Doctors (78 page)

Bennett asked Farkas to allow him to look at the oscilloscope
scope during the procedure. The professor replied by oscillating his fingers in a negative gesture. He seemed to be saying, “However skilled you may be in your area of medicine, you do not merit collegial status with me.”

But, in fact, there was no need to see the screen, or even to exchange any words. For both men (all three, since Barney was lurking in a corner) would be able to hear the hisses and creaks of the EMG’s loudspeaker, giving an auditory impression of the electrical impulses being transmitted through Bennett’s peripheral nervous system.

For Bennett it could just as well have been the electric chair.

Although he did not wince at the painful shocks the doctor kept applying to his arms, the sounds that he was hearing confirmed the agonizing truth. Farkas had already indicated that he suspected—without even having to test—that Bennett had nerve entrapment in his cervical spine. He even went as far as to say that his diagnostic instinct told him it would be irreparable.

But that had been merely a doctor’s cold, clinical hypothesis.

Now the sounds made clear to all three doctors that the news was bad.

Thus, when Farkas—with a smile of satisfaction that his diagnosis had been proved correct—exclaimed “Aha,” he was in fact signing the death warrant to Bennett Landsmann’s career as a surgeon.

Barney insisted upon driving him home. For once there was no protest, and Bennett slumped into the front passenger seat and let his head loll back.

“Feeling dizzy?” Barney asked.

“Yeah,” Bennett answered. “But that’s the least of it. Tell me, Dr. Livingston. What does the surgeon do when he can’t be a surgeon anymore?”

That was the question. How could anyone who had trained for nearly twenty years and was just about to
start
a surgical career be told that all those years of sleepless nights, sweat, and toil had been annihilated by a policeman’s boot? And all because Bennett had acted in the noblest manner of a physician.

Herschel was waiting back at the apartment. He had known this was the day and wanted to be present when his son received the verdict.

Bennett told him the news in words deep from the abyss.

“Look, it’s not the end of the world,” Herschel argued. “My son, you’re still a doctor. There are other specialties—”

“Like mine, for instance,” Barney offered. “You could be paralyzed from the neck down and still do lots of good as a psychiatrist.”

“No, thanks,” Bennett joked bitterly, “I’d only do your job if I was paralyzed
above
the neck.”

Barney went out to the Greek pizzeria on Howe Street and brought back dinner for the three of them. By the time he returned, it was clear that Herschel had proposed to Bennett every imaginable medical specialty in which his injured arm would not be a drawback. Yet his son was adamant.

“Dad, I told you I don’t want to be a shrink or a flea. And I couldn’t bear the thought of doing anesthesia while somebody else was cutting. Dammit, those are different ballgames. And I don’t feel that temperamentally I could hack it in a single one of them.”

He looked at Barney. “Livingston, do you think you would be happy doing kidney transplants?”

“No way,” Barney answered with painful candor. He turned to Mr. Landsmann. “Sir, I’m afraid that Bennett’s really right. In the old days surgeons were actually a group completely separate from doctors. Bennett was a natural surgeon. He had the reflexes, the right mentality, the courage to move quickly—and the dedication—”

“Cut the eulogy,” said Bennett wryly. “Save it for when I’m relaxing in my coffin.”

He put his hands on his temples and complained, “God, what a headache. It must be from that damn anesthetic—or the mickey I got slipped by you two characters. I gotta get some air.”

He walked to the door of his terrace and pulled at the handle. It was stuck. He pulled again.

And then he realized Barney had locked it. He turned to his friend and said, “Very cute, Livingston. But don’t you think if I wanted to kill myself I could find better ways? I mean, I still can wield a scalpel. I could slice myself like a salami.”

Then he muttered, barely audibly, “Besides, I’m already dead.”

Barney rose and grabbed his best friend by the shoulders.

“No, you’re not, goddammit, Bennett—You’re alive! Just stop feeling sorry for yourself and sit down and talk. Let’s all see if we can think of what move to make next.”

“For one, I’ll sue the whole state of Connecticut,” Bennett said with anger.

“And after that?”

Bennett sat down and shook his head from side to side.

