by Robert Ward
“I’m sorry you’re feeling bad, June,” Beauregard said. “You feel any better?”
“No,” June said. “Dr. Chapman thinks it’s that flu that’s going around.”
“Yeah,” Beauregard said, fingering the plant and staring around at the plastic coffee table, the homemade bookshelves. Suddenly the place reminded him of Heather—their good days together at Georgetown.
“That bruise on your head …” Beauregard said. “It must have been a nasty fall.”
June looked squarely at him and shook her head.
“It was,” she said. “I just got violently ill … That’s why I’ve been a little scared to come back to work. Look, Dr. Beauregard, I know this is causing you a lot of trouble at the hospital, and I feel terrible about it.”
“About what?” Beauregard said.
“I don’t follow you,” June said.
“About the trouble it’s causing me—and you—or about Esther Goldstein.”
“Well, of course, I feel sick about her. She was such a nice lady. Are you kidding—I couldn’t sleep last night, and that was after two sleeping pills. I just couldn’t believe it.”
“You know you could be suspended for something like this, June.”
June Boswell nodded her head.
“I know it … but look … I got sick … violently sick.”
“And at no time when you were in the ladies’ room did you hear the oscilloscope go off?”
“It never went off,” June said. “I’m sure of that. The john is only fifteen feet away. I’m sure I would have heard it.”
Beauregard nodded and managed a smile.
“Listen,” he said, “I believe you … but this could get rough. The Medical Examiner is doing an autopsy on Esther Goldstein today, and her son is very, very excited. He’s calling for your resignation, as are a number of other people. Naturally, since you are a good nurse, I want to protect you. But I’ve got to know everything. Is there anything you’ve forgotten?”
June sighed, leaned back on the gilt-edged pillow, and shook her head.
“No,” she said, “that’s it. I just got sick at three ten or so … went in there for ten minutes … and when I got back, she was gone … I mean it was about ten till four before we picked it up on her EKG … that goddamned buzzer … It’s all a nightmare.”
Suddenly she started to cry, and Beauregard went over to her and put his arm around her. She put her face on his arm, then drew back. He noticed a red blotch on her cheek … slightly raw and discolored. He hadn’t seen that before.
“Your cheek,” he said.
“I know,” she said quickly, “it looks horrible. I hit my face on the floor … after I bounced off the sink. God … I’m so sorry.”
Beauregard nodded and patted her arm.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said. He patted her arm again, then let himself out.
14
She felt the coolness of his hand as it grasped her own. She wondered if it was a little clammy because he was nervous. Certainly he seemed that way, off center, a bit out of sorts. On the other hand, he seemed to be enjoying their walk through the park. Now, in the Sheep Meadow, they watched another couple walk across the frozen grass, their big black-and-tan Airedale in front of them. The couple stopped and hugged one another, then kissed, and Debby was surprised to feel Peter’s grip tighten. She turned to him, staring up into his dark eyes.
“You look very handsome,” she said.
“No,” he said, holding her. “I’m not even fit company for anyone as beautiful as you.”
“That’s simply not so,” she said. “I don’t know what your mother did to you, but whatever it was, you should really forget it … you’re not a gangly little kid any more. This isn’t Baltimore, and you’re not the odd kid out. You’re with me … In Central Park … New York City … and I might add that I’m crazy about you.”
He frowned a little and blushed. She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him fiercely.
“What’s wrong?” she said, staring into his eyes.
“Nothing,” he said. “Only I’m a little embarrassed I told you all those things about myself … I’ve never told them to anyone before.”
“But that’s the point,” she said. “You have to talk about them … deal with them … then they’ll go away.”
He smiled and put his arm around her, took the bag out of his coat, and tossed some peanuts to the squirrels.
“Just like that, huh?” he said.
“No, of course not. Not just like that … But it’s a start.”
“Yes,” he said. “Sure …”
But he didn’t sound convinced.
They crossed the path, moving through the herd of joggers coming toward them.
“Out for their health fix,” Peter said as they walked into the hilly wooded area just above Wollman Skating Rink.
“What’s wrong with jogging?” Debby said.
Again he gave that curious, imperial smile, as if he were onto something she would never fathom. Though she loved him, it did irritate her.
“Just that jogging seems such a petty way to spend one’s time. Do you know what I mean?”
She smiled at him, now open and friendly, and he shrank back a little, his face lost in the gray shadows.
“No,” she said, “I don’t see it like that … I mean, I don’t do it personally, but I know it’s good for you.”
“Good for you?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s good for the heart, for your pulse, your wind, keeps you toned up.”
He reached for her and held her to him again, and kissed her on the nose.
“Of course it is,” Peter said. “I’m just being cranky. I know that … but I’ve got my own brand of medicine.”
“What?” she said.
“You,” he said, then he kissed her on the mouth.
She felt his long, strong arms, sinewy, tight-muscled. She was always surprised by their strength. He wasn’t muscular. But he was surprisingly strong.
“You are really corny,” she said, smiling and holding onto him so he would realize that she loved it.
