“Trouble? Whaddaya mean trouble? What happened, Mom?”
“Just listen, give me a second, okay? I know you’re supposed to be in Atlanta
in a couple of weeks - July first isn’t it? – but I’m sure you can delay it just
one day and stop over in Pittsburgh. I’ll call the District Attorney to make an
appointment for you. He seems to be a very nice man. He says he needs to
see you. It’s important.”
“The D.A.!” The phone connection was bad. Maybe I heard her wrong.
“Your father is in trouble. Do it for me, will you? Make my life a bit easier.
He’s at his office seeing patients now. He’d be furious if he knew I was calling
you. I know you two haven’t hit it off for many years. I haven’t asked for
much in the past, have I? I’ve always tried to patch things up, smooth things
over, haven’t I? I’m hoping you can use your influence.”
“Influence? Me? On who? The D.A.?”
“No . . . with your father. Maybe he’ll listen to you now that you’re a fancy
Boston doctor.”
“What? Are you kidding? I’m just a lowly, grubby intern, and . . . he never
paid much attention before, I don’t see why . . .”
“You’ve got to at least try talking with him. He won’t listen to me. You know
how stubborn he can be.” I knew all too well.
“What’s been going on? Why can’t you tell me?”
“The District Attorney will explain everything to you. I’ve tried to keep you
out of this. I was worried it might rub off on you in some way. You never
know, it might be held against you. And besides . . . it’s embarrassing for
me - for all of us. It’s been in the newspapers.”
“Newspapers!”
“And on TV. I didn’t want you to know. After you see the District Attorney
try to talk with your Dad, okay? I’ll call back with the appointment time.”
* * *
On the plane I had time to think about the world I was re-entering. I’d been
on my own, kept my distance for a long time, and hadn’t been back to
Pittsburgh in a few years. Infrequent phone calls, rare letters, few thoughts
of them. Now I’d be right in the middle again. There was no way out.
What had he done? I realized it had to be serious if it involved the DA.
Newspapers! TV! My father was a proud, defiantly principled man, a General
Practicioner, whose office was on the North Side of town; a grimy blue-collar
neighborhood of immigrant steel mill and factory workers, few parks, many
bars, tenements, and vocational schools. We lived modestly, not like most
doctors: small brick house in a middle-class neighborhood, few vacations,
used cars. Somehow he managed to pay all of my tuition bills.
I recalled many painful years of sitting stiffly at dinner forced to listen to his
lectures on whatever I had done or not done that displeased him. He termed
it just “constructive criticism.” Just! The nightly barrage of criticism hurt. I
dreaded family dinners and learned to feign indifference, but often answered
back defending myself - a major sin – further incurring his anger.
To me being a doctor made one all-powerful, always right; an authority on
everything. When added to his stern paternal pronouncements, it made my
father seem a harsh, unforgiving Old Testament God.
I particularly remembered that Sunday night when I was 13, being on the
“Wilkens Jewelry Store’s Amateur Hour” TV program. All my friends and
teachers were tuned in. My parents stayed home to watch on their new
Dumont TV set. When the M.C. asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I
quickly replied, “a doctor,” probably flashing a nervous smile. I played a
jazzed-up trumpet version of “Body and Soul” without mistakes –
unfortunately not good enough to win. I rode the trolley home from the
downtown TV studio eagerly looking forward to basking in applause from my
family and friends.
“How did I look? How did I do?”
“You never told us you wanted to be a doctor,” my mother snapped.
“You never asked,” was my retort. The familiar battle was joined.
“With your big mouth you should be a lawyer.” I had heard that before.
My father looked up from his newspaper. “Huh, you a doctor! You’re too
much of a bum to be a doctor.”
I ran upstairs and slammed the door to my room. Why was he always angry
with me? What had I done? My good grades, honors, musical and athletic
accomplishments didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was daring to stand up to
him. Publicly declaring I wanted to be like him – a doctor - only infuriated him.
