Race for the Dying

by Steven F Havill

  “My goodness.” Thomas said, and turned to the two-page preface, attributed to “The Author,” and written from “Port McKinney, November, 1890.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Time evaporated, and when a clock somewhere deep in the house chimed three that afternoon, Thomas sat back, puzzled. The book’s opening hundred pages addressed a simplified description of human anatomy. The material, including a generous number of engravings, was shared by other texts of similar kind—generic and traditional. The second section, grandly titled “Human Temperament,” examined the much debated forces that molded behavior—including a lengthy discussion of the relationship inherent between skull shape and human character.

  Once the reader could look himself full in the mirror and decide that his physiognomy did not hide the most base motives or unpleasant personal characteristics, he could then turn to the sections on foods, household maintenance, and the pursuit of healthy activities guided by the most common conventions of the past half century.

  Having skimmed the first three hundred pages, Thomas arrived at a section titled “The Thoughtful Physician,” in which Haines proposed the foundations upon which his medical practice was based, borrowing freely and without apology from the work of “allopathics, homeopathics, eclectics, and hydropathics, all to be sifted and selected by the rational physician determined to practice to full effect in the approaching twentieth century.”

  “The able and creative physician must stand ready,” Haines had written, “to employ every weapon in his arsenal, recognizing that there may even be times when an agent that is poisonous in health may clearly prove curative in the battle against disease.”

  Thomas stopped and slipped the silk bookmark in place. He stretched carefully. Rain still pounded outside, an oppressive drumming that reminded him of the paragraphs that had discussed the “salubrious, healing nature of sunshine.” His left eye watered and his joints felt stiff and wooden. Across the room stood the tempting, large decanter of brandy, a medication that several times had earned special mention by Haines: “Alcohol, although in abuse clearly noxious, holds special station as a curative against the morbid state.”

  Pushing back from the desk, Thomas wheeled over to the curtained doorway leading to the porch. A rush of sweet, wet air greeted him as he opened the door, and the sensation of a million tiny fingers massaged his skin. He pushed forward until the wheels nudged against the low sill. The porch ended a dozen feet to his left, but to the right, it extended all the way to the front corner of the house, then circled to the broad steps. He watched the rain as it curtained in gusting torrents to spew off the eaves of the Mercantile. He could see to the intersection of Lincoln and Gambel, but no farther. If there was a sawmill out there on the spit, or a waterway beyond that, or a grand clinic down the street, all was well hidden by an impenetrable gray curtain.

  Thomas regarded the broad, smooth, expanse of wooden porch decking, with the handy railing running full length. He nodded to himself, and wheeled back into the room to fetch the crutches. Balancing them across his lap, he eased the wheelchair across the doorsill, then turned left and wheeled into the corner where he could brace the chair against the walls of the house. By levering himself against the railing with his right arm, he was able to push himself out of the chair and hunch over the broad railing.

  He balanced thus for a moment, and then reached out to secure first one crutch and then the other, edging around until his right rump rested on the railing. Easing forward, he tried to push himself upright. When his weight rested on the leather crutch pads, the action pushed his shoulders upward, which in turn tugged his torn ribs.

  Gritting his teeth, he edged the crutches forward, shuffling his right foot a few inches. Across the street, a figure darted through the rain toward the store, splashing across a growing, sludgy lake. How simple such a thing used to be, Thomas thought. He looked ahead and saw that fifty feet of porch separated him from the front steps. Impossible. He calculated the distance, counting the carved columns that supported the porch roof, one every ten feet. “Just one, then,” he said aloud.

  A slicker-cloaked rider sitting on a miserable-looking mule rode out of an alley and then down Gambel. Somewhere off in the distance a pair of dogs traded news. The side door of Lindeman’s Mercantile opened and Lars appeared, throwing something out into the street. He paused when he saw Thomas, but the young man didn’t dare lift a hand from his crutches in greeting. The eight feet to the first column wasn’t possible…not and be able to return to the chair. He cursed and turned enough to lean against the rail, breathing through his teeth.

