Hidden Jewel (7 page)

"More than ever."
I mumbled it in my sleep.
"More than ever."

4
Life Lessons
.
"If you and I are going to be study partners,"

Dr. Weller said as we left the hospital the next day, "you should call me Jack. Dr. Weller is too formal after we walk out of there," he said, nodding back toward the hospital.

"Jack?"
"That's my name. Oh, my real name is Jackson Marcus Weller, which is what I will hang on my shingle. I was named after my great-grandfather on my mother's side. I'd rather be just Jack, though, especially to people I admire and people I hope will admire me," he said. Then he put his hand on my waist to turn me to the right. "My apartment is just a few blocks this way," he said. "You don't mind walking, do you?"
"No." His hand lingered on my hip, his fingers pressing with authority.
"I have a car, but I seldom use it. Driving is such a hassle in the city. I'd much rather walk or use public transportation." He drew his hand away when we started to walk again.
"Did you grow up in New Orleans?" I asked.
"Grow up?" He smiled and then laughed. "Most of my relatives and friends think I haven't. They think because I'm going to be a doctor, I should look, act, and feel like an old man. Who trusts a young doctor these days? In almost every other profession, youth is an advantage, but in medicine . . ." He paused and turned to me. "My ex-roommate actually dyes his hair gray. Do you believe that?"
I shook my head.
He stared at me a moment and relaxed his lips, a look of pity in his eyes. "Actually, I feel sorry for you. It's twice as hard for a woman to become a doctor. You've got to be twice as good. But," he said, winking, "I think you might just have the grit to make it. Now," he said holding up his hand, palm toward me, "don't tell me anything else about yourself. Let me guess."
We continued, strolling at a slower pace. It wasn't quite as humid as it had been the day before. The sun was low enough to leave the eastern sky a darker blue so that the billowing clouds looked as white as milk. Toward the south a single-engine plane was dragging a banner that advertised a jazz and dinner special in the French Quarter. We could hear the streetcar rattling along past the palm trees behind us. The birds were twittering noisily. I imagined they were filled with news that they had stored up like acorns during the impressive heat and humidity. Now that they were cooler and able to gossip, they did so nonstop.
The street lanterns were just flickering, it not being dark enough to turn themselves on full. Less humidity seemed to free the scent of camellias and of the banana and magnolia trees that grew along and behind the pike fences of the houses we passed as we ambled along the sidewalk, which in New Orleans was known as a banquette. Most banquettes were built two to three feet high, mainly to keep water out of houses. Across the way I saw three Tulane summer school coeds giggling and walking while two boys in a convertible followed slowly and tried to get their attention.
"You're not an only child, and you're not spoiled. That's for sure," Jack Weller began.
"I have twin brothers, twelve years old."
"Uh-huh."
"But I am spoiled," I admitted.
"Sure. All spoiled young women agree to work as nurse's aides for peanuts and are willing to clean up after sick people," he remarked. He gazed at me again. "You're not spoiled."
"I'm spoiled, but I'm determined," I replied.
He laughed. "I like that. You're from a well-todo family, right?"
"Yes. But did you really guess that or did you cross-examine Sophie?" I fired back quickly.
He laughed again. "You are a bright girl. All right. I'll confess I asked Sophie some questions. Just down here," he said seizing my hand and turning us into a side street toward an apartment building with a canopy that sagged in the middle. The gray stucco walls were badly chipped and cracked and the front door was in dire need of paint or wood stain. "I want to prepare you," he said as we approached the entrance. "I have only a studio apartment. Someone from the Garden District won't think much of it, I suspect."
"I'm spoiled, but I'm not a snob," I said.
His smile widened again and he opened the door. We stepped through a short entryway into a small lobby, the walls of which were faded and smudged. Here and there the dark brown tile floor was chipped. The only furnishing was a rickety table with an oval mirror in a dull white frame above it. The aroma of shrimp gumbo filled the air.
"The stairs are faster than the elevator," he said, nodding toward them. I followed him up three flights, the old, worn steps moaning complaints at our every step. "At least I have a little view," he said putting his key into the lock.
