there would be no more tragedies like Isobel Castellano anywhere. God bless Dr. Salk.
If only he had found it
sooner.
SEVEN
I t was the Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend. Warren was devouring a jelly doughnut and the Sports section of the
Times.
His father was leafing aimlessly through the Book Review. He seemed paler and more jittery than usual and was already on his third cigarette of the day.
“More coffee, darling?” Estelle asked solicitously.
“No, thanks. I feel a bit stuffy. I think I’ll go to the garden and get a bit of fresh air.”
“Fine. I’ll come with you,” she replied.
Harold grasped his cane and struggled to his feet—he was always stubborn about refusing help.
Warren had progressed to the “News of the Week” when he heard his mother’s voice crying in panic from the garden, “Help, help—somebody help!”
In an instant he was at the back door and saw his father lying prostrate on the ground. Warren dashed over.
“What happened, Ma?”
“We were standing here talking,” Estelle sobbed, “and all of a sudden he just fell. I think he’s unconscious—I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Warren knelt and looked at his father, whose eyes were closed and whose face was ashen. He grabbed Harold by theshoulder and shouted—as if to wake him—“Dad, Dad.” There was no response. He held his hand under his father’s nostrils but was unable to tell whether he was breathing.
He thought so.
He could not be sure. But then he put his ear to Harold’s chest.
“It’s okay, Ma—it’s okay. I can hear his heart. But it’s beating pretty fast. I’d better get Dr. Castellano.”
She nodded, mute with fear. As Warren sprinted off, Estelle knelt and cradled her husband’s head in her lap.
Luis’s car was not in front of the house. Warren raced up the steps and rang the bell and pounded on the front door. It was opened by Inez.
“Dad’s sick—he’s fainted or something. Where’s Dr. Castellano?”
“Oh,
María Santísima
, he just left to see some patients. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Listen, there’s a Dr. Freeman very close by on Park Place,” she said, pointing to her left.
“Great, great. What number?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know—but it is the only apartment house on the block. His name is outside on a brass
letrero
near the front door. You get the doctor. I will go to Estelle and see if I can help.”
Less than two minutes later, Warren stood breathless outside 135 Park Place, pressing the button next to OSCAR FREEMAN, M.D. In a few moments, a man’s voice came over the intercom. “This is Dr. Freeman. Can I help you?”
“My father’s fainted, Doctor. I mean, he’s just lying on the ground. Can you please come quickly?”
“Is he unconscious?”
“Yes, yes,” Warren replied, now almost shouting with anxiety. “Can you hurry—
please
?”
There was a brief silence.
Then the physician’s disembodied voice said unemotionally, “I’m sorry, son, I think you’d better call an ambulance. I can’t get involved in this sort of thing—professional reasons.”
There was a click. Warren stood motionless for an instant, lost and confused. He had never imagined that the doctor wouldn’t come. Oh, God, he thought, what should I do now?
He ran back home, propelled by fear.
The scene in the garden was practically as he had left it, except that Inez had brought a blanket to cover Harold, who was shivering.
“Where’s the doctor?” Estelle demanded.
“He wouldn’t come,” Warren retorted angrily. “Has anybody phoned the hospital?”
“Yes,” Inez replied, “they said they would come as soon as possible.”
The ambulance arrived twenty-seven minutes later.
It brought Harold Livingston to King’s County Hospital, where he was pronounced dead.
Barney was working at The Versailles when Warren called. He raced into the street, flagged a taxi, and leaped in.
“This is a new one on me,” the driver jested, “a doorman
If only he had found it
sooner.
SEVEN
I t was the Sunday morning of Labor Day weekend. Warren was devouring a jelly doughnut and the Sports section of the
Times.
His father was leafing aimlessly through the Book Review. He seemed paler and more jittery than usual and was already on his third cigarette of the day.
“More coffee, darling?” Estelle asked solicitously.
“No, thanks. I feel a bit stuffy. I think I’ll go to the garden and get a bit of fresh air.”
“Fine. I’ll come with you,” she replied.
Harold grasped his cane and struggled to his feet—he was always stubborn about refusing help.
Warren had progressed to the “News of the Week” when he heard his mother’s voice crying in panic from the garden, “Help, help—somebody help!”
In an instant he was at the back door and saw his father lying prostrate on the ground. Warren dashed over.
“What happened, Ma?”
“We were standing here talking,” Estelle sobbed, “and all of a sudden he just fell. I think he’s unconscious—I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Warren knelt and looked at his father, whose eyes were closed and whose face was ashen. He grabbed Harold by theshoulder and shouted—as if to wake him—“Dad, Dad.” There was no response. He held his hand under his father’s nostrils but was unable to tell whether he was breathing.
He thought so.
He could not be sure. But then he put his ear to Harold’s chest.
“It’s okay, Ma—it’s okay. I can hear his heart. But it’s beating pretty fast. I’d better get Dr. Castellano.”
She nodded, mute with fear. As Warren sprinted off, Estelle knelt and cradled her husband’s head in her lap.
Luis’s car was not in front of the house. Warren raced up the steps and rang the bell and pounded on the front door. It was opened by Inez.
“Dad’s sick—he’s fainted or something. Where’s Dr. Castellano?”
“Oh,
María Santísima
, he just left to see some patients. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Listen, there’s a Dr. Freeman very close by on Park Place,” she said, pointing to her left.
“Great, great. What number?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know—but it is the only apartment house on the block. His name is outside on a brass
letrero
near the front door. You get the doctor. I will go to Estelle and see if I can help.”
Less than two minutes later, Warren stood breathless outside 135 Park Place, pressing the button next to OSCAR FREEMAN, M.D. In a few moments, a man’s voice came over the intercom. “This is Dr. Freeman. Can I help you?”
“My father’s fainted, Doctor. I mean, he’s just lying on the ground. Can you please come quickly?”
“Is he unconscious?”
“Yes, yes,” Warren replied, now almost shouting with anxiety. “Can you hurry—
please
?”
There was a brief silence.
Then the physician’s disembodied voice said unemotionally, “I’m sorry, son, I think you’d better call an ambulance. I can’t get involved in this sort of thing—professional reasons.”
There was a click. Warren stood motionless for an instant, lost and confused. He had never imagined that the doctor wouldn’t come. Oh, God, he thought, what should I do now?
He ran back home, propelled by fear.
The scene in the garden was practically as he had left it, except that Inez had brought a blanket to cover Harold, who was shivering.
“Where’s the doctor?” Estelle demanded.
“He wouldn’t come,” Warren retorted angrily. “Has anybody phoned the hospital?”
“Yes,” Inez replied, “they said they would come as soon as possible.”
The ambulance arrived twenty-seven minutes later.
It brought Harold Livingston to King’s County Hospital, where he was pronounced dead.
Barney was working at The Versailles when Warren called. He raced into the street, flagged a taxi, and leaped in.
“This is a new one on me,” the driver jested, “a doorman
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