“I don’t know, Barn,” he replied, giving in to the assaults of helplessness. “I really don’t know what to do. Help me.”

He looked up at his friend. “Please.”

Barney sat down across from Bennett. “Listen, kiddo, doctors shouldn’t treat their own families.” And then he added, “And I consider you a brother. So let’s call this unofficial.”

“Okay, Barney,” Bennett answered dryly, “let’s hear your fraternal words.”

“Well, first of all you really know your medicine. You’re
capable
of being great at almost any specialty. That’s intellectually—but not emotionally. You’re too angry, Ben. And our profession has just one outlet for a rage like yours.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Forensic medicine.”

Bennett’s face showed that Barney had struck a chord. Herschel looked confused.

“Excuse me, Barney,” Herschel interposed politely. “I am not familiar with this specialty you’re suggesting.”

“
Forensic
, Mr. Landsmann, comes from the Latin
forum
, meaning ‘place of debate,’ and
ensis
, meaning ‘sword.’ In other words, the practice of medicine in a court of law. It’s probably the most challenging discipline in either profession.”

He looked at his friend and continued. “But I know my pal Bennett likes a challenge. And he’s got all the equipment—knowledge, speed—and most of all, the courage to deal with the unexpected.” He turned once again to Bennett. “Will you think about it? A sword is even sharper than a scalpel.”

In the brief time Barney took to explain his suggestion to Herschel, Bennett had been debating with himself.

“Hey, guys, we’re talking three more years of school—”

“Maybe four,” his classmate admitted. “But in the end you are both a doctor’s doctor and a lawyer’s lawyer. And you’ll have the thing your psyche needs the most—a place to
fight.
”

Bennett lowered his head as Barney and Herschel waited patiently for his reaction.

“Dad, what do you think?” he asked.

“I can’t presume, Ben. I can only offer my opinion and let you decide. But what I feel is … Barney has a good idea. It all
depends on whether you could take going back to a classroom and starting over.”

“It’s not quite starting over, Dad. I might be able to look at it as another kind of residency.”

“Then you’ll consider it?” asked Herschel anxiously.

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, if I can somehow convince myself I have the guts.”

“Sleep on it, Ben,” Barney suggested. “Nothing’s gonna change overnight—except hopefully your mind. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

Herschel put on his coat and said goodnight to them both.

“I’ve booked into the Park Plaza. I think I’ll go try and get some sleep. I’ll bring fresh rolls for breakfast. I noticed a bakery along the way.”

He turned to Barney and said, “You’re a good boy,” and then to Bennett, “and you’re not so bad, either.”

He smiled and took a pinch of his son’s cheek.

They waited at the elevator with him. He waved a mute goodbye with the semblance of a smile.

Bennett turned to Barney and remarked, “Okay, you’re dismissed, soldier.”

“The hell I am,” Barney retorted, and then joked, “I bought you dinner. The least you could do is let me stay overnight.”

“You crazy shrink. Do you still believe that I’d try and ’off myself?”

“No,” Barney protested, “I just don’t want to …”

He stopped himself. He owed his friend the truth. “Yes, Landsmann. Because you haven’t gotten through the worst part yet.”

“Namely?”

“You’re gonna sleep peacefully. That’s the good part.”

“And? …” Bennett asked.

“Sometime tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and have to face the world—and that’s the hardest part of all.”

“Okay, old buddy, you may be right.”

Bennett put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and they walked back into the apartment.

Barney slept fitfully and finally surrendered to insomnia just after six, when he got out of bed and padded from the guest room to the kitchen for some coffee that would clear his mind.

His glance wandered to the terrace door—and suddenly he
noticed. Ben was standing there motionless, simply staring at the city.

“Hey, Landsmann, want coffee?” Barney asked.

But Bennett did not answer. He was in some kind of trance.

“It’s funny … from this high up I can see the whole hospital. I’ve been looking at it since it started to get light. From here it suddenly looks like a giant tombstone. And it is—that’s where I buried the ten best years of my life.”

“A cat has nine lives, Ben,” Barney retorted. “You’re a very cool cat, so that leaves you with eight more.”

Bennett remained motionless, looking out at the slums behind the hospital.

