2

Dr. Robert Beauregard, chief of Anesthesiology, sat at the head of the long oak conference table and stared down at Dr. Dios and Dr. Black, Dios’s assistant on the Lorraine Bell case. The long table, big enough for twenty, was where the department held its weekly morbidity and mortality meetings. During these inquisitions, any questionable deaths were discussed and accounted for.

Now with its seventeen empty chairs, the room seemed a melodramatic prop in a trial held in the Soviet Union for Crimes Against the People. At least Dios felt that way. He looked up, tried to meet Beauregard’s gaze head-on, but it was impossible. Beauregard’s power, his bearlike presence, was hidden beneath a shock of graying hair. His blue eyes were often penetrating, as though they were judging a man, even on the best of days, but during these meetings they looked cold, full of ice … Beauregard’s obsession with unnecessary deaths was a legend in the hospital. Indeed, when they felt very good, some of the surgeons might make a passing joke about it. But not today, not sitting in the hot seat staring up at him. Beauregard had the lowest of burning points. He drove himself and his staff as hard as he could, and Dios had known from the very moment of Lorraine Bell’s death that he was now on the shit list. Beauregard had said it over and over, “No unexplained OR deaths. They are unacceptable.” Dios shuddered a bit, thinking of what a scandal could do to his career. He had come from a poor family in the Philippines, worked hard to get through med school, and was just starting to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Dios’s furious musings were interrupted by Cross’s entrance. Peter swept through the door at precisely ten o’clock, a red scarf wrapped around his neck, his black raincoat unbuckled and swooping behind him like a cape. He looked, Dios thought, like some character out of the nineteenth century, very, very strange.

“Gentlemen,” said Dr. Robert Beauregard in a voice that sounded as if it had come out of the grave, “let us begin. First, let me express to you my feelings on this matter. Lorraine Bell died during a bowel obstruction probe last night. You three men were the attending physicians. A human life was offered to you, put under your care, and you allowed that life to simply fizzle out. I can see from your looks that you’re already angry at me for my tone of voice here. Well, I assure you that it’s quite intentional. I don’t accept the death of elderly patients at Eastern. As you know, I believe, and want you to believe, that older patients’ lives are, if anything, more precious simply because their condition is more precarious. Every possible precaution must be taken to see that they do not have a shock reaction. Every possible gentleness and consideration must be standard operating procedure. I’m not talking about ‘doing your job,’ I’m talking about using extra caution, extra consideration. Now, knowing that, I want some explanation, gentlemen. I want some solid, concrete explanation. What the hell happened last night?”

Beauregard turned and looked at Dios, and Dios felt himself burning with anger, felt his own heartbeat pumping up, as if he had just spent an hour jogging. Sweat formed on his forehead and he was afraid to wipe it off because he was afraid to acknowledge its presence. Sweat might be interpreted as guilt.

He had to say something. So he cleared his throat and began: “I needn’t explain to you that the nature of the bowel operation was made more difficult because the patient was unable to tell us what pains she was experiencing. We opened her up and we checked the small intestine. I think that Dr. Black will agree with me that we took every possible precaution with Lorraine Bell’s intestines. We handled her gently, as gently as possible. When we found the adhesion, we detached it. Again, we were extremely cautious. And when we sewed her up we were again very careful. I would say that we were extremely careful, wouldn’t you, Dr. Black?”

Black nodded and looked straight at Beauregard. Dios welcomed Black’s support, felt his breath come back in his lungs, and was able to swallow again.

On the other side of the table, Peter Cross remained motionless. He sat with his scarf still dangling insouciantly from his neck. His raincoat opened with a slash. His pince-nez glasses reflected the old brass lamp on the table. He heard Dios as though Dios were at the end of a long hallway, shouting to him through a broken bullhorn. He felt a wind sweep at his ankles and wondered why Debby Hunter wasn’t there.

“What about the mesentery?” Beauregard said. “When you were sewing up Lorraine Bell …”

Dios, his confidence swelling, interrupted: “The woman had an irregularly irregular heartbeat to begin with, Doctor. We had a tough job with the mesentery. I’m sure you can appreciate that the tissue was already in an advanced state of degeneration. There was nothing much to work with. But we didn’t put her under any abnormal strain.”

Beauregard’s eyes grew large and his right hand twisted into a fist. “According to whom?” he boomed.

“I don’t follow you,” Dios said, feeling the fear creep back in again.

“You said, Doctor, that you didn’t put her under any ‘abnormal’ strain. And I want to know what your definition is. What is ‘abnormal strain’ in a case such as this? Are you telling me that according to the textbook, patient X received the legitimate amount of pressure?”

