“Were they diseased?”
“No, of course not. And the uterus could have been saved with a little skill. But you know Brinkerman. The Marquis de Sade would have loved him. He hates women and their functions.”
“You were in the operating room with him?”
“Yes. And a couple of others. I tried to intervene. For
a
minute, there, I thought he would deprive me of my manhood with his scalpel. That would have been hard on Elvira, not to mention myself, so I said nothing more. You know old Louis, what a stickler he is for etiquette between the old doctors and the young.”
Jonathan said with disgust, “Did you tell Louis?”
“Yes, I did. I thought he’d blow up at me, but he has something on his mind these days, or he’s coming down with something. Subdued. Abstracted. He only said, ‘Let’s have
a
little peace here. Claude probably did what was best in his own judgment.’”
“Good old Louis,” said Jonathan. “The Golden Brotherhood hangs together, probably because they know that if they didn’t, they’d hang separately—with the judge wearing
a
black cap. I’d like to spring the trap. Well, what is done is done, unfortunately. Don’t brood on it.”
“I want your help,” said Philip. “An ectopic pregnancy was brought in here this morning. Claude’s case. He’ll mutilate the girl, as sure as hell, just as he did the other. I can see him licking his chops right at this minute. He’s a great hand at mutilation, Claude.”
“That’s because he has a young wife, his second, who could teach Prissy Witherby a few delightful tricks. All other women are proxy for Ethelyn. I’ve often thought that doctor’s first practices should be confined to members of their own immediate family and closest friends before they went into general practice. That should not only teach them discretion and care but would help them get rid of secret resentments. A few discreetly murdered wives, for instance, would make a doctor love all other women thereafter, in forgiveness.”
“I wish you’d be serious,” said Philip, and the two young men paused a moment to nod at passing doctors.
“I’m deadly serious. Phil, I can’t help you, and you know that. Brinkerman hates me like poison, and that’s funny because I never had cause to cross his path except for twice, and that was five years ago. Told him he was unfit.”
“That should make him love you, or he should have a short memory.”
“That was five years ago. I rarely see him. We don’t speak, but we do exchange the most telling glances. We meet socially here and there, or we used to when I mingled, and we were very, very polite to each other. How could I possibly get into his operating room?”
“You could ask old Louis—for a study.”
“Won’t you be there?”
“Yes. But the old bastard scares me to death. He looks at you like approaching nemesis if you venture a remark or an opinion. Powerful old bugger. Now he can’t intimidate you.”
“It’s all unethical. He’d probably order me out at once.”
“Louis still has the say, in spite of his new preoccupation with some damned problem or other. Brinkerman’s getting a rotten reputation among us younger fellas, and we’re spreading the word. That’s bad for St. Hilda’s, and Louis knows that, or he should. Jon, this is a very young woman, only twenty, for God’s sake!”
“I don’t know how I get into these things,” said Jonathan. He thought of Dr. Brinkerman with loathing. He knew more about the older doctor than did Philip Harrington. Yes, a sadist, a lusting hater of women, helplessly infatuated with his gay young wife, and rabid. To him, a man of fifty-two or -three, all pretty young women were secret whores, though he was famous for his attachment to them. He had a way of painfully pinching or squeezing student nurses, then laughing in their grimacing faces and assuring them of his affection for them. They feared and avoided him, running at the sound of . his roaring, brawling voice and his oversized presence. They dreaded encounters with him in the corridors and in quiet places. He had what the girls called “a dirty mouth” and dexterously tormenting fingers. He could inflict more torture on a young woman in his examination rooms than any Inquisitor. Yet, for some unknown reason, he had a reputation as a fine doctor and surgeon, to the younger doctors’ bafflement. Jonathan believed it was because he was very rich and influential, and a shameless egotist.
Jonathan found Louis Hedler in his office. He was struck, when he entered, by Louis’ worried and drawn expression, and his sluggish manner. He was also surprised when Louis, instead of looking apprehensive as usual when Jonathan entered, smiled at him almost paternally. “Jon, my boy,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Louis? Are you sick?”
