‘This is a new one on me,’ the driver jested, ‘a doorman flagging a cab for himself.’
‘Spare me the jokes,’ Barney snapped. ‘Just get me to King’s County Hospital as goddamn fast as you can.’
The corridor was badly lit and smelled of disinfectant. At the far end, Barney could see Inez comforting his weeping mother and could hear Luis bellowing, ‘Mierda! – this was stupidity – nonsense! You should never have let him off!’
As Barney came closer, he saw the Spaniard berating his younger brother, who was in a state of shock. ‘I swear, Dr Castellano,’ Warren kept protesting weakly, ‘I told him it was life and death—’
Seeing her elder son, Estelle rose and cried out, ‘Barney, Barney.’ And rushed to embrace him.
The world seemed to stop as he held his grieving mother in his arms, trying to comfort her.
After a few moments, Estelle murmured, ‘I want to see him again. Will you come with me, Barney?’
Her elder son nodded.
He looked at his brother’s face and sensed the qualms he was feeling. ‘Warren, stay here with the Castellanos till we get back.’
Alone with Luis as they both walked to the hospital parking lot, Barney was finally able to ask, ‘What were you so angry about back there, Dr Castellano?’
Punctuating his interjections with profanity, Luis recounted the events of that morning.
Barney was confused. ‘How could a doctor just sit on his ass and let my father die?’
Luis answered through clenched teeth, ‘The craven bastard was afraid of a lawsuit.’
‘I don’t understand – what kind of lawsuit?’
‘My boy, in this great land many physicians will not come to an emergency like this. Because if the patient dies, the family can later sue for malpractice.’
‘Isn’t it a doctor’s responsibility to help?’
‘Only morally,’ Luis answered with quiet anger. ‘Not legally. No law says that a physician absolutely has to come.’
‘Do you think it would have made a difference?’ Barney asked.
Luis shrugged. ‘We’ll never know. Your father’s cause of death was myocardial infarction. Time makes a crucial difference when you are dealing with ventricular fibrillations. Freeman could have injected lignocaine – and at least started trying to resuscitate.’
Barney exploded with rage. ‘I’ll kill that guy – I’ll go and kill him with my bare hands.’
Luis grasped Barney’s shoulder tightly. ‘Calma, cálmate, hijo. There is no point. You must accept that he is dead. You must be calm for your mother’s sake. Remember you are the man in the family now.’
It was almost midnight when they got home. Laura had arrived from Boston moments earlier.
‘I’ve – uh – made some coffee and sandwiches,’ she said diffidently. ‘I mean, if anybody’s hungry …’
The Livingstons’ sadness was palpable and yet she could see that Barney was suffering more than grief.
Luis and Inez took Estelle upstairs: he to give her a sedative and she to help her get ready for bed. Warren took a sandwich and an apple and headed for his room – to be alone with his sorrow.
That left only Barney and Laura in the kitchen.
‘Hey, Barn, talk to me,’ she said softly, ‘I know you’re hurting and it’ll help to talk.’
He lowered his head.
She went over, knelt down, and touched his arm. ‘Say something, Barn.’
Finally, he gave voice to his obsession. ‘I can’t believe it – a doctor let him die.’
‘Barney, that’s not important now.’
‘Well, then, what the hell is?’
She put her hand on his cheek and he grasped it like a drowning man would seize a lifeline.
And allowed himself to cry.
In the days that followed, Estelle Livingston was inconsolable. Barney stayed at home, only venturing to Manhattan for a class or to work a night shift at The Versailles.
Harold’s funeral, though planned for only the closest of relations, was augmented by more than a dozen teachers from Erasmus Hall who remembered him with affection, and even by a few former students who had read of his death in the Brooklyn Eagle.
One evening two weeks later, Estelle and her sons sat around at the kitchen table to talk about the future. ‘We’re going to be all right,’ she told them. ‘Harold was meticulous about these things. We own the house free and clear. His will requests that his two sons share his library. He wasn’t more specific. He knew that you’d act fairly with each other.’
