The Moon by Night (15 page)

Dev's eyebrows went up. “Oh yes, then certainly Mrs. Forbes should check in so that we can keep an eye on her. All right, you've convinced me that you had noble ulterior motives in getting poor Cassandra Carteret demoted to one of the private rooms. I'm going into the administration offices to look over some things, so I'll be here for about another fifteen or twenty minutes if anyone needs me.”

If he didn't leave within a half-hour, he was going to be late for a lecture, and Dev hated being late. He hurried to the office and had just sat down at the desk to fill out purchase orders for some surgical supplies when there was a light knock at the door.

“Come in,” Dev called absently, still writing.

Dr. Pettijohn stuck his head in. “Do you have a few moments, Dr. Buchanan?”

“A few,” Dev answered, motioning him in. “Just give me a minute to finish this….” He scribbled his signature on the last form, then looked up. “What can I do for you, Dr. Pettijohn?”

With a peculiar sliding step and awkward hesitant movements, Pettijohn slid into the chair in front of the desk. “I have been following Rebecca Green's case closely, and I saw the notice of surgery in her file. Tomorrow, I believe? Early?”

“That's right. I don't like to give them time to get too apprehensive.”

Dr. Pettijohn nodded. “Neither do I. It invariably happens if you schedule your surgery in the afternoons. At any rate I just wanted to volunteer my services,” he said brightly. “I would be honored to assist.”

“Thank you, but Dr. Duvall is assisting me. Though she will not exactly be in the role of the usual surgical assistant—I don't have time to elaborate right now—I don't think I shall need another assistant.”

Dr. Pettijohn looked puzzled. “But I have some experience in this procedure, both in assisting and as the primary surgeon.”

Dev waited, but the younger man simply kept staring at him with bewilderment. Finally Dev said rather shortly, “Yes? And?”

“Well, I just assumed—that is, I have more experience than Dr. Duvall, and I should think that my educational background would recommend me,” he said heavily.

“So it does,” Dev answered. “But I need Dr. Duvall, particularly, on this procedure.”

“You do?” Dr. Pettijohn seemed honestly amazed. “But why? Surely a physician of your experience, your reputation, and if I may say it, international acclaim has nothing to learn from Dr. Duvall.”

Dev sat back in his chair, himself now surprised. “But you're wrong, Dr. Pettijohn. I do need Dr. Duvall in this particular instance, and to be honest, I have found Dr. Duvall's help invaluable many times in the past.”

“But why? How?” Pettijohn persisted.

“Because,” Dev answered quietly, “she is smarter than I.”

And you,
was implied and hung in the air.

Dr. Pettijohn made an awkward little gesture with one slim effeminate hand and then rose. In a strained voice he said, “I see. Good evening, Dr. Buchanan.” He turned and marched out, his back stiff.

Dev shook his head and went back to his paperwork.
They never learn,
he thought.
There is none so blind as those that will not see….

Cheney stirred, and then her head barely appeared out from under a plump satin-covered feather comforter. Her eyes were closed, her hair a glorious riotous mess. She mumbled something that sounded like “Blegger joo.”

“Blegger joo to you too, my lady,” Shiloh said with irritating cheer as he set down the breakfast tray. Admiringly he stepped back to look at his brand-new bed that had just arrived the day before. It was so enormous that Cheney's outline looked like a child's form. The big oval heavy-laden breakfast tray sat in the middle of the bed, and there was plenty of room on either side for both Shiloh and Cheney to luxuriate in the sumptuous pile of warm covers while they munched, and still there was room to spread all the papers out. It was, Shiloh had to admit, an enormous piece of furniture. When it had been delivered, Shiloh had been shocked at how very small the room looked after the bed had been set up and made with the new linens he'd ordered. In fact, the master chamber did not just look smaller, it did have very little room left for the matching bombé chests. When Cheney had seen the bed when she came home from the hospital the previous night, her eyes had grown very round and she had blurted, “Oh! Oh my!”

