Wanting Rita (23 page)

I found Nicole with Walker near the piano, speaking in confidential mumbles. When they saw me approach, their faces became much too animated with the sheer pleasure of seeing me. Nicole kissed my cheek. Walker pumped my hand aggressively. His Nordic good looks and sharp blue eyes glowed confidence. His wide frame and over six feet height impressed and intimated, especially if he fell into his deep commanding tone of voice that suggested he was certain that everyone would eventually see things his way in the long run—and, by God, they’d better.

“Proud of your wife, are you, Alan?”

“Sure…of course,” I said, witnessing a blush of satisfaction on her face that I hadn’t seen in months. In her black suit, pearl white blouse and two inch heels, she looked professional and sexy. She appeared happy, and, although I was happy for her, I felt deflated. I should have thrown the party. I’d sent a dozen roses to her office and given her diamond earrings, but those seemed paltry now, next to the extravagance around me. Nicole eyed me strangely, as though I had just been blown in from a distant planet.

“Congratulations, Nicole,” I said.

“I’m glad you could come,” she said, formally, as if I were just another guest.

“Well, of course I was going to come. Did you get the flowers?”

“Yes…they were lovely.”

I noticed she wasn’t wearing the earrings. I decided to leave it alone.

“There’s plenty of food, wine and booze, Alan,” Walker said. “Enjoy yourself.”

I waited for Nicole.

“You go ahead, Alan,” she said, breezily. “Walker and I are discussing a new case that came in. I’ll find you.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets and slinked away toward the bar. I’d never tasted a Cosmopolitan so I ordered one. It went down easily. I ordered an Apple Martini and it too slid down with ease.

The room swelled with guests and my head swelled with a playful buzz. The women wore a lot of black. The men wore sports jackets, blue blazers and suits. Waiters with bow ties and white shirts glided about with trays of hors d’oeuvres. The piano music rose and fell in flourishes of Gershwin’s “Swanee” and then Rodgers’ and Hart’s “Where or When.”

I rambled, purposeless, sipping a Chocolate Martini. I bent an intruding ear into conversations on politics, sports and adultery. I talked bungee jumping with a bold stout man of 30, although I knew nothing about it and had never been.

When an attractive redhead drew up along side of me, tall and authoritative, I squinted at her through blurry eyes and said, “Hi. I’m Alan James, at least that’s what an old high school girlfriend used to call me.”

That’s when I realized I was teetering toward drunkenness.

“I’m Greer Dalson,” she said, with some puzzlement. “I work with Nicole.”

I narrowed in on her.

“We met at the Christmas Party.”

My eyes widened with recognition. “Of course…yes, we did. Yes. How are you?”

Greer was two inches taller than I and she had freckles. “Nicole has quite a future ahead of her.”

“She had quite a future behind her,” I said, earnestly. “You should have been there.”

Greer stepped back, studying me anew. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“I am a doctor. I’m a doctor who could use a good doctor.”

Greer slid back further, cautious and a little put off. “Well, it was nice seeing you again.”

“For me also,” I said, feeling a wonderful silliness I hadn’t felt in years.

I found the buffet table, with its silver serving sets and plates of chopped vegetables and finger sandwiches and pickles. I focused in on the pickles and bypassed the salmon, the chicken, the turkey, the tofu and the grilled veggies. I reached for the pickles. I ate two large green ones and then went back for three more. I chomped and chewed and grinned with the pleasure of a rebellious child. I washed them down with a Manhattan on the rocks and moved on.

I found pockets of conversation and put in my two cents. “I don’t like Republicans or Democrats. I want a damned revolution! I want to overthrow everyone and everything! I want disruption, disarray and…well, maybe a little good will here and there.”

After that group scurried away from me, I found two attractive women, who I later learned were married to the partners Wilkes and Fried. They were chic, refined and drinking very dry Grey Goose martinis, (or so they said) in great frosty martini glasses. The green olives glowed with an electric green enormity. I fought the urge to grab for one.

