Doc

by Mary Doria Russell

  “Don’t begrudge the Lord what is his own to give and to take.”

  That’s what Urilla told Wyatt when they both knew she was dying, and that she would take their child with her, too: one who hadn’t even lived long enough to quicken and who would never see the light.

  Wyatt tried to accept it like Urilla did. When the fever and sickness got worse, he was almost willing to let her go, if only to put an end to her suffering. Then—at the very end—she was lucid again.

  He had just enough time to think, The fever’s broken. She’s going to live.

  For the space of those few moments, he saw it all: how he’d nurse her, and how she’d be stronger every day, and how the baby would come and be joined later by a pack of rowdy brothers and pretty sisters. He could see the home they’d have, and he started to weep because the vision of their future was so clear, because he was so grateful and happy that they weren’t going to lose everything they’d meant to be to each other when they made their vows a few months earlier.

  “Don’t cry, Wyatt. I’m going to a better place,” Urilla told him.

  Then she was gone. Just like that. And he was left to stare at the husk of that dear girl, and to hear his father’s voice.

  It’s your own damn fault, you worthless pile of shit.

  If you made more money, you coulda got a doctor.

  Shoulda been you …

  For a good long while after Urilla’s passing, Wyatt lost his way. He only started going to church again when a Wichita preacher suggested that he honor Urilla’s memory by honoring her faith in the Lord. It was never easy and it was sometimes impossible, but Wyatt kept trying, though he did not fear God so much as he feared Urilla’s disappointment, for he felt her eyes upon him whenever he did what he knew to be wrong or failed to do what he thought was right.

  The dead are in a better place. That’s what Urilla had told him. That’s what Wyatt Earp wanted to believe, but this is what he knew. Gone is gone. Some things can’t be fixed.

  Shoulda sent him back to school …

  Wyatt wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  Could be, it’s better this way, he tried telling himself, for in his experience, not many were improved by age. People generally got meaner and harder and sadder. So maybe it was a blessing to die before life could compromise and coarsen you, and twist you into someone you didn’t hardly recognize. Johnnie was a good kid, but who knows what kind of man he’d’ve been?

  “Hell,” Wyatt said, aloud. “I shoulda sent him back to school.”

  He wanted to make himself hear his own regret, and to see if his voice was steady.

  He was almost back to town before Dick Naylor settled down.

  Ladies High

  Dime novelists worked hard to make a city marshal’s job seem thrilling. They told stories about showdowns and shoot-outs and so on, but they mostly made it all up. Even in a frontier hellhole like Dodge, policemen spent a lot of time replacing boards in the wooden sidewalks, controlling packs of stray dogs, and trapping skunks or raccoons that made nests under buildings. Nights could be lively, what with the bar brawls and so on, but the allure of that excitement faded the first time a drunk puked all over you. Oh, there were shootings and occasionally a theft, but by the time you got there, the deed was done and the criminal long gone, unless he was drunk enough or stupid enough to get caught red-handed.

  So there wasn’t really all that much drama in the job, except for what police always called “family” fights. Wyatt hated them. Given a choice, he’d take fifty drunken cowboys over two drunken lovers. Ask him, “What kind of call do you hate the most?” and he’d tell you, “Family fights. Family fights are always the worst.”

  And they were always the same.

  Somebody’d come running up, hollering, “They’re killing each other next door!” Get there, and the woman’s screaming that she’s being murdered, so you go in after the husband or the boyfriend or the pimp. But the minute you try to arrest him, the woman would be on your back, pounding on you with her fists, yelling, “Leave him alone, you sonofabitch! I love him!”

  Nine times out of ten, she wouldn’t let you press charges, and you’d be back again a couple of nights later. It was unrewarding work, and you could get hurt doing it. Wyatt was laid up for a week one time, not drawing pay, and he got ragged for months about the lamp that whore busted over his head.

  Everything about a family fight was a misery, and he avoided those calls when he could, but he appeared to be the only officer around when Deacon Cox came out of the Dodge House, yelling about a pair of his hotel guests who were fighting.