“You were right,” he said softly.

“About what?” Barney asked, handing him a cup of coffee.

“I think I would’ve jumped yesterday, Barn. You must be a real psychiatrist … you really read my mind.”

“That’s not professional technique, Ben. That comes from being someone’s friend,” replied Barney softly.

“You know something else?” Bennett continued, his eyes fixed on the still-sleeping city. “There were only three things keeping me from the high dive—Mom and Dad. And you.”

Then they sat down to have coffee and discuss the latest crises in the field of sports.

Herschel returned a little after seven-thirty, bearing a cornucopia of still-warm rolls and pastries.

“Hey, Dad,” joked Bennett, “we’re not feeding the whole university. It’s just the three of us.”

“Don’t second-guess me,” he replied. “Probably the one thing you’re not is a parent. So come on, boys, dig in.”

And Herschel was correct. A half-hour later there was scarcely a crumb remaining.

And the matter of Bennett’s decision had been studiously avoided.

At last the former chief resident in Surgery at Yale announced, “It’s gonna be a bitch and I don’t know if someone kicking forty still has the patience to slog through those lousy courses.”

Herschel and Barney exchanged expressions of relief. “Okay, guys,” said Bennett. “Let’s say I try it.”

“Good man,” Barney exclaimed. “What school are you going to honor with your presence?”

“Ah,” Bennett replied, “therein lies the rub.”

“I don’t understand,” said Herschel.

For the first time since he’d received the bad news, Bennett smiled. “Do you think the world is ready for a Jewish spade with
three
degrees from Harvard?”

Barney reinforced his friend’s good mood. “Christ, Landsmann, do I envy you. Not only will you go back to the womb, you’ll also be in walking distance from the ‘Cliffe.”

“No, Livingston. You’re way off base,” Bennett remarked mischievously. “I’ll make history as the only guy who played for
both
sides in the Malpractice Cup!”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Barney, raising his cup to clink with Bennett’s.

“I’ll drink to that as well,” said Herschel.

To which his adopted son added, “
L’chayim.
”

While Bennett was planning his return to Cambridge with the deans of Harvard Law School, half a world away his former classmate was busy mapping an itinerary of his own. Hank Dwyer and the two officers who had been his neighbors in their Saigon pleasure dome had to make hard decisions.

Nixon was pulling the GIs out of Vietnam as fast as they had once poured in. And the three men would imminently be getting tickets stateside.

And so the trio sat down to discuss what steps to take about their Vietnamese “families.” One of them did not have a wife back home, so his course was simpler. He took the attractive Oriental girl-woman who’d borne his son and daughter to the U.S. Embassy, where a great part of the staff were working night and day to process new Americans, register their births and marriages, and plan their journeys home.

The second officer had decided to go back alone to start divorce proceedings to get rid of his pushy and aggressive American wife, and then import his docile, worshipful companion and their child from this beleaguered country. For though the U.S. had lost the war, he at least had found what true domestic bliss could be.

For Hank, things were not so clear-cut. Though he appreciated Mai-ling and enjoyed the company of Gregory, his two-year-old (especially since he could see him only when he
wanted
to), there was the matter of his already considerable contribution to the U.S. population back in Boston.

Dealing with Cheryl had been easy from his current vantage point, which was, however, also a point of no return.

For Hank himself had changed. He had seen life beyond the
city limits, so to speak. His world was larger than before and his horizons wider. Cheryl simply wasn’t his idea of the kind of woman he needed now. Yet getting a divorce from a religious Catholic would be difficult enough. With Mai-ling and young Gregory around, it might even be impossible.

“I’ve got no choice, guys,” he concluded to his fellow officers. “If it’s all right with you two, I’d like to leave Mai-ling in the house and—you know—make arrangements on the other side.”

“Well, you’ll register them at the Embassy, won’t you?” one of the officers asked.

“Uh, sure,” said Hank. “That won’t obligate me to—import them, will it?”

“No, but your kid will be a U.S. citizen. And a U.S. passport could come in very handy if we should lose—I mean, if they should lose Saigon.”

For Hank it was simply a case of peer pressure.