CHAPTER 1

The last of anything has a certain luster that sharpensthe senses to build lingering memories. Things unnoticedbecome visible, the ugly becomes less vile, beautycatapults, and becomes inspiring, and what seemedmiserable often changes to not so bad. Dr. Eric Ransahofffelt all of these as he coursed his aging Fiat sports caralong the streets of Greenwich Village towards the rampto the Henry Hudson Parkway, for his last trip to the NewYork Medical Center.

At dawn the narrow streets of Greenwich Village weredimly lit and dull and gray, broken only by dots of yellowlight,' from windows of the tall buildings, that marked earlyrisers.

Then, as he escaped the tall buildings and moved upthe ramp onto the Parkway, it was like the entrance toanother world, for the rising sun light came into view andsparkled off the wide, blue waters of the Hudson River,changing the drab gray of the sleeping city into a worldof color and activity. Sea gulls glided lazily close to thewater. A tugboat moved slowly up river, striping the bluewater, trailing a decorative white wake.

Ad such serene beauty greeted him every morning? Hehadn't noticed. This was the seventh June in a row he'dpassed this way, so he'd had plenty of time to see it. Hejust hadn't looked—too engrossed in becoming a goodsurgeon. He thought back over the seven years of hissurgical training. Hardly seemed possible that after todaythey would be over.

Warm summer air, cleaned by the cool of night just goneby, soothed his face, as it rushed through his toplesssportcar. Traffic on the Freeway was light and he coulddrive relaxed. He didn't know exactly why he got such anearly start each morning. Perhaps it was to get out of thedeadly jaws of Manhattan before it awakened. Runningaway—that was it. He had been running from everythingin life that wasn't pertaining to medicine and didn'thappen in a hospital.

That's why he hadn't noticed the beauty of New York. Hehad been too busy running from its ugliness. Funny, hewas leaving New York, but not running away. Quite thecontrary. Where he was going took all the courage hecould muster. The glare from the rising sun broke histrain of thought. There ahead, in darkened silhouette, atowering cluster of buildings—his destination, the NewYork Medical Center. The sun's bright rays seemed to burstfrom the building tops and reach out towards the sky, likebands of glistening platinum, as if decorating them witha giant crown. A regal look. Appropriate. The MedicalCenter was like a ruling power, and he had been hiddenin the sanctity of its security. How would it be, otherwise?Arrival at his exit mercifully cut off his mental search foran answer to that compelling question. He wheeled off theHenry Hudson Parkway towards Mid-town Manhattan, andthe front of the giant Medical Center.

The trip from his one room Village apartment tothe parking place at the Medical Center marked"Reserved-Chief Surgical Resident" helped start his day;for it usually freed his mind from turmoil for a shortinterlude. But this morning was different. His mindwas nothing but turmoil, and even the trip had seemedunfamiliar. He cut off the Fiat's motor and sat in silentthought about his plans to practice medicine in a part ofthe country totally unfamiliar to him. Come to think ofit, that was nothing new. He had known little about NewYork City, for his movements of the past seven yearshad been like those of the figures in the famous Austrianclock,—moving on schedule, along a track. For Ransahoff,life had heen to the hospital and back to the apartment,as precisely on schedule as the clock; for he had been aloner, dedicated to his work, with no one in his personallife to change it.

Until the last six months, such a lonely routine life hadn'tbothered him; but then something happened inside hismind, and his monk-like existence began to etch hisemotions and push him to seek a change. He had donejust that Today marked the end of that kind of life; forit was the last day of his surgical residency. He hadrefused a lucrative offer to practice surgery with a groupof highly successful New York surgeons. Sight of theglowing Medical Center and the sign at his parking placereminded him of that fact, as well. Ransahoff pulled theFiat's convertable top in place, fastened it, then struggledthrough the opened window—the door hadn't worked inmonths. He then h·urried towards the ·newsstand on thebroad sidewalk near the hospital's entrance. The saddenedface of Paddy McGlaughlin, the newsstand vendor, waswaiting. The bent, gray bearded old Irishman seemedlimp, as if the checkered cap atop his head weighed a tonand was pushing him into the concrete sidewalk. Paddywas sad because he was losing a friend. Not only his firstcustomer every morning for the past seven years, thatgave him a few moments of his time in idle conversation,but also a man he loved who had saved his life! A rupturedaneurysm could have meant death if it hadn't beenfor Ransahoff. Since then, they had been closer than justfriends. For a moment they faced each other in silence.Words that flowed through their brains couldn't find theirlips. Tears moistened their faces. The old man grimacedand momentarily looked away, then he grabbed Ransahoffin tight embrace;

"God be with you, Son." For a moment he trembled, thenshoved Ransahoff away: "Now, get outa here, and takethis damned paper, or I'll call a cop."

