“They don’t know I saw him.”
“They know. I spoke with the director this morning.”
“You spoke with the hospital’s director?”
“If you want to get to the bottom of something, you have to start at the top. I’ve got her name here somewhere. You absolutely had to call someone before you went over.”
“You spoke with Dr. Larsen.”
“We kept it short because of the TV people.”
How could the hospital expect Peter to know the protocol for something unprecedented? Was he, as Lucy had intimated, a person who succeeded despite a crippling inability to read the writing on the wall?
Ogata was going on about attorneys. “These people,” he said, “are the stones that grind the wheat.”
Peter rolled his window down. How could the air feel so humid and so cold? The wind was an eel on the bottom of a pond. “Is the hospital mad at me?”
“A hospital cannot be mad,” Ogata said, unhelpfully. “And Jim seems to think you’re pretty special.”
“I did him a favor.” Peter closed his car window. “He could have just said thanks and left it at that.”
“You want to lecture him on manners? He’s Jimmy Cross.”
It was all true. Ogata probably knew his MCAT scores, his shoe size, and what he’d eat for lunch.
13
Gene had built a little deck at the top of the stairs. A pair of vintage aluminum chairs bookended a glass-topped café table. A maple hung over the place, lending it a tree-house feel.
Inside I find a cramped kitchenette with a Formica table; beneath a skylight, a plush armchair sits on a knotted rug. In the corner, a farm quilt drapes over an iron-framed bed. The place makes me feel docile in my bones.
After filling a water glass, I go outside to sit. A breeze twists leaves on their stems. Lawn mowers drone in the distance and for a few minutes I entertain the idea of checking the garage to see if Gene has a mower—I haven’t done yard work in so long that I almost forgot I despise it.
In my previous life, Patricia and I shared a two-story colonial in a similar neighborhood. At night she and I had the conversations indigenous to those sorts of places. We talked about our aging parents, our disappointing friends, and whether Gabby deserved a sibling—she was a happy enough kid, but she used to follow us around the house as though we were her source of oxygen. We ended up getting her a yappy dog from the pound, a little dog with a curly red coat and a tail that appeared blurry in every photograph. Cherokee, that’s what we named him.
Every chance he got, the dog would bolt outside to chase his sworn enemies: squirrels, kids on skateboards, and cars. We were perpetually bracing for some swift and final accident, but it never came.
And the dog loved eating. Despite the vet’s admonishing, we fed him snacks at the table. By the time I went on the road, Cherokee was slowing down, though he was only three or so.
I jump when I hear a jet roar overhead.
Gene’s right: I’m still the Restless One.
14
Peter was a regional doctor at a regional hospital. He didn’t attend to internationally recognized recording stars and he didn’t consult with medical personalities who had their own cable shows.
He’d grown up in North Carolina, in a tourist-trap town just outside a National Forest. Judith owned a store called Natural Wonders, where she sold nugget gold, raw emeralds, and geodes. The store sat wedged between a seasonal ice cream parlor and a damp nightmare called Snake World. A Pentecostal church faced them across the street.
He and Judith lived in an apartment above the store. At night, after finishing his homework, Peter would sit in front of the TV and split geodes that they bought in bulk from an outfit in Chihuahua.
Where was his father?
Judith called him the Scientist. She said he worked on magnets in New Mexico. The way she said it made Peter suspicious of magnets, of New Mexico, of the whole desert Southwest. He pictured scorpions and rattlesnakes, though the Scientist probably worked in a lab. His given name was Lawrence Brand.
IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, Peter played little league. He liked the compression of the stirrup socks and those warm summer nights when the spotlights grew furry with insects. At the plate, he swung at everything; when he connected, the sound of the ball coming off the bat almost stopped his heart. Sometimes, in his excitement, he’d slide into first or else he’d leg out a blooper only to meet a teammate camped out at second. He was uncoachable. He preferred soccer, because at halftime the whole team sat together to eat orange sections.
In middle school Peter caught someone’s attention with his score on a standardized test. He was invited to spend a week at a community college, dissecting fetal pigs and learning the math that saved the lives of the Apollo 13 astronauts.
In high school, Peter and a kid named Anatoly Tcherepnin had the privilege of eating lunch with the AP Math teacher.
Mrs. Bertini had been accepted into the aeronautics program at Cal Tech, but she hadn’t enrolled because her husband didn’t want her turning into an egghead or hanging out with astronauts. Peter would have preferred to eat in the cafeteria, but it didn’t seem fair to leave Mrs. B. alone with the other boy. If you gave him a four-digit number, Anatoly knew, to the second decimal place, the number’s square and cube roots. He’d also memorized the armor class and hit points of every creature in the Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual. Staring at the pink creases in Anatoly’s neck, Peter wondered if the boy’s head weighed more for the things it contained.
