Box (20 page)

After all, I killed his kid. Why should he pay me two hundred grand?

Or I saved his kid, which means I did my job, like the world’s greatest plumber does his job unclogging the family toilet.

So sure, the hospital and I deserve something, but two hundred grand?

How can we possibly charge two hundred grand for a days’ work?

In most cases it’s not even their money at stake, it’s an insurance issue. But he’ll threaten to sue over the deductible, or the overage, or the out-of-pocket, or the increased future premium assessment.

Before the operation we’re all supposed to hold hands and be friends. Afterward, he won’t give a rat’s ass about me, or what I had to go through to save his child.

And neither will Jordan.

I don’t say any of this to the Calfees, which proves I’m getting better at these parent conferences despite the stack of complaints in my personnel file.

“Everyone says you’re the best,” Jordan says. “I know it’s bad, but you’ll save Lainey, right? You will, won’t you?”

When they beg, it’s like I’m drinking the chalk. I’ll need a toilet soon.

Jordan pulls away from her husband and gets right up in my face. Could there be any emotion on earth more raw and heartbreaking than a mother’s love for her dying child? Jordan’s red eyes and wet cheeks are love’s battlefield. When she speaks, her hot, sweet breath fans my lips and fills my nostrils.

“Please, Dr. Box.”

Despite the dire situation, despite Jordan’s considerable beauty, wealth, and status, I see exactly what she wants me to see.

She’s a good person.

By extension, her husband and daughter are good, worthy people.

Of course, I already know this.

She grips my wrist. “I need to know there’s hope.”

I glance at Nurse Sally’s baleful look before responding. She’s Mike Tyson in a dress, only angrier.

Sally’s told me time and again the moms need something to cling to. Something to get them through the multi-hour ordeal that lies ahead. But I won’t give any parent false hope. Sally knows this, but the look in her face says she’s ready to leap across the room and royally fuck…me…up.

I ignore Sally’s look as I always do, and tell Jordan what I tell all the moms.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Calfee. There’s no hope. You need to spend the next few hours adjusting to life without Lainey Sue.”

Jordan backs away slowly, drops to the couch, stunned.

Nurse Sally shouts, “Oh no, you didn’t!” And comes out of her chair like a rocket. She launches a meaty fist toward my throat. Joe steps between us, catches the blow on his forearm, and ushers me from the room.

VII

I DON’T HEAR what happens next, but the routine’s always the same. The dads get angry. The moms cry. They demand to speak to the hospital administrator, Bruce Luce. They want a replacement surgeon, refusing to trust their child’s operation to one who’s already given up.

Bruce is on standby when I meet the parents, so he shows up quickly, finds Nurse Sally hugging Jordan to her ample bosom, Security Joe staring straight ahead with dead eyes while Will curses and threatens to physically assault me.

Bruce says, “We warned you in advance Dr. Box has a terrible bedside manner. He’s a genius, not a communicator. But remember, he’s never lost a patient at this hospital, or any other.”

“Never?” they say.

“Around here he’s called ‘The Miracle,’ and for good reason. Thirty-two hopeless cases. No fatalities.”

“I don’t like him!” Jordan says.

“I don’t either,” Bruce says. “In fact, I hate his guts. But he’ll find a way to save Lainey.”

“How could he stand there and say there’s no hope?” Will asks.

“It takes the pressure off him to be perfect.”

Nurse Sally pipes in, “The truth is Doc Box ain’t fit to be in the company of man nor beast. The good Lord pulled every ounce of useful goodness outta that man at birth, and stuck a lump of coal where his heart should be.”

“But?” Jordan says.

“But he’s the one you want in that room with Lainey, because he never gives up. He’ll fight the devil to save your child. And he will save her. But after he does, leave him be. Don’t go looking for him. Don’t try to thank him.”

“Why?”

“This ain’t a celebratin’ sort of man. You’ve seen him at his best, not his worst. Trust me, you’ll do well to leave him to his lonely miserableness.”

Jordan and Will grudgingly sign off on the surgical procedure, and for the next six to eight hours, I reside in hell.

Of course, Lainey Sue died.

