The Doctor Takes a Wife (29 page)

“Oh, brother!” groaned Phil.

“But, Red
...”
Min said hastily.

“Not that, Min,” he assured her. “I
’
m just eating my own words to the point of acute indigestion.”

“Huh?”

“I think Page understands. You see, I used to do a fancy lecture to her on her aloofness from humanity. I used to point out that any doctor must remember the individual, stay close to people, that knowing them was more important than sterile research
—
I told
her
that!”

“It was a thing I had to learn, Philip,” said Page demurely.

He went to her, bent over her and kissed her. “You
’
ve got your degree now,” he said sweetly. “And am I ever g
l
ad! I wasn
’
t sure how I was going to handle Lois and her talk—”

“Did you know about it?” asked Min.

“Oh, yes. We doctors find out those things pretty fast
.
Our patients show an immediate reaction.”

“Yes, I suppose. And it must be difficult
...”

“That
’
s right. So I
’
m both proud of Page, and grateful. Proud that she recognized a witch hunt when she saw one, and grateful that she
’
s such a good man behind the bat!”

“Whee
!
” laughed Min. “Stewed metaphors for supper!” Phil grinned and sat down again.

“What makes women do the things they do?” asked Min anxiously.

“Love,” said Phil.

“Lois?” Page
’
s brow knitted. “Yes
—
I suppose the primitive law of self-preservation and race propagation.”

“No!” Min broke in. “I meant you, Page!”

“And I meant Page, too,” said her husband. “Of course, love was her motive.”

“Maternal love?”

“Only as a phase of man-love.”

“Is that good?”

Page looked up smiling. “He
’
ll say,
‘
Isn
’
t it?
’
”

Phil shouted. “What a girl!”

But Page, always the scientist, still the scientist, was ticking off the kinds of love. Her own for Carl—and the way she felt about Phil. From the first. Attracted, but wary. Curious, admiring, fearful and submissive. Then actively impassioned, and defensive. But, yes, it was all sex, she thought.

Phil gaped at her.

“Shut up.” advised Min. “There
’
s more.”

Page seemed not to notice the interruption. “And then there
’
s what I know of Min
’
s love-life.”

Phil
’
s grin was happy, and Min choked. “You know enough about me
a
n
d
the fruit flies,” she agreed dryly. “But do remember that I blush easy.”

Page smiled. “I don
’
t believe the way you felt toward that pilot in St. Louis was anything but frustration conce
rn
ing the man you really loved. He was an instrument which eventually returned you to that interest
...
”

Min watched her in fascination. Phil got up again and paced the ground. “A lot of women set their sights on an inaccessible man,” he growled. “It is less bother, really. They can then enjoy companionship with other men, and avoid conclusions.”

“That
’
s silly,” said Page definitely. “Min was in the process of acknowledging her love for Whit. Maybe she went through the same phases that I did. I didn
’
t know you were in the picture when I tried Carl as a substitute; she did know about Whit, but it took her crush on you, and the pilot, to develop her love for the man she eventually married. I guess both our histories show that development, and I suspect it
’
s the same with all women.”

“I don
’
t agree,” said Min. “Love, I believe, is merely a physical impulse. We feel it. We either express or deny it. Then we feel it again.”

P
age made a small sound of dismay.

“The good thing about it, Page,” said Min, “is that the impulse can be made to last. If that impulse is blessed with things like copper pans, and slip covers, it can last; it sends out roots which grow down and down. But it
’
s still an impulse.”

“Yes,” Page agreed ruefully. “I
’
ve always thought that. In fact, I thought men wanted nothing else from women. Didn
’
t I, Phil?”

“Mmmm
...
well—”

“Yes!” she said spunkily. “And it was pretty baffling for me to find out, after you
’
d stirred that impulse in me to the point of expression, that it wasn
’
t enough. I didn
’
t know which way to turn—until Min showed me. I was too dumb to learn such a thing for myself.”

Now Phil looked baffled.

“About the copper pans!” cried Page in exasperation.

“Oh,” said poor Phil.

“It may not be glamorous,” Min agreed, “to think that your love is anchored to such things
...”

“Who wants glamor?”

“Everybody
wants
it! But in spite of Hollywood
...”

“Ha!” said Phil. He seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

“Maybe they didn
’
t invent a woman
’
s ideal of love and romance, but they have put it into black and white for our generation—or technicolor, as the case may be. I guess they didn
’
t invent women
’
s disappointment in their romances, either.”

Phil watched her warily.

“You see, Red,” she explained earnestly, “We silly women all think there is a special love in store for us. That idea is what I mean by the Hollywood variety—it
’
s all tinseled up in moonlight, or maybe firelight, with appropriate background music. It
’
s expressed for our generation by the way Clark Gable bites a girl
’
s shoulder or Robert Mitchum leers down at her.”

