The Pursuit of Alice Thrift (13 page)

“Henry Shaw. Please call me Henry.”

“Really?”

“There was a time when I could convince residents to call me by my first name, but I've practically given up trying.” He patted his bald head. “Apparently I'm too distinguished to be called anything but ‘Doctor.' ”

I said, “I'd like to call you Henry.” I picked up my fork and started on my American chop suey, which was actually baked and crispy and unusually delicious. “Moving must have given me an appetite,” I said.

“And you couldn't plan your move on a day off?”

I said, “It
is
my day off.”

When Dr. Shaw didn't say anything, I pushed on. “The easiest thing was to run over here for a bite, no coat, no boots. Convenience won over the institutional food and that smell”—I sniffed the air—“instant mashed potatoes and giblet gravy.” I forced a smile. “And look what pleasant company I found on a Sunday night. . . . Are you attending a birth?”

He smiled. “All done.”

“A girl or a boy?”

“Boy.”

“Long labor?”

“Not too bad.” He shrugged modestly; very long, in other words.

I asked why he was still here.

“Just want to make sure everything's okay. There was a little excitement with the umbilical cord, but he's fine. More trauma for the dad than anyone else, watching it through the camcorder. I'm just going to swing by the nursery for a look-see.” He frowned at his beeper readout. “And another on the way. Early. Thirty-five weeks.”

I said, “You seem so . . . unfrazzled at the prospect of another delivery and being up all night.”

“Sometimes I get frazzled,” he said, “but I keep it to myself. I've seen too many doctors snap at everyone around them, conduct I find most unbecoming. If you can't control your temper and you explode under pressure, then you should find another line of work.”

I didn't want his dinner break to be over. Maybe I should switch to OB so I could sit at the knee of Dr. Henry Shaw and let my frazzlement melt away, dissolved by the tears of ecstatic and grateful patients. I asked how often he did C-sections, and did he like surgery?

He said, “I actually do like surgery. Not the emergencies, not when we're racing against the clock. But for the most part, there's the pot of gold at the end of my particular surgical arc.”

I must have looked blank because he added, “The baby!”

I said, “Sorry. I was having a little reverie of me holding a retractor while you were dissecting down to the uterus, and my staying awake because a baby is more exciting than a gallbladder.”

“You had your difficulties during a cholecystectomy?”

I said, “The retractor hit the surgeon's hand—”

“St. Louis, Missouri, Barnes Hospital, 1964, the first month of my first year. I fell asleep for a second during a hysterectomy and,
bang,
retractor hit scalpel.”

“And what happened?”

“Luckily, nothing. No veins or nerves were damaged—only my pride.”

“Did the attending cause a huge scene?”

“I don't remember one. He asked rather quietly if I'd like to let someone else take over. I slunk away and got drunk, which doesn't help my recall.”

I whispered, “Dr. Hastings threw his scalpel at me. I don't think he was actually aiming at my head, but I didn't know that when he launched it. He could have blinded me or nicked my external jugular.”

“Prima donna behavior,” he grumbled. “Ego on parade.”

I said, “I'm not saying it wasn't a major goof-up on my part, but it wasn't ignorance or incompetence. I mean, I fell asleep. I couldn't help it.”

“The hours are insane,” said Dr. Shaw, “but no one listens to me. The fraternity of surgeons likes to perpetuate its hazing rituals.”

I liked that very much—“hazing rituals.” Leo hadn't thought of that particular characterization when arming me with my closing arguments.

Dr. Shaw looked at his watch. “As much as I'd like to get one of those whoopee pies I resisted in line, and continue our conversation, I have to check on my moms.”

I said, “Hope all goes well tonight.”

He touched my wrist. “Tell me your name again.”

“Alice Thrift.”

“Good luck to you, Dr. Thrift. Don't let the bastards get you down.” He picked up his orange tray, walked a few yards away, then returned. “If I may, one more little piece of unsolicited advice: The night is young, so don't go straight home to bed. That's the temptation—believe me, I remember—but you can sleep when you're old like me. Dig out that winter coat. Find some fresh air beyond the tunnel and the hospital.”

“You mean, get some exercise?”

“That, sure. But I guess I meant, go find some young people, especially ones who don't work here. Go talk about what's happening in the wider world and try not to think about this one.”

Was such a stable and paternal fellow directing me to a bar or a club or a sports arena? I asked for suggestions.

