CHAPTER 6
Central Virginia Medical Center, although not part of Jefferson Regional Hospital, sat two blocks away from that highly respected institution. Many of the doctors at JRH, as they referred to it, rented space in the two-year-old complex.
A lovely black band of bricks in a diamond pattern halfway up the four-story structure broke up the red brickwork. The large double-paned windows allowed much natural light into the rooms.
What was distinctive about the offices was their layout. The developer, Melvin Sweigart, knew physicians liked to group together by specialty, if possible. He figured it was the same principle as car dealers setting up shop next to one another.
Melvin had created internal squares, small quads. The offices surrounded the quads, and hallways connected the various quads.
Garvey Stokes had made special stainless steel sinks and tables for the center, as some procedures could be performed in the office. This saved a patient money.
The cardiac quads were on the first floor. The cancer quads were on the second. The third floor was dedicated to sports medicine. The top floor, flooded with light from gorgeous pyramidal skylights, housed the plastic surgeons.
A further advantage of this arrangement was it allowed the doctors in the various specialties to pool their resources if they wished.
Walter Lungrun and his associates bought the highest-tech heart monitors available, just as Jason Woods and his associates purchased an x-ray machine for forty-two thousand dollars.
The sports medicine group on the third floor went so far as to buy a magnetic resonance imaging machine for eight hundred thousand dollars. The other physicians rented time on it.
While the hospital provided this equipment, too, the doctors at Central Virginia realized nine out of ten people never want to set foot in a hospital. The antiseptic odor alone upset people, and the impersonality of it added to the psychological discomfort.
The more procedures that could be performed in this pleasant environment, the better from the patient’s point of view.
Business exploded. Walter had just hired another nurse, and Jason had to hire another head nurse and another secretary. Even with those expenses and the exorbitant insurance the doctors were forced to carry, they made money.
So successful was the design for Central Virginia Regional Center that Melvin Sweigart was buying up old houses downtown to build another. Crawford Howard was a partner in this enterprise. He was considering buying out the company that disposed of waste—biological hazards, as they were now coined—since he thought he could do this more profitably than Sanifirm.
While the snow continued to fall, the survivors’ party hit high gear at seven in Jason’s quad.
Birdie Goodall, a pert thirty-two, office manager for this quad, ladled out the nonalcoholic punch.
Iffy held out her glass cup. “Did you put ginger ale in for sparkle?”
“I did.”
Alfred DuCharme tiptoed behind Iffy, reached around, and, holding a paper bag with a bottle inside, poured in a touch of something stronger. “Here’s your sparkle, girl.”
Birdie winked at Alfred. “Works for me.”
He reached over and poured some into her own cup. “Say goodbye to your troubles.” Then he held up his glass to the twenty partyers, all of whom had their hair again, “Here’s to a New Year!”
“Happy New Year,” they agreed.
Another raised his glass cup again. “And here’s to Mr. Jason, without whom we wouldn’t be here.”
A clamorous cry filled the quad.
Jason demurred, then lifted his own glass. “You have fought the good fight. It was a team effort.”
The patients all knew one another, if not before treatment, because of treatment. They were all in it together. Jason made a point of speaking to each person, wishing each one health and happiness.
Birdie called out at one point, “Hey, don’t forget your insurance forms if you haven’t turned them in! I promise no more business.”
This brief interruption was followed by more partying. Iffy, using a cane, wearied of standing and sat behind the table of treats, so she enjoyed many conversations. Her demeanor, so different from that at work, was relaxed and warm. Among the other soldiers, as they thought of themselves, she flourished.
Birdie glanced out the window at eight-thirty. “Still coming down.”
Alfred also noticed the heavier snows as he walked over to Iffy. “Would you like me to drive you home? I’m going to leave.”
“No, thanks. I don’t have as far to go as you do, and the plows have been pretty good.”
“That they have. Now if only they’d plow the roads on the farm.” He smiled. “Well, Old Bessie will get me through.” He named his rusty four-wheel-drive truck.
