The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [9]
“I’m told white slavers generally prefer women,” I replied.
“Fortunate, then, that he didn’t ask me,” said Simpson. “Although,” she added, “I expect that I would not be to Dr. Turk’s taste even in that capacity.”
“Nonsense,” I said quickly. “You’re a very appealing woman.”
“Appealing,” Simpson repeated with a knowing smile. When she smiled, which was all too infrequently in the hospital, it altered her face utterly. “Now, there is an ambiguous word.”
I began to babble a clarification, but she interrupted. “It’s perfectly all right, Ephraim. I’m naturally cantankerous. Where are you going tonight, by the way?”
When I told her, she said, “The theater? What are you going to see?”
“I forgot to ask.”
We started back along the path, not speaking for a few moments. I became increasingly uncomfortable in the silence, a symptom of my awkwardness in the presence of women, which I found odd, as I never thought of Simpson in those terms.
“We seem to have some time,” I said, the words tumbling out by reflex rather than intention. “Would you like to join me in the doctors’ lounge? I was going to have tea.”
Simpson stopped, uncertain, her head cocked to one side. “All right,” she replied with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, her reaction to my invitation much the same as mine to Turk’s. “I’ll meet you there after I change.”
When I had first gone on staff, “doctors’ lounge” had conjured up the image of a commodious, collegial, high-ceilinged chamber, furnished with wing chairs and divans, similar to the illustrations of English men’s clubs that I had seen in The Saturday Evening Post. In actuality, however, the room was small and uninviting, tucked into the southwest corner of the first floor, above the laundry. The only touch of gentility was Jefferson, the ancient, white-jacketed Negro attendant, on duty from eight in the morning until ten at night, serving tea or java, as well as surprisingly tasty biscuits.
I arrived first, obtained a cup of Earl Grey and two shortbreads, and then repaired to one of a pair of ocher club chairs in the far corner to wait. Only two others were in the room, Drs. Peters and Dodd. Both were elderly, from a generation of physicians that would soon pass into history. Each nodded to me perfunctorily.
Simpson arrived minutes later, wearing a dark blue wool dress with a high lace collar. While her garb was hardly à la mode, it was proper and not unfeminine. She had repinned her sorrel brown hair, which sparkled slightly in the afternoon sunlight that poured in through the west window. As she walked past, Peters leaned over to Dodd and whispered something. Both stared at her with undisguised distaste.
I stood and offered to fetch a beverage. I realized I probably would not have done so if we were both still on duty, but meeting Simpson thus, it would have been discourteous not to. She declined my offer, however, and got her own, not even glancing at the other two doctors as she walked across the room.
When she returned, she sat in the other chair and placed her cup on the table between us. After a few seconds, when she did not speak, I realized that it was I who would be forced to begin the conversation. I had too much respect for Simpson to open with platitudes, and so chose instead to say what had been on my mind.
“You puzzle me.”
“Why?” she asked, looking me straight on. Her eyes were flecked with amber. I found it odd that I had not noticed previously. “I don’t think of myself as an especially puzzling person.”
“You are so diligent … as dedicated to medicine as any man, yet …”
“Yet?”
“Perhaps I am perplexed that you seem to believe that you can achieve personal fulfillment without those domestic qualities from which most women acquire satisfaction.”
Simpson