The Pursuit of Alice Thrift

“We have company,” murmured Rosemary, “and I’m sure it’s very awkward for her to be in the middle of a family squabble.”

“My family fights every time I go home, and it’s usually provoked by something I say. So don’t worry about me.” I tried to affect the smile of a good guest. For added amenability, I said, “I don’t think this chicken is dry at all.”

“This one was fresh. You lose a lot of the juices when you defrost a frozen bird.”

“My mother doesn’t cook much,” I said. “Especially now that it’s just the two of them at home.”

“How many sisters and brothers do you have?” asked Michael.

“One sister. Who lives in Seattle.”

“Is she married?” asked Mrs. Morrisey.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Can we get back to whatever it was we were talking about before Michael had his mouth washed out with soap?” asked Leo.

Marie—clearly the family mediator and diplomat—turned to me. “I think we were talking about the demands on you at work, and I was asking, Is it worth it? Is all the hard work and sleepless nights and—you said it yourself—the panic worth it for some kind of professional dream that might be unattainable?”

The most unexpected thing happened at that point: I felt like crying. I disguised the quaking of my lips by taking two long swallows of milk from my glass, then by blinking rapidly as if the problem were ophthalmologic.

“Are you okay?” Leo asked.

“I didn’t mean—” began Marie.

“I must have been thinking about my grandmother,” I said.

“Of course you were,” said their mother. “But she’s in Jesus’ house now and free of pain, God rest her soul.”

Still, I was hoping to prove myself the kind of pleasant conversationalist who gets invited back. “Where does purgatory come in?” I asked. “I mean, under your afterlife guidelines, wouldn’t she still be there?”

All the Frawleys were taking sips from their respective milk glasses or searching inside their potato skins for neglected morsels.

“Alice needs a weekend off,” said Leo.

9 Née Mary Ciccarelli (#ulink_d3f31642-9895-5fd4-b71c-8fbe36ce8cb8)

I KNOW THAT some people are equipped to analyze their failings and to pose leading questions such as “Did I do something wrong?” or “Are you upset?” to the silent person in the seat next to them, but I had neither the vocabulary nor the inclination. As the trolley car negotiated the twists and turns of Commonwealth Avenue, Leo kept his eyes shut until I heard him say, “Just to play devil’s advocate for a minute …”

“About?”

“About your job. Whether you really have no aptitude for surgery, or whether it’s your former A-pluses talking.”

I asked what that meant, and how did he know what my grades were?

“I’m guessing you’re one of those people who moaned and groaned about how badly they did on their organic chemistry exam until it came back with a big red hundred and five on the top of the page because you got everything right including the extra-credit question.”

Calmly I said, “I’m the worst resident they’ve had since the legendary one in the eighties who was asked to leave even though he was engaged to the niece of the head of the hospital.”

Leo said, “You don’t have to be asked to leave. You could decide for yourself.”

I said I didn’t understand.

Leo coughed into his mittened hand. “Have you ever thought of dropping out of the program?”

Only ten times an hour and with every withering look and every truthful evaluation, I thought. “Not really,” I said. “I can’t imagine giving up my goals for something as trivial as professional humiliation. When I start thinking about my shortcomings, I say, ‘You graduated second in your class in medical school. How can you be so bad? If you study harder you’ll get better.’”

“What about the fact that you feel like a failure every minute of the day?”

“I can improve,” I said. “It’s still early in the year. It could all click into place tomorrow.”

“Doctors switch fields,” he said. “Surgeons go into anesthesiology. Internists become allergists. You earned your degree. No one would take that away from you.”

“No,” I said. “I’m no quitter.”

“I’m only being hypothetical,” Leo said. “I’m only thinking of you and what could make you a happier person.”

“In the short run,” I snapped.

“No,” said Leo. “In the long run.”

“I’m no quitter,” I repeated.

RAY WAS WAITING on the stoop when we returned, smoking a cigarette that he snuffed out as soon as I appeared. He was wearing a shiny black quilted parka and a black watch cap that did nothing but suggest burglar and call attention to his nose. He stood up and said, “I paged you, but you didn’t answer.”

“I wasn’t at the hospital.”

“You remember me, I’m sure,” said Leo.

“The nurse,” said Ray. “Of course. How ya doin’?”

I pointed to the streak of ash on the granite step behind him and asked if he’d been smoking.

“First time in a decade,” he said, “which I blame on some very disturbing news I received one hour ago.” He stared at Leo for several long seconds before adding, “It’s kind of personal. I was hoping to talk to Alice in private.”

I said, “Leo’s very easy to talk to. Much better than I am.”

“I hope no one died,” said Leo.

“Nothing like that,” said Ray. “It’s closer to an emotional crisis—some facts that have come to light. And I didn’t have any supper, so I was hoping Alice might keep me company while I grab some nachos grande and a beer.”

Leo checked with me. I nodded once reassuringly, and he trudged inside.

THERE WERE THRONGS of well-dressed people at the bar, businessmen and -women, many drinking from martini glasses; many laughing in that brittle, automatic way that substitutes for meaningful discussion. “Straight ahead,” said Ray, steering me from behind, his hands on my shoulders, his body swaying as if I had agreed to lead a conga line. “The dining room’s in the back,” he instructed.

When we were seated at a small, far-off table, and the dour hostess had left, Ray said, “No people skills. None. Would it have killed her to smile? And why Siberia? There’s a dozen better tables.”

I said, “Don’t make a fuss. It’s quiet back here and we can talk. Let’s just order.”