  The chair was but six feet away, and seemed a mile. Six feet, he thought. All right, if that’s the way progress is to be measured. Three days ago, he couldn’t roll over in bed. He had tried to stand up and been rewarded by falling on his face. Six feet was progress.

  A dark shadow appeared from behind the Mercantile, and Prince plodded out into the middle of the street, looking first left and then right, as if traffic might be a threat. Thomas watched the dog limp through the mud, head and tail down. Surely the rain was uncomfortable, beating on his broad skull, pounding his kinky fur flat so that it parted along his back as if that were the seam where his coat was taken on and off. The dog apparently knew where he was going, though, and disappeared around the corner.

  The brandy beckoned, and Thomas turned the chair back toward the library. The rush of wet air followed him inside, soothing his aching head. In a moment, the brandy’s bloom erupted through his mouth, nose, even his sinuses, and he sat with his eyes closed, letting the sensation roll around his tongue.

  “Oh, my,” he sighed, and splashed a full inch into the tumbler. He turned the chair away from the cabinet and stopped. The rank aroma of wet dog wafted into the room. The creature stood on the porch, a pace from the library doorway, watching Thomas.

  “What deep thoughts are going through your mind?” Thomas said. “I would think you’d be curled up in a dry corner somewhere.” He pushed the chair forward, and the dog retreated a step. He saw that its body from belly to claws was thick with mud, a second coat that would harden to armor should the sun come out.

  “What a remarkably disreputable creature,” the young man observed. He heard the clang of a pot somewhere in the house, and immediately remembered Gert James. “I’d invite you in, old man, but Miss James would have our hides.” He wheeled closer, and this time the dog simply stood there, a soggy, gray statue, only his eyes interested.

  “What’s wrong with your leg, then?” Thomas asked. He set the brandy glass on the desk, pushed back through the door and then turned the chair so that it was broadside to the animal. The dog remained motionless. The coating of mucky fur was enough to hide a multitude of ailments or injuries. Reaching out slowly, Thomas rested his right hand on the large dome of the dog’s head, then stroked his thumb along the top of the dog’s left eye, lifting the eyebrow slightly. “You’ve had better days, I’m guessing,” he said. He withdrew his hand and the dog immediately took a half step closer to the chair, standing sideways, expectant. His fragrance was more than that of wet dog.

  Fingers gently probing, Thomas ran his free hand along the dog’s spine, feeling the ribs. “You could do with a bit more flesh on your bones,” he said. As his hand neared the animal’s rump, the dog shifted slightly, as if to turn away. He didn’t, but his head swung around, eyes half-lidded. With but one good hand, Thomas’ intent was to stroke down the animal’s left hind leg and follow the line of bones to the source of discomfort. The moment his hand passed the bony promontory of the dog’s rump and started downward, the animal contorted enough to reach Thomas’ hand. His large jaws opened and snapped around the young man’s wrist, the massive canines locking on the far side.

  Captured thus, Thomas froze. He did not try to pull his hand away. The pressure of the animal’s jaws was impressive, but Thomas noted with an almost detached astonishment that he wasn’t bei
ng bitten…only held. The dog didn’t growl. He just stood there, eyes searching Thomas’ face.

  “It’s back there, then,” Thomas said quietly. “Hurts, does it? What have you got there? Twisting slightly, he tried to grip the right arm of the chair with his left hand, but that was impossible. In a moment, the dog released him with a deep-throated huff. Thomas hooked the wheel rim to twist the chair a bit. “Let me,” he said to the dog as if its understanding of English was perfect. He touched the dog’s left hip and this time immediately felt the swelling that extended from just behind the animal’s knee to the base of its tail. Before he could probe more, the animal stepped away.

  Thomas grimaced at the rank odor. “My God, old man, I’d think you could at least walk belly deep into the sound for a bit of a bath,” he said. “I’ll speak to Mr. Lindeman,” he said. “We’ll see what can be done.” Thomas straightened up and rubbed the silky underside of one of the dog’s ears. “I’ll see what can be done,” he said again, and rolled the chair back away from the door. The dog took a couple of steps as if he might leave, then apparently thought better of it. With a loud grunt, he lay down on the porch on his right side, back snuggled up against the house. For a moment Thomas watched him, but the animal no longer seemed interested in him.

