Doctors (8 page)

“Barney, your father’s had a stroke.”

His blood froze. “How bad is it?”

“They can’t be sure till morning, but they’re pretty certain he’ll pull through. Mama’s with your mother—she won’t budge from the Waiting Room. Like she’s afraid something bad might happen if she went to sleep.”

“I’ll get Warren and shoot down right away.”

“For God’s sake, Barn,” Laura cautioned, “drive carefully.”

He woke his younger brother, then ran to commandeer Sandy Leavitt’s car. Two hours and forty-five minutes later, they swerved into the
DOCTORS ONLY
parking lot. The brothers sprinted upstairs toward the Cardiac Unit, where their mother tearfully greeted them. And then Luis reassured the boys that Harold was out of danger.

“He is sleeping peacefully now, and I think you should take your mother home so she can get some rest.”

“What happened?” Barney demanded.

“He had a cerebrovascular accident,” Luis explained, “that is a hemorrhage into the brain as a consequence of a clot in a cerebral artery. It is still too early to assess the damage.”

“What are the possibilities?” Barney asked anxiously.

Luis tried to be both reassuring and truthful. “It can range from minor loss of movement to complete paralysis, including aphasia. But you must understand there are times when a doctor simply cannot prognosticate. Now, I insist you take everybody home.”

“You mean you’re staying?” Barney replied.

Luis nodded. “You are his family—but I am his physician.”

*    *    *

Within a week, Harold was well enough to receive visitors and talk in a soft voice, the words perceptibly slurred. But by Labor Day, one thing was painfully clear—he was an invalid. He would never be able to work again.

Estelle went downtown to the Teachers’ Retirement Board and began the lengthy bureaucratic process of requesting a medical retirement for her husband. It was then that she learned the cruelty of actuarial tables. Harold had taught for an aggregate of thirteen years and was therefore entitled only to a pension that would be little more than enough to pay the winter heating bill. His Army disability check would help keep up the mortgage payments, but …

That evening, she presented the grim realities of their situation to Barney and Warren.

When she finished her brief report, she looked forlornly at her elder son. Barney understood and, without having to be asked, shouldered the responsibility.

“It’s okay, Mom, I’ll get a job. Seniors finish school at one o’clock, so I can probably find something for afternoons and weekends.”

Estelle looked at him with silent gratitude.

Only then did Warren realize. “What about basketball? You have practice every afternoon.”

“I know, Warren, I know!” Barney exploded. “I’ll just have to quit the goddamn team, won’t I?”

Barney sat staring at the contents of his half-open locker. The sneakers, the shorts, the warm-ups, all the paraphernalia of jockhood that had brought him such joy over the years. He could not bring himself to take the damn stuff out and hand it in.

Suddenly he heard the raucous sound of his former teammates entering the locker room. It was an awkward moment for all of them. Finally, Craig Russo broke the ice. “How’s your dad, Livingston?”

“Not too bad, Craig. Thanks for asking.”

Then it was Sandy Leavitt’s turn. “We’re really gonna miss you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Then, gauche as ever, Sandy added, “Uh—I guess you’ve heard that—uh—I’m captain now.”

*    *    *

Barney was surprised to find Laura outside waiting for him.

“Haven’t you got a government to run, or something?” he joked feebly.

“I just thought you might want some company on the way home.”

“Oh.” He paused, then added, “Thanks, Castellano.”

There was no shortage of part-time jobs. That is, if he didn’t mind menial labor for low wages.

Barney opted for one that had at least a semblance of variety—soda jerk and delivery boy at Lowenstein’s Pharmacy on Nostrand Avenue, just a few blocks from home. Each afternoon, when his last class ended, he rushed to work (he was being paid by the hour) and donned a white jacket and silly-looking white hat to serve up egg creams, black-and-white sodas, and—when the challenge presented itself—banana splits to customers he knew as lifelong neighbors.

Every time his mind drifted off to the pleasurable fantasy of throwing baskets through a hoop in a warmly lit gym, he dragged himself back to the reality of having to trudge through the chill Brooklyn streets, delivering prescriptions.