“No,” Dios said, blundering forth. “I am not. I am saying that given this particular patient’s advanced degenerative state, we had to work with the tissue for quite a while. But this is normal. We had to. And while I am talking, I would like to know why you aren’t addressing some of these questions of yours to Dr. Cross, who sits over there and stares at us as if he were already absolved of any blame in this matter?”

Cross felt the words come as a blow to his face. For the first time he began to sweat. They couldn’t catch him now. They couldn’t blame him. And yet, there were two of them against him. He felt his back grow cold.

“Are you saying that I was to blame in this matter, Dr. Dios?” he said in a steely voice.

“Well,” Dios said, “perhaps you can explain why the patient’s heartbeat and breathing, given her condition, were perfectly normal one minute and dropped off violently the next?”

“I have nothing to explain,” Cross said. “I spent the entire afternoon the day before yesterday preparing for my cases. If you’ll check the records, Dr. Dios, Lorraine Bell had just been opened up two months ago….”

“I know that,” Dios said. “You can’t turn this thing around, Cross. I see what you’re doing. Trying to make it seem like I don’t know my business.”

Immediately Dios knew he had lost a point. He should have never used the word “business” there. He watched as Beauregard’s eyebrows went up. Dios looked at Dr. Black, who quickly came to his assistance.

“I was talking to Harry Gardner this morning about the case,” Black said. “He is completely neutral in his feelings and can look at it objectively. And he said to me that he was shocked by the way she started to fail. There was no indication that her heart was that weak.”

“But it was weak,” Beauregard said.

“Yes,” Black said, “it was. We all knew it was weak and we were careful, but the way she began to go off, the way her pulse and heartbeat dropped so suddenly, was unusual.”

Cross folded his arms and stared at Black and Dios. Fools, they were bungling it. Trying to pass off with innuendos. They would have been better to come right out and accuse him. But they didn’t dare. Still, Cross was afraid, afraid they were getting through to Beauregard, and he knew he must rally.

“Unusual?” he said. “Unusual with both of you tugging on her mesentery until her whole body shuddered?”

“Is that true?” Beauregard said.

“That is a gross overstatement,” Dios said. “Why don’t you ask Dr. Cross about the amount of curare he used? I told him to keep her very light, yet I saw him, several times, add other drugs to the IV.”

Cross looked at Beauregard, who was staring at him.

“You’ve got the list of the drugs I used,” Peter said. “Perhaps Drs. Black and Dios would like to call an expert in to see if I acted properly. Someone as gifted as Harry.”

Dios flashed a quick look at Black and shook his head. Beauregard looked at Peter Cross and nodded his head, giving a trace of a smile. Cross saw the smile and put on a grave look.

Before Beauregard could say anything, however, Black and Dios were at it again.

“He used succinylcholine … sixty milligrams … Perhaps that was a little heavy …”

Dios was waving his hands. Black was spitting out bits of saliva as he gesticulated. Each of them was revving the other up, ganging up on Cross. Peter began to shake; he could feel them moving in.

Then Beauregard slammed his fist on the table.

“Enough,” he said. “Enough … I want both of you to shut it down.”

Dios started to open his mouth, but Beauregard waved his index finger under his nose.

“Consider yourselves warned,” he said. “I mean it. The way both of you have turned this around to make it look as if Dr. Cross is responsible is grossly unprofessional behavior. I have his report. I have gone over it and, given her condition, I think his judgment was fine. I would have recommended the same drugs myself.”

Dios said nothing. He was drenched in sweat, but he stared across the table at Cross and felt a vast hatred. The truth is, Dios thought, I’d like to have an autopsy. But he didn’t dare say it. Who knows what would come out of it. His own stitching job hadn’t been that good. Maybe they would claim he had been too rough with her. So he said nothing.

“All right, gentlemen,” said Beauregard, laying heavy irony on the last word. “I’m going to consider the matter closed. But that doesn’t mean I accept Lorraine Bell’s death as inevitable. Maybe you handled it perfectly and she died anyway. That can happen. But maybe some of you weren’t thinking of the patient. Maybe you were thinking of her as a gomer.”

Dios and Black winced.

“Remember, there are no gomers, there are only poor, old, sick people, and our job is to keep them alive and make them well if we possibly can. And before you go, I want you to know that though the matter is closed, I won’t forget it. We’ve had a very low death rate on the operating table at Eastern during the last five years; less than ten percent. So that kind of death is simply not acceptable to me, and it shouldn’t be to any of you. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Good morning, gentlemen.”

After looking once more around the table at each of them, Beauregard slowly got up from his chair; the other three quickly followed his example and started for the door. Cross was a little slow in leaving, and Beauregard called to him.

