Final Mercy

by Frank J Edwards

  She reached into her satchel and took out another piece of paper. It was a handwritten note from the editor of Coast-to-Coast. At the top he had written Talking Points and Ideas. She groaned and read.

  - Make most of interview with Dr. Bryson Witner, new hotshot dean and star of show. (Photos on file)

  - New Canterbury Med Center great old place but financial troubles. One of first modern hospitals in the East, founded same year as Hopkins, but big endowment almost gone. Once like Mayo Clinic, rural Mecca, but community now is rust belt and dying, sort of off beaten track now.

  - Emphasize human interest here? What do these suckers do for fun? Night life? Doubtful.

  - James Gavin, famous dean for 20 years, won Nobel Prize, brought glory but no money. Gavin steps down last year, gives reigns to McCarthy, another star from CA. But McCarthy dies last summer in accident. Good human interest here too. Then Bryson Witner steps up to plate. From Harvard. Genius type. Looks suave. Family? Background? Human interest always good.

  Zellie rolled her eyes and continued reading.

  - Witner develops plan to put place back on map by televising celebrity procedures. Main reason for this article. You will meet Brenda Waters. Interview is nailed down. This is main thrust. Should be fun. Future bright for this place. Phoenix rising, etc.

  The notes went on for another page, but Zellie balled it up and tossed it in the satchel. He might as well write the damn piece himself.

  Out the window, brightly colored autumn leaves flashed by under a steel-gray sky as the car swayed gently, ticking westwards where, far in the distance, she could see by leaning close to the cool glass what looked like a dusting of snow on the rising hilltops.

  IV

  Mustering The Troops

  Dr. Bryson Witner took a fresh lab coat from the closet in his office and went to the full-length mirror attached to the wall near his door. At six-foot-three, he had to crouch slightly for his image to fit. He smoothed out the coat and rolled up the sleeves, two turns each. Then, he studied his face, tilting his head back slightly, compressing his lips and cocking his right eyebrow. That was his laser-beam look. Very effective on medical students. His black hair, thinning a little on top, was cropped close and needed no further attention. He did up the middle three buttons of the coat.

  Length mattered with lab coats, from the blazer-style white jackets that med students were issued to the calf-length ones worn by faculty members—the higher up the pecking order, the longer the working regalia tended to be. Witner had worn the calf-length version until being appointed to the interim deanship several months ago, at which point he’d retired the old ones. His new coat fell an inch or two shy of brushing the floor.

  That wasn’t the only perk of his new position. Behind him, reflected in the mirror, lay the finest office in the entire university—larger even than the university president’s—with hardwood flooring, a Persian carpet, ebony bookshelves, a massive desk, a mahogany conference table with matching credenza and coffee table, a gas-log fireplace, three maroon leather arm chairs, and a wide bay window overlooking the river. All this the university had done for old Gavin after he’d won the Nobel Prize.

  Whistling, he gave his necktie a final wiggle, then stopped. His whistle died away. What was this? A tingle of alarm crawled up the back of his neck. He had seen something in the mirror. What was this on the left lapel of his coat?

  Looking down and holding his breath, he took out his pen and touched it. The thing was inert. It looked like a piece of brown thread, but you could never tell. He strode into the office’s private bathroom, shut the door, opened the medicine cabinet and took out a hemostat, with which he carefully grasped it and lifted it away.

  It might well be just a piece of thread, but still. He must not let his guard down.

  Setting it on the edge of the sink, he retrieved a butane cigar lighter from a drawer, clicked it on and directed a hissing blue flame toward the object. It made a brief orange flame. With a wad of moistened toilet paper, he wiped away the residue and flushed it down the commode.

  As he put the hemostat back in the cabinet, he noted two translucent amber medication bottles, and he paused for a moment. They were like two sentinels standing guard over the dental floss that lay between them. They seemed, in a strange way, to be beckoning him, but they must be ignored. He tore his gaze away and closed the cabinet firmly.