“Call a friend,” he said. “Or jump on the subway. Take it over to Harvard Square. Walk around. Follow the music into a coffeehouse—do they still have coffeehouses? Check the listings in the
Globe.
There's always a lecture you can slip into or a party you can crash.”

How could I tell him that crashing a party was as appealing to me as parasailing or bungee jumping. He meant well, which I couldn't say about many of my self-appointed guidance counselors. And it was so nice to see concern rather than impatience or distaste on an adviser's face.

I said, “I'll try. I could take a nap first, then go out. I have a friend I've been meaning to call. I'll do that right now. Thanks.”

“I want a report,” said Henry. “And don't let me hear that you hit the snooze button and slept straight through till six
A.M.
”

He wanted to hear from me; my new friend Henry wanted a report. I said, “I promise it'll have substance and content. I promise I'll call my friend.”

“Good. Go out. Have fun. Have lots of fun. Something tells me it's overdue.”

I smiled and said, “I may have to sugarcoat this report. I mean, the night is young. Who knows what kind of mischief I could make?”

Henry said, “That's very considerate of you, Alice. I have three daughters who never educated me. I can only tolerate the whitewashed version. So, yes, thank you. You're very kind.”

We both knew he was humoring me—that a man who brought forth babies had a high threshold for the facts of life. I considered running after him to enfold him in a hug, but I wasn't sure about the professional ethics of such an act. Instead I waved fondly. I bought a whoopee pie and headed home.

16.
Slow-Normal

BECAUSE I'D PROMISED AT LEAST TWO MEMBERS OF THE ALICE Thrift
Improvement Committee that I would reinvent myself, I felt obliged to find a telephone. The Boston directory listed no Ray or Raymond or R. Russo in Brighton, nor did any actual human telephone operator leap to my aid. After straining to remember the names of his cousins from my party, I came up with George, who was both listed and at home.

“He's got a private number,” George said, dropping his voice to a whisper.

I assured him that I wouldn't disseminate it to any unauthorized persons.

“Can't. Once I gave it out and Ray got really pissed, so let me call his cell and either him or me will get back to you.”

I told him I was calling from a pay phone in the lobby of my building because I'd neglected to order one of my own—in fact, I didn't realize that was the custom when one relocated.

“Number?” he repeated.

I dictated the ten digits from the dial and told him I'd wait for—what was his estimate of a realistic response time? Five minutes? Ten?

“Stay put,” said George. “I think Ray will want to talk to you even if he can't get out tonight.”

I didn't question that. Everyone I knew had obligations and occupations that restricted their social ventures.

“Give me the address, just in case.”

By now I wished I hadn't involved a third party. Ray's not responding to my note was an eloquent answer. George would feel obliged to pass on a humiliating “Can't you take a hint?”

I said, “This is getting complicated. Just tell Ray that if he wants to talk to me, call now, and if he doesn't want to talk to me, I'll understand.”

George had nothing encouraging to say and apparently no freedom in which to say it. “Stay in the booth and pretend you're fishin' around for quarters so nobody else cuts in,” he advised. “We don't want Ray getting no busy signal.”

Booth? There were no booths in this day and age. Or persons in need of a public phone. I sat down on the craggy carpet and waited.

A UNIFORMED GUARD
was shaking my right shoulder and asking me to vacate the premises. I explained that I was the new tenant in 11G and was merely resting while waiting for a call.

“One second you're on the phone, next second, you're in a heap. Like, I wasn't sure if I had a situation on my hands.” This guard looked as if he were still in high school and as if he'd borrowed both his shirt and his cap from an older brother. “All you docs are alike,” he said. “Some go up in the elevator and it comes back down. I find them sleeping standing up. Pretty creepy. I wake them up and we try again.”

“Did I miss any calls?” I asked.

He said not that he knew of, but he'd been over there, at the desk. Which he'd better get back to now that I wasn't comatose or homeless. Could he help me to the elevator?

I didn't have to answer because at that moment Ray Russo walked through the front door holding a big plastic bag declaring
NOBODY BEATS THE WIZ
.

“Sir?” said the guard, hurrying back to his post.

“I'm here to see Dr. Thrift,” said Ray, and, with a wink, cocked his index finger at me.

“Right behind you—the lady on the floor.”

Ray raised the bag to eye level. “Hey, Doc. A housewarming present! Two-point-four gigahertz. Caller ID, call-waiting ID. I can return it if you don't like the color.”

