Doctors (11 page)

Barney did not see Laura till she came down to make a brief, reluctant appearance on an August weekend at the house in Neponset—on which the Castellanos and Livingstons had quixotically obtained an option to buy.

Warren, about to enter his senior year at Midwood, was absent, still working as a busboy at Greenwood Manor, the famous Catskill Mountains resort. The tips, he wrote his parents in a message to be conveyed to Barney, were largest for those
waiters aspiring to be doctors. His own chosen profession—the law—barely edged out accountancy for second place.

After dinner, Laura and Barney took a walk on the beach in the late-setting sun.

“How are your folks?” he asked.

“I’m not staying long enough to find out,” she replied. “I’m taking the train to Boston on Monday morning.”

“But it’s six weeks till school starts.”

“Yeah, but a friend’s invited me to his family’s house on the Cape.”

“Is that serious—or are you just going for the scenery?” he asked.

She shrugged.

He could not tell whether she was being evasive or was genuinely unsure.

“Who’s the guy, anyway?”

“His name’s Palmer Talbot.”

“He sounds like a sports car,” Barney remarked. “Is he nice?”

“Come on, Livingston, would I be dating somebody who wasn’t nice?”

He looked at her with a sly smile and answered, “Probably. I mean, you’ve already got a track record.”

“Maybe this guy’s different.”

“Yeah, he’s got two last names.”

On the way back Laura took a good look at Barney and, for the first time, noticed the fatigue etched in his face.

“This working nights is gonna send you to an early grave, Barn. Can’t you get a different job?”

“No, Castellano, I like this one. It gives me lots of time to study. And besides, I’m moving up in the ranks. I’ll be a first-string doorman next year.”

“I still say you’re killing yourself,” she insisted.

“Listen, you’re not a doctor yet.”

“Yeah, but at the rate you’re going, the cadaver I get in Med School may be you.”

1955 would be fondly recalled as the year Americans twice danced for joy in the streets. Once it was for an event unprecedented in the history of Brooklyn—the Dodgers actually
beat
the New York Yankees and won the World Series!

And there was the nationwide explosion triggered by the announcement on April 12 giving the results of a large-scale trial
of Jonas Salk’s vaccine on the schoolchildren of Pittsburgh. Simply stated, it had
worked.
Science had conquered polio!

The entire country went wild and, as one observer recalled, “rang bells, honked horns, blew factory whistles, fired salutes, kept their traffic lights red in brief periods of tribute, took the rest of the day off, closed their schools or convoked fervid assemblies therein, drank toasts, hugged children attended church, smiled at strangers, forgave enemies.”

Now there would be no more tragedies like Isobel Castellano anywhere. God bless Dr. Salk.

If only he had found it
sooner.

I
t was the Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend. Warren was devouring a jelly doughnut and the Sports section of the
Times.
His father was leafing aimlessly through the Book Review. He seemed paler and more jittery than usual and was already on his third cigarette of the day.

“More coffee, darling?” Estelle asked solicitously.

“No, thanks. I feel a bit stuffy. I think I’ll go to the garden and get a bit of fresh air.”

“Fine. I’ll come with you,” she replied.

Harold grasped his cane and struggled to his feet—he was always stubborn about refusing help.

Warren had progressed to the “News of the Week” when he heard his mother’s voice crying in panic from the garden, “Help, help—somebody help!”

In an instant he was at the back door and saw his father lying prostrate on the ground. Warren dashed over.

“What happened, Ma?”

“We were standing here talking,” Estelle sobbed, “and all of a sudden he just fell. I think he’s unconscious—I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Warren knelt and looked at his father, whose eyes were closed and whose face was ashen. He grabbed Harold by the
shoulder and shouted—as if to wake him—“Dad, Dad.” There was no response. He held his hand under his father’s nostrils but was unable to tell whether he was breathing.
He thought so.
He could not be sure. But then he put his ear to Harold’s chest.

“It’s okay, Ma—it’s okay. I can hear his heart. But it’s beating pretty fast. I’d better get Dr. Castellano.”

