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I mumbled it in my sleep.
"More than ever."
4
Life Lessons
.
"If you and I are going to be study partners,"
Dr. Weller said as we left the hospital the next day, "you should call me Jack. Dr. Weller is too formal after we walk out of there," he said, nodding back toward the hospital.
"Jack?"
"That's my name. Oh, my real name is Jackson Marcus Weller, which is what I will hang on my shingle. I was named after my great-grandfather on my mother's side. I'd rather be just Jack, though, especially to people I admire and people I hope will admire me," he said. Then he put his hand on my waist to turn me to the right. "My apartment is just a few blocks this way," he said. "You don't mind walking, do you?"
"No." His hand lingered on my hip, his fingers pressing with authority.
"I have a car, but I seldom use it. Driving is such a hassle in the city. I'd much rather walk or use public transportation." He drew his hand away when we started to walk again.
"Did you grow up in New Orleans?" I asked.
"Grow up?" He smiled and then laughed. "Most of my relatives and friends think I haven't. They think because I'm going to be a doctor, I should look, act, and feel like an old man. Who trusts a young doctor these days? In almost every other profession, youth is an advantage, but in medicine . . ." He paused and turned to me. "My ex-roommate actually dyes his hair gray. Do you believe that?"
I shook my head.
He stared at me a moment and relaxed his lips, a look of pity in his eyes. "Actually, I feel sorry for you. It's twice as hard for a woman to become a doctor. You've got to be twice as good. But," he said, winking, "I think you might just have the grit to make it. Now," he said holding up his hand, palm toward me, "don't tell me anything else about yourself. Let me guess."
We continued, strolling at a slower pace. It wasn't quite as humid as it had been the day before. The sun was low enough to leave the eastern sky a darker blue so that the billowing clouds looked as white as milk. Toward the south a single-engine plane was dragging a banner that advertised a jazz and dinner special in the French Quarter. We could hear the streetcar rattling along past the palm trees behind us. The birds were twittering noisily. I imagined they were filled with news that they had stored up like acorns during the impressive heat and humidity. Now that they were cooler and able to gossip, they did so nonstop.
The street lanterns were just flickering, it not being dark enough to turn themselves on full. Less humidity seemed to free the scent of camellias and of the banana and magnolia trees that grew along and behind the pike fences of the houses we passed as we ambled along the sidewalk, which in New Orleans was known as a banquette. Most banquettes were built two to three feet high, mainly to keep water out of houses. Across the way I saw three Tulane summer school coeds giggling and walking while two boys in a convertible followed slowly and tried to get their attention.
"You're not an only child, and you're not spoiled. That's for sure," Jack Weller began.
"I have twin brothers, twelve years old."
"Uh-huh."
"But I am spoiled," I admitted.
"Sure. All spoiled young women agree to work as nurse's aides for peanuts and are willing to clean up after sick people," he remarked. He gazed at me again. "You're not spoiled."
"I'm spoiled, but I'm determined," I replied.
He laughed. "I like that. You're from a well-todo family, right?"
"Yes. But did you really guess that or did you cross-examine Sophie?" I fired back quickly.
He laughed again. "You are a bright girl. All right. I'll confess I asked Sophie some questions. Just down here," he said seizing my hand and turning us into a side street toward an apartment building with a canopy that sagged in the middle. The gray stucco walls were badly chipped and cracked and the front door was in dire need of paint or wood stain. "I want to prepa
re you," he said as we approached the entrance. "I have only a studio apartment. Someone from the Garden District won't think much of it, I suspect."
"I'm spoiled, but I'm not a snob," I said.
His smile widened again and he opened the door. We stepped through a short entryway into a small lobby, the walls of which were faded and smudged. Here and there the dark brown tile floor was chipped. The only furnishing was a rickety table with an oval mirror in a dull white frame above it. The aroma of shrimp gumbo filled the air.
"The stairs are faster than the elevator," he said, nodding toward them. I followed him up three flights, the old, worn steps moaning complaints at our every step. "At least I have a little view," he said putting his key into the lock.