  The time for the meeting was drawing close. He peered into the spacious antechamber outside the office and saw Greta Carpenter, his administrative assistant, standing in front of her desk. Her back was turned to him. Greta, who’d been Gavin’s assistant for many years, had never warmed to him, which was a pity. She could have been much more useful. Still wearing her overcoat, she was in the process of opening mail, and hadn’t heard him. He approached her, stepping softly.

  “Greetings, Greta,” he said loudly.

  With a sharp intake of breath, she spun around, her still-attractive face going pale.

  “You look startled.”

  Her expression hardened.

  “No, that’s okay. Good morning.”

  “It is, indeed, a good morning,” he said, sniffing. “Is that your perfume? It reminds me of dendrobium orchids.”

  She was still trying to regain her poise.

  “Thank you.”

  For weeks now, she’d dropped the honorific “sir” when speaking to him, and her manner to him had been growing stiffer every day. Tut-tut.

  “Do you have today’s calendar for me, Greta, if it’s not too much to ask?”

  She reached onto the desk, where it lay in plain sight, and passed it over.

  “Ah, thank you,” he said. “Perfect as always. Perhaps you might be interested in going to the Flexner Room now to greet the faculty council members and give them their handouts before I arrive?”

  “That’s what I was just about to do.”

  “Certainly.”

  Witner went back in and sat at his desk. Eight minutes remained before he had to make his entrance, enough time to conduct a little business.

  He dialed Nelson Debussy, whose office was on the undergraduate campus across the highway from the medical center. The president of New Canterbury University a little over a year now, Debussy had been recruited from a college in Ohio, where he’d turned around a crisis similar to New Canterbury’s—shrinking enrollment, a neglected portfolio, crumbling local economy and below-the-belt competition from a subsidized state university system.

  Debussy answered the call himself.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning, Nelson,” Witner said. “I see we’re two of a kind—we start work before our secretaries.”

  “Bryson!” Debussy’s voice was chipper. “How’s my favorite wizard this morning?”

  “Splendid, thank you. I’m waiting for this month’s General Faculty Council to begin and thought I’d touch base with you.”

  “How are those meetings going? This is your third, I believe. I’ve heard good things.”

  “Have you, indeed? I’m pleased.”

  He smiled and thought of the various channels he used to insure positive feedback regarding his handling of faculty meetings flowed regularly to the main campus.

  “As we’ve discussed, Nelson,” he continued, “the faculty here is ravenous for modern leadership. They’re eager for a strong new vision.”

  “And you seem to be the man to provide it, Bryson.”

  Witner spiraled his fingertip over the green blotter.

  “Listen, Nelson, I wanted you to know that all the arrangements for televising Brenda Waters’ sigmoidoscopy tomorrow are complete. She arrives late tonight.”

  “Dandy,” Debussy said. “I must say again, Bryson, the contract you negotiated with Viacom is going to give us a much-needed cash infusion. I’m still not sure how one man could have pulled this together in such a short time. But we’re all deeply grateful to you.”

  “Oh, the Medical Media program was a little idea I’ve been churning ar
ound in my spare hours for some years, Nelson. I just couldn’t get anyone to share my vision before you. The time is right, and we must not be content with mere survival here.”

  “That sums it up, Bryson.”

  “Why shouldn’t New Canterbury lead the way?”

  “I love it.”

  “This is just the beginning, Nelson. There’ll be celebrities having their pap smears and mammograms here, educating the public and so forth.”

  “What about vasectomies, Bryson?”

  “No reason why not. And all these things performed by New Canterbury physicians under this roof.”

  “Who needs the Mayo Clinic? That’s what we’ll tell them.”

  “I only hope I have enough time during my interim deanship before yielding to the permanent dean when the search committee finishes its work.”

  “Bryson, don’t be coy. I’m your friend, remember? There may be no need to ‘yield,’ as you put it. Many on the board feel similarly.”

  “I’m not being coy,” said Witner. “I’m a modest man.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be. You’re a genius. I promise you, credit will fall where credit’s due.”