  The rank odor lingered despite a trip to the bathroom to wash his hands, and Thomas sacrificed a bit of brandy as hand lotion. He refilled the glass and returned to the desk, leaving the door to the porch ajar. Returning to the impressive Universal Medical Advisor, he soon forgot weather, brandy, and dog.

  Chapter Twelve

  What a marvelous occasion,” Dr. John Haines said. He stood at the end of the table, wineglass raised. “A toast to our young friend, now well on the road to recovery.” He raised the glass a little higher, and Thomas saw that the older man’s balance was precarious. “That’s a good thing, since very shortly we plan to work him to death.” Those around the table laughed.

  Thomas felt more weary than recuperating, but he gamely lifted his own glass in thanks, fascinated by this assemblage of contrasting personalities. Dr. Zachary Riggs sat at the end of the table opposite Haines, with Alvi Haines on his right, and Gert James on his left. Gert’s brother Horace took his place beside his sister, and Thomas wheeled his chair close to the table on Haines’ left. Horace James smiled at everything, but kept his eyes deferentially averted, paying close attention to the business of eating.

  Thomas found Zachary Riggs enormously likable and attractive. Stocky, powerfully built, Riggs exuded energy and enthusiasm, as well as an easy laugh that often swelled to a bellow. Rather than the huge, spade-shaped beard favored by Dr. Haines, Riggs sported a close-cropped beard and mustache that matched his ruddy complexion. A pair of gold half-glasses hung from a vest pocket, and a heavy gold chain circled his paunch. He had greeted Thomas with delight, making sure that the young man was comfortable at the table before taking his own seat. The physician was deferential toward both Gert and Horace, and Thomas noted that Gert attended both Riggs and Haines as if they were visiting royalty.

  Exactly what the relationship was between Zachary Riggs and Alvina Haines was unclear, but Thomas noted that Riggs’ right hand now and then would stray across to touch the back of Alvina’s. Thomas was surprised that he noticed at all, and even more surprised that he felt a little stab of disappointment.

  “Here you’ve been under our roof for nearly a week, and we haven’t had a chance to exchange more than a word or two,” Riggs said. “But I see that you share something in common with most of John’s patients…and that’s a speedy, complication-free recovery. We’re all thankful for that.” He raised his glass to Thomas.

  “Hear, hear,” John Haines said, refilling his own. “I repeat my original toast.” He drained the glass, and rested his elbow on the table as he regarded Thomas. “So. Alvi tells me that she has inflicted the book on you.”

  “And may I say,” Thomas replied, “it’s an incredible accomplishment.”

  “Well, authors other than myself deserve much of the credit.” Haines said off-handedly. “Were it left entirely up to me, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have managed beyond page two.”

  “This is a collaborative effort, then?”

  “Indeed,” Haines replied. He pointed his fork down-table toward Riggs, and then swept it back and forth to include both his daughter and the physician. “These two have convinced me that such a publication was necessary,” he said. “Something that the patient can hold in his two hands and use to make sense of all the folderol and jargon that we physicians spout.” He cocked his head, regarding the almost-empty wine bottle. “And, you know, I think they’re right. I’ve had a number of patients tell me the same thing.” As he poured the last of the wine, Gert rose, removed the empty bottle, and headed for the kitchen.

  “As I see it,” Riggs added, “it’s more an archival thing, Thomas.” He nodded toward Haines. “A way to record for posterity the amazing medical knowledge this good man enjoys.” He smiled affectionately at Haines.

  “An incredible endeavor.”

  “How far have you read, then?”

  “Well, I only began the journey this afternoon, you understand,” Thomas said, “but at the moment, I’m about to embark on part four, I think it is. The section touching on diagnosis.”

  “Good heavens, man. You’ve been busy.”

