidenced by the tidal wave of phone calls for the newest resident of Briggs Hall.

At first she was flattered. Then amused. But as minute after minute male voices from high tenor to basso protundo parroted, “You don’t know me, but—” she finally begged the girl on bells to dismiss any further calls. (“You can say I’ve got leprosy, for all I care.”)

The next morning, she met with her advisor, Judith Baldwin, a lively, fortyish associate professor of Biology who was quite discouraging about Laura’s chances of getting into Med School—especially Harvard’s. She herself, she confided, had been turned down only twelve years earlier.

“Of course, I couldn’t take it personally—it was official policy then. HMS didn’t accept its first women until 1945.”

“Not even during the war?” Laura asked with astonishment.

Judith shook her head. “Apparently women were still unworthy of Harvard’s imprimatur. Nowadays, they only take about half a dozen—and for them that’s a monumental concession. Back in 1881, a group of Boston women offered Harvard something like a million dollars—imagine how much that was then—if they would agree to train a few female doctors each year. Harvard said
no.
”

This did not exactly bolster Laura’s confidence.

Meanwhile, Judith added another piquant historical anecdote.
“Curiously enough, they did have one woman on the faculty at the time. Does the name Fannie Farmer mean anything to you?”