The news of Alison’s death electrified the school. Still, for self-preservation, they discussed it as if it had been an event on a distant planet.
Dean Holmes had personally offered to represent the school at the funeral, but her parents had refused.
‘I wonder why?’ Laura asked a group of fellow students at lunch.
‘My honest opinion,’ said Barney, trying to lower his voice so his hypothesis would carry more authority, ‘is that they probably viewed her suicide as some kind of failure – flunking out of life, so to speak.’
‘And what brings you to such a definitive conclusion, doctor, when you haven’t even met the parents?’ Hank Dwyer asked.
‘Because, Hank, neuroses aren’t like viruses, they aren’t identifiable things that float around in the air. They come from a definite place and that place is a four-letter word called home.’
‘My, my, we are pontifical today,’ said Peter Wyman from far down the table. ‘What about me? What would you deduce about my parents?’
Barney looked, considered, and pronounced, ‘Well, Peter, I’d say they were extremely unlucky.’
Trying to appear unfazed, Peter turned his back on his detractors and walked off.
‘Now,’ said Bennett, ‘that’s a guy I would have tabbed to put a razor to his wrists.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Barney said with gravity, ‘you may still be right. After all, statistics say they lose between three and five from every class that way.’
‘You know what that means,’ Hank Dwyer offered. ‘That means statistically one person sitting at this table right now will be six feet under before we graduate.’
They exchanged glances.
‘Don’t look at me.’ Bennett smiled. ‘I refuse to die until I’m given written assurance that Heaven isn’t segregated.’
‘Laura, you’re going back on your word,’ Palmer said angrily, as they were sitting in an alcove on the ground floor of Vanderbilt Hall.
‘I am not, dammit – I said I would marry you, but not until I graduate.’
Suddenly Palmer glared at her and said sternly, ‘Listen to me, Laura, it’s got to be now.’
She had never heard him so imperious. ‘Why the sudden urgency?’ she asked.
‘Dammit, Laura, this is no time for joking.’ He took a deep breath to compose himself, then said, ‘I’ve got my notice from the Draft Board.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve got sixty days, Laura, and I want us to be married before I go. I need that reassurance.’
‘Palmer, you’re putting unfair pressure on me.’
Now he pleaded, ‘For God’s sake, Laura, you know I love you.’
Yes, she confessed to herself, I know you love me, Palmer. But I still need time to learn if I can love you back – if I can love any man enough to marry him.
Painfully conscious she was being unkind, she went on, ‘And just look at the time you pick to deliver your ultimatum – I’ve got four finals in the next five days. Couldn’t you have waited another week to hit me with this emotional extortion?’
She could see from his expression that her anger had upset him – and she felt immediately contrite.
‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ she said gently. ‘I guess I went too far. You can’t imagine the pressure we’re all under – especially after Alison.’
He nodded. ‘I’m the one who should apologize. I picked a bloody awful time to bring this up.’ Then he added like a humble suitor, cap in hand, ‘Uh, do you have any plans for Friday evening after your last examination?’
‘Well, it’s kind of a tradition that everyone breaks out a keg of beer and gets smashed.’ To which she added quickly, ‘You know I don’t go for that sort of thing. Why don’t we have a quiet dinner?’
‘Yes, that’d be fine. Will you come spend the weekend at my place?’
‘Sure. Maybe. I mean … fine.’
He kissed her on the forehead, fearing anything more passionate might destroy the frayed and slender thread that bound them still.
It was after midnight when Laura stood outside Barney’s room. From the sound of heavy breathing within she concluded that Barney was otherwise engaged. Dammit, she thought, I really needed to talk to him.
Now between each labored breath she could distinguish Barney’s voice gasping, ‘Keep it up – don’t stop – c’mon, you’re almost there.’
Embarrassed, she disappeared down the hall.
In the interim Barney was puffing, ‘… forty-eight … forty-nine … fifty …’
He then stood up, thinking to himself, two days without sleep and you can still bang out fifty pushups. Not bad, Livingston, you’re still in some kind of shape.
