Doctors (4 page)

When the two fathers had retired to Luis’s study and the mothers to the kitchen, Laura said to Barney, “Gosh, I love your dad. He knows everything.”

He nodded, but thought to himself, Yeah, but I wish he’d talk to
me
more often.

Every Saturday afternoon, Barney’s mom and dad sat religiously by the radio, waiting for the soft-spoken Milton Cross to announce what the mighty voices of the Metropolitan Opera would be singing that day. Meanwhile, Luis and Inez would take little Isobel for a stroll in Prospect Park.

This left Laura, Barney, and Warren free to attend the children’s matinee at the Savoy Theater (admission a quarter, plus a nickel for popcorn).

It was a time when movies were not merely frivolous entertainment, but moral lessons on how good Americans should live. Randolph Scott on his white horse, riding bravely into
Badman’s Territory
to save the good; John Wayne
Tall in the Saddle
, riding
his
white horse to tame—it seemed almost single-handedly—the savage lands out West.

In a more tropical setting, Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan showed every kid the value of swimming lessons, especially if they were caught in crocodile-infested waters.

But their hero of heroes was Gary Cooper. Partly because he was built like a basketball star, and partly because he had helped the Spanish guerrillas in
For Whom the Bell Tolls.
But most of all because he was a courageous physician in
The Story of Dr. Wassell.
As they emerged bleary-eyed from having sat through two complete showings of the movie, Barney and Laura concluded that his was the noblest profession of all.

Of course, they had an equally admirable doctor considerably closer to home. Luis Castellano may not have been as tall as Coop, but in his own way he was a paragon for both his daughter and for Barney (who often daydreamed that his neighbor was somehow his father, too).

Luis was flattered to learn of Barney’s ambition, but was quietly indulgent of what he considered a mere flight of
fancy on his daughter’s part. He was certain she would out-grow this quixotic daydream, get married, and have lots of
niños.

But he was mistaken.

Especially after Isobel died.

I
t was sudden as summer lightning. And like the thunderclap that follows, grief came only later.

Polio was on the rampage that year. The Angel of Death seemed to be stalking every street in the city. Most Brooklyn parents who could afford it were sending their children to the rural safety of places like Spring Valley.

Estelle and Harold had already rented a bungalow on the Jersey shore for the month of August. But Luis insisted upon staying where he was needed, and Inez did not want him to fight the battle on his own. The Livingstons offered to take the girls, and Luis gratefully responded that he and Inez would seriously consider it.

Perhaps he had been too preoccupied with virulent cases of poliomyelitis to recognize that his own younger daughter was showing some of the symptoms. But how could he not have noticed she was feverish—and breathing rapidly? Perhaps because the little girl never once complained of feeling sick. Only when he found her unconscious one morning did Luis realize to his horror what was wrong.

It was respiratory polio, the virus ferociously attacking the upper part of the spinal cord. Isobel could not breathe even with the help of an iron lung. She was dead before nightfall.

Luis was wild with self-recrimination. He was a doctor, dammit, a doctor! He should have been able to save his own daughter!

Laura refused to go to sleep. She was afraid that if she closed her eyes she too would not wake. Barney kept her company in a nightlong vigil of silent mourning as she sat in the
suffocating heat of their living room, her insides bruised and aching.

At one point he whispered, “Laura, it’s not your fault.”

She seemed not to hear him. Her eyes remained unfocused.

“Shut up, Barney,” she retorted, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But inwardly she was grateful—and relieved—that he had put into words her feelings of guilt for being alive when her sister was dead.

Estelle was the only one capable of making the funeral arrangements. She assumed that the Castellanos would want a Catholic ceremony, and so contacted Father Hennessey at St. Gregory’s. But the moment she announced the plans, Luis bellowed, “No priest, no priest—not unless he can tell me why God took my little girl!” Estelle dutifully called Father Hennessey to say he would not be needed after all.