He tried to console himself with the thought that this part of his job might be regarded as education. After all, old man Lowenstein did let him watch while he mixed the various healing potions.

“One thing, Barney,” the druggist would say, smiling, “when you take Pharmacology in medical school, you’re a shoo-in for an A.”

The pharmacy was officially open until seven-thirty and it was usually after eight by the time Barney got home. His mother always had dinner waiting and, while Warren was upstairs studying, she would keep Barney company. It was her own way of showing him how grateful she was for all he was sacrificing.

For reasons Barney all-too-painfully understood, her conversation seemed like a perpetual series of reminiscences.

“He always had so much pep,” she remarked nostalgically.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“We were always the last couple on the dance floor. I was positively worn out. But then, when he got home, he’d sometimes go to his study and read some Latin author till breakfast time. You can see why he was the most popular teacher in the school.”

Barney placed a hand upon his mother’s. “Don’t upset
yourself, Ma. Who cares if he has to use a cane now? At least we can still
talk
to him.”

She nodded. “You’re right. We should be very grateful.” And then she whispered affectionately, “You’re a good boy, Barney.”

Night after night she would repeat the same cathartic monologue almost verbatim.

Then came the most difficult part of Barney’s day—visiting his father.

Harold spent most of his time in bed reading. First the morning paper, then some scholarly work and, when he woke from his afternoon nap, the
World-Telegram.
After dinner he was usually too tired to do anything but sit up in bed and receive visitors.

Feeling guilty about “not doing anything useful,” he would take the burden of conversation upon himself, discoursing about current events or whatever book he was involved in at the moment. Yet there was always a barely perceptible tinge of apology in his voice.

Barney sensed this and—reversing the traditional roles—tried to give his father peace of mind by reporting the exciting events in his own intellectual world. One evening he mentioned his fascination with psychoanalysis.

“Hey, Dad,” he asked, “ever read any Freud?”

“Why yes, a bit.”

The answer surprised Barney. He had expected his father to be uninformed about such “modern” things.

“When I was in the Army hospital,” Harold continued, “there was a very sympathetic psychiatrist who would visit us and make us tell him—again and again—how we were wounded. He must have done it a dozen times. And it helped. It really helped.”

“How, Dad?” Barney asked with mounting fascination.

“Well, I’m sure you remember how Freud explains the dream process—”

“I know he says that dreams unlock our unconscious mind—”

“Yes. Well, this doctor was helping my psyche to heal by ‘dreaming out loud.’ Every night I had been reliving that explosion, but talking about it again and again finally put an end to those awful nightmares.”

Then a thought occurred to Harold. “By the way, what course are you reading this for?”

Embarrassed, Barney confessed that he was reading psychology
in his “spare time.” They both knew that he didn’t have any, and he fully expected a scolding for neglecting his school-work. But again his father surprised him.

“Well, son, it won’t do your grades any good. But I’ve always thought the real purpose of an education was to stimulate the mind to think. Tell me, have you read any Jung?”

Barney shook his head.

“Well, why not look at
his
theory of dreams and the Collective Unconscious—then perhaps we can chat about it.”

“Sure, Dad, sure. Maybe Mom can bring back a copy from the library.”

“No need for that,” Harold responded, “there’s a copy in my study—on the same shelf as Artemidorus.”

Thereafter, Barney looked forward to these visits with Harold as the
best
part of the day.

It was usually after ten before Barney could sit down and begin studying. By midnight he was often too exhausted to go on and would collapse into bed. Inevitably, he started to fall behind in his classes.

Nor could he catch up on weekends. For Saturdays he had to report to Lowenstein’s at 8
A.M.
and work the entire day.

That left only Sunday afternoons. But by now Barney had developed a fatalistic attitude: he would not be going to college on a basketball scholarship. And with his grades at their current level, he would probably not be accepted by Columbia at all.

So what the hell, why not use his one free day to go to the playground, throw himself into a few dozen hard-fought basketball games, and let off steam? He would play so long and so hard that, finally, one by one, the other guys pleaded exhaustion and went home.

