Doctors

  He then got on the couch perfectly prepared to disclose any number of repressed (or so he thought) secrets, the ‘shameful’ sexual things he had done as an adolescent. Even the erotic fantasies about his kindergarten teacher. Surely that was the sort of stuff an analyst would have difficulty in dredging from a recalcitrant patient with a psyche sealed in cement.

  And so he filled his first fifty-minute hour with what he proudly regarded as the most generous exposition of carnal activities since Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathic Sexuality.

  It took him eleven sessions – and one or two subtle hints from Dr Baumann – to recognize that he was offering spicy revelations simply to show that he was a ‘good analysand’ and thereby currying the analyst’s favor.

  ‘Why the hell should I be so uptight just because I want you to like me? I mean, it’s perfectly normal, isn’t it?’ he finally asked.

  Barney suddenly became aware that despite the air-conditioning in the room a cold perspiration bespangled his brow.

  ‘Can you explain that, Doctor Baumann?’ he reiterated.

  When there was still no reply on the part of the master psychiatrist, his apprentice realized that they had struck analytic pay dirt. And that he himself would have to wield the pick and shovel to mine it.

  Gradually, and with surprising difficulty – and Baumann’s total silence – Barney came to understand that he had recreated the most troubled relationship of his life.

  It was a discovery made through anger.

  ‘Why the hell don’t you ever say anything?’ he repeated with growing frustration. ‘I mean, I’m paying out good money and you won’t talk to me. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you don’t even say good morning. Christ, all you’ve given me to take away is “Our time is up.” Now what the hell am I supposed to do with that?’

  Dr Baumann did not reply.

  ‘Okay, now I’m catching on, Fritz,’ said Barney with undisguised hostility (as evidence by his irreverent use of the distinguished doctor’s first name). ‘You actually want me to get pissed off. Well, you’ve succeeded – I am pissed off.’

  Dr Baumann did not reply.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m clued in now. I mean, I’ve read all the literature. And I know what’s coming next. I’m supposed to say that it’s really not you I’m angry at but the person I’ve turned you into. You know I’m right, Fritz. You should at least give me some credit for self-awareness.’

  Dr Baumann did not reply.

  ‘Of course,’ Barney snapped, continuing his tirade, ‘you want me to say that—’ He stopped, unable to finish his sentence. For he was not yet capable of articulating who in his life had behaved to him as he imagined Dr Baumann was acting now.

  Oh shit, he thought to himself, maybe I should go into dermatology. You don’t even have to get a rash for that one. Why am I putting myself through this stupid exercise? What do I care if Baumann likes me nor not? He’s just a fat, balding old man.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Baumann asked.

  At first Barney was startled by the unexpected sound of the doctor’s voice. He then replied with a feeling of cathartic aggression, ‘I was just thinking you were a fat, balding old man.’

  There was a pause. Then Baumann asked quietly, ‘What is your association?’

  ‘None, none. I have no association.’ Barney simply could not reveal the embarrassing connection he had made.

  Finally, he remarked, ‘I don’t think this is getting us anywhere, Fritz.’

  There was another silence, before at last the doctor said, ‘Our time is up.’

  It took Barney over a month of daily sessions – and innumerable repetitions of the same scene under various guises – to summon up the courage to admit to Baumann that the phraseology he used to denigrate his analyst had a significant association.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘I know what you think I’m thinking – that “old man” is just a slang way of saying “father.” But you’re wrong. That’s a stupid idea.’

  Once again, he could not come to full grips with it.

  ‘Jesus,’ he complained, ‘I sure haven’t gotten much for nearly three hundred dollars.’

  And suddenly he thought to himself. Why am I behaving exactly like a typical textbook patient? Why am I bitching about the fee? That’s so goddamn classic. Why can’t I be different?

  Then a new idea struck him. Maybe Fritz will like me better if I fit into the usual pattern.

  In 1965 the impending storm in Southeast Asia finally broke. Indeed, the first series of President Lyndon Johnson’s bombings was ominously codenamed ‘Rolling Thunder.’

