Margot’s arm, and riffled the files she held with an impatient finger.
“Why has no one else complained, Matron?”
Cardwell sniffed, and looked away. “Like you, they’re afraid of Dr. Whitely’s influence with the board.”
Margot said, an edge creeping into her voice, “So, Matron. You’re saying that I—the newest physician on staff, and a woman to boot—should be the one to take the plunge?”
Cardwell brought her eyes back to Margot’s, and Margot thought she detected a glimmer of sympathy in them. “Well, Doctor. Sister Therese is your patient. From what I’m told, Dr. Whitely very nearly killed her.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. But I will have other patients, and they will also need surgeons. I tried to choose a prudent course.”
She received a brief nod. “I take your point,” Cardwell said. “But I hope I can count on you—if someone else lodges a complaint—to support me if I ask for censure for Dr. Whitely.”
Margot expelled her breath. “Yes, Matron. I will. Although I won’t like having to explain why I didn’t complain myself.”
“No.” Nurse Cardwell ordered her files, and tucked them under her arm. “No, my nurse said precisely the same thing.” She smoothed her already-sleek hair. “I do wonder, Dr. Benedict, if we women shouldn’t try to help one another more.”
Margot couldn’t help a short, rather bitter laugh. “Matron! You were harder on me than any of the other interns. I assumed that was because I’m a woman!”
Nurse Cardwell pursed her lips before she said, “Exactly so. You and the other women physicians carry the future of all of us on your shoulders.” She stepped back, and nodded toward the door to the children’s ward. “Well, Doctor. I believe you have a patient to see. Thank you for speaking with me, and good morning.” She turned, her back straight as a ramrod, and swished efficiently down the corridor, leaving Margot to go into the children’s ward in a fog of bemusement.
Once she finished her rounds, she walked down Madison to Post Street. It was raining, or rather it was misting, the sort of falling damp that left hair and eyelashes coated with moisture, but wasn’t really heavy enough for her to unfurl her umbrella. She unlocked the door to her office, and stood just inside, brushing the fine wet film from the fox collar of her coat. Next time she had a surgical case, she promised herself, she would insist on a different surgeon. But Alice Cardwell had given her something to think about.
The six stories of the Times Square Building soared above Fifth Avenue, a cliff of rose-buff terra-cotta dominating the urban plaza beneath. Preston passed the typographers working at long lines of linotype machines, and climbed the stairs to the newsroom. The carts called turtles rattled down the aisles, and the pneumatic tube system hissed and clicked above his head. People shouted at one another across the room or over the telephone. Preston wound his way through the bustle to his desk, freshly outfitted with a telephone and a typewriter and a fresh new blotter.
Blethen had given him carte blanche, more or less, to write his column the way he wanted to, and he had a year’s trial to build his readership. He had decided to call it “Seattle Razz.” It would be full of gossip, society news, theater reviews, all reported in a jaunty and slightly snide tone. He meant it to be breezy and gay, very modern.
P RESTON B ENEDICT
S EATTLE R AZZ
T HE S EATTLE D AILY T IMES
C APITAL 3795
He liked the way it looked, printed in blue ink on ivory card stock. It would be his entrée to every society event in the city. It would give him access to the best parties, the most exclusive homes, and the prettiest women. Everyone would want to speak with him, to be mentioned in his column, to be singled out. He would be sardonic, like Dorothy Parker in Vanity Fair . He would make fun of some people, and flatter others when it suited him.
“Why has no one else complained, Matron?”
Cardwell sniffed, and looked away. “Like you, they’re afraid of Dr. Whitely’s influence with the board.”
Margot said, an edge creeping into her voice, “So, Matron. You’re saying that I—the newest physician on staff, and a woman to boot—should be the one to take the plunge?”
Cardwell brought her eyes back to Margot’s, and Margot thought she detected a glimmer of sympathy in them. “Well, Doctor. Sister Therese is your patient. From what I’m told, Dr. Whitely very nearly killed her.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. But I will have other patients, and they will also need surgeons. I tried to choose a prudent course.”
She received a brief nod. “I take your point,” Cardwell said. “But I hope I can count on you—if someone else lodges a complaint—to support me if I ask for censure for Dr. Whitely.”
Margot expelled her breath. “Yes, Matron. I will. Although I won’t like having to explain why I didn’t complain myself.”
“No.” Nurse Cardwell ordered her files, and tucked them under her arm. “No, my nurse said precisely the same thing.” She smoothed her already-sleek hair. “I do wonder, Dr. Benedict, if we women shouldn’t try to help one another more.”
Margot couldn’t help a short, rather bitter laugh. “Matron! You were harder on me than any of the other interns. I assumed that was because I’m a woman!”
Nurse Cardwell pursed her lips before she said, “Exactly so. You and the other women physicians carry the future of all of us on your shoulders.” She stepped back, and nodded toward the door to the children’s ward. “Well, Doctor. I believe you have a patient to see. Thank you for speaking with me, and good morning.” She turned, her back straight as a ramrod, and swished efficiently down the corridor, leaving Margot to go into the children’s ward in a fog of bemusement.
Once she finished her rounds, she walked down Madison to Post Street. It was raining, or rather it was misting, the sort of falling damp that left hair and eyelashes coated with moisture, but wasn’t really heavy enough for her to unfurl her umbrella. She unlocked the door to her office, and stood just inside, brushing the fine wet film from the fox collar of her coat. Next time she had a surgical case, she promised herself, she would insist on a different surgeon. But Alice Cardwell had given her something to think about.
The six stories of the Times Square Building soared above Fifth Avenue, a cliff of rose-buff terra-cotta dominating the urban plaza beneath. Preston passed the typographers working at long lines of linotype machines, and climbed the stairs to the newsroom. The carts called turtles rattled down the aisles, and the pneumatic tube system hissed and clicked above his head. People shouted at one another across the room or over the telephone. Preston wound his way through the bustle to his desk, freshly outfitted with a telephone and a typewriter and a fresh new blotter.
Blethen had given him carte blanche, more or less, to write his column the way he wanted to, and he had a year’s trial to build his readership. He had decided to call it “Seattle Razz.” It would be full of gossip, society news, theater reviews, all reported in a jaunty and slightly snide tone. He meant it to be breezy and gay, very modern.
P RESTON B ENEDICT
S EATTLE R AZZ
T HE S EATTLE D AILY T IMES
C APITAL 3795
He liked the way it looked, printed in blue ink on ivory card stock. It would be his entrée to every society event in the city. It would give him access to the best parties, the most exclusive homes, and the prettiest women. Everyone would want to speak with him, to be mentioned in his column, to be singled out. He would be sardonic, like Dorothy Parker in Vanity Fair . He would make fun of some people, and flatter others when it suited him.
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