Doctors (83 page)

“Excuse me,
Doctor
Castellano, but you have not given us documentation that these poor unfortunate babies were brought to their sad condition because their mothers smoked. Is it not true that literally thousands of such babies are born every day, even to nonsmokers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You did say it could happen even to nonsmokers?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“I think I’ve made my point,” Mr. West said, and sat back from his microphone.

“Now I’d like to finish mine,” said Laura. “This isn’t show business, Mr. West. This is medical science. We don’t have stunt men or doubles or stand-ins. We don’t retouch our pictures to make patients look more sickly.” And then she raised her voice. “Let me give you some hard facts: Babies born to women who smoke tend to be two hundred grams
lighter
than babies born to nonsmokers.

“When a pregnant woman smokes, she inhales various poisons—not just nicotine, but carbon monoxide. Most of this crosses the placenta and reaches the baby.”

She paused and then directed her next question to the tobacco advocate himself. “I ask you, Mr. West, would you put any child of yours near the exhaust pipe of a car even for a second—much less
nine
months?”

There were murmurs in the hearing room. Across the land, viewers leaned forward in their seats.

“I realize the Committee’s time is precious, but let me cite one more bit of information: With every cigarette she smokes, a pregnant woman directly increases her chances of having a stillborn baby.

“I have photocopies of these data for every member of the Committee.”

Game, Set, and Match to the Health Mafia.

This time
The Washington Post
carried her picture. It was—as Laura had somewhat perversely hoped—a rather unflattering
one, for she had scowled as she encountered the jostling swarm of paparazzi urging her to “Look this way, Laura,” and “Give us a smile, please, Dr. Castellano.”

She and Barney had a postmortem session late that night.

“You did good, kid,” he enthused. “Just don’t let this go to your head. I don’t want you posing for
Playboy.
”

She laughed. “Let me tell you, Barney, I was really scared. That West is brilliant. I had no idea where he would be coming from in the question period. I hate to say this, but if I ever got sued for malpractice, I’d want that barracuda on my side.”

“I only wish there was some way I could’ve filmed you today. I was really proud.”

“Barney,” she said softly, “almost every bull’s-eye that I made was an idea of yours.”

“Aha, Castellano, my stopwatch shows you have actually been free from low self-esteem for almost twelve hours—that must be a record, huh?”

She did not reply.

“Laura, for God’s sake,
I
didn’t write your application to NIH,
I
didn’t write those papers that you’re publishing. You may recall,
you
were the one that got the A in Pfeifer’s course. When will you get it into your head that you’re terrific?”

“Come on, Barn, don’t be ridiculous. So far my greatest achievement in life is being five-foot-ten and blond.”

“You know something, Castellano, they’ve got this new operation out in California that can reduce height. I think I’ll treat you to five-foot-five for Christmas.”

She laughed. “Goodnight, Barney.”

“And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You could always dye your hair a frumpy color.”

It was a foregone conclusion that Laura’s Fellowship would be renewed. To their credit the directors knew a national asset when they saw one. For Laura was moving in circles above theirs and meeting people socially whom
they
met only once yearly, when they pleaded poverty and begged for increased funding.

Meanwhile, Laura showed team spirit and genuinely lobbied for more NIH funding.

She was so euphoric that she did something totally unprecedented for her—she threw a party in her woefully underfurnished apartment.

Gifted though she was, Laura did not count cuisine among her many virtues. Here she relied totally upon the sage advice of Milton—of the Deli of the same name in the Silver Spring Shopping Center. On the afternoon of the festivities, he loaded his van with dips and sandwiches and cakes. Milton was even wise enough to ask if Laura had sufficient cutlery—which naturally she did not. So he brought her several dozen plastic forks and knives.

“Now you’re set,” Milt pronounced. “The only thing you have to do is make the punch, from which I know nothing—and greet the guests, from whom I also know nothing. Goodbye, good luck, and I’ll be back for all the garbage in the morning.”

“Thank you, Milt,” said Laura. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“Yes,” Milt answered. “In my humble opinion you have forgotten to get married. Goodnight.”

It occurred to Laura as she was mixing enormous quantities of punch (her laboratory expertise made her adept at measurements) that in all the time she and Palmer were man and wife, they never had a single party. Was she ever really married?