She nodded, mute with fear. As Warren sprinted off, Estelle knelt and cradled her husband’s head in her lap.

Luis’s car was not in front of the house. Warren raced up the steps and rang the bell and pounded on the front door. It was opened by Inez.

“Dad’s sick—he’s fainted or something. Where’s Dr. Castellano?”

“Oh,
María Santísima
, he just left to see some patients. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Listen, there’s a Dr. Freeman very close by on Park Place,” she said, pointing to her left.

“Great, great. What number?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know—but it is the only apartment house on the block. His name is outside on a brass
letrero
near the front door. You get the doctor. I will go to Estelle and see if I can help.”

Less than two minutes later, Warren stood breathless outside 135 Park Place, pressing the button next to
OSCAR FREEMAN, M.D.
In a few moments, a man’s voice came over the intercom. “This is Dr. Freeman. Can I help you?”

“My father’s fainted, Doctor. I mean, he’s just lying on the ground. Can you please come quickly?”

“Is he unconscious?”

“Yes, yes,” Warren replied, now almost shouting with anxiety. “Can you hurry—
please
?”

There was a brief silence.

Then the physician’s disembodied voice said unemotionally, “I’m sorry, son, I think you’d better call an ambulance. I can’t get involved in this sort of thing—professional reasons.”

There was a click. Warren stood motionless for an instant, lost and confused. He had never imagined that the doctor wouldn’t come. Oh, God, he thought, what should I do now?

He ran back home, propelled by fear.

The scene in the garden was practically as he had left it, except that Inez had brought a blanket to cover Harold, who was shivering.

“Where’s the doctor?” Estelle demanded.

“He wouldn’t come,” Warren retorted angrily. “Has anybody phoned the hospital?”

“Yes,” Inez replied, “they said they would come as soon as possible.”

The ambulance arrived twenty-seven minutes later.

It brought Harold Livingston to King’s County Hospital, where he was pronounced dead.

Barney was working at The Versailles when Warren called. He raced into the street, flagged a taxi, and leaped in.

“This is a new one on me,” the driver jested, “a doorman flagging a cab for himself.”

“Spare me the jokes,” Barney snapped. “Just get me to King’s County Hospital as goddamn fast as you can.”

The corridor was badly lit and smelled of disinfectant. At the far end, Barney could see Inez comforting his weeping mother and could hear Luis bellowing, “
Mierda!
—this was stupidity—nonsense! You should never have let him off!”

As Barney came closer, he saw the Spaniard berating his younger brother, who was in a state of shock. “I swear, Dr. Castellano,” Warren kept protesting weakly, “I told him it was life and death—”

Seeing her elder son, Estelle rose and cried out, “Barney, Barney.” And rushed to embrace him.

The world seemed to stop as he held his grieving mother in his arms, trying to comfort her.

After a few moments, Estelle murmured, “I want to see him again. Will you come with me, Barney?”

Her elder son nodded.

He looked at his brother’s face and sensed the qualms he was feeling. “Warren, stay here with the Castellanos till we get back.”

Alone with Luis as they both walked to the hospital parking lot, Barney was finally able to ask, “What were you so angry about back there, Dr. Castellano?”

Punctuating his interjections with profanity, Luis recounted the events of that morning.

Barney was confused. “How could a doctor just sit on his ass and let my father die?”

Luis answered through clenched teeth, “The craven bastard was afraid of a lawsuit.”

“I don’t understand—what kind of lawsuit?”

“My boy, in this great land many physicians will not come to an emergency like this. Because if the patient dies, the family can later sue for malpractice.”

“Isn’t it a doctor’s responsibility to help?”

“Only morally,” Luis answered with quiet anger. “Not legally. No law says that a physician absolutely has to come.”

“Do you think it would have made a difference?” Barney asked.

Luis shrugged. “We’ll never know. Your father’s cause of death was myocardial infarction. Time makes a crucial difference when you are dealing with ventricular fibrillations. Freeman could have injected lignocaine—and at least started trying to resuscitate.”

Barney exploded with rage. “I’ll kill that guy—I’ll go and kill him with my bare hands.”