Very few of his classmates could have made that claim.
‘Pregnant?’
‘Yeah, I can’t believe it, Cheryl is with child!’
Hank had flagged Barney from across the Quadrangle to convey the good news.
‘Congratulations, Hank, when is she due?’
‘Sometime in August – maybe last week in July. You can’t be sure about your first baby.’
As soon as Hank had turned to walk away, Barney counted on his fingers and smiled.
He broke the news to Laura during lunchtime.
She was delighted.
‘And not only that,’ Barney continued, ‘but Hank is going to be a great obstetrician.’
‘What makes you say that, Barn?’
‘He can tell six months in advance that a baby’s going to be four weeks premature.’
18
And so they took their examinations. Common knowledge proved correct: only four classmates did badly enough to flunk. Three of them were invited to repeat their freshman year, the fourth to take a breather and begin again in twenty-four months.
Most of the others spent the summer trying to expel the useless memorized minutiae from their brains and preparing their thinking apparatus for more important things. For now there was light – albeit tiny as the ray of an ophthalmoscope – vaguely visible at the end of the tunnel of textbooks, shining on a sick patient waiting to be treated.
Many took jobs as lab assistants, scrutinizing slides of blood, urine, and other substances – for microorganisms, so that their superiors in rank could then exploit their efforts and announce the diagnosis.
Some had more exalted laboratory posts like Peter Wyman, who was actually engaged in original research under the aegis of Professor Pfeifer.
Seth Lazarus was going home to a position of responsibility in the Pathology Department at the University of Chicago Med School, where he had already worked for two summers.
As usual, Bennett Landsmann had conspicuously different plans. His original intention, as he had told Barney in confidence (‘I don’t want the rest of the class to think I’m a playboy’), had been to ski in the mountains of Chile. But unfortunately his Achilles tendon still had not repaired sufficiently to risk so hazardous an enterprise. And so, instead, he had arranged to join his parents for a tour of the Aegean islands. And while they examined the ruins, he would scuba-dive to explore the deep.
Hank Dwyer got a job as an orderly in a private sanitorium. It was near their Boston apartment so he could spend as much time as possible with Cheryl, who was now very pregnant.
Laura had both the good fortune and the bad luck to be asked to do research for Pfeifer. For along with the honor went the fact that the wretched Wyman would be her boss.
At first Barney was puzzled by the eminent biochemist’s second choice.
‘No offense, Castellano, but why the hell did Pfeifer pick you?’
She merely shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I’m just glad I don’t have to go back home.’
But it all came clear the moment the grades were published. Laura Castellano had achieved an astounding A-minus average. It was especially incredible to Barney, who had thought he had done brilliantly in securing a B-plus.
But now the truth was out and he confronted Laura with the evidence.
‘Don’
t deny it, Castellano, you were one of those two ninety-eights in Biochem. Right?’
‘Okay, Inspector, I confess, you’ve got me dead to rights.’
‘Then why the hell did you keep it such a secret?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. At first I thought it might be just dumb luck, and afterwards I …’
But she had no need to finish her last thought, for Barney read her mind. She did not want him to feel uncomfortable.
Barney did not have the luxury of working even in the suburbs of the scientific world. When it was announced that the Med School would be raising its tuition fees, he knew he would have to take a job that paid more money.
So he became a hackie, taking the night shift for Mr Koplowitz down the block, who owned his own cab.
Barney lived at home for sentimental as much as economic reasons. That autumn there would be a FOR SALE sign in front and someone strange would move into the room that housed so many thousands of his childhood dreams.
Estelle, having officially retired at the end of June, spent the summer in the backyard, sipping tea with Inez Castellano, chatting with her when Inez felt able to communicate, and simply keeping her company when she drifted off into her private world. Then Estelle would gaze around the garden and dream, remembering the days when the three kids had shared their games.
