The Queen of Hearts

by Kimmery Martin

  So, should I get out of bed and activate my hot little ass into mobility while the night was still young and X was still in an unusually gushy mood? After this week, we could date openly, since I’d no longer be on the trauma service, and I felt eager to see how that was going to play out. I murmured a capitulation into the phone and hung up, turning to find Emma staring at me with laserlike intensity.

  “Spill it,” said Emma.

  “Ah . . .”

  “It’s X, that fifth-year general-surgery resident,” called Graham from the other room, without tearing his eyes away from what now sounded like a decapitation by chain saw.

  Both of us turned to him in astonishment.

  “How did you know—” I began.

  “Why didn’t you tell—” burst out Emma at the same time, both of us bolting toward him.

  Graham tore his attention away from the television gore and held his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, ladies,” he said. “I just know things. How’d it happen, Fletch?”

  “Dr. X?” Emma said. “Dr. Xenokostas, your chief resident? That’s who you’ve been sneaking around with?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say sneaking around—”

  Emma, sporting two bright pink patches on her cheeks, had a gift for getting right to the point. She was having none of this bullshit. “Have you gone out anywhere outside the hospital? Have you told anyone you were dating? Did you tell me you were dating? I bet he told you not to, didn’t he?”

  Huffily: “Em, you know we couldn’t—”

  “Zadie, he grades you.”

  “Oh, he told me he’s having Allison do the evaluation,” I retorted after a weak attempt at a joke about it. Actually, this was the first time this had occurred to me, and X had in fact told me nothing of the sort. It was a good idea though; I’d better mention it to him immediately. “Don’t be all judgmental, Em. I grant you that it’s somewhat awkward at the moment, what with the whole chief/med student thing, which means we have to keep it secret. But think about it: he’s leaving next year; there is only a short time we could be together to know if it has long-term potential. You know I’ve always been a jackass magnet. I think this is different. I can hardly stop thinking about him.”

  Emma softened. “You don’t look all that happy,” she said uncertainly.

  “I had a brutal day. Something went wrong at work, but I don’t want to talk about it. I promise, Em, we’ll have a big talk after the exams, and I’ll fill you in on everything.”

  “But do you think he’s good for you? There’s a reason why the medical school frowns on this,” Emma said, eyebrows scrunched.

  “Well, obviously, things will be a little less weird once I’m off the service in a few days, and we can spend more, ah, appropriate time together.”

  “But when did this happen?”

  I tried to look dignified. “It was gradual . . . Sometime early in my trauma rotation. I know I should’ve told you.”

  “Yes, but— Okay. Okay, I know I have to let you make your own decisions,” Emma said, smiling too brightly at me.

  “They grow up so fast, dear,” bellowed Graham, riveted once more by the screen, now featuring two men attacking each other with karate moves.

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, G,” she said. “How could you not mention that you knew about this?”

  “Zadie would’ve told us if she wanted us to know,” he said. “Besides, it was a guess.”

  “How did you think to guess him, though?” I asked, wondering how indiscreet we’d been. Maybe everyone—except Emma—knew.

  Graham was quiet for a minute, apparently mulling this over. “You looked a little different whenever you mentioned him,” he said finally.

  “Ugh,” Emma groused. “Not only does my own boyfriend keep extremely vital information to himself, but he’s also more perceptive than me.”

  “Well,” he said, his attention returning to the movie, where the martial arts combat had been usurped by a full-blown gun battle in which everyone was blown to pieces except the hero, who was, of course, able to dodge bullets. “Right now I am keenly observing this badass shoot-out.”

  I studied the TV. “What, no bulletectomy?” I asked, as the bloody sidekick lay writhing in the hero’s arms. “Isn’t there usually a pointless bullet extraction in these movies?”

  “Bulletectomies are cool, Zadie,” said Graham seriously. “All you need is some whiskey and rusty toenail clippers or something and the victim will spring right up. But mainly it’s important that there be a car chase and some mano a mano combat with the maximum bad guy.”

  He grinned and turned off the TV, then padded over and enveloped both Emma and me in a big bear hug. “You know, Zadie,” he said, ruffling my hair, “I love you, but you are a jackass magnet. Be careful, okay?”

  —

  You had to give him credit. X had clearly spent more than a few minutes trying to fathom the unfathomable emotional needs of the fairer sex and had then taken the time to systematically implement an array of romantic clichés in the bachelor pad. This began with sultry music (Cowboy Junkies, good choice), flowers (wilted daisies and carnations, which were not my preference—or any woman’s preference really—but it was the thought that counted), candles (this was definitely the weak link because one of them was a half-melted Santa shape, and the other, even more bizarrely, was emblazoned with the face of Ray Lewis of the Baltimore Ravens—but again: the thought), and a table set with actual plates and cutlery and a bottle of cabernet. There was even a smallish gift-wrapped box at one of the places. I could appreciate why X had not wanted to cancel.

  “If you blew me off, I was going to have to go outside and drag some chick in off the street, caveman style, so all this would not go to waste,” he said, gesturing proudly. As a romantic statement this was something of a failure, but nonetheless, I was touched. His face, which could be uncharitably described as haughty, was now beaming with what appeared to be tenderness.

