Could I Have This Dance? Read online

  “Like I believe that.” Claire spoke loudly, with sarcasm. He doesn’t care about me.

  Claire hadn’t lived with her father since the summer he threw the kitchen chair through the front window. Three days later, after an argument with Clay, he’d discharged a shotgun through the same window, still covered by black plastic. Clay was on the front stoop at the time, and took a shotgun pellet through his left calf. Wally, her father, spent a night in the county jail to sober up, but was released because it all looked like an accident. Claire hadn’t been home when it happened, but doubted her father’s ability to comprehend the real truth. Claire found herself in the middle of a constant battleground with a man with little patience and explosive anger. Her older sister, Margo, eloped at eighteen—anything to get out of the house. Della, afraid of her husband’s temper and his apparent return to the bottle, urged Clay to move in with a cousin out of dread that the next accident wouldn’t be so minor.

  Fear and embarrassment over her father’s irrational public behavior pushed Claire to withdraw from her family. Finally, with her tolerance at its limit, she jumped at the opportunity to move in with her mother’s mother, Sarah Newby. She dropped out of high school when her grandmother became ill, giving most of her attention to the daily care of her grandmother’s medical problems. Claire watched her grandmother’s diet, gave her insulin shots for her diabetes, and carefully dressed her leg ulcers. It was during her time with Grandma Newby that Claire had felt the first stirring of desire for a career in medicine.

  After her grandmother’s death, Claire had worked first as a waitress, then in Dr. Jenkins’ office—then, after taking night EMT classes, volunteered on the Stoney Creek rescue squad. She studied for her GED, then went to Brighton for college and medical school. She had proven everyone in Stoney Creek wrong. She was the first female from her community to get an MD. She was in debt to her earlobes, with over 120,000 dollars in outstanding school loans. But she’d done it—after everyone had said Wallace McCall’s kids would never amount to anything.

  But right now, her goal of becoming the first woman surgeon from Stoney Creek seemed impossibly far-fetched. She’d failed at ordering a Tylenol tablet! How could she possibly feel comfortable cutting someone open?

  She ignored her mother’s phone message and collapsed in a heap on the bed she’d left unmade the morning before. Exhaustion drove her to sleep.

  At noon she pried herself from the sheets, knowing she wouldn’t sleep tonight if she didn’t get up.

  She changed into shorts and a tank top and picked up her pepper spray. She would go for a long jog—and decide whether to return to the Mecca in the morning.

  Della McCall pulled into the parking lot outside the administrative offices of the shoe factory bearing her name. It was her husband’s name, actually, and if the truth be known, his name was the only similarity between Wally and his father, John McCall, founder of the McCall Shoe Company. Wally had been expected to join in the family business, but that had never worked. Leon, Wally’s younger brother, had toed the line, and had inherited the helm of the operation when Robert retired a decade ago. Wally, on the other hand, had played the rebel, partying his way through life, in and out of work, and in and out of his father’s favor. That Della worked here was due to a minor family miracle and the grace of brother Leon, who admired her stamina and hired her as an administrative assistant, knowing his brother would not, or apparently could not, provide for his own.

  She hated the idea that she worked for the McCalls out of sympathy, but other work near Stoney Creek was tough to find, and practicality won out.

  What she hated even more were the rumors that circulated through the factory—rumors about her husband, and why she stayed with him. Exaggerated rumors about his drinking and abuse. Last week, she’d overheard one of the janitors talking at the water cooler. He’d laughed and said that Della only stayed with Wally in hopes of getting the McCall money. She’d almost come around the corner and confronted the gossip head-on. Instead, she had bit her tongue and stayed quiet, less afraid of the rumor than she was of telling the truth.

  She saw the same janitor as she closed her car door. “Morning, Fred,” she said.

  “Morning, Mrs. McCall.” He waved and grinned.

  At least he shows respect to my face. She remembered his comments at the water cooler. If he only really knew. What’s really amazing is not that I stay with Willy, but that he stuck with me.

