Chapter 27

"Taking the Southern Route"

I FOUND WHAT I THOUGHT I WAS LOOKING FOR IN WEST PALM BEACH, FLORIDA …

A POSITION BECAME AVAILABLE AT A SMALL CANCER CENTER AND RESEARCH CLINIC ON FLAGLER DRIVE ACROSS THE BAY. I APPLIED ONLINE, TYPED UP A LIST OF SCHOLASTIC, COLLEGIATE AND WORK CREDENTIALS; PRINTED A HARD COPY, WROTE A COVER LETTER, AND MAILED IT OFF THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY.

TWO WEEKS LATER AN OFFICIAL LOOKING ENVELOPE ARRIVED AT THE APARTMENT AND I TORE IT OPEN WITH ENTHUSIASM.

INQUIRY: COULD I ARRIVE AT THE BUSINESS OFFICE OF PALM BEACH COUNTY CANCER RESEARCH CENTER AT SUCH-AND-SUCH A TIME ON SUCH-AND-SUCH A DATE FOR A FULL DAY OF TOURS AND INTERVIEWS?

COULD I?

YOU BET I COULD!

I flew into Palm Beach International on a Friday morning, prepared to give my best at the interview and spend the rest of the time enjoying the sun and the surf and the South Florida night life.

With a little luck I could turn the contact into a search for a clean apartment with jalousie windows, bamboo curtains and Terrazzo floors with area rugs woven from palm fronds. Maybe I could land a job and actually find a living space where I could turn around without knocking something over.

Coming off the air conditioned plane at PBI and walking full-force into the hot, humid air, I felt as though I were suffocating. South Central Florida in the middle of July is like a blast furnace to the uninitiated. My collar was instantly drenched and I could feel the wetness breaking out under both arms and down the middle of my back. Even my grip on the briefcase handle was soggy after thirty seconds.

In the terminal I retrieved my Eagle Creek 4-wheeler from the baggage carousel and went outside to look for a taxi. There were at least a dozen cabs of all descriptions queued up along the curb when I walked out there, all with ACs running and exhaust fumes turning the immediate area into a literal gas chamber. I walked up to the nearest cab and tapped on the driver's window. When the window came down, a fiery looking Cuban-ish woman gave me the evil eye.

"Where to?" She asked in a heavy Spanish accent.

"PBC Cancer Research Center, Flagler Drive, Palm Beach," I said.

"You … patient?"

"No. I … doctor."

She nodded and sneered and pulled a handle beneath the dashboard that popped the trunk. She got out of the car, grasped my 4-wheeler by the handle and heaved it into the opening as easily as if the thing was empty. The loud 'whump' when she slammed the trunk lid rocked the beat-up cab on its spongy shock absorbers.

"Git een," she said.

And I did. And buckled up. We roared out of the cab line like a rocket launch out of Cape Canaveral.

After a harrowing ride through town and across the causeway, she sluiced into an empty parking spot like the space shuttle docking. She popped the trunk again and pulled my Eagle Creek out onto the sidewalk while traffic careened around us up and down the street.

"Thir-tee-five doll-larr," was all she said as she held out her hand palm up.

I slapped a fifty on her and said: "Keep the change, Chiquitita … "

That was the only time her features softened into something quite pretty. "Gracias, Senor Dock-tor."

I nodded as I grabbed the handle of the carryall. "Dee-Nada."

I walked into the large waiting room of PBCCRC at precisely 3:00 p.m., dragging the 4-wheeler behind me and grasping my briefcase in the other hand.

It was bright and colorful in there, and the air conditioning felt like a slice of heaven. I pushed the carryall out of the way and walked across to the reception desk, pushing my damp hair off my forehead. To my left, a long corridor led off toward the rear of the building.

There were three other people sitting in chairs around the perimeter of the room, two of them with their noses buried in dog-eared magazines. The other woman looked up from time to time to watch the traffic in and out, or take a moment to check out the TV fastened to the wall in the corner.

The woman behind the reception counter across from me was probably about the same age as my mother. As I approached, I took note that her white hair was meticulously coiffed. Her makeup was so skillfully applied that I could hardly tell it was there, except that I knew it was. Her eyes, I noticed right away, were the same deep violet as Elizabeth Taylor's had been. Her blouse was pale lavender, which highlighted her eyes even more. I could not help staring. On her right lapel was a small white oval with the name "Patti" engraved in the middle. On her left lapel she wore a small pink pin shaped like a ribbon, looped once. She was a survivor … and she was lovely.

"Good afternoon," she said with a tilt of her head. "Do we know you?"

"Not yet," I said, smiling. "But I'm hoping that might change …"

She laughed quietly. "I thought so. You're Dr. James Wilson, aren't you? You look pretty much like a 'James'.

"And you look a lot like a 'Patti'", I pointed out with a grin.

Her eyebrow curled upward in a coquettish arc. "You have a nice smile, Dr. Wilson."

I scrunched up my nose a bit, wondering when the flirting might end …

Behind me I heard a door opening and then closing. I turned in that direction, thankfully, and saw a very tall, very thin and balding man walking toward me in the hallway. Everyone else in the room looked up also … a lot like a flock of pigeons.