“I don’t believe in it,” I said.

“In what?” Mrs. Wilkes asked.

“In any of it.”

“And what would any of it be referring to?” Mrs. Fried asked, placing a strand of her black hair behind an elegant ear.

“That would be birth, life and death. I just don’t believe in it. It all seems rather arbitrary and confusing.”

They exchanged quizzical glances.

“Who are you with?” Mrs. Wilkes asked, with a sharp enquiring eye.

“I was with Nicole, but she is now with the honorable Walker Towne, so right now, I am with the both of you…and I’m finding you both charming and utterly fascinating.” I bowed to each of them, nearly spilling my refreshing Manhattan.

Their eyebrows lifted. Not knowing what else to do, they laughed.

The party reached its zenith when the food was whisked away and a heavy buxom blond asserted herself toward the piano. After a brief conference with its player, she burst into “The Man That Got Away” in a wobbly strident assault of style, notes and key.

I sat dejectedly on the inflexible oversized couch and waited for Nicole, while I finished off my final Manhattan.

I could have gone to her, of course, but she had pointedly said she would find me. So, as a matter of principle and pride I waited, until the speeches and congratulations were finished, until the sing-alongs grew anemic, when no one remembered the words, and until someone said it was after eleven and it had stopped raining. The guests began to float away.

I rose from the couch, spiritless and drunk. I swayed toward the front door and I saw her: Nicole standing close to the sunny Walker; she a fluttering moth in the glow of his sturdy Nordic flame. She was imparting her goodbyes; so graciously, so effusively, so nauseatingly.

I wandered toward them, weaving a little. I saw the sudden anxiety register on their faces as I gracelessly advanced. I must have looked as drunk as I felt.

I lifted my hands, slapped them together and rubbed aggressively. “Well, what a hellava party! And to think that all this…all this extraordinary effort was to commemorate and honor Nicole becoming a partner. Do you do this for all the little folk who make partner, podner?” I asked Walker.

He stared with insipid eyes. “I think you’ll agree that Nicole is exceedingly special.”

“Oh, yeah, I will agree. You betcha. She is that.”

I shifted my unsteady gaze toward her, feeling a turbulence of emotion.

She shivered, and her disapproving eyes slid down and away.

I faced Walker. “Mr. Towne, may I thank you for an interesting evening and add that I think you are a supercilious parasite, with a forgettable demeanor and an unforgettable, unctuous personality.”

His face darkened. “And you, Dr. Lincoln, are a pathetic drunk.”

Unfazed, I looked at Nicole. “Are you coming?”

She glared. “No, Alan. I’ll come later.”

With a great effort, I lowered my head and nudged myself toward the front door.

Needless to say, after that evening, I never again heard anyone say that I knew “exactly how to make things enlightening.” Nicole and I didn’t speak for days.

I worked early and late, mostly to avoid her, and slept in the second bedroom on the couch. She spent little time at home and always seemed distracted or annoyed.

And then there was a perceptible change in Nicole. Her emotions were bereft of extremes. I, in turn, responded in kind, and our relationship, though stilted and often a little strained, staggered on for a few more days. Until the inevitable day of reckoning.

I blankly stared at the emergency room entrance and drained the coffee. The facetious squirrels helped me finish the bagel. I entered St. Luke’s Hospital and went to work. The morning shot by. The interns were of three categories: the ones who leafed through New York real estate and foreign car magazines, dreaming of the money they’d soon be making; the earnest who wanted to save the world; and, the realists, whose parents were physicians. The latter plodded through the hallways, comfortable with the smells, the blood, the politics, the sudden deaths, the ER tragedies and the voluminous paperwork everyone now required.

The afternoon in my office was steady and mostly predictable. The usual chronic cases: diabetes, heart problems, asthma and obesity. Occasionally, there was one not so serious, like the man in his early 50’s who presented with blocked ears. Heavy earwax in both ears. I referred him to an ENT. I’d only flushed out one set of ears in my medical career and my nurse, Mary, was hectically stressed and didn’t have the time.