  “I would be honored, but in the meantime, I must stay focused. Oh, one last thing, Nelson. I’m sure you’re aware that gubernatorial candidate Brad Claxton is making a campaign swing through the Southern Tier tomorrow.”

  “Right. That crook from downstate.”

  “A man we’d like to have good relations with. He was thinking of bypassing New Canterbury and going directly to Corning, so I took the liberty of contacting his campaign manager. He’d like to hold a press conference at the hospital tomorrow, shortly before Ms. Waters’ procedure. It will give the journalists something to do while they’re waiting. I’m hoping you can be there to meet him.”

  Debussy began laughing.

  “Bryson, you’re going to own this place someday. Of course, I’ll be there.”

  “Must go, my liege.”

  “Bye-bye, Bryson. You’re the man.”

  Witner replaced the receiver and leaned back. The opening measures of Mozart’s 40th Symphony came into his mind. Three minutes, thirty seconds till departure time.

  It’s interesting, he thought, how they see all Mozart’s works as special. To me, it’s just keeping track of details. But perhaps that is the definition of genius, Mozart turning those notes over and over in his mind, arranging them, thinking them through all the time—child’s play for him.

  And what I do is simple for me. I’ve seen the larger plan, and now it begins to unfold. I watch it blossom in slow motion. They see only fits and starts.

  But this place is just a tree in a larger forest, and a tree badly in need of pruning. Clip, clip, clip.

  Closing his eyes, Witner envisioned a big London plane tree like the one he used to climb at the house of his uncle, Bergman Morgan. As a boy, he’d spent two weeks there every summer, because they felt sorry for him. He would climb the tree to hide from his uncle, who liked to drag him into the library and lecture him on whatever came to mind—the Greek city-states, Napoleon, the evils of Marxism. Through the window, he could see the sun, feel the warm breeze, hear the cicadas sizzling.

  He’d enjoyed the stories about Napoleon, how he rose from nothing and ended up riding the “best goddamn horse in Europe,” leveling cities with his artillery. But old Uncle Craw sipped straight bourbon from a coffee mug, and the more he talked the more history ran together; and he always wound up on the subject of how to accumulate, secure and, if need be, hide large sums of money.

  So, Bryson learned to disappear up the plane tree. Playing Napoleon one time, he’d arrested a kitten and condemned it to death, hung it by the neck with a kite string until it stopped writhing, then tied string to its limbs and its tail and turned it into a puppet. The next day it was too stiff to play with anymore, so he made a pyre in the woods.

  This medical center was like Uncle Craw’s plane tree—never trimmed, never pruned, too many dead limbs blocking light and weakening the whole.

  Enough reflection. It was time to work. He gathered up his papers and set out for the Flexner Room.

  The hallway was deserted, so he counted out loud to twenty, first in French, then in Spanish, then in German, a habit he’d adopted long ago to limber his voice before giving lectures. His voice was more important than ever now—running the agenda of this faculty committee was like herding goats.

  Inside the room, he pulled the doors shut to mark the beginning of the meeting, but something was wrong. Instead of expectant faces staring at him from around the long table, the chairs were almost empty. Most of the council members were congregated at the far end of the room, from which came bursts of laughter. He might have stumbled into a cocktail party. Even Greta was down there. He heard her laugh, and a chill went over him.

  At that moment, he caught sight of a snowy head of hair, the center of attention, and he understood.

  So, finally, he has left the jungle and returned. The expected has come to pass. So be it.

  He vigorously cleared his throat.

  “Good morning, everyone. Good morning!”

  It didn't work. Something more dramatic, then.

  He went to the light switch and turned it off. The voices faltered.

  “Good morning,” he repeated. “Much business today, I’m afraid. Let’s get started. Take your seats, please.”

  As the attendees dispersed, the old man came fully into view. Gavin was seated in a chair by the windows, his head silhouetted against the gray dawn light. Some gesture of welcome must be made.