  In June the White House announced that General Westmoreland could commit U.S. Army troops to battle as he saw fit.

  To say that a small flame would grow into a conflagration would be more than metaphorical. For this was the year in which the first antiwar demonstrator reached into his wallet, pulled out a small piece of paper, and put a match to it. It was the first burning of a draft card – and far from the last.

  While their contemporaries were now too old to be conscripted as foot soldiers, those who had become doctors still owed a debt to the military. And they were asked in increasing numbers to honor it by service in Vietnam.

  At first there was no opposition of any magnitude. Perhaps it was because the Administration was attempting to obscure its growing involvement in this little Southeast Asian country.

  Curiously, the classmate least likely to be drafted was the most eager to serve. Hank Dwyer volunteered. His domestic situation had become intolerable. Since there was no peace at home, he decided he might as well go to where there was a real war. Cheryl at first saw no objection. In fact, she – and the folks back home – admired Hank’s display of patriotism. And besides, she was sure that a gynecologist would be posted to some stateside Army camp to care for the officers’ wives. None of them anticipated the extent of Hank’s zeal, which led him to sign up for a special Army program that instructed physicians in the treatment of battlefield trauma.

  As preparation for this, Army sharpshooters would fire at partially anesthetized sheep and then the doctors would race to try to ‘save’ them. This was difficult at first – especially for young men brought up on such tender melodies as ‘Little Bo-peep’ and ‘Mary had a little lamb.’

  As it turned out, Hank was motivated by more than fervent patriotism. In the Officers’ Club at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, he had heard fascinating accounts of the exotic delights of Saigon.

  One experienced Regular Army captain, who had already been on a brief inspection tour, put it in a nutshell.

  ‘You guys remember what Havana was like before that prick with the beard stopped all the fun? I mean, fantastic – right? Like one long party. It was like their primary resource was rum and cooze. And I mean the most beautiful girls you ever saw in your life. I always wondered what became of all that when Fidel Shithead took over – and now I know. They just transferred their operations lock, stock, and barrel to Saigon.’

  ‘Is it really that good?’ asked a wide-eyed colleague.

  ‘No,’ the captain insisted, ‘it’s ten times better. I get horny just talking about it. Let’s have another beer.’

  ‘It’s my turn,’ volunteered First Lieutenant Hank Dwyer, M.D., U.S. Army Medical Corps. As he stood watching the barman siphon out three more glasses, a tall captain strode up. And motioned to the bar-tender. ‘Two gin and tonics, Horatio, and take it easy on the tonic.’

  ‘Be right with you, Captain,’ he responded politely.

  Hank turned and saw a familiar face he could not put a name to.

  ‘Excuse me, don’t I know you from someplace?’

  The captain looked at Hank and immediately noticed, ‘You’re in the Medical Corps?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then you may have known my wife at Harvard.’

  It all came together for Hank. ‘Now I remember. You’re Laura Castellano’s husband, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s on
e way of putting it,’ Palmer answered.

  The two men reintroduced themselves and shook hands.

  ‘What brings you here, Palmer? Thirty-day reserve stint?’

  ‘No, I’ve gone back on active duty.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Hank remarked, ‘Laura must be pretty unhappy about that, huh?’

  ‘Well, matter of fact,’ Palmer replied, ‘she’s so busy healing the sick I don’t think she’ll notice I’m gone for at least a month.’

  ‘Yeah. My wife complained that I was spending so much time at the hospital, my children were forgetting what I looked like.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ Palmer commented.

  ‘Got any kids?’ Hank asked.

  ‘Uh, no.’

  ‘Well, you’re playing it smart,’ Hank offered. ‘We have a menagerie at home. I can’t get anything done. Frankly, I envy you. It would’ve been great to spend a few years alone with Cheryl – just the two of us. You know, every night like Saturday night – if you get my meaning.’

  ‘I get your meaning,’ Palmer replied curtly.

  ‘Laura’s a great-looking girl,’ Hank continued, undeterred. ‘She’s cute as any cover girl – and I really mean it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll be sure and tell her.’ At which point Palmer was rescued by Horatio’s arrival with the beverages.