His first-term grades were, as he had expected, lower than usual. But his aggregate average still hovered above ninety, and that did not automatically rule out the possibility of Columbia. Especially if he did well on the upcoming College Boards.

The crucial part of this nationwide exam assessed a candidate’s aptitude in the use of words and numbers. Theoretically, it was like a blood test—something you couldn’t study for.

But in practice, during the Christmas vacation, kids attended expensive tutoring courses to improve their “aptitude.” Every family with dreams of upward mobility would scrape
together the $200 necessary to make their children look smarter than they really were.

Inez Castellano regarded this as a form of “cheating,” a compromising of one’s
honor.
But Luis was realistic and overruled her. Why should their daughter be put at a disadvantage? He even generously offered to subsidize Barney, who was too proud to accept.

Barney worked Christmas Day (at double pay) since it was Lowenstein’s turn to act as the emergency pharmacy in the area. It was lonely for him—especially since Laura never seemed to be around. She was always either at a tutoring class or out somewhere having fun.

She did resurface the week before the SATs, and offered to share some of the tricks she had acquired. These he gratefully accepted, and the two spent several evenings boning up together.

The result was a happy irony. While Laura came up with an admirable 690 in the verbal and 660 in Math, Barney scored 720 and 735.

“Gosh, Barn,” she said, “those numbers could get you into any school in the country.”

“Listen, Castellano,” he answered wryly, “if I could’ve played ball this year, the only score I would have needed was twenty points a game.”

As the harsh winter weather wore him down, Barney began to come home from work a mere zombie. Sometimes he would get as little as four hours sleep. But this was his last term, the home stretch. In a few weeks, they would hear from the colleges and it would be all over but the shouting.

Or the crying.

One Saturday evening, he stayed till nearly midnight, helping Mr. Lowenstein take inventory. He slogged home through the gray slush and staggered up the steps, thinking only of sleep and hoping for no dreams of aspirins, antihistamines, and laxatives.

But as he was removing his coat, his stomach reminded him that it had only been fed a sandwich for dinner and he dragged himself toward the kitchen. To his surprise, the light was still on. And to his added astonishment, Laura was sitting there.

“Hey, what the hell brings you here so late—especially on a Saturday night?” he asked.

“Barney, I’ve got to talk to you. It’s serious.”

“Dad?” he asked as an instant reflex. “Has something happened to Dad?”

“No, no.” She paused and then added, barely audibly, “It’s me, Barn. I’m in trouble. I know you’re tired.…”

“That’s okay, that’s okay. Sit down, I’ll get a sandwich and we’ll talk.”

“No, not here. Can we go for a walk?”

“At this hour?”

“Just around the block, you could eat your sandwich on the way.”

He focused intently on her for the first time. There was a look of panic in her eyes.

“Okay, Castellano, okay.”

He grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies, threw on his mud-spattered pea jacket, and they went out into the streets.

They covered the first hundred yards in total silence. Finally, Barney could stand the suspense no longer. “Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

“I … I’m overdue,” she stammered. “It’s been six weeks.”

“You mean to tell me you’re pregnant?”

She could only nod.

“Oh God, how the hell did this happen?”

“I don’t know, Barn. I’m ashamed, I really am. And I’m scared as hell.”

He was suddenly consumed by an inexplicable sense of betrayal.

“Why the hell don’t you go to the SOB who did it?” he snapped. He could not bring himself to say the word “father.”

She shook her head. “Because he’s a schmuck. You’re the only person I could tell about this.”

“Am I supposed to feel flattered?” He took a weary breath and, realizing how desperate she was, tried to master his own feelings. “Okay,” he said slowly and deliberately, “can I just for the record know who the guy is?”

“It’s … Sandy Leavitt.”

Barney could not suppress his anger. “Why
him
of all people?”

“Please,” she entreated, “if I wanted to get screamed at I could have told my parents.” And then the tears came. “Please, Barney,” she sobbed, “please help me.”

In the quiet winter darkness, he stopped and whispered, “Take it easy, Laura. Let’s go back where it’s warm and talk
this whole thing over. Mom’s asleep by now, no one will hear us.”