A grueling day had started at 3:30 AM when I’d been called in to see a young athletic guy in the ER who had presented with a painful white foot. It was no diagnostic puzzle; a STAT x-ray, a “dye” study, had confirmed the suspected arterial blockage. There was a clot in the artery behind the knee. A prompt clot removal, restored circulation before any nerve damage occurred. It’d been pretty routine and almost as easy. Still, it had started my day several hours before I wanted.

Three scheduled vascular reconstructive procedures in the OR, rounds in the morning and then again in the afternoon for the ICU patients gobbled up the rest of the day. I was looking forward to an evening off. Maybe a quiet dinner, an hour or two of music and perhaps a good book ... I’d be renewed, I thought. But no luck; it wasn’t to be.

Years ago as an over-worked intern in a too-busy university hospital, I’d learned to hate the sound of my own name on the paging system. It was never good news. Not once did I answer a page and receive a message that said, “Doctor, I just wanted to thank you for the nice job you did. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Never happened. Not even close. More often it was something like, “Dr. Burbank, the GI bleeder has cut loose again and he’s vomiting blood all over the place!”

I was just pulling off my surgical scrubs in the Doctors’ Dressing Room when the omnipresent speaker blared out, “Dr. Burbank, Dr. Bill Burbank, to the OR STAT!”

Shit! Now what the hell was that? None of my patients were in the OR and I’d just left the ICU - everyone was stable.

With a resigned grunt, I pulled up the scrub pants and grabbed a fresh top, still knotting the draw tie as I ran back to the OR Schedule Desk.

“What’s up?” I asked the scheduling nurse, June, as I was pulling on the paper shoe covers.

“Dr. James in Eight ... he’s in trouble. Asked for you. Big trouble I think.”

June wasn’t given to hyperbole; if she said it was big trouble, it must be really big. I trotted down to OR Eight and before I was halfway there, the hum of tense urgency floated on the air. Nurses were running in and out, people shouting. Jesus, it was a goddamned Chinese fire drill! James was indeep shit again!

I didn’t even stick my head in the door. Donning a hat and mask, I did a perfunctory scrub, slipped into the room, arms up and dripping and caught the scrub nurse’s eye. “BB’s here,” she murmured quietly. Very few people called me “BB” to my face, but Judy was so damned good, she could get away with it. She was ready for me and in moments I was gowned and gloved, pushing my way to the bloody operating field. Christ, what carnage was this?

With the unerring instinct of a surgeon who needs and gets help often, James didn’t even look up. “Busted aneurysm” he pronounced in his usual pompous fashion.

“So?” I asked, grabbing a sucker.

“Can’t stop the bleeding!” he replied, petulantly.

“Retractor to me!” I barked at Judy and in a lower voice, added, “Bleeding always stops.”

In my peripheral vision I could see James’ head snap up. “WHAT?” he asked.

Pretending he hadn’t heard me, I repeated, “Bleeding always stops,” as if talking to a dull child.

Failing to appreciate the prophetic doom, he repeated, “Dr. Burbank, this patient is bleeding!”

Shit, I could SEE that! What an ass. I elbowed aside his assistant, Dr. Arbuckle, an old-time general surgeon who fancied himself a self-taught vascular surgeon but couldn’t operate his way out of a paper bag. I once had asked him how he’d feel about flying with a self-taught 747 pilot. Still, he looked good. You know the type: Grey hair, military mustache, good dresser with a school tie and a too-hearty laugh. A fraud. Still, if you wanted someone to stroke your ego, give old Arbuckle the assist and he’d blow smoke in your ear.

At the moment, this patient needed more than smoke. Blood was welling up in the patient’s abdomen faster than it was being pumped in. But where in hell was it coming from? High up, I bet. I pushed a sucker in along side the aneurysmal aorta and looked, trying to see the source.

Judy said, “Yes, up there somewhere!”

