Vexation Lullaby (7 page)

Every day Anatoly brought the same lunch, always one hard-boiled egg, a boiled potato, and pencil-thin pickled carrots; his mother packed his food in a heavy plastic bag from RadioShack—instead of blue gel packs, she kept his lunch cold with balls of wet newspaper that she refroze each night.

It was Anatoly who pushed Peter toward medicine. One day, while Mrs. B. reheated her lunch in the teachers' lounge, Anatoly said, “You're not as good at math as she pretends.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Peter knew exactly what Anatoly meant.

“I think you should consider making a doctor. People want to please you—because of your face.”

Peter tried to give the boy a hard look.

“I don't mean that homosexually.”

“What are you going to do?”

Anatoly smiled. “I am always doing.”

“Thanks for clearing that up.”

“I will make big sums of money and have intercourse with models and women newscasters.”

W
ITH HIS CAR
idling by the curb, Peter needed a plan. He thought about contacting someone in Human Resources, but he also thought that might be the worst thing he could do. Would they be on his side? The hospital's side? Were he and the hospital at odds?

If he needed to prostrate himself before the powers that be, he wanted to know what he was up against. He paged Martin, who called back immediately. “They're waiting for you in the conference room on Six West.”

“They?”

“Peg, Bucky Katz from H.R., Martinez, Ray Cooper. I usually attend these sorts of things, but I asked to sit this one out.”

“Which department is Cooper in?”

“Don't ask. Did you really auction your services to a certain Grammy Award winner?”

“This is all a big misunderstanding.”

“So Tony Ogata blew up the switchboard over a misunderstanding?”

“Don't kid.”

“One of his assistants left a message on my machine at a quarter of five. He spoke with Peg.”

Exposure
, Peter thought. “I was told Ogata might make some ‘discreet inquiries.' That's a quote.”

“Who told you that?”

“You won't believe me.”

“The Japanese don't fuck around with sneak attacks.”

“I get it.”

“You get it! I'm Filipino—my people lived it.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“I'm not sure what's going on, but Ogata lit a fire under Peg's ass. For your sake, I hope you're already scared.”

“This is all about Judith somehow.”

“Do me a favor, take a look around when you get to Six West. I don't think Judith's going to be there.”

W
HEN HE PULLED
up to the gate, the parking attendant stuck his head out of his kiosk. “Morning, Dr. Silver.”

“Hi,” Peter said, resisting the urge to stomp on the gas.

The attendant pointed a finger at an elderly man bent over the steering wheel of a golf cart. “Buzz will give you a ride to your meeting.”

As Peter got out of his car, the cart glided up—behind the driver an orange dome light flashed on and off on a long stalk.

“You must be Buzz?”

The man patted the bench seat next to him.

They zipped through the parking garage and inside the main entrance, past the billing center, past scheduling, past the gift shop and Friendly's, past Physical Therapy and the pharmacy. Buzz nosed the cart against the west bank of elevators, where, without leaving his seat, he leaned forward and pushed the up button; turning to Peter, he said, “They're waiting for you on six.”

What would happen if Peter walked away? He was still a doctor after all. That ought to mean something. But the hospital had protocols in place to deal with the noncompliant. Things could escalate quickly. Should a staff member get on the intercom and announce, “Dr. Brown is needed by the West Elevator,” the orderlies were trained to respond en masse. In a matter of moments the lobby would look like a tryout for Rochester's arena football team.

The elevator door yawned open and Peter stepped inside. The doors closed. He felt his body get heavy as the steel room started its ascent.

O
N THE FOURTH
floor, a bell chimed. The elevator stopped, and the door opened.

A small man, probably in his early fifties, reached inside the elevator and barred the door from closing. “Dr. Silver?”

He wore a loose-fitting gray suit jacket, tan slacks, and black dress shoes. An orange bow tie made him appear gift-wrapped. His hair was dark, parted near the top of his head, and combed straight back. His upper lip was invisible beneath the overhang of his mustache. He reached into an open briefcase. “I've got some things for you to sign before we head up there.”

