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“Old man’s friend,” said Leo.
We all looked up for an explanation.
“Old man’s friend,” he repeated. “That’s what pneumonia’s called. Because it ends the suffering.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” his mother sniffed. She squeezed her baked potato so its insides erupted. Without being asked, Rosemary passed the margarine.
Nor had I heard of such a thing. I asked Leo if that was a common expression on the wards.
“Probably not,” said Leo. “It’s just one of those things doctors mumble when the shoe fits.”
I put my fork down. “Do you mean because the patient’s old and feeble and on life support, and his family’s trying to decide whether to remove the feeding tube or take him off the respirator? That pneumonia settles the question for them?”
Leo said, “Maybe we can discuss the fine points later.”
“Are you saying nobody would even start IV antibiotics?”
His eyes darted to his mother and back to me. “We do everything that’s humanly possible. Then it’s in God’s hands,” said Leo. “If you catch my drift.”
His mother grumbled, “Don’t think I don’t know what goes on in these big-city hospitals with their Jewish doctors and their Congregational chaplains. Which is why I want to die at Saint Elizabeth’s.”
“I know, Ma,” Leo answered. “We all know that. Can you pass the oleo back this way?”
“You’re giving Alice the idea that you don’t like Jewish people,” said Rosemary.
“What I don’t like is this talk of pulling plugs at my table.”
“Mom’s internist is Jewish and she loves him. Don’t you, Ma?” said Marie. “He’s on the staff at Saint E’s.”
“Dr. Goldberg,” said Mrs. Morrisey.
“Goldstone, actually,” said Leo.
I said, “I shouldn’t have quizzed Leo about the pneumonia protocol at the table. I get anxious when I hear something I think I should have learned in my medical ethics elective—such as, Would you begin a comatose geriatric on a course of antibiotics?—because I want to find my own medical lacunae and fill them in.”
“What Alice is trying to say is that this is her first year, so there’s lots of gaps in her knowledge. And when she hears something she doesn’t know, she loses all sense of time and place and what’s appropriate dinner conversation in order to launch a tutorial,” said Leo.
“I do?”
“I’m teasing you,” said Leo. “Sort of.”
“I think it’s the truth,” I said. “I do panic when I hear something I think I should have retained.”
“Don’t they give you tests?” asked his mother.
“Every day’s a test,” I said.
“Not literally,” said Leo. “She means that she always has to be on her toes.”
“Why would you put yourself through something like that?” asked Marie. “Is it worth it? All these long hours and blood and people dying?”
“Surgeons make a lot of money,” said Michael. “Maybe you work straight out for a couple of years, but then it’s someone else’s turn to burn the midnight oil, which is when you start seeing some real money.”
“Alice isn’t in it for the money,” said Leo.
“What do you see yourself doing when you’re graduated or certified or whatever it’s called?” asked Michael.
“Reconstructive plastic surgery in the Third World.”
“And who foots the bill for that?” he asked.
I explained that one might have to perform cosmetic surgery on the well-to-do for, say, six months of the year, and their money would support the philanthropic endeavors.
“What if you had a family?” asked Marie. “Would you take them with you to the Third World or would you leave them at home with your husband?”
I said, “I can’t think in terms of a conventional nuclear family.”
“Maybe her husband could be a missionary and they could do their work together,” suggested Mrs. Morrisey.
“What a good idea,” said Leo. “Do you know any eligible missionaries you could introduce Alice to?”
“Don’t be fresh with me,” said his mother.
“Actually, Alice has an admirer,” said Leo.
Everyone turned to me. I said, “Leo is exaggerating.”
“Leo thinks he’s a creep,” said Leo.
“What does Alice think?” asked Rosemary.
I sighed. “This man’s wife died a year ago and his pursuit, I think, is largely sexually motivated.”
Mrs. Morrisey huffed and muttered something to herself.
“I didn’t mean that it was reciprocal or that I encouraged him. I was just trying to explain his attentions.”
“All men want the same thing,” said Mrs. Morrisey, “and that particular thing is not dinner-table conversation either.”
“You had thirteen children,” said Michael.
Mrs. Morrisey slapped her fork onto her place mat. “Leave the table!” she barked.
Leo laughed.
“You, too!”
“Ma! He’s twenty-six years old. You can’t ask a grown man to leave the table because he alludes to your having had carnal knowledge.”
“We have company,” murmured Rosemary, “and I’m sure it’s very awkward for her to be in the middle of a family squabble.”
“My family fights every time I go home, and it’s usually provoked by something I say. So don’t worry about me.” I tried to affect the smile of a good guest. For added amenability, I said, “I don’t think this chicken is dry at all.”
“This one was fresh. You lose a lot of the juices when you defrost a frozen bird.”
“My mother doesn’t cook much,” I said. “Especially now that it’s just the two of them at home.”
“How many sisters and brothers do you have?” asked Michael.
“One sister. Who lives in Seattle.”