Sometimes Mrs. B. would give the boys brainteasers from a pulpy workbook, but she preferred to talk about personal stuff: where did Peter go to church; what had Anatoly’s parents done in Russia (when the boy appeared to hesitate, she said, “Starve, I suppose”); if they had girlfriends; if Peter’s mother had a boyfriend; what they liked to watch on TV—TV gave Anatoly migraines. The questions never felt invasive to Peter because Mrs. B. always managed to turn the answer back to herself. One time she asked Anatoly if there were lots of orphaned children in Russia, but before he could answer she told him there were, that she’d been dreaming about them. When she told her dream to Mr. B., he’d cried, despite the fact that Italian men don’t cry, as a rule.
Peter didn’t laugh when Anatoly got in trouble for rollerblading between classes, or when the boy recited pi at the talent show (the anti-valedictorians at the back of the auditorium cough-shouted, “Sixty-nine”). Peter respected Anatoly, how the boy always carried a book, and not a textbook but something from the town’s library, maybe a history of the French and Indian War or a guide to martingale betting.
Every day Anatoly brought the same lunch, always one hard-boiled egg, a boiled potato, and pencil-thin pickled carrots; his mother packed his food in a heavy plastic bag from RadioShack—instead of blue gel packs, she kept his lunch cold with balls of wet newspaper that she refroze each night.
It was Anatoly who pushed Peter toward medicine. One day, while Mrs. B. reheated her lunch in the teachers’ lounge, Anatoly said, “You’re not as good at math as she pretends.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter knew exactly what Anatoly meant.
“I think you should consider making a doctor. People want to please you—because of your face.”
Peter tried to give the boy a hard look.
“I don’t mean that homosexually.”
“What are you going to do?”
Anatoly smiled. “I am always doing.”
“Thanks for clearing that up.”
“I will make big sums of money and have intercourse with models and women newscasters.”
WITH HIS CAR idling by the curb, Peter needed a plan. He thought about contacting someone in Human Resources, but he also thought that might be the worst thing he could do. Would they be on his side? The hospital’s side? Were he and the hospital at odds?
If he needed to prostrate himself before the powers that be, he wanted to know wha
t he was up against. He paged Martin, who called back immediately. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room on Six West.”
“They?”
“Peg, Bucky Katz from H.R., Martinez, Ray Cooper. I usually attend these sorts of things, but I asked to sit this one out.”
“Which department is Cooper in?”
“Don’t ask. Did you really auction your services to a certain Grammy Award winner?”
“This is all a big misunderstanding.”
“So Tony Ogata blew up the switchboard over a misunderstanding?”
“Don’t kid.”
“One of his assistants left a message on my machine at a quarter of five. He spoke with Peg.”
Exposure, Peter thought. “I was told Ogata might make some ‘discreet inquiries.’ That’s a quote.”
“Who told you that?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“The Japanese don’t fuck around with sneak attacks.”
“I get it.”
“You get it! I’m Filipino—my people lived it.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“I’m not sure what’s going on, but Ogata lit a fire under Peg’s ass. For your sake, I hope you’re already scared.”
“This is all about Judith somehow.”
“Do me a favor, take a look around when you get to Six West. I don’t think Judith’s going to be there.”
WHEN HE PULLED up to the gate, the parking attendant stuck his head out of his kiosk. “Morning, Dr. Silver.”
“Hi,” Peter said, resisting the urge to stomp on the gas.
The attendant pointed a finger at an elderly man bent over the steering wheel of a golf cart. “Buzz will give you a ride to your meeting.”
As Peter got out of his car, the cart glided up—behind the driver an orange dome light flashed on and off on a long stalk.
“You must be Buzz?”
The man patted the bench seat next to him.
They zipped through the parking garage and inside the main entrance, past the billing center, past scheduling, past the gift shop and Friendly’s, past Physical Therapy and the pharmacy. Buzz nosed the cart against the west bank of elevators, where, without leaving his seat, he leaned forward and pushed the up button; turning to Peter, he said, “They’re waiting for you on six.”
What would happen if Peter walked away? He was still a doctor after all. That ought to mean something. But the hospital had protocols in place to deal with the noncompliant. Things could escalate quickly. Should a staff member get on the intercom and announce, “Dr. Brown is needed by the West Elevator,” the orderlies were trained to respond en masse. In a matter of moments the lobby would look like a tryout for Rochester’s arena football team.
The elevator door yawned open and Peter stepped inside. The doors closed. He felt his body get heavy as the steel room started its ascent.
ON THE FOURTH floor, a bell chimed. The elevator stopped, and the door opened.
A small man, probably in his early fifties, reached inside the elevator and barred the door from closing. “Dr. Silver?”
He wore a loose-fitting gray suit jacket, tan slacks, and black dress shoes. An orange bow tie made him appear gift-wrapped. His hair was dark, parted near the top of his head, and combed straight back. His upper lip was invisible beneath the overhang of his mustache. He reached into an open briefcase. “I’ve got some things for you to sign before we head up there.”
“Are you Cooper?” Peter asked.
“I’ve left half a dozen messages on your phone, Dr. Silver. I’m Leo Kopp.” The little man blinked, “Mr. Cross sent me. I’m your attorney.”
15
Gene introduced himself to me six years ago in Syracuse. According to my ticket, I had a seat reserved in the front row, but the show was on the university campus and the students had decided that anyone who could afford a seat up close didn’t deserve it. All of us gray hairs were huddled in the back of the hall watching the kids. Most of us had children their age and so we didn’t entertain thoughts that we’d be welcome up front.