  “It’s all lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Yes. Er, well. Now what? I suppose we should eat?”

  “X, did you seriously get to the age of”—I paused, calculating— “thirty without knowing how to proceed on a date if you can’t immediately commence some action? Have you not ever had a proper girlfriend?”

  “Of course I have,” he huffed. “It’s not me. I can’t help it if I radiate sex appeal. Normally, I’d be having to beat you off me if I wanted to eat first.”

  There was some truth to this, so I let it slide. We were insanely sexually compatible, to the point where it was hard to be productive at work while constantly fighting the urge to rip each other’s clothes off and go at it right there in the surgeons’ lounge, or on the operating room table, or wherever. How often in life did you meet someone whose presence caused you to blaze into an immediate erotic meltdown every single time you saw them? Every glance between us was charged; every utterance, every physical contact, no matter how slight, seemed to rearrange the very molecules of the air around us into incandescent conductors of longing. No wonder people used heat metaphors to describe passion.

  However. We were adults, and in general, adults who considered themselves to be intelligent, decent human beings often had standards for ongoing relationships that involved more than enthusiastically screwing each other’s brains out. We stared at each other politely over a meal of green chili wontons and salads from the Bristol restaurant down the street.

  “Are you upset about what happened with the pregnant lady?” X asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I don’t want to think about it. Besides, I’m pretty familiar with Dr. X, genius surgeon. Let’s discuss something non-work-related.”

  “Please,” said X. “Say Nick.”

  “Nick,” I tried. It sounded really strange. “I wish I knew more about your life outside medicine.”

  “Uh-oh
. Here we go,” said Nick. “Next you’ll be wanting to know what I’m thinking and feeling.”

  “It’s a slippery slope,” I agreed.

  “Okay. I’m from Maryland, went to med school there, then landed here because my aunt lives here and I’d heard how great the surgery program is. I’ve always wanted to be a surgeon—my dad’s a surgeon—and I have two brothers who are my best friends. What else? I love poetry, moonlight, and long walks on the beach.”

  “That started off well,” I said encouragingly. “I feel like I know you so much better now.”

  He laughed. “Honestly, Zadie, it was definitely not my plan to seduce a twenty-four-year-old medical student, beautiful though you are. But do you know why I can’t stay away from you?”

  “Yep,” I said, guiltily flushing with pleasure at being described as beautiful.

  “No, you don’t,” he said. “It’s not the sex, even though that’s fucking unbelievable. It’s that I love the quirky way you think. You are never boring.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, dropping my fork in delight. “Jackpot!”

  “What?” he asked.

  “You just said—sincerely—that you love me for my mind. That completely legitimizes all the hot sex!”

  For a second he just looked at me. Then he lost the battle and lunged up, and in one fluid motion he knocked his chair back and lifted me out of mine. I flung myself into him. He kissed me, hoisting me up so that my legs wrapped around his waist. Then somehow we were rolling on the ground where we’d been standing, tearing off our clothes. I was reeling from a familiar wave as an exquisite storm of dopamine flooded my brain. So good, so good, so good . . . This feeling was why people got addicted to heroin, why people risked everything for affairs, why people jumped from airplanes . . . this rush of being as completely alive as it is possible to be, a honey-thick ecstasy coursing through your veins. I gasped as I felt him wrench my legs apart, his mouth still on mine. His jaw was recognizably male in shape just by feeling it against my cheek, with its flawless right angle and its golden sandpapery roughness. I felt nearly liquid, a butter girl left in the sun.

  He closed his eyes, lost in whatever ecstatic grip had command of him; but then he paused for an interminable second, still except for a slight heaving of his chest. He lifted his face so he could see mine and said hoarsely, “I think I love you, Zadie.”

  “I think I love you too,” I whispered.

  —

  Later, after we replaced our clothes and ate the cold wontons and drank the wine, we wrapped up in an ugly camel-colored fuzzy blanket and entwined ourselves on Nick’s fat sofa, drowsing in the extinguishing light of Santa and Ray Lewis.

  “I think we did pretty well tonight on the date, Z,” Nick said. “We made it at least five minutes before we knocked boots.”

  I sniffed. “I know there’s a lot of satisfied machismo going on here, but could you phrase that more delicately?”

  “Sorry, my little dumpling,” he said. “We held off as long as possible before we became intimate.”

  “Thank you. That’s much sweeter.”

  Nick blinked and sat up. “Oh hell, I never gave you the present,” he said. “Want me to go get it?”

  “No worries,” I assured him. “You don’t need to get up. I already know what it is.”

  “No, you don’t,” he protested, arching his back to see if the flat box still appeared to be fully wrapped.

  “I hate to break this to you, Rico Suave,” I said, “but based on the rest of your setup in here, I’d say it is one hundred percent obvious that that box contains naughty lingerie.”

  “Huh,” he mumbled. Then, hopefully: “Well, maybe you can wear it tomorrow?”

  “I’d love to,” I said happily, burying my face in his chest.

  In the wash of contentment that swept over me as I lay in his arms, it was easier to banish the bad thought. It retreated to the periphery of my conscience, trying to creep back into the daylight of my mind. I shut it down.