  “A bit. I thought to devise a system of therapy and exercise for any injuries. I’m sure that your text is a good place to begin my studies.”

  “Really.” Riggs’ fork halted halfway to his mouth, his expression one of genuine interest. “I trust you’re proceeding with care. I picked you up from the floor once, you may recall. You’re a bit heavy to be lugging about.”

  “I shall try my best not to do that again, sir. But I found that the porch was ideal for my needs.”

  “Hmm,” Haines said, and accepted the fresh wine bottle from Gert.

  “I managed some six feet today with the crutches.” Thomas laughed ruefully, “and back to the chair. So that’s twelve, but it’s a start.”

  “I dare say it’s a start,” Riggs said, impressed. “What are you taking for the pain?”

  “Nothing is best,” Thomas said. “At this point, it’s to my advantage, I think. Not masking the source of discomfort helps me understand the nature of the injuries.”

  Riggs nodded, although a bit skeptically. “John tells me that you’re a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania?”

  “Yes. Just this past spring.”

  “Then you’ve heard Lamchert’s lectures,” Riggs said. Thomas frowned. “I’m afraid not. The name is not familiar,” he said.

  Riggs frowned in puzzlement. “I thought Lamchert was at that institution. Perhaps I’m mistaken.” He stabbed a piece of beef, forked it to his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “Now that I think on it, I believe it was Johns Hopkins. Anyway, little matter. His point is well taken in your case. An injured joint must be exercised with care, but with regularity and persistence. Otherwise it will wither on the vine, so to speak. You concur?”

  “I’m in complete agreement,” Thomas said, “and above all, what I see clearly now, if not before, is that the pain of an injury must be managed in such a way that recuperation isn’t put in jeopardy. I confess, before last week, I hadn’t considered that a factor.”

  “You hadn’t considered pain?” John Haines said, and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “My God. man.”

  “What I mean is, in a personal sense. As students, we’re told that patients suffer discomfort, even excruciating pain. I suppose we witness that very thing in the wards. But we didn’t feel it, and so we say wonderfully ridiculous things like, Bite the bullet, old man. That leg has to come off.’” Thomas saw Gert frown. “When it’s over, if the patient lives, we say, ‘Strong man, that.’” He took a sip of wine. “I can imagine someone familiar with my case saying, ‘Well,
my God, so he ripped a ligament in his hip. Why doesn’t the lazy fellow get on with it? A little limp, and even that will disappear in a few days’ time.’ I found it not that simple. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “With a busted head, a broken rib or two, a broken thumb, lacerations and contusions by the potful, and who knows what damage to your hip joint, I can’t imagine anyone gainsaying your progress, my young man,” Riggs said.

  “Thank you. I didn’t want you thinking I was uninterested.”

  “Hardly.”

  Thomas looked at Gert, and then Alvi. “I had the opportunity this afternoon to attempt a preliminary examination on a somewhat foul patient.”

  Again, Riggs’ gaze was riveted on the young man. “You don’t say.”

  “I hope you didn’t let him in the house,” Alvi said, and she held her linen napkin up to her nose as answer to Thomas’ startled expression. “I can smell him yet.”

  “What’s all this?” Riggs asked eagerly.

  “Most remarkable in some ways,” Thomas explained. “I was reading in the study this afternoon, and turned to see Mr. Lindeman’s dog standing in the doorway. What a truly disreputable, homely beast he is.”

  “Oh, my soul,” Gert piped. “You didn’t encourage him inside, I should hope.”

  “No, indeed I did not. I rolled myself outside to the porch. Now what interests me is that he has an injury of some kind to his left hind leg. Perhaps the reason he prefers to sit with his hindquarters squelched in the mud is that the muck is somehow soothing. Anyway, a most remarkable thing happened. He was standing beside my chair, and 1 ran my right hand down his back, impressed with how little flesh there is on his ribs. As I ran my hand down his back leg, he turned with such deliberate speed that I had no chance to move.” Thomas held up his right hand like a jaw, and clamped it around the bandages of his left wrist. “He closed his jaws around my right wrist, like so.”