A bum, eh? I resolved to show him.
The pre-med college curriculum was tough, but I worked hard and did well.
Over the summer after my junior year I read “The Last Angry Man”, an
inspiring novel of a crusty, principled inner-city G.P., a character that seemed
so much like him. During the next holiday vacation I pushed my parents to
go and see the movie. I hoped it would strike a chord of recognition, making
it easy for him to talk of his life as a doctor – the struggles, the joys. Driving
home from the theatre his only comment was that “It was a lousy movie, a
waste of my time. Why did you want me to see it?” I had nothing to say.
A few months later I applied to medical school. I gave the expected answers
to interviewers questions on why I wanted to be a doctor - “I wanted to help
mankind,” and “The study of science captivated me.” Both were true, but my
deeper personal reason I kept to myself. In addition to the several schools I
was seriously interested in, I applied to his hometown medical school, was
accepted, and with obvious pleasure rejected it in favor of a medical school
far away.
I brought my first semester medical texts and notebooks home over the
holidays to study for upcoming exams. I spent most of the vacation at the
dining room table reading and writing. He showed little interest, so I brought
a few of his old texts downstairs, compared them with mine and saw what he
had underlined over 40 years before. He must have been a good student;
industrious, hard-working. I asked him what it had been like in med school;
how hard it was, about his classmates, teachers and courses. He
begrudgingly gave short replies, then went back to watching TV. Saddened, I
gave up and went back to work.
They came to my medical school graduation. A hug from my mother,
and just a handshake and smile from him. That’s all. Was he proud of me? I
never knew. I had become a doctor in spite of him – or so I thought.
* * *
“Dr. Cohen, the District Attorney will see you now. You can leave your
luggage with me,” the elderly secretary said, gesturing to the large oak door
with a brass nameplate – Prentiss F. Dillard D.A.
I opened the door slowly and entered a spacious, dark-carpetted office.
A trim, immaculately-dressed middle-aged man rose from behind his desk
and offered a soft, fleeting handshake.
“I’m glad that you could come, Doctor Cohen,” he said motioning me to
a nearby leather chair. I stared out the large picture window behind him. I
was on the 26th floor of the City-County building, high above the Golden
Triangle business district, looking down on the confluence of the
Monongahela and Allegheny where they became the Ohio River.
The sun shone brightly in the clear blue July sky – the city’s infamous
smog long-gone. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases held dark leather-bound
volumes inscribed in gold leaf, the other wall had framed photos of the
Mayor, Governor, and President Johnson arranged around a large gilded gold
and blue State seal. Off to the side was a photo of J.F.K. matted in black.
“I hope your flight from Boston was uneventful. I understand from your
mother that you were supposed to begin a training program in Atlanta today
to prepare you for a couple of years with the Peace Corps. Where may I ask
is your assignment?”
“Liberia, sir, in West Africa.”
“I’m sure your parents are proud of you.” I nodded.
He spoke slowly, as if carefully measuring the weight and impact of each
word. A precise, no-nonsense man.
“Well, let me begin,” he solemnly said, folding his hands on the desk,
“Do you have any questions about why I asked to meet with you?”
“Mr. Dillard, I’m totally in the dark. What has my father done?”
“Well . . . I can appreciate how difficult this may be for you. I’ll start from
the beginning and present the facts.” He pressed an intercom button.
“Mrs. Martin, please bring in Dr. Samuel Cohen’s folder and envelope.
The secretary laid them on the desk and closed the door. He opened the
folder, put on his reading glasses, and began. “I see that your father
graduated from the University of Pittsburgh’s medical school in 1919, began
his General Practice in the Hill District, then moved his office to the North Side
where he has been for 43 years. The vast majority of his practice has been
with patients on Relief. After the War he also worked as school physician for
both Washington and Allegheny Vocational high schools. I presume you
knew all that, right?”
I nodded. He never talked about his work or early life. I picked up a few
bits and pieces from my mother - but only after asking.