  She entered the building and took the stairs to the third floor. She always took the stairs. Her continual avoidance of the elevator was just one more skirmish in her successful battle of the bulge.

  On the third floor, she walked to the end of the hall and entered the upscale suite that included Leon McCall’s office and those of two vice presidents. Here, plush carpeting replaced the linoleum or concrete seen in the rest of the building. The smell of fresh coffee greeted her. Charlene Benson was typing rapidly at a computer terminal. She looked up. “Mr. McCall was asking for you.”

  “Thanks, Charlene. Did you finish the payroll?”

  “Almost. The checks should be coming off the laser printer in Mr. McCall’s office.”

  “Good.”

  Della walked past Charlene and knocked on a heavy oak door. She pushed it open slowly. Leon was on the phone. He motioned her in. He was the picture of a polished gentleman, the spitting image of his father, who had pushed the shoe factory to its present position as the most successful manufacturing business in the Apple Valley. Behind his desk hung a heavy, ornamented oil portrait of John McCall, the company’s founder and Leon’s father, adding to the starchy feel of the wood-paneled room.

  After a minute, he put the phone in its cradle. “Thanks for stopping in. I’m worried about Mom.” He watched her for a moment, then gestured to a padded chair. “Have you seen her lately?”

  She glanced at the image in the painting, an image that could easily be mistaken for the man in front of her. She shook her head. “Not for a few weeks.” She sighed. “Ever since Claire’s graduation, she’s been very difficult around Wally. All she wants to do is talk about getting him free from the curse. It’s very upsetting to him. He doesn’t want to see her anymore.”

  Leon nodded. “She’s talked to me about it, too. She wants me to intervene, to talk him into seeing a priest or someone. I don’t really understand. I was hoping you could shed some light on it for me.” His tone was stiff, which was not unusual for him. He treated everyone, even his wife, with the same objective formality.

  “Oh, come on, Leon. You’ve heard this stuff before. She believes in the old town curse, just like all the rest of her generation around here.” She tapped her nails on his walnut desk.

  “She feels guilty. Responsible.”

  “Mothers of alcoholics often feel guilt.”

  “But this is unlike her.” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s been there all along but it’s just now showing itself, without Dad to keep her in check.”

  “He overshadowed everyone, Leon. Elizabeth found her identity in Robert for a long, long time. Give her some time, maybe things will even out.” Passivity was a life philosophy for Della, the way she treated every problem. Just wait it out long enough. It’s bound to get better sooner or later.

  Leon rolled an unlit cigar between his palms. “Maybe so.” He shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “How’s Wally?”

  “Not good. He may not be drinking, but his problems haven’t gone away.”

  “Look, Della, I don’t want to pry, but you’ve got to get the man some help. He’s going downhill. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to—”

  “Leon, I’ve talked to him till I’m blue in the face. He won’t see a doctor. He’s afraid of what they’ll say.”

  Leon paused, studying her. “Tell me the truth. It’s not that he won’t see any doctor. He just doesn’t trust Dr. Jenkins. Am I right?”

  Della felt a chill. How much does Leon know? She was caught. How should she answer? “He’s never liked Dr.
Jenkins.”

  Leon’s eyes bore in on hers. “That’s pretty understandable after what the doctor did, don’t you think?”

  She uncrossed her legs. “What are you getting at? What do you know about this?”

  “Only that faced with similar hurtful circumstances, I think I’d make the same choice as Wally.”

  “Wally told you?” Until this moment, she had never thought her confession would travel outside their marriage. Wally had always been far too proud to admit to something like that. She’d been sure he would take her secret to the grave.

  Leon nodded slowly. “Of course. I’m his brother. He was merely trying to sort through his feelings.”

  “That was a long time ago. Past history.”

  “Wally has a good memory.”

  “He’s also very forgiving.”

  “But forgiving someone and regaining trust may be two different things.” He held the cigar under his nose and inhaled. “Get Wally to a doctor. If he won’t see Dr. Jenkins, take him to a specialist.”