Phil looked from Min
’
s dark, pixy face to Page
’
s rosy one. Both girls were as solemn as owls. He laughed, and bent over to strike at match. “My dear woman,” he said to Min, “don
’
t you realize that your love affair with Whitley, and mine with Page”—he gave his wife a warm smile
—
“is exactly what Hollywood
thinks
it is portraying?”

Page lifted thoughtful, considering eyes. She was one always to examine a statement for the truth within it. Min bristled, then looked askance at Phil. “Not really?” she asked dubiously.

“Why, sure!
We
are the realization of what
they
try to picture.”

“In an every-day sort of way, you mean?”

“I mean in all ways. Take Page and me. Page burns the chops, I get mad, we make up. And then there
’
s the way we
love
eating the bacon and eggs we cook together as a substitute. If that isn
’
t a Hollywood plot, I
’
ll eat my hat
.
Of course, they have to make a production of it—but it
’
s the same thing. That
’
s why people keep going to the movies.”

“It is, huh?”

“Sure. It
’
s what makes the movies valuable, too. The eternal truth they portray. I
’
m all for their going on with the job; the results are worth while.”

“I know Cecil DeMille will sleep tonight!” said Min, kicking her heels in the dirt.

“Shut up! I
’
ve some more to say. You and your glamor and Hollywood love
—
It
’
s like my work. The glamor and the dreams are fine. They
’
re necessary. But only the results of those dreams count. Your dream of Clark Gable biting your shoulder led you to marry Whit. My dream of doing some big thing in research took me to St. Louis and brought me to a proper view of the work I could do here. And it
’
s the result, the work itself, that is important! D
’
you see what I mean, Min?”

Page was smiling happily. She saw.

“I can see it about your work, all right,” Min agreed. “It
’
s just as true about love. Take any love story in book or play or movie. They
’
re symbols of life. And in all love stories, it is the flesh and blood man and woman, attracted, brought together, to build a home, to establish a family. That is the only possible climax to all love stories! Isn
’
t it?”

“I guess so
...
”

“Why, sure. It
’
s been that way through all the years; it will be that way for our children and our grandchildren—”

“Why,” asked Page, in her limpid tone of inquiry, “hasn
’
t someone—before you, darling—discovered that?”

“And save each of us the joy of our own discovery?”

She sank back into her chair, her smile content. “I see.”

“I don
’
t,” protested Min. “Because if we knew that, we
’
d be saved the pain too. All my batting around
...”

She stood up, and leaned forward to see if it really was my car coming along the lower bench. “If that lug has forgotten the screen wire he
’
s supposed to bring
...”
she muttered.

Phil chuckled. “He won
’
t forget. Five good years ago, you knew Whit was the sort of guy not to forget such things. But it took you those five years to learn that it was those qualities in him which could make you love him as you do.”

“But why, Phil?” She turned to him, her face twisted with protest. “What was it all for? Whit and I—and you, too, for that matter—at least three years were wasted out of our lives, running around the barn, and around again! Starting wrong, paying for our mistakes
...”

“They were not wasted years, dear,” he said gently. “If a cure for cancer is found
—when
it is found—we won
’
t say that all the work now being done was wasted. Those three years you deplore gave me Page—and they showed me the value of this town and the Clinic. I needed to take that wrong turn to show me the right road.”

“Maybe you can argue it out for yourself,” she cried, her lip trembling, “but you can
’
t sell it to me. Why did I have to go to St. Louis and foul things up with another man? Why, if this home, and my copper pans, and Whit
’
s children, were in store for me, did I have to
...”
The tears broke through, and she dabbed angrily at her eyes.

“Some women,” said Page wisely, “never reach the climax of their love stories. Some researchers never know success
...”

M
in peered at her over the sodden ball of linen. “So
...
”

“So you
’
re a lucky one. And I am. Our errors can be written off, now.”

“That may do for research. But I still think Whit got a raw deal. And I did, too! We
’
d all be happier if I
’
d been graced with a little sense!”

“You
’
re happy enough,” said Phil. “And will be. It isn
’
t as if Whit didn
’
t understand
...”

“Do you think,” Min demanded truculently, “that his being understanding makes it any better that I came to him in a second-hand condition? Do you think his forgiving understanding makes me any less anxious to be a good wife? And I mean
good
, Red Scoles! In the old
-
fashioned sense of that word.” She put her handkerchief back in her pocket, went over and set the coffee pot on the grill, poked at the fire. “I wish,” she said fiercely, “that the world hadn
’
t forgotten that word, Red. Or how to express moral indignation where it is deserved. I should have been put in the pillory for what I did with the Captain
...”

“Weren
’
t you?”