Judy was a first class scrub nurse. She’d seen more vascular pathology than James and Arbuckle combined. I’d have bet a nickel that it had been her that suggested calling me. She pushed a large right-angle vascular clamp at me and I understood instantly what she was thinking. Blind clamp above the renals and gain control of the occult bleeding site. Interrupting renal perfusion was normally a real concern, but on balance, renal hypoxia was the least of this patient’s problems at that moment. As W. C. Fields is purported to have uttered on his death bed, “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”

James tried to start an intellectual discussion about the various possibilities. Jesus! A godamned differential diagnosis as the patient was exsanginating. Fuck! This was the kind of self-satisfied asshole who liked to debate how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. I ignored him, reflecting the mesentery as high as I could.

“Here! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” James demanded.

“Sucker to big daddy,” I said to Judy.

She was ahead of me.

“I said...” James started, but I cut him off.

“Retract, dammit. HELP me here.”

Before he could object, Judy reached over and hauled up on the retractor giving me an inch, less, but it was just enough to sneak in above the renal arteries and do a blind cross clamp. The blood stopped welling up in the abdomen immediately. For the moment, we were OK. The whole thing had taken less than a minute. Then it took no more than another couple of minutes to slip in a large occlusion balloon and achieve homeostasis intravascularly.

Hot damn! The panic was over. At least the acute hemorrhage was over. Now we had a chance to find the hole in the dike. I looked at Stan the anesthesiologist. He’d done a lot of cardiac work and if anyone could maintain cerebral perfusion pressure, it’d be him.

“Touch and go,” he said, “but aside from almost no central pressure, his cardiac status is stable. Pray the sumbitch has a strong heart. I’ve been pouring in saline and pressors, but what he needs is more blood.”

“More’s on the way,” Judy said.

“Where’s the cell saver?” I asked. No one answered and that was an answer.

I turned to James and asked, “Can you finish this?”

It was an unfair question. He couldn’t. He knew it and worse, he knew that I knew it. Still, he had to save face. What a jerk! He’d never learn that you can’t save your ass and your face at the same time.

He sniffed, “Well, since you bullied your way in here against my wishes and put that damned Fogarty balloon in there, why don’t YOU finish the job!”

I’d seen him pull this shit before; I wasn’t buying. “Don’t think so, James.” I looked at Stan’s monitors; still stable. “Your case. I just answered the STAT call. But I’ll take the balloon out if you want.”

James’ eyes popped open in alarm. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted - besides looking good - but taking out the occlusion balloon wasn’t one of ‘em, that’s for sure. He swallowed his pride. Just a little.

“Well ... no ... since it’s in ... well, could you help me for a few minutes?”

For James, that was a major surrender, as close to begging as he’d ever get. I wanted to ask him just what he wanted me to help him with, for I was almost certain he didn’t really know what to do. James had a lot of flash, but not a lot of substance. There were those people who, not really believing in substance, chose appearance every time.

At root, he was an adequately trained vascular surgeon but certainly not very experienced and at best he was no more than a barely-competent journeyman. Mostly he was a plodder who wanted to look flashy. But plodding and flashy just don’t go together. I knew the professor who trained him and once, thirty years ago, that professor had been famous. But like many once-famous surgeons, he was so damned rigid and convinced there was only one way - his way - he didn’t grow. Couldn’t grow. James had been the recipient of that hidebound attitude and if anything, he’d reinforced it. Show James a rut and he’d move in and furnish it.

The technical solution to James’ predicament had been worked out a couple of years ago. It was no surgical secret, but it appears he hadn’t heard of it, or perhaps had and didn’t believe it because it hadn’t been taught to him by Dr. God. I suspected he thought that if it hadn’t been taught to him, it simply couldn’t work - a well established, stuffed shirt attitude.

I didn’t really have contempt for James, even if he was a marginally trained. Mostly I quietly disliked him because he was such a pompous ass. Actually what he really was was a mostly-adequate plodder who attempted to substitute time for inspiration. He thought that if you didn’t spend 18 hours a day in the hospital, you were somehow goofing off or worse, cheating. We certainly weren’t enemies, but we weren’t friends either. I tried not to think of the deeper reason I didn’t like him.

I made eye contact with Stan who kept a sound system in his anaesthesia cart. “How ‘bout some goin’ home music, Stan?”

