Private Practices (16 page)

She was almost at the receptionist's desk when she heard loud voices behind her in the corridor. A woman's voice was pleading, “Sign! Please, just sign! All I need is your signature.” And a man's voice was shouting, “Get out of here! Get out now. Right now.” Turning, Emily saw a tall, white-coated man she thought must be Ben Zauber's brother, the doctor who shared the office suite with him, and an elderly heavyset woman in an unstylish pillbox hat. The woman was waving a sheaf of papers at the man, whose craggy face was glowering with anger. “Sign!” the woman pleaded again, thrusting the papers at the man's chest.

“Get out or I'll call the police,” the man boomed back.

“You'll call the police!” The woman was indignant. She stepped closer to the man. Her pillbox hat came as high as his neck.
“I'll
call the police. The DA.”

“I'm a surgeon, not a bookkeeper,” the man intoned.

“The nurse said I had to see you,” the woman shrilled.

The man clenched both his hands into fists and Emily saw his entire body shudder in a paroxysm of fury. Then he slowly raised one of his fists. The woman didn't see it. She was glaring up at him. Emily froze, sure that the man was about to smash his fist into the woman's upturned mouth, and too terrified to intervene. Just then the red-faced nurse who sometimes sat at the reception desk darted down the corridor past Emily and, racing up to the embroiled couple, grabbed the woman, spinning her out of the man's reach. His arm sank heavily to his side and a moment later he disappeared down the corridor and out across the waiting room. In the distance a door slammed shatteringly.

“Who was that? What was that all about?” Emily said, approaching the nurse. The heavyset woman was still holding her papers clutched in one hand, although now she was crying and blotting her eyes with the other.

The nurse didn't answer but turned her full attention to the sobbing woman, saying, “Ssh. Calm down. Calm down now.”

“But I don't know what to do anymore,” the woman moaned. “I've written to him. I've called him. I thought if I came down personally, it would work.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” The nurse purposely ignored Emily. The older woman was too upset to pay attention to her.

“I'm going to call the county medical society,” the woman wept. “I am. This time I really am.”

“Oh, I wouldn't do that, honey. Really I wouldn't. He'll come 'round. Just give him time.”

“Am I the only one?” the woman asked suspiciously.

“The only one who what?” Emily asked.

The nurse responded to Emily at last, turning from the older woman to give Emily a professional smile and saying, “Mrs. Harper, I know you want to make your next appointment and I'll be with you in a moment if you'll wait outside in the front.”

Emily stood her ground. “You might give me the courtesy of an answer.”

Emily's obstinate insistence made the nurse more reasonable. “I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “It was just, well, a private matter between this woman and her doctor. We're all entitled to privacy, aren't we?”

It mollified Emily. She confided, “I thought the doctor was about to hit her.”

“You're imagining things,” the nurse said, her wide-pored cheeks flooding with color. “What an idea! That was Dr. Sidney Zauber. You've heard of him, haven't you?”

Emily nodded. “Dr. Ben Zauber's brother. He was in the newspapers.”

“Well, there you are,” the nurse said, as if she had settled the whole matter.

“You're sure it was nothing serious?” Emily asked hesitantly.

“Yes. Of course.”

At last Emily nodded again, thinking that perhaps she had mistaken the craggy-faced doctor's intentions. Perhaps she had simply interpreted intense argument as intended assault. She didn't want to be considered a troublemaker. Still, she lingered a moment longer, wondering if the elderly woman would ask for her support. But although the woman had stopped crying, she still took no interest in Emily. Instead, she began leafing through her papers, checking each one anxiously and looking up at the nurse occasionally as she did so. “Could you try it for me?” she said to the nurse when she had finished her perusal. “Maybe that would work.”

The nurse sighed, then nodded, and said, “Okay. I'll try. Do you want to come back for the form or have me mail it on to you?”

“I'll come back.” The woman handed the sheaf of papers to the nurse.

