Chapter Eight

November

On a blustery Saturday morning, with three inches of new snow on the ground, I sat in the ER of St. Mary’s Hospital for one last morning report. Jerry was still up in surgery where they had taken a guy with a ruptured bowel about 4:00 A.M. Mac was slumped in a chair in the corner. Rollie and I were relatively fresh, having had the night off. Joe Stradlack thanked us, said we did a good job, and then began to orient the new guys.

When morning report was over, Rollie, Mac, and I shook hands. They said for a dumb orthopod I did all right. I thanked them and wished them good luck taking care of rectal abscesses and fat people’s gallbladders for the rest of their lives.

I asked them to say good-bye to Jerry for me, and I headed to the docs’ lounge to begin my next assignment: six weeks in pediatric orthopedics. Jake Burg, my new senior resident, knew I had just come off the ERSS. I think he felt sorry for me. After we finished rounds he told me to take the rest of the weekend off.

Jack Manning, who had started on Dr. Hale’s service that morning, gave me a ride to Methodist Hospital for the Saturday morning conference. On ERSS we were never given time off for conferences, so I hadn’t been to one since September. The conference was on complications of carpal navicular fractures. I was just settling into my chair when Dr. Burke called on me.

“Dr. Collins, how nice of you to join us. Explain the high incidence of nonunion and osteonecrosis associated with navicular fractures.”

I explained that navicular fractures were often accompanied by disruption of the vascular supply to a portion of the bone.

“Which portion of the bone?”

“The distal portion.”

“What is the name of the vessel that is disrupted?”

“I believe it’s a branch of the—”

“You believe?”

“It’s a branch of the radial artery. It enters the navicular at the—”

“I didn’t ask you where it entered. I asked you the name of it.”

“Tell him it’s the anal artery,” Frank Wales whispered from behind me.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Burke. I can’t recall the name.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he answered. “It’s your poor patient you should apologize to.”

I mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and started to sit back down.

“When was the last time you attended this conference, Dr. Collins?”

I stood back up. “It’s been a few weeks, sir, but I’ve been—”

“I don’t care where you’ve been. Attendance at this conference is mandatory.”

“But I thought when we were on—”

“Mandatory.”

I realized I should cut my losses and shut up. “Yes, sir,” I said.

“Mandatory, that is, for those who wish to remain in this residency program.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stood in silence while he stared at me from over the top of his reading glasses. “Sit down, Dr. Collins,” he said finally. “Dr. Manning, do you know the name of the vessel that supplies the navicular?”

As I plopped back in my chair, Frank touched me on the shoulder. “I think he likes you,” he whispered.

By 11:30 I was home. Although he lived on the opposite side of town, Jack had given me a ride.

“Look what I found, Patti,” he called as we pulled into the driveway. “He doesn’t look like much but he’s housebroken—sort of.”

The sun had come out and last night’s snow was already starting to melt. Patti was standing at the curb, next to our car, an old green Dodge that hadn’t started in four days. She was wearing a cream-colored, Irish cardigan sweater that fell to either side of her very swollen belly. Eileen stood next to her, both hands wrapped around Patti’s right leg. Mr. Jensen from the Standard station was there, too. He looked up, nodded in my direction, and then stuck his head back under the hood.

Jack told Patti she was looking good. “I like that beach ball look,” he said.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” she said, sticking out her tongue at him.

Jack backed out of the driveway, waved, and said to call him if we needed a ride anywhere. When he was gone, I went over to Pat and gave her a kiss. She looked worried.

Mr. Jensen straightened up and slammed the hood. “Mornin’, Doc,” he said.

“Hi, Mr. Jensen. So, what do you think?” I asked, pointing at our car.

He didn’t waste any time. “Engine’s blown,” he said. “Cost you two grand, maybe more, to fix it.”

Two grand? We only paid seven hundred for it.

Jensen saw the look on my face. “Forget it. It ain’t worth fixin’.”

Patti and I stood there saying nothing.