Luis grasped Barney’s shoulder tightly. “
Calma, cálmate, hijo.
There is no point. You must accept that he is dead. You must be calm for your mother’s sake. Remember you are the man in the family now.”

It was almost midnight when they got home. Laura had arrived from Boston moments earlier.

“I’ve—uh—made some coffee and sandwiches,” she said diffidently. “I mean, if anybody’s hungry.…”

The Livingstons’ sadness was palpable and yet she could see that Barney was suffering more than grief.

Luis and Inez took Estelle upstairs: he to give her a sedative and she to help her get ready for bed. Warren took a sandwich and an apple and headed for his room—to be alone with his sorrow.

That left only Barney and Laura in the kitchen.

“Hey, Barn, talk to me,” she said softly. “I know you’re hurting and it’ll help to talk.”

He lowered his head.

She went over, knelt down, and touched his arm. “Say something, Barn.”

Finally, he gave voice to his obsession. “I can’t believe it—a
doctor
let him die.”

“Barney, that’s not important now.”

“Well, then, what the hell is?”

She put her hand on his cheek and he grasped it like a drowning man would seize a lifeline.

And allowed himself to cry.

*    *    *

In the days that followed, Estelle Livingston was inconsolable. Barney stayed at home, only venturing to Manhattan for a class or to work a night shift at The Versailles.

Harold’s funeral, though planned for only the closest of relations, was augmented by more than a dozen teachers from Erasmus Hall who remembered him with affection, and even by a few former students who had read of his death in the
Brooklyn Eagle.

One evening two weeks later, Estelle and her sons sat around at the kitchen table to talk about the future. “We’re going to be all right,” she told them. “Harold was meticulous about these things. We own the house free and clear. His will requests that his two sons share his library. He wasn’t more specific. He knew that you’d act fairly with each other.”

“I couldn’t bear to take any of his books,” Barney murmured.

Warren nodded. “Me either. I want to leave everything—you know—just where it is.”

Estelle understood. They needed time—all of them.

“He took care of us,” she continued. “His insurance from the Teachers’ Federation will pay fifteen thousand dollars and his GI policy another ten. That means we won’t have any real financial worries.”

The two brothers nodded.

“I’ve given a lot of thought to what to do with this money,” she continued. “Barney, I want you to stop working yourself to death. For the rest of the time you’re at Columbia, I’ll pay all your expenses so you can just study.”

Barney raised his hand to protest but she cut him off.

“Please,” she insisted, and then said the words she knew would put an end to all discussion. “That’s what your father wanted. Don’t think we didn’t talk about this.”

Barney sat motionless, trying to imagine how painful these conversations must have been for his mother.

“I’m putting the same amount in the bank for you,” she said to Warren. “So you can afford to go to any law school you want.”

“But Mom,” said Warren quietly, “what would that leave you with?”

“I’ll be just fine. As soon as you graduate from college I can put up the house for sale—”

By unconscious reflex, the brothers answered in unison, “No!”

“Be realistic, boys, do either of you intend to practice in Brooklyn?” she asked. “Besides, Aunt Ceil’s been sending us brochures from Florida for years and, frankly, ever since she convinced Grandma to move down, I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to spend winters without galoshes and umbrellas.

“I know what this place means to you,” she continued. “There are memories in every corner. But please believe me—we can sell the house and keep the memories. They’ll always belong to us.”

“I guess you’re right, Mom,” Barney said with a sigh of resignation.

There was nothing more to say.

At the beginning Barney could not fully grasp the reality that, for the first time in his life, he could do whatever he wanted in vacation time.

The following summer, while Estelle went down to apartment hunt in Miami, the brothers Livingston signed up for a cross-country bus tour—the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone Park, the California Redwoods—culminating with three days in Hollywood.

And for the first time they got to know each other as adults. They talked about their dreams, the “Miss Perfect” they each thought they wanted to marry.

“It’s going to be sad,” Warren said half-aloud.

“What do you mean, War?”

“I mean, Dad won’t be at our weddings. You know, I just can’t get used to that idea.”

“Me either.”

They had always been brothers. But that summer they became friends.