Embarrassed, Emily moved away. Clearly she was making a nuisance of herself. The other woman didn't need her assistance. Convinced that she had misperceived the situation, Emily headed for the waiting room and as she walked away the nurse called out quite sweetly, “If you'll just give me a moment to finish up here, I'll be out at the desk right away and we'll make your next appointment pronto.”

Emily shrugged and decided not to wait. She'd already wasted ten minutes of her shopping time and made a fool of herself to boot. “That's okay,” she apologized to the nurse. “Take your time. I'm sorry I interrupted. I'll call in for my appointment this afternoon.”

In the waiting room, she retrieved her raincoat from the pink-striped loveseat where she had draped it and hurried off to Bloomingdale's. The nurse was still talking in the corridor with the elderly woman.

Ben waited out the commotion in the corridor, loath to tangle with Sidney when he was in the middle of a tantrum. But he knew he ought to say something. Sidney had never taken placidly to filling out or signing medical insurance forms but lately, what had once been a mere dislike had blossomed into sheer hatred. When patients mailed the forms to him, he tossed them into his wastebasket. When they telephoned to inquire about why they hadn't received them back yet, he claimed the forms had never reached him. And when they brought them down to the office personally, he raged at them and withdrew.

It was as if Sidney had become phobic about signing his name, Ben thought, sitting worriedly at his desk. All month he had not only declined to fill out a single insurance form, but he had even refused to sign any letters or checks. Cora had complained to him that Sidney, who normally oversaw the financial end of the practice and paid all the suppliers' bills, had not once this month agreed to sit down and go over monetary matters with her. Nor would he let her take charge and replicate his signature. Her sense of order and efficiency offended, she had urged Ben to have a talk with Sidney about delegating some of the office responsibilities.

He had put it off. To his extreme shock and annoyance, he was already engaged in a constant dispute with Sidney about his research. In this, Sidney had been as inactive as he had been about financial concerns. He had refused to cancel the Caribbean project or even to consider altering its direction to study the dropouts. Nor had he communicated with Neville, although Neville had left messages for him several times, and had even taken to calling Ben, too.

The noise in the corridor had at last subsided. Ben rose. Sidney's outburst was over. He might as well have another go at the matter of the research. And while he was at it he could mention to Sidney that signing the damn insurance forms would cause less hassle and time loss than refusing to sign them was doing.

Sidney was on the phone. He signaled to Ben to take a seat and he started for the chair alongside the desk, only to notice that it was piled high with unopened bills. He sat down on the leather couch opposite the desk instead. But even here there was an immense scattering of wrapped journals and unopened letters and manila envelopes. As he sat, the pile shifted, some of the mail slipping down behind the couch cushions. He pulled it out and saw in his hand a thick envelope from Keith Neville. He knew what it contained. Neville had told him on the phone several days before that he had almost completed an article on his findings about the Zauber pill and was about to offer it to one of the most prestigious American medical journals. A publication where he had a good contact on the board of editors. He had promised Ben he would send a copy of the manuscript to Sidney.

Ben was dismayed to see that Sidney hadn't even opened it. Thinking of Neville, he remembered anew the armless fetus and the suckling baby with a knot of flesh for fingers. It was essential that, until his pill was cleared of suspicion, Sidney stop testing it. And it was essential that he inform the Deutsch Foundation of Neville's theory. Fingering the envelope from Neville, he changed his mind about discussing Sidney's irritating new disruptiveness in the office. There was no point in attacking him on all fronts. It would be best to concentrate his efforts on the more important one. As soon as Sidney was off the phone, he leaned forward and shoved the envelope from Neville on top of Sidney's desk.

Sidney frowned, ripped it in half, and tossed it into his wastepaper basket.

Ben was appalled. He stood up, gesturing at the wastebasket with a jutting chin. “That's going to be published, Sid.”

“Fat chance.” Sidney picked up his phone and started to dial another call.

“Listen, Sid,” he found himself pleading. “This is not something you can afford to kid around about. Neville's going to get the damn thing published.”

“So what? No one'll take him seriously.”

“I think a lot of people are going to take him seriously.”

“Let's wait and see.”