‘I couldn’t bear to take any of his books,’ Barney murmured.
Warren nodded. ‘Me either. I want to leave everything – you know – just where it is.’
Estelle understood. They needed time – all of them.
‘He took care of us,’ she continued. ‘His insurance from the Teachers’ Federation will pay fifteen thousand dollars and his GI policy another ten. That means we won’t have any real financial worries.’
The two brothers nodded.
‘I’ve given a lot of thought to what to do with this money,’ she continued. ‘Barney, I want you to stop working yourself to death. For the rest of the time you’re at Columbia, I’ll pay all your expenses so you can just study.’
Barney raised his hand to protest but she cut him off.
‘Please,’ she insisted, and then said the words she knew would put an end to all discussion. ‘That’s what your father wanted. Don’t think we didn’t talk about this.’
Barney sat motionless, trying to imagine how painful these conversations must have been for his mother.
‘I’m putting the same amount in the bank for you,’ she said to Warren. ‘So you can afford to go to any law school you want.’
‘But Mom,’ said Warren quietly, ‘what would that leave you with?’
‘I’ll be just fine. As soon as you graduate from college I can put up the house for sale—’
By unconscious reflex, the brothers answered in unison, ‘No!’
‘Be realistic, boys, do either of you intend to practice in Brooklyn?’ she asked. ‘Besides, Aunt Ceil’s been sending us brochures from Florida for years and, frankly, ever since she convinced Grandma to move down, I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to spend winters without galoshes and umbrellas.
‘I know what this place means to you,’ she continued. ‘There are memories in every corner. But please believe me – we can sell the house and keep the memories. They’ll always belong to us.’
‘I guess you’re right, Mom,’ Barney said with a sigh of resignation.
There was nothing more to say.
At the beginning Barney could not fully grasp the reality that, for the first time in his life, he could do whatever he wanted in vacation time.
The following summer, while Estelle went down to apartment hunt in Miami, the brothers Livingston signed up for a cross-country bus tour – the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone Park, the California Redwoods – culminating with three days in Hollywood.
And for the first time they got to know each other as adults. They talked about their dreams, the ‘Miss Perfect’ they each thought they wanted to marry.
‘It’s going to be sad,’ Warren said half-aloud.
‘What do you mean, War?’
‘I mean, Dad won’t be at our weddings. You know, I just can’t get used to that idea.’
‘Me either.’
They had always been brothers. But that summer they became friends.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Boyish Ken Cassidy, recently elevated to the post of Columbia Varsity basketball coach, was astounded to see a ghost from the past among the fresh-faced sophomore candidates for the team.
‘I’m here just like everybody else, Mr Cassidy, sir,’ Barney Livingston said with excruciating politeness.
‘Come off it, don’t waste my time.’
‘This is America, sir. Isn’t everyone entitled to an impartial judgement?’
&
nbsp; ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Take your constitutional rights. Go out there and bounce a ball so I can bounce you.’
In the initial round, Barney was the only one who sank a shot. And under the boards, he was like an octopus with elbows.
At the end, he had wrought such havoc with the rookies that even the straitlaced coach had to break into a smile.
Oh, what the heck, Cassidy thought, I’ll take this clown as fifteenth man. At least he’ll give the other guys some aggression during practice.
Now that he felt affluent, Barney would call Laura at least one night a week. She could barely wait for February when Columbia would be coming up to Cambridge to play Harvard.
‘Castellano,’ he warned her, ‘your milquetoast Harvard guys are gonna see the meanest gutter rat who ever lived.’
All during the long bus ride from Morningside Heights, while the rest of the team slept, Barney was wide awake, churned up, ready to unleash himself.
The team ate an early training meal at the Harvard Varsity Club. There were still another four hours to kill before game time. But Barney had made other plans for this hiatus. He strode as quickly as possible through the icy Cambridge streets to the Harvard Square subway station, where he caught the train to Park Street, then changed to a tram that let him off two blocks from Harvard Medical School.
