No Cure for Murder (5 page)
“Nothing.” She smiled again.
Jacob rose from his desk and walked toward the door to greet Dr. Spelling. Before he could utter a word, a beautiful and very tall woman looking like a fashion model embraced him.
She kissed him on the cheek. “Dr. Weizman, finally we meet. The way grandpa talks about you, I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.”
Zoe paused, then sniffed Jacob’s cheek. “You smell like grandpa...that tangy-spicy cologne, what is it?”
“It’s Pinaud. You smell it in most barbershops. It’s older than your grandfather and me.”
Jacob was a little shocked by her informality. He straightened his bow tie then looked up into her dark brown eyes. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
She had chestnut hair to her shoulders and pulled back over her ears to reveal multiple earrings. Her teeth were so bright, he felt himself squinting from their reflection. She wore a form-fitting sundress with spaghetti straps that accentuated her well-toned arms and shoulders. She had a small tattoo of a hummingbird over her left upper arm.
Jacob absorbed her appearance and felt himself reddening. Thank God I haven’t lost my appreciation for a beautiful woman, he thought.
Zoe caught him staring and laughed. “It’s okay, Jacob.” She hesitated. “Can I call you Jacob?”
“Of course, Zoe.”
“I mean that I’m used to it...men staring at me...and not just the young ones.”
“I didn’t mean anything improper, Zoe, and anyway, I choose not to spend what’s left of my life on an analyst’s couch.”
“It means you’re alive, Jacob. Don’t apologize. I like when men look at me...at least some men...when they’re gentlemen.”
Jacob blushed again. “What can I do for you, Zoe?”
“Give me a job. Teach me what it’s like to practice today and preserve the old values, then if we like each other and you think my work’s good enough, make me your partner.”
“Have you picked out your furniture and wall coverings?”
She smiled. “Grandpa said you liked straight talk.”
“I do. You just expressed in one sentence what it might take hours of conversation and reading between the lines to elicit.”
“So, how about it?”
“You’re sure that you want to get into bed with me,” he smiled, “metaphorically speaking, that is, and my old values?”
Zoe smiled seductively. “You want me, you got me. I don’t like to brag...well maybe a little, but I have high academic scores, great recommendations from the program directors, and I even won Resident of the Year.”
“How can I possibly reject the Resident of the Year?”
“When can I meet Lola? I hear she’s something else.”
“That’s one way of expressing it.”
Jacob watched as Lola raced around the house with her feathered dust mop. “Enough already.”
“Don’t tell me what’s enough, Old Man. The house has got to look good for company.”
“For a brilliant, eighty-five-year-old psychotherapist, don’t you think it strange that you’re acting like our mothers and grandmothers, women whose entire worth depended on their domestic skills?”
She smiled while caressing Jacob’s cheek. “That’s crap and you know it. Those women gave so much more. You’re a product of their domesticity.”
Jacob was suddenly quiet. “If only they’d lived to see the fruits of their labor.”
He gazed out the window to their view of the San Francisco Bay while his mind relived the horrors of a painful past.
Lola walked through their living room. “This is ritual, I know, but it makes me feel good to see a clean house ready for visitors. It says something about us, our values, and how we feel about our guests.”
When the doorbell rang, Lola scanned the room once more then took a last look in the mirror, straightening her hair.
“Welcome,” said Jacob as Zoe Spelling and Byron Harwood entered.
Zoe kissed Jacob on the cheek. “This is my husband, Professor Byron Harwood.”
“Professor, it’s great to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Zoe.”
“Please, Jacob. It’s Byron.”
They’re an odd-looking couple, Jacob thought. She’s tall and elegant, and with heels, she stands an inch or two taller. He’s rail thin with an Ichabod Crane physique and Adam’s apple.
While Jacob backed into the room, Zoe looked at Lola, and then rushed to hug the tiny woman. “I’m so happy to meet you finally. I feel I’ve known you all my life.”
Lola disengaged herself from Zoe’s embrace, and then studied her face. “I can see it...it’s definitely there.”
“What?”
Lola took Zoe’s hand and walked her to a wall-mounted photo collection. She pointed to a sepia photograph of two young women. “Look here.”
“My God, is that her? I haven’t seen that one before.”
“Yes. It’s Rebecca. I see her in you, a younger, larger version to be sure, but Rebecca nonetheless.”
Zoe grasped Lola’s hand. “That’s so sweet. I loved her so much.”
“When I get the chance, I’ll make you a copy.”
Zoe turned to Byron. “Take my coat and give Jacob the package.”
“Of course,” said Byron, handing Jacob the ornate cedar wine box.
Zoe beamed. “It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon we have made for us and our friends. It’s a bit pretentious, but fun.”
Byron smiled. “I think you’ll like it.”
Jacob studied the box. “I hope it’s not too expensive. Fine wine is wasted on my palate.”
Lola thought she saw pain flash across Zoe’s face.
“Something smells delicious,” said Byron. “What is it?”
Lola opened the oven and sampled the aroma. “It’s Jacob’s old world pot roast. It’s an old...very old family recipe.”
“It’s the only thing I can cook,” said Jacob. “For Bernie’s granddaughter, it seemed appropriate.”
The evening passed quickly. Jacob and Lola shared stories of their early days in New York with Bernie and Rebecca.
Zoe glowed when she described her affection for her grandparents. “It nearly killed him when Rebecca died.”
Lola caressed Jacob’s hand. “We understand. If we could arrange it, we’d go together.”
“Don’t go anywhere yet,” said Byron. “You two provide inspiration for us all.”
Afterward, Jacob turned to Lola. “What did you think of Zoe?”