I was prepared for a small place with
inexpensive furnishings, but I wasn't prepared for the mess. The door opened immediately to the living room-bedroom. The settee to the right was covered with books and papers, and there were books and papers on the floor as well. There was also a coffee cup, still with some coffee in it; the dish beside it was crusted with leftover pasta. The windowsill was caked with dust, and the rug was frayed clear through in spots.
"I got up late this morning and didn't get a chance to clean up from last night," he explained. "Otherwise, it's comfortable."
Comfortable? I thought. It would be easy to become claustrophobic here. We had closets bigger than Jack's apartment. There was only one narrow window in the living room-bedroom, and the room itself was barely big enough to contain the settee, the bed, a table, and two chairs. Through an open doorway I saw a tiny kitchen with dishes piled in the sink and a small trash can stuffed so full that a takeout pizza box popped up and over the side.
Jack scurried about, clearing off the settee, chairs, and coffee table.
"Just give me a minute," he asked. He carried the dishes into the kitchen and then hurried back to straighten up the bed. "Bachelors," he said with an emphatic shrug. "This is the way we live, but you don't know any real bachelors yet, I imagine," he said. When I didn't reply, he stopped and looked at me. "Do you?"
"What? Oh, no." I couldn't get over how messy his apartment was. A doctor should be concerned about cleanliness, I thought.
"I wasn't raised to be a slob, if that's what you're thinking," he said, reading my mind. "Just wait until you start your internship. You'll see how little time you have for yourself. Unlike you, I come from modest means. My father worked on the oil rigs in Beaumont and was laid off so often that I used to think he was rich and had to work only a few months a year. Medical school is pretty expensive, you know," he added.
"How did you manage?" I asked, feeling guilty for condemning him so quickly.
"My grandmother left a trust for me. When she first left it, it was worth something, but inflation ate up a lot of it and the cost of medical school climbed, so I had to borrow money. I'm in debt up to here," he said holding his hand an inch or so above his head. "It's a great advantage to attend medical school and not have to worry about financing," he said. "But you've got to have more than money to become a doctor. Only thing is . . ." He stopped cleaning up and stared at me, shaking his head slowly.
"What?" I asked, concerned.
"You're really too attractive."
"What?"
"Seems like a waste," he added. "You should be a doctor's wife, bedecked with jewels and furs, running social and charity affairs," he said and then laughed. "Just kidding. Although the only female doctors I've known could scare the germs away." He patted down his bed, which was covered with a plain light blue quilt and two pillows. "Would you like something cold to drink? I've got orange juice, tonic water, and Dixie beer."
I gazed at the kitchen. It looked contaminated.
His face broke into a laughing smile. "I'll wash the glass first. I promise," he said.
"Orange juice will be fine."
"Great. Sit anywhere you like. Sit on the bed if you want," he said and went to get my juice. I sat on the settee and started to peruse the medical books.
"I know it's too soon, but have you considered what you want to specialize in?" he asked from the kitchen.
"I was thinking about pediatrics."
"Good one," he said returning. He had juice for me and a glass of beer for himself. "Especially for a woman. Mothers find it easier to deal with a woman."
"I wasn't thinking of it because of that," I said with some testiness in my voice. "Women are capable of becoming good surgeons, good cardiologists, good--"
"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'm not a male chauvinist. I'm just practical," he said, handing me my glass of juice. He sat beside me on the settee. "Hungry yet?"
I had been, but the sight of the room had churned my stomach and driven away my appetite.
"Not yet," I said. I was thinking now that I would study with him for a while and then make my excuses and go home, where I could enjoy some of Milly's leftovers.
"I happen to be a pretty good cook. All that chemistry," he said smiling. He gazed at me and then let his eyes drop softly, moving like invisible fingers over my face, down my neck, and across my breasts. "I bet a beautiful girl like you has had lots of boyfriends, right?"
"No."
"No? I thought girls were more promiscuous these days, collecting male trophies the way boys used to when I was in high school," he said.
"I have always had more important things on my mind, although I did go steady for a while this year."
"What happened? I don't mean to be personal. I'm just curious about young people today," he said.
"Let's just say I wasn't as committed to our relationship as he thought I was."
"Uh-oh. I think I know what that means. Was he your first steady boyfriend?" he asked with a licentious smile.
"Yes, but as I said, it didn't last that long."