Shiloh had seen the bed at a showroom that auctioned estate furnishings. He was not attending the auction, only passing by the converted warehouse, which was close to the docks. He had spotted the bed and immediately bought it. Only later did he find out that it was by the famous craftsman John Henry Belter. In 1856 Belter received a patent for this Rococo Revival style of bed frame, which was quite exuberant. This bed was seven feet wide and eight feet long, the largest one known to have been made by Belter. Crafted of the finest cherrywood, it had an undulating headboard, footboard, and sides. The headboard had an elaborate carving of scrolls and flora above the molded rim. The back panel of the headboard curved down and around to form part of the sides. The side rails had carved protruding centers with tops upholstered in black velvet. The footboard was a truncated version of the headboard. Shiloh had sent the bed to a reputable furniture maker, who had copied the style to make the two bombé chests.

In spite of the fact that it dwarfed the bedroom, Shiloh loved the bed. The previous night had been the first night since he had been married that he had not awakened at least a couple of times in the night when he jostled Cheney.

Now he went to the fireplace and poked the great oak logs so that the flames rose high, spitting and roaring. Crossing to the double windows, he pulled aside the black velvet draperies with the gold tassels and looked out. Making a face at the predawn darkness, he thought better of it and shut the drapes again. Crossing to the bed, he plumped up his pillows, settled back against them—again reflecting how nice it was to be able to stretch his legs
all the way out
—picked up the
Times,
poured himself a cup of coffee, and munched a piece of bacon. Conversationally he said to Cheney's oblivious head, “I've decided I'm going to live here. On this bed, I mean. Forever.”

“Mmm. Rankoo…”

“Yeah, that's what I say.”

Shiloh scanned the front page, noting a related article he wanted to read on page eighteen. He was already dressed in his everyday wear—soft faded denims and a plain white shirt. The only difference in his uniform now and when he was poor was that his shirts were specially tailored for him so that for the first time in his life the sleeves were long enough and the shoulder yoke broad enough, and they were made of the fine linen called lawn instead of cotton in summer and linsey-woolsey in winter. Taking out his watch, he snapped it open.
When Johnny comes marching home again—

Cheney's head popped up. Shiloh could see only one sleepy eye beneath the tumble of curls. “What'd you say?”

“Blegger joo. Oh, and rankoo,” Shiloh answered, munching noisily.

The single green eye blinked. “I want some bacon. And coffee,” she said distinctly.

“I know, I know. The savage beast must be fed.” Shiloh sighed, putting down his paper and beginning to fix Cheney's breakfast tray. He liked doing this.

Cheney sat up, pushed her hair back, and looked around, dazed. “There is so much room in this bed. I dreamed we lived here. On the bed. Forever.”

“Didja?” Shiloh asked with amusement. “Here, Doc, drink this. Please.” He handed her a steaming cup of coffee with two sugars and heavy cream, just as she liked it.

She took several cautious but appreciative sips, then looked at him accusingly. “You're already dressed. What time is it?”

“Must be 4:34 now.” Shiloh never said it was “about noon” or “around half past.”

“Why don't you open the drapes,” Cheney mumbled. “Maybe it'll help me wake up to see the outside world.”

“'Cause you can't see the outside world. Only the outside dark. And I think it's gonna snow again.”

“Great,” Cheney grumbled. “More broken bones and frostbite.” Cheney had been at the hospital until after two that morning, because an entire family who lived in a sodden cellar in a West Side tenement had run out of coal, and all six of them had suffered frostbite as they slept. The mother had awakened and made them all walk fourteen blocks to the hospital.

Shiloh buttered a biscuit, which Cheney snatched out of his hand. With a long-suffering sigh he buttered another one, slopped raspberry preserves all over it, then took a huge bite before Cheney could steal it. “You know, Doc, I've been thinking. I don't think Eugènie is the best horse for long hard rides, especially in cold weather and snow.”

“I'm afraid you're right,” she reluctantly agreed. “Besides her small size, Thoroughbreds are not particularly hardy horses. I can tell she has a really hard time in the bitterest cold, and sometimes I just shudder when I think of those slender racer's legs plowing through knee-deep snowdrifts.”

Shiloh nodded. “So how about this? I was talking to Andrew Roe while I waited for you last night, and we talked about a little two-wheeled buggy for you like they make in England, with a good solid Morgan trotting horse. Would you consider that?”

