To Sleep... Perchance to Die Page 6

  “I can’t give it to you. She doesn’t want it given to anyone.”

  Enraged, it was Bret’s turn to glare, “Look, I’m not anyone, I’m the one she fucked all last night.”

  Jake flinched but said nothing.

  Embarrassed by his outburst, Bret looked left and right. Other than his friend, no one appeared to have heard him.

  Jake said, “Don’t worry. As I said, I’m sure she’ll call.” He closed and locked the door.

  Some of Bret’s anger was ameliorated. Turning and stomping to the stairs, he muttered, “I hope I gave him a temporary case of ED.”

  “Hi, it’s Mai.”

  It was 5 p.m. Bret had been waiting for her call since leaving Jake’s apartment. No doubt Jake informed her about their encounter.

  “Well, hello.” He stretched the hello to make it sound inviting, “You had me concerned. Leaving without waking me. I thought something was wrong.”

  “Not at all,” she purred, “You were masterful and needed your sleep after all the energy you expended.”

  Confidence restored, Bret launched into an animated conversation. Within a half hour he had her cell number and a date for dinner the following weekend at an Italian restaurant called Bella Vista. She didn’t give him her address, and he understood. In today’s world it was prudent for a woman not to reveal such things until a significant relationship was established. After the call, in an attempt to give Jake a jab, he sent him an email: I’ve got her cell number, and we’re having dinner next Saturday at the Bella Vista.

  A great deal is going on in my life. I never imagined being with a woman like her, and I sense my life is about to undergo a profound change.

  Jake was glum the following week while Bret’s spirits soared as Saturday approached. On Friday, the doctors were in the operating room attempting to drain an infection in the neck of a patient in danger of dying. Bret was the surgeon in charge and Jake acting as his assistant.

  Bret kept his eyes on the surgical field as he spoke to Jake who was on the other side of the operating table. “His tongue’s swollen and pushing back into his throat. The airway’s blocked.”

  With a slight turn of his head toward the anesthesiologist, Bret said, “Did you have a hard time putting the endotracheal tube in his throat?”

  The anesthesiologist looked from her instruments and said, “Yeah. It was tough. There was so much swelling I had to use the fiberoptic scope. Lucky to get the tube in.”

  Attempting to put her at ease, Bret said, “If we don’t get good drainage, we’ll do a trach. No sense risking his inability to breathe after you remove the tube.”

  Separated from the surgeons by sterile surgical drapes attached to poles, the anesthesiologist said, “On my pre-op evaluation, I learned the reason he waited so long before seeking treatment was lack of insurance. Didn’t think he could afford to come to the Emergency Department. Wonder if he thought dying was cheaper?”

  The two surgeons shook their heads.

  “The regulars know the hospital never turns anyone away because they can’t pay,” Jake said. “Apparently, this guy didn’t. Poor bastard almost died from ignorance.”

  The surgery was successful, and a tracheotomy was averted. In the recovery room Bret and a nurse were at the patient’s side monitoring instruments, while Jake was sitting at a long counter writing post-operative orders. When Bret was confident the man was stable, he took a seat at the counter.

  Jake put his pen down and said to him, “Have you thought about setting up a practice when you get out of this place?”

  Surprised by the question, Bret answered, “Of course. You know all residents think about where they’ll practice.”

  Jake pressed on, “I’ve been thinking. Since we’re both from Connecticut, it might be nice to go back there and open an office together. Not in one of the larger cities, but in a place like the ones we grew up in.”

  It was the offer of a lifetime. Under normal circumstances Bret would have jumped at it. Both men came from small Connecticut towns, he from East Granby and Jake from Kent. Practicing in a similar place would be satisfying. He respected Jake as a surgeon. They had a good working rapport, and, no doubt, would continue that relationship in private practice. His developing situation with Mai made him hesitate. He didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize what he had with her. She left a small town in Connecticut and might not want to return to one.

