Could I Have This Dance?

by Harry Kraus

  She blinked back the image that the bicycle evoked: Sierra’s birthday party, shattered by a drunk driver and an incompetent intern.

  A sudden weariness enveloped her as she pushed open the car door. Head down, she plodded toward the front door, lifted her key to the doorknob, and gasped. There, on her door, in orange paint, a vandal’s message was scrawled in uneven letters. “DIE REBEL.”

  She stumbled back a step as the message sank in. She glanced around the neighborhood. No one was around, not a single person visible anywhere. Claire felt the hairs on her neck stand up, and fought the eerie feeling that she was being watched. She fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door, slamming it behind her and turning the dead bolt. She pressed her eye to the peephole, but the distorted, circular appearance unnerved her. She was alone, far from home, and someone wanted her to die.

  She rushed to the phone and called the Lafayette police department. The woman on the other end of the line was friendly, but explained that this was a Friday night, and that most of the officers were responding to priority needs near the university campus, and she’d get an officer out to investigate the vandalism as soon as she could.

  “Please,” she begged. “Someone wants to kill me.”

  “Ma’am, stay inside and lock your door. I’ll have someone out there as soon as I can.”

  She called Brett Daniels and got his answering machine. “Brett, this is Claire. Someone vandalized my house. I’m so afraid.” She paused. “I didn’t know who else to call. Can you come? I live at 201 Thompson Street, behind the Safeway.”

  She hung up the phone in frustration, then checked her watch and waited. It was seven P.M. She fixed a bowl of cereal and picked up a paperback, but couldn’t concentrate. Every time she heard a car on the street, she was up, peeking through the closed venetian blind in the front room.

  At eight-thirty, Brett arrived. He looked handsome even through the peephole. Claire unlatched the door and practically dragged him in.

  “After yesterday, I was surprised to hear from you.”

  She frowned. “I know.” She paused. “But can we just forget about that? I need you right now. As a friend.” Her eyes were pleading. “I’m afraid to be alone.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  “Did you see the door?”

  “Hard to miss. Have you called the police?”

  “Right after I called you. But they don’t consider vandalism high on their list.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Some cereal. And I made myself eat that. It’s hard to have an appetite.”

  Brett sat on the couch opposite Claire. “What’s your theory?”

  “The obvious one, I guess. The only person that has threatened me lately is Roger Jones. He blames me for his daughter.”

  “But why would he do this? How would he know where you lived?”

  “Anyone can look me up through information. Why?” She shrugged. “He’s a loon.”

  “Striking out this way may be the only way he can cope.”

  “Wonderful. My first major clinical faux pas and it has to happen to a psycho’s daughter.”

  A sharp rap at the door interrupted their conversation. A young officer, an African American with “Boone” on his name tag, was visible through the peephole.

  Claire opened the door and poured out her story.

  “Why ‘rebel’? Are you from the South?”

  “Yes. Virginia.”

  “How would this man have known this?”

  Claire hesitated.

  “He asked you in the ER where you were from,” Brett said. “That’s what you told me, remember?”

  Officer Boone raised his eyebrows. “You told him?”

  “Yes.”

  The officer made some notes. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Can’t you go get this guy? Lock him up?”

  “It’s not that easy. The department will do an investigation.”

  “But I don’t want to stay here with this guy on the loose.”

  “People who do this sort of thing rarely act out violently. He’s probably just trying to scare you.”

  Claire wondered if the young officer knew what he was talking about, or if he was just trying to make her feel better. “Well, he’s been successful at that. I’d feel better if I knew you were watching the house.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be safe with your husband here,” he responded, looking up at Brett.

  Brett pushed his chest out.

  Claire shook her head. “He’s not my husband. I live here alone.”

  “Oh. Well, just the same, I’m sure you’ll be okay. He obviously did this in secret, knowing you’d be away. He’s not likely to come back when you’re home.”

  She looked at him without speaking.

  The officer continued. “We’ll be sending a detective over to take some pictures tomorrow. Don’t have the door repainted until after that.”

  “I’ll tell my landlord.”

  The officer left, and Claire closed the door and turned the dead bolt. She leaned with her back against the door and yawned.

  Brett looked at her. “Now what?”

  “Can you stay?”

  “I’ve been waiting for an invitation.”

  “Brett! You know what I mean. I’ve got a sleeping bag. I can stay on the couch and you can have my bed.”

  “Forget it. I’d never agree to put you out. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Besides, your bed probably smells just like you do. I’d be crazy before midnight.”

  “Smells?”

  He laughed. “A nice smell, Claire. I didn’t mean it like a smelly smell.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It will only be for tonight. I’d feel a lot safer.”

  “Sure.”

  Claire headed to the bathroom to prepare for sleep. She took a long shower and tried without success to erase the tension from her body. She was standing in her robe, brushing her teeth, when she heard the phone ring.

  John! I’d better get that.

  She heard Brett pick up. “Hello. Oh, no, you’ve got the right number. She’s just taking a shower. I’ll get her for you. Claire?”

  He tapped on the bathroom door. She opened it and took the portable phone from his hand. She closed the door again and sat on the edge of her tub.

