The Art of Forgetting (22 page)

              “I thought maybe we could get together. Unless you’re busy,” Lloyd said.

              “What’s wrong?”

              “Nothing. Why do you ask?” Lloyd said.

              “You sound… I don’t know, different.”

              “Didn’t you want me to be different?” Lloyd said.

              Erin paused. “Why don’t you come to my place?  I’ll make dinner.”

              Erin lived on the second floor of a rather typical Oak Park apartment building dating from the nineteen-twenties or thirties. It had a long, sober front courtyard flanked by sturdy walls of dark rust-colored bricks, checkered with evenly spaced rectangular windows. The foyer had a black and white mosaic tile floor in pristine condition and even the bannisters of the narrow stairs revealed the artful craft of former days.

              Erin opened the door wearing a white and red striped kitchen apron, her hair tied in a short pony tail. Her broad smile exuded an irresistible schoolgirl charm.

              “Smells good,” Lloyd said as he crossed the threshold. “What are you cooking?”

              “Penne with vodka sauce,” Erin said as she closed the heavy door and twisted the dead bolt shut. “I think I might have been a little heavy handed with the vodka. When I lit it up, the flame lasted a lot longer than the YouTube video I got the recipe from.”

              Lloyd laughed. “So you’ve never done this before?”

              “Oh, I have,” Erin said. “Just not by myself. My ex- did most of the cooking at home.”

              Lloyd strained to keep smiling. A mild tightness formed at the corners of his lips. He averted his gaze to hide the unexpected pang of jealousy that had surfaced inside of him. His attention fell on a stack of cardboard moving boxes stacked tidily in a corner.

              “Still moving in or not planning to stay long?”

              “So much junk, so little time,” Erin said. “It’s embarrassing, really. Please, don’t look at that mess. Glass of wine?”

              “Sure.”

              Erin pulled him by the hand past a white cornice doorway into the kitchen which opened onto an adjoining dining area. The tightness of his face loosened and the bile of jealousy evaporated with her touch.

              Erin poured Chardonnay into two glasses and handed one to Lloyd. They raised their glasses.

              “No more of your dumb toasts, please!” Erin said.

              They sipped on the wine and within moments Lloyd felt his body flooding with a gentle warmth. Erin set her glass on the kitchen counter, poured a box of pasta into a pot of boiling water and twisted the dial of a kitchen timer.

              “Have a seat,” she said as she wiped her palms on the front of her apron. “I want to show you something.”

              She stepped through a doorway leading into a narrow corridor where the maple floorboards creaked. Lloyd sat at the kitchen table which was draped in a pale green tablecloth with tiny embroidered flowers. He heard the floorboards creak again and looked up to see Erin return. She stopped short of the table, shook her head then took the final few steps to stand over Lloyd’s shoulder.

              She placed a red velvet ring box with a frayed corner and faded gold lettering on the table in front of Lloyd. He looked at the box and shot Erin a quizzical look.

              “What are you waiting for?” Erin said. “Open it.”

              “If you’re proposing, don’t you think you should get on your knees?”

              She swatted his shoulder with the back of her hand.

              “Open it,” she said.

              Lloyd lifted the lid. Embedded in the white satin niche was a plastic toy ring.

              “I hope you didn’t spend too much money on this,” Lloyd said.

              “You don’t recognize it?”

              “Should I?”

              Erin pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “You don’t remember?” She giggled. “You gave me this ring.”

              “What?  When?”

              “On the playground next to the little league field. I was crushed because they wouldn’t let me join the team just because I was a girl – even though I could throw a ball harder than half the boys. I was sitting on a swing, crying, when you walked over with a box of Crackerjacks and sat next to me. The ring was in the box. It was the prize. You gave it to me and said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

              “And what was that?” Lloyd asked.

              Erin sighed. “I was so hoping you’d remember.”

              “Well, I remember I was in love…” Lloyd said, “with Crackerjacks.”

              Erin rose to her feet, still smiling. “I won’t let you ruin one of the fondest memories of my life.”

              She reached for the ring box. Lloyd grabbed her outstretched hand.

              “Why did you save this for all these years?” he asked.

              “I don’t know, Lloyd.”

              Lloyd picked up the ring. “Wait,” he said. “Put it on.”

              Erin rolled her eyes. “If
you’re
proposing,
you
better get on your knees.”

              Lloyd slipped the ring on her pinky finger. “Wow!  It really looks great on you. You should wear it all the time.”