“Well, no. Sit down, Jon. I’m just—concerned—about a member of the staff.” The bulging brown eyes studied Jonathan with a peculiar expression. “A fine man, rather young. I’m afraid he’s in a little trouble—of his own doing, in a way. Rash. Impetuous. A little indiscreet at times. But I happen to be fond of him.” Louis smiled. “Personally, he offends me often, but I have to admit he knows what he knows, and in
a
superior manner. If you had told me,” said Louis, “a year or two years ago, or even six months ago, that I’d be concerned Over him now I’d have laughed tremendously.”
“You’re mellowing, Louis. Who’s the mellower?”
Louis contemplated him, then smiled enigmatically.
“I
don’t think you know him, Jon. No, I don’t think you know him at all.” He rubbed his lips. “You never come in here, Jon, without bringing me contention or alarms or worries. Which is it now?”
“Every single one.” He told Louis about Dr. Brinkerman and Philip Harrington. He did not know why Louis’ face became more and more dismayed as he talked. “So,” said Jonathan, “if you have no objection, I’d like to be present in the operating room.”
“That’s impossible! You know how Claude hates you.”
“Just because we had a difference of opinion? A long time ago? Don’t we all have differences of opinion with each other? I’m not pretending that Claude loves me, but he’s surely forgotten my clash with him.”
On the contrary, thought Louis, very much on the contrary! He said with some malice, “Jon, wasn’t it a few of you bright young lads who insisted that the operating surgeon have the privilege to refuse to have anyone present he did not desire to be there? Yes. In the old days any physician who was interested, and even his friends, could enter an operating room and observe to his heart’s content. But not you lads. All for asepsis and no theater atmosphere.”
Louis smiled at the tight strong face opposite him, and the dark and amused eyes. “Touche, Louis. But, we are right. Who is the young lady, by the way, and who is her family physician who sent her here?”
“Um,” said Louis. He shook his head, then said, “Mrs. Jason Hornby. Attending physician, Summers Bayne, friend of yours.”
“Splendid,” said Jonathan, and reached without permission for the telephone on the desk and called Dr. Bayne and then spoke in his most ingratiating way. “I’d like to be present, Summers, when Claude Brinkerman operates on your patient today, Mrs. Jason Hornby, at two o’clock. Oh, ten is it? Even better. I am here at St. Hilda’s now. You see, Dr. Phil Harrington can’t be present,” said Jonathan cocked his black eyebrows at Louis and smiled. “So, Phil has asked me to be there in his place. There’s a little difficulty, Summers. Old Claude doesn’t love me as he should. You’ll mention that I am there at your request if he should object? By the way, who picked Brinkerman?” Jonathan listened and frowned. Then he said, “I quite agree with you. I wouldn’t let him clip my dog’s nails. Don’t worry, Summers. I’ll be right there, and you will be, too, and we won’t let him do any fancy hemstitching or let him waltz around the vena cava. He does so love that vena cava, and why the Board doesn’t throw him out is something perhaps only old Louis can tell you.” Jonathan winked at his indignant elder. He replaced the telephone receiver, and said, “The young lady chose Brinkerman herself. Insisted, so what can poor Summers do? He was quite relieved when I said I wanted to be present.”
“You’re an impertinent rascal, Jon.”
“Oh, I know that. Incidentally, why don’t you throw Brinkerman out?”
“Jon, he’s an expert surgeon, if a little—radical—at times.
He is as bad as you about asepsis. If his judgment occasionally fails him, who among us can plead that we are never wrong? If the average layman fully understood into what vulnerable weak hands he was trustfully submitting himself, and to what fallible judgment, we’d have no more hospitals, no more operating rooms.”
“And many people would still be alive instead of rotting peacefully away in some pretty cemeteries. That’s just confidential between ourselves, of course.”
“You don’t keep that very ‘confidential’ very often, Jon.” Louis was very disturbed. “I wish I could dissuade you.
I
have my own reasons for suggesting you not be there. You have enough enemies, Jon, and Brinkerman is a man who cherishes his enemies and never stops until he has cut their throats.”
“He can’t hate me more than he already does.”
Louis was silent, gazing at him, and then he said in an odd voice, “You are quite right.”