She had breakfast with her sons – Barney just home, Warren about to go off. He was already preparing for his legal career by working as a gofer in a law firm.
Most nights the boys were out – Barney at the wheel and Warren with yet another romantic rendezvous. And with increasing frequency Inez would come over, not merely for company, but for refuge.
By now Luis had progressed from quiet inebriation to loud and rowdy drunkenness. By 9 P.M. he was a raging lion. And lately a lion in triumph. For his idol, Fidel Castro had just succeeded in toppling Batista to free the Cuban people. Did this call for a Cuba Libre? Or two? Or ten?
Moreover, these sentiments did not endear him to the more patriotic Brooklynites, for Castro had expropriated the U.S. sugar mills. ‘¡Viva el pueblo cubano!’ was not exactly on everyone’s lips.
The neighbors were beginning to mutter complaints. One to two even approached Estelle to intercede on the community’s behalf and get Luis to sober up. Or, at least, shut up.
The once dedicated doctor was getting worse each day. He had already been fined for drunken driving. Another incident would probably deprive him of his license to drive. And perhaps even to practice.
‘Can’t you do anything to help him?’ Estelle asked her friend.
Inez nodded. ‘I have prayed,’ she mumbled. ‘I have asked Our Lady to deliver him from all his suffering.’
‘Oh,’ said Estelle, ‘isn’t there anyone – uh – closer who might perhaps speak to him?’
‘Father Francisco Xavier has also tried to intercede.’
‘You mean you actually got Luis to walk into a church?’
‘No,’ Inez replied, ‘I invited Father to the house last Sunday afternoon.’
‘And what happened?’
‘¡Ay! No me pregunta. Luis was like a madman, yelling at the Father, curses on the Church and all the Spanish bishops who banded around Franco. Father did not even stay for tea.’
I’m not surprised, Estelle thought to herself.
Inez suddenly lapsed into prayer. And Estelle was alone to wonder, Why didn’t Laura help? How could she ignore her family when they needed her?
She broached it with Barney over breakfast the next morning.
‘I think Laura’s shirking her responsibility,’ Estelle declared.
‘She’s tried, Ma. I assure you she’s really tried. But Luis said something unforgivable to her the last time they spoke.’
‘Like what?’ Warren asked.
‘Well,’ said Barney slowly, ‘among other things, he shouted, “Don’t lecture me as if you were my son!”’
There was a sudden silence at the breakfast table, then Estelle said, ‘Poor little girl.’
‘That’s really a bum rap,’ Warren agreed. ‘Both her parents alive, yet she’s all alone. I’ll bet you anything she’s gonna marry Palmer whatsisname out of desperation.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Barney cautioned. ‘Palmer’s going in the Army, and they’ve both called a kind of timeout in their relationship.’
Estelle was dismayed. ‘I wonder what will become of her?’
So do I, Barney wondered inwardly.
At 6 A.M. on a steamy August morning, Laura accompanied Palmer to the induction center at the Boston Army Base.
‘I’ll write to you, Laura. Please drop me a postcard now and then to say I’ve gotten through—’
‘Come on, you know I’ll do better than that. But are you sure you want to go through with your plans for OCS? Why spend an even longer stretch in uniform?’
‘Laura, if I’m going to lose you, the extra time won’t make any difference. And at least I’ll be able to drown my sorrows in the Officers’ Club.’
‘You won’t lose me, Palmer. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Well, I promise I’ll be faithful to you.’
‘Please don’t be silly. I don’t expect you to become a monk. I mean, it wouldn’t be natural.’
From this Palmer unhappily inferred that she intended to lead an active social life in his absence.
‘Just remember, Laura, you’ll never find anyone as devoted to you as I am.’
As she drove off toward the Med School (the ever-generous Palmer had left the Porsche in her custody), she thought, He’s probably right. Nobody will ever love me as uncritically as old Palmer.
Wyman was already in the lab, pecking on an ancient Underwood portable. He had dark rings beneath his eyes.