“The charges center on his careless and irresponsible prescribing
practices. Responding to complaints from two neighborhood doctors and one
pharmacist, the Board of Registration in Medicine sent plainclothes
investigators to his office posing as cross-country truck drivers requesting
amphetamines, or cancer patients in pain asking for narcotics. They received
prescriptions without undergoing a detailed history or physical examination.
There was no record-keeping. A large volume of his prescriptions of a similar
nature had been filled in several neighborhood pharmacies. He was brought
before the Board and declared his innocence stating that he had been singled
out, scapegoated if you will, because he had cut into other doctor’s lucrative
practices, and refused to make a business deal with the complaining
pharmacist. According to the investigators he charged only $2 for each
prescription. He was placed on probation. But he violated his probation three
times, by continuing the same prescribing practices. Three times in four
years! He continually insisted he had not done anything wrong. Last January,
somehow, the media found out, and an unseemly sideshow of yellow
journalism ensued. I remember his name from a Post-Gazette article and
headline – “School Doctor, Drug Pusher,” and from TV news spots showing
him shielding his face. A sad spectacle.
The School Department summarily fired him. I’m glad that you weren’t
here to witness it. The Board, out of frustration, and, I must say, after years
of being deplorably lenient finally referred his case to this office. I’ve
attempted to handle this out of court without any cooperation from him. The
Grand Jury meets next week. It is a foregone conclusion that . . .”
“Will he have to go to jail?” my voice cracked. I couldn’t believe what I was
hearing.
“A guilty sentence most likely would be five years in prison and a
$10,000 fine. Dr. Cohen, you must understand that I have done everything I
can. I do not want to see a 73 year-old physician put in prison. That would
compound this tragedy. However, all charges will be dropped, the book
closed and forever sealed . . . if he surrenders his license.”
“But . . .”
“He adamantly refuses. I must say that in my 12 years as District
Attorney I have rarely encountered such an exasperating case, and have
never had to deal with such an obstinate man. He refuses to listen to your
mother’s good advice, refuses to hire a lawyer, refuses to return my
telephone calls or letters. The one time I met with him he barely listened to
your mother and me, then stormed out. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the
gravity of the situation.”
“Mr. Dillard, why am I here?”
“This is his last chance,” he said, handing me the brown envelope. Maybe
you can reason with him as his son and a physician. All he has to do is to
sign the enclosed resignation statement, close this sad chapter of his life and
give your parents a peaceful retirement.”
I put the envelope in my briefcase, shook his hand and left.
* * *
The half-hour taxi ride home to the Squirrel Hill section of town gave me
time to compose myself, think over my meeting with the DA, and how I
should approach my father. I feared there might be another screaming
match. Why did he do it? I wondered, and keep repeating it over and over? It
couldn’t have been for the small amount of money involved. Was it because
he was so headstrong, so bull-headed, so convinced he was always right? I
began to feel sorry for him; his hard life and long career ending in public
disgrace and jail. I remembered my mother speaking of how he worked in the
US Steel mill putting himself through school, endured anti-Semitic barbs and
bullying as the only Jew in his medical school class, supported his parents
and sisters and their families during the Depression, put in long hours of
work among the poor, made hundreds of house calls delivering babies in the
middle of the night. And now this. Maybe I could help by ending the impasse.
I slowly walked up our front steps, paused a second to take a deep breath,
and rang the doorbell. My mother opened the door, forced a faint smile, and
looked questioningly at me.
“Well, how did it go?” she whispered. Before I could answer she put a
finger to her lips, “Sshhh,” he’s in there,” nodding to the living room. “Did
you meet with him? I didn’t tell your father anything. He would have been
angry with me.”
“Who’s there, Jean?” A gruff barking voice.
“It’s Les, he’s here to talk with you.” She rolled her eyes in his direction.
“What! What’s he doing here? I thought he was doctoring African
shvartzehs.”