How was such a thing possible? That George reached Ray, that Ray found a store open on a Sunday night, bought me a phone, and drove to an address I'd never supplied?

He scrawled a celebrity squiggle on the sign-in clipboard, breezed past the desk, pulled me to my feet, then kissed the hand I'd extended.

“Aren't stores closed on Sunday nights?” I asked.

“The phone, you mean? I've been driving around with it for a coupla days—since I got your card—and out of the blue George calls and announces, ‘Doc called from the lobby of her new building.' And you know where I was? Crossing the BU bridge. I swear to God. On a Sunday night, I'm here in eight minutes.” He turned back to the guard. “I parked out front—”

“Sorry. For deliveries only. Gotta move it. You want the hospital garage: a left and another left.”

I sensed that some wink or signal or body English must have passed between them because the guard announced, “In that case, as long as you're gone by midnight.”

“Well?” said Ray, grinning broadly, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Shall we?”

I led him toward the elevator, conscious that my navy-blue cotton sweater had assumed the shape and color of a faded sweatshirt. My sneakers were ancient red Keds, purchased for freshman phys ed, and my jeans had been fished out of my laundry bag. I had expected some time to prepare myself for a male visitor, and had no idea how one disappears and performs discreet ablutions in a studio apartment with company present. In the elevator, Ray peered into my face, then rubbed his knuckles diagnostically against one cheekbone.

I asked what he was doing.

“Your skin has a pattern on it, like you were sleeping on a burlap bag.”

After exploring the indentations myself, I explained that I'd fallen asleep on the carpet waiting for George to call back.

“Good detective work. Good memory, too. And lucky that Georgie's a cousin on my father's side.”

I asked why it was necessary for him to have an unlisted number.

“Customers,” he said. “I learned this pretty quick, that when you're dealing with chocolate and all that entails—gift emergencies, cravings, blue laws—people call whenever the mood strikes like it's their God-given right to order fudge at two
A.M.
It's not enough to leave a message on my voice mail. They have to call my home number. Like they're desperate. Like it was life or death.” He smiled. “No more going through Georgie for you! You're getting my cell-phone number.” He opened the bag so I could peer into it. Inside was an unwrapped box depicting an animated woman speaking into a crimson phone. Not only would I be able to talk to friends for four-point-five hours without recharging but I could store fifty of their names.

THE TOUR TOOK
thirty seconds and inspired no compliments.

“Now what?” Ray asked.

I produced my two folding chairs from the closet as well as the champagne my mother had left in my narrow refrigerator.

“I didn't think I was ever going to hear from you again,” he said after swirling and examining the contents of his paper cup.

I devoted myself to stuffing frayed threads back into a hole in the toe of my left sneaker.

Ray tapped my knee. “Could I have a little eye contact here?” He moved his chair so that we were facing each other. “Words,” he ordered. “Say anything. Start with ‘I' and add—whaddyacallit—an action word.”

“A verb?”

“Yeah. A verb and then maybe another whole set. Something that explains what's up.”

“You mean . . .?”

“Not calling, then writing, then moving, then calling.”

“I decided I'd like some company,” I managed.

“Really? Was I at the top of this company list? Second, third, bottom?”

“First.”

“In other words, the move was a mistake. You had a roommate and now you don't, and you felt lonely so you went through your address book and came up with old Ray.”

I said, “It's not very scientific to declare something a failure on the basis of one day, is it?”

“I don't operate on the basis of scientific. Here's what I know about a new place: You open the door and you think, Ahhh, the moment I was waiting for. Space. Freedom. Privacy. Or you walk in and say, Shit. Now what do I do?”

The truth was that his presence, this invitation, could be traced directly to my mother and to my foolhardy confession involving a contemplated dip into carnal waters. But now that Ray was here, seated in a manner that a family counselor might have employed for a truth-telling exercise, I was conversationally impotent. Any leanings and sensations I'd experienced when alone now seemed impossible to summon.

“Well,” I began, “one impetus was a nice fatherly man, an obstetrician I had dinner with in the cafeteria, who advised me to get out of the house.”

Ray's eyes narrowed. “Was he asking you out?”

“Absolutely not. He was trying to diagnose my social failings, and was taking me under his wing.”

Ray smiled. “Like me. I took you under my wing, didn't I? I guess you like that.”

I told him this Dr. Shaw had recommended an outing to Harvard Square—

“First, forget finding a parking space, and second, what do you think you're going to see on a Sunday night in February besides Harvard students lined up at an ATM?”

