The Doctor Takes a Wife (21 page)

Phil
’
s eyes were glowing and his cheeks were red. “It is wonderful!” he said heartily. Then he grinned shamefacedly. “I was crazy ever to leave it. Everyone told me so, as I remember. I forgot that people who can pay sometimes need a doctor they can
’
t get. And I thought my dream of doing research, and discovering something really big
—
I put that dream above satisfaction in the work I was doing. But it seems I was wrong
...”

“I don
’
t think so,” Page told him. “Not in having the dream—because I believe it is a dream nearly all doctors have. They all seem to look forward to a time when they can study and—”

“Do research,” he said dryly.

“Yes! Just as every reporter I
’
ve known—or read about
—
plans to write a novel. A few of them actually do write one—but perhaps they are the few who
could.
The others might not be any good at it. But I wouldn
’
t call that failure.”

“What would you call it?”

“When I was about ten,” she said with spirit, “I decided I could fly the way birds did. I took off from the bam roof—and—I failed to fly. My father persuaded me that my only failure was in not being
born
a bird.”

“Moral?”

She laughed. “I
’
ll give it to you. The work you do is good. Worth while. I
’
ll always see you with Marsy
’
s baby cupped in your two hands, and the look on your face
—
In that minute, you held your success as a doctor where you could see it, Phil. Just as Koch knew his success, and Fleming
—
Research is good, and necessary. It
’
s fully as wonderful as your dreams painted it. But it
’
s only a part of the medical picture. And if there could be only one kind of doctor, it would have to be the practicing kind. You know that, because you
’
ve argued pretty hotly to me about the first claim the patient has!”

“Well, it does seem that way to me—”

“Of course it does. Because
your
gift is with people, your understanding is of them, in the round, as a whole
—
not just as a section of brain tissue, or a culture in a test tube.”

“You
’
re right, of course,” he admitted. “I don
’
t mean about my having any great gift—”

“I think you do have it, however, and I
’
m sure you do wrong not to make the most of it. That
’
s why I tell you to go back to your Berilo,—and—” she leaned toward him earnestly—“and take Min with you—and help her as you promised to do.”

“I
’
ve told you that I won
’
t marry her!” His jaw set stubbornly.

“You needn
’
t. You can say she is the widow of a test pilot who was killed.”

He thought about the idea. “I guess it would work—” he agreed. “And I
’
ll do it, on one condition.”

She looked up, her eyes admitting that she knew what was coming. “What condition?”

“That you go home with me. Marry me—and we
’
ll both help Min.”

It took very little persuasion to make her see that she could leave her work, that she could go west—and even less that she could marry him—although, for a few unhappy moments she remembered old fears, and old resolutions.

“Phil, I
told
you—”

“Yes, you did. But I didn
’
t listen, and I don
’
t remember
...
”

“Oh, Phil. Seriously
...
”

“Seriously, Page. I love you. How about it? Do you love me?”

There was no denying it. She
did
love him.

To Min
’
s everlasting honor, it was she who firmly vetoed turning the trip back to Berilo into a honeymoon for Phil and Page. There was no such hurry as all that, she pointed out. She could easily work out her two weeks of notice-giving at the newspaper. With her
min
d at rest, her plans made, that would not be difficult.

Phil resigned from his duties at the Group because of “an emergency at home.”

Page resigned—to be married.

They were married, and in due time they started for Berilo.

CHAPTER
12

I
was,
to speak mildly, very glad to see them come home. Dr. Chappell shook hands with Phil as if he
’
d been away for a week, and never again mentioned his absence. The Old Man had expected
him
to return.

We needed Phil, and had work lined up waiting for him. He laughed some about the way we pounced on him, but I
’
m pretty sure his busyness was a relief. Our old companionship was immediately restored within the hospital, and at odd minutes he told me something of his work at the Group, his experiences. Mostly he told of his mental progress toward understanding his own role in the medical profession.

Others, he summed it up, were good at research, other men had worthy ideas. “But the bald truth is, Whit,
I’m
no good at it.”

“I was using the record of other men
’
s work,” he said at another time, “and I knew there was no good reason why I couldn
’
t do that work, keep my own records, and use
them.
I
’
d examine patients in the clinics, and figure out the surgical treatment of those cases ... I found myself observing surgery instead of sitting in on conferences with the research men
...”

He told about Jennie, and urged our clinic to do more to establish doctors in isolated communities. We should be ready to subsidize such men, offer them occasional relief
periods for recreation and for brush-up courses. Maybe we could get some of the Negro doctors who made good records in medical schools, and yet had difficulty establishing themselves in practice. He didn
’
t think the mountain folk would be prejudiced ... it was an idea worth trying.

Yes, it was good to have him back, not only in person, but in spirit. Phil was a fine doctor.