Taking another deep breath, I took the envelope from my briefcase and
walked into the living room. He was sitting in his favorite armchair; a short,
stocky man, full head of gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, his cauliflower ear
and flattened nose trophies from teen-age years boxing in the Golden
Gloves. He sat erect, jaw set, unsmiling.
“Mom asked me to meet with Mr. Dillard. He told me everything.”
“Jean, Jean,” he yelled toward the kitchen, “you’ve got a lot of goddamn
nerve doing that.”
He turned, scowling. “I don’t need you poking your nose into my
business.”
She appeared, apron around her waist. “Sam, give him a chance,” she
whispered. “Don’t fly off the handle. After all . . . he is a doctor.”
“He’s still the same smart-aleck kid, just a few years older. So now, Mr.
Wise-Guy you’ve heard Dillard’s lies.”
“Dad, listen to me. I’m only trying to help. The DA is on your side, he
doesn’t want to send you to jail.”
He got up, menacingly pointing a finger. “What in the hell do you know
about anything? I don’t have to listen to you of all people. A fine son you’ve
been, Mr. Big Mouth. You’ve never shown me the proper respect. Now you
come here, a Boston big shot, still wet behind the ears, and . . .”
“Respect! That’s all I’ve ever heard from you. All you’ve ever wanted
from me was mute obedience . . . and now in this awful mess you mention
respect!”
“Sshhh,” my mother whispered, “the neighbors will hear you.”
“The hell with your neighbors,” my voice rising, “they already know
everything if they read the newspapers or watch TV.”
“What . . . that loose-mouthed shaygets told you about that too?” he
growled, fists clenched, taking a step towards me. I shielded my face.
She grabbed his arm. “Don’t Sam, don’t.”
“Get out of my house. Stay in Africa for all I care. You’re no longer my
son. I’ll light yahrzeit for you.”
“Mom, this is from The D.A.” I handed her the envelope. “All Dad needs
to do is sign the paper and it will all be over. There’s no use me staying here
any longer. I’ll take an earlier flight and write from Africa.”
I picked up my bags and slammed the front door on the way out.
Walking down the steps I knew I had to calm down, put all this behind me
and focus on what lay ahead: 2 years, maybe more, in a tiny Liberian village
6000 miles away. No telephones, thank heavens.
* * *
Late in the year during Liberia’s rainy season, the Peace Corps driver
delivered her letter. My mother wrote that they had sold our house and
moved to Miami Beach. Evidently, he had retired. She didn’t mention what
had happened. I never asked.
A few years later, back in the States completing my residency, I
telephoned several times but he refused to come to the phone. My mother
wrote that he never asked about me. Though retired, my father was unable
to give up being a doctor, often dispensing unsolicited consultations to other
retirees around the swimming pool of their apartment complex. Critical of
their doctors and medications he caused much confusion and bad feeling.
Her physician refused to have him in his office with her. I received several
phone calls from his doctor concerned by his obstreperous behavior. He died
quietly in 1981 at age 88 and was buried in a cemetery a few miles from the
North Side.
Standing at graveside with my mother I did not cry. My loss occurred a
long time before my father’s death. It had been sixteen years since that last
bitter clash. He never met my wife or three kids.
My mind wandered. I had been both blessed and cursed with a good
memory, and I remembered it all too vividly. I shook my head thinking of how
difficult it had been overcoming my fear of being as bad a father as he had
been; the emotional scars of my youth, and with time, much help and love I
had dared to approach it, and so far put much of the past behind me.
After completion of the burial service a white-haired woman said to me
“You’re his son aren’t you? Your father delivered me years ago. On our
kitchen table, my mother told me. That’s when we had no money. He was a
saint. It was unfair what happened to him.”
I nodded a thank you. It was best to say nothing.
I looked at my watch. It was time to get my mother on her flight back to
Florida, and catch mine to Boston. I said goodbye to the few remaining
relatives and slowly walked away.
