[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
another and getting fishhooks in their hands and falling out of trees. And there'd always be the babies.
He rocked gently to and fro and thought of all the babies and how some of them had grown until they were men and
women now and had babies of their own. And he thought of Martha Anderson, Janet's closest friend, and he thought
of old Con Gilbert, as ornery an old shikepoke as ever walked the earth, and tight with money, too. He chuckled a bit
wryly, thinking of all the money Con Gilbert finally owed him, never having paid a bill in his entire life.
But that was the way it went. There were some who paid and others who made no pretense of paying, and that was
why he and Janet lived in this old house and he drove a five-year car and Janet had worn the selfsame dress to church
the blessed winter long.
Although it made no difference, really, once one considered it. For the important pay was not in cash.
There were those who paid and those who didn't pay. And there were those who lived and the other ones who died,
no matter what you did. There was hope for some and the ones who had no hope - and some of these you told and
there were others that you didn't.
But it was different now.
And it all had started right here in this little town of Millville - not much more than a year ago.
Sitting in the dark, with the lilac scent and the white blush of the bridal wreath and the muted sounds of children
clasping to themselves the last minutes of their play, he remembered it.
It was almost 8:30 and he could hear Martha Anderson in the outer office talking to Miss Lane and she, he knew, had
been the last of them.
He took off his white jacket, folding it absent-mindedly, fogged with weariness, and laid it across the examination
table.
Janet would be waiting supper, but she'd never say a word, for she never had. All these many years she had never
said a word of reproach to him, although there had been at times a sense of disapproval at his easy-going ways, at his
keeping on with patients who didn't even thank him, much less pay their bills. And a sense of disapproval, too, at the
hours he kept, at his willingness to go out of nights when he could just as well have let a call go till his regular morning
rounds.
She would be waiting supper and she would know that Martha had been in to see him and she'd ask him how she
was, and what was he to tell her?
He heard Martha going out and the sharp click of Miss Lane's heels across the outer office. He moved slowly to the
basin and turned on the tap, picking up the soap.
He heard the door creak open and did not turn his head. 'Doctor,' said Miss Lane, 'Martha thinks she's fine. She says
you're helping her. Do you think...'
'What would you do,' he asked.
'I don't know,' she said.
Would you operate, knowing it was hopeless? Would you send her to a specialist, knowing that he couldn't help
her, knowing she can't pay him and that she'll worry about not paying? Would you tell her that she has, perhaps, six
months to live and take from her the little happiness and hope she still has left to her?'
'I am sorry, doctor.'
'No need to be. I've faced it many times. No case is the same. Each one calls for a decision of its own. It's been a long,
hard day...'
'Doctor, there's another one out there.'
'Another patient?'
'A man. He just came in. His name is Harry Herman.'
'Herman? I don't know any Hermans.'
'He's a stranger,' said Miss Lane. 'Maybe he just moved into town.'
'If he'd moved in,' said Doc, 'I'd have heard of it. I hear everything.'
'Maybe he's just passing through. Maybe he got sick driving on the road.'
'Well, send him in,' said Doc, reaching for a towel. 'I'll have a look at him.'
The nurse turned to the door.
'And Miss Lane.'
'Yes?'
'You may as well go home. There's no use sticking round. It's been a real bad day.'
And it had been, at that, he thought. A fracture, a burn, a cut, a dropsy, a menopause, a pregnancy, two pelvics, a
scattering of colds, a feeding schedule, two teethings, a suspicious lung, a possible gallstone, a cirrhosis of the liver
and Martha Anderson. And now, last of all, this man named Harry Herman - no name that he knew and when one came
to think of it, a rather funny name.
And he was a funny man. Just a bit too tall and willowy to be quite believable, ears too tight against his skull, lips so
thin they seemed no lips at all. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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another and getting fishhooks in their hands and falling out of trees. And there'd always be the babies.
He rocked gently to and fro and thought of all the babies and how some of them had grown until they were men and
women now and had babies of their own. And he thought of Martha Anderson, Janet's closest friend, and he thought
of old Con Gilbert, as ornery an old shikepoke as ever walked the earth, and tight with money, too. He chuckled a bit
wryly, thinking of all the money Con Gilbert finally owed him, never having paid a bill in his entire life.
But that was the way it went. There were some who paid and others who made no pretense of paying, and that was
why he and Janet lived in this old house and he drove a five-year car and Janet had worn the selfsame dress to church
the blessed winter long.
Although it made no difference, really, once one considered it. For the important pay was not in cash.
There were those who paid and those who didn't pay. And there were those who lived and the other ones who died,
no matter what you did. There was hope for some and the ones who had no hope - and some of these you told and
there were others that you didn't.
But it was different now.
And it all had started right here in this little town of Millville - not much more than a year ago.
Sitting in the dark, with the lilac scent and the white blush of the bridal wreath and the muted sounds of children
clasping to themselves the last minutes of their play, he remembered it.
It was almost 8:30 and he could hear Martha Anderson in the outer office talking to Miss Lane and she, he knew, had
been the last of them.
He took off his white jacket, folding it absent-mindedly, fogged with weariness, and laid it across the examination
table.
Janet would be waiting supper, but she'd never say a word, for she never had. All these many years she had never
said a word of reproach to him, although there had been at times a sense of disapproval at his easy-going ways, at his
keeping on with patients who didn't even thank him, much less pay their bills. And a sense of disapproval, too, at the
hours he kept, at his willingness to go out of nights when he could just as well have let a call go till his regular morning
rounds.
She would be waiting supper and she would know that Martha had been in to see him and she'd ask him how she
was, and what was he to tell her?
He heard Martha going out and the sharp click of Miss Lane's heels across the outer office. He moved slowly to the
basin and turned on the tap, picking up the soap.
He heard the door creak open and did not turn his head. 'Doctor,' said Miss Lane, 'Martha thinks she's fine. She says
you're helping her. Do you think...'
'What would you do,' he asked.
'I don't know,' she said.
Would you operate, knowing it was hopeless? Would you send her to a specialist, knowing that he couldn't help
her, knowing she can't pay him and that she'll worry about not paying? Would you tell her that she has, perhaps, six
months to live and take from her the little happiness and hope she still has left to her?'
'I am sorry, doctor.'
'No need to be. I've faced it many times. No case is the same. Each one calls for a decision of its own. It's been a long,
hard day...'
'Doctor, there's another one out there.'
'Another patient?'
'A man. He just came in. His name is Harry Herman.'
'Herman? I don't know any Hermans.'
'He's a stranger,' said Miss Lane. 'Maybe he just moved into town.'
'If he'd moved in,' said Doc, 'I'd have heard of it. I hear everything.'
'Maybe he's just passing through. Maybe he got sick driving on the road.'
'Well, send him in,' said Doc, reaching for a towel. 'I'll have a look at him.'
The nurse turned to the door.
'And Miss Lane.'
'Yes?'
'You may as well go home. There's no use sticking round. It's been a real bad day.'
And it had been, at that, he thought. A fracture, a burn, a cut, a dropsy, a menopause, a pregnancy, two pelvics, a
scattering of colds, a feeding schedule, two teethings, a suspicious lung, a possible gallstone, a cirrhosis of the liver
and Martha Anderson. And now, last of all, this man named Harry Herman - no name that he knew and when one came
to think of it, a rather funny name.
And he was a funny man. Just a bit too tall and willowy to be quite believable, ears too tight against his skull, lips so
thin they seemed no lips at all. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]