Then Harold came over and tried to persuade the Castellanos that something had to be said. They could not simply part with their daughter and say nothing. Inez looked at her husband, for she knew it was up to him. He lowered his head and then mumbled, “Okay, Harold, you’re the scholar, you talk. Only I forbid you to mention the name of God.”

The two families watched in the unpitying August sun as the little casket was lowered into the ground. Barney reached out and took Laura’s hand. She squeezed it tightly as if it could close off her tears. And as they stood around the grave, Harold Livingston read a few lines from a poem by Ben Jonson about the death of a brave Spanish infant.

He raised his head from the book and inquired, “Would anyone else like to say something?”

Finally, from the abyss in Luis Castellano’s soul came the barely audible words, “
Adios, niña.”

They drove homeward, all the car windows open in the vain
hope that a gust of air would relieve the intolerable heaviness. Inez kept repeating in soft, plaintive tones, “
Yo no sé que hacer
”—I don’t know what to do.

At a loss for words, Estelle suddenly heard herself say, “My mother came over from Queens. She’s preparing supper for all of us.”

The ride continued in silence.

As they were crossing the Triborough Bridge, Luis Castellano said to his friend, “Do you like whiskey, Harold?”

“Uh—well, yes. Of course.”

“I have two bottles a patient gave me for Christmas. In the war, we sometimes used it as anesthetic. I would be grateful if you joined me, amigo.”

Laura was back in her own home, but she still could not go to sleep. Nor would she talk, although Barney sat faithfully nearby. Her mother and Estelle were upstairs in Isobel’s old room doing something. Taking off the sheets? Packing her clothes? Maybe even just holding her dead sister’s dolls—as if something of her living spirit still clung to them.

Now and then, Laura could perceive from above the almost feral sounds of Inez’s grief. But it was mostly the noise of raucous male laughter that filled the house. Harold and Luis were in his study getting very very drunk, Luis bellowing at Harold to join some of the “good old songs—like
Francisco Franco nos quiere gobernar
 …”

Barney could not help feeling frightened. He had never heard Luis—and certainly not his father—so out of control.

“I guess they’re really gonna finish the whole two bottles, huh, Laura?”

“I don’t care …” She paused a moment and then said, “All I can think of is the times I was mean to her. Last Sunday I yelled and called her a stupid little brat.
Last Sunday!
”

Barney leaned forward and whispered, “You had no way of knowing.”

Then she began to sob.

“I should be punished. I should be the one who’s dead.”

Without a word Barney rose, walked over to where she was sitting, and put his hand gently on her shoulder.

Throughout the rest of that hot, stifling summer, Laura, Barney, and Warren played endless games of basketball, relieved only by their Saturday visits to the air-conditioned Savoy. And
Barney did not remember hearing Laura mention her sister’s name even once. Until the first day of school when the three of them were walking toward P.S. 148.

“Isobel was supposed to start first grade,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” said Barney. And Warren could but echo, “Yeah.”

The death of a child is never a finality. For she lives vividly on in her parents’ minds. And the ache of loss increases with each passing year—as birthday after birthday brings new haunting, agonizing thoughts: “She would have been ten next week. She would have loved seeing the circus.…”

And thus Isobel never left the Castellano household. The anguish of her absence was a constant presence.

Laura watched with mounting anxiety as her parents moved in different spiritual directions, leaving her abandoned in a love-less vacuum. Each of them sought relief in prayer: Inez for eternity and Luis for oblivion.

Inez began her pilgrimage to reconversion by reading and rereading Saint John of the Cross, the mystical poet who could put the ineffable into words: “
Vivo sin vivir en mí
”—I live without really being alive; “
muero porque no muero
”—I die because I am not dying.

She who, as a young rebel, had denounced the church because it had supported Franco’s Fascists, now sought shelter in its all-forgiving sanctuary. For it alone could offer explanation of why her daughter had to die. The local priest was more than generous in reinforcing Inez’s own conviction that she had sinned against the Lord and this had been her punishment.