VIII

LAINEY SUE DIED several times on my table, but with her walnut-sized heart in my skilled hands, she came back to life again and again. You’d think this kid was Joan of Arc, the way she fought so valiantly! I got into it like I always do, hurling blood-curdling insults at my colleagues, my hospital, Lainey Sue, her innards, her parents, and even Calfee Coffee, which I actually like.

By the time it was over the nurses were sobbing with joy, and I’d gone through my entire repertoire of oaths and cuss words at least six times, having used them in every possible combination.

My hands were cramped beyond use, my nerves frayed, and the tendons in my back and neck were twisted and gnarled like Gordian Knots from the mental and physical exhaustion that comes from total concentration while standing in a precise position for hours at a time. Like always, the pain in my head felt life-threatening.

On the table, Lainey Sue was resting quietly, pink and fit.

Nurse Janet gushed, “What an amazing little girl! She absolutely refused to die!”

To me she said, “I’m filing a grievance against you for sexual harassment and verbal abuse.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You’ve worked with me before. You know how I am.”

“Never again. I’m done.”

“We just saved a life here. Do you really care about a few cuss words?”

“You’re getting worse.”

“How?”

“You’re a complete psychopath. You called me the C-word. You barked like a dog.”

“Which C-word?”

“All of them. You called me things that didn’t even make sense.”

“I was in a zone!”

Nurse Margaret said, “She’s right. I’ve never heard such vile language. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

She shook her head. “And the things you said to that poor child? And the names you called her?”

She crossed herself.

Then said, “You cursed like a drunken sailor, speaking in tongues.”

IX

HOURS LATER, DESPITE the warnings, Jordan Calfee tracked me down in my office, threw her arms around me and said, “Omigod, you saved my daughter’s life!”

Jordan had looked beautiful that morning. But now, standing in my office, she was positively radiant.

“Dr. Box! Gideon! You’ve given us a beautiful, healthy baby to raise!”

“Who let you in to see me?”

“Your secretary.”

“Lola? Seriously?”

“Your fee, whatever it is, isn’t enough. How can I possibly repay you?”

She seemed sincere.

I said, “Would you consider a blow job?”

Jordan paused a moment, as if her ears momentarily betrayed her. Then she slapped my face full-force, stormed out of my office, and reported me to Administrator Luce. She followed that up with a written statement to the hospital’s board of directors, effectively earning me a four-day suspension and six months’ probation.

We all would have preferred a harsher ruling, but there were two patients in the cue who would die if I’m not on duty when they’re strong enough for surgery. One is Lilly Devereaux, whose parents, Austin and Dublin, offered to donate a wing to the hospital if I save their child’s life.

Since Lilly’s surgery will likely take place in five to seven days, the board voted to suspend me for four days, which would give them time to bribe our existing nurses to work with me, or hire new ones away from our competitors.

Secretary Lola said, “Now you’ll have time to see Shelby Lynn.”

“Who?”

She handed me a letter and said, “It’s from the stack of fan mail I placed on your credenza last month.”

“I’ve got fan mail?”

“You do.”

I look at the letter. “You’ve read this?”

“I read them all. It’d do you good to read them, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re loved by many.”

“Right.”

Lola shrugged, left the room. I sat down, read the letter, then went home and booked the next flight to Cincinnati.

1.

Cincinnati, Ohio.

Thursday, 9:15 p.m.

Firefly Lounge.

“DUDE!” WILLOW SAYS, approaching. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

She stops two feet away, wearing a smile and very little else.

“Glenlivit 21, thirty bucks a shot, right?”

I glance at the dark amber liquid in my glass, then back at her.

She says, “We don’t serve many of those. By the way, I’m Willow.”

“Chris,” I say. “Chris Fowler.”

She laughs. “We don’t use last names in here, Chris.”

I nod.

“You’re in the chair,” she says. “Will I do?”

“Sure.”

Of course she’ll do. Willow’s by far the class of the place. The problem is she knows it.

She flashes me the smile that earns more in tips than hookers get for a toss. It’s a spectacular smile, well worth the fortune her parents must’ve spent on braces a few years back.

