“I’ll check the duck,” Alex said, rubbing the soles of his shoes back and forth on the doormat, “if you pop the cork on the wine. Bottle’s on the counter.” He was still sucking wind from the mile-and-a-half hike back from the stadium, the last quarter mile up a steep, winding street to their neighborhood. It was a glorious autumn Saturday of muted reds, browns, and oranges, the air crisp and slightly biting, tingling his earlobes and the tip of his nose. A perfect football day. Even better because their team won.
“Deal.” Lisa followed suit with her shoes.
Alex passed through the small dining room and on into the kitchen, then out to the back porch and the barbecue. He loved the red lacquered cooker. Bought it at a hardware store as a graduation present. The bottom compartment held charcoal briquettes, the middle section held a pan of water, the top had the grill over which the red dome sat. Cooking was controlled either by frequent monitoring or by simply starting with a limited amount of fuel. He preferred the latter option. After lighting the briquettes he would insert the water pan and then the grill with whatever meat needed cooking. No matter how long the football game lasted, by the time they returned home the food would be cooked to perfection with a lovely smoky flavor. He removed the lid to inspect the duck. Perfect—a crisp golden-brown skin. Even better, it was still warm.
After setting the duck on the kitchen counter, Alex returned to the front closet to hang his jacket, his face still stinging pleasantly in the cozy warmth after several hours exposed to chilly fall air. Lisa returned to the kitchen. “Sorry, I didn’t open the wine yet—had to make a pit stop.”
“That’s fine, I’ll do it.” He picked up the bottle to start peeling away the foil, and Lisa took one of two chairs at the small bistro table to watch. “Great game.”
Lisa issued a derisive snort. “You say that about every game we win, regardless of how many penalties or mistakes they make. But I have to agree. Certainly was exciting. That ending … wow.”
Foil off, he began screwing the worm into the cork. “Oh man, tied at the start of the fourth quarter. Wasn’t sure they’d be able to pull it off.”
“That punt return was what saved us. Special teams have done it all year long. Not the offense or defense, but special teams.” A rabid NFL fan, she wasn’t as keen on college ball as he was. Still, she could hold up her end of a postgame conversation.
“Well, the punt return and the defensive play in the final ten minutes. Jesus, thought I was going to stroke out those final seconds.” He sniffed the cork, nodded approval, and poured two glasses of cabernet, which he brought to the table. Lisa waited for him to sit before she raised her glass in a toast. “Health and happiness.”
“Health and happiness.” They clinked and sipped, making no effort to dive straight into conversation, just enjoying the beginning of a wonderful fall Saturday evening. He loved these well-worn-jeans-and-sweatshirt moments with Lisa.
Alex sat cross-chaired, back against the wall, admiring the small kitchen of a home someone had classified as Dutch Colonial. He couldn’t define the style. It had three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and an unfinished basement. A good “starter home.” His first. Shortly after moving in, he’d replaced the linoleum kitchen floor with pre-stained parquet squares. Not a perfect job by any standard, but it was work he felt proud of. A butcher block occupied the center of the room and held a wood salad bowl, salt and pepper set, and knife block.
“You know, right now life seems too good to be true. Does it seem that way to you?”
Lisa nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
He swept a hand left to right. “This home, our lives … I just feel so content. Just look at today: we walked to the football game and back while dinner cooked on the smoker. Tonight we’ll stay in and watch a movie. I’m an assistant professor at a good university. We’re both making some money and have our health. What’s not to like?”
Lisa hesitated for a moment, then spoke up. “Well, there’s one thing that could be better.”
“Oh? What?”
She cocked her head as she collected her thoughts. “I just wish we had more time for evenings like this, just the two of us. I don’t really understand why you need to spend so many nights in the lab.”
He reached across the table, took her hand. “I love you. You know that don’t you?”
She nodded.
He’d explained it all before: the junior man gets stuck with the crap the senior partners are sick of—rounds at the VA Hospital Tuesdays and Thursdays that included the outpatient clinic. Not only did the commute burn an hour and a half, but dealing with the bottomless pit of red tape from VA career bureaucrats was hair-tearingly frustrating.
“Things will get better. Once I get my grant I’ll be able to hire another lab tech, and that’ll relieve some of the pressure. Soon as that happens, my productivity will improve to where I can advertise for a postdoc. Things will get better. I guarantee it.”
Lisa sighed. “Heard anything from NIH yet?”
The contented glow vaporized. He snapped back to reality. For the past several hours he’d been blissfully distracted from the issue.
“No.”
“Have you talked to Dr. Waters about it?” Lisa was still finding it difficult to refer to him as “Art.” Only recently had Alex broken the habit of calling him “Dr. Waters.”
“Yesterday, as a matter of fact. He was pretty frank about things, said if I hadn’t heard by now, chances were it didn’t pass study section.” Study section was the group of scientists who reviewed and prioritized grant applications.
“What does that mean for your lab?”
The anxiety eating away at his gut these past few weeks returned, a deep, uncomfortable distress bordering on pain. “Until I’m funded, I’ll have to scale back my work. Art says I have to take over a hundred percent of the trauma center coverage.”
“But you’ve been so productive in the lab.” She was frowning now. “How can they do that to you?”
He downed his wine and poured fresh glasses. “No problem understanding that, Sweetie. My salary is based on lab effort, not clinical work like the other surgeons. If I can’t support myself on grants, I have to earn it clinically. All the other guys have established practices, so I can’t compete at the U hospital. Well, I could over time, but for right now I can’t. The only solution is to cover the trauma center.” A funk settled over him at the thought of having to spend his time in the OR instead of the lab. More than once, he considered going back to school for a PhD to allow him to devote all of his time to research instead of continuing this schizophrenic division of responsibilities.
“Actually,” he continued, “I start taking call Monday.” He’d not mentioned this before for fear of spoiling the weekend. Recently, he’d begun to view himself as a failure. Winners had grant support. Losers had nothing. Twice now, he had served as an ad hoc NIH reviewer, so he had insight into this classic catch-22 conundrum: grants were awarded to seasoned researchers with proven track records, leaving unfunded scientists like himself in the cold. How the hell were you expected to develop a track record if you couldn’t support a lab?