  “Hello.”

  “Claire, it’s John. What’s going on? Now you’ve got male visitors while you shower?”

  “John, it’s not what you think. He’s just another resident here.” She paused. She hadn’t talked to John since before her last night of trauma call. So much had happened. Where should she begin?

  “I called the other day. It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.” She could tell by his tone that he was upset.

  “It’s been an unbelievable week.”

  She could hear John sigh. He obviously wanted to talk. She was exhausted and hardly knew how to explain.

  “I’d like to hear about it.”

  She took a deep breath. “I was on call in house Monday night for the trauma service, and Tuesday night for cardiothoracic surgery service. I got home in time to crash on Wednesday night, then went in Thursday, spent the night, and just got home this evening.” She paused. “On Monday night, a seven-year-old girl was hit by a drunk driver, and she died in the CT scanner when I was supposed to be watching her. Her father sought me out and threatened me because he blames me for his daughter’s death. The hospital attorney met with me because they are worried about getting sued. I had to present my mistake to the whole surgery department in conference this morning, and when I finally made it back to my apartment this evening, someone had vandalized my house by writing ‘Die Rebel’ on my front door. The police just left. And I was too scared to stay here alone, so I invited one of the male surgery residents to sleep on the couch. Oh, and did I mention that my mother called to tell me that my twin brother is going to court for a DUI, my father continues to deteriorate, and his primary physician at
home thinks I’m a fool for wanting him checked for Huntington’s disease?” She paused and added with saccharin sweetness, “And how was your week?”

  “Claire, I—I don’t know how to respond. This all sounds terrible. And I don’t know what I can do. I wish I was there. How are you holding up?”

  “I wish you were here too.” Suddenly, she felt like crying again. “I’m too tired to cry anymore. The only good thing about internship is that they work me so long that I don’t have time to worry about all these troubles.”

  “Great,” he replied with sarcasm. “A side benefit of being abused: They make you so miserable that you forget the other bad things in your life.” He paused. “Would you like it if I came up for the weekend? If I left early in the morning, I could be there late Saturday night.”

  “I’d love to see you, honey, but it’s hardly practical. I’ll be back in the hospital tomorrow morning until midday on Sunday. I’d probably barely get to see you before you’d have to turn around and leave again.”

  His voice was soft. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Are you mad about me having a man stay here?”

  “Yes, but I understand. I don’t think it looks good, but under the circumstances, I guess I understand. I’m jealous, but I understand.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Claire, I think we ought to pray.”

  “If I close my eyes, I’ll be asleep.”

  “I’m serious, Claire. I mean like we used to do, when we first started dating, when we both seemed more concerned about what God wanted for us.”

  She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. She knew he was right. It was the right thing to do, but she felt so spiritually dry. It had been months since she’d been to church, shoving her needs for fellowship and the Bible aside so she could pursue her career in surgery. “Okay,” she said. “I’m listening.”

  John began to pray, haltingly at first, and then with fervor, words that he felt, asking God to protect Claire and put his arms of peace around her. He prayed for grace and for guidance.

  Claire brushed back her tears. “Thanks, honey.”

  “I love you,” he concluded. “Sleep tight.”

  She walked out of the bathroom clutching her robe and put the phone back in its cradle. She pulled a sleeping bag and a pillow from the closet and tossed them on the couch. Brett was watching TV.

  “Don’t you get cable?”

  “Why would I want it? I’m never here.”

  “Good point.” He paused. “I guess that was your fiance?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Was he upset about me being here?”

  “Should he be?”

  He nodded. “I think so.”

  “He’s jealous. He’s honest enough to tell me that.”

  “Should he be?”

  She smiled. “I guess I wouldn’t like it if he didn’t care.” She turned and walked to the stairs. “Thanks for coming over. I’ll feel safer knowing someone else is in the house.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good night, Brett. I’ll let myself out quietly in the morning so you can sleep. Saturdays off is a benefit you should cherish.”

  “Good night, Claire.” He put his arms behind his head. “I’ll be right here if you want me.”

  She turned and walked up the stairs, clutching the front of her robe. Don’t tempt me, lifeguard boy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The night passed without catastrophe, and in spite of her exhaustion, Claire tossed restlessly at any little sound. She awoke at two to the barking of the neighbor’s schnauzer, suspecting that Tiger was responding to another prowler. She awoke at three to the sound of a Safeway bread truck, imagining a vandal’s getaway vehicle speeding into the night. Each time, she stared at the darkness and listened, her ears attuned to every minute sound which could alert her to the presence of Mr. Jones, returning to exact vengeance for his daughter’s death.

  At four, she was sure she heard the floor creaking downstairs, and she had, but it was only Brett rising to use the bathroom. Then she started thinking how wonderful it would be if he would just disobey everything she’d told him and sneak upstairs and slip into bed beside her.

  Ugh! I can’t be thinking this way. She turned over and pulled the pillow over her head. This is crazy. She was actually looking forward to getting back to the hospital so she could get some sleep.

  She rose and dressed at five, back to wearing her navy skirt. I wish the CT attendings would enter the new millennium. What’s wrong with a woman in pants?

