The Pursuit of Alice Thrift Read Free Page A

salmon.”
    â€œCooked through,” I said.
    Ray winked at me and said, “If she looks at it under the microscope, she doesn’t want to see anything moving.”
    â€œRemind me what your usual is . . .”
    â€œVingole,”
he said. “Red.”
    The waitress asked if she could at some point talk to me in the ladies’ room. It would only take a sec.
    â€œAsk her here,” said Ray.
    â€œCan’t,” said the waitress. “She’s gotta see it.”
    I said no, I couldn’t. I was in training. I wasn’t qualified. I’d only rotated through plastic surgery. No, sorry—shaking my head vigorously.
    â€œAre you okay?” Ray asked her. “I mean, is there, like, an infection?”
    I was immediately ashamed of my lack of even basic medical curiosity. Here a civilian was saying the right thing, exhibiting a bedside manner that years of schooling had not fine-tuned to any degree of working order in me. So I said, “Is something wrong, or did you just want to show me the results?”
    She turned away from Ray and whispered, “One of the nipples. It looks different than before, a little off-kilter.”
    â€œDid you call your doctor?” I asked.
    â€œI’m seeing him in a week. So I’ll wait. It’s probably nothing.”
    Ray broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into a saucer of olive oil. “How long could it take, Doc?” he asked.
    THE NIPPLE WAS fine—merely stressed by an ill-fitting brassiere—but it gave Ray an early advantage, establishing him as a more compassionate listener than I. He was now drinking a glass of something that looked like a whiskey sour. Mathematically half of the appetizers were awaiting my return. “How is she?” he asked.
    â€œFine. But I’d like to explain why I resisted. It’s not like the old days. The hospital’s malpractice insurance doesn’t cover diagnoses based on quick glances in the ladies’ room.”
    He smiled and said, “She could sign a release that said, ‘My patron at table eleven, Dr. Thrift, is held harmless as a result of dispensing medical advice to me in the ladies’ room of Il Sambuco.’ ”
    I said, “If I seemed a little cold-hearted—”
    â€œNah. You’d be doing this every time you left your house.”
    I might have expanded then on my life: That when I left the house, it wasn’t with an escort at my elbow, introducing me left and right as Dr. Thrift, surgeon. I didn’t socialize. I worked long hours and went home comatose. The hospital was teeming with people who wanted to talk, idly or professionally—it didn’t matter. My day was filled with hard questions, half-answers, nervous patients, demanding relatives, didactic doctors. Why would I want to make conversation at night?
    â€œSpeaking of your house,” he said, “you never answered my question about roommates.”
    â€œI have one,” I said.
    â€œAnother doctor?”
    â€œA nurse, actually.”
    â€œAre you friends?”
    â€œWe share the rent,” I said. “But that’s the extent of it. Occasionally we’ll eat dinner or breakfast together, but rarely.”
    â€œHow’d you pair up if you’re not friends?”
    â€œAn index card on a bulletin board. I think it said, ‘Five-minute walk to hospital. Safe neighborhood. No smokers.’ ”
    â€œHow many bedrooms?”
    â€œTwo. Small.”
    He launched into a discussion of the rental market—about places I could probably afford that had health clubs, swimming pools, Jacuzzis, off-street parking, central vacs, air-conditioning, refrigerators that manufactured ice . . .
    I tried to stifle a yawn. “I’m usually in bed by this hour.”
    â€œIs she a good roommate?” he asked. “Considerate and all that?”
    â€œIt’s a guy,” I said. “Leo.”
    â€œGay?” he