Sisterhood by Michael Palmer

please. Put it, ah … over there behind Dr. Brewster.” He nodded toward the resident who was assisting from across the table.
    David stepped onto the riser and looked down into the incision.
    “Started as a simple oversew of a bleeding ulcer,” Huttner explained, unaware—or, at least, not acknowledging—that he was late for their rounds. “We encountered a little trouble when we got in, though, and I decided to go ahead with a hemigastrectomy and Bilroth anastomosis.” David took note of Huttner’s choice of pronouns and filed the insight away in the back of his mind.
    Within a few seconds the rhythm in the room, disrupted by David’s arrival, was reestablished. It became rapidly apparent to him that Huttner’s concentration, deftness, and control were extraordinary. No wasted words or motion. No outward evidence of indecisiveness. Although others in the room were playing their parts, he was clearly both conductor and principal soloist.
    Suddenly a pair of scissors slipped off the side of Huttner’s hand as the scrub nurse passed them to him. They hit the floor with a clatter that might have been a small explosion. The surgeon’s gray-blue eyes flashed. “Goddammit, Jeannie,” he snapped, “will you pay attention!”
    The nurse stiffened, then muttered an apology andcarefully handed over another pair. David’s eyes narrowed a fraction. From his vantage point the pass had seemed quite adequate. He glanced at the wall clock. Seven thirty. Huttner, he realized, had probably been operating for the better part of twelve straight hours.
    A minute later, Huttner surveyed his results then rotated his head to relieve the tightness in his neck. “Okay, Rick, she’s all yours. Go ahead and close,” he said to the resident. “Standard post-op orders. I don’t think she’ll need the unit, but use your judgment when she’s ready to come out of the recovery room. If there are any problems, contact Dr. Shelton. He’ll be covering for me while I’m down at the vascular conference on the Cape. Any questions?”
    David thought he saw a flicker of heightened respect and interest appear in the eyes of the scrub nurse. Real or imagined, the look immediately rekindled his excitement about what the next three days held in store for him.
    Huttner stepped back from the table, stripping off his bloodstained gown and gloves in a single motion, and headed for the lounge with David close behind. Rather than collapsing in the nearest easy chair, as David expected, Huttner walked casually to his locker, withdrawing his pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled, packed, and lit the elegant meerschaum before settling into a thick leather couch. With a wave of his pipe, he motioned David to join him on the sofa.
    “Turnbull should have referred that woman for surgery two days ago,” he said, commenting on the internist who had failed to stop the bleeding ulcer. “I’ll bet I wouldn’t have had to take her stomach if he had.” Huttner closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with carefully manicured, porcelain fingers.
    In his early sixties, a tall, angular man an inch or two over six feet with dark hair appropriately gray at thetemples, Huttner appeared every bit the patrician depicted by his press clippings.
    “I’ve been hearing some nice things about your work from the nurses in the O.R., David,” Huttner said in his well-cultivated New England accent.
    Nice things. David spent several seconds evaluating the compliment. It was a reflex reaction, born of nearly eight years of condescending interviewers and pseudo-solicitous colleagues. David disliked the trait, but had come to expect it. Huttner’s flattery was genuine, he was sure.
    “Thanks,” he said. “As you saw tonight, some of them don’t even know me yet. I mean, one major case every week or two is hardly the best basis for judging.” His words were not bitter—merely a statement of fact. David knew that Huttner might perform fifteen or more major