When I entered the examination room and saw a 30s something woman, her face contracted with stress and her tired eyes blood-shot, I closed the door behind us and sat down opposite her. She told me her name was Ellen Collins. She was thin and distracted. She fidgeted with her thin, ginger-blond, oily hair.

“Can you give me some sleeping pills, doctor, please?” she asked, pitifully. “I’ve been out of work for almost two years, and I’m nearly broke. I can’t sleep. My husband left me months ago for another woman. My 9-year-old son has asthma and he isn’t doing very well in school. My father had been helping us out when he could, but he’s struggling financially himself now. He can’t help us anymore.” Her voice was high-edged and frightened; tears rolled down her cheeks.

As usual, I felt the pressure of time, and I felt the weight of Amos Bower’s 240 pounds as he paced the waiting room, fuming, because he’d been 15 minutes early and would have to wait at least another 15 minutes because I was late. He would bark at reception and they, in turn, would surely yap at me.

I drew a breath and hoped I was presenting to Ellen a calm, self-assured expression. I’d been to enough doctors myself, and suffered the humiliation of bearing my worst nightmare to a virtual unknown, to realize how important it was just to be calm and listen. Listening was often the most important skill.

I’d heard similar stories to Ellen’s since medical school and I had prescribed sleeping pills, recommended counseling, discussed health insurance policies and options. I had even consulted with other colleagues for advice. I’d scheduled follow-ups, documented the session, signed the referral sheet and wished them well. I’d done this many times.

But that day, I wanted to talk to Ellen. I wanted to hear what she had to say. I wanted and needed to communicate. I wanted to feel something—a connection to another human being. I was desperate for it. I saw Rita in Ellen’s eyes. I saw myself, struggling to understand, and I saw Nicole looking back at me, regretfully. And so Ellen and I talked and I lost track of time.

When the receptionist’s uptight head poked in, jarring me, I turned to hear her say that Nicole was on the phone. I excused myself, stepped into the hall and got “the look” and “the yap” from reception.

In my office I reached over my desk and took the call. “Nicole…”

Nicole’s voice was officious. “Yes, Alan. Look, they didn’t settle. We’re going to trial.”

I struggled to shift my focus. “What? Who…”

“I told you. Haines vs. Gomez. The doctor who should have done the Caesarian and the baby died.”

“Oh…yeah, right.”

“Anyway, the weekend’s off. I’ve got to get ready for this thing.”

I felt nauseous. “Can’t you work out there, on Shelter Island? It’ll be quiet. Nothing to distract you.”

Her voice grew cold. “No. I need to work with Walker on this and we’ve got to find an expert or we’re sunk. Know of any?”

“No…No…”

I knew this was the defining critical moment in our marriage. I knew that if we didn’t go to Shelter Island and have it out—lance all the boils—the marriage was over. Maybe it was already over, but I wanted to try one more time. My stomach churned, gnawed. I grabbed it. “Nicole…okay…what about Sunday? Can you come out Sunday?”

“Dammit, Alan, what else do I have to say!? I can’t! I can’t go! Get out of your own fucking world for a minute and listen to me. I can’t go!”

I couldn’t find any words.

Nicole did. “What difference does it make anyway, for God’s sake? Who are we trying to kid?” Her voice changed, became quiet and resigned. “Alan…let’s not kid ourselves anymore. Please. Let’s just move on. Why are you making this so difficult? I’ve tried…I’ve tried to let you know…that it’s over.”

Her words struck my chest like a thrusting sword. I stood rigid for a moment, and then slowly rounded the desk and sat. I’d heard the disappointment and anger in her words and tone. I’d heard failure, finality. I’d also heard the strong imposing voice of Walker Towne in the background. “Nicole, let’s get going.”

Walker Towne—divorced with two kids—beautiful kids. Walker Towne, handsome Hollywood good looks. Walker Towne, who, I knew for certain, was sleeping with Nicole.