Doctors

  One thing struck him almost immediately. At this moment the streets of Manhattan were hot enough to melt the asphalt, and yet the vast majority of inmates here were dressed like King Lear for the tornadoes of the heath.

  He reminded himself that chronic schizophrenics often wear winter clothing all year round in terror that it might be stolen or – still more unlikely – lost in this warehouse of a room.

  Psychiatry is often dubbed ‘the talking cure.’ But Barney realized why this patchwork quilt of persons had been thrown together.

  They were silent.

  Now and then there was the sound of shuffling feet. A cough. A sneeze. But even these were rare. The inhabitants seemed mute. Or else humming to themselves some otherworldly mantra.

  It was bizarre, none of them seemed to acknowledge the existence of another. His arrival did not catch even a single pair of eyes. Good God, he thought, how could people get this way?

  A huge, muscular black man, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, came up to him.

  ‘You look a bit lost, doctor,’ he said amiably.

  ‘Hi, I’m Doctor Livingston,’ he greeted his interlocutor, obviously the ward attendant.

  ‘Yes, Doctor, we’ve been looking forward to your arrival. Let me guide you to the nurses’ office.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Barney said, but his eyes kept darting left and right.

  Passing through a set of double doors they saw to their right a gray-haired man, his head leaning toward his left shoulder, the fingers of his left hand dancing, his right hand moving back and forth across his left forearm.

  ‘That’s Ignatz,’ the black man explained, ‘he’s practicing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Barney. And then he worked up the courage to ask, ‘Practicing what?’

  ‘Why, doctor, don’t you see his Stradivarius?’

  ‘Oh, sure, sure. It’s just I had a little trouble hearing it.’

  ‘Ah, but doctor, “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard/Are sweeter …”’

  Barney smiled in appreciation. ‘Very apt,’ he said admiringly. ‘John Keats – himself a doctor. By the way,’ he added, holding out his hand, ‘I still don’t know your name.’

  ‘Oh,’ the black man said, ‘I would have thought they’d told you in the palace.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Don’t you know that Pontius Pilate plans to crucify me?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ said Barney, momentarily off balance.

  ‘Yes, my son. And when I see my Father on Friday night I’ll put in a good word for you.’

  Suddenly an irate voice shouted out, ‘Mr Johnson – what have you been telling that young doctor?’

  The big man turned to what seemed to be – at least Barney hoped – the ward head nurse, who was marching toward them shaking an admonitory finger at his guide.

  He whispered to Barney, ‘Beware, my son! That woman is a succubus – she’s Satan in a female form.’

  At this point, the nurse reached them. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m Jane Herridge. You must be Doctor Livingston.’

  ‘Doctor Livingston?’ the black man said with fascination. ‘Then I must be Henry Stanley.’

  ‘Now, Mr Johnson, you go off and spin your tales and let me talk to doctor here. He’ll come and visit you again, I’m sure.’

  The nurse led Barney away, all the while assuring him that Mr Johnson’s multifaceted delusions were quite harmless.

  ‘Actually he doesn’t live here, he’s from the acute ward. But he sort of acts as an unofficial orderly. We’re very shorthanded. And he’s so outgoing and has such a way with people.’

  Probably because he is so many people, Barney thought to himself. He looked over his shoulder at the looming figure of Mr Johnson, who now lifted his arm in valediction.

  ‘“O now, forever, farewell the tranquil mind!”’

  ‘That’s Shakespeare,’ Barney confided to the nurse. ‘But I’ll be damned if I can remember what play.’

  From afar off, the great man cried, ‘Othello, act three, scene three, line three hundred and fifty-one!’

  A moment later they were safely sheltered behind the almost sound-proof glass of the nurses’ station, sipping coffee from paper cups with plastic holders.

  ‘That guy’s some kind of genius,’ Barney remarked.

  The nurse replied, ‘Doctor, I think the saddest thing about this ward is all the wasted talent that’s imprisoned here. And I don’t mean by bolts and bars. It’s locked deep inside them. And there’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘Are you sure – ?’

  Mrs Herridge interrupted him. ‘Please, Doctor Livingston. I mean no disrespect, but every summer a new resident comes on this ward and thinks he’ll turn it into some institute of higher studies. But the truth is that it’s just a loony bin and they’re so far gone that they can’t fend for themselves in the outside world.’

  She took him on a tour of the ‘facilities’. The prisonlike windows were not new to him, nor were the rooms with padded walls. (He could not bring himself to speak of them as ‘cells.’) But what astonished him was where they slept. Their dormitory was like a bunkhouse in a summer camp, but instead of half-a-dozen beds there were – ‘How many, nurse?’