In a certain sense, Luis was also seeking God. But to confront Him with his anger. How
dare
You take my little daughter? he railed in his imagination. And then, when his nightly drinking liberated what few inhibitions he had left, he spoke aloud, shaking his clenched fist at the Almighty in savage fury.

As a doctor he had always felt alone, despite the confident facade he assumed because his patients needed it. Now he felt that he was shipwrecked in a life that had no meaning. And the pain of isolation could be assuaged only by a nightly dose of analgesic—alcohol.

Even when on Saturdays the elder Castellanos went off for walks in the park, he was brooding, she silent, together only in their separateness. Laura gladly joined Barney in the literary sessions, newly established by Estelle.

*    *    *

Each month, Estelle would choose a book that they would read aloud together and discuss after breakfast on Saturdays. The
Iliad
shared pride of place with masterpieces like
The Last of the Mohicans
, and bards like Walt Whitman—he a former Brooklyn resident!

Harold would sit and smoke, listening quietly, sometimes nodding in approval if Barney or Laura made a particularly clever observation. Warren was still young enough to be allowed to stay outside and play basketball. But he soon grew jealous of his sibling’s seminars and insisted upon being permitted to sit in.

Life at P.S. 148 went on uneventfully. Barney and Laura did a lot of their studying together, so it was not surprising that they ended up with almost identical grades. Neither, however, excelled in deportment. Indeed, at one point their harried teacher, Miss Einhorn, was driven to write a letter to their parents complaining of their unruliness in the playground and whispering—most often to each other—during class. Laura was once taken to task for throwing a spitball at Herbie Katz.

Barney was the class “wheel.” He seemed to be a born leader. Laura was intensely jealous that she could never join the basketball games during recess despite Barney’s intercession on her behalf. The mores of the time dictated that girls play only with girls. And worse, she was not favored with the friendship of many girls, since she was skinny, gawky—and much too tall. Indeed, to Barney’s chagrin (and her own), she was the tallest person in the entire class. She had broken the five-foot barrier before he did, passed five-one, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

Her moments of solace were rare, but a few were memorable. Like the episode in later years dubbed “High Noon at the Playground.”

It was in fact about 4
P.M.
on a chill November Saturday. Warren, Barney, and Laura had left the movies early—there had been too much Maureen O’Hara and not enough Errol Flynn. As they passed the schoolyard, a three-on-three half-court basketball game was in progress. After a quick exchange of glances, Barney stepped forward and delivered the customary challenge, “We’ll take winners.”

But one player objected, “But there’s only two of youse.”

Barney pointed to his teammates as he counted, “One-two-
three.
”

“Come on, buster, we don’t play with
girls.
”

“She’s not just a girl.”

“You’re right—she’s flat as a boy! But no dice—she’s still wearing a skirt.”

“You want a broken puss, buddy?” Laura asked menacingly.

“Aw, yer mother sucks eggs, girlie.”

In an instant, Barney had knocked the offender onto the ground and was twisting his arm painfully behind his back.

“Ow, shit, stop!” he pleaded, “I give, I give—youse guys get winners!”

They did not lose a single game. As the trio strode homeward, Barney slapped Laura fraternally on the back. “Good game, Castellano. We really showed ’em.”

“Sure did,” Warren chimed in proudly.

But Laura was silent. All she could think of was those wounding words, “She’s flat as a
boy.
”

It happened almost like magic. During the weeks before Laura’s twelfth birthday, her Fairy Godmother must have made frequent nocturnal visits, sprinkling her bedroom with invisible gifts for her endocrine system. Her breasts were growing. They were absolutely, definitely growing. All was suddenly right with the world again.

Luis noticed and smiled to himself. Inez noticed and had to suppress the urge to cry.

Barney Livingston noticed and casually remarked, “Hey, Castellano, you’ve got tits!”

But Barney was growing, too, and as proof there was the fuzz he liked to call his “beard” that sprouted on his face.