I operated largely with Judy for the next half hour, Arbuckle fluttered about and James tried to look in control, or at least busy, but that’s tough when you’re not really sure what the hell’s going on. And I wasn’t going to take the time to give him a surgical lesson. I wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.

After the proximal iatrogenic damage had been repaired and there were only the distal anastomotic connections of the bypass graft to complete, I turned it over to Dr. James. “It’s all yours, James. Thanks for this interesting referral.” Jeez, was I being a sarcastic bastard today!

He didn’t say thanks. But I didn’t really expect that he would. He wasn’t trying to snub me; it just wasn’t in his personality to be polite. As I was turning to leave the table, he said, “Oh, Burbank, would you tell Buffy I’m tied up with this emergency. She’s waiting for me downstairs. And could you give her a lift home? It’s on your way.”

James didn’t wait for an answer. He was used to people doing what he wanted. I guess even me and I was senior to him. Shit, I thought, she’s not the person I wanted to run into tonight, or any night for that matter.

Buffy was James’ wife. I knew her from the tennis club. She was a gorgeous woman but I had developed strong ambivalent feelings about her. (That means that I secretly wanted to jump her bones but was put off by her aloof manner.) I didn’t really understand what that was about. We’d been doubles partners several times and we’d consistently played well together. She was a natural athlete and a heads-up tennis player who was able to augment my strength and compensate for my weakness - primarily an erratic back hand. We almost always won when we doubled and while she was vocal and friendly on the court, she reverted to an almost stand-offish ice queen off the court.

I was more bothered by her coolness than I wanted to admit. Several times while playing doubles, one or the other of us would say something insightful or humorous and we’d make eye contact. It was that laughing, eye-squinting contact that lent strong testimony to the intensity of the connection. Each time I thought something was there, but it was never acknowledged and each time I extended myself a little bit, I was frozen out.

For awhile, I’d been painfully off-put by her manner and quite confused. I wondered if I had stared too hard at her legs or her ass. She had a great ass. It was true, I loved to watch her when she bent from the waist to pick up a ball. I was aware that she had caught me ogling once and thereafter, used her racket to pick up tennis balls. Still, it was hard for me to imagine she’d taken that much offense. Hell, almost every red-blooded guy over 13 and under 83 had the same thoughts.

Finished showering and dressing in my street clothes, I went downstairs to the now almost empty OR waiting room and sure enough, there she was, looking like a cool million bucks. I admired her shapely crossed legs from a distance as I walked down the hall. Her dark cocktail skirt road high on one thigh and the deep shadows of the darkened waiting area effectively hid the underside of her stockinged leg. I idly wondered if she wore stockings or pantyhose. I doubted I’d ever find out.

She glanced up when she heard my footsteps. I thought she looked disappointed for a moment, but she smiled and said, “Good evening, Bill. Have you seen my husband about?”

Sitting in the seat across from her, I replied, “Yeah, I just left him. He’s up to his ass in alligators and asked me to tell you that he wouldn’t be able to make it tonight.” I saw her face fall a fraction. Yet another social disappointment, another in a long line of disappointments, I suspected.

“He asked me ... actually, he told me ... to take you home. Said it was on my way.”

Again, I felt small for my internal irritation. We both knew I was taking a thinly veiled pot shot at her husband. She wrinkled her nose in mild distaste and stared at me. It was unnerving, but yet whatever I lacked in self confidence around her, I always made up with bravado. I shrugged.

“Would you rather call a cab?”

I thought to myself, ‘you’re so fucking gracious, Burbank.’

For a moment I thought she was going to say yes, but she appeared to make up her mind and her face softened. “No, please ... I mean, thanks. I would appreciate a lift home.” Then she took some of the pleasure out of it by adding, “A cab would take twenty or thirty minutes to get here.”

As we walked out of the hospital, I surreptitiously admired her tall, lithe body. Nights in Northern California in the Bay Area can be cool and she’d carried an attractive shawl which she pulled off as she climbed into my car in the almost-empty Doctors’ Parking Lot. The mercury vapor lights lent an eerie heightened contrast; highlights were brighter and shadows were deeper. It must have been the cool air that made her nipples so evident. I tried not to stare and failed.

