Zuni Stew: A Novel

ZUNI STEW

A Novel

Zuni Stew

Chuleya:we

Kent Jacobs

© 2014 by Kent Jacobs

All Rights Reserved.

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Cover artwork by Mario Perez (Bodeguero) and Sallie Ritter

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jacobs, Kent, 1938-

Zuni stew : a novel / by Kent Jacobs.

pages cm

ISBN 978-1-63293-027-9 (softcover : alk. paper)

1. Zuni Indians--Medicine--Fiction. 2. Shamans--New Mexico--Fiction. 3. Doctors--New Mexico--Fiction. 4. Indians--Government relations--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3610.A356438Z66 2014

813’.6--dc23

2014034388

www.sunstonepress.com

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For my Sallie

1973

January 17—After fifteen years of military involvement, the Vietnam War ends. The draft is discontinued.

April 4—Tower Number Two of the World Trade Center opens.

April 30—Haldeman and Ehrlichman resign as a result of the Watergate scandal.

June 1—Dr. Jack D’Amico completes his internship at Cook County Hospital in Chicago.

1

T
he ER was overwhelmed that night, as usual.

The on-call doc closed the heavy once-white curtain. The patient, a repeat, was going to live. He had treated the same guy for gunshot wounds three weeks earlier. The .22 caliber bullet had missed critical chest structures, but had torn a path through the spongy tissue of the right lung. Tubes in place, the lung cavity drained of pooling blood. A respirator kept the gang member out of acute respiratory distress.

“You again?” said Dr. Jack D’Amico.

“Yeah, man.”

“I give up. You’re gonna die one of these times. Dumb ass, clean up your act.”

The patient’s hand moved under the sheet. A square-headed gun barrel pointed at D’Amico’s crotch. A Glock. A godamned Glock.

D’Amico pulled a prescription pad out of his lab coat and carefully showed it to his patient. “What do you want? I can write you a scrip to take you to heaven.”

Bubbles of blood oozed from the man’s lips. Still, he managed to say, “Mercy, me-o-my. Git me the best...” He closed his eyes.

Jack spun, tore open the curtain, yelling, “Code Zero. Code Zero!”

A Chicago cop was on it in a millisecond. Revolver drawn, a truncheon in the other hand. He lunged for the bed, knocking the Glock to the linoleum floor. The patient screamed, tried to pull out tubes, attempted to get out of bed. The cop had him in a chokehold. A male nurse arrived with restraints.

Jack looked in at the controlled chaos. “Better job, George. No holes in the wall this time.”

“Doctor D,” called a nurse. “Number eight. Hurry, she’s crowning.”

“A multip?”

“Her ninth.”

“A grand multipara. I’m flying.” Dodging a cart, squeezing between two gurneys, all Jack could think of was what happened as he observed a young resident trying to deliver a woman with her tenth baby. The baby’s head was showing, and the doctor had said something that pissed off the mother. She sat right up, stopped the delivery and demanded another doctor. Whoa—women with multiple deliveries can show amazing control. This delivery went okay. Considering he had only time to pull on sterile gloves.

Stepping out of the delivery room, he saw ER personnel running toward the entrance. Two ambulances, another immediately behind. A tenement fire; victims were being brought to Cook County Hospital as quickly as they could be extracted from the out-of-control inferno.

“Triage!” yelled an intern.

Jack ran the length of the ER, out the swinging doors. Five gurneys were rowed up. Ambulance personnel hovering. The ER resident stood rock-still, like an icicle in a blizzard. How the guy had gotten through med school, let alone grade school, was mind-boggling to the staff. Jack hadn’t bothered to remember his name. Covered the dumb doctor’s butt too many times. It had gotten so bad, Jack referred to him as ‘A.H.’—even to his face.

Jack and two other interns assessed the status of each patient. Twice, he pushed A.H. out of the way to start IVs. Told orderlies to ‘haul ass’ and get the worst off to ORs.

The ER was expeditiously cleared of burn victims, most shipped to surgical ICU. More patients arrived simultaneously. Knife victim. An elderly man with profound pneumonia. Two car-crash victims. A couple of moribund alcoholics.

A. H. stood over the stabbing victim, holding the man’s wrists, watching the second hand on his watch. Jack shoved him aside, yelled for a saline IV, and a lab tech to type and cross-match his blood. At the same time, he tore the man’s shirt open. Puncture wound in the left side of the abdomen. He had the victim on his way to the OR in minutes.