“Are you Cooper?” Peter asked.

“I've left half a dozen messages on your phone, Dr. Silver. I'm Leo Kopp.” The little man blinked, “Mr. Cross sent me. I'm your attorney.”

15

Gene introduced himself to me six years ago in Syracuse. According to my ticket, I had a seat reserved in the front row, but the show was on the university campus and the students had decided that anyone who could afford a seat up close didn't deserve it. All of us gray hairs were huddled in the back of the hall watching the kids. Most of us had children their age and so we didn't entertain thoughts that we'd be welcome up front.

The kids cheered while Cross played “Green Dandy,” which, among other things, is about the treachery of youth. I watched the crowd as much as I watched the performance. Maybe I was wondering if the kids were there to bask in the music or the fame. At this point in his career, Cross could probably get away with putting a wax dummy on stage, since being able to say you saw him seemed to have supplanted the act of hearing the music. Basically, I was at the back of the room, surrounded by old people and having old people thoughts.

A beer sort of floated in front of me. I turned and there was this guy holding it out. He had a second beer in his other hand.

“I bought you a beer,” he said. He had a big oval face and these dark, deep-set eyes.

We tapped our plastic cups together and drank.

“You're Pennyman,” he said. He pointed his thumb at his chest. “We've emailed before. I'm Badmonkeyfunker.”

We were virtual acquaintances. Sometimes he would send a note of encouragement after I'd encountered a challenge on the road. He came across as perpetually enthusiastic: “Great write-up!” or “Feels like I was there.”

He told me to call him Gene.

I thanked him for the beer and we listened to a few songs together. Up near the stage, the kids were batting a beach ball around. It annoyed me.

“Fucking college kids,” Gene said.

I nodded.

“They come into your church and act like it's a basement kegger. Do you know what I'm talking about?”

I said I got his point.

“Someone should go down there and pop that fucking ball.”

“Be my guest,” I said.

Gene laughed. “I'm all talk.”

“Well, I'm no talk.”

I meant it as a joke, but Gene said, “I'm bothering you.”

“No,” I said, tapping cups with him again.

Gene drained his beer. “I'm going to get us two more.”

I like meeting fans, but it doesn't always go so well. Sometimes when people recognize me, they assume that I don't want to be interrupted, that I enjoy the music on some different level (like I'm comparing that night's version of “Shitheel” with the version Cross played in Oakland ten years before), so they watch me from a distance. It's even more awkward when they don't introduce themselves, but step up to me and blurt out an arcane trivia question: Name the only two drummers to earn writing credits on Cross albums? When that happens, I offer my hand and tell them I'm there for the show.
¹²

Gene came back with our beers.

Between sets the two of us found a couple of empty seats and I asked him to tell me about his life. He'd married his high school sweetheart. They didn't have kids, but they both came from big families, there were lots of nieces and nephews, so they didn't think they'd missed out on much. He'd gotten turned on to Cross by a much older brother—the brother had gone to Vietnam, come back, gotten messed up on drugs, made some bad decisions, etc., etc. “I like hearing the old songs,” Gene said. “How about you?”

I said I stood behind everything I posted on JCC.

“You like that gospely stuff?”

“Even that.”

Cross came back on stage. Maybe the kids had exhausted themselves; in any case they were better behaved. The second set came and went. Gene offered to get me another beer, but I was done.

After the encore, I leaned over and told Gene that I was sorry about his brother. He nodded his big round head.

“Cross lost a brother, too.”

He said, “I know.”

I patted him on the back.

He gave me this goofy smile. “Here,” he said, handing me something.

It was plastic and rumpled. I teased it into shape; it was the beach ball.

16

When they got to six, the doors opened and a woman in a moss-colored knit dress said, “Right this way, Dr. Silver.” Her heels made dime-sized dimples in the Berber carpet. Without turning around, she said, “There's coffee and muffins in the room. If you want anything else, let me know.”