Shiloh was extremely cautious with suggestions such as this. Cheney was notoriously hardheaded about making her own decisions and maintaining her independence. If she thought Shiloh was being condescending to her, she would likely refuse the suggestion, no matter how much sense it made, out of sheer contrariness.

But to his relief she said thoughtfully, “Actually, that sounds really wonderful, Shiloh. One of those little two-seaters? With a collapsible canvas roof? Yes, I think I'd like that.”

“Good,” Shiloh said with satisfaction. “Then I'm going to ride in with you to talk to young Mr. Roe. He doesn't know where one of those buggies might be sold, because for some reason all of the American carriage makers only make the four-wheeled ones. But if you'll let me, Doc, I'll find one or have it made, and if you want, I'll buy the horse for you.”

“Would you?” she said, smiling up at him. “That's nice. I'm beginning to see some advantages in having a husband.” Suddenly she yawned hugely, much like a sleepy cat. “I can't believe I'm getting up at dark-thirty-four to go do an
operation
. I mean, I was actually
excited
about it last night.”

“Yeah, Doc, but unfortunately by ‘last night' what you mean is ‘two hours ago.' You haven't slept quite two hours. No wonder you're not excited about blood 'n guts yet.”

“You were up with me. You got as much—I mean as little—sleep as I did,” Cheney said accusingly. “You look all awake and alert, and besides that you smell so good, like outside. Royal Lyme. Did you have a bath?”

“Uh-huh, a nice hot one,” Shiloh answered. “You want one?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Your smallest wish is my command, my lady,” Shiloh said, slipping out of bed. He went to Cheney's dressing room while she contentedly ate their favorite breakfast: fried eggs with hot bubbling cheese on top, bacon, and biscuits with melted butter and Dally's preserves. She heard him rustling around, the sounds of tinkling bottles and the little busy noises of gathering up brushes and washing flannels and perfumes and oils for the bath. She smiled, her eyes dreamy.
Lord, how in this world did I ever manage to latch on to him? No, I know that's silly. He's a gift, a pure gift from heaven, and I'll never be able to thank You enough
.

****

Dev always used Surgery 3 at St. Luke's. It was a plain room, identical to Surgery 1 and Surgery 2, but the entire staff knew that very skilled and sought-after physicians had their little quirks that must be catered to, so Nurse Flagg had carefully set up Surgery 3 for Rebecca Green's surgery. Dev had recommended Mrs. Flagg for the position of head of nursing, for he had observed her as a ward nurse at Bellevue and had found her to be hardworking and knowledgeable. She had the quiet, calm steadiness that was an invaluable trait in a nurse. An older woman, she was rather plain, with gray hair that still curled prettily, and thoughtful dark eyes. Dev had used her as a nurse-anesthetist in two previous operations, and he had found her unobtrusive efficiency to be a real asset in the tension of an operating room.

Nurse Flagg and Cheney stood slightly behind Dev as he finished his lecture to the observers, the three student doctors, Dev's preceptees: a rakish young man named Duncan Gilder, a studious, thoughtful, shy student named Stephen Varick, and Dr. Lawana White. The patient wasn't yet in the room.

“I removed three cancerous lesions from another of my patients, a young woman close to Mrs. Green's age, eleven months ago. She suddenly died last week. When Dr. Duvall and I did an autopsy, we found no evidence of new lesions in either breast, so we extended the search to the organs. Still no malignant tumors were found. Dr. Duvall suggested that we investigate the lymph glands located in the shoulder and armpit. There, upon microscopic examination of samples, she found tiny cancerous cells.

“And so I have decided to introduce an innovation in this surgery on Mrs. Rebecca Green. The lump in the patient's breast on the left side is here”—Dev pointed high up on his chest—“and she has given us permission to perform an experimental exploratory procedure. I will make the incision just so, but I will extend the incision up into the shoulder and axilla. Before I excise the cyst, I will take a sample of the lymph glands and the lymphatic fluid. As I then continue to remove the primary mass, Dr. Duvall will simultaneously examine the biopsied lymphatic material for any indication of malignancy. Any questions?”