  ‘Sixty,’ she replied. ‘This was only built for forty, but you know our problems.’

  Barney wondered if he did. Was there an epidemic of madness in the world?

  ‘How do you treat them?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, we don’t exactly “treat” them, doctor. We just try to get them through the day. Believe me, it’s quite a task to wake up sixty patients, from sixty different planets, march them into breakfast—’

  ‘March?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But we do try to get them standing two by two. They’re easier to manage.’

  ‘Like Noah’s Ark,’ he said absently. And then he asked, ‘What comes after that?’

  ‘For those that can make some communication, we’ve got arts and crafts. We’ve even tried a dance class now and then. But most of them just stand around and do … whatever you just saw them doing till it’s time to eat. Then they get their medication and that’s it.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  A look of impatience crossed the head nurse’s face. ‘Doctor Livingston, there are sixty of them and eight of us – and that’s including Mr Johnson. We have to keep them sedated or it would be sheer chaos.’

  Barney nodded. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble, could I go through some of the case histories?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she answered, and led him back to her office.

  Holy shit! Even after a cursory glance at the records, Barney was stupefied by the quantity of drugs these patients were receiving.

  ‘God,’ he said to the head nurse, ‘even Superman would fall asleep on the doses that you’re giving these poor people.’

  Mrs Herridge did not answer – just glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. He began to think she was looking him over, perhaps examining him for traces of psychosis.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mrs Herridge?’

  ‘No, Doctor. I’m just surprised that you’d want to spend so much time reading those histories.’

  ‘Well, that’s my job, isn’t it?’ Barney replied.

  ‘Well, if you actually read the complete files of everybody in this ward your rotation would be over. Most of them have been with us for as long as I can remember. Mrs Ridley would be celebrating her twenty-fifth anniversary here – if there were some way we could let her know.’

  And Barney thought to himself, But what if whatever they had that brought them here wasn’t as bad as what they turned into just by being here?

  ‘Mrs Herridge, can you tell me if anyone has ever been released from this ward?’

  ‘Not in the usual hospital sense, doctor. I mean, they’re mostly elderly and—’

  ‘– just dying to get out, eh?’

  He thought he detected a movement of her facial muscles, the fleeting manifestation of
a proto-smile.

  But she glanced impatiently at her watch. ‘If you’ll excuse me, doctor, I’ve got to see that everything’s in order.’

  Barney nodded. To make sure all the inmates are drugged up to their eyeballs?

  He rose politely. ‘I guess I ought to go, too. I’ll be in early tomorrow morning and make a fresh start.’

  But he was concealing the real truth: he was genuinely frightened of being left alone among the ghosts of living human beings.

  He followed several paces behind the head nurse, trying to keep his gaze on her footsteps.

  Just as they were arriving at the far end of the gigantic hall, he heard a sound – like a whine – that, though lacking words, still struck him as a kind of plea.

  He stopped and slowly turned toward the left. There was a youngish man – at least he seemed not as antiquated as the other patients.

  Motionless, he stood emitting intermittent moans. And staring into space.

  Then something happened.

  Their eyes met. At least Barney thought they had made contact.

  And, for a fleeting instant, he sensed a glimmer of recognition.

  Did this man know him? Had they ever met beyond these walls – out in the world?

  As he stood puzzled, Mrs Herridge said quite audibly, as if she assumed the patients, if not deaf, were at least uncomprehending, ‘Pay no attention, Doctor. He’s a tragic case – tried to kill his wife and children. Dreadful story. Shall we go?’

  Barney began to walk toward the guard at the door. But before he left, he stole a furtive glance at the groaning man and repeated to himself, I swear to God I know that guy.

  Theoretically, Bennett Landsmann had the last two weeks of August free, to catch his breath, some sleep – or even a fish or two.

  A few years earlier, Herschel and Hannah had bought a summer house at Truro on Cape Cod. Hoping that it would make their son feel more at ease when he came to visit with a lady friend, they deliberately chose one with a separate guest cottage.

  It was here that Bennett had spent the final weeks of August 1958, when he returned from Oxford to begin Med School.

  The Landsmanns were overjoyed that he had brought along Robin Winslow, about whom he had written so often. From everything they had gathered, they assumed she was the girl Ben had chosen to marry.

  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 Doctor 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 Doctopr 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.’

  Hershel 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.’

  29

  ‘Oh, deep in my heart

  I do believe

  We shall overcome some day.’

  On 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.

  I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal’ … I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

  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.’
br />   ‘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.