The Doctor

Edward Ward was a hard man. His stubbornness had led him to a place that not many black men had arrived: the physician's staff of Memorial. His head was bald, his eyes deep, he had a hard skull. He was built like a Mason, but through long hour of study his flesh had contracted somewhat to a lean and wiry frame. He could see. He could complexity in natures. History can be denial so easily. Fear can be resentment in a heartbeat. He knew he had eyes on him, and why not? He didn't exactly fit in. His skin was dark, the color of ebony. But he trusted the system, despite evidence to the contrary he needed to believe. They ran around him, but not over him. They knew better.

He had paid his dues. Now he was assigned to the Psychiatry unit down by Memorial. He had lived for a while in a house off the motor mile. Then things got complicated. 

She had meant so much to him. They had been through highs and lows. Through so many surprises and setbacks. Helen. He had asked her to marry him. It seemed like that was when it went wrong. He tried to understand. He would have followed her. He liked his job, but it was her he had wanted. The job was what he got. The bottle followed. It helped him put things away. He liked Whiskey or Rum. Wasn't into the Wine or Beer thing. Straight for the good stuff. 

So, he took a little fall, one that did not go unnoticed. It took some jiggering. But he prioritized. After Helen, his job was everything. He walked out. She liked the place, so he let her keep it. Rented a room in a large house over by the park. It was quiet there. He had laid some change down for a 300i, and he liked to go for a long drive with a cigar lit. He would play Jazz on the stereo. 

It was time to make amends. It was time to turn the page. It was time to help someone else.