Barney, who had of course been the first to be invited, had been a fount of praise. “This is a real step forward for you, Castellano.”

Actually, this time even Barney did not notice the nuance. For in truth the party was not in honor of the real Laura, but rather the Public Image of Ms. Laura Castellano, M.D.

Barney had arrived from New York early the morning of the party, helped Laura set up, and—since he saw her growing tense—insisted that she jog with him.

“So who’s coming tonight that I should be especially nice to?” he asked as they ran along.

“I want you to be nice to everyone, Barn, because frankly I think I’ve invited everybody. We may have a thousand people if they all show up.”

“God, wouldn’t that be something—a thousand doctors in a single room.”

“Hey now,” she cautioned, “the purpose of this affair is not to give you more material for analyzing the medical profession. It’s so I can get to see what all my colleagues are like when they’re dead drunk.”

“Okay, that could be educational as well.”

*    *    *

No one will ever know exactly how many people were milling in and out of Laura’s apartment and on the lawn two floors below.

Milton’s catering had envisaged fifty. Everything was gone in the first hour. Fortunately, Laura had presumed that every guest would be a lush. The punch—its vodka content growing more predominant as her supplies of juice and ginger ale ran out—flowed endlessly.

A little after nine, Florence (the power behind the pediatrics throne) came up to Laura and shouted above the din, “Laura, darling, everybody’s here. You should feel flattered—even Dr. Rhodes has left his laboratory for this.”

“You mean he’s here? Paul Rhodes, the big enchilada of all the Institutes, is here in person?”

Laura had forgotten she’d been brash enough to drop an invitation at the Supreme Director’s office. And he actually had come!

She scanned the faces in her apartment, unable to find his. Then she went out to the lawn where Rhodes was holding court. When he spied her, he called out, “Ah, Laura, what a lovely party, do come join us.”

God, she thought, in awe, he’s tipsy. One of the greatest medical minds in the world and he might fall over on my front lawn.

Surrounding him was the equivalent of his round table. Shining knights, themselves subservient only to God and Rhodes (and not necessarily in that order), they were all of middle age—except for one man in his early thirties. And notwithstanding the warm weather, all wore ties and jackets. That is, all except the younger man—who was in tennis shorts.

Laura could not help looking at him. Who, she wondered, would dare confront Paul Rhodes in sweaty tennis gear—for he had clearly come straight from the court.

Their glances met, and Laura disliked her unknown guest at once. He was one of those attractive men, muscular, brown curly hair, whose attitude showed they knew they were attractive.

“Hello,” he said in what he probably thought was a sexy baritone. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers, but I don’t believe you’ve seen mine—at least not yet. I’m Marshall Jaffe.”

“Hi, I’m Laura,” she said unenthusiastically.

“Oh, please, we all know you, our hostess and the pin-up of the Institutes.”

“Oh,” said Laura dismissively, “do you work there, too?”

“In a menial capacity,” Marshall replied.

“Just what is your capacity?”

“For love? It’s endless,” he replied.

Under normal circumstances she would have brushed him off like a mosquito. “Just what is it you
do
, Mr. Jaffe?”

“Well,” Marshall answered slowly, “it’s Dr. Jaffe, actually. In fact, to be precise it’s Doctor-Doctor Jaffe—M.D., Ph.D. Are you impressed?”

“Why should I be? Almost everybody at this party’s got a double doctorate. So what’s your field-field, then?”

Marshall put his arm around the shoulder of Paul Rhodes, the Institutes’ director, and announced, “Paul’s just seduced me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, up until last June, I was a microbiologist at Stanford. Now I’m a Senior Fellow, and that means I do just about whatever takes my fancy. Even try to build a better mousetrap. But I’d be really interested to know what you would like me to do.”

There was no doubt about it—he was an egomaniac. But he was fascinating—the way a rattlesnake is fascinating. And, if Rhodes had made him a Senior Fellow, he’d have to have the goods. He’d have to be as brilliant as he said he was.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Doctor-Doctor, I have got other Doctor-Doctors’ glasses to refill.”

“The name is Marshall. Don’t forget it, Laura.”