  Wyatt shrugged and nodded and crossed the street, feet dragging some after a long night. The argument became more distinct as he climbed the Dodge House stairs and scuffed down the corridor. A female voice, heavily accented, dominated. Her themes were perfidy and abandonment. As proof of her opponent’s faithlessness, she loudly offered his desire to save money so he could return to an old girlfriend. A soft answer turneth away wrath, and that was evidently the gentleman’s policy. Then the term “bastard” entered the conversation. Wyatt reached their door in time to hear the unmistakable sound of a solid slap delivered to a face.

  “You speak of my mother again,” said a soft Georgia voice, “I will shoot you where you stand.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Wyatt raised a foot to kick open the door and prevent the murder. He nearly fell, off balance, when the door was flung open.

  “Get out,” the gentleman suggested, without looking into the hallway. “And this time? Don’t come back.”

  “I don’t need you! There are men lining up for me. I pick and I choose! What I do is less disgusting than looking into stinking, diseased mouths,” the woman snarled, stuffing clothing into a carpetbag. “Be damned to you!” She snapped the bag shut and pushed past Wyatt. “And you can go to hell with him!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  For a few moments, both men stood in the hallway, watching as she stomped down the corridor muttering curses under her breath.

  “I apologize, Morgan,” the gentleman said. “I swear: this time, it wasn’t my fault—” He stopped and stared.

  “I’m Morg’s brother,” Wyatt told him. “People mix us up all the time.”

  “Wyatt! Of course. Just last evenin’, I was admirin’ your work from a distance.” The gentleman offered his hand. “John Holliday, sir. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  “Fort Griffin. You gave me your card.”

  “You ever find David Rudabaugh?”

  “He circled back to Kansas, like you said. Thanks for the tip.”

  “And Dodge is everything you said it would be … Well, sir, if you will excuse me, I am late for office hours. If, however, you are here to arrest me for creatin’ a disturbance”—the dentist stepped back into his room and pulled a frock coat on over his shirtsleeves—“I shall not dispute the charge, unless you intend to put me in a cell with that insufferable woman!”

  He shouted the last two words toward the window, apparently hoping his whore would hear him out in the street, but it was poor judgment. The effort set off a hellacious coughing fit.

  “No harm done,” Wyatt said.

  It seemed rude to walk away while the man was hacking like that, so Wyatt waited. That was when he noticed a copy of the Dodge City Times on the bed. “I saw your ad in the paper,” he said, when the coughing eased. “You mean it? About giving the money back?”

  Watering blue eyes narrowed above the handkerchief Holliday held over his mouth while he was getting his breath back. “Why would I extend the offer, if I were not in earnest?” He cleared his throat fiercely. “Which is it you are callin’ me, sir? A cheat or a liar?”

  “Maybe it’s different in Georgia,” Wyatt said. “Out here? Pretty much anything in a newspaper is a cheat or a lie.”

  Holliday blinked. “I had not thought of it that way,” he said. He appeared to consider the notion before deciding, “Fair enough. Yes, I mean it. If you
are not satisfied with my work, I will not charge for it.”

  “So, how much would it be, to …?” Wyatt waved vaguely at his mouth. The dentist must have known that he didn’t make much money. His salary was right there in the same paper, for everyone to see.

  “The examination is performed gratis. If you become my patient, we can arrange for payment over time.”

  “Gratis means free, right?”

  “You are a scholar, sir!”

  “I read a law book once. Part of it, anyways.” Wyatt thought the offer over and nodded his assent. “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me. Wyatt’s fine.”

  “Wyatt, then,” Holliday said. “Most people call me Doc.”

  No. 24, Dodge House was dustless and orderly, furnished with exactly what a dentist required for his work and nothing more. There was a glassed-in bookcase and a small oak table for a desk. A washstand, with its china bowl and pitcher, stood next to a closed and locked enamel cabinet. Near the window, where the light was best, a new barber’s chair was screwed into the floor for stability.

