Private Practices (33 page)

Sidney murmured, “I told you back in June I wasn't taking barbiturates.”

Alithorn said, “I know you did. But let's face it, Sid. You were. You are.” For a coward, Ben thought, Alithorn was at last displaying some nerve.

Sidney shook his head, melancholy. “You can't prove it.”

“I don't want to prove it. I don't need to prove it. I'm suspending you for missing meetings. But there's a chance, just a chance, mind you, that if you were clean, I could get you back on staff. When all of this dies down.” Alithorn suddenly sounded cheerful, happier than he had been all through the discussion. He put the carving back into his pocket and moved from behind his desk to stand in front of Sidney. Then he laid a paternal hand on Sidney's shoulder.

“You think I like this? You think I like being dictated to by outside pressures? If you got clean, if you went over to Downstate and let them withdraw you, then I'd do whatever I could. I swear I would, Sid.” Having made this offer, Alithorn smiled, pleased at his own generosity.

Sidney, shook his head. “That would be an admission. There'd be records,” he said suspiciously.

Alithorn backed away, holding his hands out as if he were offering something tangible. “It's the only thing I can suggest, Sid. The suspension is definite. It's got to be.”

Sidney stood up slowly. He looked like an old man. So thin that his flesh was turning transparent. So weak that he had to lean on the arm of the chair to lift himself. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Ben offered Sidney his arm. He took it gratefully and, head bowed, began shuffling toward the door.

Alithorn repeated, “Go to Downstate.” But Sidney, head bent, shuffled right past him.

At home that afternoon, Sidney drugged himself heavily and went right to bed. It was just what Ben had expected him to do. He himself watched the Sunday ball game on TV, happy to be seeing it indoors in the luxury of air conditioning, and felt more relaxed and comfortable than he had in weeks. But when the game was over, Sidney was still in bed and he grew worried. Suppose he had overdosed?

He hurried to Sidney's room, suddenly anxious. The TV next to the bed was blaring as usual and he snapped it off. Bending over Sidney, he listened for his breath. Then at last he heard it and stepped back, relieved. He didn't want any harm to come to Sidney. No physical harm. He had no intention of reneging on his promise to Sidney to safeguard him from the dangers of overdosing. Indeed, he felt more than willing to watch over him as long as he stayed drugged and defeated. In fact, he rather liked being his brother's keeper. Covering Sidney with a blanket, he went into the kitchen to prepare himself something to eat for dinner.

“Have an affair,” Bootie was saying as she and Claudia sat in the warm darkness alongside her pool. Bootie had swum for over an hour, her sleek body tireless, her long, black hair trailing like seaweed behind her. Claudia had merely watched, envious of Bootie's energy.

Ever since the party last night, her back had been aching, and although she had remembered that swimming was good for back pain, just the effort of getting into a bathing suit had seemed too great for her this evening. She listened to Bootie inattentively at first, preoccupied by her body. Pregnancy had given it speech. It was so alive with whispers, nuances and insistences that often she could barely concentrate on what was being said beyond the confines of her own flesh and blood. But she knew that Bootie had been looking forward to their time alone together. All day yesterday, before the party, they had been swamped with chores, and today they had had to accompany Bootie's daughter and her friends on a noisy picnic. Claudia tried to ignore her body and be a companionable guest.

“I'm eight months pregnant,” she giggled. “Hardly the time to start an affair.”

“It's been known to happen,” Bootie argued earnestly. “There were two men at the party last night who kept talking about you obsessively. But you were so standoffish.”

“I didn't like either of them,” Claudia sighed.

“You don't like anyone,” Bootie expostulated. Even before you got so big you were standoffish. I introduced you to half a dozen men and you didn't make a move toward any of them.”

“I couldn't help it. I'm just not interested in men these days.” Nor was she interested in much of anything, she thought, except the constant secret communications deep within herself.

“Isn't there anyone you like?” Bootie was probing. “What about your brother-in-law?”

Claudia shifted on the plastic lounge chair, raising herself up onto an elbow to relieve the pressure on the small of her back. “My brother-in-law. You must be joking.”