“Just listen, give me a second, okay? I know you’re supposed to be in Atlanta
in a couple of weeks - July first isn’t it? – but I’m sure you can delay it just
one day and stop over in Pittsburgh. I’ll call the District Attorney to make an
appointment for you. He seems to be a very nice man. He says he needs to
see you. It’s important.”
“The D.A.!” The phone connection was bad. Maybe I heard her wrong.
“Your father is in trouble. Do it for me, will you? Make my life a bit easier.
He’s at his office seeing patients now. He’d be furious if he knew I was calling
you. I know you two haven’t hit it off for many years. I haven’t asked for
much in the past, have I? I’ve always tried to patch things up, smooth things
over, haven’t I? I’m hoping you can use your influence.”
“Influence? Me? On who? The D.A.?”
“No . . . with your father. Maybe he’ll listen to you now that you’re a fancy
Boston doctor.”
“What? Are you kidding? I’m just a lowly, grubby intern, and . . . he never
paid much attention before, I don’t see why . . .”
“You’ve got to at least try talking with him. He won’t listen to me. You know
how stubborn he can be.” I knew all too well.
“What’s been going on? Why can’t you tell me?”
“The District Attorney will explain everything to you. I’ve tried to keep you
out of this. I was worried it might rub off on you in some way. You never
know, it might be held against you. And besides . . . it’s embarrassing for
me - for all of us. It’s been in the newspapers.”
“Newspapers!”
“And on TV. I didn’t want you to know. After you see the District Attorney
try to talk with your Dad, okay? I’ll call back with the appointment time.”
* * *
On the plane I had time to think about the world I was re-entering. I’d been
on my own, kept my distance for a long time, and hadn’t been back to
Pittsburgh in a few years. Infrequent phone calls, rare letters, few thoughts
of them. Now I’d be right in the middle again. There was no way out.
What had he done? I realized it had to be serious if it involved the DA.
Newspapers! TV! My father was a proud, defiantly principled man, a General
Practicioner, whose office was on the North Side of town; a grimy blue-collar
neighborhood of immigrant steel mill and factory workers, few parks, many
bars, tenements, and vocational schools. We lived modestly, not like most
doctors: small brick house in a middle-class neighborhood, few vacations,
used cars. Somehow he managed to pay all of my tuition bills.
I recalled many painful years of sitting stiffly at dinner forced to listen to his
lectures on whatever I had done or not done that displeased him. He termed
it just “constructive criticism.” Just! The nightly barrage of criticism hurt. I
dreaded family dinners and learned to feign indifference, but often answered
back defending myself - a major sin – further incurring his anger.
To me being a doctor made one all-powerful, always right; an authority on
everything. When added to his stern paternal pronouncements, it made my
father seem a harsh, unforgiving Old Testament God.
I particularly remembered that Sunday night when I was 13, being on the
“Wilkens Jewelry Store’s Amateur Hour” TV program. All my friends and
teachers were tuned in. My parents stayed home to watch on their new
Dumont TV set. When the M.C. asked what I wanted to be when I grew up I
quickly replied, “a doctor,” probably flashing a nervous smile. I played a
jazzed-up trumpet version of “Body and Soul” without mistakes –
unfortunately not good enough to win. I rode the trolley home from the
downtown TV studio eagerly looking forward to basking in applause from my
family and friends.
“How did I look? How did I do?”
“You never told us you wanted to be a doctor,” my mother snapped.
“You never asked,” was my retort. The familiar battle was joined.
“With your big mouth you should be a lawyer.” I had heard that before.
My father looked up from his newspaper. “Huh, you a doctor! You’re too
much of a bum to be a doctor.”
I ran upstairs and slammed the door to my room. Why was he always angry
with me? What had I done? My good grades, honors, musical and athletic
accomplishments didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was daring to stand up to
him. Publicly declaring I wanted to be like him – a doctor - only infuriated him.
A bum, eh? I resolved to show him.
The pre-med college curriculum was tough, but I worked hard and did well.