  “I’ve tried that, Leon. But the health plan that your company signed us up for will only allow us to see a specialist if they are referred by a participating family doctor.”

  Leon nodded, apparently beginning to grasp Della’s dilemma. “And the only one on the list for Stoney Creek is Dr. Jenkins.”

  “And even if I get around that, I’m still not sure Wally would agree to see another doctor. He thinks they’ll just tell him what he already knows: he drinks too much.”

  “Which seems to be the essence of the Stoney Creek curse.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, standing up. “But I’m sure Elizabeth could enlighten us on that one.” She retreated to the printer in the corner of the room and picked up the payroll checks from the tray. She didn’t like the tone of this conversation. She felt exposed, as if Leon were implying that she was responsible for Wally’s not getting help.

  She fumbled with the papers, tapping them gently on top of the printer to straighten them again. She wanted to get back to her desk and forget this conversation.

  “I’ll come by, talk to Wally. Maybe he’ll listen to me.” He gently touched the edges of his silver hair. Apparently satisfied that every hair was in place, he smoothed his silk tie against his chest.

  “It’s never helped before.”

  “Maybe this time will be different.”

  She cleared her throat. “Leon,” she asked, her eyes on the floor in front of his desk, “does Elizabeth know why Wally won’t see Dr. Jenkins?”

  “Not from me.”

  Della felt her stomach knotting. Good answer, Leon. Vague. Gets you off the hook, but leaves me wondering. You should have been an attorney. “That’s not exactly what I asked.” She lifted her eyes, imploring. “Does she know?”

  He shrugged. “Wally may have told her.”

  That possibility had never occurred to Della, but neither had the thought that Wally would share their deepest marital secrets with Leon. She nodded her head slowly.

  “Look, Della,” he said. “I’m sorry if this conversation has made you uncomfortable, but present circumstances being what they are, I thought it was time to get everything out into the open.”

  Everything? Not in my lifetime. Not if I have any say in the matter. She lifted the corners of her mouth. It was a polite smile, not a genuine one. “Sure, Leon. You’re interested in helping Wally, I’m sure.” Or is it that you’d like to be sure that all the McCall family money is sifted only through your hands?

  She pulled open the large oak door. “I’ll be working on the payroll.”

  Claire checked her watch and slowed her pace. She’d covered the last mile in 7:28, fifteen seconds faster than the one before. It was time for a more leisurely stride. There certainly wasn’t any reason to race back to her place just to spend more time alone.

  She had chosen a route traversing Foster Park, a wonderful sprawling acreage along the east side of Lafayette, bordering the Danberry River. An asphalt jogging trail meandered for three miles along the river, providing a welcome refuge for Claire and other urban dwellers wanting to escape the sterile city blocks of concrete downtown.

  The river here was only a few hundred yards wide, but two or three miles to the east it widened into Oyster Bay which, in turn, emptied into the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Birds were abundant. Claire had counted two great blue herons and a score of Canada geese, and as she rounded the bend, she smiled at a group of children who threw bread to a growing number of seagulls.

  It was outside, close to creation, where Claire had always done her soul-searching. Her memories of important decisions seemed inseparably linked with the locations where she’d made them. A decision to return to school to seek a medical education was made at Painter’s Lake, just at sunrise, with the sun a brilliant orange ball pushing from the surface of the water. The image of Chimney Rocks, shiny after a surprise rain shower, would forever remind her of her decision to pursue a career in surgery. Her decision to marry John Cerelli was made on a hike to Smith’s Mill during peak autumn color. She could point out the exact boulder where she had made up her mind. And her decision to follow Christ was made during a youth retreat at a campfire rally next to Bear Creek Falls.

  Running had also become a time of reflection for Claire. Whenever she seemed to be in mental overload, it always seemed to lessen her stress to pound it out on the pavement for a few miles.

