June 16th
"Can you tell me why you believe you'd be the best person for this job?" Sarah waited with some trepidation for the answer. The interview had gone well to this point: Abby Shalcross seemed to be a natural for the position. She was intelligent, quick to grasp context, and had a good idea of what to expect. She'd worked in a large practice in Chicago for some years before they'd downsized and let her go, apparently with some reluctance if the letters of reference were to be believed. She was not averse to strange requests or odd methods of diagnosis; she'd countered Sarah's malaria example with a few weird stories of her own, and the two of them had enjoyed a good laugh at doctors and their little ways. Now came the big question.
"Well . . ." Abby thought about it. "I've been around enough to know the difference between someone jerking my chain, and someone in need of real help. It's more important than you realize. Anyway, if you can't keep your sense of humor and your perspective you won't last long in medicine."
Sarah nodded as she exulted inwardly. Maybe she'd finally found—
"—matter of keeping the right people coming in the doors as well," Abby said. Sarah paused.
"Um-sorry," she said, "there was a glitch on my end—could you repeat that?"
"Of course. I was saying that running a clinic is also a matter of keeping the right people coming in." Abby smiled at her. "I know all about that."
"Right people," Sarah said slowly. She felt a sense of forboding. "Who would they be?"
"Oh, you know. Like us." Abby winked. Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. Dammit.
"Pretend I don't know," she said. Abby laughed.
"Sure, I get it," she said cheerfully. "Well, you have to make sure your patients have the proper background and education. With someone as brilliant as Doctor House, all sorts of people will want his services. It's my job to make sure the patients who come through the doors are worth his time and will be valuable contributors to society, and not leeches."
Sarah almost looked up to see if there was a ten-ton weight over her head on a frayed rope. "Forgive me for asking, but does proper background include skin color?"
Abby gave Sarah a conspiratorial look. "Well, we don't talk about that, you know. Some people . . . they don't understand."
I just bet they don't. "Yes, well . . . I—I think I have everything I need, Mrs. Shalcross."
"Oh, I hope you choose me!" Abby said. Her genuine enthusiasm broke Sarah's heart, even as she imagined the resume in the trash barrel out back, burned with the hottest fire she could stoke.
"Um—I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks. Thanks for your time," and Sarah ended the interview. When the webcam was off she regarded her empty teacup and wondered if she should add a shot of Glenlivet, just so she could get through the interview process. Maybe more than a shot.
"No," she said out loud, "you'll end up in the weekly AA meeting at the church if you start that kind of thing. And then you won't have time to do interviews." The idea struck her as funny but her laugh sounded a little hollow in the quiet office. She got up and went to the bathroom for a bladder break and to freshen her makeup. It still felt weird to wear raggedy cutoffs with a sleeveless silk shell and her best linen jacket, but no one could see her below waist level and be damned if she would put on a skirt and three inch heels for a webcam interview.
She detoured to the kitchen to refill her teacup and seize a fresh cinnamon roll, both necessary to fortify her failing resolve; she took them to the office and polished off the roll while she paged through resumes, selected a likely candidate, and typed in the address.
An hour later Sarah turned off the monitor and exited the office, sodden with weariness and discouragement. She closed the door on her failure and moved slowly across the common room to the spare bedroom. Once inside she sat in the easy chair by the fireplace. Greg's things had long since been taken to Roz's place; Sarah had cleaned and swept and washed the comforter, remade the bed with clean linens . . . and yet it was still Greg's room, at least for her. She closed her eyes.
This isn't working. She'd gone through close to two dozen interviews, and none of the candidates had proven suitable. And yet she didn't know what else she could do. She'd thought of someone local, had even asked Diane Wirth if she could interview a few of the senior nurses. Diane had been gracious enough to allow Sarah the opportunity to steal from her best employees, an act of true generosity . . . but none of the staff wanted anything to do with Greg. "I'd have to be crazy, completely desperate for work or both," one of the women had declared. "In fact being nuts would have to come first."
I'm failing him. It was a harsh judgment, and yet she felt it was true all the same. Progress had been made on the clinic renovation—slow progress, true, but soon enough the day would come when the doors would be open for business. What if she couldn't find someone in time? The thought stabbed at her, and yet she also knew selection of the right person was paramount. It had to be someone who could deal with Greg at his worst. Unfortunately, most people had trouble with Greg at his best.
Sarah sighed and rose to her feet. There was no point in maundering, as her grandma Bailey would have said. If she wanted to think, better to put her hands to good use. It always helped her thought processes if she kept busy anyway.