He smiled again, and they walked arm in arm down the steps toward the shouting children with their flashing skates hanging over their shoulders. They walked up to the top of the rink and looked down on the skaters—hundreds of them, wearing bright red and blue and orange sweaters, trailing brilliant scarves.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Debby said.
“Yes, they are,” Peter said. “They are beautiful.”
He looked away toward the branches of the winter trees.
She smiled and held him again. He had seemed so happy lately, so relaxed. He had even been sleeping well … not like the bad weeks last month. Now she could feel his back muscles—relaxed, and she thought, He is learning to be at ease with himself … He’s learning and I’m helping him. Then she became afraid. Things happened so fast in New York. She had promised herself she would give herself time … play the field a little. But that had only been a fantasy, for at heart she was still a country girl. She had the new wardrobe, the new facial, and her hair done at Bonwit Teller, but one couldn’t change what was inside so easily. She was basically small-town and serious … and he was unlike any man she had ever met. And now he was beginning to fall in love. He hadn’t said it yet, but she knew. She clung to him, and he looked down at her and smiled, then kissed her forehead. Beneath them the flashing skates cut through the ice.
They entered the revolving doors to the Woodward Hotel on West 55th Street.
She led him through a narrow hallway to the dark, L-shaped room in the back of the lobby. A Japanese man with a long scar on his cheek smoked from a golden cigarette holder. He stared blankly at them, then bowed and led them to their stools at the counter.
“Enjoy your meal,” the man said.
Debby took Peter’s arm and he managed a smile.
“This is fun,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to eat at a sushi bar.”
“Squid,” Debby said. “That looks wonderful.”
Peter smiled and stared at the pink meat, at the tiny suction cups.
“Wonderful?” he said. “That’s hard to believe.”
He laughed in spite of himself. She made him feel good. Then he drew back.
The man behind the counter wiped the long, glinting knife off with a towel. Peter stared at the blade, transfixed.
“I think I’ll have the Nori Chozube,” Debby said to him.
She smiled at Peter and pointed it out on the menu.
“That’s the seaweed and rice. And I’ll also have the Sake Chozuke … that’s the salted salmon on rice.”
The man started to cut with the knife, slicing through the meat deftly, quickly … like a surgeon. Peter saw Esther Goldstein sitting in front of him, and suddenly he began to sweat. His arms tingled and his hands were absolutely cold. He felt the Space moving inside of him, calling to him. His mouth was dry and he felt the air leaving his stomach.
“Excuse me a minute,” he said.
Quickly, he got up, headed back through the restaurant, and suddenly came upon the Japanese with the golden holder. The man smiled at him, flashing a golden tooth, and Peter felt his knees buckle. He grabbed the man’s arm.
“The bathroom,” he said. Now the entire room was swirling about, and he felt as if he were going to cry out. Then from behind there was a hand on his back, steadying him. When he turned, it was Debby. Seeing her intensified his emotions. He was out of his depth, felt as though he were going to crash to the rug.
“Let me alone,” he said. “I’ve just got to get to the men’s room. Let me alone … I’ll be fine.”
He was barely aware of the words. Debby seemed to be talking to him from the far end of binoculars. He turned and followed the golden cigarette holder which pointed down a short corridor toward the men’s room. Once inside, he went into the stall and held onto the walls. The toilet bowl below him was spotless, white, white like the tiles of the OR. He stared down at it and felt as though he could fall into the water. He ripped a piece of toilet paper off the roll and wiped the spittle from his mouth, folded it over and wiped off his eyes. He took a deep breath, came out of the stall, splashed some water on his face, and went back out.
“Peter,” Debby said, waving to him from a booth, “are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling a little. “I’m fine now.”
“What was it?”
She put her hand on his arm, and he wanted to take it off, but he didn’t dare.
“Nothing … nothing at all. I guess just seeing that squid. I’ve never eaten raw fish like this before.”
“Well, you don’t have to get raw fish,” she said. “They have trout and blue point oysters, and lots of traditional seafood.”
“No, that’s fine,” he said. “I’ll have some of the codfish. What’s it called?”
“Taraico Chazuke,” she said. “Though I’m probably not even close with the pronunciation. You sure you’re all right?”
“Sure,” Peter said. “Well, to tell you the truth, I guess I was thinking about work. I still keep thinking about that death in the cardiac care ward. You’d think I’d forget about it by now—but then seeing that raw meat … I don’t know …”
Debby nodded and patted his cheek.
“I know exactly what you mean. Dr. Beauregard has been crazy these last few weeks. It’s awful. And poor June. I think they’re being a little rough on her … she couldn’t help it if she got sick.”
“No … I understand the Medical Examiner has the case.”
“Had the case,” Debby said. “I was in Dr. Beauregard’s office just this morning, and I saw the ME report. Death due to heart attack. They say the buzzer on the oscilloscope was stuck.”
“Yes,” Peter said. “That is really weird. So coincidental.”
Debby smiled and threw up her hands.
“Our lives are so crazy,” she said.
Now Peter ran his index finger around his collar.
“What were you doing with … I mean in Beauregard’s office?” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, he asked me in,” Debby said.
“Why?” Peter said.