  Being truthful, he said, “I really appreciate the offer, but it’s Mai I’m thinking of. I’d like to wait until I know if there’s a future for us before I give you an answer. If there is, she’ll have a say in where I practice.”

  “Trust me,” Jake said, “If she wants to be with you, she’ll follow. I’m not asking for a decision now. Think it over, and we’ll talk again.” He resumed writing post-operative orders.

  Bret returned to the mobile surgical stretcher that held his patient. The head of the stretcher was against a wall loaded with monitoring instruments. Several were attached to the sleeping man. While checking the patient’s oxygen level on the pulse oximeter, he thought about telling Mai about Jake’s proposition. He’d have the opportunity at the Bella Vista.

  With the hum of the instruments in the background, Bret returned to his home in Connecticut.

  The village of East Granby was situated in the Connecticut River Valley. Blessed with the proper soil and climate, a great deal of its history revolved around the growing and processing of broadleaf tobacco. East Granby was populated with millionaire tobacco farmers when a million dollars meant something. In the latter part of the twentieth century, the tobacco growing industry died, and, with it, much of the wealth of the town. Before Bret was born, the district had transformed itself into a bedroom community for several of the surrounding cities.

  He enjoyed living in East Granby. The death of his father from an auto accident was his worst memory. While devastated by the loss, his mother and Uncle Hubie provided the emotional support he required. A favorite pastime was watching the large jets that flew into Hartford’s International Airport. Town residents complained about “the dammed airplane noise,” but it kindled in Bret the desire to become a commercial pilot.

  In college he concentrated on science and engineering courses. During the summer between his junior and senior years, he took the test given by Florida Airways and failed because of a benign heart condition. “Washed out,” the flight surgeon had pronounced. “Today’s result will be entered into a permanent file all air carriers have access to. No one will hire you.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Bret had said.

  A tap on his shoulder yanked Bret out of his daydream. “Excuse me, but Doctor Warden forgot to sign the post-op orders, and he’s gone.” A nurse was holding the order sheet on a clipboard. “Would you sign them?”

  “Sure, Melissa.” He took the board and signed the orders.

  She gave him a husky “Thank you” and returned to her duty station. Walking accentuated her exceptional ass.

  Bret stared at it until she turned and gave him a wink of mission accomplished. She was his favorite of the Recovery Room group. Young and cute, they had dated a few times. He couldn’t remember why they stopped seeing each other.

  Glad I decided on dentistry when they threw me out of aviation. As someone said, way leads on to way, and here I am at Manhattan Memorial in love with Mai Faca.

  Mai and Bret were at the Bella Vista, an Italian eatery located in midtown Manhattan. The restaurant was classic Italian with checkered tablecloths, singing waiters, and colorful scenes of Tuscany displayed on the walls. The best part was the wonderful smell of food—a savory perfume of tomatoes, basil, and garlic that greeted you upon entering.

  “Do you like Italian food?” Bret asked as the waiter brought Mai’s linguini and clams and his lasagna.

  “Love it,” she answered. “My father taught me to appreciate pasta and other dishes made with tomato sauce. Italians and Portuguese share many culinary similarities.” She wrapped
strands of linguine around a fork and took a bite. Wiping sauce from her lips with a cloth napkin, she added, “I also love Chinese food. By the way, did you know the Chinese probably invented pasta? They say Marco Polo brought it to Europe.”

  He pleaded ignorance, “No kidding?”

  “That’s what I heard.” She took a sip of Chianti. “Do you know what they call Chinese food in China?”

  Bret had heard the silly joke many times, but pretended he hadn’t. “No, what do they call it?”

  “Food. Get it?” Mai belly-laughed thinking she had gotten him.

  Bret laughed as if it were the world’s funniest joke.

  While eating, they engaged in small talk. The usual What do you think of this? Did you see that? banter. It revealed they had similar likes and dislikes. Not until Bret had drunk several glasses of Chianti was he able to summon the courage to talk about his future plans.