  The deputy hung a well-worn flat-crowned hat on a peg by the door and watched uneasily as the dentist laid a clean towel on the table, unlocked the cabinet, and selected a few chromed instruments, some of which were alarmingly pointed.

  “How much is this going to hurt?” Wyatt asked, still on his feet, half-ready to call the whole thing off.

  “Unlike physicians, sir, veterinarians and dentists are aware that our patients can and will bite. We are, therefore, diligent about the mitigation of pain. Today I merely wish to assess the accumulated damage. If we agree on treatment, I have ether, which is administered with a Chisholm inhaler. You won’t feel a thing during the procedures, but I must warn you that your mouth will be sore when you wake up. Now, before we begin: this is a toothbrush,” he said, handing one to Wyatt, “and this is Larkin’s Dentifric. A tooth-cleanin’ powder.”

  The patient showed no sign of recognition, which was typical. In his first five weeks of practice in Dodge City, Dr. J. H. Holliday had encountered precisely three patients who had ever before used a toothbrush.

  “Sprinkle a little of the powder into your palm,” he instructed, while pouring a glass of water from the pitcher. “Wet the bristles, dip them in the powder, and brush your teeth. Start on the bottom. Inside, by your tongue … Do every surface, like you’re curryin’ a horse,” he said, watching. “Good,” he said. “Now rinse your mouth. Don’t swallow. Just swish the water around and spit into the basin.”

  Finished, the deputy wiped his lips on the back of his hand and tried to hand the brush back.

  “That’s yours to keep,” the dentist told him, returning the Larkin’s to the cabinet. “A gift.”

  Wyatt put the brush down on the washstand and backed off with a look so hard, John Henry Holliday could almost feel the pressure of it. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly. “Oh, that’s funny … Diogenes could’ve found his man in Dodge!”

  The idea of someone being bribed with a toothbrush was almost beyond belief, but when Wyatt got his hat to go, Doc changed his tone. “I buy inexpensive brushes by the dozen and provide them free of charge to all my patients,” he said firmly, adding, “It makes my own work more pleasant.”

  Wyatt thought this over. After a few moments, he retrieved the brush and put it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  Inclining his head with respect, Doc resumed his instruction: “You should brush your teeth at the end of every day—”

  “I work nights,” Wyatt pointed out. “You mean—?”

  “Before you go to bed, then, whenever that might be,” Doc amended. “You can get Larkin’s at Bob Wright’s, or you can use plain bakin’ soda if it’s handier. Either way, don’t swallow the water when you rinse.” He gestured toward the barber chair. “Please. Make yourself at ease.”

  Wyatt climbed into the chair. He tried to relax, but it was hard with somebody poking around inside his mouth, even if the dentist was only looking with a little mirror on a metal wand.

  “I see you’ve had some amateur work done,” Doc said. “You knock that molar out yourself?”

  “Ed Masterson did it.”

  “A sweet-natured man. Open again, please … Deputy Masterson’s death was a lamentable loss to the community. His dentistry, on the other hand, was notably lackin’ in finesse. You are lucky to have lived through the procedure.”

  There was a silence for a time.

  “We all have our vices,” the dentist observed, his voice low and near. “Sugar is yours. I encourage you to moderate your habits … Rinse and spit.”

  Doc handed Wyatt the glass of water and held the basin for him.

  “Lie back again, please,” Doc said. “Not quite finished …”

  Wyatt opened his mouth again, trying not to be ashamed.

  “This injury to the front teeth,” the dentist began gently. “It took place when you were about seven, I’d say, before the roots were fully formed. Am I correct?”

  “Uh-huh,” Wyatt said.

  “There is ridge resorption naturally.… Some mesial drift, but I can get around that … I’ve noticed that you have some slurrin’ of the letters s and f, but you have compensated remarkably well. Did someone work with you on your diction?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  Doc murmured, “Almost done,” and changed the subject. “It must be a comfort and a support to you to have your brothers Morgan and James so near, but the Earps are spread out some, I understand. A half brother, Newton, back in Missouri … An older brother, Virgil, down in Arizona?”