The stern look he had constructed didn't hold, collapsinginto melancholy: "I'll miss you, Doc. Who's gonna comeby and argue with a worthless old Mick about how uglythat statue that clutters up the front of the hospital is?Who's gonna do that?"

Ransahoff couldn't speak. The mental turmoil he broughtwith him now swirled out of control, checking words longbefore they could get to vocal cords. His thanks to theaging Irishman came with but wet eyes and a grip to theold man's shoulder. He then turned to leave.

"Hey, Doc!"

Ransahoff looked around.

"You're the expert on statues. Read the article about thehuman statue on the front page."

Ransahoff nodded with a warm smile, glanced at thefolded front of the Times, tucked it under his arm,and stalked the massive, ornate arches and glass ofthe cathedral-like entrance to the large hospital. Hehesitated, and mumbled: "The last time I'll walk throughthese doors as a resident. I've lived like a monk in thismonastery, but no more." He suppressed a slight feelingof apprehension and pushed through bronze doors intothe medicinal atmosphere of a marble corridor. He walkedrapidly through a faceless crowd of bustling people to anelevator. Hurrying was another bad habit he had learnedin New York. He was rushing without need, for he wasearly, as usual. Plenty of time to change into his whiteclothes and read the newspaper before rounds with thejunior residents and interns. Ransahoff left the solemn,wordless group in the elevator at the third floor andentered the residents' quarters. The dark, dingy, mustysmelling old recreation room had changed very littlein the three quarters of a century the New York MedicalCenter had been healing the sick and training youngdoctors in the latest methods to aecomplish this. It wasrarely occupied, for doctors in training had little time torelax and play; so only time had worn its appointments.Covering the walls of the room were pictures of stifflystanding figures in short white coats, shirts and ties, andstarched white pants: the young doctors that had learnedthe arts of medicine and surgery at the huge hospital.

Among those pictures were the faces of Ransahoff's fatherand his two brothers: Donald the eldest, and Michael thebrother just older than he. He knew the location of eachvery well, for he often stood before them in thought—as amatter of fact, more often during the past six months.

He paused before each of them momentarily, thenprogressed to a picture hung only yesterday:the newestgroup of residents finishing their training. The fact thathe was the scrawny, short, bushy headed guy with alarge nose and thick glasses on the front row didn't dimthe pride he felt over his accomplishment. He was now adamn good surgeon, and he felt it.

Maybe pride and self confidence, of being a polishedsurgeon, would overcome his self-consciousness over hisphysical attributes, or lack of them. He knew that hang uphad been one reason for the secluded, anti-social life hehad lived and had now pledged to himself to change.

Ransahoff fingered a small gold honor medical society key(.AOA) in his pocket. It had been awarded to his brotherMichael for scholastic achievement in medical school.Michael was brilliant; and his medical school gradesreflected that. Ransahoff had earned one of his own, justlike it; but during the past year he preferred carryingMichael's. It reminded him of what both Donald andMichael had preached to him through the years. They stillpreached it, for he could hear their voices saying: "Learnto love people. That's where happiness lies." Recallingtheir words now seemed to give him courage—to changehis life and do what they said.

After his brothers were killed, he had become totallywithdrawn but he was handling their memories betternow and wantedto hear their voices in his mind; and hewas ready to seek the happiness they had found. Maybehe was ready because he had achieved everything theydid. Anyway, thoughts of them were rescuing him fromloneliness, and he was convinced such thoughts, and thecourage they brought, would lead him to happiness.

Ransahoff surfaced from his trance, took one last glanceat the pictures before him, then proceeded to his roomin the quarters—his home when he was on duty. Hequickly changed from his jeans into starched white coatand pants. The tie he was wearing was atrocious and hisbutton-down, Oxford, blue shirt was frayed and withoutbuttons to button it down, for clothes, amongst mostmaterial things, had meant little to him. He checkedhis watch. He had thirty minutes to read the Timesbefore rounds. He flopped down on the creaky, ancient,flat-springed, iron bed. It probably antedated his fatherand filled most of the cubbyhole-like room. He gatheredthe pillow under his head and unfolded the paper. "AHuman Statue :Found!" The article stirred Ransahoff'semotions. It told of an outlaw named McCurdy, whowas killed in a desolate part of Oklahoma in 1911,after robbing a bank. Instead of being buried, his bodywas displayed in circus side shows for 15 years, thendisappeared to be discovered that week, coated with aceramic covering, standing in a house of horrors in LosAngeles, California—a human statue for countless years.Description of the violent death of the outlaw McCurdykindled unpleasant and buried memories of his brothers,Michael and Donald. Both had died violently, murdered.Such memories always opened up wounds and unleasheda gnawing sickness in his stomach.