  “I’ve been thinking about going back to Connecticut when I leave Manhattan Memorial. What’s your feeling about my practicing there?”

  Mai, who had been smiling and laughing throughout the meal, became serious. As with Bret, she had finished a few glasses of Chianti, and was feeling the alcohol. Not to the point that she couldn’t respond to the anticipated question with her prepared answer.

  “Me? Well, as a disinterested observer, I would say you should practice wherever you think it best. After all, you’re the one who knows what it takes to be successful.” She pointed her fork at him, “Then again, if I were more than a disinterested observer . . . a serious girlfriend, for example . . . I would say exactly the same thing and be by my man’s side.”

  As in their first encounter, Mai’s sexual prowess proved magical. She was a living Kama Sutra. Bret was addicted to her body and couldn’t imagine sex with another woman. Although she had given him great physical pleasure, it was her response to his question about returning to Connecticut that he considered the best part of the evening.

  He called Jake the next morning to tell him of Mai’s answer.

  “Why don’t you come to my apartment this afternoon? I’m planning to watch an early season Knicks game on my new flat screen TV.”

  “ A new one? How big?”

  Sixty eight inch Samsung. Real narrow. Had it installed on the wall last week. Since Rachel’s gone a lot, and we don’t associate with each other when she’s here, I need it for entertainment.”

  “Wow.”

  “If you drop by, we can continue our discussion about setting up a practice together.”

  “And Rachel won’t be there?”

  “Naw. Not for another week. Still in Boston. We’ll have the place all to ourselves. Be here around two.”

  Jake opened the door holding a bottle of Foster’s in his hand. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Thanks for the invite.” Bret went to the kitchen, and plucked a Coor’s Light from the refrigerator. “See you still keep a supply of my favorite on hand.”

  “Of course, nothing but the best for you.” Jake emptied half the bottle of his Foster’s in one swallow. He followed with a loud burp and a forearm wipe of his mouth.

  The television was on. “Game’s already started. Have a seat,” Jake said.

  After watching for a few minutes, Jake turned to Bret and without preamble said, “Windham, Connecticut.”

  Caught off guard and not sure what Jake was referring to, Bret’s expression revealed his confusion. “What?”

  Jake grabbed the remote, muted the TV, and adjusted his chair to better face his guest. “The Windham area of Connecticut. That’s where I suggest we practice. It’s in the northeast corner of the State. They call it the Quiet Corner.”

  “I’ve heard of it, but that’s about all.”

  “Let me fill you in. It’s really Windham and Mansfield and several small surrounding towns I’m referring to. A great place to live and work.” With a wink, “And raise children.”

  Jake grabbed a map from the coffee table and opened it as he began a dissertation about the advantages of settling in northeast Connecticut. By the time he finished, Bret felt he had lived in the area. In addition, any worries about not taking part in the selection of a place to practice were allayed by the in-depth research Jake had done.

  Hours had passed and day was fading into night. Lights showed in windows of the apartment complex across the way, and pole lamps threw circular yellow flares on sidewalks and streets. Shadows were crawling up buildings.

  “Any more questions?” Jake asked.

  Bret couldn’t think of anything that hadn’t been answered.

  Jake got up from his chair. “That’s all I have for now, but I’ll continue my research and keep you posted.”

  Bret stood and stretched.

  Jake went to the kitchen, retrieved another Foster’s. “Now, all we have to do is go there, and scope out the place. Really get to know it.” He chugged the bottle.

  Bret was anxious to explore the area, “Tell me when. I’m with you.”

  “How about going after the first week of January?” Jake said, “We’ll take a few days … maybe a long weekend.” Tossing the empty into the trash, he said, “The first weekend I’m committed to an ice-fishing trip in Maine with my college roommate. It’s been planned for a while, and because of his schedule, can’t be changed. It was the only time we both could get together.

  “If it’s okay with you, let’s make it the one after that. I’ll arrange for our hospital coverage. I assume Rachel’s not part of the equation.”