“Peter, can I talk with you a minute?”

Cross turned and walked back toward the great bear of a man. Usually he felt like the others did around Beauregard—overwhelmed, intimidated. He also felt something else, something he had noticed the first day he had talked to Beauregard, the day of his hiring. A warmth, a realness, something almost chemical between the two of them. Impossible to explain. It bothered Cross, bothered him and at the same time pleased him.

“That was pretty rough, Peter,” Beauregard said.

Cross smiled and nodded.

“Come, walk down to my office with me.”

The two men passed out of the conference hall and strolled down the corridors of the great hospital. They passed several nurses and an old man in a wheelchair with tubes running from his nose. His skin was yellow, sagging from his bones.

“I want to ask you one thing,” Beauregard said. “Then I won’t mention it again.”

“All right,” Cross said quietly.

“Was there anything to what Dios and Black said?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Cross said. “I feel as though I did the right thing. But I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”

“Does that bother you?” Beauregard said as they turned into his office.

“Yes, frankly,” Cross said, moving carefully now, “it does. I spent most of the night awake, thinking about it.”

“And?”

“And I decided I would have followed the same course again. I think I used all my skills. What bothers me is that I couldn’t do a damned thing even though I gave it my best shot.”

Beauregard was greeted by his secretary, Brigette. She sat by her telephone, a sandwich in one hand and Dare to Love in the other.

“Dr. Beauregard,” she said, “I heard the sparks are flying.”

“Is that right?” he said. “Eat your lunch and read your trash, Brigette. Thank you.”

Both she and Beauregard smiled, and he led Peter into his inner office. Cross was surprised to see that the place lacked any semblance of order. Medical books were piled on his desk along with an art book on surrealism.

Beauregard noticed Cross staring at the book.

“A hobby of mine. I like painting very much.”

Cross smiled. He was excited by finding out that Beauregard was interested in art. Especially surrealist art. For the surrealist writers and painters—Breton, Dali, Paul Eluard, and the others—had been the first great supporters of Poe’s visions.

“I understand how you feel,” Beauregard said. “It’s not easy to lose a patient … but you can’t afford to ever lose the capacity for caring and for hurting. I want to tell you something in confidence. I’ve been watching you, and I think you have a remarkable ability. Not only within the field, but in your capacity for caring. I’ve heard good things from the patients, very good things indeed.”

Cross felt a flush of excitement.

“You were ganged up on today because you’re different.”

He gestured at Peter’s dark raincoat, his red scarf.

Cross stared at himself and laughed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to buy some leisure suits.”

“Lime green,” Beauregard said. “Lime green is very chic.”

They both laughed again, and Beauregard tapped his pencil on his desk.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to get back to work. I just want you to know that I know you take your work seriously, and that whatever went on in there today doesn’t change my opinion at all.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. He felt the rumbling inside of him.

The two men smiled at one another, and Cross felt as though Beauregard could look into him, see him quiver.

“I’ll see you out,” Beauregard said.

At the door Beauregard patted him on the back. His hand felt like it was radioactive, and Peter jerked back a little.

“See you, Peter.”

“Right, Dr. Beauregard.”

“Jesus, Peter … call me Beau. I’m not all that old and venerable yet.”

“Of course,” Peter said, smiling. But he did not add “Beau.”

Beauregard watched him go down the hall, the way he moved, long, easy, graceful strides. The man had a natural dignity and style. Perhaps that more than anything else bothered the others. He walked back in his office and had just sat down when his phone lit red.

He picked it up and let out a deep breath.

“Dr. Beauregard,’ said Brigette, “I have an important message for you. From Lauren Shaw.”

“Yes.”

“She’s leaving two tickets for you for Thursday night’s performance of her new play, Charm’s Way. She said she expected you to make an appearance.”

Beauregard thought of Lauren. Standing in front of him long, lean, and tanned, holding a champagne glass.

“Thank you, Brigette.”

“Well? Are you going, Doctor?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Ahhhh,” said Brigette.

“Thank you for the news. Forget the exclamation points,” Beauregard said.

He hung up and sat back in his chair. Almost any other man in New York would feel like celebrating, but his thoughts drifted to his estranged wife, Heather. He could still smell her on his sheets, hear her voice talking to Sarah. He felt a wave of loneliness and self-pity sweep him, and he wondered if the next time Heather called he wouldn’t use the old “stay together for Sarah’s sake” routine. No, he wouldn’t—he hoped. He wanted to be honest and straight, but love had a way of making you lie. To your wife, but mostly to yourself. He hoped he would be strong enough to be honest about it. But it was a little like surgery; there was no way of really knowing what was happening until you began to cut.