He came toward me with his hand stretched out in greeting, and I switched my briefcase to my other hand in order to reciprocate. His palm was smooth, his grip firm, and when he smiled, his long, austere face went from homely to handsome in a split second. I hoped he was the man I had come to see …

"Hello and welcome. I'm Dr. Thomas Gresh, and I run this little operation. You're Dr. James Wilson, I presume." His voice reminded me greatly of James Earl Jones. If we were in the dark, I wouldn't have known the difference.

"A pleasure," I said. "I'm James E. Wilson, late of Princeton, New Jersey, and here to apply for the position of Oncologist in your clinic."

"Come on back to my office, Dr. Wilson," Gresh said. "We can talk. Patti, you know where we'll be."

"Okay, Tom," Patti answered so softly that I had no doubt they were man and wife.

Something in her eyes disturbed me a little as I turned away to follow Dr. Gresh. Ultimately I dismissed the feeling in my eagerness to make this interview successful and offer the chance at a new job and a new life.

I followed him back the corridor to a section that was not so easily identified as exam rooms. Here, he turned to the right into a spacious office with comfortable furnishings and every wall lined floor-to-ceiling with book-cases. Volume upon volume of medical and reference books, case files, research papers in labeled folders tore my eyes away from all else. Indexed files filled with past issues of medical papers and journals of every description, boxed and labeled with the year of publication, rested in their own glass-fronted cabinets. I'd never seen anything like this, so neatly preserved in such a compact space.

Intrigued, I moved along the rows, reading titles and feeling the urge to just delve into them for the sheer joy of doing so.

Behind me, Dr. Gresh leaned against the edge of his desk and watched me, I sensed, with obvious pride.

"This is incredible," I said, turning to face him. "Did you do all this cataloguing yourself?"

He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "Yes. Patti and I have been working on it for years. It's rather an ongoing process … intriguing and endless … and I take it you've already deduced that she's my wife …"

"I did. She's lovely." My thoughts returned to the woman out front, and a shiver of forewarning ran down my spine. I thrust it away.

"A lot of our friends say the same thing as you. I'm a lucky man. Patti's a breast cancer survivor, but you'd never know it to look at her now. She worked with me every step of the way in my career, and when we began setting up this office. It took us over a year to catalogue all the material. It used to be stored in boxes all over the house, and eventually spilled into the garage. Now, thanks to the Dewey Decimal System, we can locate anything in this collection in about thirty seconds of a question being asked … as good as a computer … except hands-on."

"Wow! Simply … wow! Wickipedia-on-a-stick. I am very impressed. I wouldn't mind being locked in this room by myself for about a year."

He laughed. "That's the first time I've heard it put that way, but yeah, others who've seen it had similar comments."

It got suddenly silent then. It was almost as though we were deep in the forest and Bambi's father had just appeared at the top of the mountain. Gresh's eyes met mine, and I knew he'd made a decision. I held my breath.

"You know, Dr. Wilson, when I first read through your credentials and studied your educational, internship and residency records … your history of deaths-versus-remission cases … and your accompanying letter of introduction, our search for the right person to join this facility ended abruptly. This interview is just a formality. The job is yours if you want it."

I could feel my eyebrows rising to spectacular heights. "Really? You're hiring me because of a letter I wrote, and because I'm impressed with your historical medical collection?"

"In a word: yes. And because I like your enthusiasm. With Oncology, you really need that." He stuck out his hand again, and I reached across to take it. "Welcome to the madhouse," he said with a smile.

"The honor is mine, and the name is 'James'," I said, trying not to sound like an idiot.

"Wonderful. And it's 'Tom'. 'Tom' and 'Patti' from now on. We don't stand on protocol much around here.

"Actually, we should wrap it up now and go out to tell Patti. She was the one who put me onto you in the first place. Office hours will be over in another half-hour. The three of us should go to dinner; over at the Cabana on Clematis Street … I've already made reservations. We can discuss salary and benefits."

I stared at him, a little overwhelmed. My life had done a complete about-face in less than fifteen minutes. "I-I'm up for that, I think …" I was stammering and at a loss for words; struggling for breath in my astonishment at the abrupt declaration. "I have to catch my breath and take this all in. I haven't made overnight accommodations, because I had no idea how the interview was going to go. We might have taken an instant dislike to each other, you know."

Gresh had a smile on his face. "You already have accommodations at the Palmetto Inn, out near the old air base on Okeechobee Road and across from PBI. Compliments of the clinic. That work for you?"

I swallowed. "Yes." I still felt as though I'd just come away from a confrontation on the mountain with the Great Stag."

Thomas Gresh had that infuriating smile on his face … like he was Santa Claus and he had just presented the astonished kid with 'the' coveted Daisy B-B-gun for Christmas. "You have six weeks to untangle things in New Jersey and find a place to live down here. Then I want you at work with bells on … hear?"

"More than fair," I finally said. "I've made moves with far less notice than that." I paused a moment, and then said sheepishly: "I've been divorced three times. It's long past time for a sea change."

He guffawed. Slapped his thigh like an old-time hillbilly.

*This is crazy!*

"Good enough. Let's go tell Patti to put a new doctor on the payroll …"

… and when the three of us got into Tom's 0ld Buick convertible to go to dinner, I closed the door on New Jersey, once and for all.

isa

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