I drove an older BMW, a classic coupe, the M-6. It was a sleeper put together by BMW’s Motorworks division designed to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing without any of those silly, boy-racer lines. A few weeks before I’d had a CD unit installed in the trunk, along with a decent speaker system. I selected an Enya album as we took the road west of the hospital, quickly leaving the suburban roads to climb into the up-scale country nestled in the foothills overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

“Howie,” she began - Dr. Howard James hated being called Howie - “often complains that you leave the hospital hours before he does.”

I knew James often stayed far later than I thought was necessary, but I didn’t know he complained about my hours. “That so?” I replied, clearly disinterested in what James thought of my work ethic.

She nodded, almost gravely. “Yes. He says it almost like an accusation, like you weren’t being conscientious or something.”

I grunted, watching the road unfold as we swung around a curve.

“Yet,” she continued, “when I noticed that the Complications Report for last year showed you had a significantly lower complications rate and a lower mortality rate than he did, I asked him about it.”

I grunted again.

“Don’t you want to know what he said?”

“Not particularly,” I replied, glancing over at her, dimly visible in the orange glow of the instrumentation lights. I had a greater interest in her legs.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?”

I was startled. It was common for me to be a bit vulgar at times, but I don’t think I’d ever heard her say anything remotely in poor taste.

“Yeah, I do ... but not about what he thinks. I don’t mean to be rude, but I find your husband...” and I trailed off, not wanting to say how I found her husband.

“That’s clear,” she said in a flat voice.

I couldn’t tell if she were offended and I didn’t know what to say. She continued, “Howie knows it. You make him feel uncomfortable, even less-than.”

“Hmmm ... sorry he feels that way. The stuff we do ... well, it’s not easy to think of the social graces when you’re trying to keep some poor bastard from jumpin’ in the box.”

“Dying, you mean?”

“Well, there is that,” I gave her as I pulled into the graveled turn-around in front of their rambling, ranch-style home. Some outside lights came on automatically as we’d entered.

“Here we are,” I reminded her, just in case she’d forgotten where she lived.

She turned toward me and said, “Can I offer you a drink?”

“No thanks.” I replied, smiling to take the sting out of any rejection she might feel. Besides, she was just being polite. She knew I’d not come into their house with James away. Someone else’s perhaps, but not James’.

“You on call?” she asked.

“Nope. Outta sight, outta mind.”

“Then please ... come on in and have a drink ... or something. I’d like to ask you a question.”

“Can’t you ask it here?” I knew I was being distant and formal; and I suppose part of that was petty retaliation for her ice-queen act in the past.

I heard her sigh. “Yes, I could, but I’m trying to be friends with you. I know I’ve been difficult in the past, and I want to make amends.”

I was surprised. I don’t think I’d ever heard her say anything so vulnerable. I turned and looked at her, illuminated only by the soft interior lights. I started to protest, “No, you don’t...” but she cut me off.

“Yes I do! I’m aware that I’ve been cold and distant and I want to apologize.”

“You don’t have to...” I started again, and again she cut in.

Putting her hand on my arm, she said, “Please. This is difficult enough. Couldn’t we go in the house? I’d feel better on my own turf.”

I couldn’t think of a way out, short of being rude. I was keenly aware that I found Buffy James to be a very attractive woman, sexy even. I felt it and I was afraid she’d sense it in me. I had been single for several years and more chaste than I wanted. My hand jobs took a little the edge off, but for the most part, I was a horny, under-serviced dude. Oh, there were a few women friends I could turn to infrequently for a mercy fuck, but mostly I just ‘sat in the sand and ran it by hand.’ As much as I found her attractive, I didn’t want to embarrass her or myself ... it was easier on my ego to be distant.

“Okay,” I said. So much for steely resolve.

A motion sensor activated and illuminated the front door. Walking in, Buffy stripped off her suit coat and threw it over a chair as we entered the living room. “Scotch alright?” she asked.

“That’ll be fine.” I answered, not caring much one way or the other.

“You take single-malt on the rocks, as I recall.”

“You recall correctly,” I answered, wondering from where she recalled that esoteric fact.