I wonder how proud they’d be to see Willow giving lap dances.

She hikes a leg over mine, taking care not to injure me with her five-inch stiletto. Her panties, blood-spatter red to match the shoes, hug her crotch so tightly they could pass for spray-on. Her cropped tee is bright white.

She’s on my lap now, facing me, our eyes two feet apart. Mine black, hers, goldenrod.

I sip my drink. “Want one?”

“What, a Scotch?”

She laughs. “I wouldn’t know it from lighter fluid.”

I place the drink on the table beside us.

Willow says, “You want me facing, or turned away?”

“Facing. I like your smile.”

“Then we’re good.”

She closes her eyes half-mast, pouts her lips, shows me her sultry look.

“You ready?” she purrs.

“What, no music?”

“DJ’s cuing it. I could’ve waited another thirty seconds, but you’re too cute. One of the other girls might’ve stolen you.”

Right, stolen me.

Because I’m so cute.

To keep the conversation going I ask, “What do you drink?”

“Vodka cranberry.”

“Can I buy you one of those?”

“Not here. You know, it’s—”

“Against the rules?”

She laughs. “Against the law, actually.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m underage. For liquor, anyway.”

“Seriously?”

“I know,” she says. “Weird, right?”

The music starts. Willow arches her back, lifts her chin, lowers it, raises it again, licks her lips seductively, then removes her top.

“Show time,” she says.

She puts her hands high over her head and gives her tits a shake. Then leans into me, brushes her nipples across my lips and says, “You like that, sugar?”

“I do. Thanks.”

She gives me an odd look and does that boobs-across-my-lips thing again, expecting me to kiss them, but I don’t.

I picture her ten minutes from now, telling her friend, Cameron about it. She’ll say, “See the older guy in the corner? Black jeans, t-shirt? I was grinding him just now, really working it. I rubbed my tits in his face and asked if he liked it, and guess what he said?”

Cameron will shrug.

“He said, ‘Thanks.’”

They’ll laugh, probably snort a line.

Cameron will ask how much I tipped.

“Two hundred.”

“No shit?” Cameron will say.

Next time they come out, I’ll completely ignore Willow and signal Cameron to come over. They’ll exchange a glance, but really, what can Willow do? She can’t claim I’m her customer if I ask for someone else.

It’s just that no one, especially Willow, expects me to ditch her for Cameron.

If Willow’s a solid eight, Cameron’s a barely-five. But she’ll do her best, and hope to earn a Franklin, or at least a Jackson. I’ll compliment the hell out of her, act like I’m really into it, then I’ll pretend to have an accident. They love it when that happens. Builds their confidence, makes them feel sexier than the others.

I’ll tip Cameron four hundred for a twenty dollar lap dance.

All part of the plan.

Cameron will tell Willow I came in my pants and gave her four hundred bucks.

Willow won’t understand. She’ll flirt, try to get my attention. But I’ll ignore her, break her confidence.

Women want what they can’t have. Even dancers like Willow, who think they’re hot shit.

The music ends, and I hand Willow the two hundred.

She smiles and says, “Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Chris,” I say.

Willow smiles and tosses her head the way pretty women do when they know you want them. She walks away, confident my eyes are on her ass.

Thanks Jimmy, she’d said, all matter-of-fact.

Like it’s every day she gets two hundred bucks for a lap dance.

In her mind she’s got me right where she wants me.

I can’t wait to see her face when she hears about Cameron’s tip.

2.

“OH MY GOD, you were incredible!” Willow gushes, three hours later. “Best sex I ever had!”

I’m lying.

I mean, yeah, we had sex, and I did my part, but Willow was barely involved.

She’s lying on the bed, on her side, her back toward me. When she’s sure I’m done, she moves forward till I slide out of her. She sits up, wipes herself with the bed sheet, and turns to watch me remove the condom and set it on the nightstand.

She regards it with disgust. Then gives me the same look.

Makes sense.

She’s eighteen, I’m forty-two. It is disgusting.

From her perspective.

I prop a pillow beneath my neck and settle in to relax, but catch her looking away, and take the opportunity to suddenly lift my head and kiss her boob.