Over the summer after my junior year I read “The Last Angry Man”, an
inspiring novel of a crusty, principled inner-city G.P., a character that seemed
so much like him. During the next holiday vacation I pushed my parents to
go and see the movie. I hoped it would strike a chord of recognition, making
it easy for him to talk of his life as a doctor – the struggles, the joys. Driving
home from the theatre his only comment was that “It was a lousy movie, a
waste of my time. Why did you want me to see it?” I had nothing to say.
A few months later I applied to medical school. I gave the expected answers
to interviewers questions on why I wanted to be a doctor - “I wanted to help
mankind,” and “The study of science captivated me.” Both were true, but my
deeper personal reason I kept to myself. In addition to the several schools I
was seriously interested in, I applied to his hometown medical school, was
accepted, and with obvious pleasure rejected it in favor of a medical school
far away.
I brought my first semester medical texts and notebooks home over the
holidays to study for upcoming exams. I spent most of the vacation at the
dining room table reading and writing. He showed little interest, so I brought
a few of his old texts downstairs, compared them with mine and saw what he
had underlined over 40 years before. He must have been a good student;
industrious, hard-working. I asked him what it had been like in med school;
how hard it was, about his classmates, teachers and courses. He
begrudgingly gave short replies, then went back to watching TV. Saddened, I
gave up and went back to work.
They came to my medical school graduation. A hug from my mother,
and just a handshake and smile from him. That’s all. Was he proud of me? I
never knew. I had become a doctor in spite of him – or so I thought.
* * *
“Dr. Cohen, the District Attorney will see you now. You can leave your
luggage with me,” the elderly secretary said, gesturing to the large oak door
with a brass nameplate – Prentiss F. Dillard D.A.
I opened the door slowly and entered a spacious, dark-carpetted office.
A trim, immaculately-dressed middle-aged man rose from behind his desk
and offered a soft, fleeting handshake.
“I’m glad that you could come, Doctor Cohen,” he said motioning me to
a nearby leather chair. I stared out the large picture window behind him. I
was on the 26th floor of the City-County building, high above the Golden
Triangle business district, looking down on the confluence of the
Monongahela and Allegheny where they became the Ohio River.
The sun shone brightly in the clear blue July sky – the city’s infamous
smog long-gone. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases held dark leather-bound
volumes inscribed in gold leaf, the other wall had framed photos of the
Mayor, Governor, and President Johnson arranged around a large gilded gold
and blue State seal. Off to the side was a photo of J.F.K. matted in black.
“I hope your flight from Boston was uneventful. I understand from your
mother that you were supposed to begin a training program in Atlanta today
to prepare you for a couple of years with the Peace Corps. Where may I ask
is your assignment?”
“Liberia, sir, in West Africa.”
“I’m sure your parents are proud of you.” I nodded.
He spoke slowly, as if carefully measuring the weight and impact of each
word. A precise, no-nonsense man.
“Well, let me begin,” he solemnly said, folding his hands on the desk,
“Do you have any questions about why I asked to meet with you?”
“Mr. Dillard, I’m totally in the dark. What has my father done?”
“Well . . . I can appreciate how difficult this may be for you. I’ll start from
the beginning and present the facts.” He pressed an intercom button.
“Mrs. Martin, please bring in Dr. Samuel Cohen’s folder and envelope.
The secretary laid them on the desk and closed the door. He opened the
folder, put on his reading glasses, and began. “I see that your father
graduated from the University of Pittsburgh’s medical school in 1919, began
his General Practice in the Hill District, then moved his office to the North Side
where he has been for 43 years. The vast majority of his practice has been
with patients on Relief. After the War he also worked as school physician for
both Washington and Allegheny Vocational high schools. I presume you
knew all that, right?”
I nodded. He never talked about his work or early life. I picked up a few
bits and pieces from my mother - but only after asking.
