by Linda Wolfe
Suddenly Ben was glad that Sidney hadn’t come. Sidney had always characterized doctors who took assignments with administrative committees as specialists in red tape, dullards who couldn’t make a proper living at the practice of medicine and so had to resort to extra-medical occupations. And certainly Martin looked the part, with his plump face, his dull eyes, and his ridiculously provincial jacket. Sidney would have felt immediately antagonistic to Martin, and would have made no effort to conceal his sense of superiority. For that matter, Ben thought, he would undoubtedly have considered himself superior to the other doctors as well. Two of them looked very young and inexperienced, and the third was elderly and wore a hearing aid.
“We were rather surprised you actually showed up this morning,” the lawyer said coldly, interrupting Ben’s thoughts. “Based on your responses to our letters. Or, should I say, your nonresponses.”
Martin made a gesture with his plump hand, shoving at the air between himself and the lawyer. “It’s all right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll address Dr. Zauber. Since he hasn’t brought his own counsel, I think it would be fairer if we medical men questioned him.”
He began to feel more comfortable.
“We’ve had numerous complaints against you,” Dr. Martin said, leaning forward. The three men alongside him also sat forward, the one with the hearing aid perching on the very edge of his chair. “A Mrs. Farber first contacted us last January, saying that despite repeated requests on her part, you had refused to fill out her insurance forms. Subsequently we have received complaints from several other women. A Mrs. Daniels. A Mrs. Smith. A Mrs. Evans. Are these patients of yours?”
Ben nodded a polite yes.
“And is it true that you have refused to fill out their health insurance forms?”
Again, he nodded. “Yes. It’s true.”
“But why?” Dr. Martin looked perplexed. “Don’t you recognize that these patients expect to pay you for your services to them by being reimbursed by the health plans? That they have already, in effect, paid out money for your services by subscribing to a health plan?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said humbly. But he couldn’t think of what to say next. How could he possibly explain to them, in any way that would seem sufficiently rational to them to prevent their moving to revoke Sidney’s license, a behavior of Sidney’s that he himself knew to be irrational. Could he tell them that Sidney was phobic about signing his name? Could he tell them that Sidney wasn’t even sending out bills anymore? Could he tell them that not signing insurance forms, and not asking to be paid, were the least worrisome of Sidney’s new habits? Could he tell them that his brother was a barbiturate addict whose professional life met almost no standards of professional conduct?
He shifted uneasily in his chair, and then at last ventured, his voice low, “I have a philosophical objection to the procedure, sir.”
“A philosophical objection?” Behind his glasses, Martin’s eyes blinked. “By the way, you don’t have to call me ‘sir.’ We’re all peers here.”
Ben raised his voice slightly. “My objection to the procedure is that—well, it’s always seemed just a little bit socialistic to me.” The man with the hearing aid smiled.
“Filling out those forms smacks of Big Brotherism,” Ben added.
“What’s that?” Martin’s plump face looked perplexed.
“Third-party payments make a mockery of the doctor-patient relationship. Right now it’s insurance companies that are dictating to us, but the next thing we know, it’ll be the government.”
Martin began to nod and the two young doctors bobbed their chins up and down infinitesimally.
“We’re told what to charge, what tests to perform, and we’re even asked to put down questionable diagnoses, just to suit the forms. We’re not our own men anymore,” Ben said. He could see he had given the committee an argument it found not altogether unreasonable. Perhaps it had been made before by other recalcitrant medical men. Although he was certain that Sidney’s refusal to sign the forms had nothing to do with philosophy, he went forward with the argument, his voice at last reaching its customary pitch. “Medicine used to be a matter of private practice. But these days we have no privacy. And neither do our patients, really. Do you realize what an invasion of privacy these insurance forms constitute?”
Even the lawyer was looking at him a little less hostilely than he had earlier. “We’re being told how to practice medicine by insurance salesmen,” Ben continued, turning slightly to include the lawyer in his gaze. “Middle men. Economic vultures.” As he warmed to the argument, he raised his voice even louder. There was no point in playing Sidney as altogether humble. Surely some of his reputation for irascibility and arrogance had preceded him here.