  It had been nearly two months since Barney had moved into a huge if somewhat seedy SoHo loft, and he still did not have the slightest clue as to what had provoked Vera Mihalic’s paroxysm of bottle-breaking.

  When he had angrily inquired the morning after the event, Vera had snarled that she had only wrought devastation on his toiletries ‘because I couldn’t get ahold of your head.’ This was the behavior of a trained psychotherapist? He began to wonder if she probed her patients’ brains with a hammer and chisel.

  Thank heaven she would be leaving in a few months, and he would no longer have to endure her murderous stares at the hospital.

  Meanwhile, he was taking childish delight in his own continuing ascent in the world of literary freebies. The pinnacle was an invitation to dine at Lutèce (where the cost of the wine exceeded his monthly salary as a resident). His host was Bill Chaplin, Senior editor at Berkeley House, an imprint so distinguished that its very name was an imprimatur of quality.

  And Barney found Chaplin enormously well-read, equally at home discussing Plato or the nouveau roman. But he admired even more the quality and flair of the assistant Chaplin had brought along – a willowy nymph with long genuinely blond tresses.

  They were already at the table when Barney arrived.

  ‘Sally is just going to sit in while we chat, if you don’t mind,’ Bill said deferentially.

  Somehow Barney knew with certitude that Sally Sheffield (Bryn Mawr ’63) had fantastic legs even though they were underneath her skirt, which itself was underneath the table.

  Though relatively inexperienced, Barney was not naive. He knew that Chaplin had not invited him to discuss Flaubert or Proust or Faulkner – though all of them did come up in the course of conversation. But he had to wait until after the soufflé, the brandy, and the (contraband) Havana cigars before they got down to business.

  Barney knew that it was nitty-gritty time when the lissome Miss Sheffield excused herself for leaving early, charmingly explaining ‘My boss is a slave-driver, and he’s given me a pile of homework. Nice meeting you, Dr Livingston.’

  Barney’s eyes were fixed on the golden tresses disappearing across the room. God, he thought to himself, she’s even blonder than Laura.

  ‘Barney,’ Chaplin began, rediverting his attention, ‘I hope I’ve conveyed to you how impressed I am by your work. It’s fresh. It makes exciting reading because you don’t use psychiatric mumbo-jumbo.’

  ‘I’m flattered, Bill,’ he answered sincerely.

  The editor smiled. ‘I’d very much like to publish you, Barney.’

  ‘I’d very much like to be published by you,’ Barney replied.

  ‘Have you been kicking around any ideas?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been fascinated by sports. I think practically everyone in the world at one time or another has fantasized about being a champion.’

  Bill nodded. ‘I was going to be an All-American halfback. Unfortunately, I stopped growing at five-six.’

  ‘I always dreamed of playing pro ball for the Knicks,’ Barney continued. ‘But the fact is, some people actually get to live this fantasy. A runner like Emil Zatopek – the Czech ‘Ironman’ – there’s got to be something special in his head that drives him beyond human limits. But there are literally dozens of examples.’

  ‘The Brown Bomber would be another logical choice,’ Bill offered.

  ‘Absolutely. Joe Louis is a fascinating case. There’s a guy who couldn’t even talk till he was seven, ending up the heavy weight Champion of the World –

  ‘– and then there’s a whole category of athletes who started out with crippling handicaps. Hal Connolly, for example. Imagine – he’s born with a bum left arm and, of all things, chooses the hammer throw, an event which emphasizes his disability. He ends up winning the Olympic Gold in ’56 and breaking the world record seven times.’

  ‘That would be terrific,’ Bill agreed, warming to the idea.

  The maître d’ arrived with the check, which Barney’s host quickly signed and returned.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Chaplin,’ said the maître d’ with a little bow and genuflection in his voice. In an instant the two men were alone again.

  ‘Well,’ said Bill in summation, ‘I think you’ve got a wonderful idea. And I’m certain we’ll be able to arrange something that will satisfy your people.’

