I got up and thanked him.
“For what? I’ve accomplished squat on this one.
Iølaughed. “Same way I feel, Al.”
“Consultancy blues. You know the story of the oversexed rooster who
was bothering the hens in the henhouse? Sneaking up behind em and
jumping their bones, just generally making a nuisance of himself? So
the farmer had him castrated and turned him into a consultant. Now he
just sits on the fence, watching and giving advice to the other
roosters. Trying to remember what it felt like.”
I laughed again. We left the exam room and returned to the waiting
room. A nurse came up to Macauley and handed him a pile of charts
without comment. She looked angry as she walked away.
“Good morning to you, too, darling,” he said. To me: “I’m a rotten
deserter. Next few weeks are gonna be my punishment.”
He looked out at the turmoil and his hound face sagged.
“Does quieter pastures mean private practice?” I said.
“Group practice. Small town in Colorado, not far from Vail. Ski in
the winter, fish in the summer, find new modes of mischief for the rest
of the year.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Shouldn’t be. No one else in the group does endocrinology, so maybe
I’ll even have a chance to use my training once in a while.”
“How long have you been at Western Peds?”
“Two years. One and a half too long.”
“The financial situation?”
“That’s a big part of it but not all of it. I was no Pollyanna when I
came here, knew an inner-city hospital would always be struggling to
balance the books. It’s the attitude that bugs me.”
“Grandpa Chuck?”
And his boys. They’re trying to run this place like just another
company. We could be manufacturing widgets for all they’re
concerned.
That’s what grinds-their not understanding. Even the gypsies know
things are bad-you know about our Hollywood gypsies?”
“Sure,” I said. “Big white Cadillacs, twelve to a car, camp-outs in
the hallways, the barter system.”
He grinned. “I’ve been paid with food, spare parts for my MG, an old
mandolin. Actually, it’s a better reimbursement rate than I get from
the government. Anyway, one of my diabetics is one of them.
Nine years old, in line to be king of the tribe. His mother’s this
good-looking woman, educated, about a hundred years of living behind
her. Usually when she comes in she’s full of laughs, buttering me up,
telling me I’m God’s answer to medical science. This time she was
really quiet, as if she was upset about something. And it was just a
routine exam-the boy’s doing well, medically. So I asked her what the
matter was and she said, This place, Dr. Al. Bad vibrations.” She
was narrowing her eyes at me like some storefront fortuneteller. I
said, what do you mean? But she wouldn’t explain, just touched my hand
and said, I like you, Dr. Al, and Anton likes you. But we won’t be
coming back here. Bad vibrations.”” He hefted the charts and
transferred them to one hand. “Pretty dicey, huh?”
I said, “Maybe we should consult her on Cassie.”
He smiled. Patients continued to stream in, even though there was no
room for them. Some of them greeted him and he responded with winks.
I thanked him again for his time.
He said, “Sorry we won’t have a chance to work together.” .1
“Good luck in Colorado.”
“Yup,” he said. “You ski?”
“No.”
“Me neither. . .” He looked back at the waiting room, shook his
head.
“What a place. . . Originally, I was gonna be a surgeon, slice and
dice. Then, when I was a second-year med student, I came down with
diabetes. No dramatic symptoms, just some weight loss that I didn’t
think much about because I wasn’t eating properly. I went into shock
in the middle of gross anatomy lab, collapsed on top of my cadaver. It
was just before Christmas. I got home and my family handled it by
passing the honey-baked ham right by me, no one saying anything. I
handled that by rolling my pants up, hoisting my leg up on the table
and jabbing it, in front of everyone. Eventually, I figured it was