“Look at your tie,” she said, with a sudden trace of annoyance. “You’ve shoved it up so tight that you’re choking yourself.”
“Why is this of any interest to you?”
“I didn’t say it was interesting. Sad, maybe. But not interesting.”
I was expecting a wry smile, something to soften what otherwise might be taken for an insult. But the smile never came.
“Okay, why do you find this . . . me . . . sad?”
“You’re trapped. You’re here, in a bar, with no partner or client to impress. You are an attorney or banker, right? And despite your momentary freedom before you march back to the office on Monday morning, you still feel like you need to choke off your air supply with your uniform.”
“That’s deep,” I said. “Also, I’m a glorified proofreader for the filthy rich, and all I do is help one faceless corporation gain advantage over another while real people with real problems suffer.”
“Something like that,” she said. “Plus, you drink too much.”
“My name’s Will,” I said.
“Erica,” she responded. “Erica Wells.” Then she walked away. As I watched her, I realized two things. First, I was drunk. Second, I was thrilled to be the object of her abuse. I wanted more. I found her scorn comforting, something I could possibly break through. I could reach her, I thought, on a deep level that would dispense with a relationship’s need for nurture and preparation. Or maybe I was just plastered.
She moved slowly toward the exit, perhaps expecting me to follow. I plowed through the crowd after her and brushed shoulders with Bryce Corwin, the head of Canaan’s corporate department. He ignored me and proceeded to the maître d’ desk with a small entourage of younger associates. When I joined the firm years ago, Corwin assigned me the task of trolling through hundreds of documents to determine whether there was anything troublesome about a company the firm’s client was purchasing. On completion, I was called into Corwin’s office. And while he had a reputation for cruelty, he appeared happy, but only because the ineptitude of my work gave him an opportunity to use a line that he had undoubtedly perfected over the years. “The difference between what I asked you to do and what you did,” he said, “is the difference between shitting and fucking.”
I pushed through that memory, forced myself to look past Corwin, and positioned myself in front of Erica before she could exit.
“There must be great pleasure in this, coming to a place where professionals congregate so you can verbally abuse them,” I said.
She scanned me, as if she had found an imperfection worth exploring. I thought she might walk away again.
“It’s perfect, really,” I continued. “You have contempt for us, but you can also save us. It’s one-stop shopping. And I admire your technique. No academic isolation for you. Go to where help is needed. Confront the virus in its natural habitat.”
“What do you think of me?” she asked. As I contemplated the answer, I noticed that other men were staring at her.
“You’re better looking than I am,” I replied. “And I want to see you again.”
2
Fire
The following Friday, we met at Chez Michele, an upscale French bistro in Tribeca. I got there early and asked for a glass of merlot, which I drank quickly. Then, I requested another. I was clad in pressed khaki pants, a blue-striped shirt, and a navy blazer, and I assumed Erica would also show up well dressed. She arrived, moments later, in light washed-out blue jeans and a drab, gray sweatshirt with a hoodie. I felt a stab of insult. Then, I almost laughed out loud.
Suddenly, I wished I hadn’t come. As she walked toward our table, I struggled to find just the right words to recapture the momentum of what I imagined to be my insolent charm from Mikonos. But seeing her scrambled my thoughts.
She sat down and glanced at me briefly, then turned her attention to her handbag, which she slung over the back of her chair. I braced myself for a short evening.
“You were mocking me the other night, weren’t you?” she asked. I tried to establish eye contact, but her eyes darted away from mine, like repelling magnets.
Maybe she was unstable. That could actually improve my chances. I had a history of attracting peculiar women, a fate I attributed to being a blank slate on whom others could etch patterns of their choice. Just a few weeks earlier, I had dinner with a woman I met online, who informed me that her last date had touched her inappropriately. She told me she responded seductively, whispered into her date’s ear, then bit down hard on his earlobe. “I tasted blood,” she told me.
I stared at Erica. “You’re not going to bite me, are you?”
“I try to keep my options open,” she said. She didn’t smile, but neither was she thrown off guard. I wanted to make her laugh. I drank some of my wine.
“You drink a lot,” she said.
“I’m being rude,” I said. “Would you like some?”
“I try not to drink. It interferes with . . . everything.” I studied her for a moment.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Have you had too much already?” she asked, looking at my glass.
I relaxed. This would end soon.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“That’s easy. You’re gorgeous. I’m not. And you’re troubled in some way I can’t define. And you’re interested in me, which doesn’t speak well for your judgment. I like women with bad judgment.”
Erica bit her lip. Was she trying not to smile?
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Cleveland.”
I laughed. “Cleveland, the birthplace of exotic creatures, of beautiful women.”
“Detroit without the charm,” she said.
“So, you’re on a mission, right? You go to places like Mikonos to save bland professionals from lives of despair, and you chose me the other night.”
I reached for the merlot, but she reached out and grabbed my arm, gently guiding me away from the glass. Perhaps the gesture was borne more of condescension than intimacy, but I caught my breath all the same. She didn’t release her grip.
