Coleman nodded. He had no quarrel with Pearson’s having made the decision. As the old man had said, someone had to do it. All the same, he wondered if the amputation to be performed tomorrow was necessary or not. Eventually, of course, they would know for sure. When the severed limb came down to the lab, dissection would show if the diagnosis of malignancy was right or wrong. Unfortunately, though, an error discovered then would be too late to do the patient any good. Surgery had learned many ways to amputate limbs effectively, but it had no procedures for putting them back.
The afternoon flight from Burlington landed at La Guardia Airport a little after four o’clock, and from the airport Kent O’Donnell took a taxi to Manhattan. On the way into town he leaned back, relaxing for the first time in several days. He always tried to relax in New York taxis, mainly because any attempt to watch the traffic, or his own progress through it, usually left him in a state of nervous tension. He had long ago decided that the correct attitude to adopt was one of fatalism; you resigned yourself to disaster, then, if it failed to happen, you congratulated yourself on abundant good luck.
Another reason for relaxing was that for the past week he had worked at full pressure, both in the hospital and outside. He had extended his office appointments and scheduled extra surgery to make possible the four-day absence from Three Counties he had now embarked on. As well, two days ago, he had presided at a special meeting of the hospital’s medical staff at which—aided by data prepared by Harry Tomaselli—he had revealed the suggested scale of donations to the hospital building fund for attending physicians and others. As he had expected, there had been plenty of grumbling, but he had no doubt that the pledges, and eventually the money, would be forthcoming.
Despite his mental withdrawal, O’Donnell was conscious of the activity of New York outside and of the familiar angled sky line of mid-town Manhattan, now growing closer. They were passing over Queensborough Bridge, the warm afternoon sun slanting lancelike through drab green girders, and down below he could see Welfare Island, its city hospitals squatting somberly and institutional midway in the gray East River. He reflected that on each occasion he saw New York its ugliness seemed greater, its disorder and grime more strikingly apparent. And yet, even to the non-New Yorker, after a while these things became comfortable and familiar, seeming to hold a welcome for the traveler, as though an old, worn garment were good enough between friends. He smiled, then chided himself for unmedical thinking—the kind that held back air-pollution control and slum removal. Sentimentality, he reflected, was an aid and comfort to the opponents of progress.
They moved off the bridge and along Sixtieth Street to Madison, then jogged a block, turning west on Fifty-ninth. At Seventh Avenue and Central Park they went left in the traffic and stopped four blocks down at the Park Sheraton Hotel.
He checked into the hotel and later, in his room, showered and changed. From his bag he took the program of the surgeons’ congress—ostensible reason for his presence in New York. He noted that there were three papers he wanted to hear—two on open heart surgery and a third on replacement of diseased arteries by grafts. But the first was not until eleven next morning, which gave him plenty of time tomorrow. He glanced at his watch. It was a little before seven—more than an hour before he was due to meet Denise. He took an elevator downstairs and strolled through the foyer to the Pyramid Lounge.
It was the cocktail hour and the place was beginning to fill with pre-dinner-and-theater groups, mostly, he guessed, like himself, from out of town. A headwaiter showed him to a table, and as they moved across he saw an attractive woman, sitting alone, glance at him interestedly. It was not a new experience, and in the past similar incidents had occasionally led to interesting results. But tonight he thought: Sorry, I have other plans. A waiter took his order for scotch and soda, and when the drink came he sipped it slowly, his mind coasting leisurely over random thoughts.
Moments like this, he reflected, were all too rare in Burlington. That was why it was good to get away for a while; it sharpened your sense of perspective, made you realize that some of the things you deemed important on your own home ground were a good deal less so when looked at from a distance. Just lately he had suspected that his own closeness to hospital business had thrown some of his thinking out of balance. He looked around him. Since he had come in the lounge had filled; waiters were hurrying to bring the drinks which three bartenders were dispensing; one or two of the earlier groups were moving out. How many of these people, he wondered—the man and the girl at the next table, the waiter by the door, the foursome just leaving—had ever heard of Three Counties Hospital and, if they had, would care what went on there? And yet, to himself just lately, the hospital’s affairs seemed almost to have become the breath of life. Was this a healthy symptom? Was it a good thing professionally? O’Donnell had always mistrusted dedicated people; they tended to become obsessed, their judgment undermined by enthusiasm for a cause. Was he in danger now of becoming one such himself?
The question of Joe Pearson, for example. Had O’Donnell’s own closeness to the scene misled him there? It had been necessary for the hospital to hire a second pathologist; he was convinced of that. But had he himself tended to criticize the old man unduly, to magnify organizational weaknesses—and every hospital department had a few—out of true proportion? For a time O’Donnell had even considered asking Pearson to retire; was that in itself a symptom of unbalanced judgment, a hasty condemnation of an older man by one his junior in years? Of course, that was before Eustace Swayne had made it clear that his quarter-million-dollar donation was contingent on Joe Pearson’s remaining at the helm of Pathology; Swayne, incidentally, had still not confirmed the gift. But O’Donnell felt his judgment was superior to considerations like that, however important they might seem. In all probability Joe Pearson had a lot to give Three Counties still; his accumulated experience should surely count for something. It was true, he decided; your thinking did improve when you were away—even if you had to find a cocktail bar to do some reasoning quietly.
A waiter had stopped at the table. “A refill, sir?”
O’Donnell shook his head. “No, thanks.”
The man produced a check. O’Donnell added a tip and signed it.
It was seven-thirty when he left the hotel. There was still plenty of time to spare, and he walked cross-town on Fifty-fifth as far as Fifth Avenue. Then, hailing a cab, he continued uptown to the address Denise had given him. The driver stopped near Eighty-sixth, outside a gray stone apartment building. O’Donnell paid off the cab and went in.
He was greeted respectfully by a uniformed hall porter. The man asked his name, then consulted a list. He said, “Mrs. Quantz left a message to say would you please go up, sir?” He motioned to the elevator, an identically uniformed operator beside it. “It’s the penthouse floor, sir—the twentieth. I’ll tell Mrs. Quantz you’re on the way.”
At the twentieth floor the elevator doors opened silently onto a spacious carpeted hallway. Occupying most of one wall was a large Gobelin tapestry depicting a hunting scene. Opposite were double carved oak doors which now opened, and a manservant appeared. He said, “Good evening, sir. Mrs. Quantz asked me to show you into the lounge. She’ll be with you in a moment.”
He followed the man down a second hallway and into a living room almost as large as his own entire apartment at Burlington. It was decorated in shades of beige, brown, and coral, a sweep of sectional settees offset by walnut end tables, their rich darkness in simple, striking contrast to the deep broadloom of pale beige. The living room opened onto a flagstoned terrace, and he could see the last rays of evening sunshine beyond.