“I was thinking music or a lecture, or going to a coffeehouse.”

“There are closer places than Harvard Square to get coffee,” said Ray.

“It's not the beverage. It's the getting out and the not falling asleep after supper.”

“Nothing wrong with sleep if you need it.”

“Except,” I pointed out, “the paradox of sleep: You wait and hope for it all day long, look forward to it, crave it, and then that time actually arrives, and your head hits the pillow. It's sheer bliss, and you close your eyes and then,
snap,
it's morning and you have to face the exact thing you were trying to escape from.”

“Not me,” he said. “I make my own hours.”

That reminded me to inquire about what he did in the off-season—such as now.

“There's still orders to fill—people who buy fudge at the fairs who come back for more—and I call on small grocers and specialty shops.”

“What about warm climates? There must be fairs somewhere in the country all year round.”

“Think about that. Can I travel in warm climates with a couple hundred boxes of fudge in my car? No way. I'd need a refrigerated van at the very least.”

“Is that out of the question?”

He grinned. “Trying to get rid of me?”

I said, “I called you. In fact, I went to the trouble of tracking you down through a third party, which is hardly an act of avoidance.”

With one eye closed as if it were a matter of great delicacy, Ray asked, “Do you know other people besides me who you'd classify as friends?”

I began my inventory—Claire, who was my college roommate sophomore year; Laura, one of my lab partners in Gross Anatomy; and of course my sister, Julie, who would have to have an asterisk next to her name because she lived in Seattle—

Ray was shaking his head, vetoing every name. He took me by the hand in crossing-guard fashion. “C'mon,” he said. “We're fixing this.”

I tried to resist; tried to get some traction on my carpet but my soles were worn smooth. Then he was opening the door, and I was following, indulging an element of something—intellectual curiosity or childish hope—as if Ray knew something I didn't know; as if there were a cure for me at the end of the hall or behind a curtain: a friend from my past or a new job or the winning ticket—life repair as practiced on television talk shows.

But he'd led me only one door away, and he was ringing its bell. A man appeared, holding a copy of
The New England Journal of
Medicine,
wearing a look I knew—sullen and superior.

“Is the lady of the house in?” Ray asked.

“There is no lady of the house,” said the man, and closed the door—not a slam, but all the incivility I needed to lose my microscopic spirit of adventure.

“C'mon,” said Ray. “Don't be discouraged. There's bound to be a friendly face on this floor.”

I said, “Is that what you're doing? Canvassing door to door until you find me a friend?”

“I'm not gonna put it that way, believe me.”

With me making myself small in my own doorway, he knocked on the door directly across the hall. A woman's voice called out, “Who is it?” and Ray answered, “Your new neighbor.”

“Which new neighbor?”

“Across the hall.”

The voice said, “Sorry! My new neighbor is a woman. Nice try, bud. I'm calling security.”

Ray pointed at me, then at the door, calmly, almost wearily, as if he were a veteran of talking women out of summoning the police.

I stepped closer and addressed the painted aluminum. “Um. Hello? I'm your new neighbor in eleven-G. That was my friend, who thinks he's doing me a favor by dragging me around to apartments in order to meet people. Sorry.”

“What's your name?”

“Alice Thrift.”

There was a thunk of a dead bolt, and the door opened. My new neighbor was smiling cynically. Her hair was spiky, the ends the color of Cheddar cheese and the roots dark in a fashion I knew was deliberate. Many small hoops decorated both earlobes. She extended her right hand for a hearty shake. “Sylvie Schwartz,” she said. “Excuse the paranoia.”

Ray waved. “I'm the go-between, Ray Russo. Nice to meet you, Sylvie. You live alone?”

“I should hope so,” said Sylvie. “I mean, six hundred square feet?”

“Same as hers? Studio with kitchenette?”

“That's the rumor. I can't say I've ever been inside the infamous eleven-G.”

I asked if she had known Dr. Gale, my predecessor.

“I know his wife.” She pointed down the hall. “She took up with the guy in eleven-C and moved in with him. No one, including the wife, had a clue he was so devastated.”

“Am I missing something here?” asked Ray.

“The previous occupant committed suicide,” I said.

“It was all so amazingly civilized until it became apparent that something horrible had happened in there,” said Sylvie. We nodded, a private and somber signal between medical professionals verifying
decomposition.

“Those civilized guys are the ones you have to watch out for,” said Ray. “They're bombs waiting to detonate.”