It won’t be for lack of trying, she thought to herself.

“I
’m not here, Harvey. Tell him I’m out to lunch.”

“But it’s only nine-thirty, Laura,” her lab mate protested.

“I don’t care, tell him I got hungry early. Only keep that balloon-head off my back.”

Harvey transmitted Laura’s message to the caller and hung up. As he returned to his lab station he casually inquired,
“What’s wrong with the guy, Laura? I mean, I saw him at the party and he seemed like a nice enough guy. And I guess you know what everybody says about him.”

“And what’s that?”

“Jaffe’s Paul Rhodes’ fair-haired boy. He’s grooming him as his successor.”

“But he’s just a child,” she said incredulously.

“Yeah,” Harvey remarked, “that’s what’s so amazing. The guy is maybe thirty-three at most.”

“That’s amazing,” said Laura, thinking to herself, He’s younger than I am. And then aloud, “Especially since he’s got the mind of an adolescent. By the way, what was his answer when you gave him my message?”

“He said he’d go over to the cafeteria and look for you.”

Half an hour later Marshall Jaffe was standing next to her, holding a small white paper bag.

“Good morning, Laura,” he said merrily.

She frowned. “What brings you here, Dr. Wonderful?”

“Well, it’s obvious since the cafeteria was closed you didn’t get the breakfast you wanted, so I sweet-talked George the chef out of two cups of coffee and some rolls.”

“Thanks. I’ll take one of the coffees,” she replied.

“I only brought you one, the other is for me. It’s pretty nice out—want to drink it on the steps?”

“Look, Marshall, I don’t know about you, but I like to get some work done in the morning. So if you don’t mind—”

“I don’t mind, Laura. But you’ll work a hell of a lot better with some carbohydrates in you, and you’ll make up for lost time. Besides, I’d like to hear how your research is going.”

Minutes later they were sitting outside in the hazy morning sun, having rolls and coffee.

“How come you
already
know so much about my research?” Laura asked.

“Well, I work with Paul and spend at least an hour every day discussing how things are going. I happened to see your application on his desk—”

“And you sneaked a look at it?”

Marshall was offended.

“No,” he said with much less flippancy than usual, “I may be arrogant but I’m not the Watergate type. I don’t nose around in other people’s business. If you can credit this, Miss Holier-Than-Thou
Castellano, Paul gave it to me to look over and see what I thought.”

Aha, she said to herself, now he’s trying the power game with me. I can screw you with the boss.

“And what was your opinion, Dr. Jaffe?”

“I think it’s great. I mean, it’s not that cosmically imaginative, but it’s intelligent, pragmatic. And the proof is that you’re getting good results.”

Laura had not heard the second, complimentary part of his remark, for she had fixed upon the inference that her project was not all that original.

“Well,” she said, a little defensively, “we’re already making healthy babies out of what, even half a year ago, would have been very sick ones.”

“I know, I know,” Marshall protested. “I’m a father. I appreciate these things.”

“Oh,” she said, reluctant to confess—even in thought—that she was disappointed by his last remark.

“I’m married, Laura, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m sure your wife appreciates how lucky she is. And of course, you’re always right there with your brilliant bibliography if it should slip her mind.”

“We don’t discuss that sort of thing,” he answered. His voice was strangely hollow. Then he explained simply and undramatically. “She’s got MS.”

“Oh,” said Laura, chastened. “I’m sorry, Marshall.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, “I’m sorry, too. It’s really worse for our two kids. I mean, Claire has long stretches of remission when she’s absolutely fine. But then that damn disease attacks again and it’s like their mommy’s gone away. Fortunately we found an old-fashioned nanny and pressed her into service. Otherwise we’d all go nuts—”

“And so you can keep your tennis game up,” Laura said—and was bewildered by her own sarcastic outburst.

His jaw tightened. “Hey, look,” he said, “it’s obvious you’ve lived a cozy, insulated life. But let me tell you, smashing a ball with a racket is my tranquilizer. Because with everything I’m carrying on my shoulders, if I couldn’t sweat it out I’d probably be taking pills to freak it out. My kids both understand that I’ve just gotta have a safety valve to keep my head screwed on.”