The kids cheered while Cross played “Green Dandy,” which, among other things, is about the treachery of youth. I watched the crowd as much as I watched the performance. Maybe I was wondering if the kids were there to bask in the music or the fame. At this point in his career, Cross could probably get away with putting a wax dummy on stage, since being able to say you saw him seemed to have supplanted the act of hearing the music. Basically, I was at the back of the room, surrounded by old people and having old people thoughts.
A beer sort of floated in front of me. I turned and there was this guy holding it out. He had a second beer in his other hand.
“I bought you a beer,” he said. He had a big oval face and these dark, deep-set eyes.
We tapped our plastic cups together and drank.
“You’re Pennyman,” he said. He pointed his thumb at his chest. “We’ve emailed before. I’m Badmonkeyfunker.”
We were virtual acquaintances. Sometimes he would send a note of encouragement after I’d encountered a challenge on the road. He came across as perpetually enthusiastic: “Great write-up!” or “Feels like I was there.”
He told me to call him Gene.
I thanked him for the beer and we listened to a few songs together. Up near the stage, the kids were batting a beach ball around. It annoyed me.
“Fucking college kids,” Gene said.
I nodded.
“They come into your church and act like it’s a basement kegger. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I said I got his point.
“Someone should go down there and pop that fucking ball.”
“Be my guest,” I said.
Gene laughed. “I’m all talk.”
“Well, I’m no talk.”
I meant it as a joke, but Gene said, “I’m bothering you.”
“No,” I said, tapping cups with him again.
Gene drained his beer. “I’m going to get us two more.”
I like meeting fans, but it doesn’t always go so well. Sometimes when people recognize me, they assume that I don’t want to be interrupted, that I enjoy the music on some different level (like I’m comparing that night’s version of “Shitheel” with the version Cross played in Oakland ten years before), so they watch me from a distance. It’s even more awkward when they don’t introduce themselves, but step up to me and blurt out an arcane trivia question: Name the only two drummers to earn writing credits on Cross albums? When that happens, I offer my hand and tell them I’m there for the show.12
Gene came back with our beers.
Between sets the two of us found a couple of empty seats and I asked him to tell me about his life. He’d married his high school sweetheart. They didn’t have kids, but they both came from big families, there were lots of nieces and nephews, so they didn’t think they’d missed out on much. He’d gotten turned on to Cross by a much older brother—the brother had gone to Vietnam, come back, gotten messed up on drugs, made some bad decisions, etc., etc. “I like hearing the old songs,” Gene said. “How about you?”
I said I stood behind everything I posted on JCC.
“You like that gospely stuff?”
“Even that.”
Cross came back on stage. Maybe the kids had exhausted themselves; in any case they were better behaved. The second set came and went. Gene offered to get me another beer, but I was done.
After the encore, I leaned over and told Gene that I was sorry about his brother. He nodded his big round head.
“Cross lost a brother, too.”
He said, “I know.”
I patted him on the back.
He gave me this goofy smile. “Here,” he said, handing me something.
It was plastic and rumpled. I teased it into shape; it was the beach ball.
16
When they got to six, the doors opened and a woman in a moss-
colored knit dress said, “Right this way, Dr. Silver.” Her heels made dime-sized dimples in the Berber carpet. Without turning around, she said, “There’s coffee and muffins in the room. If you want anything else, let me know.”
She knocked on a frosted glass door before pushing it open. “Here you are.”
Peter walked into the room.
Leo Kopp stopped at the threshold to the conference room and handed the woman a few binder-clipped pages. “If you don’t mind, I need you to make copies of these materials.”
The assistant glanced at the papers before turning her attention back to Kopp. “And who are you?”
“He’s with me,” Peter said, adding for the benefit of the others gathered in the room, “he’s my attorney.”
At the far end of the room, the hospital’s director stood up. Peg was one of those Nordic giantesses who look like they ought to be accompanied by a wolfhound. “Thanks for coming in, Peter, but I don’t expect you’ll require counsel. This is only an information-gathering meeting.”
Peter looked toward Kopp.
The strange little man had stopped at the buffet and was crowding mini-muffins onto a saucer.
“I think I’d feel more comfortable with him here.”
“It’s fine with me, so long as there’s no rule expressly forbidding it. Cooper? Is there a policy?”
Leaning back in his chair, a large man in a tight blue dress shirt said, “That’s H.R.’s territory, I suspect. What’s policy, Bucky?”
A younger man hefted a black three-ring binder onto the table. He began shuffling through the pages. Stopping, he read a passage aloud, “Professional staff are permitted legal representation during disciplinary hearings.”
Rick Martinez, from Geriatrics, shut his laptop before speaking. “I didn’t think this was a disciplinary hearing.”
The director smiled at Peter. “And it’s not.”
“I think what concerns Dr. Larsen,” Cooper said, “is that once you have two attorneys in a room things have a way of deteriorating.”
Vexation Lullaby Page 5