She knocked on a frosted glass door before pushing it open. “Here you are.”

Peter walked into the room.

Leo Kopp stopped at the threshold to the conference room and handed the woman a few binder-clipped pages. “If you don't mind, I need you to make copies of these materials.”

The assistant glanced at the papers before turning her attention back to Kopp. “And who are you?”

“He's with me,” Peter said, adding for the benefit of the others gathered in the room, “he's my attorney.”

At the far end of the room, the hospital's director stood up. Peg was one of those Nordic giantesses who look like they ought to be accompanied by a wolfhound. “Thanks for coming in, Peter, but I don't expect you'll require counsel. This is only an information-gathering meeting.”

Peter looked toward Kopp.

The strange little man had stopped at the buffet and was crowding mini-muffins onto a saucer.

“I think I'd feel more comfortable with him here.”

“It's fine with me, so long as there's no rule expressly forbidding it. Cooper? Is there a policy?”

Leaning back in his chair, a large man in a tight blue dress shirt said, “That's H.R.'s territory, I suspect. What's policy, Bucky?”

A younger man hefted a black three-ring binder onto the table. He began shuffling through the pages. Stopping, he read a passage aloud, “Professional staff are permitted legal representation during disciplinary hearings.”

Rick Martinez, from Geriatrics, shut his laptop before speaking. “I didn't think this was a disciplinary hearing.”

The director smiled at Peter. “And it's not.”

“I think what concerns Dr. Larsen,” Cooper said, “is that once you have two attorneys in a room things have a way of deteriorating.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior,” Kopp said.

Rick said, “I think that's a sentiment we all ought to bear in mind.” Peter was glad to see him in the room—the year before they'd been on a marathon relay team that raised $7,000 for the fight against childhood obesity.

Before sitting back down, Peg thanked everyone for coming in. “As you're aware,” she said, “there've been a number of rumors
circulating regarding the professional conduct of one of our
colleagues, and I convened this meeting so that we might head things off before—”

Leo interrupted her to ask if they might go around the table and introduce themselves.

Peg said that sounded like a good idea. She identified herself. The younger guy in the Mickey Mouse tie was Bucky Katz from H.R. Next to him, Rick Martinez volunteered that he had been on the committee that hired Peter, then, placing a hand on the empty seat beside him, he said, “Dr. Vinoray recused himself.” The door opened and an older, potbellied man in a camel overcoat came in, apologizing. Dr. Larsen stood again. She said, “Mr. Oblitz, thanks for being here,” then, looking to Kopp, she added, “Mr. Oblitz chairs the hospital's board.” At the other end of the table, the man in the blue shirt stood. “I'm Ray Cooper, lead counsel at the hospital; I advise Peg and the board on a myriad of issues including contracts, tort, and labor relations.”

While the principals spoke, Kopp managed to eat two of the muffins on his plate. Seeing that it was his turn to speak, he held a finger up while he finished chewing. Then he rubbed his hands over the saucer. “I assume everyone knows Dr. Silver,” he said, extending a hand toward Peter. “He asked me to be here today. My name is Leonard Kopp.”

Cooper leaned across the table to study the man. “There's a Leo Kopp at Columbia.”

Kopp nodded his head. “I teach at Columbia, yes.”

Cooper rooted his tongue around in his cheek, like he'd lost something. “Don't you live in the city, Mr. Kopp?”

“I do,” Kopp said. “Do you need the address?”

The hospital's counsel turned to Peg. “When did this meeting get called?”

The director glanced at her papers. “A little after eight, I think.”

Cooper smiled and then, as if addressing the conference table, he asked, “Mr. Kopp, by what strange coincidence did you happen to be in town?”

Kopp brushed his mustache with a napkin. “You are aware of a conveyance called an airplane?”

At that point the door opened and the assistant delivered the packets to Peter's attorney. It wasn't clear if Peg was addressing her assistant when she asked, “What are those?”