We all admired Page; several parties were given for the bride and groom; she was certainly beautiful, though a little hard to get to know, a little distant, maybe shy. Some called her superior. I acknowledged that I was a little afraid of her, and wondered how Phil had ever come to marry such a girl.

I think Phil was unaware of this. He counted on his friends being nice to his wife, and didn
’
t notice whether Page was making her own place in our crowd. His main concern just then was the re-establishment of Min. She
’
d gone home, of course—her parents
’
home—and as far as they were concerned, she was welcome and things could have returned to the status of the year previous without any difficulty. Min, however, was restless, and not very well. Phil spread the word around that it would be better not to talk to her about her “tragic romance.”

But, whatever had happened, I was still in love with Min. Me, I
’
m a redbird—or maybe a wild goose—but there would be only this one woman for me, ever
!
So, mostly because I wanted to and a little because I saw eyebrows lifted over Phil
’
s attentions to her, I offered to “help.”

“You
’
ve got your hands full,” I told Phil, “getting back to work, finding a place to live—your bride—”

“O.K., Whit,” he said, preoccupied with the transfusion which he was setting up. “Just don
’
t press the kid.”

“I know Min as well as you do!”

He glanced at me quickly, realizing he had said too much.

“I
’
m not going to make love to her,” I assured him, angrily.

His fingertip stroked the tube above the patient
’
s head. The technician came back into the room then, and he said only, “I
’
m sorry, Whit. Of course you
’
ll know what to do.”

I didn
’
t “do” anything. I just went back to being old
-
dog-Tray-ever-faithful, and Min seemed willing enough to have me around on that basis. During that winter I took her to the movies, out to dinner, and spent a lot of evenings before the fire in the old-fashioned living room of her parents
’
home. Min gradually told me of her year in St. Louis. She even told me something of Phil
’
s year, things she knew, things she
’
d been able to figure out—his social popularity among the young professionals, his hit on the TV screen.

Her nerves seemed to settle down as the winter progressed, but she was not well, and in April her baby was stillborn, two months prematurely. “Poor little thing,” she told me, sad-eyed. “Everybody
’
s glad he didn
’
t live.”

She had been calling herself “Mrs. Wilson.” I would have made that Mrs. Whitley at any time during the winter, or after—but I didn
’
t suggest it to Min. I couldn
’
t, somehow. She seemed so proud, and self-possessed—and I was afraid to risk losing what I had with her, a friendship that well might be more intimate than any love she
’
d ever give me.

I don
’
t know what she told her mother—probably the truth. People in town decided, without being told much of anything, that Min had married impulsively and unwisely while in St. Louis, and had got a divorce without knowing she was pregnant. They made quite a dramatic story about the affair.

Min could manage to laugh with me about the way gossip can abhor the truth. Everyone calmly accepted
her
situation and at the same time could engage in a monstrous flurry over what was very probably
nothing.
She referred to the town
’
s fevered speculation as to why Kenneth Knox had recommended Lois Thornhill as a professional director for our Little Theatre plays.

Knox was the writer-chap who had bought Phil and Marynelle
’
s house; he
’
d become a big asset to our crowd. He kept saying our plays needed a director from out of town who would not pay attention to local feuds and standings; he knew of various people doing that kind of work, and he mentioned several names. Actually, it was the committee that selected Lois, not Knox. Nevertheless, when she arrived, a long-legged, self-assured young woman who delighted in saying shocking things to a staid group, the whole town decided that Kenneth had had his personal reasons for wanting her in Berilo. This was the focus of the town
’
s gossip, and nobody paid much attention to Min.

Six weeks after the baby
’
s birth, Min went back to her fo
rm
er job on the local newspaper, and seemed entirely her old self again. I had to compete for dates with her
—
by June, things seemed back to normal, except that I was living alone in the apartment on Spring, while Phil and Page rattled around in the hideous old house they
’
d bought in the same block.

Under Lois
’
s sometimes bruisingly firm hand, our Little Theatre Group reorganized that summer, and we managed a rather successful outdoor performance of “George Washington Slept Here” in the Fair Grounds arena. Lois proved herself a competent director, and we settled down to accepting her as one of the crowd, our judgment allotting her the normal amount of good points and bad For a time she rather went to the extreme in adopting our western manner of dress and speech, but that, too, soon wore itself down.

I continued as “producer,” which meant I was the general-utility fall guy, and Min decided that Lois took advantage of me, and that she must cease and desist. As a matter of cold fact, Min and Lois fought like two cats on all subjects—but Phil rallied me for liking my position as the subject of bitter rows between two good-lookin
’
dames.