“Is she married?” asked Mrs. Morrisey.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Can we get back to whatever it was we were talking about before Michael had his mouth washed out with soap?” asked Leo.
Marie—clearly the family mediator and diplomat—turned to me. “I think we were talking about the demands on you at work, and I was asking, Is it worth it? Is all the hard work and sleepless nights and—you said it yourself—the panic worth it for some kind of professional dream that might be unattainable?”
The most unexpected thing happened at that point: I felt like crying. I disguised the quaking of my lips by taking two long swallows of milk from my glass, then by blinking rapidly as if the problem were ophthalmologic.
“Are you okay?” Leo asked.
“I didn’t mean—” began Marie.
“I must have been thinking about my grandmother,” I said.
“Of course you were,” said their mother. “But she’s in Jesus’ house now and free of pain, God rest her soul.”
Still, I was hoping to prove myself the kind of pleasant conversationalist who gets invited back. “Where does purgatory come in?” I asked. “I mean, under your afterlife guidelines, wouldn’t she still be there?”
All the Frawleys were taking sips from their respective milk glasses or searching inside their potato skins for neglected morsels.
“Alice needs a weekend off,” said Leo.
9 Née Mary Ciccarelli (#ulink_d3f31642-9895-5fd4-b71c-8fbe36ce8cb8)
I KNOW THAT some people are equipped to analyze their failings and to pose leading questions such as “Did I do something wrong?” or “Are you upset?” to the silent person in the seat next to them, but I had neither the vocabulary nor the inclination. As the trolley car negotiated the twists and turns of Commonwealth Avenue, Leo kept his eyes shut until I heard him say, “Just to play devil’s advocate for a minute …”
“About?”
“About your job. Whether you really have no aptitude for surgery, or whether it’s your former A-pluses talking.”
I asked what that meant, and how did he know what my grades were?
“I’m guessing you’re one of those people who moaned and groaned about how badly they did on their organic chemistry exam until it came back with a big red hundred and five on the top of the page because you got everything right including the extra-credit question.”
Calmly I said, “I’m the worst resident they’ve had since the legendary one in the eighties who was asked to leave even though he was engaged to the niece of the head of the hospital.”
Leo said, “You don’t have to be asked to leave. You could decide for yourself.”
I said I didn’t understand.
Leo coughed into his mittened hand. “Have you ever thought of dropping out of the program?”
Only ten times an hour and with every withering look and every truthful evaluation, I thought. “Not really,” I said. “I can’t imagine giving up my goals for something as trivial as professional humiliation. When I start thinking about my shortcomings, I say, ‘You graduated second in your class in medical school. How can you be so bad? If you study harder you’ll get better.’”
“What about the fact that you feel like a failure every minute of the day?”
“I can improve,” I said. “It’s still early in the year. It could all click into place tomorrow.”
“Doctors switch fields,” he said. “Surgeons go into anesthesiology. Internists become allergists. You earned your degree. No one would take that away from you.”
“No,” I said. “I’m no quitter.”
“I’m only being hypothetical,” Leo said. “I’m only thinking of you and what could make you a happier person.”
“In the short run,” I snapped.
“No,” said Leo. “In the long run.”
“I’m no quitter,” I repeated.
RAY WAS WAITING on the stoop when we returned, smoking a cigarette that he snuffed out as soon as I appeared. He was wearing a shiny black quilted parka and a black watch cap that did nothing but suggest burglar and call attention to his nose. He stood up and said, “I paged you, but you didn’t answer.”
“I wasn’t at the hospital.”
“You remember me, I’m sure,” said Leo.
“The nurse,” said Ray. “Of course. How ya doin’?”
I pointed to the streak of ash on the granite step behind him and asked if he’d been smoking.
“First time in a decade,” he said, “which I blame on some very disturbing news I received one hour ago.” He stared at Leo for several long seconds before adding, “It’s kind of personal. I was hoping to talk to Alice in private.”
I said, “Leo’s very easy to talk to. Much better than I am.”
“I hope no one died,” said Leo.
“Nothing like that,” said Ray. “It’s closer to an emotional crisis—some facts that have come to light. And I didn’t have any supper, so I was hoping Alice might keep me company while I grab some nachos grande and a beer.”
Leo checked with me. I nodded once reassuringly, and he trudged inside.
THERE WERE THRONGS of well-dressed people at the bar, businessmen and -women, many drinking from martini glasses; many laughing in that brittle, automatic way that substitutes for meaningful discussion. “Straight ahead,” said Ray, steering me from behind, his hands on my shoulders, his body swaying as if I had agreed to lead a conga line. “The dining room’s in the back,” he instructed.
When we were seated at a small, far-off table, and the dour hostess had left, Ray said, “No people skills. None. Would it have killed her to smile? And why Siberia? There’s a dozen better tables.”
I said, “Don’t make a fuss. It’s quiet back here and we can talk. Let’s just order.”