“But Dr. Zauber,” Martin said cajolingly, “None of us likes it. But we do it. We go along with it because it’s accepted practice.”
“We can’t take this kind of thing into our own hands,” the man with the hearing aid interrupted. “Much as we might like to.” He smiled again.
“You can’t fight city hall,” one of the young doctors interposed. “Or the state capital, for that matter. Not barehanded.”
Ben allowed himself to look thoughtful.
“And it’s not as if your philosophical stance was harmless,” Martin said. “It’s all well and good. We understand how you feel. But you’re hurting innocent parties—patients—when you undertake this battle. After all, they’ve already paid the insurance companies. They expect reimbursement.”
Ben thought of saying, as Sidney surely would have, “Not if I don’t bill them,” but he knew that would make the committee lose its feeling of identification with him. He looked down at his arms on the table and then said slowly, “Well, yes. Yes, I see.”
“You would be better advised to take your stance by writing for some of the professional journals,” Martin went on. “I mean, when you can spare time from your other writing.” He looked at Ben deferentially. “We’re all familiar with your research, Dr. Zauber.”
Ben allowed himself to accept the implicit compliment and to smile appreciatively at Martin. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. I suppose battles like these are best fought in print, and not through direct action.”
“Yes. That’s just it,” Martin said. “So if, in the future, you would just start filling in and signing the forms—”
“There’ll be no further action against me?” Ben finished his sentence.
“That’s right,” Martin nodded.
“Thank you,” Ben said swiftly. “Thank you.”
“But we plan to monitor you,” the long-silenced lawyer at last chimed in. “If this occurs again, you won’t have the courtesy we afforded you this morning. We’ll move against you, I can assure you.”
“I understand,” Ben murmured. “Of course.”
He stood then and the four doctors stood too. Martin extended his hand. Ben walked to the head of the table and saying, “Thank you,” once again, grasped Martin’s fingers. Then he shook the hand of each of the other doctors. The man with the hearing aid had a weak, arthritic grip and after trying to convey his gratitude through a useless, unreciprocated handshake, Ben put his arm around the man’s shoulders and clapped him on the back. Then he hurried out of the hearing room, suddenly in desperate need of the toilet.
In the men’s room opposite the elevator, his intestinal pangs relieved, he stopped once more to look at himself. The mirror was cloudy and streaked but the face that looked out at him had clear, intelligent eyes and a smooth, no longer furrowed brow. He smiled at his reflection, and congratulated himself on the performance he had just given.
A half-hour later, still pleased, he entered Sidney’s office. “How’d it go?” Sidney, his legs propped up on his desk, demanded imperiously.
The smile that had been playing on Ben’s lips ever since he had left the hearing suddenly vanished. “Badly,” he said impulsively, the word surprising him as much as it did Sidney. “They’re going to take away your licen
se.”
Sidney swung his feet to the floor.
Enjoying his discomfiture, Ben frowned. Then a split second later, he let a smile return to his lips and said, “I was just kidding, old buddy. It was fine. Terrific.”
Sidney’s gaunt face was white. “Don’t tease me, you son of a bitch,” he roared.
It was difficult to know where his thin body manufactured the stamina for rage, Ben thought. But he quickly apologized. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Actually, I wanted to tell you how well it went. They believed me. They even almost apologized for harassing a man of my eminence over such trivia.”
Sidney began to relax and he too smiled in his slack way. “No kidding. They did?”
“Yeah.” Ben removed his jacket and undid the cufflinks he had borrowed from Sidney. “But they did say that it better not happen again. I think from now on you really are going to have to fill out insurance forms. Or let me do it for you. Otherwise they really might start an action against you.”
“Have you sign my name?” Sidney muttered distractedly.
“Why not?”
Sidney pondered his question. “Yeah. Why not? Yeah, okay.”
“I’ll start now,” Ben offered, setting the cufflinks down on the desk and scooping up a pile of unopened mail. “Give me something with your signature.”