“Sorry, Doc,” Jensen said. As he was getting into his truck, he turned to me and said, “I gave Mrs. C. the number of a guy I know owns a junkyard. He might give you thirty or forty bucks for it.”

I smiled weakly. I wondered if he was trying to be funny. When he left, Patti and I turned to each other.

“Now what?” she said.

“How much money do you have?” I asked.

She dug in her pockets. “Six dollars.”

I put my arm around her. “We’ve got three hundred in the bank, plus whatever we get from the junkyard…”

She looked at me. “Do you really think we’ll only get thirty dollars for it?”

Ten minutes later I was on the phone to Ernie Hausfeld, owner of the Mantorville Junkyard.

“Collins? Oh, yeah. Old man Jensen said you might call. He says you’re a doctor at the Mayo, huh?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Then how come you’re driving a junker?”

Oh, yeah, I forgot. Doctors always drive Porsches and BMWs. “My Lamborghini’s in the shop,” I told him, “so I’ve been driving my butler’s car. I thought I’d get him a new one.”

“Very funny, Doc. Well, here’s the deal: if you can drive the car here, I’ll give you thirty-five dollars for it. If we have to tow it in, you get twenty-five.”

Twenty-five dollars, that’s it?

I sighed. “The engine’s blown, Ernie. You’ll have to come and get it.”

“All right. Have the title ready. Someone’ll be there in an hour.”

Three hours later a tow truck pulled up in front of the house. A young guy with a dirty blue Twins cap got out and looked at our address. I walked out to meet him. He glanced at the paper in his right hand. “Doc Connolly?” he asked.

“Collins,” I said, holding out my hand.

He stuck the paper back in his pocket and shook hands with me. “I’m Jimmy. I drive for Ernie.” He looked at the Dodge. “This your car?”

I nodded. “Yup. That’s it.”

“So the old girl’s headed for the last roundup, huh?”

“Yeah. I hate to see her go. She always ran great—until the last few days.”

“You got anything in the trunk or glove compartment?”

“Nope.” The spare tire was bald but it held air, so I had rolled it into the garage on the odd chance that it would fit whatever “new” car we got.

Jimmy backed up the tow truck, and hooked the winch under the front bumper. He pressed a button on the side of his truck, and the front of the car rose off the ground.

“I just need the title,” he said, “and we’re all set.”

I handed it to him. He, in turn, counted out five dirty five-dollar bills and gave them to me.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Doc.”

Patti came out and watched as Jimmy drove away with our car.

“Want to come down to the BMW dealership with me to pick out our new Beemer?” I asked.

She wasn’t laughing. “Mike, what are we going to do?”

“I looked at some ads in the Post-Bulletin. I think we can get something decent for six or seven hundred dollars.”

“Where are we going to get six or seven hundred dollars?”

“I thought I’d get a job as a male stripper.”

“Yuk.” She grimaced. “Who would hire you? Nursing homes for blind, senile old ladies?”

If you want to stay grounded, get married. Still, there was no need to rub it in.

I told Patti I didn’t have a plan. I said we’d just have to wait for our next paycheck, which was two weeks away.

“How much money do we need?”

“Well, three, four hundred bucks, I guess. Plus the three hundred we have in the bank.”

I turned and started walking back toward the house, but Patti stood where she was.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.

“Like…?”

“Like there won’t be any money left for food.”

“I’ll bring stuff home from the hospital when I’m on call.”

“I’m not living on apples and prune sweet rolls for a month,” she said.

“If you treat me right I just might bring home a little lutefisk casserole.”

She grabbed Eileen’s hand and stormed by me.

“I don’t want lutefisk casserole,” she said. “I want meat. And vegetables. And potatoes.”

“Damned Irish girls,” I called after her. “I should have married an Indian woman. She could have lived off roots and berries and grubs for a month.”

“And I should have married a lawyer. At least there’d be food on the table.”

Patti had been under a lot of stress or she never would have said such a terrible thing.