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Authors: Michael Palmer
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Initially, Eric had been put off by Marshall’s patrician roots and Harvard education, and by an aloofness that Eric interpreted as snobbishness. But one night, as they sat sipping coffee after working side by side on the casualties of a multivehicle catastrophe, Reed confessed that he was envious of Eric’s coolness under fire.
“That’s crazy,” Eric had replied. “You’re the iceman. Everyone in the E.R. knows it.”
“What I am,” Reed said, with deadly seriousness, “is scared to death of freezing up or of doing the wrong thing, and even more terrified of having anyone know how I’m feeling. In fact, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“Hey, don’t worry. Nothing you say will ever leave this room. You’re just exhausted right now, that’s all. Believe me. I’m frightened at crunch time too. How could anyone who’s human not be?”
“I didn’t say frightened; I said terrified. I want to laugh when someone says I’m as good at this as you are.”
“Listen, Reed,” Eric had said, “this isn’t a contest. We didn’t select ourselves for this residency—all those professors did. Our job is just to do our best. And believe me,
your
best is damn good.”
Beginning with that night, a mutual respect, almost a tacit friendship had grown between them. And over the years that followed, not once had either of them mentioned the exchange again. As far as Eric knew, Reed had come to grips with his dragons. Eric believed that in terms of knowledge, dedication, and rapid response to life-threatening emergencies, he held a definite edge on Marshall. But there were other intangibles—Marshall’s dry wit, poise, and eclecticintellect—that made any choice between the two of them difficult.
“Any idea why they sent for the two of us at once?” Eric asked after Reed had set his book aside.
“Nope. All I’ve heard is that they’ve made their decision. Knowing ol’ Grendel Teagarden, we’ll probably learn that some hard-nosed woman from Stanford has been recruited for the position, and you and I are gonna be out of work.”
Sara Teagarden, the tyrannical chief of surgery, was as renowned for her outspoken feminism and undisguised partiality toward female physicians as she was for her skill in the O.R. Her volatile capriciousness had made or broken any number of careers.
“Are you sure you want this job?” Eric asked.
Marshall grinned.
“I’m sure Carolyn wants me to want it. You’re not married, so you don’t know that that’s quite enough.” He laughed somewhat wistfully. “Oh, I want it, too, Eric,” he said finally. “It’d be foolish to say I don’t, although even
I
can’t say how much. Put another way, my ulcer may be rooting for you, but my ego is pulling for me. Still, I see the whole question as moot because I have no doubt I didn’t get it.”
“Nonsense.”
“This from the man who not only is a legend at his work, but who just happens to have saved a trustee’s life.”
“He never even sent me a thank-you note.”
“Jesus. Well, that’s no surprise, given the holier-than-thou philosophy of this place. Speaking of which, before we get called in there, I want to thank you for doing your best not to make a big deal out of all this.”
It was Eric’s turn to smile.
“You mean not openly,” he said.
“Of course. The whole damn committee has been doing its best to set us at each other’s throats, privately and in public.”
“The famous WMH pyramid.”
“Exactly. Room for one and only one at the top. Survival of the nastiest. We both deserve a pat for not taking their bait. I know how much you want the position, and the real truth is, if it didn’t mean so much to Carolyn to stay around here, I might have actually considered pulling out of the running.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“It’s true.… Well, at least, it
might
be true.”
“I wonder what in the hell they’re doing in there,” Eric said.
“Two-on-one with
Initially, Eric had been put off by Marshall’s patrician roots and Harvard education, and by an aloofness that Eric interpreted as snobbishness. But one night, as they sat sipping coffee after working side by side on the casualties of a multivehicle catastrophe, Reed confessed that he was envious of Eric’s coolness under fire.
“That’s crazy,” Eric had replied. “You’re the iceman. Everyone in the E.R. knows it.”
“What I am,” Reed said, with deadly seriousness, “is scared to death of freezing up or of doing the wrong thing, and even more terrified of having anyone know how I’m feeling. In fact, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“Hey, don’t worry. Nothing you say will ever leave this room. You’re just exhausted right now, that’s all. Believe me. I’m frightened at crunch time too. How could anyone who’s human not be?”
“I didn’t say frightened; I said terrified. I want to laugh when someone says I’m as good at this as you are.”
“Listen, Reed,” Eric had said, “this isn’t a contest. We didn’t select ourselves for this residency—all those professors did. Our job is just to do our best. And believe me,
your
best is damn good.”
Beginning with that night, a mutual respect, almost a tacit friendship had grown between them. And over the years that followed, not once had either of them mentioned the exchange again. As far as Eric knew, Reed had come to grips with his dragons. Eric believed that in terms of knowledge, dedication, and rapid response to life-threatening emergencies, he held a definite edge on Marshall. But there were other intangibles—Marshall’s dry wit, poise, and eclecticintellect—that made any choice between the two of them difficult.
“Any idea why they sent for the two of us at once?” Eric asked after Reed had set his book aside.
“Nope. All I’ve heard is that they’ve made their decision. Knowing ol’ Grendel Teagarden, we’ll probably learn that some hard-nosed woman from Stanford has been recruited for the position, and you and I are gonna be out of work.”
Sara Teagarden, the tyrannical chief of surgery, was as renowned for her outspoken feminism and undisguised partiality toward female physicians as she was for her skill in the O.R. Her volatile capriciousness had made or broken any number of careers.
“Are you sure you want this job?” Eric asked.
Marshall grinned.
“I’m sure Carolyn wants me to want it. You’re not married, so you don’t know that that’s quite enough.” He laughed somewhat wistfully. “Oh, I want it, too, Eric,” he said finally. “It’d be foolish to say I don’t, although even
I
can’t say how much. Put another way, my ulcer may be rooting for you, but my ego is pulling for me. Still, I see the whole question as moot because I have no doubt I didn’t get it.”
“Nonsense.”
“This from the man who not only is a legend at his work, but who just happens to have saved a trustee’s life.”
“He never even sent me a thank-you note.”
“Jesus. Well, that’s no surprise, given the holier-than-thou philosophy of this place. Speaking of which, before we get called in there, I want to thank you for doing your best not to make a big deal out of all this.”
It was Eric’s turn to smile.
“You mean not openly,” he said.
“Of course. The whole damn committee has been doing its best to set us at each other’s throats, privately and in public.”
“The famous WMH pyramid.”
“Exactly. Room for one and only one at the top. Survival of the nastiest. We both deserve a pat for not taking their bait. I know how much you want the position, and the real truth is, if it didn’t mean so much to Carolyn to stay around here, I might have actually considered pulling out of the running.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“It’s true.… Well, at least, it
might
be true.”
“I wonder what in the hell they’re doing in there,” Eric said.
“Two-on-one with
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