The Final Diagnosis (17 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re purchase requisitions. For things I need in this department. And every time I put a bunch through I have a fight with the administrator. He says we’re spending too much money.”

Alexander had made his first mistake in broaching the suggestion when Pearson had not wanted to hear. Now he made a second error. He mistook Pearson’s statement as an invitation to continue the discussion.

He said placatingly, “But surely, if it would save a whole day, maybe two . . .” He became more earnest. “Dr. Pearson, I’ve seen slides made with a processor and they’re good. Perhaps the one you saw wasn’t being used properly.”

Now the older man had risen from his chair. Whatever the provocation, Alexander had overstepped the bounds between physician and technologist. Head forward, Pearson shouted, “That’ll do! I said I’m not interested in a tissue processor, and that’s what I meant, and I don’t want any argument about it.” He came around the desk until he was directly in front of Alexander, his face close to the younger man’s. “And there’s something else I want you to remember: I’m the pathologist here and I’m running this department. I don’t mind suggestions if they’re reasonable. But don’t get stepping out of line. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Crestfallen and miserable, not really understanding at all, John Alexander went back to his work in the lab.

Mike Seddons had been preoccupied all day; several times he had had to check himself and make a conscious effort to pull back his mind to the work he happened to be doing. Once, during an autopsy, McNeil had been forced to warn him, “There’s a piece of your hand under that section you’re about to slice. We like people to leave here with all the fingers they came with.” Seddons had changed his grip hastily; it would not have been the first time that some inexperienced learner had lopped off a gloved finger with one of the razor-edged knives of pathology.

All the same his attention still kept wandering, the question recurring: What was it about Vivian that disturbed him so? She was attractive and desirable, and he was anxious to take her to bed as quickly as possible—Mike Seddons was under no illusions about that. She seemed amenable, too, assuming the pain in her knee the night before had been genuine, and he now believed it was. He hoped she would still feel the same way, though there was no guarantee she would, of course. Some girls were inconsistent like that—you could have the most exotic intimacies with them one day, then the next time round they would reject even the most basic advance, pretending that the earlier incident had never even happened.

But was there something more to Vivian and himself than merely sex? Mike Seddons was beginning to wonder. Certainly none of the earlier episodes—and there had been several—had caused him to do half so much thinking as he was doing right now. A new thought occurred to him: Perhaps if he could get the sex bit out of his system other things might become clearer. He decided to ask Vivian to meet him again; and tonight—assuming she would be free—was as good a time as any.

Vivian had found the note from Mike Seddons when she finished her last class of the day and went back to the student nurses’ residence. It had been delivered by hand and was waiting for her in the mail rack under “L.” It asked her to be on the hospital’s fourth floor near Pediatrics at 9:45 that night. At first she had not intended to go, knowing she would have no reason officially to be in the hospital and she might be in trouble if she ran into any of the nursing supervisors. But she found herself wanting to go, and at 9:40 she crossed the wooden boardwalk between the nurses’ home and the main hospital buildings.

Mike was waiting, strolling in the corridor, apparently preoccupied. But as soon as he saw her he motioned to a door and they went inside. It led to an interior stair well, with a metal stairway leading up and down. At this time of night it was quiet and deserted and there would be plenty of warning of anyone’s approach. Mike went down half a flight onto the next landing, leading her by the hand. Then he turned, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should go into his arms.

As they kissed she felt Mike’s arms tightening and the magic of the night before came sweeping back. At this moment she knew why she had wanted so much to come here. This man with the wild red hair had suddenly become indispensable to her. She wanted him in every way—to be close to him, talk with him, make love with him. It was an electric, exciting feeling she had never known before. He was kissing her cheeks now, her eyes, her ears. His face in her hair, he whispered, “Vivian darling, I’ve been thinking about you all day. I haven’t been able to stop.” With both hands he took her face and looked into it. “Do you know what you’re doing?” She shook her head. “You’re undermining me.”

She reached out for him again. “Oh, Mike darling!”

It was hot on the stairway. Vivian felt the warmth of his body against the fire of her own. Now his hands were questing, seeking. She whispered, trembling, “Mike, isn’t there somewhere else?”

She felt his hands pause and knew he was considering. He said, “I share a room with Frank Worth. But he’s out tonight, won’t be back till late. Do you want to take a chance and come to the residents’ quarters?”

She hesitated. “What would happen? If we got caught.”

“We’d both get thrown out of the hospital.” He kissed her again. “At this moment I couldn’t care.” He took her hand. “Come on.”

They went down one flight of stairs and along a corridor. They passed another resident who grinned as he saw them but made no comment. Then more stairs, another corridor. This time a white figure turned out of a doorway just ahead. Vivian’s heart leaped as she recognized the night nursing supervisor. But the supervisor did not turn around and went in another doorway before they passed. Then they were in a narrower, quieter corridor with closed doors on each side. There were lights beneath some of the doors, and from one she could hear music. She recognized it as Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor; the Burlington Symphony had played it a month or two before.

“In here.” Mike had opened a door, and quickly they moved inside. It was dark, but she could make out the shape of bunk beds and an armchair. Behind her she heard the lock click as Mike fastened the catch.

They reached for each other demandingly, urgently. His fingers were at the buttons of her uniform. When they hesitated she helped him. Now she was standing in her slip. For a moment he held her tightly, together savoring the torture of delay. Then, his hands moving gently, tenderly, and with exquisite promise, he lifted the slip over her head. As she moved to the bed she kicked off her shoes. There was a swift movement and then he was with her, his hands helping her again. “Vivian, darling Vivian!”

She scarcely heard him. “Mike, don’t wait! Please don’t wait!” She felt the contours of his body pressing madly, abandonedly, into her. She responded wildly, fought fiercely to bring him tighter, nearer, deeper. Then suddenly there was nothing else in the world, nothing but a peak of tempestuous ecstasy, now sweeping, searing, surging . . . coming closer, closer, closer.