Handing me a heavy crystal glass with a token ice cube and a good measure of an old single malt, she made herself an equally strong drink. I’d never seen her drink anything at the club. Liquid courage?

I watched her move as she assembled the drinks. Her blouse was sheer and I could see the lace of her bra beneath it. Her breasts bounced a little when she walked. When I looked up and made eye contact, she was watching me. ‘Damn, busted again,’ I thought. That’s why I didn’t want to be alone with her.

She seemed nervous. “Your drink OK?” she asked.

“Not much bad you can do to good scotch over an ice cube,” I quipped.

She didn’t smile. I doubt she’d really heard my reply. “As I was saying,” she started again, “I’ve been cool to you without cause and I want to apologize.”

I tried to look interested, but noncommittal. It wasn’t difficult. I didn’t know where she was going with this.

“Actually,” she continued, “there is... was ... a reason.” She trailed off and looked down at her skirt. That gave me a reason to look as well.

“Howie’s threatened by you. He admires you and he dislikes you all at the same time. I thought I had to be on his side, so I was cool toward you.”

I nodded.

“Do you understand?” she persisted.

“I think so. I can understand your allegiance to your husband, but I’m not on his case, you know. He’s a competent surgeon. He’s OK.” I wondered if I was overstating things. I was afraid I might have been.

“And now you’re wondering why I’m even saying this, aren’t you?”

“It had crossed my mind,” I admitted.

“It has nothing to do with Howie,” she offered.

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No. This is my stuff. I might have been influenced by his fear, but he didn’t make me do anything. This is my stuff and I don’t like the way it’s making me feel. You’ve been more than fair with Howie. Like tonight, for instance. You probably helped him, didn’t you?”

“A little,” I granted. Shit, it was a lot, I thought.

“So, his stuff is his stuff. I’m not responsible for him, but I am responsible for myself. I’d like to be friends. Will you accept my apology?”

“None needed, but yes, of course I will.” In the back of my mind there was this niggling disconnect. I understood what James’ stuff was, but she’d never actually said what her stuff was.

I stood to leave. I was still nervous.

“I know you’re being a gentleman,” she said, standing, “but please know that I’m being sincere.”

What I sincerely wanted was to take her to bed but instead, I put my hand on her’s and said, “I know you are. And thanks for bridging the uncomfortable gap between us. Now, I really do have to go.”

She smiled, knowing I was full of shit. I’d already told her I wasn’t on call and she knew I lived alone.

“Girlfriend?” she asked.

“What?”

“You have to go. Is it a woman?”

I stuttered, “Uh ... no.”

“Oh God! I am sorry. It’s none of my business. Please forgive me again?”

I laughed suddenly. “You sound just like my sister. She’s always asking if I’ve a girlfriend.”

“I’ve never seen you with a date.”

“Oh, I date. But no one steady.” I kept moving toward the door. I went to shake her hand and discovered I was still holding the glass of scotch. I hadn’t even taken a sip. I must have been balmy.

“Here, let me take that,” she offered. As she put the glass down, she extended her right hand and shook mine. Her hand shake was full and strong; no limp handed lady here. I noticed that her nipples were prominently evident again. And it wasn’t even cold.

“By the way, we’re having some folks over from the surgery department this Sunday ... for a swim and a barbeque. Can you come?” She smiled and then added, “You’re not on call.”

She was right. How’d she know that? “Uh ... I suppose so. What time? Can I bring anything?”

“Two to three PM and bring an appetite. Will you come, please?”

I realized right then that I might have said ‘yes,’ meaning ‘no,’ but at that moment, I knew I would come. I was intrigued with her.

We stood for a long moment in the entryway, making eye contact. She had electric blue eyes. I thought irrationally that people with eyes like that could look right into me, know what I was thinking. So then, did she know that I wanted to boink her?

“Sunday, then?” she asked, breaking my reverie.

I just nodded and turned away, half afraid to speak, concerned that my hard-on would be reflected in my voice.

Saturday afternoon I was browsing in Nordstom’s, idly thinking I might buy something new for the following day. Who was I trying to impress? Then I smiled to myself. I knew exactly who I was trying to impress.