Half an hour later she'd substituted a tank top for the blouse and jacket and scrubbed off her makeup. She was crouched in her garden as she tugged weeds out of the cucumber patch. She wiped sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand and felt a little satisfaction as the pile of lambs-quarters grew. She'd take them over to Bob's place for his chickens when she was done. The walk would do her good, and she could ask him what he'd do about the situation.
"Hey." Jason appeared in the shade of the box elder by the kitchen door, cinnamon roll in hand. Sarah sat back and smiled at him, pleased to see he'd helped himself. That was a small step forward for someone, anyway.
"Hey," she said. "Did you and Mandy turn in that project for extra credit?"
"Yeah. Chores are done too, is it okay if I play games for a while?"
"Sure. I'll be in after a bit and we'll have some lunch." By the time she was finished he'd be ravenous again; the boy was a bottomless pit, and already an inch taller. Jason nodded and disappeared. Sarah shook off a bead of sweat on the end of her nose and went back to work.
She'd just packed weeds into the hod she used to carry odds and ends when a shadow loomed over her. "I hope you're using sunscreen," Greg said, and extended a hand. Sarah took it and got to her feet.
"Good morning," she said, and gave him a brief one-armed hug. He swatted at her, but it was a token protest.
"I didn't come over here to be molested," he grumbled, and took the hod. "What the hell are you saving weeds for? Some nasty medicinal tea that's supposed to repair forty years of liver damage overnight, no doubt."
"It's for Bob's chickens," she said. "Anyway, I don't make you drink milk thistle tea. I offer you capsules instead."
"More like coerce." He dumped the hod on the harvest table by the back door and proceeded into the kitchen, where he took a cinnamon roll from the pan. "How's it going with the interviews?"
"No luck yet," Sarah said. She went to the fridge and extracted a ginger beer, rolled the bottle over her forehead with a sigh of relief, then popped the top and took a long swig.
Greg gave her a long stare. "How hard can it be?" he wanted to know. Sarah shook her head.
"Most of the people I've interviewed have never dealt with someone like you—"
"You mean genius," he said, and offered her a wide smile. Sarah rolled her eyes.
"I mean pain in the ass," she said. "And genius, yes."
"We'll see about that," he said. He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer and headed for the office. Sarah stood there as her eyes widened.
"Shit," she said finally, and hurried after him.
By the time she reached the door he had the monitor on and perused a resume he'd grabbed off the top of the stack on Sarah's desk. "Huh," he said, and held it at arm's length. "Date of birth December eighteenth, nineteen fifty-eight. Older than me by two weeks." He tossed the resume in the trash. "I want sweet perky ta-tas and a fresh young face to look at, not some menopausal hag with Cooper's droop." With a flourish he took the next resume off the pile, opened it and paged through. "Harvard School of Business . . . why the hell would I want a stockbroker running my office?" That resume also hit the circular file.
"Greg!" Sarah put a hand on top of the stack.
"Oh, stop acting like this is some sacred duty," he snapped. "I know what you're up to. You're worrying yourself into a complex over finding the right person. Here's how you do it: give 'em the job and see if they stick. Like throwing spaghetti against a wall, only more colorful because of all the icky stuff humans have inside them."
"Did it ever occur to you that coming all the way up here to be your office exec is a massive lifestyle change for most of these people? You can't be cavalier about this! You're messing with someone's—"
"Blah-dy blah blah," Greg said. He popped the top off the beer bottle on the edge of the desk and yanked another resume out from under her hand. "They applied, they accept the consequences." He flipped past the cover letter and squinted at the page. "Ah, here we go. Twenty eight years old, two years experience in a dental clinic in Hoboken." To Sarah's horror he typed in the link and turned on the webcam. "If she's cute she's hired."
"Greg . . ." Sarah subsided as the link opened. Greg hit a key and spoke.
"Hellooooo, anybody home?"
A moment later a picture flashed onto the screen. It was a young woman. She peered at the camera and looked confused.
"Hello—Doctor Goldman?"
"Nope," Greg said cheerfully. "I understand you're looking for work in Doctor House's clinic."
The young woman's face brightened. "Oh yes—"
"You make coffee."
"Well, I—yeah—"
"How about massages? You any good with those?" Greg took a long swallow of beer. The girl's eyes opened wide.
"You're drinking. It's not even lunchtime yet," she said in an accusatory way.
"Nice job of stating the obvious. Massages, yes or no?"
"Is this a joke?"
Greg sighed. "Okay, I'll take that as a no. Let's move on. Can you pick up dry cleaning and buy flowers for my mistress when I forget our anniversary? Run naked around my office every morning? Give the head doctor a discreet blowjob after he deals with a difficult patient?"
"That's not what an executive secretary does!" The girl sounded angry now.