Sidney rummaged through his wallet and handed him his American Express card. He took it, shoved it into his back pocket, and started to leave. But at the door he paused. “I guess it would be best if no one knew I was doing this for you, don’t you think?”
Sidney nodded. “Yes. I suppose so.”
“I’ll just tell Miss Viviani that you’ve finally decided to take care of your correspondence, but that since it’s so backed up, you’ve asked me to help out for a while. I’ll dictate letters, and diagnoses for the insurance forms, and then have her put the typed material on your desk. I’ll sign in here.”
“Okay,” Sidney said. “Sure. Whatever you think best.”
Ben went into his office and before he saw his first patient that afternoon, spent a half-hour practicing Sidney’s bold, complex signature. What he was proposing to do for Sidney was probably illegal, he thought as he concentrated on the swirling “Z,” so different from his own less dramatic one. But it wasn’t a bad idea. He should have thought of it earlier.
That evening, over dinner in Ben’s small kitchen, Sidney asked Ben to return his American Express card. Ben was just opening the refrigerator to take out the raspberries he had been fortunate enough to find at Gristede’s for the night’s dessert. His back to Sidney, he said, “Your American Express card? Oh, my God. I lost it.”
He heard Sidney expell a loud, furious breath before he shouted, “You lost it! How the hell could you do a careless thing like that?” He turned around slowly, the bowl of raspberries in his hands, to see Sidney purpling with rage. “Do you realize how complicated it is to get another one? Jesus Christ!”
He studied Sidney’s face. “Well, maybe I didn’t lose it after all,” he said deliberately. “Maybe I’ve got it after all.”
“Where?” Sidney demanded.
“Here,” he said and, shifting the bowl to one hand, delved in his back pocket with the other.
“Give it to me,” Sidney ordered.
“Come and get it,” he said, and waved the card in the air.
Sidney sprang to his feet. Although he was desperately thin, he still possessed remnants of the impulsive energy he had always displayed when he and Ben had fought as children. He lunged forward and for a moment Ben felt his old familiar fear of Sidney’s temper afflict the pit of his stomach. But he stood his ground, shaking the card tantalizingly just out of Sidney’s reach.
Sidney grabbed for his arm and he dropped the bowl of raspberries and moved backward, still dangling the card. Sidney changed his direction and, eyes narrowed, lunged once again. Ben stepped aside, agilely avoiding the raspberries that had scattered all around his feet. A moment later Sidney slipped and, hurtling to the ground, collapsed with a look of indignant surprise amidst the crushed raspberries.
Ben laughed. They had been tussling as if they were boys still, except that now, with Sidney’s strength so depleted, they were better matched. Or actually, he had to admit a moment later, they were again badly matched; Sidney had had no real chance against him. “Just give me the card,” he was saying, kneeling among the berries.
Momentarily ashamed, Ben bent over him and handed him the piece of plastic. Sidney grabbed it ungraciously and, standing up, sulked out of the kitchen.
In the living room that night, Ben continued to laugh over the incident. And then suddenly he got up from the couch and shut off the television set. He had discovered something, he thought. He had at last found a way of preventing Sidney from being harmful. It was all a matter of strength. Once the idea struck him, it seemed so obvious that he felt stupid for not having thought of it sooner. But instead of dwelling on his dullness he began to consider what he might do with the discovery, and soon he began to feel exhilarated, exultant. He continued to walk around the room but he was striding, not pacing, his legs moving in great bounding arcs. For the first time since Sidney had come to live with him, he knew that at last he had a plan for controlling him.
He waited before trying out his plan. There was no point in attempting to force Sidney to stay away from the hospital unless he was summoned at a time when he seemed truly dangerous, stupefied. Like the time he had pissed in his pants, he thought. He waited, but he knew the time would come.
When it did, it was on the night of a heat wave that gripped the city mercilessly. Coming home from the office, Ben turned up all the air conditioners to their maximum and yet still the apartment was intolerable. He stripped to his underwear, but Sidney seemed not to feel the heat.