There was something else about the article that stirredRansahoff: a human being had been made into a statue'!·Ransahoff dwelled on that thought, for he had more thana casual interest in statues. In fact, he had accumulateda whole library on the subject and had studied sculptureand sculptors during most of his off time. Actually,his interest in that field provided the main source ofhis entertainment and led to his collection of the manyceramic and plaster figures that cluttered his one roomapartment. Ransahoff referred to the figures as "hisfriends" and spent many hours studying them; for in ach ofthem he perceived an emotion: happiness, sadness, rage,strength, pity, helplessness. To him the small statuesrepresented moments of life, captured, that would neverdie. Reading the article made Ransahoff think about theemotions the outlaw McCurdy, as a statue, captured. Hevisualized a face of agonized horror. That was it: terrorand agony. Could any artist create a figure that couldcapture those emotions as well as plaster—followingthe lines of a real face, with real expressions, from realhorror and agony? No sculptor could reproduce that.Oh, how he would have loved to have seen that statue.Amazing that a body could be preserved that long.Ransahoff became uncomfortable with his thoughts, forthey were leading him along old lines that he had pledgedto abandon. Until now·he thought, "Love nothing alive,then death will never hurt you". In many ways that creedstill seemed appealing, and a haven protected from thepain he had felt before. He had to rid his mind of thatcreed if he was going to follow the advice of his brothers,and look for love and happiness. That meant he wouldhave to care for living things, not inanimate objects. Hediscarded the paper, got up, stepped towards the door,hesitated in momentary thought, then returned to thepaper. A search of the drawer in the bedside table yieldedbandage scissors. Carefully he clipped out the articleand tucked it in a compartment of his wallet—not surewhy he wanted to keep it—then hurried out the door tothe elevator, the tenth floor, and rounds on a surgicalward. Ten West was one of six surgical floors the ChiefResident supervised, operating on the most difficult casesadmitted there, and instructing the residents junior tohim in surgical technique, as they operated on the lesscomplicated ones. At center corridor, a glass enclosednurses' station guarded a seventeen bed ward. Downthe corridor in either direction were semi-private rooms.The beds were eternally full, and many of the occupantswore neat incisions from the scalpel of Dr. Eric Ransahoff,under their gauze dressings. At precisely eight o'clock,Ransahoff stepped from the elevator into the heavieratmosphere of inner hospital. The twang of intermingledantiseptics mixed with odors of sick humanity. He glancedat the collection of white clothed residents and internsclustered between the double row of beds in the ward,ready for rounds with the Chief Resident, and proceededto join them.

Mrs. O'Brien, head nurse of the floor, appeared from herglass enclosure and intercepted him. Behind her was anunfamiliar but pretty, olive-skinned face peering fromunder an unfamiliarly shaped, winged nurse's cap. "Dr.Ransahoff, I want to introduce you to Miss Delbello, oneof our new nurses. She'll be working on this floor."

Ransahoff's expression emerged from removed thought,as he paused and focused on the white clad pair beforehim. "Oh," he said. It was a surprised "Oh." His facialexpression explained, then changed to uneasiness as hiseyes repidly covered the dark haired, dark eyed beautyin white. "Glad to meet you, Doctor," Delbello smiledwarmly. The presence of the beautiful woman broughtRansahoff discomfort, and it was obvious. He searched forwords, then instinctively extended his right hand, judgedthat improper, quickly withdrew it and fumbled clumsily,shoving it into his starched pocket: "Uh ... glad to meetyou, too."

Ransahoff's eyes seemed to be glued to the source of hisdiscomfort, and lingered, as he quickly turned to join thewaiting group of young doctors. Far too consumed to havenoticed the approach of the tall Assistant Chief Resident,Dr. Sandy Silverstein, Ransahoff's sudden move broughtcollision. Silverstein staggered back a step and caught theflailing arms of Ransahoff sprawling forward. He set thesmall man back on his feet, cast a look of consternation,and asked, "Are you ready for rounds, Dr. Ransahoff?"Ransahoff smiled sheepishly, looked back at Miss Delbelloand said, "Hope you like it here." He waved departurewith two fingers, and turned to Silverstein: "Sorry aboutthat, Sandy." He then constructed a professional lookand accompanied the towering Assistant Chief Residentto their waiting colleagues clustered around the bed ofthe first patient. Nurse Delbello was apprehensive. "DidI say something wrong?" she asked. O'Brien remainedsilent with a puzzled look for a few moments, stroking herchin. Finally she spoke: "I've known Dr. Eric Ransahoff forseven years, and I've never seen him act quite like that.He's always been timid and withdrawn, but never upset.Too bad he's leaving tomorrow. From the look on his face,I believe you're the one that could bring him out of hisshell looked at you, and for him, that's unusual."