              “Don’t toy with my feelings, Lloyd Copeland.”

              Lloyd looked up and their eyes met. Erin’s expression was serene, temperate. Lloyd rose to his feet keeping his eyes locked on hers. Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed her ever so softly, their lips just grazing. They gazed in each other’s eyes again. After a moment he kissed her once more, a bit more forcefully. She pressed against him and opened her mouth just enough for their tongues to brush together.

              “I have to stir the pasta,” she said breathlessly.

              “I’m not toying with you,” Lloyd said.

              Erin wrapped her arms around his neck and lunged forward to kiss him yet again. Then she cradled his head in her hands, peered in his eyes and said, “Are you okay, my dear?”

              Chapter 19

             
T
hursday morning, Lloyd’s outpatient clinic was light. He’d have been back in the lab breathing down Kaz’s neck before lunch if his eleven o’clock hadn’t arrived twenty minutes late. Lloyd didn’t mind. He spent the idle time discussing the semeiology of Parkinson’s disease with a small group of incredibly young looking medical students on their physical diagnosis rotation. Penguins, Lloyd called them, because the movements of their arms were so restricted by the stiffness of the sleeves of their brand new bleached white short coats.

              He met up with Mark at the cafeteria for a light lunch before making his way back to the lab. The sound of Debussy’s Arabesque filled the room with a sense of renewed hope and joy. Upon seeing Lloyd, Kaz made an unexpectedly graceful improvised dance step complete with pirouette.

              Lloyd laughed.

              “What are you so chipper about?” he asked

              Kaz said, “It’s a glorious day, my cold-hearted friend. A glorious day.”

              “Okay…”

              “The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and two of the three mice are running two-dimensional mazes like fifteenth century explorers in search of new worlds,” Kaz said.

              “Are you starting to write poetry now?”

              “I should. Yes, I should.” Kaz’s cheeks turned pink. “Lloyd, I met someone.”

              “Really!”

              “A lovely, beautiful lady.”

              “How did that happen?” Lloyd asked.

              “At the community garden. We were trimming the tops off basil plants when we reached for the same plant and our hands touched.”

              “And then what happened?”

              Kaz rubbed his palms together. “Well, nothing. I didn’t know what to say.”

              Lloyd smiled. “You haven’t talked to her?”

              “Oh yes, I have. I’ve said, ‘Hello’, and, ‘Nice weather we’re having. Great for tomatoes’ and ‘Do you need to use the hose?’”

              “Did you slip her your Russian hose?” Lloyd asked.

              “What? Please Lloyd, this is serious. What shall I do?  What do I say to her?”

              Lloyd puffed out his cheeks and scrutinized Kaz’s facial expression. It revealed a pained anticipation that Lloyd could strangely relate to. “I always say, stick to what’s worked for you in the past.”

              “A bottle of vodka and a carton of Bulgarian cigarettes? How is that going to help me?”

              Lloyd rested his hands on his hips. “You really like this girl?”

              “She’s a Guatemalan rose. A Fata Morgana in jeans and flip-flops,” Kaz said.

              “Then I’m not the one to give you advice. If you meet a girl you don’t give a rat’s ass about, now there I can help you.”

              Kaz smiled and wagged his stout index finger in the air. “You don’t fool me, Dr. Lloyd Copeland. I see in your eyes. I see all the way to your soul. I see the way the music touches your heart.” He tapped Lloyd’s chest and chuckled. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: you… are a romantic.”

              “I don’t know.”

              “Help me Lloyd. Please help me.”

              Lloyd smiled and shook his head just perceptibly. “Look, the best thing to do is to lead her one small step at a time. Just invite her for coffee – small commitment, safe atmosphere, completely innocent.”

              “Yes, I like this idea. You’re a genius, my friend. And then?”

              “Then… smile and be kind,” Lloyd said.

              “Yes, yes,” Kaz said, nodding his head. “And then?”

              “Then… give her a bottle of vodka and some Bulgarian cigarettes.”

              Kaz frowned.

              “Look, just be sincere,” Lloyd said. “Let her know how you feel about her.”

              “That’s all?” Kaz said. “Is that what you do?”

              “No. I never do that.” Lloyd nodded and walked towards his office.

              “By the way, your phone has been ringing and ringing this morning,” Kaz said in a perturbed tone. “Please make it stop ringing. It’s upsetting my little comrades.”