“The charges center on his careless and irresponsible prescribing
practices. Responding to complaints from two neighborhood doctors and one
pharmacist, the Board of Registration in Medicine sent plainclothes
investigators to his office posing as cross-country truck drivers requesting
amphetamines, or cancer patients in pain asking for narcotics. They received
prescriptions without undergoing a detailed history or physical examination.
There was no record-keeping. A large volume of his prescriptions of a similar
nature had been filled in several neighborhood pharmacies. He was brought
before the Board and declared his innocence stating that he had been singled
out, scapegoated if you will, because he had cut into other doctor’s lucrative
practices, and refused to make a business deal with the complaining
pharmacist. According to the investigators he charged only $2 for each
prescription. He was placed on probation. But he violated his probation three
times, by continuing the same prescribing practices. Three times in four
years! He continually insisted he had not done anything wrong. Last January,
somehow, the media found out, and an unseemly sideshow of yellow
journalism ensued. I remember his name from a Post-Gazette article and
headline – “School Doctor, Drug Pusher,” and from TV news spots showing
him shielding his face. A sad spectacle.
The School Department summarily fired him. I’m glad that you weren’t
here to witness it. The Board, out of frustration, and, I must say, after years
of being deplorably lenient finally referred his case to this office. I’ve
attempted to handle this out of court without any cooperation from him. The
Grand Jury meets next week. It is a foregone conclusion that . . .”
“Will he have to go to jail?” my voice cracked. I couldn’t believe what I was
hearing.
“A guilty sentence most likely would be five years in prison and a
$10,000 fine. Dr. Cohen, you must understand that I have done everything I
can. I do not want to see a 73 year-old physician put in prison. That would
compound this tragedy. However, all charges will be dropped, the book
closed and forever sealed . . . if he surrenders his license.”
“But . . .”
“He adamantly refuses. I must say that in my 12 years as District
Attorney I have rarely encountered such an exasperating case, and have
never had to deal with such an obstinate man. He refuses to listen to your
mother’s good advice, refuses to hire a lawyer, refuses to return my
telephone calls or letters. The one time I met with him he barely listened to
your mother and me, then stormed out. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the
gravity of the situation.”
“Mr. Dillard, why am I here?”
“This is his last chance,” he said, handing me the brown envelope. Maybe
you can reason with him as his son and a physician. All he has to do is to
sign the enclosed resignation statement, close this sad chapter of his life and
give your parents a peaceful retirement.”
I put the envelope in my briefcase, shook his hand and left.
* * *
The half-hour taxi ride home to the Squirrel Hill section of town gave me
time to compose myself, think over my meeting with the DA, and how I
should approach my father. I feared there might be another screaming
match. Why did he do it? I wondered, and keep repeating it over and over? It
couldn’t have been for the small amount of money involved. Was it because
he was so headstrong, so bull-headed, so convinced he was always right? I
began to feel sorry for him; his hard life and long career ending in public
disgrace and jail. I remembered my mother speaking of how he worked in the
US Steel mill putting himself through school, endured anti-Semitic barbs and
bullying as the only Jew in his medical school class, supported his parents
and sisters and their families during the Depression, put in long hours of
work among the poor, made hundreds of house calls delivering babies in the
middle of the night. And now this. Maybe I could help by ending the impasse.
I slowly walked up our front steps, paused a second to take a deep breath,
and rang the doorbell. My mother opened the door, forced a faint smile, and
looked questioningly at me.
“Well, how did it go?” she whispered. Before I could answer she put a
finger to her lips, “Sshhh,” he’s in there,” nodding to the living room. “Did
you meet with him? I didn’t tell your father anything. He would have been
angry with me.”
“Who’s there, Jean?” A gruff barking voice.
“It’s Les, he’s here to talk with you.” She rolled her eyes in his direction.
“What! What’s he doing here? I thought he was doctoring African
shvartzehs.”