I was holding up a light blue sweater when a voice said, “Not your color.”

It was Buffy James dressed in some vanishingly short tennis skirt and a tight fitting pullover, a bit more risque than her usual attire at the club.

Affecting a denseness, I asked, “Color? Whadya mean, color?”

“Earth colors. That’s what you should wear. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?” She smiled one of those dazzling jobs I’d only seen rarely.

“Maybe. Probably. But the only thing I can remember for sure my mother telling me was to not look down a girl’s shirt.”

I knew I was pushing the envelope here.

She didn’t flinch. “And did you?”

“What do you think?”

That didn’t pull her in. Instead, she just grinned. And looked at me. Once again I found myself staring into her eyes, my mind running a tape of imagery, mostly scenes of her in various stages of undress.

“A penny... ?” she said.

“Pornographers earn more than that,” I countered.

Wide eyed, she said. “Oh! One of those thoughts, eh?”

“Only since you showed up.” I explained myself.

Jesus! What in hell was I doing here? I was talking like some horny teenager trying to score points with the high school cheerleader. I was probably impressing her alright, but almost certainly not the way I wanted to.

She defused the tension by picking up a burnt-orange shirt and holding it under my chin, said, “Yes, earth colors. This goes well with your skin and your eyes.”

“International orange?” I asked with fake incredulity.

“BURNT orange, silly.”

“OK, OK. I give up. I’ll get it. I’ll even wear it tomorrow. But please don’t tell anyone that I’m wearing burnt orange. Promise?”

She waggled her hand as if to say, we’ll see. Another dazzling smile and she parted, saying, “Come early.”

Not likely, I thought. And get caught with Mr. Cardboard Man?

I arrived fashionably late the next afternoon. There must have been thirty cars scattered about, parked every which way. I drove right up to the front door and sure enough, there was a clean-cut teenaged boy there who jumped up to open my door. “I’ll park your car, Dr. Burbank,” he offered.

“Take care,” I cautioned. He’d probably heard that several dozen times this afternoon and it didn’t deter him from chirping the rear tires as he took off in an impressive roar. I winced. Oh well, that’s what insurance is for.

“This way!” a voice called.

Looking to the side I saw her again. What kinda coincidence is this, anyway? Buffy was holding open a low wooden gate, waving me over. I took in her long legs, almost-nothing two piece bikini and deep tan. It was evident what she did with her afternoons.

My mother had instructed me; I kept my eyes on hers, resisting the temptation to stare at her cleavage as I walked over.

“You’re late. I was afraid you’d chicken out,” she said, pulling me into a small arbored area next to the house and close to the pool. I could hear the buzz of voices and the soft drone of music coming through the bushes.

Nodding my head, I agreed, “I thought about not coming, but then what would I do with this beacon of a shirt?” Rationalization was always close at hand.

“Get out of it as soon as you can?” she suggested. Then, “Did you bring a suit?” she asked, looking at my shoulder bag.

“Yeah, but right now, I’d like to just kick back and look at the...”

“Girls?”

“That too,” I conceded.

Burbank, your nose is growing, I silently accused myself. What else did you wanna look at?

“Howie asked if you’d come yet. A couple of times, actually.”

I must have made a face, for she added, “But he can find you himself.” Taking my arm, she said warmly, “Thanks for coming to our party.”

Before I could reply, another couple squeezed past us on the narrow path. They were so taken with each other, they didn’t even look at us. Still, I was jostled into Buffy, my groin nudging her buttocks. Her ass was soft and I could feel the deep indentation between her cheeks. I’d wanted to feel that for months!

She looked back at me and said, “It’s a good thing we’re friends now.”

Looking about the pool area, I recognized about half the people there, and half of those by name. Buffy introduced me to her neighbors, then a woman from her university, and later someone with whom she did volunteer work. Shortly, they all blended together; I didn’t remember a single name.

“Beer?” a waiter asked. “Or would you rather have some Chardonnay?”

“Do you have any mineral water?” I asked. I wanted to keep my wits about me. Hell, I was in the Department of Surgery; why’d I feel like an interloper? Because you are, that voice in my head answered. You’re lusting after James’ wife, you lech.