Doctors (40 page)

She walked timorously up her own steps. And was surprised
to be greeted by affectionate hugs. Mama smiled and Luis smiled. They were—there was no better word—serene.

And at dinner she discovered why.

The Castellanos had a special Christmas guest—the handsome Cuban priest, Father Francisco Xavier. He said grace in Latin and then blessed all present.

The priest also provided the majority of conversation, too. Or what passed for conversation. It was mostly silence punctuated by, “Please pass the salad,” “Some more roast, Father?” “Thank you, it was splendid.”

But when they were having coffee, he looked at Laura and remarked, “So, you’re going to be a female doctor, I understand.”

“I’m going to be a doctor, yes,” she replied pointedly.

“It is a noble calling blessed by Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian. Perhaps you do not know of them.”

“Actually, I do. They were Christian martyrs who practiced a kind of socialized medicine and are more or less the patron saints of doctors.”

“I am happy that you know so much about our religion.”

“As it happens, I learned about them in a History of Science course, Father. That’s how I also know about Saint Benedict—and the Knights Hospitalers of Saint John of Jerusalem. They were very compassionate people. I especially admire their monastic rule, ‘Honor Our Lords the Sick.’ ”

“That’s very good—I like that, Laura,” said Luis with quiet pride. “We always should respect our suffering patients.”

By Laura’s unofficial count it was only the fourth time her father had spoken that evening.

“In fact,” Luis continued, fixing his gaze directly on Father Francisco Xavier’s face, “I think that’s the best notion the Catholic Church has ever come up with. All too often, people worship
doctors
, make saints of us because we stick a little penicillin in them. It should be the other way around.”

“That is an interesting point,” said the priest politely. “Perhaps I can work it into a sermon.”

“Will you be staying long in this diocese?” Laura inquired.

“As long as the Lord wishes me to,” he replied softly. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was wondering whether you might want to go back to Cuba now that things are better there.”

“Better in what way?” the cleric asked.

“I mean, for the people,” she answered. “Batista was a fascist dictator.”

“But this Castro fellow is a Communist,” the priest remarked with disapproval.

“He believes in all the things I fought for,” Luis interposed with far more emotion than he had displayed all evening. “In Fidel’s Cuba everyone will get his fair share.”

Laura looked at her father with wonder. This is the kind of spirit he used to have. It was astonishing to see it back again.

She merely smiled at Luis. “It sounds like you wish you were there.”

At this point Father Francisco Xavier coughed uncomfortably and then it suddenly became clear.

Laura looked at her father and said flatly, “Papa, you’re not seriously thinking of
going
to Cuba?”

Luis nodded gravely. “Many doctors from the Batista regime have fled and I am needed.”

“But aren’t you a little—I don’t know—old to be playing Ché Guevara?”

“The revolution is over,” Luis answered with fervor. “It is now time to help build a new society.”

Father Francisco Xavier bowed his head as if in prayer, and her mother’s face was an expressionless mask.

Laura addressed a question to no one in particular. “Is this for real? I mean, is he serious?”

“I am going,
querida
,” Luis said with calm resolve.

“And Mama?”

Her spiritual father chose to answer for Inez. “Your mother has made other plans. She will, so to speak, be joining us.”

Now totally confounded, Laura turned to her mother.

“You mean you’re becoming a
nun
?”

“No, Laurita,” Inez replied softly, “I will be what is called a ‘choir oblate’—
una lega.
”

“A kind of lay sister,” the priest interposed.

“I understand Spanish, thank you,” Laura snapped at him.

“Calm yourself,” Inez chastised. “It was Father who found this convent in upstate New York that needs Spanish-speaking helpers to visit the sick and counsel troubled families in their homes.”

Laura was barely able to keep from screaming, What about
our
family, goddammit?

“I will be doing God’s work,” Inez explained further, “it will help to expiate my sins.”

For the moment that was all the information Laura was to be vouchsafed. She glanced at her father and saw a look of
defeat in his eyes. She suddenly felt frightened—and achingly alone.

But to whom could she turn? Luis and Inez seemed to have abdicated their roles as parents.

At this point Father rose and took leave—he had to say Mass early in the morning. Inez stood up to see him out.

“Buenas noches,”
he said in valediction.

“Be careful walking back,” Inez warned.

“God is with me, I have no fear,” the priest replied as he went out into the night.

Luis could not keep himself from whispering sardonically to Laura, “Let’s hope he’s right. Because the Lord certainly wasn’t with him when he was mugged three months ago and I had to sew five sutures in his cheek.”

Now that the cleric had departed, Laura turned to accost her mother for abandoning her.

But Inez had disappeared. Didn’t she even want to
talk
to me?

“Mama goes up early,” Luis explained. “She spends some time in prayer, and then she goes to sleep. Come to my study and have a drink,
niña.
” He then added quickly, “I mean a Coca-Cola or something.”

Laura nodded and followed her father into his private domain. She could not help noticing how neat it had become. The journals that had once been strewn like so many autumn leaves were now arranged on shelves.

Seeing his daughter’s reaction, Luis explained, “Estelle showed me how to catalogue the books and journals. This way they will be much easier to pack. Coke, ginger ale, or club soda?”

“Anything,” she replied distractedly.