  But it was still back there: earlier in the day, I had made a mistake that would kill someone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE SOBER KITCHEN

  Early Autumn, 1999: Louisville, Kentucky

  Zadie

  “Do you know,” asked Rolfe, waving his glass around, “what Louisville was originally called?”

  “No, but I have a bad feeling you’re about to tell us,” said Landley.

  “Corn Island,” announced Rolfe, ignoring Landley. “Louisville started out as a forty-three-acre outpost by the falls of the Ohio River, where early settlers planted crops, presumably corn. Then in 1778, George Rogers Clark, a famous leader of the Revolutionary War, departed from the island with his militia to whup up on the English, leaving behind a band of hardy farmers. Over time, these predecessors of present-day Kentuckians relocated to the main banks of the Ohio, and the thriving metropolis of Louisville was born.”

  “Please, God, make it stop,” mumbled Landley. He slumped forward with his hands over his ears.

  Rolfe was undeterred. “Corn Island—the original Louisville—didn’t actually fare so well. It eroded and sank in 1895, after the Louisville Cement Company removed most of its trees.”

  I was intrigued in spite of my bleak mood. “Really?” I asked. “That can happen?”

  “Oh yes. And the history of corn itself is fascinating. It isn’t natural; it was genetically engineered by early humans from an inedible wild plant called teosinte. But that’s not the most interesting thing about corn.”

  Rolfe paused dramatically.

  “Without corn, there would be no bourbon.”

  Landley perked up. “Oh, sweet nectar of the Gods!” he roared, holding up a small glass. “Skål!”

  We couldn’t usually afford the really good bourbons. Landley was something of an aficionado, however, and following an excellent day at Churchill Downs, he had sprung for a 120-proof bottle of Woodford Reserve. He’d hit a trifecta on the fifth race of the day, which paid out more than a thousand dollars, all of which he vowed to spend that evening. (“Mi dinero, su dinero, amigos!”) We started with dinner for six. My friends—Rolfe, Landley, Graham, Emma, and Georgia—were in a rousing mood; I was more subdued than usual. As delighted as I’d been by X telling me he loved me, I’d suffered a return of the blues as soon as I’d gotten home. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to Edict Trauma, the pregnant patient who had come in on my last call day.

  I forced myself to listen to my ridiculous friends, who were engaged in a heated debate on the relative merits of Knob Creek versus Buffalo Trace. If anything could cheer me up, it was these turkeys. Despite my mood, I felt a fond smile cross my face.

  “. . . and a smoother finish,” Landley puffed, his hair standing straight up in odd peaks. “I concede there is initially a slight burn. But it segues into a robust silkiness, a hint of tobacco and orange and possibly even mint.”

  “My dear fellow,” bawled Rolfe. “You are so wrecked, your palate couldn’t distinguish a tobacco-orange-mint shot of bourbon from a bowl of horseshit.”

  Emma turned to me. “Z,” she said. “I’ve been thinking. What do you suppose would happen to X if the hospital knew about you two?”

  “Shh,” I hissed, but the bourbon debate had escalated and no one was listening. “He’d get his ass kicked. I’m not sure about the specifics. He did mention castration . . .”

  “Hmm. How are things going with him?”

  “Stellar,” I said.

  Graham perked up on the other side of us. “How’s my harem holding up tonight?” he asked.

  “Graham, I think you have misunderstood the nature of our recent cohabitation,” I said. “I tolerate you because you sing so well in the shower, and I’ve got this strange fondness for the smell of sweaty athletic clothes draped everywhere. But you’re really only shacking up with Emma
.”

  Graham smiled at my banter, but he reached across Emma to clasp my shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Zadie,” he said, his voice soft and serious. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  —

  Outside, we conferred about transportation, abandoning the Caminator and walking to the corner of Bardstown and Cherokee, where the street traffic and the revelers coasted by in the last of the day’s light. Restaurants, bars, boutiques, galleries, head shops, music stores, every possible nonchain enterprise crammed both sides of Bardstown Road. This section of town, known as the Highlands, wanted you to get your freak on.

  Hannah rolled up in the White Hog, her roommate’s retro Thunderbird, her round Muppet face smiley and pink. My friends crammed in, still arguing bourbons.

  “If you say the word ‘palate’ one more time, Rolfe, I’m gonna kick you in the huevos,” Georgia threatened.

  “Speaking of palates, mine is a bit dry,” Rolfe said.

  “Yo, li’l dawg,” drawled Landley, contorting in the backseat to somehow produce a bottle of Woodford from his pants. “Who’s your daddy?”

  “Oh dear,” Hannah murmured. “Is it really bad tonight?”

  “Is what really bad? Who wants a wee dram?”

  “Me! Me!”

  “Oh, why does James live in this really confusing neighborhood?” wailed Hannah. “Is this where I turn?”

  “Hannah! Watch out!”

  We all shrieked as the Hog abruptly wheeled down a side alley, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a truck, which screeched to a stop next to us. The window creaked down and an angry man stuck his head out.

  “What in the Sam Hill is wrong with you, missy?” he barked. “You nearly hit me!”