As they lay quietly together afterward, Vivian could hear the music again, coming faintly from down the hall. It was still Chopin, this time the Etude in E Major. It seemed strange, at this moment, to be identifying a musical composition, but the liquid, haunting melody, heard softly in the darkness, fitted her mood of completion.

Mike reached over and kissed her gently. Then he said, “Vivian dearest, I want to marry you.”

She asked him softly, “Mike darling, are you sure?”

The impetuousness of his own words had surprised even himself. Mike had spoken them on impulse, hut suddenly, deeply, he knew them to be true. His objective in avoiding entanglements seemed pointless and shallow; this was an entanglement he wanted, to the exclusion of all others. He knew now what had troubled him today and earlier; at this moment it troubled him no more. Characteristically he answered Vivian’s questions with a touch of humor. “Sure I’m sure. Aren’t you?”

As her arms went around him Vivian murmured, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

“Hey!” Mike broke away and he propped himself on an elbow, facing her. “All this put it out of my mind. What about your knee?”

Vivian smiled mischievously. “It wasn’t any trouble tonight, was it?”

After he had kissed her again he asked, “Tell me what Lucy Grainger said.”

“She didn’t. She had Dr. Bell take some X-rays this afternoon. She said she’d send for me in a couple of days.”

Mike said, “I’ll be glad when it’s cleared up.”

Vivian said, “Don’t be silly, darling. How could a little bump like that be anything serious?”

Ten

Boston, Mass.

August 7

Mr. H. N. Tomaselli,

Administrator,

Three Counties Hospital

Burlington, Pa.

Dear Mr. Tomaselli:

Since my visit to Burlington a week ago I have thought a great deal about the appointment in pathology at Three Counties Hospital.

This letter is to advise you that, subject, of course, to your still feeling the same way about me, I have decided to accept the appointment on the terms we discussed.

You mentioned that you were anxious for whoever accepted the post to begin work as soon as possible. There is really nothing to delay me here, and after clearing up a few minor things I could be in Burlington ready to begin on August 15—that is, in just over a week from now. I trust this will be a convenient arrangement.

In talking with Dr. O’Donnell he mentioned knowing of some bachelor apartments which will be completed soon and are quite near the hospital. I wonder if you have any more information on this subject and, if so, I would be interested to know of it. Meanwhile, perhaps you would be good enough to make a reservation for me at one of the local hotels for arrival August 14.

On the subject of the work I shall be doing at the hospital, there is one point which I felt we did not clear up entirely, and I am mentioning it now in the hope that perhaps you may be able to discuss it with Dr. Pearson sometime before my arrival.

It is my feeling that it would be advantageous, both for the hospital and myself, if there were some clearly defined areas of responsibility where I could have a reasonably free hand, both in general supervision of the day-to-day work and also the carrying-out of any changes of organization and technique which, of course, are always necessary from time to time.

My own wishes in this regard would be to have direct responsibility, within the pathology department, for Serology, Hematology, and Biochemistry, though, of course, assisting Dr. Pearson in pathological anatomy and other matters at any time he might see fit.

As I say, I have raised this point now in the hope that it may be possible for you and Dr. Pearson to consider it before August 15. But please be assured that at all times I will seek to co-operate fully with Dr. Pearson and to serve Three Counties Hospital to the best of my ability.

Yours very truly,

David Coleman, M.D.

Coleman read through the neatly typed letter once more, put it in an envelope, and sealed it. Then, going back to his portable typewriter, he tapped out a similar but slightly shorter note to Dr. Joseph Pearson.

David Coleman left the furnished apartment which he had rented on a short lease for the few months he had been in Boston and walked to a mailbox with both letters. Thinking over what he had written, he still was not sure why he had chosen Three Counties in preference to the seven other posts he had been offered within recent weeks. Certainly it was not the most remunerative. Thought of in financial terms, it was more than halfway down the list. Nor was it a “name” hospital. Two of the other medical centers in which he had been offered employment had names that were internationally renowned. But Three Counties was scarcely known outside the immediate area it served.

Why then? Was it because he was afraid of being lost, swallowed up, in a bigger center? Scarcely, because his own record already showed he could hold his own in that kind of environment. Was it because he felt he would be freer for research in a small place? He certainly hoped to do some research, but if that were what he wanted most he could have chosen a research institute—there had been one on his list—and done nothing else. Was it because of the challenge that he had made his choice? Maybe. There were certainly a lot of things wrong in pathology at Three Counties Hospital. He had seen that just in the two brief days he had spent there last week, following the phone call from the administrator inviting him to visit the hospital and look the situation over. And working with Dr. Pearson was not going to be easy. He had sensed resentment in the older man when they had met, and the administrator had admitted under Coleman’s questioning that Pearson had a reputation for being hard to get along with.

So was it because of the challenge? Was that why he had picked Three Counties? Was it? Or was it something else, something quite different? Was it . . . self-mortification? Was it that still—the old specter that had haunted him so long?

Of all his traits of character David Coleman had long suspected pride to be the strongest, and it was a defect he feared and hated most. In his own opinion he had never been able to conquer pride; he spurned it, rejected it, yet always it came back—seemingly strong and indestructible.

Mostly his pride stemmed from an awareness of his own superior intellect. In the company of others he frequently felt himself to be mentally far out front, usually because he was. And, intellectually, everything he had done so far in his life proved this to be true.

As far back as David Coleman could remember, the fruits of scholarship had come to him easily. Learning had proved as simple as breathing. In public school, high school, college, medical school, he had soared above others, taking the highest honors almost as a matter of course. He had a mind which was at once absorbent, analytical, understanding. And proud.