Read Online A Night at the Operation by JEFFREY COHEN - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: JEFFREY COHEN
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upset,” she said.
My head must have jerked up. “Upset? Like the other day? About what?”
“What am I, her mother?” Betty asked. Then she saw the look on my face, and shook her head. “Sorry. She got a set of test results back right before she left, and it really seemed to shake her.”
“Additional test results for Russell Chapman?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t get the stuff from the lab that afternoon; it came when I was on break. I think Grace took them.”
“Is she around?” I asked.
Betty nodded. “But she’s in with Dr. Westphal, in conference about a patient. You’ll have to wait.”
“Where’s Lennon?” I asked.
“Dr. Dickinson is dealing with a patient emergency,” Betty answered.
I sat in one of the patient chairs in the waiting room, and pretended to read a magazine. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in “10 Tips That Will Drive Him Wild!” but I might have been just a little preoccupied. I didn’t even try the fragrance sample included in the centerfold.
I’ve been lucky enough never to have a serious medical problem, and I was married to a physician, so I’ve never really been nervous in a doctor’s waiting room. But today I wasn’t able to do anything but stare at the door to the back offices and wonder when the hell it would open and let me in. Not that I actually thought the key to Sharon’s whereabouts was back there, but I certainly didn’t have much else to go on.
After about ten minutes of waiting, I was sure the door would never open, and to be honest, it still didn’t. But the main office door did swing open, and a little man, about seventy years old by my estimation, shuffled in, wearing an overcoat that looked like it weighed a little bit more than I did. He had his coat closed over the lower part of his face, braced against the cold.
It took him a while to get to the reception desk, and when he did, he spoke so quietly that I heard Betty asking “Excuse me?” a few times before she could get a decent bearing on what the man was saying. Betty’s replies became progressively louder, until I could hear every word she said, and nothing of what the man told her.
“She’s still in the back, in a patient conference,” Betty almost shouted. “But it’ll just be a few minutes, if you wouldn’t mind waiting.” She gestured toward me, and the man nodded and shuffled over. He sat down next to me, in a room filled with empty seats, and let out an oof as he landed in his chair.
The man was small and trim, and wore thick glasses that made his eyes look like they were far away and also wore a hearing aid in each ear. Finally he opened the top button of his coat and exhaled. He had a thick black mustache and bushy eyebrows, bringing to mind Groucho’s look. But I’ll bet he touched them up with black dye. Groucho used grease-paint.
I tried to look preoccupied, since I was, but the little man bumped me on the arm and said, “That’s some receptionist, huh?” I nodded inconclusively, not wanting to insult Betty by intimating that she wasn’t gorgeous, but also not wanting to reduce her to a sex object, at least not today. The man was undaunted. “They named the room right, huh? Waiting room. Doctors.” He waved a hand to indicate disgust. If he’d had a Yiddish accent, he could have been my late grandfather. But his voice was weaker; he was barely audible in normal conversation.
“Well, they don’t want to rush people through like a factory,” I said. I felt it necessary to defend Sharon’s practice, with words she’d used on me many times.
“Sure, sure.” The man wasn’t going to disagree. “But it’s not efficient.”
“I guess not.” I went back to looking preoccupied, but the little guy wasn’t buying. He stuck out a hand. “Martin Tovarich,” he said. “I’m with East Coast Insurance.”
I shook his hand. “Elliot Freed,” I said. “I own Comedy Tonight. It’s a movie theatre—”
He cut me off. “It shows only
My head must have jerked up. “Upset? Like the other day? About what?”
“What am I, her mother?” Betty asked. Then she saw the look on my face, and shook her head. “Sorry. She got a set of test results back right before she left, and it really seemed to shake her.”
“Additional test results for Russell Chapman?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t get the stuff from the lab that afternoon; it came when I was on break. I think Grace took them.”
“Is she around?” I asked.
Betty nodded. “But she’s in with Dr. Westphal, in conference about a patient. You’ll have to wait.”
“Where’s Lennon?” I asked.
“Dr. Dickinson is dealing with a patient emergency,” Betty answered.
I sat in one of the patient chairs in the waiting room, and pretended to read a magazine. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in “10 Tips That Will Drive Him Wild!” but I might have been just a little preoccupied. I didn’t even try the fragrance sample included in the centerfold.
I’ve been lucky enough never to have a serious medical problem, and I was married to a physician, so I’ve never really been nervous in a doctor’s waiting room. But today I wasn’t able to do anything but stare at the door to the back offices and wonder when the hell it would open and let me in. Not that I actually thought the key to Sharon’s whereabouts was back there, but I certainly didn’t have much else to go on.
After about ten minutes of waiting, I was sure the door would never open, and to be honest, it still didn’t. But the main office door did swing open, and a little man, about seventy years old by my estimation, shuffled in, wearing an overcoat that looked like it weighed a little bit more than I did. He had his coat closed over the lower part of his face, braced against the cold.
It took him a while to get to the reception desk, and when he did, he spoke so quietly that I heard Betty asking “Excuse me?” a few times before she could get a decent bearing on what the man was saying. Betty’s replies became progressively louder, until I could hear every word she said, and nothing of what the man told her.
“She’s still in the back, in a patient conference,” Betty almost shouted. “But it’ll just be a few minutes, if you wouldn’t mind waiting.” She gestured toward me, and the man nodded and shuffled over. He sat down next to me, in a room filled with empty seats, and let out an oof as he landed in his chair.
The man was small and trim, and wore thick glasses that made his eyes look like they were far away and also wore a hearing aid in each ear. Finally he opened the top button of his coat and exhaled. He had a thick black mustache and bushy eyebrows, bringing to mind Groucho’s look. But I’ll bet he touched them up with black dye. Groucho used grease-paint.
I tried to look preoccupied, since I was, but the little man bumped me on the arm and said, “That’s some receptionist, huh?” I nodded inconclusively, not wanting to insult Betty by intimating that she wasn’t gorgeous, but also not wanting to reduce her to a sex object, at least not today. The man was undaunted. “They named the room right, huh? Waiting room. Doctors.” He waved a hand to indicate disgust. If he’d had a Yiddish accent, he could have been my late grandfather. But his voice was weaker; he was barely audible in normal conversation.
“Well, they don’t want to rush people through like a factory,” I said. I felt it necessary to defend Sharon’s practice, with words she’d used on me many times.
“Sure, sure.” The man wasn’t going to disagree. “But it’s not efficient.”
“I guess not.” I went back to looking preoccupied, but the little guy wasn’t buying. He stuck out a hand. “Martin Tovarich,” he said. “I’m with East Coast Insurance.”
I shook his hand. “Elliot Freed,” I said. “I own Comedy Tonight. It’s a movie theatre—”
He cut me off. “It shows only
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