“From what you describe, sweetie, Zoe’s more representative of her grandparents than her mother and father.”
Jacob smiled. “That’s great. Maybe that way our grandkids still have a chance.”
Chapter Seven
Jack Byrnes sat at the utilitarian metallic desk in his small office adjacent to the ICU.
“Come in,” Jack said to the knock on the door.
Arnie Roth, a family practitioner and chairman of the Quality Assurance Committee, came in and sat next to the desk.
“Hey, Arnie. What’s up?”
“It’s Jacob Weizman. We must talk about him.”
“Give me a break.”
“This is more than a little awkward...”
“That’s not the word I’d use. I’d use the word ridiculous.”
“If you think I want any part of this Jack, you’re nuts, but I chair QA and we have complaints.”
“Jacob Weizman may be the best physician Berkeley has ever known. Sure, he’s a bit of a therapeutic nihilist, but I for one wouldn’t like to debate him about that philosophy.”
“It’s one thing to be skeptical about medication. It’s another to make his patients and our staff suffer from his refusal to use them when appropriate.”
“When appropriate...that’s the phrase that’s going to get you into trouble, Arnie.”
“Listen, Jack. Jacob’s not a kid anymore. He must be in his early eighties.”
“He’s eighty-eight, Arnie. I can’t believe you’d raise his age as an issue.”
“You’re overreacting. What would you have me do with complaints from the nursing staff? Ignore them?”
“Maybe you’re right. I know Jacob, and love him like a grandfather. We live in a world that embraces the young and dismisses the venerable. I won’t take part in anything that smacks of such bias at Brier.”
“Easy, Jack. Let’s just look into the details.”
“Be careful, Arnie. Don’t screw this up. Looking into something can take on a life of its own, especially when you deal with a committee, its biases, and its hidden agendas.”
Carleton Dix had worked as chaplain at Brier Hospital for the last five years. Following his graduation from the American Healthcare Chaplain’s Association’s program, he had a ministry in Rapid City, South Dakota. Although he engaged everyone in extensive conversation about virtually anything, he said little of his ministry days.
When Jacob Weizman entered Greta Schwartz’s room, he saw the chaplain’s broad shoulders and the thick mane of hair facing his patient. Carleton was in his early fifties and always wore a freshly pressed ministerial shirt and collar under his white coat with the word Chaplain embroidered on the breast pocket. He constantly licked his lips and adjusted his collar to remind people of his ecclesiastical status.
One morning, while Jacob sat with Dr. Warren Davidson, the chief of medicine, he said, “I never liked the man. I didn’t know why at first, my reaction was so visceral. Finally, I concluded that this was because the chaplain is too fixed in his beliefs. I don’t like to paraphrase a philosopher, but I agree with him that: Fanatical belief means not wanting to know what is true.”
“I agree with you, Jacob, the man’s a little ripe for me, but overall, I think he helps many patients. Moreover, he’s a good man and demonstrates extraordinary concern for our patients’ welfare.”
“Maybe so, but when I think back on that most unpleasant part of my youth, I agree with Jonathan Swift: We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.”
“Don’t you think you’re a little old to be crusading against organized religion?”
“Crusade is a word you might wish to avoid these days. I’d be the last one to join such a movement. I saw how religion helped in the camps and how it provided peace for so many in times of trouble. However, if you weigh the deeds done in the name of religion, not the rhetoric, I’m not sure if the good outweighs the evil.”
“When that philosophy comes from someone your age, with your experiences, and your intelligence, maybe I should pay attention.”
“Bullshit knows no age limitation, Warren. Make up your own mind.”
Jacob also hated how the chaplain expressed his beliefs with thoughtless glib platitudes delivered as pronouncements from above. The other thing that bothered Jacob was the chaplain’s willingness—probably more than that, an obsession—to foist his beliefs on others whether Christian, Jew, Muslim, or atheist.
“Good morning, chaplain,” said Jacob. “How goes it in the Kingdom of Heaven?”
“God is very present with those who are suffering.”
“He was AWOL at Auschwitz.”
“We can’t know His way.”
“To paraphrase a philosopher: In religion, neither morality nor belief comes in contact with reality at any point.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I recognize the quote, Nietzsche about Christianity. Imagine a Jew quoting that anti-Semite.”
“Nietzsche hated all religions, chaplain, but remember what Maimonides said: You must accept the truth from whatever source it comes.”
Jacob approached the bedside, grasped Greta’s wrinkled hand. “If you’ll excuse us now, chaplain.”
“Of course, Doctor,” he said as he rose to leave. “Have a good day, Mrs. Schwartz.”
Greta took Jacob’s hand. “He’s such a nice man.”
Jacob shook his head in disgust, but said nothing. He listened to her heart and lungs, examined her abdomen and extremities. “If you’re ready, Greta, you can go home today.”
“Isn’t it too soon, Doctor?”
“No, Greta. Hospitals are dangerous places. The sooner I get you out, the better.”
Jacob returned to the nurse’s station and wrote discharge and medication orders for Mrs. Schwartz. When he handed the chart to her nurse, she quickly looked at the orders. “Isn’t it a little early to be sending her home, Doctor?”
Jacob shook his head. “No, it’s not,” then turned and departed.
Chapter Eight
As they drove back in the blowing rain from another old friend’s funeral, Lola grasped Jacob’s hand. “They’re all disappearing. Soon, we’ll be the only ones left.”
Jacob sighed. “Our young lives started with death. In reality, or by metaphor, it will end the same way. What’s left are the crumbs of a life rich in joy and friendship. If it wasn’t for your attraction to youth, I wouldn’t recognize the names of today’s celebrities.”