  Bryson strode around the table toward him, forcing Hal Klinkerman, the chair of psychiatry, to sidestep or be run over.

  “Dr. Gavin!” he exclaimed, taking note that Greta still stood next to the old man, her hand on his shoulder. “Good to see you, Jim.”

  Gavin did not rise to meet him, simply held out his hand to be shaken, which Witner did vigorously.

  “Welcome back, sir.”

  “Hello, Bryson.”

  “Welcome back, welcome back. By the way, please accept my sympathy for the loss of Dr. Zyman. It was a tragedy for all of us. We’d heard you were out on a field trip when he passed.”

  “That’s correct,” said Gavin. “I just learned of it the day before yesterday.”

  “We understood your absence, as did his family. But the Southern Hemisphere must be compatible with you. You look fit. How long are you staying?”

  “I’m not sure, at this point.”

  “Please, stop by and see me today.”

  “Yes, I’ll be doing that.”

  “Splendid, then. In the meantime, we’d better get this show on the road.”

  “By all means,” said the old man.

  V

  Throwing Down The Glove

  As Witner called the meeting to order and gave an update on the MedicalMedia program with Brenda Waters’ colonoscopy, Jack Forester looked out the window and puzzled again over Dr. Gavin’s comments about Lester Zyman’s letter. What concerns could he have been talking about?

  He glanced at Gavin. The older man’s attention was fixated on Witner.

  Outside, the snow fell heavier. Huge wet flakes pelted the glass and coated the lindens that separated opposing lanes of traffic on Bracken Avenue, where slush plumed up from the potholes as cars whizzed by. The night was catching up with him. He let his eyes close and could feel his breathing slow. Things were going dark and warm, and he sank into it. He let himself go…

  “Good morning, Dr. Forester,” said Witner. “Are you still with us?”

  Jack looked up and felt his face burn as laughter rippled around the room. He looked at the clock and was startled to see that fifteen minutes had passed.

  “Present and accounted for,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “He was looking for the dog that ate his homework,” said Norman Scales, the Chief of Internal Medicine, a slender, silver-haired man.

  More laughter. The ba
stards. When’s the last time any of them worked an overnight shift in the emergency department?

  “Welcome back,” said Witner. “Dr. Bergman had just given his opinion on your emergency department proposal. Horace, would you like to repeat your thoughts for Dr. Forester’s benefit?”

  Howard Bergman, the chair of Ophthalmology, was a well-fed man with a mane of dark-blond hair.

  “Certainly,” he said, clearing his throat. “Not to derogate the intent of your proposal, Dr. Forester, but the fact other places have turned their ERs into showplaces doesn’t mean New Canterbury needs to at this time.”

  “Howard’s right,” agreed Vincent Marcuso, the division head of Preventive Medicine. “We’re talking about a huge expenditure. I don’t have to remind people we don’t have piles of money buried in the backyard. What do you think, Bryson? I know you’ve been studying this issue, too.”

  “It’s true I’ve been trying to perform a reasonable amount of due diligence, out of respect for the excellent work Dr. Forester has put into this proposal,” said Witner. “I phoned my counterparts at Cornell, Yale, Boston University and Tufts, and unfortunately, none of them are happy with their new emergency departments, which have floor plans similar to the one proposed.”

  Several people chimed in.

  “May I have the floor?” Jack said, his cheeks burning.

  “By all means,” said Witner.

  “By any standard, our emergency department is outmoded to the point of being dangerous. That’s why we’ve lost three good physicians in the past year, and I’ve just about given up trying to replace them. It’s a vicious cycle. Without modern equipment and a decent physical plant, we will never attract enough trained clinicians with the necessary skill set to fill the schedule, let alone think about starting our own training program for emergency physicians. I can’t state it any simpler.”

  “What’s wrong with the care we give in the ER now?” wondered Susan Kingston, Chief of Radiology. “Is it really all that bad? All emergency departments are chaotic from time to time.”