“You can't afford to just wait and see. It's in your own best interests to report his findings, at least to the Deutsch people, before he does. If you don't, they're bound to be angry and who knows, they might withdraw their support from you altogether.”

Sidney had been calm, if unresponsive. But now suddenly he too stood, and, the phone receiver still in his hand, hurled his voice across the desk at Ben. “Don't tell me what my own best interests are! I ought to know what my own best interests are!”

Ben felt a nervous cramp in the pit of his stomach, as if he had to move his bowels. When they were little, Sidney's tantrums had always affected his stomach, adding to his fear of his brother's explosiveness a terror of his own potential loss of control. “All right, all right, calm down,” he said ingratiatingly, trying to ignore the tremulousness in his gut. “Just promise me you'll read what Neville has to say.” His deferential manner filled him with self-loathing, but he knew from long experience that it could soothe Sidney. “I know you're busy, but try to make time for it,” he murmured.

His tactic worked. Sidney's voice quieted and he grumbled, “Okay. I'll read it. Maybe tomorrow.”

Ben retrieved the segmented article, each half still in half a manila envelope, from the wastebasket and put it back on Sidney's desk. “Thanks,” he remarked enthusiastically. “That's all I'm asking of you.”

In Bloomingdale's maternity department, Emily sorted through the racks of tent-shaped dresses, fingering the spring silks and summer cottons. Preoccupied with her own needs and longings, she quickly forgot about the unpleasant incident in the Zaubers' office. There were a myriad of pastel blue jumpers; she had never known pastel blue to have so many gradations. She wanted an unusual dress, a striking, colorful, dramatic dress. Even a sexy dress, she thought, smiling to herself at the notion.

It was odd the way her mind turned constantly to thoughts of sex these days, even though she considered her new capacious body dumpy and undesirable. She was forever aware of a pressure in her loins, a tension that made her ready to make love with Philip every night whereas always before he had had to pursue and persuade her if he desired her more than three or four times a week.

Dr. Zauber said her new interest in sex was caused by hormones, and she should be glad about it. But it made her anxious. Philip was marvelous about satisfying her increased demands for lovemaking, but she couldn't help wondering whether he really enjoyed their times in bed. Was he just humoring her? Was he secretly yearning for some flat-bellied svelte creature? Would it really be possible for her to do as Dr. Zauber had suggested and, by fighting the cultural stereotype about pregnancy, cease to feel so unappealing.

Catching a glimpse of herself in a mirrored pillar, she doubted that mind could conquer
her
matter, and she couldn't help scolding her body. Why couldn't it have felt so desirous when it had looked desirable, and sexless now that it was bloated? Well, there was no help for it, she decided, at last selecting a few dresses from the rack. It was just another of the ways in which nature showed its cruelty, its fondness for practical jokes.

“Can I help you?” a young, redheaded salesclerk asked, coming up to Emily and gesturing at the clothes over her arm.

Emily relinquished them and followed the salesclerk into a dressing booth. Then she drew the curtains and once again removed Dorothy's slacks and blouse. But all the dresses disappointed her. They looked dreadfully unflattering. Their skirts seemed to be made of acres of fabric. She tried on a dark-flowered print, the best of the lot, a second time. Slipping it over her head she struck a fashion model's pose, one arm on her hip, one leg thrust angularly forward. “Come here, darling, I want you,” she pouted to her reflection, laughing at herself and swirling yards of fabric across her stomach. “Do you hear me, Philip darling?” she said, enjoying her game.

Suddenly she blushed with feverish embarrassment. The salesclerk had pulled aside the curtain to the dressing room and was saying, “How're you doing?”

“Not so well,” Emily confessed, wondering how much of her playacting the salesclerk had seen. “I—I wanted something sexy,” she explained.

The salesclerk giggled. “You're not the only one. A lot of women who come in here want bright colors and vivid patterns or even black lace and beige crochet.”

“Why don't you sell it then?”

“It's the manufacturers,” the salesclerk said. “They don't make it for Maternity.”