The arriving patients were treated as well as a top concierge at a five-star hotel. Jack finally looked at his watch. 7:20 PM. His final shift at Cook County had officially ended two hours and twenty minutes ago. He was no longer an intern. He was a full-fledged DOCTOR.

“It’s all yours, A. H.,” called Jack, without even glancing back at the ER. Signed out, he headed for the cafeteria. He waved at the girls in their hairnets and grey uniforms, blowing kisses and tapping the glass.

“We’ll miss you, honey,” called a wizened lady. “Miss you plenty.”

“I know, but I gotta go out into the big, bad world. Practice what they taught me, Miss Betty. Pay back my Daddy.”

“God be with you, boy. Come back and visit us.”

No way, he thought, but said, “You betcha, love to you all.”

A last stop at the personnel office where he turned in his ID badge. He decided to walk through the main lobby to say goodbye to the large bronze sculpture of a family amidst a fountain, dubbed ‘The Incontinent Family.’

So much for art, for humanity. He hadn’t seen much humanity in the last year. Pimps. Poverty. Drugs. Death. He had seen so much pain, injury, loss in that building. He became immune.

He didn’t want to be a part of President Nixon’s ‘Imperial Society.’ Medicaid. So-called government-funded healthcare for the poor. Sanctimonious, well-meaning. But will it work in a society that is sick itself?

He crossed West Harrison, headed for the neighborhood bar. ‘Ward 17’ to the staff. He was running late, no time to celebrate. He dropped some change, picked up a newspaper. Ran for the Medical Center subway. An ambulance screeched around the corner, siren muffled, nearly hitting him. The driver high-fived and headed for the ER.

The subway car emerged from beneath the ground onto the elevated track crossing downtown Chicago. Daylight faded. Transfer to the north shore commuter train. Seat near the door. Dressed in greens, he felt the chill. The air was brisk for summer. A glow emanated from sprawling tract houses, punctuated by neon shopping malls. The lights flickered on. He took out the
Tribune
,
went straight to the crossword puzzle. Stumped on the first three clues, he realized he had been on duty for twenty-six hours straight. His brain drained.

The conductor called out, “Next stop, Evanston.”

His brother had better still be waiting for him. Winnetka, a world away from Cook County Hospital.

2

J
ack awakened at five. (An ingrained habit.) For the first time in a year, he could have slept in. No call, no rounds to make. Disgustingly wide awake, he slipped on old jeans and a T-shirt, patted his hard-sleeping sheepdog, Wooly, and left the guest house.

The Winnetka home was grand. A thirty-foot-tall weathered copper dome above the marble foyer. A walnut table dating back to the Italian Renaissance. Roses, lilies and palm fronds in a silver champagne bucket. Crystal chandelier from Murano. To the right was the formal dining room, a table seating twelve, lined with cream-colored leather chairs. An Italian tapestry rescued from a village hall during World War II hung at one end of the room, a sideboard below, lined with ornate silver crosses. The opposite wall held shelves filled with more silver behind glass doors. A silver domed trolley rested in front.

The library was to the left, reached by a pair of eleven-foot-high doors. Books, of course. Rare port in a locked cabinet. Touches of Rose everywhere: needle-point pillows, candles from a favorite shop in Florence, and because the garden was at its height, more roses in crystal vases.

Jo Lou was on her knees cleaning the oven, but she sat back as he came in the back door. “Doctor Jack, your mother said you’d be sleeping late. I’ll fix you some breakfast right fast.”

“No problem, Jo Lou,” he said, bending down to give her a hug. “Just coffee.” He stepped into the hexagonal breakfast room and picked up the
Chicago Tribune
. The paper was strewn about on the bright yellow-enameled round table. He knew his father had already had breakfast, long gone to his office. Jack had been there once when he was just a kid, and that wasn’t by invitation. As a growing boy, he was more welcome in the D’Amico Corp construction site trailer, wearing an oversized hardhat, peering over his uncle’s drawing table or arm-wrestling with the crew.

Jack’s grandfather, Paolo D’Amico, had founded the construction company. At the death of the grandparents, the company had been divided equally between Pasquale and his half-brother, Gabriel. Pasquale, tired of battling with local government rules and regs—and corruption—had sold all but ten percent of his share to Gabriel. With that money, he created the restaurant. It became Pasquale’s stage; an elegant club-like atmosphere for the wealthy of the Chicago area to show off their furs and jewels, for CEOs to entertain in private over expensive brandy and cigars.