"I see." He nodded, his right forefinger and thumb squeezing his chin. He was making me feel as if he were a doctor of romance and I had come to him for a love checkup.
"What do you have to study tonight?" I asked, feeling a little uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny.
"Hmm." He thought a moment and then reached under the settee and brought out a textbook. "I know just the topic. During office hours, we had a female patient today who suffered from dyspareunia. I don't suppose you know what that is," he said thumbing through the book.
I shook my head.
"Another term used is vaginismus,
affectionately known as the honeymoon injury," he said, his smile widening. "Enough hints?"
I felt myself blanche.
"Now, now. Someone who wants to be a doctor must be comfortable with every aspect of the human anatomy. Our patient," he said sitting back, "was a nineteen-year-old girl who had been recently married. You understand what dyspareunia is now, don't you?"
"I think so," I said. My heart was beating rapidly, but I felt as if my lungs had stopped working.
"Painful or difficult coitus," he recited. "You shouldn't be uncomfortable discussing any aspect of the human body," he repeated. "Or any of our normal functions."
"I'm not," I insisted. I felt my spine harden into cold steel and sat up sharply.
"Good. Dyspareunia may be the subject of back alley and barroom jokes, but to us doctors it's just another medical problem to solve, another form of suffering for us to end," he declared with the dedication and authority of someone who had been part of the medical profession for decades. "You understand that, don't you?"
"Of course." In my secret heart I wished he had chosen a different subject, but I wasn't going to let him see that this topic disturbed me. That was just what he would expect, and he would tell me how my attitude illustrated why it was so difficult for a woman to become a doctor.
"Let's continue, then." He leaned forward. "The patient confided in me after Dr. Bardot had left the examination room. She felt more comfortable talking to someone younger. She said she had been raped when she was twelve years old."
"Raped! How horrible."
"Yes, and that left her with some deep psychological damage." He handed the textbook to me and stood up. He started to pace like a college medical instructor giving a lecture. "This was important for me to know, because dyspareunia can be caused by psychogenic spasms. Please turn to page 819, top right corner." I did so quickly and then looked up at him.
He paused and closed his eyes, grimacing hard as he searched his memory. "When dyspareunia is not due to local causes, or when local symptoms are overshadowed by nervous symptoms, it indicates a psychologic defense mechanism developed by the patient." He opened his eyes and looked down at me expectantly.
I read the first lines. "That's right," I said.
"Good. Let's continue. The defense may be directed against sex and intercourse in general. The possibilities are listed: excessive egotism, ignorance of the anatomy and physiology of the reproductive organs, fear of pregnancy, aversion to the partner, possibly due to a previous love affair or something discovered after marriage. I think it says that even halitosis might form the basis of such an aversion, right?"
"What?"
"Bad breath," he said. "You know. You're in bed with someone, and he turns to you and--"
"Oh." I read and looked up at him. "Yes."
"So if you read between the lines there, before someone marries someone, she should be very familiar with him. They should conduct some test runs, don't you think?"
"I don't know that that's necessarily the inevitable conclusion," I said quickly.
He laughed. "Well, let's use you as a case in point," he said and sat on the settee. "Reading between the lines concerning what you told me about your boyfriend and you, I assume that you and he never made love. Correct?"
"I don't want to discuss my personal life," I said.
"You have to become purely objective, even about yourself, if you want to be a good physician. That's why I say that some people are just not psychologically prepared to become doctors. They might be smart--valedictorians, even--but if they can't bridge the psychological gaps--"
"I can handle the psychological gaps," I snapped.
"Fine. Then you shouldn't have any trouble discussing yourself. You're human, right? Every reaction you have, other people have, too, people you're going to examine and treat. When a man touches you, your body does the same things another woman's body does when a man touches her," he said and shrugged. "Don't you see that?"
"Yes, but . ."
"So. Let's continue. It's much better to work these problems out with real subjects than just to recite lines from textbooks. You might be suffering from frigidity," he said nodding firmly.
"What?"
"It's a medical term for the incapacity of the female to derive normal pleasure from sexual intercourse. It's right there in the textbook, bottom of the page on the right side." He indicated the passage with his right forefinger.
My eyes fell to the page, and I read it just as he had recited it. Then I looked up and shook my head. "That's not my problem. I don't even have a problem. I just didn't feel--"