At dinner Sidney huddled inside his dirty blue suit, the only one that fit him at all decently now that he was so emaciated, clutching the overlarge jacket tightly against his chest. He didn’t eat a morsel and after dinner, in the living room, he acted even more unaffected by his surroundings. Ben had switched on the TV set to a Busby Berkeley musical. Sidney began to talk to himself, muttering and murmuring and gesticulating. Just then the telephone rang. Sidney tilted forward on the couch, swaying.
“I’ll get it,” Ben said and hurried to the hall phone.
The call was for Sidney. One of his obstetrical patients had arrived, been examined, and would, according to the resident on the other end of the phone, be ready to deliver shortly.
“He’s not here,” Ben murmured. “He can’t make it. I’ll come instead.”
He hung up the phone just as Sidney appeared in the hallway, stumbling.
“Wassn’ for me, was it?” Sidney asked. “Wassn’ the hospital calling me?”
“Yeah, it was,” Ben admitted.
Sidney tried to pull himself together, pushing back his shoulders. “Who was it? Wha’s wrong?”
“I don’t think you need to know,” Ben said coldly. “I’m going for you.”
Sidney listened expressionlessly as if he didn’t quite understand. Then comprehension spread across his face. “The hell you are!” Scowling, he lunged at Ben, just as he had on the night they had fought over the American Express card.
This time Ben sidestepped immediately and Sidney crashed dizzily onto the floor of the hallway.
“You’re not going for me,” Sidney said, trying to stand. But he couldn’t straighten up without a prop. He dragged himself toward Ben and grasped one of his legs.
“Oh, yes I am,” Ben said and, kicking, freed his leg.
Sidney tumbled backward. Ben waited, watching him warily. And then suddenly Sidney sprang to his feet, rage making his strength return, and he leaned forward to punch Ben, his fists clenched in fury. Ben froze, maintaining his position, and just as Sidney’s clenched fists came toward him, he sidestepped once again. Sidney’s hands pounded against plaster.
“I’m going for you,” Ben sai
d calmly. “You can see that it’s for your own good.”
Sidney didn’t turn around. He began pummeling the wall madly. Astonished, Ben stood predator-still. And then, alarmed that Sidney was hurting his hands, he grabbed him and wrestled his arms to his sides.
Sidney went limp, and at last Ben knew their struggle was over. It had, he thought, been even easier than he had first imagined it would be.
Holding Sidney, he began to half-drag, half-pull him to the spare room. This too was easier than he had expected it would be. Sidney’s weight seemed almost half of what he remembered it to be. Pushing him through the door, he felt marvelously strong. He helped him onto the bed and said generously, “You try and sleep. I’ll be back soon.” Then he unfastened Sidney’s belt, assisted him out of his trousers, and started to cover him with a blanket.
Sidney’s legs began to tremble. “I need another pill,” he whispered.
“No. You’ve had too many.”
Sidney ignored him and reached for one of the jars on his night table, unsteadily extracting and swallowing two pills.
He sat down at the foot of the bed. Sidney’s legs were still shaking uncontrollably. Unnerved, he put his arms around them, trying to provide the control that Sidney’s nervous system seemed no longer to have. But the legs went on shaking. And they were filthy, he saw, sweat-stained and traversed by dark rivulets that ran from thighs to ankles. Sidney had neglected his whole body, his once so strong and even elegant body. On his stomach there was the start of a red, blistery barbiturate rash. He held tighter to Sidney’s legs which shook and shivered within his grasp, twitching involuntarily. And then at last the twitching subsided. Sidney had fallen asleep.
He left a moment later and handled the delivery for Sidney. He was ashamed of having resorted to force to get Sidney to stay at home. But he was also proud of himself and when he fondled the fat, squalling boy he produced for Sidney’s patient, he felt his brutality had been for a good cause.
The next morning, Sidney was awake early. He came into the kitchen only moments after Ben put up the water for coffee, settling himself on a chair, his head in his hands. Ben looked him over carefully. Sidney had a hysterectomy scheduled for eight, he knew, and he couldn’t tell from his silence and his exhausted slump whether or not he was in condition to go to the hospital or needed to be restrained again.