              There were several voice mails in Lloyd’s in-box, all from George Lasko’s secretary imploring him with increasing urgency and strain in her voice to call her back immediately.

              Lloyd dialed the number and reclined in his chair.

              “Dr. Lasko wants to see you urgently,” she said with cold formality.

              A few minutes later Lloyd was standing outside Lasko’s office inspecting photographs, plaques and certificates that adorned an entire wall of the waiting room. There was a photograph of Lasko receiving an award from a bearded, tall gentleman, both men wearing tuxedos. In another photograph Lasko stood among a half dozen serious-looking men (not a single woman) in front of a large sign with a logo consisting of an EKG tracing overlying a globe, with a large caption that read “CardioPrime Technologies Distinguished Lecture Series”. The most prominently displayed portrait, signed in black marker, had him shaking hands with a smiling Bill Clinton, a stocky woman by his side. A small engraved brass plate under the photo read, “President William Jefferson Clinton, Dr. George Lasko and Mrs. Virginia Hampton Lasko. Los Angeles, California. March 7, 1999.”

              Lasko opened the door to his office.

              “Hold my calls please, Mrs. Oliver,” he said in a dry voice, then turned to Lloyd and gave a slight nudge of his head to direct him into his office. Lloyd entered without saying a word and waited for Lasko to walk around his desk and sit before settling in the demi Lune chair.

              The two remained silent for about ten seconds. Lasko leaned with his elbows on the desk massaging his knuckles with alternating hands. Lloyd crossed his legs and inspected a silver name plate engraved with Lasko’s name and with the same EKG tracing hovering over a globe that he had seen in the photograph outside.

              “I don’t quite know how to begin,” Lasko said.

              “Nice pictures, you’ve got on your wall of fame.”

              Lasko’s lips stretched in a crooked smile. “Yes. I’m quite fond of them.”

              Lloyd nodded. “How couldn’t you be?”

              “Accomplishment. Respect. Recognition. That’s what men like us strive for. That’s what we live for, isn’t it?”

              “I didn’t realize we were in the same category of men,” Lloyd said.

              “Oh but we are. Yes indeed, we are. I see it in you – the hunger, the desire, the craving that is only natural in men like us. Men who – let’s be honest – are endowed with the gift of… intellectual superiority.”

              Lasko’s eyes beamed, as if he were sharing a great secret. Seeing no reaction, he began to speak again.

              “Let’s not confuse this with arrogance. It is our duty, our very burden to aspire to greater heights; to pursue, to achieve, to succeed. We don’t have the option to wallow in mediocrity because that would be immoral.” Lasko punctuated the phrase by landing a fist on his desk.

              “Don’t think I don’t understand you,” Lasko continued. “I was just like you in my youth. I too held intelligence as the most venerable human quality, the greatest of all virtues.” Lasko snorted, “To be surrounded by all those educated fools! And yet, as we gain life experience, we become more pragmatic, more aware of the ways of the world, and it became clear to me that intelligence by itself is like a boat with a motor but no rudder. Do you know what the rudder is, Dr. Copeland?”

              Lloyd stared at Lasko and didn’t say a word.

              “Authority.” Lasko said, his voice resonating. “Yes, authority. It brings order, it brings clarity, it is the whetstone that sharpens the blade and it is the blade itself.” Lasko raised his chin. “It pains me, Lloyd,” he placed his hand over his chest, “it truly pains me to see the path you have chosen to take.

              “And what path would that be?” Lloyd asked.

              “I know all about your philandering ways, Dr. Copeland. I don’t approve of your depravity, but I understand it. I understand that… certain appetites may take hold in men such as—”

              “I don’t think you understand a damn thing,” Lloyd said.

              Lasko pointed a finger to the sky. “I am not here to judge you for that. Not at all. Still, it makes one wonder, doesn’t it, about your sense of discipline. And where does lack of discipline lead, Dr. Copeland?”

              Lloyd shrugged. “You seem to know.”

              “It leads to vice, and vice leads to brutality.” Lasko leaned forward and murmured, “I can overlook a petty ruffian on my staff but I can’t tolerate a brute. I will
not
tolerate a brute!”

              Lloyd uncrossed his legs and straightened in his chair, “I hate to say this but you lost me a while ago.”

              “I’ve received complaints, Dr. Copeland – two complaints on the same day to be exact, if you can believe that.”

              “Complaints from whom?” Lloyd asked.