He arrived fifteen minutes early at the wood-paneled office of Dr Stanton Welles, director of Admissions.
Keenly aware of the legend that Harvard Medical School took not just the finest, but also the most fearless, Barney used the waiting time before his interview to concentrate on the answers he had prepared for the inevitable question: ‘Why do you want to be a doctor, Mr Livingston?’
(A) Because I want to comfort and heal the suffering in the world. No, too obvious.
Or perhaps
(B) Because your unrivaled research facilities will enable me to discover new cures, cross new frontiers. Like Jonas Salk, preventing tragedies like little Isobel. No, too pretentious.
Or maybe
(C) Because it’s a guaranteed step up the social scale. True, but nobody would admit it.
Or even
(D) Because I want to make a lot of money. (Could be credited for candor – might be rejected for crassness.)
Or better
(E) Because I always looked up to Luis Castellano and want to be a caring man like him.
And
(F) Because a callous doctor caused my father’s death and I want to show up all the lousy guys like him.
Answers (E) and (F) at least had the benefit of being genuinely sincere. Still, were they good enough?
Before he could meditate further a voice called out, ‘Mr Livingston?’
He looked up. Standing before him was a tall, lean, distinguished-looking man in a three-piece suit that could only have been Brooks Brothers 44-long. Barney leaped to his feet.
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, very nearly saluting.
‘I’m Dr Welles. Thanks for taking the trouble to come and see us. Shall we step into my office?’
Barney entered a room decorated with an awesome collection of laminated kudos. Besides diplomas, there were memberships in all sorts of societies (national, international, royal, etc.). Not to mention letters signed by what seemed to be every U.S. President since George Washington.
The director ensconced himself behind a grand mahogany desk, and Barney sat straight-backed in a traditional Harvard chair (colonial style – tan wooden arms and a polished black frame bearing the school’s insignia in gold).
There was what seemed a long silence. Barney leaned forward, arms on his knees, body poised as if waiting for a jump ball.
At long last Welles opened his mouth and asked, ‘Do you think you have a chance tonight?’
Barney was taken aback. What kind of trick was this guy trying to pull? How was he supposed to handle this one? Politely say he would do his sportsmanly best? Say that he hoped they would kick the shit out of Harvard? Or ask how can we talk of basketball when there is so much illness and suffering in the world? He rejected all of these alternatives.
‘I think so, sir,’ he replied politely.
But the next question was also from left field.
‘Care to put a bet on it?’
Barney could not even come up with a single alternative. So he replied, ‘Not really – I mean, how would it look if I ended up putting ten bucks in your hand? It might seem like a bribe.’
Welles laughed. ‘Quite right. I never thought of that. Tell me …’ He paused, then asked, ‘What drew you to basketball?’
By this time Barney had assumed Welles did not regard him as a serious candidate.
‘Because there are no polo fields in Brooklyn, sir.’
The doctor gave a little smile. ‘Hmm. Never thought of that, either.’ Then he rose, offered his hand, and said cordially, ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Livingston.’
‘But sir, aren’t you even going to ask me why I want to be a doctor?’
‘I think you said it all quite eloquently in your application essay. I found it very moving. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that a group of us at HMS are lobbying in the State House for a “Good Samaritan” bill. So that doctors won’t be afraid of attending to a patient who’s unconscious – like your father. Sorry I’ll miss the game tonight but we’ve got to dine with some visiting firemen from Tokyo. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll see a lot of each other next year.’
Heedless of the icy patches on the sidewalk, Barney skipped like a child down the street toward the tram.
The crowd in the Indoor Athletic Building was sparse. Columbia was not exactly a big draw. As the visiting team took the floor, the applause was perfunctory. And only one person felt inspired enough to shout encouragement.
‘Let’s go, Livingston!’
Barley smiled and, dribbling with one hand, waved with the other.