Taking another deep breath, I took the envelope from my briefcase and
walked into the living room. He was sitting in his favorite armchair; a short,
stocky man, full head of gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, his cauliflower ear
and flattened nose trophies from teen-age years boxing in the Golden
Gloves. He sat erect, jaw set, unsmiling.
“Mom asked me to meet with Mr. Dillard. He told me everything.”
“Jean, Jean,” he yelled toward the kitchen, “you’ve got a lot of goddamn
nerve doing that.”
He turned, scowling. “I don’t need you poking your nose into my
business.”
She appeared, apron around her waist. “Sam, give him a chance,” she
whispered. “Don’t fly off the handle. After all . . . he is a doctor.”
“He’s still the same smart-aleck kid, just a few years older. So now, Mr.
Wise-Guy you’ve heard Dillard’s lies.”
“Dad, listen to me. I’m only trying to help. The DA is on your side, he
doesn’t want to send you to jail.”
He got up, menacingly pointing a finger. “What in the hell do you know
about anything? I don’t have to listen to you of all people. A fine son you’ve
been, Mr. Big Mouth. You’ve never shown me the proper respect. Now you
come here, a Boston big shot, still wet behind the ears, and . . .”
“Respect! That’s all I’ve ever heard from you. All you’ve ever wanted
from me was mute obedience . . . and now in this awful mess you mention
respect!”
“Sshhh,” my mother whispered, “the neighbors will hear you.”
“The hell with your neighbors,” my voice rising, “they already know
everything if they read the newspapers or watch TV.”
“What . . . that loose-mouthed shaygets told you about that too?” he
growled, fists clenched, taking a step towards me. I shielded my face.
She grabbed his arm. “Don’t Sam, don’t.”
“Get out of my house. Stay in Africa for all I care. You’re no longer my
son. I’ll light yahrzeit for you.”
“Mom, this is from The D.A.” I handed her the envelope. “All Dad needs
to do is sign the paper and it will all be over. There’s no use me staying here
any longer. I’ll take an earlier flight and write from Africa.”
I picked up my bags and slammed the front door on the way out.
Walking down the steps I knew I had to calm down, put all this behind me
and focus on what lay ahead: 2 years, maybe more, in a tiny Liberian village
6000 miles away. No telephones, thank heavens.
* * *
Late in the year during Liberia’s rainy season, the Peace Corps driver
delivered her letter. My mother wrote that they had sold our house and
moved to Miami Beach. Evidently, he had retired. She didn’t mention what
had happened. I never asked.
A few years later, back in the States completing my residency, I
telephoned several times but he refused to come to the phone. My mother
wrote that he never asked about me. Though retired, my father was unable
to give up being a doctor, often dispensing unsolicited consultations to other
retirees around the swimming pool of their apartment complex. Critical of
their doctors and medications he caused much confusion and bad feeling.
Her physician refused to have him in his office with her. I received several
phone calls from his doctor concerned by his obstreperous behavior. He died
quietly in 1981 at age 88 and was buried in a cemetery a few miles from the
North Side.
Standing at graveside with my mother I did not cry. My loss occurred a
long time before my father’s death. It had been sixteen years since that last
bitter clash. He never met my wife or three kids.
My mind wandered. I had been both blessed and cursed with a good
memory, and I remembered it all too vividly. I shook my head thinking of how
difficult it had been overcoming my fear of being as bad a father as he had
been; the emotional scars of my youth, and with time, much help and love I
had dared to approach it, and so far put much of the past behind me.
After completion of the burial service a white-haired woman said to me
“You’re his son aren’t you? Your father delivered me years ago. On our
kitchen table, my mother told me. That’s when we had no money. He was a
saint. It was unfair what happened to him.”
I nodded a thank you. It was best to say nothing.
I looked at my watch. It was time to get my mother on her flight back to
Florida, and catch mine to Boston. I said goodbye to the few remaining
relatives and slowly walked away.
r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary non-fiction
fall08.winter09
two doctors by les cohen
fall08.winter09
two doctors by les cohen