I smirked, and pretended that I did like it. At that, it
was
O.K.! Though I had a fair record of taking care of myself, and in my book Thornhill was as seductive as a corncob. My main pleasure was to see Min back to her old pert self again, and this feud with Lois made her feel “in on things” as no amount of kindness and tact had done. She put on a few pounds and began to wear her bright plaid shirts and jeans. She cut her brown hair into a Dutch bob with bangs straight across her forehead
—
and she drove her Jeepster like all hell around the countryside. As far as I could judge, that year in St. Louis was gone, as if it had never existed for Min.

That summer, too, the “Korean thing” made it seem possible that our Little Theatre project would go up in smoke. We
’
d been using the theatre building out at the Air Base, abandoned at the end of World War II. If the Base should be reactivated, we
’
d be evicted—and that seemed to be that. Except for Lois, who had no intention of giving up.

Min pointed out, even to Lois herself, that she naturally would fight to keep the group going in order to keep her job; Lois admitted this, and said she felt it was part of her contract to do just
that...

In any case, she wangled a favorable arrangement for us to use the old Opera House down on one of the older streets in the Valley. This was a sturdy brick building, with electric lights and a heating plant the only improvements made since its erection in 1904. It was occasionally used for special movies or legitimate shows on tour. It was weather-tight—but that was all one could say in its favor.

However, a new ground-maintenance Chief out at Imperial Air Lines joined Lois in her enthusiasm; he made what he called a work-plan for the building
’
s clean-up and rejuvenation during the summer months, and the Group members fell into line.

And we had fun, too, scrubbing and painting and hammering. Phil was terribly busy at the hospital, but he sometimes gave an evening to the project; a few
times Page came along, though she certainly did not fit in very well with what Min was again calling “the cousins.” I
’
m afraid Page found us rude, and silly, and noisy
...
While we
—
Min developed an excruciatingly funny burlesque of Page Scoles eating a barbecued rib, but gave it up after the second performance.

“Could be she doesn
’
t like barbecue!” she said sourly. “A lot of good people don
’
t.” But it was obvious, to me, at least, that Min was giving a lot of serious thought to the Phil-Page marriage.

“If she
’
s so damn smart, why doesn
’
t she learn to like it?” asked Nancy Pierce from between the seats she was scrubbing with upholstery foam.

“You know?” I ventured, “I
’
ve often wondered why men don
’
t pick their wives to please their mothers and friends. Everyone would be happier in the long run.”

There was a blank silence. “Does that mean something, Whit?” asked Walt Maddox.

“It sure does. If Phil had picked his wife to fit into his home background—”

And then the silence wasn
’
t anything like blank, but it certainly was silent. Because, by the end of July, it had become plain to everybody—except maybe to Phil who was busy with other things—that Min Brady was still head over heels in love with Dr. Scoles.

I knew it, and I was afraid that Page did
.
I suspected that was why she stayed so much at home in the big old house which Phil had bought furnished from the estate of an old settler in town. He put his bride down in that horror of high ceilings and green plush, and then went happily off to his hospital for sixteen hours of
every day...

And Page just sat there, struggling with the sort of “help” available in Berilo, trying to learn to cook and sweep and clean—activities that were as strange to that blonde wizard of science as were the friends whom Phil had provided for her amusement.

I did not like the aspect of what was going on with Min. Naturally not. I had just barely been able to stand it when I had watched her old-time adoration of my best friend. Most women did
adore
Phil, and I told myself that Min was just one of the crowd.

But that summer her interest in him became an active thing. You could tell it by her manner when he was anywhere around. Her eyes would brighten, her voice quicken; she was in love with Phil Scoles and, I thought, out to get him if she could.

There was a good deal of talk about it. Most of our friends said she
’
d make a much better wife for
him
than Page—and perhaps they were right, but the whole idea made me sick. For all kinds of reasons, and not all of them selfish. I even began to wonder if I cared so much for Min. I knew I certainly didn
’
t admire what she was doing. Though there was very little I could
think
of to do about it.

The whole affair came to a head one night when Phil took Min home from a long work session at the Opera House. I
’
d been called to the hospital on a pneumonia case, and couldn
’
t do my usual tagging of her to prevent just that sort of thing
’
s happening. Phil and Min had been working on a paint job in one of the dressing rooms back stage; one by one the rest of the gang left, and Phil promised to close up as soon as they were finished. When he and Min came out, only a work light glimmered on the stage, its radiance throwing weird, angled shadows against the brick outer wall; sand bags hung like dead bodies over their heads, and their steps clanged upon the iron stairs.

Min shivered and Phil asked her what was wrong.

“Spooks, of course,” she told him seriously. “Ghosts of all the things I
’
ve done and wished I hadn
’
t.”

“Spoken like an octogenarian,” he said lightly, opening the outer door, snapping the last switch, and testing the latch before he followed her out to where his car waited. A new car, not the one they
’
d driven from St. Louis.

When he got under the wheel he saw that her pixy face was still sober. “Want to go some place for a drink?” he suggested.