“By the way, Al, whatever you put in my punch makes me feel warm all over.”
He patted the flat bottle, still in brown paper, in his inside jacket pocket. “And here I thought it was me.”
“You, too.” She smiled.
He leaned down conspiratorially, kissing her on the cheek. “To health and wealth.”
The small gathering broke up at nine. Birdie handed Jason three insurance forms.
“Paperwork.” He sighed.
“Well, if you’d asked Alfred for his bottle you’d fly through it.” She smiled.
“I would. Of course, whatever I wrote would be illegible.”
“I’ll see you next year.”
“Next year, Birdie. And may it be a good one.”
Fifteen minutes later, Walter knocked on Jason’s open door.
“You missed the party,” said Jason.
Walter smiled. “Special group. They didn’t need an intruder. Hey, do you have a Tom Thumb Pelham I can borrow?” Walter mentioned a type of bit.
“Rocketman?” Jason smiled, for Walter’s young horse could be strong.
Clemson, the older hunter who had given Walter confidence when he started foxhunting, went in a simple snaffle. The Clemsons of this world were worth their weight in gold.
“Thought I’d try it before buying one.”
“I’ll bring it by.”
Walter stared down at the papers on Jason’s desk. “Me, too. I’m determined to get the damn paperwork done so I can really enjoy New Year’s. I love the bowl games.”
“Even with Birdie, I can’t keep up with this shit.” Jason disgustedly pushed the papers away.
“Insurance.”
“Biggest scam in America.” Jason’s dark eyebrows knitted together.
Walter folded his arms across his massive chest. “Remember when we thought forty thousand a year in insurance was a ripoff?”
Jason rose from his chair. “What I don’t understand is why we put up with it.”
“Two reasons.” Walter obviously had thought about this. “Doctors are scientists, right? We aren’t by nature businessmen. We don’t have a lot of free time. Our work can be emotionally exhausting.”
“Right. That’s more than two reasons.” Jason smiled at him, one eyebrow now quizzically raised.
“One. Let me go back to the fact that we are scientists. That means we aren’t accustomed to banding together for political purposes.”
“We have the AMA,” said Jason, referring to the American Medical Association.
“And what have they done about these crushing insurance burdens?” Walter uncrossed his arms. “In my darker moments I think the AMA is in collusion with the insurance companies.”
“No.” Jason shook his head. “The AMA isn’t corrupt. Ineffective sometimes.”
“I don’t know.” Walter walked to the window, which looked out over the back of the building.
“One thing, we lose hospital privileges if we don’t carry the insurance.”
“Yep.”
“Look on the bright side, Walter. We could be OB/GYNs.”
Walter sighed but nodded in agreement, for gynecologists and obstetricians were bent double by their insurance load.
“Donny Sweigart, in the snow, picking up the trash.” Walter looked sideways at Jason, who now stood next to him. “Ever notice that Sweigarts are either really smart or…really not?”
“We know where Donny falls. Funny how after his father died in that warehouse fire he demanded that no one call him Junior.”
“Was.” Walter watched as the younger man, of medium build and wearing heavy coveralls, lifted tightly tied plastic bags into the large truck.
“He’s a good truck driver.”
“Think Crawford will buy Sanifirm?”
“I don’t know, but if he does I bet Donny still has a job.”
“Not if he keeps poaching, he won’t.”
“Deer?” Jason wasn’t a deer hunter.
“Donny will sneak on your property and pretty much shoot whatever he can, although deer are his preferred target. He’ll do it out of season, too.”
“He doesn’t shoot foxes, does he?” Jason sounded scandalized.
“Sister put a stop to that.”
“I’ll bet she did.” The corner of Jason’s lips curled upward in a half smile.
“She’s too much of a fox herself to crack on him. She pays him off.”
“No kidding?”
“Out of her own pocket. No hunt club funds are touched. She asks him to tell her where the dens are, so he’s a consultant.”
“But she knows where they are.”
“Like I said, Jason. She’s part fox.” What Walter wanted to add, but didn’t, was “Never underestimate the old girl. Never.”