The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice (191 page)

R.J. smiled back. “Not likely,” she said.

Still, when she got back home she took out a map of the region
and studied it. There were eleven small towns and villages in the area that Toby Smith said didn’t have a resident doctor.

That afternoon she bought a houseplant—an African violet in plump blue blossom—and brought it to Freda in the hospital. Freda was still post-op and not talking much, but Hank Krantz was warmed by R.J.’s presence.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you. What do I owe you for last night?”

R.J. shook her head. “I was there as a neighbor more than as a physician,” she said, and Freda looked at her and smiled.

R.J. drove back to Woodfield slowly, relishing the sights of farms and wooded hills.

Just as the sun was setting, her telephone rang.

“Dr. Cole? This is David Markus. My daughter tells me you came to our place yesterday. Sorry I wasn’t home.”

“Yes, Mr. Markus … I wanted to talk with you about selling my house and land….”

“We can surely talk. When would be a good time for me to come by?”

“Well, the thing is … I still might want to sell, but suddenly I’m not all that certain. I have to do some deciding.”

“Well, you take your time. Think it all out.”

He had a nice, warm voice, she thought. “But I’d like to talk to you about something else.”

“I see,” he said, although clearly he didn’t.

“By the way, you make wonderful honey.”

She could feel his smile over the phone. “Thank you, I’ll tell the bees. They love to hear things like that, although it drives them crazy when I get all the credit.”

Monday morning was overcast, but she had a responsibility that was very much on her mind. She bulled her way back into the woods, getting a thorn scratch on the neck and several small gouges on the backs of her hands. When she reached the river, she traced it downstream as close as she could get to the banks, which
sometimes were blocked to her by wild roses and raspberries and other brambles. She followed the river the length of her land and considered several sites carefully, finally choosing a sunny, grassy place where a thick white birch arched over a small waterfall that made a lively plashing. She made another torturous trip through the woods and came back carrying the spade that had hung from a nail in the barn, and the box containing Elizabeth Sullivan’s ashes.

She dug a deep hole between two thick roots of the tree and poured the ashes from the box. They were just fragments of bone, really. In the hungry blast of the crematorium, Betts Sullivan’s fleshy self had vaporized and disappeared, flying off somewhere just as R.J. had always imagined the departing soul flew free of the world, when she had been a child.

She covered the ashes with earth, trod it down tenderly. Then, worried lest some animal dig them up, she found a round, current-washed rock in the river, almost but not quite too large for her to move, and in a series of lifts and drops, moved it onto the dug earth. Now Betts was part of this land. The strange thing was, increasingly R.J. had the feeling that in many ways she was part of it too.

She spent the next couple of days investigating, gathering information, making lots of notes, scribbling figures and estimates. David Markus turned out to be a large, quiet man in his late forties, with rugged, somewhat battered features that were interesting in a Lincolnesque way (how could they have called Lincoln homely? she asked herself). He had a large face, a prominent, slightly crooked nose, a scar in the left corner of his upper lip, and gentle, easily amused brown eyes. His business suit was faded Levis and a New England Patriots jacket, and he wore his thick, graying brown hair in an improbable ponytail.

She went to Town Hall and talked to a selectwoman named Janet Cantwell, a bony, aging woman with tired eyes who wore ragged jeans, shabbier than Markus’s, and a man’s white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. R.J. walked Main Street from one end to the other, and studied the houses and the people she
met along the way, and the flow of traffic. She went to the medical center in Greenfield and talked with the hospital director, and sat in the cafeteria and spoke with several doctors as they ate their lunch.

Then she packed her bag and got into the car and drove toward Boston. The farther she got from Woodfield, the more she felt she had to return there. Whenever she had heard of someone who had received a “calling,” she had assumed the expression was a romantic euphemism. But now she saw that it was possible to be captivated by a compulsion so powerful that it couldn’t be denied.

Better than that—this thing she was obsessing about made excellent, practical sense to her in terms of the rest of her life.

She still had several days of her vacation left, and she used them to make lists of things she must do. And to formulate plans.

Finally, she telephoned her father and asked him to meet her for dinner.

12

A B
RUSH WITH THE
L
AW

She had contended with her father from the time of her earliest memory until she became an adult. Then something sweet and good had happened, a simultaneous mellowing and blossoming of feeling. On his part there was a different kind of pride in her, a reevaluation of why he loved her. For her there was a realization that, even in the years when she had fumed at him, he had always been steadfast in his support of her.

Dr. Robert Jameson Cole was the Regensberg Professor of Immunology at the Boston University School of Medicine. The chair he occupied was endowed by his own distant relatives. R.J. never had seen him embarrassed when that fact was mentioned by anyone. The original endowment had been made when he was a boy, and Professor Cole was so celebrated in his field that it would never occur to anyone that his appointment had come because of anything but his own accomplishments. He was a strong-willed achiever.

R.J. remembered her mother remarking to a friend that the first time her daughter had defied Professor Cole was when she had been born a female. He had counted on a boy. For centuries, Cole firstborn sons had been named Robert, with middle names that began with the letter J. Dr. Cole had given the matter serious thought and had picked out a name for his son—Robert Jenner Cole, the middle name to honor Edward Jenner, the discoverer of vaccination. When the baby turned out to be a girl, and when it became clear that his wife, Bernadette Valerie Cole, never could
bear another child, Dr. Cole insisted their daughter would be named Roberta Jenner Cole and would be called Rob J. for short. It was another Cole family tradition; somehow, to claim the child as a new Rob J. was to declare that yet another future Cole physician had been born.

