The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [12]
“A good choice,” I replied, “and a pleasant surprise.”
“Thank you.” He seemed genuinely pleased.
The beers arrived in iced mugs. Turk lifted his. “To the enjoyment of life,” he said.
I nodded, then clicked his glass and drank. The beer was cold and went down smoothly.
Turk downed half his pint with the first quaff. “You don’t get out much, do you?” he asked.
“I don’t have the time,” I replied. “Nor the means.” I glanced down at the menu and saw the prices were extremely reasonable—only fifty cents for a porterhouse dinner, thirty-five cents for pigeon pie or grilled trout. Still, to dine at restaurants with the frequency that Turk seemed to would have placed an unbearable strain on my resources. “How do you manage?”
“I make the time,” he answered. “And the means.” He downed the remainder of his beer. “Go ahead, Carroll. Drink up. I’m paying for dinner.”
“Not a bit of it,” I replied.
“Nonsense,” he said. “My invitation, my treat. You can make it up to me later.”
Turk would not countenance further protest, so I thanked him for his generosity. When the waiter appeared, he ordered a porterhouse with potato and onions for us both, and also asked for another round of Pabsts, although mine was still half full.
We chatted idly for a while, until Turk abruptly asked, “So, what brought you to Philadelphia, Carroll? You’re from out west, aren’t you? Chicago, was it?”
“Ohio,” I replied. “I went to medical school in Chicago and practiced there for more than three years.”
“You must have made an excellent living in such a thriving city.”
“Not really,” I replied. “I worked with a doctor on the West Side. No one had much money.”
“Healing the poor,” said Turk. “Very commendable.”
“Commendable or no,” I said, “the experience was invaluable. I learned a great deal.”
“Then you came here.”
I was about to ask what he meant when our dinner arrived. The steaks were thick, large, buttered on both sides, and prepared to perfection. Turk was correct. I had not sampled a better piece of meat since I had arrived in Philadelphia.
“Where in Ohio?”
I looked over at him, attempting to gauge the source of his continued interest, but the questions seemed innocent enough. Perhaps he simply hated talking about himself.
“Near Marietta,” I replied. “On the Ohio River. It is the only city in America named after Marie Antoinette.”
Turk chuckled. “An interesting distinction. But you don’t sound like someone from southern Ohio.”
“I make an effort not to,” I said.
“Very wise,” Turk agreed. “And what made you choose medicine?”
“It was because of my father.”
“He was a doctor?” he asked, taking a bite of his porterhouse. Turk used his knife to slice his meat in the rapid back-and-forth manner of the lower classes. He chewed and swallowed quickly.
I shook my head. “No, but he was in the war, and was wounded in 1862 fighting with Grant at Fort Donelson.”
“Wounded how?”
“His brigade was caught in a cross fire during a skirmish in the woods. My father and two other men snuck in behind the Confederates and attacked. They were terribly outnumbered. My father was struck by a minié ball above the right elbow. The two other men were killed but the brigade was saved.”
“He was a hero then?”
“Yes,” I said, taking another drink. “I suppose he was.”
“Lucky,” Turk muttered. “I would have settled for any father at all.” He cut and ingested another piece of meat. “So what happened?”
“As they did back then, the wound was ‘laid open,’… large areas of the surrounding flesh were exposed to the air … so barbaric … doctors believed it would promote healing. Just the opposite resulted, of course. Three days later the wound had suppurated and his arm had to be taken off. The field hospital was overwhelmed, so the amputation was performed by an assistant regimental surgeon … a Vermont baker with no formal medical training. They had exhausted their supply of laudanum, so my father lay in that hospital in agony for seven days and, when it was deemed he could travel, they