  Claire left the house at five-thirty, with Brett sleeping soundly on the couch. At least one of them had slept well.

  She closed the door quietly and looked at the jagged message printed there. She shivered and ran to her Toyota. Tiger barked again, and Claire escaped his wet greeting by ducking into her car.

  Weekends on the CT service were a notch more relaxed than during the week, with no fresh hearts to sit. After morning rounds with Dr. Rosenthal, Claire spent an hour with the medical students, teaching them the basics of intensive care monitoring. They asked questions, took notes, and called her Dr. McCall.

  “Call me Claire,” she reminded them for the third time.

  Martin walked by and whined. “I could use some help writing notes, Claire.”

  “It’s the weekend, Martin. Why don’t you skip out of here and I’ll do all the notes today? Then tomorrow, you write the notes and I’ll leave early.”

  Martin ran his hand through his unwashed hair and wrinkled his forehead. It seemed this was a new concept to him: working together, not simply competing. “Hmmm. I could use a nap.”

  And a shower. Claire smiled. “Get out of here, Martin.”

  “Okay, sounds like a plan.” He pivoted and rushed from the unit, nearly running into Dr. Rosenthal as he exited the automatic door leading to the ICU. Claire listened to their conversation as she picked up her first patient chart.

  “Leaving so soon, Dr. Holcroft?”

  “Well, er, yes. It was Claire’s idea. She’ll do the notes today. I’ll do them tomorrow.”

  Claire watched over her shoulder to see Martin backpedaling into the unit. “But I can stay if you want, sir. I really think maybe it’s best if I do—”

  “Relax, Martin,” Dr. Rosenthal chided. “It’s the weekend. The attendings don’t care, as long as the work gets done.” He opened his hand and gestured toward the double doors. “Have a nice day.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will, sir.”

  Martin disappeared and Rosenthal looked at Claire. “Where did we get him?”

  Claire lifted her nose. “Harvard, sir.”

  Rosenthal laughed, then lifted a donut from a box on the counter. He held the donut with a paper napkin, appearing to carefully avoid touching the food with his fingers.

  Only a cardiothoracic surgeon would eat a donut that way.

  Rosenthal chuckled again, uncharacteristically jovial. He finished his donut and folded the napkin before discarding it in a trash receptacle beneath the counter. He studied a cardiac monitor for a moment before turning to leave. He paused at the door and looked back at Claire. “You might want to go easy on the Harvard jokes when you’re around Dr. Lewis. He’s an alum and he absolutely adores Harvard grads.”

  She tapped her pen on the progress note page and smiled before offering a mock salute. “Thanks for the warning, sir.”

  He shook his head. “Careful, Claire.” He pushed a button on the wall to activate the automatic door leading from the unit. He disappeared with his words fading, “I’m on my beeper.”

  Saturday night Claire slept for five hours without interruption in a hospital call room. Five hours! She pried herself from the inadequate mattress and stretched, relishing in the amazing amount of time since her last page. She checked the beeper, fearing a dead battery, but it was fine. The service was stable, and she hadn’t been needed.

  She thought back to her last night at home and wondered how she would feel tonight all alone in
her quiet house. She couldn’t just invite Brett to move in with her. Sooner or later that would drive him … or her … to do something they’d regret. Or at least she’d regret.

  She looked around the call room. And she couldn’t exactly just live there, could she?

  She back-burnered her concern during rounds, and left Martin Holcroft as the lonely front line for the CT service by nine A.M.

  She traveled Devonshire Boulevard, noting the paucity of city traffic. She passed two large churches with parking lots crowded with cars. She felt an urge to turn in at the second, but dispelled the idea when she looked at her plain navy skirt and remembered her commitment to go shopping. She pressed on the accelerator and pushed aside a pang of guilt. I feel guilty every time I see a church. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, aware of the irony in her thinking. I’m supposed to be in church so I can feel better, right? But I’ll just end up feeling worse because I’ll see how far I have to go.

  She’d find a church once she got through her internship. Certainly John would want to go somewhere after they were married.

  Suddenly, she was thinking about Brett, about his lips on her forehead, and the way he gently nudged her face toward his. Her heart quickened at the memory. Why did she always have to think about Brett when she wanted to think about John? He was like a virus in her brain, lying in wait to attack, just when her defenses were down. What was it about him, that she had allowed him to get under her skin so effectively?

  She looked down at her diamond solitaire, and she tilted it to reflect the sunlight coming through the windshield. I’d better find another shoulder to cry on before I let him kiss me. I’m afraid I’d melt. I’d be putty in those masculine arms …

  She passed another church and felt guilty again. I haven’t even read my Bible in weeks.

  Claire pulled her car into the Safeway parking lot. She wanted to do her grocery shopping while the parking lot looked empty. I’ll read my Bible later today.

  Then I won’t feel so guilty.

  That afternoon, Della McCall cleared the dishes from the table and checked on Wally. He was watching TV with a glassy-eyed stare, sitting on the couch, but certainly didn’t appear to be relaxing. His right arm flew up with a jerk into the air and landed on the seat back. His head twitched and he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, seemingly unable to keep them in one position for any time at all.