‘Good morning, Laura. How are you?’
‘My, my, what makes you almost mellow this morning, Dr Frankenstein?’
‘Well,’ said Peter the Great, leaning across the typewriter, ‘funny you should ask. This happens to be a significant occasion in the history of medicine.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Laura, ‘you’re gonna leave the profession.’
He ignored her barb. ‘Miss Castellano, today marks the acceptance of my official research findings. I sat up all night to complete the paper.’
‘You’re that sure it’s going to be published?’
Wyman grinned again. ‘My dear, Professor Pfeifer is the editor.’
But she was to discover in the next few weeks that Peter was not completely accurate in boasting of his authorship. For it was standard practice that every piece of research emanating from a lab bore the name of the senior scientist. Peter’s article would appear as the work first of Michael Pfeifer, then of Keith Macdonald, last year’s chief assistant, with the genius Wyman bringing up the rear. And at that he was in luck because such articles sometimes have more than half a dozen authors.
Since the U.S. government had been extraordinarily generous in funding Pfeifer’s work, he had nine full-time assistants and, as a result, that summer ‘his’ output was amazing. Even Laura’s name appeared on one. Although she had dismissed Wyman’s ecstasy at bursting into print, when her turn came she felt the same euphoria and longed to share it with someone. She even had an atavistic urge to call her parents, but instantly suppressed it. Who the hell cares what a drunken father thinks? But she knew Barney would rejoice with her.
She was right.
‘I know it’s the first of a thousand,’ he cheered on the phone. ‘And I hope that asshole Wyman gets an ulcer when he hears about it.’
Oh God, how well he knows me, she thought to herself as she hung up. Nothing in the world would please me more than beating Peter Wyman – and I will.
Seth Lazarus stepped off the broiling bus into the baking sun. Even at seven-thirty in the morning, Chicago was unbearable in the summer.
Fortunately, he had only a few hundred yards to walk to the doors of the hospital where the Pathology lab was kept at an extremely cool te
mperature to prevent decay in the ‘patients’ – as his supervisor, Professor Thomas Matthews, insisted on calling them.
(‘When we’re finished and send ’em to the undertakers, then you can call ’em corpses.’)
This was Seth’s third summer in the ‘death house,’ as some of the residents called it. It was here he had first learned to be dexterous with a scalpel, to resect tissue for examination, and to have a general reverence for the human body – alive or dead.
By the second summer Dr Matthews had already entrusted him with the making of incisions, the first general appraisal of the patient’s organs, and even suggesting probable cause of death. The doctor, of course, would make the ultimate decision but, more often than not, Seth was right.
The atmosphere in Path was totally different from that of his Anatomy class. Here there was near-silence – a respectful hush for the dead, perhaps. By contrast, the school lab seemed like pandemonium, the students making raunchy jokes to conquer their uneasiness, their newness, and their fear.
Seth was comfortable up here, although at coffee breaks he would stare out the window at the women in the busy streets below and wonder if the fact that he chose to be with these lifeless bodies on the table did not qualify him as ‘weird.’
At college he had an excuse. After all, he was telescoping four full years of studying into three, so impatient was he to become a doctor. It was perhaps understandable that he had no social life.
But then he’d never really made friends of either sex. The only time his fellow students sought him out was during exams, when they’d crowd into his dorm room and plead for his assistance to explain the complex material.
For the past two summers he had merely stared, his nose pressed to the air-conditioned window, observing below him everything he wished to join but did not feel entitled to be part of.
Is that why he had chosen Pathology? As a sure way of not having to tell the next of kin that their loved one was in pain that could not be relieved?
One morning in July his chief asked Seth if he was going to the cafeteria for lunch.
‘If you are, I’d like you to pick up an extra copy of the Tribune at the newsstand. There’s a story about my twelve-year-old on the sports page. He’s a hotshot in the Little League – pitched his third no-hitter yesterday.’