he said. “I’m not going to force you. Your expression is like a kid biting into a fish stick when he was expecting a French fry. I have more pride than that.”
I asked, as any good clinician would, “Was it what I said, or the way I said it?”
“What does it matter? I wanted to kiss you, and now I don’t.”
It was excellent psychology: In an instant he was the hurt party and I was the villain.
“Not sixty seconds ago I said I was falling in love with you,” he continued, “and all I get in return is a blank look and the third degree about which secretary said what.”
“Not blank,” I said. “Surprised, or maybe just exhausted. And you’re the one who brought up Yolanda.”
“Either way, it’s not very flattering,” said Ray, “although I don’t expect much from this life anymore. Me, Ray Russo, average ordinary widower without a bachelor’s degree, let alone an MD or a CPA after my name, thinking he can turn the head of Boston’s most eligible doctor.”
I mumbled something to the effect that anything was possible. I’d seen in my own circles a famously obnoxious second-year resident chafe daily against her equally disagreeable chief resident, yet at the Christmas party they announced their engagement.
“Are you saying there’s hope, or are you saying, ‘Let’s be friends, Ray. You and I are from different worlds, and even though this is America, where everyone is allegedly equal, and even though you dress well and drive a cool car and own your own business, I’m looking for a guy who I could take to a doctors’ dinner party and wouldn’t embarrass me or get drunk or talk back to the host.’”
Of course I had to counter with something democratic and egalitarian. I said, “I took you home, didn’t I? And, by the way, I really appreciated your talking back to my father today, which I think demonstrates your high self-esteem as well as your ability to think on your feet.”
“My street smarts, you mean?”
“That, too. Definitely. And your pluck.”
“Gee, thanks. That’s what I want people to think: That guy has pluck.”
“Are you mad?”
“Nope. Not mad. Discouraged, maybe. And still lonely, but don’t you worry. That’s my cross to bear.” He walked to the door and said, barely mounting a wave, “See ya.”
“See ya,” I said.
He opened the door, but hesitated on the threshold. “Good luck with everything, Doc. I hope you have a great life and you get to fix, like, every harelip along the Amazon.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
LEO’S BEDROOM DOOR was closed. His voice and that of an unidentified female’s could be heard in what sounded like playful conversation. As a courtesy, I knocked on his door and said, “I’m home,” to save all of us the embarrassment of louder noises or their spilling into the hallway in any state of undress.
I should have been thinking of my deceased grandmother as I fell asleep, or agitating over my most recent evaluation, but instead I was puzzling over how I’d thrown cold water on Ray’s torch. Was there a book I could read on the subject: How to Restore a Man You’ve Rejected to His Previous Station as Platonic Friend? On Your Own Terms, Without Leading Him On?
Did I owe Ray an apology? Should I be thinking, Fruit? A gift certificate? A presidential biography on tape?
Leo would know. I’d ask him in the morning.
HE KNOCKED ON my door at 5:45 A.M. “Aren’t you supposed to be across the street in fifteen minutes?” he yelled.
I groaned. I had hit the snooze button twice and fallen back into a deep REM sleep, stuck in a dream filled with cousins and stained glass. “Coffee’s on,” said Leo. “I think if you take three minutes for a shower, two minutes to get dressed, five minutes to eat your cereal, you’ll have another five minutes to cross the street and get up to the floor. If you get your ass in gear this second.”
None of this—reveille or raisin bran—was typical of our arrangement. Immediately I grasped what was happening: He was playing the solicitous and thoughtful roommate because he had an adoring audience.
“Is your guest still here?” I asked. When he didn’t answer I said, “I thought I heard a woman’s voice coming from your room last night.”
I was sitting on the edge of my mattress now, staring dully at my feet. There were specks of mauve polish left on a few toenails, remnants of a summer spruce-up. I probably had some nail-polish remover somewhere. “I’m up,” I called. Then louder, “Leo? You still there?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Alone?”
“She didn’t stay over, if that’s what you mean.”
I put my robe on, a souvenir in thin yellow cotton from a VA rotation, over surgical scrubs and took a seat at the kitchen table. I said, “I think I’ll have that coffee before my shower.” I shook a cupful of flakes into a bowl. “Was it someone nice?” I asked. “Someone new and exciting?”
He shook his head. “Just someone to watch a movie with.”
“Was it a funny movie?”
“In places,” said Leo.
“Because I heard laughter.”
He was at my elbow, holding our phone and dialing a number. He handed me the receiver and said, “Here. It’s ringing. Tell them you came back by train this morning and you’ll get there as fast as you can. Mention the word funeral so they’ll remember it wasn’t a vacation day.”
Yolanda answered. I told her I was doing my best to get there for rounds but would undoubtedly be late.
“Funeral,” Leo whispered.
I nodded. “I think you probably remember that I was at my grandmother’s funeral all day yesterday.”
Yolanda said without any indulgence in her voice, “So when should I tell them you’ll get here?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes, if I run.”
Leo held up his hands and flicked both sets of fingers three times.
“More likely thirty. I just got in. And my roommate is in the shower so I have to wait my turn.”
Leo flashed a thumbs-up.
“The most I can do is pass on your message,” said Yolanda.
I looked up and mouthed, Not happy. Leo reclaimed the receiver and said, “Yolanda? It’s Leo Frawley, soaking wet. Look, she’s in no shape to make rounds. Can you finesse this? I mean, like a half hour? It’s not like she was out partying last night and couldn’t get out of bed this morning—you know what I’m saying?”
She