"I didn't say it was. I just asked you if you could do all those things. You assumed I'll require you to do them. I need someone who's capable of understanding the difference between 'can you' and 'you will'. Thanks for playing." Greg shut off the webcam and deposited the resume in the trash. He down a long swig of beer, gave a loud belch, and got to his feet. "Yeah, it's that simple," he said, and left Sarah there. She looked at the files in the trash can, at the scar on her desk from Greg opening his beer on the edge; then she turned off the light, walked out and closed the door behind her. As she passed through the living room she saw Greg sit down next to Jason as they argued over access to the controls. She said nothing, just detoured to grab the Martin six-string, then kept going until she reached the back room, where she jammed her hat on her head, stuffed her work gloves in her back pocket and went to the garden.
She didn't return to garden duty, however; she sat in the shade and picked a few chords, and watched the breeze ripple over the tall grass in Bob's pasture. Cloud shadows chased each other in endless succession as she struggled with the hard slap to her pride Greg had just delivered. She had to admit he was partially right, she did consider the work something of a sacred duty; perhaps she did take things too seriously. But she also knew an endless succession of unsuitable people would only make for chaos and stress in the workplace, to say the least—something a new practice didn't need. An elimination process of some kind had to be used. But how could she change things?
Please send someone soon because I don't know what the hell I'm doing and Greg needs a strong right arm, she said at last to Whomever might be listening. And since I know he'll end up with what he needs, not what he wants, could You please make that someone worth the aggravation they'll inevitably cause? Thanks. Appreciate it.
Her petition was cut short when her half-full bottle of ginger beer was waved in front of her face. "Sulking, I see."
Sarah accepted the drink. "Just thinking," she said. Greg settled into the seat next to hers. A few weeks ago she'd found another old kitchen chair someone had put out on the curb for the trash truck in the village. A little basic repair and plenty of wood glue made it fit for duty once more. She'd placed it in her favorite spot next to her own chair, a tacit invitation to keep her company, and sometimes Greg used it. So did Gene, and even Jason had shown up a time or two.
"You're making this too hard," Greg said at last.
"You're right, maybe I do take this too seriously," she said. "But bringing in just anyone won't work." She took a sip of ginger beer, savored the burn of spice and carbonation on her tongue. "You'll have enough to deal with just getting a routine going and having your team and the staff learn to work together."
Greg reached out. "Lemme see the ax."
Sarah handed him the guitar. He cradled it in his hands like a favorite woman. After a few moments he began to play, just idle chords at first, and then a melody. Sarah smiled when she recognized it.
"'Everyone says I love you/but just what they say it for I never knew/it's just inviting trouble for the poor sucker who says I love you,'" she sang, fighting to keep a straight face. Greg picked up the next verse with her.
"'Take a pair of rabbits who/get stuck on each other and begin to woo/and pretty soon you'll find a million more rabbits who say 'I love you' . . ."
Sarah couldn't help it, she had to laugh. "Cynic," she accused. Greg gave her a slight smile.
"More like realist," he countered, as he picked the melody.
"That's a wise quack," she quoted, and laughed again when he groaned. "Hey, you were the one who chose the song." She sipped her ginger beer. "I didn't know you were a Marx Brothers fan."
"Ever since I was four, curled up on the couch sick as a dog and watching Duck Soup between bouts of hurling," Greg said. "Groucho was an early role model, mainly because my dad disapproved of him."
"That explains so much," Sarah said. She stretched her legs and rested the ginger beer on her belly, tipped her head back as she listened to Greg play. "I'll try to lighten up," she said eventually.
"Good, because anyone we hire will either leave or get fired and we'll go through a dozen more, minimum. It doesn't matter how carefully you choose. This work is never what people think it will be. Even I didn't realize what it would be like when Cuddy started the department at PPTH." Greg finished the song and set the guitar aside, then levered himself upright. "Speaking of hell, I'm off to work. I might even get to see my wife for five minutes before she crawls into bed." He sounded more resigned than angry.
"Come over for supper. I'll call Roz and get her to meet you here," Sarah said. She glanced up at him and smiled. "Gene's doing steaks and baked potatoes on the grill. We'll have homemade baked beans and salad. Stop by around six. Bring some ice cream."
"kay." He paused and put a hand on her shoulder, gave her a gentle squeeze. "Thanks for taking this on," he said quietly, and limped off before she could reply. Sarah watched the wind and cloud shadows chase each other over the top of the meadow grass, and took a little comfort from Greg's parting words. Somehow, some way, the right person would be found and the clinic would be a success. She'd do her best to make sure of it.
'Everyone Says I Love You', Bert Kalmar & Harry Ruby