“You’re one of the best doctors in the hospital. What are you talking about?”
“Doesn’t matter if I’m one of the best. I’m the only woman. I go against the grain.”
He leaned on one elbow and rested his chin in his hand, frowning. “Here’s another thought. Maybe you have your own personal fear of losing the hospital. Maybe you are comfortable with what we do there and how things are run. You know what to expect. Maybe you’re afraid that once the building is gone, you might end up as lost as your patients.”
She stared at him, shocked, because maybe he was right. “We’re not talking about me.”
“No?” He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Change of topic,” she said, draining her glass. “I have a favour to ask.”
“Lay it on me. I’m all yours.” He held up a finger and glanced around, asking for the bill.
“You are looking after that Vietnam vet in the old building. Daniel something,” she said, trying to sound vague. “What’s going on with him?”
“Daniel Neumann. Yeah, Daniel’s angry as hell, and frankly, he has every right. Smart guy, but he had extreme head trauma, and as a result I don’t think he fully understands where he is. We had to lock him up alone and sometimes tie him down so we can medicate. At other times, he’s like a lamb. What about him?”
“I wondered if I could trade cases with you. You can pick who you want. I’d like to work with him.”
He looked surprised. “Why? What are you hoping to find out?”
“I have been interested in battle fatigue for a while, probably because of my father and his ongoing troubles. Mr. Neumann seems to have some similar symptoms. I’ve read so many articles about the topic, but nothing compares to the real thing. These men have built up walls to protect themselves from whatever unspeakable trauma they witnessed, and I want to find a door through those walls. I’ve spoken with Mr. Neumann once, and I’ve observed him a couple of times through the window. I’m intrigued.”
“And what do I get in return, Dr. Hart?”
“Choose someone from the roster. Alice is nice.”
“What if I want something else? Like a second date?”
Marion scowled. “I thought we were talking business. I don’t know about a second date yet. Give a girl a break.”
“All right, all right. Yeah, I’ll switch with you. Let me know what you find out about him. I’m curious, too.” The bill arrived, he put down some cash, then he dropped his napkin onto the table. “Ready to go? Let’s see if we can get into the Riverboat.”
All of Yorkville’s lights were on, and a pleasant blend of music and laughter spilled from the old Victorian houses onto the sidewalk. Dodging occupied tables and chairs set up outside, Marion took in everything with a quiet little thrill. She’d never been here at night, and there was something about it that felt a bit wicked, in a good way. More than the clubs and the music, it was the people. She’d expected to see hippies, but she also saw people in business suits and conservative dresses. Every Jack and Jill had tumbled down the workplace hill and ended up here, and Marion was swept up in their energy.
Based on the crowd outside the Riverboat, they could see right away the two of them wouldn’t get in. Paul apologized as if it was his fault. “I should have known. It’s Thursday, after all. Let’s find someplace else.”
“What’s that place over there like? ‘Penny Farthing.’?”
“It’s all right.” He shot her a glance. “They’ve even got a pool in the back, but the waitresses wear bikini tops, so I don’t think it’d be your thing. I have an idea, though. I’ve been wanting to see this place, Chez Monique. Amateur night,” he read out loud from the sign in front. “Wanna try?”
They managed to claim a table on the right side of the room, which was packed with tables and chairs, all facing a well-lit stage at the front. On it, a young man with a long moustache and sleepy eyes was passionately reciting poetry. They’d arrived just in time to hear the end of his performance.
As the audience applauded, the director stepped in. “Ernie Molnek, folks. That was ‘White Sky, Blue Clouds,’ his own composition. Far out, man. Moving on, tonight we have a first-timer playing for us, a real—”
“I’ll be right back,” Paul said, turning. “We need coffee.”
The crowd applauded to welcome the next act, creating the illusion that they were cheering for Paul as he crossed the room. He would enjoy that, she thought, watching him. He seemed at home here, among these people. He leaned down to speak with a couple, and a beautiful woman wrapped her arms around his neck. Marion felt an unexpected flicker of jealousy when she gave him a kiss, but she wasn’t resentful of the woman’s affections. What she envied was Paul’s familiarity with this world and the people in it. He was laughing when the woman released him, and when he glanced back at Marion, she averted her eyes.
Catcalls and whistles trickled through the room as a girl with long braids walked toward the middle of the stage, carrying a guitar. She settled onto a stool then began to pick out an unforgettable, Eastern-style melody in a minor key. “Paint It Black,” Marion realized with surprise. She hadn’t been able to get that song out of her head after she’d heard it in her hallway last week.
The girl on the stage began to sing, and Marion’s jaw dropped. It was the same smooth voice she’d heard before, coming out of her neighbour’s apartment. She was watching the audience while she played, her eyes a startling green.
Marion was still smiling when Paul returned with their coffees.
“You look stoked,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Did you hear that last performer?” She reached for her cup, oddly elated. “I can’t believe it. In the middle of all these people I don’t know, in a place I’ve never been, I just met my neighbour from across the hall.”