“I’m patient,” I said. “At some point, you’re going to let go.”
“Why law?” She asked.
“Why not?” I responded.
Erica closed her eyes and smiled. I remembered that it made sense to consume one glass of water for each alcoholic beverage. With my free hand, I drank the sparkling water in front of me, watching the erratic bubbles dance on the surface.
“This date doesn’t count,” I said.
Her eyes opened. “What does that mean?”
“I didn’t . . . earn this date. I didn’t . . . score an evening with a dazzling woman. Having dinner with you is like being approached by an attractive religious fanatic at an airport. It doesn’t count.”
She let go of my hand. She would leave now, like a Jehovah’s Witness accepting the apathy of a potential convert. But instead, she picked up the menu and studied the contents. “Let’s order,” she said.
I looked up and saw a large chandelier consisting of concentric metallic circles, laced with gold flecks and polished to a high gleam. The restaurant was full, with men dressed in blue suits and red ties, waiters in crisp white uniforms, women in stylish skirts and dark blouses. I glanced downward and allowed the sounds of the restaurant to filter through: the erratic clang of metal on porcelain, the drone of conversation.
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I try to help people,” she said. She then looked at me directly, without blinking.
“Could you be more specific?”
Staring at Erica made me dizzy, even though I was only halfway through my second glass of wine. I looked away to recover some equilibrium and noticed, on the far wall, three paintings of pastoral scenes encased in ornate frames. I couldn’t tell whether the style was impressionistic or whether my vision was faltering. Maybe this could be fun. I was a charity ca
se, and now, I had the freedom to sabotage the evening.
“More importantly, do you succeed?” I asked her.
“In what?”
“You try to help people. Do you succeed?”
She put the menu down and glanced over at the next table. I looked over as well and saw a huge crock of French onion soup with thick, overflowing cheese solidified over the edges, full of beef stock and crammed with croutons. I realized I was hungry.
“Tell me something about you,” she said.
“That’s the second time you didn’t answer my question.”
“Often,” she said. “I succeed. Often.”
The waiter arrived, and we ordered. Erica chose the onion soup, followed by filet mignon with french fries. When the main courses were delivered, she drenched the steak in sauce and covered the fries with ketchup. I ordered plain chicken, which I cut into small pieces. We ate without talking, Erica chewing and staring at her plate. I ate slowly, mostly to provide a base for the wine. I stared at my glass of water again.
The food seemed to relax Erica, and without invitation, she began to speak rapidly, as if she only had a limited amount of time.
She was a social worker with a large caseload at Beth Israel and was developing a private practice as well. She did not have much of a social life. Instead, she devoted her time to her patients. She tossed off the names of treatises with impenetrable titles, and I imagined that little space on her bookshelves was allotted to frivolous material. No best sellers, no gossip magazines, not even the classics. Just volumes on psychology, medicine, and hospice care.
Her delivery became frantic, and I felt unsettled, like a passenger trapped in a vehicle careening through traffic.
“Do you read trashy novels?” I suddenly asked.
“What?”
“Or binge-watch TV shows?” Erica’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re making fun of me again. You do that a lot,” she said.
“A lot? We just met.” She looked away, as if searching for a more receptive audience. Then, she turned back to me, her body tensing. I had a vague sense that I was running out of time, that the evening and this woman would soon drift away.
“I’m jealous,” I said.
“Jealous? Of me?”
“You’re involved. You’re concerned about the well-being of others.” Her shoulders relaxed.
“Aren’t you?” she asked.
“Not really.” I ran my hand through my hair. What did I realistically expect from this date? “There are only so many hours in the day. You spend those hours worrying about other people. I spend those hours completing my professional chores, then going home to collapse.”
“Maybe we can change that,” she told me. I laughed abruptly.
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds creepy and sexy.” She smiled without conviction. Had I just mocked her again? I was about to plead innocence, but she then returned to her narrative, at a calmer pace. I relaxed but was troubled by an emerging link between her moods and my state of being. I forced myself to refocus on her words.
“Conversational therapy,” she said. “More suited to my nature. So after college, I got my master’s in social work from New York University.” She stopped suddenly. “Are you listening to me?”
“Of course I . . .”
“You have to take a long view of medicine,” she said, quickly, throwing me off balance. Was this intentional? “I know all of its virtues and inventions. But its successes will ultimately destroy us.” I stared blankly.
“Do you know we are heading into a postantibiotic era?” she asked. “Our greatest gift to humanity, all of the antibiotics which treat AIDS, bacterial infections, malaria, tuberculosis, has created bacteria so resistant, so sophisticated that soon all of our antibiotics will be useless. Imagine that. No antibiotics for routine operations. No treatments for superficial wounds. We will destroy ourselves with the very gifts of modern medicine.”
I had heard this kind of rant before, although where and when I couldn’t quite place. I found myself abandoning my strategy of sabotage. Instead, stabbing the food in front of me, I was caught between not wanting to challenge her and needing to capture some traction in our conversation.
“The best minds in the world, surely, must know all this,” I said. “What are you saying, exactly? That we’re doomed?”
