The Doctor Takes a Wife (10 page)

“Yes, I remember. And I don
’
t judge you for an Eager Beaver.”

“No, sir, I don
’
t think I was. Perhaps I was overly cautious a time or two, but I think I can claim as much surgery prevented as performed.”

“That
’
s a good record. And the women did like you?”

“He
y
, Renny.” protested his wife. “I can answer that for you. Dr. Scoles. The women did like you—and trusted you. But you were good, too, at weeding out the babblers from the sufferers. Nice to both, but firm with the babblers
...
”

Phil laughed aloud. “You
’
ve a wonderful wife, McNaire.”

Renny grunted. “She
’
s wonderful,” he agreed. “And her answer will serve my purpose. I noticed tonight that you had a warm and pleasant manner, that you had a gift of genuine interest in people, which is a tremendous asset to a practicing surgeon but is somewhat wasted on a researcher. I
’
d hate to see a good doctor—as you probably are—turn into a machine of scientific research like—oh
—
Did you meet Page
Arning
this evening?”

Before replying, Phil rolled down his window and disposed of his cigarette. “Yes. I met her. She
’
s beautiful.”

“Ye-es. She also has one of the keenest minds in biological research. But anything bigger than a microorganism simply does not exist for that woman. Now, all researchers are not like her. but the danger is there that you might turn into just such a machine.
Arning
is a people-proof girl, working in a germ-proof lab. And the worst of it is, she
’
s content. She
’
s completely lost sight of the purpose of her research in her absorption with slides and cells
...”

“And encephalitizoons,” said Phil morosely.

“You must have talked to her,” laughed McNaire dryly.

“Not with any marked success. I got the big word from listening to her talk. I asked to meet her because I thought she was beautiful
...
”

“Oh, no!” protested Renny.

“But she
is
beautiful!” said Jane.

“I know, but that
’
s no approach to use with her.”

“You
’
re so right!” said Phil emphatically. “But what sort of girl is she, if a man can
’
t admire her beauty? She had no interest in me when she discovered I was what she called a rural doctor, and a novice at research.”

“Poor thing,” said Jane fervently.

Dr. McNaire pulled the car to a stop before the hotel entrance. “Jane,” he explained to Phil,
‘
thinks a batch of college degrees is a very poor substitute for the life which a woman might lead.”

“If she has herself in mind, she
’
s right,” said Phil, getting out and extending his hand, accompanied by a warm smile, to Jane.

“Any woman
’
s life," she said emphatically. “I do not think that brains, as such, will ever be a woman
’
s best gift. Page misses so much I could weep for her! Good night, Dr. Scoles. We
’
ll be seeing you again, I hope.”

“I
think you can count on that. I shall, I know. Good night, and thank you both.”

“I
’
ll look you up,” promised Renny, letting the car slide away.

Phil went up to his room, thinking about Jane
’
s pity for Page
Arning
. “Any woman
’
s life would be better
...”
she
’
d said.

Of course, the life of Jane McNaire, with her many duties and joys as wife and mother, was perfect for Jane. But any woman?

Min Brady? Living alone, working on a newspaper, her brash friendship with all men substituting for the love which she could have had from Whitley—what sort of life was that for a girl of Min
’
s caliber?

And Marynelle? The life she had led—and would have led—a life with every detail closely governed by what was smart, what was fashionable, what was socially correct
—
from the shoes on her feet to the way she addressed her husband—On that last day of her life, Phil had condemned Marynelle
’
s manner of living as being shallow and insignificant—

And now Page
Arning
. Was her life on a single plane of high intellectuality any better than Marynelle
’
s brightly enameled existence?

Had Marynelle lived, had she and Phil married as planned, would she have developed depth? Perhaps.

Just as, perhaps, there were depths to Page
Arning
, warm, soft spots, unrevealed and unsuspected. There had to be. She was a woman, not a paper dol
l.

CHAPTER
7

The next
morning, Phil presented himself to the Manager
’
s office at Boone, and received his schedule of clinic assignments. The research director would allot his lab space and set his project. On his own, Phil studied the lecture and demonstration schedules of the medical school, marking down what seemed to apply to his interest.

He presented himself to the Urology Chief, and hunted up the Library. He set himself a grueling regime of work and study—and hoped he
’
d find a way to use his lab time. He guessed the best way was to hunt up those researchers who, McNaire had told him, were already at work in his line
...

The Urology man made this easy by asking him to prepare some special leukemia slides for a lecture
—

Phil
’
s likable manner, and his willingness to ask questions quickly got him established. By the end of the week he found himself in danger of being overworked in the pre-natal clinic.

