somewhere in the middle, which is difficult because all the while you feel like you’re on trial, not as an individual but as a representative of women in general.”
There was silence for a few moments, each digesting what had been said.
“The thing that bothers me the most,” added Susan, “is that the problem gets worse, not better, the farther, into medicine one goes. I cannot imagine how these women with families do it. They have to apologize for leaving work early and then they have to apologize for getting home late, no matter what time it is. I mean, the man can work late, no problem, in fact it makes him seem that much more dedicated.
But a woman physician: her role is so diffuse. Society and its conventional female mores make it very difficult.
“How did you get me on this platform?” asked Susan suddenly, realizing the vehemence with which she had been speaking.
“You were just agreeing to my statement that being a female medical student was difficult. So how about agreeing to the last part, about not taking on any more handicaps?”
“Shit, Mark, don’t push me right at this moment. Obviously you can see that once I got involved in this thing, I probably need to resolve it somehow. Maybe it’s related to my feeling like I’m on trial for women.
God, I’d like to show that Harris where to get off. Maybe if I can see Berman again, I’ll be able to give up without any loss of intellectual face or ... what should I say, self-image or self-confidence. But let’s talk about something else. Would you mind if I were to give you a hug?”
“Me, mind?” Bellows sat up quickly but slightly flustered. “Not at all.”
Susan leaned over and gave him a squeeze with a force that surprised him. Instinctively his arms went around her and he felt her narrow back.
Somewhat self-consciously he patted it, as if he were comforting her.
She pulled back.
“I hope you’re not waiting for me to burp.”
For several moments they studied each other in the firelight. Then tentatively their lips sought each other, gently at first, then with obvious emotion, finally with abandon.
Wednesday, February 25, 5:45 A.M.
The alarm jangled in the darkness, making the air in the room vibrate with its piercing sound. Susan sat bolt upright from a dead sleep. At first she wondered why her eyes wouldn’t open; then she realized that they were open. It was just that they could not pierce the utter blackness in the room. For several seconds she had no idea where she was. Her only thought was to try to find the alarm clock and deaden its awful nerve-shattering noise.
As suddenly as it had started, it stopped with a metallic click. At the same time Susan became conscious that she was not alone. The memory of the previous evening swept over her, and she remembered that she was still at Mark’s apartment. She lay back, bringing up the covers to cover her nakedness.
“What in God’s name was that noise for?” said Susan to the blackness.
“It’s an alarm. I suppose you’ve never heard one before,” said a voice from beside her.
“An alarm. Mark, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Like hell it is; it’s five-thirty and time to get rolling.”
Mark threw back the covers and put his feet onto the floor. He turned on the lamp next to the bed and rubbed his eyes.
“Mark, you’ve got to be out of your squash. Five-thirty, Christ.” The voice was muffled; Susan had her head underneath the pillow.
“I’ve got to see my patients, grab a bit to eat, and be ready for rounds at six-thirty. Surgery starts at seven- thirty sharp.” Mark stood up and stretched. Disregarding his nakedness and the coldness, he started for the bathroom.
“You surgical masochists defy imagination. Why don’t you start at nine or some other reasonable time? Why seven-thirty?”
“It’s always been seven-thirty,” said Bellows, pausing in the doorway.
“That’s a great reason. It’s seven-thirty because it’s always been seven-thirty—God, it’s that type of reasoning that’s so typical in medicine. Five-thirty in the morning. Shit, Mark, why didn’t you tell me about this when you invited me to stay last night? I would have gone back to the dorm.”
Bellows walked back to the bedside, looking down at the mound of covers indicating Susan’s body. The pillow was still over her head.
“If you’d take your surgical rotation a bit more seriously, I wouldn’t have to tell you what is the normal modus operandi. Time to get up, beauty queen.”
Bellows grabbed the edge of the blankets and, with a forceful jerk, pulled all the covers from the bed, leaving Susan bared to the elements, except for her head, still concealed by the pillow.
“Some hospitality,” said Susan, jumping up. She grabbed a blanket and twisted herself into an instant cocoon, then collapsed back onto the bed.
“Ah, but today is the first day of your new leaf. You’re going to be a normal medical student.”
A tug of war ensued with Susan’s wrapping.
“I need one more full day, just one. Come on, Mark, one more. You can understand that it’s important for me. If I don’t get the charts today, which I think I won’t, then it’s all over. Besides, if I can see Berman, I’ll probably give up. Then you’ll have your normal medical student. But I need one more day.”
Bellows let go of the blankets. Susan fell back, one breast exposed in a fetching Amazonian way.
“All right, one more day. But if Stark is on rounds today, he’ll know that you are phantomizing. I wouldn’t be able to come up with any cover story.
I hope you realize that.”
“Let’s just play it by ear, almighty surgeon. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Susan, I’ll just have to say that I had told you to be on rounds.”
“OK, have it your way. But I’m spending one more whole day on this thing. I’ve got some investment into it already.”
Susan snuggled into the warm bed. She barely heard the shower start in the bathroom. She thought she’d wait until Bellows finished before getting up.
When Susan awoke the second time, it was already quite light. Sudden gusts of wind blew rain against the window panes with a sound like rice hitting glass. With a contrariness typical of Boston weather, the wind had shifted during the night from northwest to due east. Thanks to the Gulf Stream, the temperature had risen into the high thirties, so precipitation was in the liquid rather than solid phase. The commuters were relieved, the skiers disgusted.
It was hard for Susan to believe the clock next to the bed, because it said almost nine. Bellows had showered, dressed, and exited without having reawakened her. Susan was amazed, for she was a relatively light sleeper. Just to be sure, she checked the bathroom and the living room for any sign that Bellows might still be there. She was alone.
Susan found a clean towel, then showered vigorously, remembering the previous night’s passion with a pleasant sense of warmth. Bellows had turned out to be a far more sensitive and innately generous lover than Susan had surmised. She was genuinely pleased, although she had some serious reservations about the relationship going very far. Bellows’s commitment to surgery seemed somehow too encompassing, as if everything else in his life would necessarily be relegated to a secondary position like a hobby.
In the refrigerator, Susan found some cheese and an orange. She helped herself to Grapenuts and toast while thumbing through the Yellow Pages. Checking to be sure that she had everything, she left Bellows’s apartment, locking the door securely behind her. It was going to be a busy day.
The rain had let up significantly by the time Susan hit the street. The weather did not appear to be clearing, but now it would be more pleasant to walk about. Susan turned left up Mt. Vernon toward the State House.
She crossed the Boston Common at its northern tip and entered the downtown shopping area.
Of all the young girls who had come to the Boston Uniform Company retail store seeking a nurse’s uniform, the salesman found Susan the easiest and fastest customer. She seemed totally uninterested in the bewildering