  Jake chuckled. “No … no she’s not. He paused, “But I have an idea. Mai might be interested in seeing Windham. Why don’t you ask her to come with us?”

  “You bet.” Bret found it difficult to keep from filling the apartment with joyous laughter.

  Some glory in their birth …

  Moosehead Lake, Maine: “Those global warming assholes should be here measuring the ice covering this lake. The locals haven’t seen it this thick at the beginning of the season in seventy-five years. By the way, I think you’ve got a bite,” Carlton Benton IV peered at Jake Warden from the upper bunk of the two bunk cabin. His legs dangled over the side as he talked and watched Jake fish from a chair.

  Carlton was Jake’s age but looked older. Below average height, he had developed a paunch. His wire rimmed glasses held thick lenses that magnified his eyes, making them owlish, and he parted his thinning hair low on the left. Carlton looked and dressed like a kindly college professor, although in business he was cold, calculating, and gave no quarter. Associates at his family’s investment banking firm nicknamed him, “The Assassin,” a moniker he was proud of and did his utmost to preserve. Although wearing a thick down parka, for additional warmth he was drinking from an initialed silver flask filled with rare brandy.

  The men were in an aluminum-sided portable cabin a hundred yards off the shore of Moosehead Lake in northwest Maine. The structure was the equivalent of a deluxe double-wide mobile home with bathroom, sleeping, and cooking facilities. Electrical power was supplied by a protected cable that ran from the shore. A four wheel drive pickup for their use was parked in an onshore lot. The cabin contained limited foodstuffs and the bare essentials required to survive three days of wilderness ice-fishing. The only supply in abundance was alcohol. In addition to Carlton’s flask, there was the equivalent of a two week stock of all types of alcoholic beverages from beer and wine to hard liquor. If that wasn’t enough to sustain two men for three days, Carlton had brought several bottles of aperitifs to complement meals.

  Access to the lake was through two rectangular openings in the floor. It was recommended they be covered when not fishing, as fishermen had been known to fall through the holes and drown. Having a high blood alcohol level while peeing into the water was the usual cause of accidents.

  Accumulating slush in the openings was kept at bay with shovels and rakes. Serious icing was handled with the axe, pick, and chainsaw stowed in the pickup. Fishing equipment stored in the cabin was meant to sat
isfy the novice to expert ice fisherman.

  “I hooked one,” roared Jake as he pulled on his pole, excited by the possibility of catching a fish on his first day. The fishing line with a mass of dark debris clinging to the hook flew out of the water. He looked at Carlton, “Damn. Just seaweed and grass.” Cleaning the junk from his line and tossing it on the floor, he said, “If we don’t catch something pretty soon, it’s going to be burgers for dinner.”

  “I would rather like that,” Carlton said as he descended the ladder attached to his bunk. He sat in the chair by the fishing hole designated as his. “I so rarely get to eat them. Do we have potato chips and pickles to go with the hamburgers?”

  “We sure do, but don’t tell me rich people get sick of pheasant under glass and caviar?” Jake teased.

  “Of course. Most people don’t know it, but we rich have a constant craving for chips and dip.”

  With his boot Carlton slid the seaweed and grass Jake had thrown on the floor into the water. Smiling, he said, “And our mouths drool when we’re around rib-eye steaks and Cold Duck. Just like the common folk.”

  Jake was familiar with Carlton’s wry sense of humor. They had known each other since their undergraduate days at Lehigh when they were roommates. The proverbial odd couple, Waspish Carlton hailed from a family of fabulous investment banking wealth and political power while Jake was the product of a middle class Jewish family. Despite their social differences they became inseparable friends at college, and their friendship lasted to the present. After college the men went different ways, but every year they spent time together doing something they both enjoyed. They had gone white water rafting, skiing, bow hunting, and, this year, ice-fishing.

  After the dinner of the hamburgers, pickles, and potato chips that Carlton had craved, the men relaxed in padded wooden chairs and watched the unsettled movement of the water in the fishing holes. Neither spoke.