Luis pried open a bottle of Canada Dry, poured it into a glass, and handed it to his daughter.

“Sit down. You’re acting like a stranger here.”

“I feel like one,” she confirmed bitterly. “I mean, what the hell is going on in this family?”

Luis sat behind his desk, tilted his chair back, and lit up a cigar. “You heard most of it at dinner. I am going to Cuba—”

“For how long?”

“I am going to
live
in Cuba,” he explained. “You know my greatest dream is to go back to a free Spain—but who knows if I will live long enough to see Franco dead? I admire Fidel, and Guevara is an intellectual with all the right ideas.…”

Laura listened in silence.

“Besides, as a doctor nowadays I spend more time with insurance documents than with patients. In Cuba medicine is free, and I can treat anyone who needs me.”

He hesitated and she broke in, “And you’re just leaving Mama in that—that nunnery?”

He raised his palms to the sky in a gesture of helplessness and answered, “It was her decision, Laurita.”

He shifted forward, leaning his bulky frame on the desk.

“Once upon a time your mother and I were married,” he began, “married in every way—the same ideals, the same beliefs, the same concerns about how we should raise our children. You cannot believe the hell we went through when we first were married. She had barely recovered from the bullet wounds when you came along and gave us joy—something to compensate for going into exile from a land we loved. Then Isobel …”

He paused and took a weary breath. “After everything else, that was the blow that brought your mother to her knees. Yes, you could say that was no metaphor. She was forever in the church at prayer. We never talked—I mean, of anything substantial. There was no hatred, no dissension, but what there was was worse—a wall of silence. Suddenly a marriage that had everything had nothing.…

“So we lived on as strangers. All her conversations were with God. It was as if she had left me all alone. I started drinking heavily. Yes, I know you noticed. But
niña
, there was nothing left I could believe in.…”

Laura felt a pang of hurt. Wasn’t I any consolation at all—to either of you?

“Then there was Fidel. I saw him as my final chance to live my life out as a
verdadero hombre.
To be useful. Can you understand that?”

She simply nodded.

“When the Cuban Ministry of Health accepted me, I threw every goddamn bottle in the garbage and I haven’t even had a drop of
Jerez
since. I have a purpose once again—”

Laura sat, her eyes unfocused, her mind trying to take it all in. “So you two are … separating?”

“I’m sorry,
querida.
This is the result of many years. But then, I somehow thought you sensed where things were going.”

“And how did you originally plan to announce this to me—in a little postcard from downtown Havana?”

Her voice betrayed not merely fury but hurt as well.

“Everything was not certain until a few days ago,” Luis replied by way of apology. “Besides, the only thing we both agreed on was that you were strong enough to take care of yourself. You always have been.”

Laura did not know how to react. In all his meditations with himself, in all his grand planning, did her father ever once consider when—or if—or how they’d see each other again?

She did not know whether to shout in anger or break down—but she found herself sobbing.

In a moment Luis was there, his arm around her shoulder. “Please forgive me, Laurita. I know it was my fault. You see, I was afraid to tell you.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked tearfully. “What gave either of you the idea that because I’m grown up I don’t still need parents?”

“
Querida
,” he whispered soothingly, “soon you’ll be married. You will
be
a parent. And you can all come visit with your
papacito
on the Veradero beach.”

Laura stood up and shouted, “What makes you so damn sure I’ll get married anyway?”

“This Palmer is a wonderful young man—”

“So marry him yourself!” she shouted. “Dr. Castellano, I know damn well you wouldn’t do this if I were your
son.
”

“That isn’t fair,” he protested.

“No, you’re goddamn right, it isn’t fair. Okay, you can read your Marx and Engels, I’m going to bed. I’ll leave tomorrow on the first train, so don’t look for me at breakfast. And tell my mother not to wait for me to write her.”

Laura turned on her heels and walked to the door, but before leaving, whirled around to say, “You might do me the favor of sending my clothes and stuff to Vanderbilt Hall.”

She turned again and slammed the door.

Luis Castellano stood thunderstruck. Had he now lost
two
daughters?

When Laura finally staggered into Vanderbilt Hall, it was as cold and empty as a tomb. She was greeted by the only other person pathetic enough to be around on a night like this.

“Hi, Laura. I’m amazed to see you here.”

“Frankly, I’m amazed to be here.”

“Wanna have Christmas dinner together?”

“Sure—what do you have in mind?”

“How about pizza?”

“Sure. Anything. Just wait till I lug my stuff up to the Deanery.”

Fifteen minutes later she was wading through the snow toward Jacopo’s Pizzeria with the class charmer—Peter Wyman.

Joy to the world!

Barney protracted his personal winter carnival as long as possible. In fact, he and Suzie didn’t leave New Hampshire until after dinner on the last day and hence arrived at Vanderbilt just before midnight.

When they kissed and separated, it was to sleep on their own for the first time in more than a week. On the way to his room, Barney emptied his bulging mailbox. There were the usual bills and a few Christmas cards. Nothing really important. That is, until his eyes lit on an official-looking envelope from someone called “Esterhazy” at—The Morgue, City of New York.

Holy shit, he thought, does somebody want me to identify a body? What the hell can this be?

The moment he entered his room, he tore open the envelope and began to read a carefully typed letter.