But he had come to Boone to work, so long hours would not matter. He could do his lab work in the evening if necessary: the main office daily gave him a list of embolism patients, with the privilege of studying their histories, and sharing in ward walks with the medics.

His lab space was in the Pathology department, a ten
-
story edifice, with three sub-basements, and all sorts of
machines and equipment beyond his interest or knowledge. Since he had no grant, and was doing his research on his own, he had to spend a good chunk of money on supplies
—
so much that he too gave a little thought to the high cost of idealism, and pondered its possible outcome.

He was busy, but was his activity going to produce anything? He
’
d found some likable people in the lab—technicians and pathologists—and he was constantly being asked to explain his idea—and often being told he was a sap. The tall building was a warren of smells—the fetid odor of formaldehyde, and the animal pens, the tobacco smoke from a machine testing its relation to lung cancer—and noises; the clash of glass on glass, the ripping
zing
of electric charges, feet ringing on concrete, autoclaves popping off, the rattle of timing bells—and occasionally men talking excitedly in a group of some development or finding. More often, their talk dealt with the prospects for the baseball season, or a girl asked if anybody else wanted a Coke?

Phil
’
s lab bench sat under a window which looked down upon the four-story, germ-proof laboratory building which McNaire had mentioned as being Page
Arning
’
s habitat. Only restricted personnel had entrance there. It had been constructed, two years before, to solve the most difficult problem in medical research, how to protect the lives of the people who worked with deadly germs.

It was an austere building of yellow brick and white limestone. Wings, which contained the laboratories, extended from a central office section. Stone canopies shaded the windows—dust from blinds would upset delicate experiments; an elaborate array of chimney
-
like ventilators adorned the gambrel roof. It became a matter of ambition for Phil to see the inside of the place—

He could go into the office section, of course, but Fort Knox was more easily accessible than the labs. It was so tight, so closely contained.

And Page
Arning
, McNaire had said, was the same closely contained sort of girl. The Chief Surgeon was a man to be right, most of the time
...

The McNaires had invited Phil to a family dinner, and had asked him how his work was going.

“Fine in the clinics,” said Phil readily. “I
’
m edging into geriatrics through the urology department, but that
’
s o
.
k. And, of course, pre-natal—” He shrugged and grinned.

The others waited. Phil
’
s grin faded. “I
’
m still lost in the lab,” he admitted ruefully. “I keep hoping for a flash of lightning, or something—”

“You made the change from active surgery too abruptly,” suggested Jane, kindly.

“Why not stay in the clinics?” growled her father. “Lightning could strike you there, too. If ever.” His tone was nasty, deliberately so, and the two women looked with swift apology to the fresh-faced young doctor whom they both liked.

“A word of encouragement, Sam
...
”
murmured his wife.

“Doesn
’
t need it. Won
’
t give it.” But Dr. Lowry grinned, too. “I knew another guy like Phil once. One of the most accomplished men with profanity I ever came upon. He had a real talent. Imagination besides. And then what happened? He got religion. Which was all right
...”

“Well, I should think so!” said Mrs. Lowry, twinkling at Phil.

“Yes, but this chap decided that he must go intone ministry. Worst waste of natural abilities I ever heard of.” Dr. Lowry picked up his wine glass. “Until now.”

Phil laughed, good-naturedly, then said in his deep-piled drawl, “I understand, sir, that the smoke machine which stinks up the lab building is a little project of McNaire
’
s.” He looked at the older man pointedly.

Lowry was not perturbed. “
’
Tis. Been invaluable in determining the effect of tobacco smoking on human lungs. I
’
ve followed some lines of research myself, too. But—” He shook a pink forefinger across the table at Phil. “We didn
’
t either of us give up surgery to do it!”

Phil nodded, his brown eyes thoughtful. And Renny came to his assistance by defining Phil
’
s idea of determining whether physical make-up, structural faults, might account for liability to an embolism.

“That can take you into Psychiatry, too,” said Old Doc, his interest firing. “I
’
ve found it among what I call the sluggards. Old-fashioned word. You whipper-snappers won
’
t understand it. But you take folks who fall back on the fact that their age won
’
t let
‘
em walk, or do any sort of exercise—give
‘
em a chance at a clot, they
’
ll produce one!”

The evening had continued on this note of passionate discussion and pleasant interchange of ideas and experiences. Phil hoped he
’
d see more of those people.

Still—life was not as full as it might be.