  Today, like so many times before, she sought an inner reserve, some strength to prod her to continue to her goal. Claire was proud of her self-sufficiency. She reminded herself of the sense of calling that had motivated her toward surgery, and of the hurdles she had already overcome. Slowing to a walk, she picked up a flat stone and threw it out onto the river’s surface. It skipped a dozen times before sinking. She stood, watching the spot where it had disappeared from view.

  She thought of the pyramid, and of her inadequacies on her first day as a surgical intern. She thought of her relationship with John and how she’d broken the promises she’d made to God to remain pure. She thought about her father and the royal mess he’d made of their family. Here, far from home, she felt isolated and incompetent.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, “I haven’t slowed down enough to talk to you for a long time. I’m not doing so well on my own.”

  Chapter Six

  Claire arrived at the entrance to the SICU with five minutes to spare.

  The medical students, Rick Gentry and Sally Barringer, were already there, coffee in hand.

  “Hi, guys.”

  Sally yawned and Rick grunted. “Morning, Dr. McCall.”

  “Call me Claire.”

  Sally protested. “Dr. Hayes said we should use professional titles when we’re in the hospital.”

  Rick imitated Beatrice’s soft voice. “It fosters professional conduct and establishes the proper authority of the house staff over the medical students.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Believe me, we’ll get along fine, even if you call me Claire. I know I’m a doctor. You will be too, soon enough.”

  “Not unless I survive this rotation,” Sally responded, pushing a rebellious strand of blond hair behind her ear.

  “You’ll survive,” Claire said. “I made it. You’ll make it.”

  “Sure,” Sally responded. “I’ll survive long enough to make it to my internship. And then I’ll be eaten alive.”

  Just like me. Claire nodded numbly and stayed quiet. She couldn’t seem to formulate an encouraging response.

  Beatrice arrived and curled her lip at Rick. “What happened to you?”

  He looked down at his blood-splattered scrub pants. “I spent most of the night holding a retractor so Jeff—er, Dr. Parrish—could do a liver resection.”

  The remaining members of the team arrived together, and Rick held up a large cup of coffee for the chief resident.

  The O-man smiled. “Ah, vitamin C,” he said, inhaling the steam rising from the top of the cup. He looked at Jeff Parrish, the fourt
h-year resident. “Heard you did a liver last night.”

  Jeff beamed.

  “You dog. I baby-sit the largest trauma service in Massachusetts, night after night, and what reward do I get? I’ll tell you. Forty-four blunt trauma cases, and only two major abdominal operations in a whole month. You’ve been here two nights, and you get a liver resection.” He huffed. “This stinks.”

  “It was pretty awesome. We auto-transfused twenty units.” He held up his thumb and index finger nearly touching at the tips. “We came this close to cracking the chest.”

  Dan Overby raised his eyebrows. “Was this case a RANDO?”

  “Yep,” Jeff said. “My first liver resection.”

  Sally wrinkled her nose. “Rando?”

  Parrish smiled. “Trauma-ese for Resident Ain’t Never Done One.”

  “In terms of patient mortality, it’s one up from a RANSO,” Basil Roberts, the second-year resident, explained. “Resident Ain’t Never Seen One.”

  “But the highest mortality is from the riskiest patient group of all,” Overby added with a ghoulish laugh. “The dreaded ASANSO. Attending Surgeon Ain’t Never Seen One.”

  The students laughed.

  Beatrice smiled and sorted her patient data cards.

  Howard Button seemed to be writing the initials down.

  Dr. Overby held up a patient census. “So he lived?”

  “She.” Jeff pointed to a name on the census. “ICU bed four.”

  The chief resident smiled and muttered, “A RANDO, and she still pulled through. That’s what it’s all about, folks.”

  “Come on,” Jeff added. “We’ve got rounds to make.”

  “Not so fast,” Overby responded, gesturing for his team to move closer. “First, class, we need to review.” His tone was condescending and overdone. “Shall we all recite Overby’s rules for survival?” He held up his index finger. “Rule number one,” he prompted.