As he finished the crossword puzzle and began a second cup of coffee, Rose arrived, with Wooly at her side. “You’re up early, Jack.”

“Yeah.” He stood and accepted a kiss on each cheek. A wet-muzzled kiss from Wooly. “The table is new.”

“It just arrived. I saw Monet’s kitchen in Giverny, yellow and cobalt blue. What do you think?”

Wooly barked, and Jack opened the door to the expansive yard. “When did you and Dad go to France?”

“Spring, of course, to see the flowers. On the spur of the moment—I went by myself.” Jack’s eyebrows went up questioningly. “You know, Easter and Mother’s Day are so busy at the restaurant. He didn’t dare leave.”

“Then why does he pay his manager so well?”

“You forgot Mother’s Day...again.”

“I was on call, you knew that. I sent flowers.” In the distance, he could see a gardener deadheading roses. Wooly lumbered across the manicured grounds. Hedge clippers in his mouth. “Wooly’s getting old; I had to help him up on to my bed.”

“Arthritis, his hindquarters. The vet prescribed a supplement.” Rose coughed a deep, rattling cough. “He’s such a dear dog.” She fumbled for a tissue.

“That cough sounds nasty, Mother.” He constantly worried about her. She carried herself with such dignity, but she seemed smaller, frailer each time he saw her. Her pale hands rested on top of the newspaper, looking even whiter against the dingy newsprint. Morning light, like the oil washes in Turner’s Venetian scenes, streamed into the room, forming a halo-like illusion around her white hair.

Pasquale made certain she saw the finest respiratory doctors in the Chicago area, as well as a yearly assessment at a private clinic in Canada. But with asthma and age betraying her, the prognosis wasn’t good. Rose was the tenth member of the Anitoli family to be afflicted with severe asthma. The other nine had died of acute respiratory failure.

“The entire family will be at the restaurant tonight,” Rose said, clearing her throat. “Your father has flown in fresh lobster just for you.”



When Jack and his brother, Nic, arrived, the guys working valet parking were running to keep up with a steady stream of luxury cars. Mercedes Benz. Rolls Royce. A Lamborghini.

“Whew,” said Jack. “This place is hopping.”

Almost everyone was already seated in the private dining room. Before Pasquale entered the room, he muttered to his maître d’, “That bastard got me again. I donated the champagne, Dom Perignon—his choice. Refused my
proseccos.
Then he twisted my arm to buy three one-thousand-dollar seats to round out a table.”

He stopped first behind his wife. Gave her a kiss on her neck. Jack stood and was immediately met with a resounding bear hug from his father.

“What’s going on tonight?” Jack asked.

“Private fundraiser for Ravinia.” Pasquale signaled all in the room to stand. His voice deep, emotional.
“Voglio fare un brindisi in onore di mio figlio.
A toast to my son.” He raised his glass, looking straight at him.
“Jack, io e tua madre ti ringraziamo per averci repagato di tutu i sacrifici che abbiamo fatto per farti studiare.”
Laughter filled the room. Pasquale and Rose had every right to chide their son about the cost of his education. Then came the serious stuff.
“Oggi sei dottore con tanto di laurea. Il primo dottore nella famiglia!”

Jack actually saw tears well up in his father’s eyes. He did not expect what came next.
“Grazie, Jack. Salute!”
His father thanked him. Thanked him for becoming a doctor. Amazing.

Italian greetings and congratulations were noisy. Kisses on cheeks, moist eyes.

Only Uncle Gabriel missed the toast. He was late—a last minute dispute with the city forced him to meet with the company attorneys. Some bureaucrat had decided a derrick at a building site was inadequately stabilized. Work was halted until the problem was resolved. His crews were idle. Deadlines loomed, the company threatened with fines.

Jack couldn’t remember when he had last set foot in the VIP dining room. Paneled walnut walls, capped by the classic French lip egg-and-dot pattern. Two sandstone friezes, carved by Carl Milles, flanked the doorway. (The stylized eagle heads looked more Germanic than American.) Across the table, his twin sisters were barely visible through an extraordinary bouquet of hybrid teas and floribundas. He would have to look at the rose
garden before he left, and told his mother so.