Good old Castellano, my one-man fan club. But there were actually two ardent supporters – the person sitting next to her was clapping heartily as well. No doubt this broad-shouldered, Harris-tweeded individual was the ‘parfit gentil knight’ of the two last names, Palmer Talbot. My God, he looks even preppier than Ken Cassidy, our all-American coach!
Three minutes or so after the game began, Barney was Columbia’s first substitution. More cheers from Laura. Determined to show her all he had learned since she had last seen him in action, he really poured it on. His enthusiasm took its toll: before the first quarter ended, he had already fouled out. Coach Cassidy was furious.
‘What are you, Livingston, some kind of animal? What the heck happened to your subtlety?’
‘I guess I left it in New York – sorry.’
And all through the second half he sat on the bench, head bowed, trying not to look at Laura.
After the game (which Harvard won easily), Laura rushed across the court to embrace Barney. And introduce Palmer. ‘Nice to meet you at last,’ said the handsome (and taller!) Harvard man. ‘Laura’s always talked so fondly of you.’
‘Oh,’ Barney replied, trying not to act as insecure as he felt. ‘Too bad you caught me on an off day.’
‘Come on,’ Laura consoled. ‘Some of those calls were pretty dubious. I think the refs were biased.’
‘Please, Castellano,’ Barney replied, ‘don’t humor me. I was cottage cheese out there.’
‘Speaking of cheese, I hope you’ll be joining us for dinner,’ Palmer offered cordially.
Shit, Barney thought to himself, I was looking forward to being alone with Laura to tell her about this afternoon.
‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’
They went to Henri Quatre, an elegant little bistro on the second floor of a wooden house in a narrow alleyway just off Boylston Street.
‘We assumed you’d be tired after the game, so we took the closest place,’ Palmer explained as they were leaving the gym. ‘And they do serve a reasonable approximation of haute cuisine.’
Feeling insecure, Barney was unable to
decide whether the guy was talking down to him or was just physically taller.
They sat, making small talk but unable to find common ground.
Palmer, it turned out, had been graduated the previous year – magna cum laude in Art History, as Laura mentioned when her reticent beau did not. It also turned out he had been on the second eight in crew. He was now in his first year at the Business School (majoring in money?).
He seemed genuinely interested in the topic Barney had chosen for his senior essay: ‘the Image of the Physician in English Literature.’
‘I do hope you’ll quote Matthew Arnold’s wonderful lines about wanting to avoid “the doctor full of phrase and fame” who comes in “to give the ill he cannot cure a name” – or words to that effect.’
No, Palmer, Barney thought to himself, those are the poet’s exact words. In fact, he had to concede that this Palmer Talbot was pretty impressive. He might even go as far as to say Palmer was a nice guy.
‘By the way, Barn,’ Laura inquired, ‘how’d your interview go today?’
‘Okay.’
‘Just okay?’
Barney was bursting to tell her everything – but not before an audience. So he simply shrugged and stated, ‘Let’s just say it was not as bad as my nightmares, so don’t worry.’
‘I can’t help it, Barn. I’m absolutely petrified. I mean, they only accept about five or six women a year.’
Palmer interposed with an interesting, if questionably relevant fact. ‘In Russia the majority of doctors are women.’
‘Are you suggesting I apply to the University of Moscow?’ Laura gibed.
‘Not at all,’ Palmer protested. ‘I don’t ever want you to leave Boston.’
At eleven-thirty they were standing in front of the gym where the rest of the Columbia squad had already boarded the bus for the long ride back to New York.
‘Are you sure you won’t stay over?’ Palmer asked amiably. ‘I’d be glad to put you up at the B-School.’
‘No, no – thanks, but I’ve got a load of studying to do.’
‘I must say, all you Brooklynites certainly are ambitious.’
‘Well, it goes with the territory,’ Barney responded with as much levity as he could muster. He shook Palmer’s hand, kissed Laura goodnight, and turned away, preparing himself to face his teammates’ mockery about his laughable performance that evening.