The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

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House Calls
(continued)

“Doctor, I hope I didn’t wake you. This is Manny speaking.”

Blinderman tried to think, but couldn’t. He squinted his eyes and concentrated deeply, but all he saw was streaks of light and formless shapes.

“I’m sorry – I don’t know anyone named Manny.”

“Sure you do, Doctor – Manny Shapiro. You practically saved my life when I had that beating in my chest.”

Blinderman concentrated again, and then remembered the container of pretzels which, empty, he had just thrown out that week.

“Yes, Mr. Shapiro, I remember. Is there a problem?”

“When isn’t there a problem? This time the beating is back, but now it’s worse. Like a palpitation.”

“Then I think you should go directly to an emergency room, Mr. Shapiro.”

“And do what? Die like a dog in a waiting room? I need you, Doctor Blinderman. Don’t you do house calls no more?”

“Can’t this wait until the morning, Mr. Shapiro?”

“How should I know? You’re the doctor.”

Obligation hung over Blinderman like a dark cloud. Also guilt, and, for good measure, uncertainty. Blinderman exhaled slowly.

“Okay, Mr. Shapiro. I’ll be right over.”

“Oh, bless you, Doctor! You can never know the good you do.”

Blinderman’s joints were still stiff when he descended the four flights of stairs from his apartment. He shivered when he stepped into early morning autumn, black bag in hand. With uncharacteristic indulgence, he hailed a taxi to Shapiro’s apartment.

When he arrived, the same concierge from the last visit stood behind the front desk. This time he paid no respect to the black bag or the man carrying it, and, because of the unusual hour, gave his watch a dubious glance. Severely, the concierge told Blinderman, “You can go on up to 8-F.” This time Shapiro was waiting in his open doorway, neatly dressed in pajamas and a crisp robe, slippers on his feet.

“Doctor, thank God you made it. You’re a lifesaver.”

“How are you feeling?” Blinderman asked as he brushed past his patient and made his way directly to the sofa. Shapiro followed him excitedly.

“A little better. But still, I’m glad you stopped by, just to be safe.”

These last words gave Blinderman pause. He unclasped the black bag and went about his routine. He put his fingers to Shapiro’s wrist and found his pulse calm, predictable. His skin was warm, not cool or clammy. In his chest he heard only necessary beats and the soft exchange of air.

“What did you have before you went to bed?” Blinderman asked.

“A glass of tea maybe. Why?”

“Don’t have tea before you go to bed anymore. The caffeine makes your heart race, and it’ll keep you awake besides.”

“That’s exactly my problem, Doctor – my heart is racing and I’m awake when I should be sleeping. Who knew a glass of tea could do all this? Coffee, certainly. But tea? Never.”

“Well now you know.”

“And I feel better just knowing, Doctor. How can I ever repay you? You maybe want to stay for breakfast?”

“I’m sorry, but I’d really like to get back home. My fee, Mr. Shapiro, would be payment enough.”

Shapiro knitted his brow, and concern suffused his chest.

“We got a problem then, Doctor. I don’t have any cash on me now, and no checks neither.”

Blinderman was cranky from a half-night’s sleep. “Enough is enough, Shapiro. You still haven’t paid me for the last visit.”

“You tell me, Doctor: where am I to get money at this time of night?”

“A bank machine.”

“And what, get mugged on the street in the dead of night?”

“Listen, Shapiro, maybe you should have thought about this before you pulled me out of bed with your bogus complaints.”

“You’re mad at me, Doctor, and I understand. But let me make it up to you.” Shapiro rushed off into his bedroom and soon came out with a video cassette in his hand. “Send me a bill for both visits and I’ll pay you back, I promise. In the meantime, please accept this gift from me, for your pleasure.”

Blinderman had to remind himself that he was a doctor, and that he could not strike another man. Seeing red, he swiped the video from Shapiro’s hand. On the slow walk home from Shapiro’s apartment, Blinderman pondered intensely his own character, and he was very critical. He was a man of lofty ideals and old-school chivalry, he concluded, but there was no courage in his convictions. Not once but twice, now, he had left his patient’s home empty-handed but for a second-hand gift and a share of disbelief.

He was tired when he got home, too tired to hit the heavy bag, but the rising sun kept him from falling asleep. Unable to read, he put Shapiro’s video into the player and watched the movie. Unlike his own life, the movie was full of women – more than he knew what to do with, in fact, and performing feats he longed for but could only dream about. It was a pleasant departure from the Civil War documentary that he usually viewed. Blushing, Blinderman turned the picture of his mother on the night stand face down and watched the movie (volume mute, so he wouldn’t disturb the neighbors) until, at last, he fell asleep.

Continued
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