              “The first one came from a medical student who preferred to remain anonymous,” Lasko said. “The student claimed that she overheard you saying the following words while eating in the cafeteria.” Lasko slipped his reading glasses on and read from a notebook. “I quote, ‘I have a feeling Mr. Piazza is going to fail Neurology’”.

              “This is ridiculous,” Lloyd said.

              “Apparently, the words were spoken to our own Dr. Erin Kennedy.”

              “Leave her out of this.”

              Lasko peered at Lloyd over his reading glasses.

              “Look,” Lloyd said, “I might have said something along those lines purely in jest. I don’t even know this… Mr. Piazza.”

              Lasko picked up a pencil and scribbled in his notebook.

              “Interesting,” he said. “When I asked her, Dr. Kennedy said she had no recollection of the incident.” Lasko paused and smiled. “Forgive me, Dr. Copeland. I’m having a hard time reading that curious expression on your face. Is that surprise or relief?”

              Lloyd crossed his arms and said nothing but the thought of Lasko questioning Erin gnawed at him. What else had he asked her?

              “It might seem like a petty issue to you,” Lasko said. “But I must admonish you to be more prudent in the comments you make in the common areas of the hospital, whether it’s in regard to patient care or matters of student confidentiality. Really, Dr. Copeland,” Lasko knitted his brow, “as an attending physician, you should know better.”

              “The second complaint, I’m afraid, is of a decidedly more serious nature.” Lasko removed his spectacles and dropped them on the desk. “A Dr. Todd English, fellow in the Department of Pathology, claims you physically assaulted him on campus.”

              Lloyd kept his eyes locked on Lasko and tried to maintain an even expression.

              Lasko raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

              “You want me to comment?”

              “You’re in some hot water, Dr. Copeland. This is no time to be reticent.”

              “I had some strong words with him,” Lloyd said. “For a doctor-in-training he was extremely disrespectful of an attending physician. I could have written him up for insubordination. I should have, really, but I gave him a break. But physically assaulted? That’s… that’s a gross exaggeration.”

              “He claims you struck him and shoved him against a wall,” Lasko said.

              “What’s this all about really?”

              “You’re under investigation for misconduct. As of this moment, you’re on academic probation. In accordance to hospital bylaws, any other infraction may lead to the suspension of your hospital privileges.”

              “You’ve got to be kidding,” Lloyd said. “My record at this institution is spotless. I’ve never received a complaint. I was twice voted teacher of the year by medical students and I always get top ratings from the residents in my department.”

              “And you’re fairly well published,” Lasko said. “And let’s not forget that you secured a rather generous grant for our institution from the NIH.”

              “I’m glad you’re aware of it.”

              “Yet, you’re still only an assistant professor, on the very same rung you started out the day you left residency, quite a few years ago, already. Now, why is that?”

              Lloyd shrugged.

              “Maybe your record is not so spotless,” Lasko said. He raised his palms in the air and tightened his shoulders in mock exasperation. “I just can’t explain it. Someone as promising as you, as bright as you are, as hard working as you are, with not a single promotion. It simply boggles the mind.”

              “Are we done?”

              “For now.” Lasko leaned back in his chair. “I will have my secretary send you written confirmation of your probationary status. One more infraction…” Lasko pointed a menacing index finger to the sky. “One more infraction and you’ll be in front of a disciplinary tribunal so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

              Lloyd got to his feet.

              “Lloyd,” Lasko said, “you’re an asset to the university. I would simply hate to lose you over something like this.” That crooked smile appeared on Lasko’s face again, showing just a gleam of an eye tooth.

              “I’m sure it would break your heart,” Lloyd said. He turned on his heels and marched out of the office.

              Chapter 20

             
L
loyd returned to his office and slumped in his chair. His head was pounding. Just weeks ago he was poised to start human trials on the project he had invested years pursuing, a man in control of his destiny. He was on the verge of confirming a discovery that might put an end to a blight that imprisoned millions of people, which robbed countless of souls of their personhood. Now someone was making an issue of a little shove in the chest of a clueless Pathology fellow. Things were coming unglued. Nothing made sense.

              He thought about what Lasko said of his not so spotless record. Lloyd knew all too well what he was referring to. As a second year resident, he had faced what Bender would later refer to as “that bit of unpleasantness”: an incident involving a junior faculty member by the name of Derrick Killian, the only smudge on an otherwise pristine academic record.