CHAPTER 1
The last of anything has a certain luster that sharpensthe senses to build lingering memories. Things unnoticedbecome visible, the ugly becomes less vile, beautycatapults, and becomes inspiring, and what seemedmiserable often changes to not so bad. Dr. Eric Ransahofffelt all of these as he coursed his aging Fiat sports caralong the streets of Greenwich Village towards the rampto the Henry Hudson Parkway, for his last trip to the NewYork Medical Center.
At dawn the narrow streets of Greenwich Village weredimly lit and dull and gray, broken only by dots of yellowlight,' from windows of the tall buildings, that marked earlyrisers.
Then, as he escaped the tall buildings and moved upthe ramp onto the Parkway, it was like the entrance toanother world, for the rising sun light came into view andsparkled off the wide, blue waters of the Hudson River,changing the drab gray of the sleeping city into a worldof color and activity. Sea gulls glided lazily close to thewater. A tugboat moved slowly up river, striping the bluewater, trailing a decorative white wake.
Ad such serene beauty greeted him every morning? Hehadn't noticed. This was the seventh June in a row he'dpassed this way, so he'd had plenty of time to see it. Hejust hadn't looked—too engrossed in becoming a goodsurgeon. He thought back over the seven years of hissurgical training. Hardly seemed possible that after todaythey would be over.
Warm summer air, cleaned by the cool of night just goneby, soothed his face, as it rushed through his toplesssportcar. Traffic on the Freeway was light and he coulddrive relaxed. He didn't know exactly why he got such anearly start each morning. Perhaps it was to get out of thedeadly jaws of Manhattan before it awakened. Runningaway—that was it. He had been running from everythingin life that wasn't pertaining to medicine and didn'thappen in a hospital.
That's why he hadn't noticed the beauty of New York. Hehad been too busy running from its ugliness. Funny, hewas leaving New York, but not running away. Quite thecontrary. Where he was going took all the courage hecould muster. The glare from the rising sun broke histrain of thought. There ahead, in darkened silhouette, atowering cluster of buildings—his destination, the NewYork Medical Center. The sun's bright rays seemed to burstfrom the building tops and reach out towards the sky, likebands of glistening platinum, as if decorating them witha giant crown. A regal look. Appropriate. The MedicalCenter was like a ruling power, and he had been hiddenin the sanctity of its security. How would it be, otherwise?Arrival at his exit mercifully cut off his mental search foran answer to that compelling question. He wheeled off theHenry Hudson Parkway towards Mid-town Manhattan, andthe front of the giant Medical Center.
The trip from his one room Village apartment tothe parking place at the Medical Center marked"Reserved-Chief Surgical Resident" helped start his day;for it usually freed his mind from turmoil for a shortinterlude. But this morning was different. His mindwas nothing but turmoil, and even the trip had seemedunfamiliar. He cut off the Fiat's motor and sat in silentthought about his plans to practice medicine in a part ofthe country totally unfamiliar to him. Come to think ofit, that was nothing new. He had known little about NewYork City, for his movements of the past seven yearshad been like those of the figures in the famous Austrianclock,—moving on schedule, along a track. For Ransahoff,life had heen to the hospital and back to the apartment,as precisely on schedule as the clock; for he had been aloner, dedicated to his work, with no one in his personallife to change it.
Until the last six months, such a lonely routine life hadn'tbothered him; but then something happened inside hismind, and his monk-like existence began to etch hisemotions and push him to seek a change. He had donejust that Today marked the end of that kind of life; forit was the last day of his surgical residency. He hadrefused a lucrative offer to practice surgery with a groupof highly successful New York surgeons. Sight of theglowing Medical Center and the sign at his parking placereminded him of that fact, as well. Ransahoff pulled theFiat's convertable top in place, fastened it, then struggledthrough the opened window—the door hadn't worked inmonths. He then h·urried towards the ·newsstand on thebroad sidewalk near the hospital's entrance. The saddenedface of Paddy McGlaughlin, the newsstand vendor, waswaiting. The bent, gray bearded old Irishman seemedlimp, as if the checkered cap atop his head weighed a tonand was pushing him into the concrete sidewalk. Paddywas sad because he was losing a friend. Not only his firstcustomer every morning for the past seven years, thatgave him a few moments of his time in idle conversation,but also a man he loved who had saved his life! A rupturedaneurysm could have meant death if it hadn't beenfor Ransahoff. Since then, they had been closer than justfriends. For a moment they faced each other in silence.Words that flowed through their brains couldn't find theirlips. Tears moistened their faces. The old man grimacedand momentarily looked away, then he grabbed Ransahoffin tight embrace;
"God be with you, Son." For a moment he trembled, thenshoved Ransahoff away: "Now, get outa here, and takethis damned paper, or I'll call a cop."
The stern look he had constructed didn't hold, collapsinginto melancholy: "I'll miss you, Doc. Who's gonna comeby and argue with a worthless old Mick about how uglythat statue that clutters up the front of the hospital is?Who's gonna do that?"
Ransahoff couldn't speak. The mental turmoil he broughtwith him now swirled out of control, checking words longbefore they could get to vocal cords. His thanks to theaging Irishman came with but wet eyes and a grip to theold man's shoulder. He then turned to leave.
"Hey, Doc!"
Ransahoff looked around.
"You're the expert on statues. Read the article about thehuman statue on the front page."
Ransahoff nodded with a warm smile, glanced at thefolded front of the Times, tucked it under his arm,and stalked the massive, ornate arches and glass ofthe cathedral-like entrance to the large hospital. Hehesitated, and mumbled: "The last time I'll walk throughthese doors as a resident. I've lived like a monk in thismonastery, but no more." He suppressed a slight feelingof apprehension and pushed through bronze doors intothe medicinal atmosphere of a marble corridor. He walkedrapidly through a faceless crowd of bustling people to anelevator. Hurrying was another bad habit he had learnedin New York. He was rushing without need, for he wasearly, as usual. Plenty of time to change into his whiteclothes and read the newspaper before rounds with thejunior residents and interns. Ransahoff left the solemn,wordless group in the elevator at the third floor andentered the residents' quarters. The dark, dingy, mustysmelling old recreation room had changed very littlein the three quarters of a century the New York MedicalCenter had been healing the sick and training youngdoctors in the latest methods to aecomplish this. It wasrarely occupied, for doctors in training had little time torelax and play; so only time had worn its appointments.Covering the walls of the room were pictures of stifflystanding figures in short white coats, shirts and ties, andstarched white pants: the young doctors that had learnedthe arts of medicine and surgery at the huge hospital.
Among those pictures...