“You certainly spend a lot of time talking to him.”

Claudia laughed again. “I like him, but not in the way you mean. He's the soul of kindness. But he's very boring.”

“I met him at your wedding but I don't really remember him.”

“He never makes a lasting impression. He's sweet, but terribly uptight and passive. I used to think he was impotent except that he managed to find himself a girlfriend this year. Oh, and one time, when he and I were alone together, I turned him on.” Gossiping was helping her forget the ache in the small of her back. She leaned forward enthusiastically.

“What happened then?”

“Nothing. He got all flustered and looked as if he wanted to die of embarrassment.”

“That's not for you,” Bootie nodded. “What you need is somebody assertive. Somebody who's sure of himself.”

“Somebody like Sidney,” Claudia mused.

“God, no. Not a controlling son of a bitch. I'm talking about self-confidence, not solipsism.”

Claudia frowned, displeased by Bootie's outburst. Sidney was the one subject she and her oldest friend could not discuss without growing short with one another. “Frankly, I've never understood what you saw in Sidney,” Bootie went on, as if she hadn't already said it a dozen times previously.

“I loved him,” Claudia said coolly. “Let's just leave it at that.”

Bootie shivered and drew a thick towel from the foot of her lounge chair and draped it around her shoulders. “You didn't. You never did.”

“Of course I did. I do still.”

Bootie let an incredulous sound escape from her throat. Claudia felt out of patience. Her back pain had begun to impinge on her consciousness again and now on top of physical distress she had to cope with Bootie's being so provocative. She'd been challenging her about Sidney all weekend. And she had no right to do so. She'd never had a deep attachment in her life. Even her daughter seemed of only peripheral importance. All that mattered to her was her painting, and yet she perpetually expressed contempt for everyone else's relationships.

“You don't know what love is,” Claudia couldn't help saying.

“That's true, but neither do you.” Bootie sounded undisturbed by her criticism. She prided herself on her emotional detachment and often asserted that intimacy was the artist's greatest enemy. “You're right about me,” she went on. “But I'm right about you too.”

Claudia stopped listening to her. The ache in her back was sliding into her stomach. Sneaking into it. She felt a dull, surreptitious cramp in the pit of her belly and shut her lips, listening to her body's signals.

Bootie mistook her silence for encouragement. “If you loved Sidney—if you'd ever loved him—you wouldn't have avoided him all this time. You wouldn't be sitting here talking with me right now. You'd be with him, trying to get him into some drug rehabilitation clinic.”

She couldn't reply. The cramp had deepened, twisting and tightening within her. She was frightened, and thought of telling Bootie what was happening, but Bootie had hurt her feelings. She had had no right. No right to judge. No right to hurt her so. To make her feel pain. Such pain. She clutched the arm of her chair in the darkness.

And then the pain was gone, as unexpectedly as it had come.

“I'm awfully tired tonight, Bootie,” Claudia announced, as soon as she could speak, trying to mask both anger and physical anguish. “I think I'd like to go to bed.”

“You're mad at me, aren't you?” Bootie asked.

She shook her head. “Just tired. Beat.”

“Okay,” Bootie nodded, “as long as you're not mad.”

She managed a relatively convincing smile of reassurance and started up toward the house. But suddenly, as she moved heavily up the lighted flagstone path toward the back entrance, the pain in her stomach came again and this time it was so strong that she nearly doubled over.

The pain was all over her. It was in her throat, her ribs, her very fingertips. She moaned.

Bootie was at her side in a second. “What is it, baby? Are you having contractions?”

She shuddered. “I don't know. How am I supposed to know?”

“Maybe I should drive you to the hospital.”

“It's too early. Way too early.” And then she moaned again and clutched at her belly.

“Oh, honey. Oh, baby,” Bootie said. The towel slipped from her shoulders and she wrapped her arms around Claudia. “I'm sorry for what I said before. About you and Sidney. I'm no model of mental health either.”

“It's okay.” Claudia's anger at Bootie dissipated. What did it matter now? And then she was groaning. She would have fallen except for Bootie's arms around her. Bootie held her tightly until she was quiet and then said, “Come on. Get in the car. You've got to get in the car.”