He
’
d had one date, as such—with a pleasant young woman, a Resident in Eye, Ear and Throat. She told him in detail of her work and seemed well pleased with young Dr. Scoles. Phil thought he might see more of her, but he didn
’
t know—

He kept thinking of Page
Arning
, remembering her pale, shining hair, her shadowed eyes, her beautiful, still face. He should have talked to her about her work, instead of his. He
’
d do that the next time. Only, that was a difficulty. How would he go about seeing her again? He could, maybe, play like a stage-door Johnny, hang around the door of her building
...

He was too busy, fortunately, for that kind of nonsense. And then, one day, he met her in the first floor hall of the pathology lab. He was so surprised that he almost did not speak. For one thing, he
’
d thought to see her in lab whites, had imagined how she would look. And then—here she was in a suit of some pale color, with two enameled pins on the lapel—just like any girl would wear
...

He stammered a greeting, and she nodded, her vague eyes telling that she hadn
’
t any idea who he was.

“I
’
m Scoles,” Phil reminded her. “I met you out at Lowry
’
s?” By now, he
’
d gotten hold of himself, and could manage a smile.

“Oh, yes!” she said, though he still didn
’
t think she remembered. “I don
’
t have a good memory for faces
...”

“Well, it probably doesn
’
t bother you in your work,” Phil reassured her. He thought she flinched.

“No,” she said coolly, “it doesn
’
t.” And Phil found himself with a good view of her departing back. He still thought she was beautiful. Walked well—pretty legs, straight shoulders
...

She knew him the next time they met, and after an encounter or two, he asked her if she
’
d have dinner with him. It wasn
’
t an arranged date. He
’
d run into her out on the sidewalk, and it was five in the evening, so—

To his surprise, she agreed. He asked her where she
’
d like to go, and she suggested Garavelli
’
s. She liked Italian food, and a woman alone didn
’
t feel comfortable at such a place.

Phil had bought himself a car—nothing sensational
—
and he felt hopeful about this date. But nothing much happened. She remained intellectual, and cold. As for conversation, he wangled a discussion on the subject of whether beauty and brains tended to go hand in hand, or vice versa.

She said she supposed he had women in mind?

He pleaded guilty.

“The popular imagination doesn
’
t do much more for brainy men than it does for women,” said this Dr.
Arning
. She had ordered her dinner with an air of knowing what she wanted. She began to eat it in a purposeful fashion. “Public fancy typifies
him
as high-domed, pallid—and not too appealing to the opposite sex.” She lifted her thick lashes to glance gravely at Dr. Scoles.

“Then I wouldn
’
t qualify,” he attempted. She agreed, and then relented.

“All that, of course, is gross libel,” said Page
Arning
, skillfully winding spaghetti around the fork she held against a spoon. “I think it was at Columbia that tests were made; they selected groups, both male and female. One group showed a Stanford-Binet quotient of 135 and upward
.
The second was average; 90 to 110, you know?”

Phil watched her, and said nothing.

“Then they submitted those young people to a panel of judges—men and women—who were to grade them as beautiful, good-looking or physically attractive. The students with the higher intelligence ratings were consistently judged to be better-looking than those of average IQ. I think this test was repeated at Temple, and with the same results.”

Well—there went Dr. Scoles
’
topic of conversation, and with it all opportunity to butter up this lovely, and brainy, young woman.

So Phil asked her how her work was going.

Very well.

He was still floundering for another opening—he hated to ask what books she
’
d been reading lately!—when a noisy group barged into the place, and among them was Min Brady. She didn
’
t see Phil—but the sight of her gave him a chance to ask Dr.
Arning
if she
’
d ever been in Idaho.

“Why would I go there?” she asked with unvarnished curiosity.

He tried to think of a reason. “It
’
s a beautiful country.
”

“I
’
ve been to Cal Tech. And Los Alamos.”

“Where
’
s your home?”

“Here in St. Louis.”

“You grew up here?”

“Oh, no. But I live where I work
...
”

He didn
’
t do any better with a discussion of tastes. And when he didn
’
t talk at all, she accepted the silence calmly. She ate her dinner with far more interest than she expended upon him and his conversation.

He looked at her curiously. She was wearing a dress of dark blue silk which gave her figure a chance; a heavy gold necklace called attention to her white throat, little ear-bobs accented her cheeks, and brought out the blue in her shadowed eyes. It was the sort of costume selected by a girl with pride in her feminine beauty.

But this girl betrayed no attitudes or desires that were at all familiar to him—she might have sprung from one of her own test tubes.

He took her back to her lab, which was where she said she wanted to go, opened the glass door for her and returned to his car, sure that he detested her. She was just about as seductive as a cotton-stuffed test tube—and far less interesting.