“Oh, he just wanted to ask us over for dinner,” Debby said.
“What?” Peter said, excited.
“Yes,” Debby said. “I’ve meant to tell you all day. His wife is home now and he said that he wants us to meet her. He really likes you. He said he thought you were a very interesting young man.”
Peter felt the anxiety shooting over him again. He blinked, took a deep breath. Suddenly he was surrounded by people he cared about … now that he had become himself … but what if they knew … what if any of them even suspected?
“We don’t have to go, Peter,” Debby said, as the waiter brought them their dishes.
Peter stared down at the raw fish. Quickly he put some of the hot green mustard and the soy sauce on his plate, mixed them together, then cut off some of the cod, and picked it up with his chopsticks.
“No,” he said. “I like Dr. Beauregard too. I wouldn’t miss his dinner party for the world.”
He was surprised at how well he was able to use the chopsticks. It was as if he had been doing it all his life.
15
“Peter and Debby, I’d like you to meet my wife, Heather,” Beauregard said.
Peter exchanged glances with Debby and shook Heather Beauregard’s firm hand. He looked at her long model’s face—the perfect cheekbones, the skin like velvet, the green eyes, and blond hair cut a little longer than Debby’s, but just as full and silky down her back. Cross found looking at her disconcerting. It was like meeting a movie star close up. She was too good-looking, really … like a vision. And her body. Cross tried not to look at it. She was so obviously a physical person, her tight Halston gown, which trailed to the floor, her long, thin, but strong legs. Peter smiled but dropped his eyes.
“It’s really a pleasure to meet you,” Heather said in a low, throaty voice. “Beau has told me so much about you … and I mean that. Actually, I don’t know whether it’s to your advantage or not, because when my husband likes someone, he expects them to be as totally devoted to their work as he is. Which means you’ll sleep once a month and have no time for Debby.”
Debby and Peter laughed as Heather shook Debby’s hand, but Beauregard protested.
“Not true,” he said. “That is simply not true. I’m starting a new regime. Tonight. The hospital is going to have to share equal billing with my family and friends … I mean it.”
He poured each of them a glass of champagne and lifted his glass.
“A toast,” he said, “to friendship and to the return of my lovely wife, who graces this room.”
“Hear, hear,” Debby said.
They clicked their glasses and drank the champagne. Peter loved the taste of it … but then felt a swirling sensation in his stomach. He was being bought … bought off with all this … friendship, luxury. He looked around the room, at the modern paintings, at the white carpet, the mirrored walls, the fireplace with the wrought iron, at the plants, the elegant bar with its leather-covered bar stools, and from the living room through the French doors out into the dining room, where the maid put the finishing touches on the long, beautiful dinner table. This was “the class” his father had resented so desperately, had dreamed of, and finally had killed himself over.
“Well,” Heather said, “come here, Peter. There is someone special I want you to meet.”
She took him by the hand and led him around the corner, to the bedroom, and he felt the sweat breaking out on his brow. There was an old English door with stained-glass windows, and when they opened it, he stared in on a beautiful little girl, as fair-haired and perfectly complexioned as her mother.
“Sarah, I want you to meet Peter Cross.”
“Hello,” Sarah said, sitting on her bed, holding a copy of Catch 22 in her hands. She wore a pink pullover and tight Levis, and her eyes were as intense as any Peter had ever seen. He couldn’t believe she was only twelve.
“Peter is the best anesthesiologist at Eastern,” Heather said, patting him on the back. “So you be nice to him … or he’ll put you under.”
Sarah giggled and reached out her hand. Peter stepped forward and shook it.
“Weird,” Sarah said. “What a weird job. Putting people under.”
Peter felt as though he were stung. Then he got hold of himself.
“Not really,” he said. “It’s my job to prevent pain. When you think of it that way, it’s natural as … eating or sleeping.”
“Still,” Sarah said, “it’s scary.”
She smiled so good-naturedly that Peter felt all right. He shouldn’t let a child upset him anyway. Except she didn’t look like a child … her body was just starting to develop, and her grace was that of a mature woman. It was unnerving. Behind him, he heard Beauregard talking with Debby.
“Come meet my precocious daughter,” he said.
Then they were all in the room, and Debby and Sarah were smiling at one another, shaking hands. Peter looked at them, then at Heather and Beauregard, dressed casually in his Ralph Lauren tweed pants, his herringbone shirt and English tweed jacket. Though Debby was from upstate, no one who walked in here would ever know it. They all belonged here … by virtue of their looks, their ease with one another. He was an imposter. The thought made him feel like bolting. But he smiled affably, and soon they were back in the living room, smiling at one another and drinking more champagne. Within minutes Peter felt giddy, and with the giddiness felt an esprit de corps that melted his fear.
“Well, Paris is wonderful,” Heather was saying to Debby, “especially wonderful when you are young and in love. If Beau ever gives you two any time off, I insist that you go. I have a poet friend who has a house over there … and he just got a scholarship to teach in Montana … the French are crazy about the Wild West … anyway, he’d probably rent you the place for practically nothing. Oh, you really should go.”