  People? Barney said to himself. What the hell does he mean?

  Chaplin’s next utterance clarified the matter.

  ‘Have them call me in the morning. Listen, I’m sorry to leave you like this, but I’ve still got a long manuscript to get through tonight. But do stay and have another brandy or whatever. By the way, who does represent you?’

  Barney dredged his Bordeaux-logged memory and, after what seemed to him an eternity, replied, ‘Uh – Chapman, Rutledge, and Strauss—’

  ‘Ah, attorneys,’ said Bill approvingly. ‘Thank heaven we don’t have to deal with those wretched ten-percenters. Ciao.’

  The maître d’ groveled up again. ‘May I get you something, Doctor Livingston?’

  ‘Uh, yes, matter of fact, I’d be grateful for a glass of mineral water. And do you have a phone?’

  ‘Right away, sir.’ The genie vanished.

  This guy is going to carry a phone to me? Me, Barney Livingston, late of Brooklyn, New York, who’s been stuffing nickels and dimes into slots all his life, now gets a phone served on a silver platter? God, I can’t wait to tell Fritz about this.

  But there was more pressing business at hand. He dialed the number.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said a sleepy voice.

  ‘Warren, it’s me – I’m sorry to wake you.’

  ‘Barn? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘Sort of. But it’s nice trouble. I need “people.”’

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t flipped from lack of sleep?’

  ‘No, no, but I think I forgot the name of the firm you work for.’

  ‘Chapman, Rutledge, and—’

  ‘Good, good,’ Barney interrupted. ‘My brain is still slightly intact. Listen, Warren, find out who the best contracts guy in your office is and ask him to call me at the hospital. I’ve just sold a book!’

  ‘Hey, wow! Congratulations, Barn! Wait till Mom hears about this. You must be in seventh heaven.’

  ‘Actually I’m in Lutèce. But that’s as close as I’ve ever been. ’Night, kiddo. Thanks.’

  It had been a relatively quiet night in the pit, as doctors often referred to the E.R. – the usual broken bones, febrile babies, car crash victims, etc. – until the police suddenly alerted the Admissions nurse that two victims of a particularly b
rutal mugging, both of whom had received multiple stab wounds and were bleeding badly, were on their way to the hospital.

  In a matter of minutes Seth heard ambulances and police cars and a split second later there was bedlam in the E.R. There may have been only two patients, but the attendants and policemen rushing them in on stretchers were themselves smeared with blood.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ barked a police sergeant.

  ‘I am,’ Seth said. ‘Tell me quickly, I don’t think we have much time to lose.’

  ‘Sorry, Doc, sorry. From what I could see the woman got the worst of it. She seems to have more wounds – and I think she’s been raped, too.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ Seth said quickly. ‘I’ll take care of her myself.’

  He motioned to a pair of nurses and Tim Bluestone, an intern, to take the man into the second trauma room. Meanwhile he, another intern, and a third nurse would work on the woman in Room 1.

  Before the wheels of the trolley had even stopped revolving, Seth’s assistant was starting an I.V. in one arm while he himself started a second and began transfusing blood.

  The nurse had stripped off what was left of the woman’s torn garments. Though she was spouting blood everywhere, the patient lay so comatose with shock that she seemed beyond pain.

  As he tried to gauge the quantity and severity of her wounds, Seth heard angry and indignant voices around the table saying, ‘Animals, absolute animals. How could anybody do a thing like that?’

  ‘She obviously put up a hell of a fight,’ Seth remarked quietly. ‘She’s mostly cut up on her arms and shoulders. There are only two lacerations on her abdomen and they’re well below the heart and too superficial to have damaged an organ.’

  He looked at the younger doctor. ‘Check her for internal bleeding and start sewing. I’ll give you a hand as soon as I see how Tim is doing.’

  He walked quickly across the corridor and opened the door to find the other E.R. team strangely motionless.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Seth asked.

  Tim Bluestone answered hoarsely, ‘He was knifed right in the heart. He’s dead.’