His private number was ringing. Awakening, Ben looked drowsily at the lighted dial of his clock and saw that it was 2
A
.
M
. Then he reached for the phone, alarmed. Hardly anyone ever called him on his private number except Claudia and he was sure that she would never have called him at that hour unless she was in trouble. “Claudia, what is it? What's wrong? Where are you?” he rattled.

“Nothing's wrong. I'm all right. We're all right.” He heard her but her reply made no sense to him. Tensed for bad news, his brain charging his lips with expressions of anxiety, he stammered out, “It's so late. Where are you? What is it, darling?”

And then she was saying, “St. Louis General. Oh, Ben, I'm so happy. So lucky. So happy,” and he knew from the exuberance in her voice that she had had the baby. “It's a boy,” she trilled. “Ezra Samuel Zauber. Oh, Ben, he's beautiful.”

Understanding at last, he was filled with even greater alarm. “Premature,” he murmured. “Oh, God, I should never have let you go to St. Louis!”

“My doctor said I could. It wasn't your responsibility. Anyway, no harm's done.”

“How do you know? What's the baby's weight? Who delivered you? I want to speak to him.”

“Oh, Ben, slow down. Talk to me first. Congratulate me. Oh, I was so scared. Tell me congratulations. Tell me it's wonderful.”

“I don't know if it's wonderful. You can't take premature babies lightly,” he scolded.

She began to giggle. And then he was laughing too and saying, “Forgive me. I didn't mean to sound so pompous. It was just that you got me so worried. Of course it's wonderful. Of course it is. Provided the child's all right.”

“He is. He really is.”

“Then tell me what happened. Tell me exactly what they've told you.”

“They said they'd have to keep him in an incubator until he reached full weight, but that there was no reason he wouldn't reach it in a week or so. And that there's nothing wrong with him. They said I was lucky. Terribly lucky.”

Her happiness was infectious. For a short while he put his professionalism aside and let himself respond fully to her joy, listening to her as she chattered to him in an excited voice he barely recognized as her own. She kept telling him over and over again about the baby's fair hair and minute but perfect body, and about how Bootie had driven her to the hospital while still in her wet bathing suit, and she kept interrupting herself to say, “It came so fast. So fast. You wouldn't believe how fast.”

“Premature babies do,” he smiled. “There's never much warning.”

“I'm glad. Now it's over.”

“I'm glad for you. I've—I've never felt so worried in my life as when I first heard your voice.”

“Dear Ben,” she said. “How kind you always are.”

It was only after he had allowed her to talk to him luxuriously and at length that he asked her again for the name of the obstetrician who had delivered her.

“Dr. Peter Michaels. A resident,” she said.

“A resident! My God! Forget about Ezra. You're lucky
you're
alive.” As soon as he spoke, she began laughing again, giddy. He felt immeasurably close to her.

“Look, sweetheart,” he said when her laughter had subsided. “I'll call Dr. Michaels tonight, and tomorrow I'll fly out, just to make sure everything's as okay as you say it is.”

“Oh, no. You don't need to do that.” Claudia stopped speaking and in the silence that followed he had a vision of her lying in her hospital bed, her gemlike blue eyes radiant and her pale skin flushed and vibrant. “Everything is all right,” she assured him when she resumed speaking. “You'll see when you speak to Dr. Michaels. And I imagine Sidney needs you much more than I do.”

“Sidney?” Suddenly he felt disappointment invade him. He had forgotten all about Sidney.

“Put him on,” Claudia continued. “I—I guess I'd better tell him about Ezra now too.”

“I'll tell him for you in the morning. He's asleep right now.” He paused, annoyed. “It's hard to wake him when he's asleep.”

“Please try.”

Resisting, he said quizzically, “I thought you said you didn't want to speak to him. Not until he gave up the pills.”

“I know, but I feel differently now. I've been thinking about it since I got to the hospital. I've been thinking how heartless I seem to everybody. To you. To Bootie. To Sidney.”