Bernadette Cole had submitted to his plan except for the middle name. Not for her daughter a male name! So she had reached into her origins in northern France and the girl was christened Roberta Jeanne D’Arc Cole. Eventually Dr. Cole’s attempt to call his daughter Rob J. also failed. To her mother, and then to everyone who came to know her, she was soon R.J., although her father stubbornly clung to calling her Rob J. in tender moments.

R.J. grew up in a comfortable second-floor apartment in a converted brownstone house on Beacon Street, with giant antique magnolia bushes in the front yard. Dr. Cole liked it because it was a few doors down from the brownstone where the physician Oliver Wendell Holmes had lived. His wife liked it because it was rent-controlled and therefore manageable on a faculty salary. But after her death from pneumonia, three days after her daughter’s eleventh birthday, the apartment began to feel too large.

R.J. had attended public schools, but with her mother gone, her father felt she needed more control and structure in her life than he was able to provide, and he enrolled her in a day school in Cambridge, to which she traveled by bus. She had studied piano from the time she was seven, but when she was twelve she began taking lessons in classical guitar at school, and within a couple of years she was hanging around Harvard Square, playing and singing with other street musicians. She played very well; she didn’t have a great voice, but it was good enough. When she was fifteen, she lied about her age and became a singing waitress at the same second-story club where Joan Baez, who also was the daughter of a Boston University professor, had gotten her start. That September R.J. had sex for the first time, in the loft of the MIT boathouse, with the stroke of the MIT crew. It was messy and painful, and the experience turned her off from sex, but not permanently. And not for long.

* * *

R.J. always thought the middle name her mother had chosen had done a great deal to shape her life. From childhood she was ever ready to do battle for a cause. And although she loved her father desperately, often it was Dr. Cole with whom she contended. His yearning for a Rob J. who would follow in his medical footsteps was a constant pressure to his only child. Perhaps if it hadn’t been there, her path would have been different. In the afternoons when she returned alone to the quiet apartment on Beacon Street, sometimes she went into his study and took down his books. In them she memorized the sexual parts of men and women, often looking up the acts about which her contemporaries whispered and sniggered. But she moved on to a nonprurient contemplation of anatomy and physiology; the way some of her contemporaries became interested in the names of dinosaurs, R.J. memorized the bones of the human body. On the desk in her father’s study, in a small glass-and-oak box, was an old surgical scalpel of beaten blue steel. Family legend said that many hundreds of years ago the scalpel had belonged to one of R.J.’s ancestors, a great surgeon. Sometimes it seemed to her that helping people as a doctor would be a good way to spend her life, but her father was too insistent, and when the time came he drove her to a declaration that she would take a pre-law course in college. As the daughter of a professor, she could have attended Boston University with a tuition waiver. Instead, she escaped the long centuries of medical Coles by winning a three-quarters scholarship to Tufts University, busing tables in a student dining room and working two evenings a week at the club in Harvard Square. She did go to law school at Boston University. By that time she had her own apartment on Beacon Hill, behind the State House. She saw her father regularly, but already she was living her own life.

She was a third-year law student when she met Charlie Harris—Charles H. Harris, M.D., a tall, skinny young man whose horn-rimmed glasses habitually slid down his long, freckled nose and gave his sweet amber eyes a quizzical look. He was just beginning a surgical residency.

She had never met anyone so serious and so funny at the same time. They laughed a lot, but he was humorlessly dedicated to his
work. He envied her graceful scholarship and the fact that she actually enjoyed taking examinations, in which invariably she did very well. He was intelligent and had a good temperament for a surgeon but studying wasn’t easy for him, and he had achieved because he labored at it doggedly: “Gotta take care of business, R.J.” She was Law Review, he was on call. They were always tired and in need of sleep, and their schedules made it hard for them to see enough of each other. After a couple of months she moved from Joy Street into his converted stable off Charles Street, the cheaper of their two apartments.

Three months before she finished law school, R.J. discovered she was pregnant. At first she and Charlie were terrified, but then they were filled with radiance at the thought of being parents and agreed they would be married at once. Several mornings later, however, while Charlie was scrubbing for the O.R., he was suddenly doubled over by a piercing pain in the lower left quadrant of his abdomen. An examination revealed the presence of kidney stones that were too large for him to pass naturally, and within twenty-four hours he was admitted to his own hospital as a patient. Ted Forester, the best surgeon in the department, performed the operation. Charlie appeared to sail through the initial post-op period, except that he was unable to void urine. When he hadn’t urinated in forty-eight hours, Dr. Forester ordered that he be catheterized, and an intern inserted the catheter and gave him relief. Within two days, Charlie’s kidney was infected. Despite antibiotics, the staph infection spread through his bloodstream and localized in a heart valve.

Four days after the operation, R.J. sat by his bed in the hospital. It was obvious to her that he was very sick. She had left word that she wanted to see Dr. Forester when he came on rounds, and she thought she should telephone Charlie’s family in Pennsylvania, so his parents could talk to the doctor if they wished.

Charlie moaned, and she got up and washed his face with a wet cloth. “Charlie?”

She took his hands in hers and leaned over and studied his face. Something happened. A current of information passed from his
body into hers, into her mind. She didn’t know how, or why. It wasn’t imagined, she knew it was real. In a way she couldn’t understand, she was suddenly aware that they wouldn’t be growing old together. She couldn’t drop his hands, or run away, or even cry out. She just stayed where she was, bending over him, gripping his hands tightly as if she could hold him back, memorizing his features while she still had a chance.