Jonathan went out to inform Philip Harrington that he was “taking your place. You have an emergency.” Philip was relieved. “Mrs. Hornby is a nice rich young lady, or Brinkerman wouldn’t look at her, and isn’t it fortunate for a lot of people that they can’t afford some operations? Poverty has done more to save lives than wealth has done, and if that isn’t heresy what is it?”
“It’s truth,” said Jonathan, and went on his rounds. At half-past nine he was in the scrub room adjacent to the operating room and, whistling, was beginning to scrub when Claude Brinkerman came in with a blast like an attacking Minotaur. “What the hell is this, Ferrier, you being my assistant on the Hornby case?”
“Didn’t you hear?” asked Jonathan, very mildly. “Phil has an emergency. He asked me to do him a favor and—”
The hard and flaming face seemed to radiate irrepressible hatred and fury, and the little pale eyes sparked with a murderous glow. Jonathan, who was well aware of their mutual dislike and mistrust, was still surprised at this overwhelming and vehement attack, for the cause of their old disagreements had been trivial. But Brinkerman appeared beside himself as he stood and breathed rage at his junior, clenching and unclenching his huge hands at his sides, his broad chest heaving. Had Jonathan been his deadliest enemy, he could not have betrayed more savage irrationality, no more incipient violence.
“I won’t have you!” shouted Brinkerman. “I want no mur—” He stopped, visibly and painfully swallowed. But his rage grew. “I won’t have you! Is that clear?”
“Summers Bayne asked me,” said Jonathan. “He has that right. Or would you prefer to let Phil Harrington to the job for you in an hour or two, when his present emergency is over? This case isn’t an on-the-minute emergency, I understand.” He looked at Brinkerman. “What was it you were about to call me, Claude?” He shook his wet hands and now as he looked at the other surgeon there was something in his eyes that was frightening. Dr. Brinkerman looked back at him and a curious malign flickering ran over his large coarse features, and there was a twitching of his long thin mouth.
“Never mind,” he said. His forehead was purplish red, but now the doctor began to subside. He lowered his voice. “Ferrier, I don’t like you and I never did. I don’t trust you and I never did.”
“I can repeat those laudable sentiments about you, too, Brinkerman.”
“You can be of no help to me in that room, Ferrier.”
“But I can be of help, perhaps, to the patient,” said Jonathan, and again their eyes met like boulders meeting.
“Are you questioning my professional competence?”
“Are you questioning mine, Brinkerman?”
The other doctor again raised his voice. “I don’t want you!”
“Summers does. Louis knows, too.”
Dr. Brinkerman was suddenly silent. Then he smiled very slightly. “Old Louis,” he said, “may have reason to regret this very soon.”
Jonathan shrugged and went back to his scrubbing. Two young nurses near the doors, forgotten by the two men, smiled meaningly at each other, then gave Dr. Brinkerman, whom they detested, a sympathetic glance. Jonathan saw this in the mirror on the wall and shook his head. These girls would not have been in the room alone with Brinkerman, but there was another man here whom they disliked more, and that man was Jonathan Ferrier, who had given them no cause at all to hate him, and if he had often been rudely jocular with them, he had also shown them his respect for their profession and was frequently kind. But he was a “foreigner” to them, even to one of the young ladies who was an American citizen by naturalization. He watched them make moues of sympathy at Dr. Brinkerman. Encouraged by this, Dr.
Brinkerman pinched the breast of one roughly as he passed her to another sink. She winced, and tears of pain came into her eyes, but she still tried to smile at him.
Human nature, thought Jonathan, who had seen this and strongly wanted to hit Claude Brinkerman, is something I will never understand. But then, as Mama once told me when I was a kid, I am the “unpopular minority.” Yes, indeed, minorities generally catch hell. Yet, how are unpopular minorities formed, and by whose judgment and whose decree? Who has the right to decide who shall belong, and who shall not, to the general “loving brotherhood of man?” By what standard? Personal integrity, worth, honor, intelligence, charity, goodness, harmlessness, dedication, decency? It has been my experience that these virtues are held in very low repute by majorities, so they cannot be the frame of reference for judgments.