Afterwards he attempted feebly to convince himself that he didn’t make it because Dr. Longwood looked so ill he had wanted the meeting to finish as quickly as possible.

But he was aware his silence had been the first step in his candidacy.

That evening, on his way to the dining room, he met Adam Silverstone emerging from the elevator.

“I see you’ve left the sick-bed,” he said. “Feeling better?”

“I’ll live.”

“Perhaps you should rest a bit longer. Those viruses can be nasty.”

“Listen. I know you sandbagged Spurgeon Robinson this morning.”

Meomartino stared but said nothing.

“He’s absolutely vulnerable to that kind of screwing,” Silverstone said. “From now on, what you do to him you do to me.”

“That’s heroic of you,” Meomartino said quietly.

“I’m equipped to handle that kind of situation, you see.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“My motto is, ‘Don’t get mad, get even,’” Adam said. He nodded and moved on ahead, into the dining room.

Rafe made no move to follow. Instead of hunger he felt the kind of soul-darkness he hadn’t known for years. He needed family cheer, he told himself; perhaps Liz’s reaction to the news that he would try for the teaching job would wipe away some of the ugliness.

He called and asked Harry Lee to cover for him while he went home to eat.

It was an unprecedented request, and the resident did not quite succeed in concealing his surprise as he agreed. I should do it more often, Rafe thought. The little boy isn’t going to know his own father.

The rush hour was long past and the traffic on the Expressway, although not light, moved steadily. He skirted the city in the car and then re-entered it to drive to the lane off Charles Street and park in front of the mews, the car almost but not quite blocking future traffic on the narrow street. His watch showed 7:42 as he climbed the single flight of stairs. Time enough, he thought, to grab a sandwich, kiss the boy, squeeze his wife twice and drive back to the hospital without even being missed.

“Liz?” he called as he let himself in with his key.

“She’s not home.” It was the baby-sitter whose name he never remembered, and a boy sitting next to her on the couch. Both were slightly rumpled and obviously interrupted. Perdonen Vds., niños, he thought.

“Where is she?”

“She said if you called to tell you she was meeting her uncle for dinner.”

“Dr. Longwood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“She didn’t say.” The girl stood. “Ah, Doctor, I’d like you to meet my friend, Paul.”

He nodded, wondering whether it was in his son’s interest for her to have company while she baby-sat. Perhaps the boy planned to leave before Liz and her uncle got home. “Where’s Miguel?”

“In bed. He just fell asleep.”