“Not doomed,” she informed me. “We’re being challenged. And we’re not yet up to the task.”
She continued in this vein, and I found myself blocking the incoming visual of Erica meeting my parents. My father, a retired life insurance salesman whose intelligence outstripped his life accomplishments, was nonetheless a content man, one who wore his reticence like a badge of honor. And my mother was assertive, more likely to pose aggressive challenges to commentary. I had trouble deciding whether Erica would fit comfortably within the space between my parents, or whether she would annoy them both. Certainly, my mother would not sit passively in a conversation with Erica but would press her for an explanation of her theories, her views, her . . .
“The colors,” I said, interrupting her.
“The colors?”
“The colors,” I said. “When we met at Mikonos, you mentioned that you saw colors emanating from me. And that I had . . . powers, or words to that effect.”
She hesitated. “You’re probably not ready.”
“What does that mean?”
“And maybe I misjudged.”
“Misjudged what?” She sat back and furrowed her brows.
“Do I have to be careful with you?” she asked.
“I’m not following . . .”
“I have strong beliefs.”
“I’m sure that’s true. You’re confident. That comes through. It’s natural for you, in fact. Whereas for me . . .”
She waved her hand to cut me off. “My beliefs are strong, but, for you, they’re probably unusual, maybe even absurd.”
“I won’t judge you by your beliefs.”
“Yes, you will. In fact, maybe you should. But you can’t ridicule me. You can’t . . . mock me.”
“Erica,” I said.
“All you have to do is say, ‘Sorry, I just don’t accept these notions,’ but you can do this gently.”
“I have no desire to mock you, and if I did so inadvertently, you have to forgive me.”
Her hands were folded on the table in front of her. I reached over and placed my hands on hers, not sure how she would respond. “Hi, my name is Will.”
She looked up at me expectantly. “Hi, Will,” she said quietly.
“I’m a lawyer and failed wit, and I can be a complete jackass from time to time, but I’m a good guy, and you have to let me start over or else I’ll make really strange noises and attract a lot of attention.” She smiled. “Loud snorting noises, too. The kind that require medical attention.” She laughed, and I did too. “And one other thing,” I said. “I am not going to ridicule you.” She looked downward.
“Do you know who ridicules me?” She paused. “My parents. Doctors.”
I couldn’t fathom the notion of my own parents ridiculing me, and I found myself strengthening my grip on her hands. “Really? Why? They’re physicians, and you help others. You’re in the same . . . field.” Erica looked up at me then and entwined her fingers with mine.
“I was in a fire,” she said.
“When?”
“About five years ago.” She breathed in sharply. “I was living alone, in a small studio in an eighteen-story building on Fourth Avenue. Near Union Square. My apartment was on the sixteenth floor.”
She stopped and looked around the restaurant. Most of the tables were empty.
“Are you familiar with the Jewish tradition of slapping girls who reach puberty?” she asked me. I shook my head, struggling to connect the threads of her narrative.
“When I had my first period, my grandmother slapped my face. Not hard, but with enough force to register. It was not a love tap. It wasn’t hostile either. But it had mean
ing beyond affection. I asked her why she slapped me, and she said I was lucky not to have really been struck.”
“Ancient custom?” I asked. I felt uneasy at the thought of Erica being slapped.
“Depends on who you ask. Apparently, the slapping custom is not sanctioned by Jewish law. But it’s a ritual with some families, passed down through the generations. I could never figure out if the purpose was to instill shame or to snap girls out of their adolescent slumber. And my grandmother never shed much light on the subject.”
She returned her gaze to mine. We were still holding hands, and Erica raised our grasp a few inches, our elbows still touching the table.
“I was close to my grandmother,” she said, her voice soft. “She passed away about ten years ago. She was simple but smart. She knew why she slapped me. I think she had a deep understanding of its purpose and just couldn’t quite put the reason into words. Maybe she wanted to alert me, or remind me, or somehow . . . assure me.”
“Assure you of what?”
She shrugged slightly. “Our blood connection? To establish her enduring bond to me? She was old then, and I often used to ask her what I would do without her. She never really answered the question though. Maybe the slap was her way of telling me she would be there for me after she was gone.”
We were now one of three tables left. The waiters were moving briskly, carrying trays of empty plates to the back rooms, the staccato of their hard shoes on the wood floor punctuating the silence.
“I was dreaming the night of the fire,” Erica said. “I was alone on a field with wisps of clouds up to my knees. Then my grandmother approached me, and I was so happy to see her. I rushed toward her, but she had a hard look on her face.”
Erica’s eyes welled up, but no tears flowed.
“She yelled at me. It was harsh, and I couldn’t make out the words. Then she struck me across the face and shrieked, ‘Wake up! Now!’ I said, ‘Savta, what are you doing?’ And I shielded my face, but she struck me again. ‘Now!’ she yelled.”
Erica looked upward, and her eyes caught the reflection of the chandelier’s metallic circles. The green in her eyes disappeared, replaced by an eerie sheen of gold.
The Reluctant Healer Page 2