  Wyatt grunted affirmation.

  “A younger one, Warren, still livin’ with your parents out in California. And a married sister. Adelia. Lovely name. A-de-li-a … Very musical.”

  Doc’s drawl was calm and soothing. The chair was comfortable. Wyatt had worked a tense fifteen-hour night, followed by three hours out riding with Dick. Light poured through the window. He closed his eyes against it.

  “I am an only child, myself,” Doc told him, “though I grew up with a battalion of cousins. I miss them very much. Morgan reminds me of my cousin Robert, back home.”

  Lowering his hands, the dentist slid off his stool and backed away noiselessly.

  “Home,” he said softly. “If there is a more beautiful word in any language, I do not know it.”

  He put his instruments down, careful not to let them clank.

  “Poor soul,” he whispered when he was sure that Wyatt was sleeping. “Rest now. Do you good.”

  Wyatt woke with a start about an hour later and sat up, feeling like a fool. Doc was at his desk, writing a letter, it looked like. “Monologue: the dentist’s vice!” he declared before Wyatt could apologize. “I fear I bored you straight to sleep.”

  The dentist laid his pen aside and showed Wyatt a chart with little drawings of teeth on it. “You have two molars, here and here, that should come out, and soon, I’m afraid. The decay is deep, but you’re luckier than most. I calculate you have a little time yet before the rot breaks through to the nerve. When it does … Well, you know what an abscess is like.”

  Wyatt nodded, trying not to shudder.

  “There are significant cavities in two other molars, here and here. You also have a pair of mandibular bicuspids in serious trouble. I may be able to salvage them and I urge you to allow me to try—always better to preserve the integrity of the arch, in my opinion. It is possible to do some of the restorative work without anesthetic, but I do not recommend it and the additional expense is not great. I use silver-mercury amalgam to fill teeth and gold for crowns.”

  “What about …?” Wyatt pointed toward his lips.

  “For the incisors—your front teeth—I can make you a partial denture that will give a very natural appearance. If you decide to go ahead with the work, I shall write to my cousin Robert. He is now secretary of the Georgia Dental Association and will obtain materials for us. After the denture is in place, new habits of tongue placement will be required.
I can help you with that as well.”

  “How much?” Wyatt asked. “For all of it? With the ana—”

  “Anesthetic. It’ll take quite a bit of time. The materials are not cheap, but I will cut no corners on quality and my work is durable.… Call it thirty dollars.”

  “You’re not just trying to scare me? About the toothache?”

  Doc stared.

  “That, sir, would be un-pro-fessional,” he said, his drawl more pronounced, the last word drawn out in emphasis. “Is there anything about my demeanor or my procedures that strikes you as un-pro-fessional?”

  “No! I don’t know!” Wyatt said, startled by the sudden hostility. “It’s just—Look, that’s a lot of money. Can I think it over?”

  “Of course,” Holliday said evenly. “You know where to find me. Good day.”

  Dismissed, and embarrassed, Wyatt had his hat in hand and was halfway into the corridor when the dentist’s voice stopped him.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I forget my manners as well,” Doc said in a conciliatory tone. “I understand from your brother Morgan that condolences are in order.”

  Wyatt blinked. “Morgan told you about Urilla? My wife died … almost eight years ago,” he said, a little surprised by that himself, “but thanks.”

  “You are a widower? I am truly sorry, sir. I did not know. My sympathy for that terrible loss as well, but I was referrin’ to the untimely passin’ of our mutual young friend, John Horse Sanders.”

  It was Wyatt’s turn to stare.

  “I participated in the investigation of his death,” Holliday told him. “Now, if you wish to speak of unprofessional procedures,” he said, hot again, “I would direct your attention to the local authorities, sir! In my opinion, the inquest could have been considerably more thorough.”