"Sore as hell. I had to cut it all up. Well, I went and asked for it. Hurts my patients more than it does me, I guess. Moloch looks pretty good out there."
"I guess I'll keep him. Sit down."
She went into the kitchen, presently returning with a couple of the crystal wine glasses beautifully emblazoned with Levi Cardmaker's self-conferred eighteenth-century coat and crest. Setting them on the step, she took a jack-knife from her pocket, levered a corkscrew from one side of it, sank it with a muscular twist and drew the cork of the whisky bottle. "This is from Sansbury, on your prescription," she observed, sniffing it. "I guess it's better than Anderson's." She sat down and filled the wine glasses. "What are you so busy about?"
"Healing the sick." He raised the glass and swallowed half of it. "That is pretty good. Oh, a lot of them collapsed when the sun hit them and curled up. They should have stayed under their stones. We'll get a blizzard next week."
"Who's sick?"
"The whole bunch. Regular epidemic. A good many may be just malingering, but Ralph Kimball looks like acute nephritis. We may not see much more of him. Perhaps it has nothing to do with the others. Or they may all be reacting to something like that Spanish 'flu. Stay out of town a while. It seems to be running around. A cold snap will probably finish it off."
"You don't seem much worried."
"It's their hard luck, not mine. Nothing to be done, except see how it comes out. It takes a lot of forms, this influenza. For all we could do about it, some specially bad sort might start up again any time. Wipe out three-quarters of the human race, given a real start."
"No great loss. Speaking of loss, I hear the Talbot girl's death got the gang down on you."
"Some of the women took it to heart. Emma Bates was all set to give me a piece of her mind. Her idea was I should have been there that afternoon."
"What's your idea?"
"That's mine, too," admitted George Bull. "Not that I could have done anything short of an oxygen tent, or some such nonsense they think up to milk the paying customers—but I could certainly have saved myself a lot of dirty looks. Emma was pretty riled. She never did get rid of that piece of mind, so she spent a week chewing it for anybody who'd listen. I could see her at Mamie's funeral wondering whether she couldn't get Doctor Wyck to have me ejected."
"Who else was unhappy?"
"About everybody, I guess. Except Howard Upjohn. He got some cash business—Banning's cash, I don't need to say. And, of course, Mamie. Where she is now, she won't have to be an Episcopalian; or clean up after the Bannings; or give her money to her mother; or wonder whether she'll have a baby if she does."
"Blow over?"
"Sure. That was damn near two weeks ago. Even Emma was calling me up this morning. The real trouble was, I forgot to put on a big show entitled 'The Wonders of Science.'" He lifted the glass and drank thoughtfully. "Funny thing, Janet, to see the change there. When I was first practising, they kind of thought a doctor was a medicine man. They didn't know what it was all about; he was sort of dabbling in the occult, and anything he did was all right with them. They don't know any more now; but they've been reading the papers, and they want some of that, not God knows what out of a bottle. You ought to see Verney's place. Nurses sitting around in uniform making urinalyses. Half a ton of fluroscopic machines. Verney telling all the women to get undressed for a thorough examination. When he's through, he has a four-page record. Nine cases out of ten, he doesn't know a thing he couldn't have found out by feeling a pulse and asking a couple of questions. Talk about the occult! But everybody thinks when he's written down so much he must know something; and the women are purring like cats, wondering if he didn't think they looked pretty good in the raw. That's giving them proper attention. People like the Bannings, who can pay for it, are going to have proper attention or know why not."
"Was Mrs. Banning at the Talbots'?"
"No, just Herbert; but she's on her hind legs as usual. Henry Harris knows she'd like to oust me from Medical Examiner to the School Board, and anything she wants, he seems to make it his special business to see she doesn't get. I guess it annoys her a good deal."
"What's that rat got against the Bannings, George? I've always wondered."
"I don't know. Wish I did; it might be good for a laugh. Maybe it's just politics. Henry can get a lot of people into line voting Democratic for no reason at all except that Banning is a Republican. He was even having a try at me. Fact is, half the people in town know that if they were in Banning's place, they'd think they owned the earth; so that must be what he thinks. They're just going to show him he doesn't. They're going to show him that there isn't enough money in the world to make them stop being contrary damn fools, if they've a mind to be."
Janet laughed briefly, shook another cigarette from a flattened package and thrust it in her mouth. "They make me sick," she said. "The whole lot of them. Kill all you want, George."
"Oh, they aren't so bad, as people go. They're just trying to be free and equal. Fun watching them. I've been right here for forty years and I've never been what you'd call bored."
"You wouldn't have been bored anywhere on earth, so long as they had lots of food, and a little liquor, and a couple of accommodating women."
George Bull's great laugh boomed out. "Sure," he said, "the simple life!" He lifted the wineglass and emptied it. "Can we eat? I got a lot more patients."
THREE
l
A four by six cut of a photograph taken from the crest of the Cobble showed the great steel towers of the finished transmission line crossing the valley at New Winton. There was also three-quarters of a front-page column about it. Henry Harris, examining the weekly issue of the Sansbury Times while he sat on the step of Bates' store on Thursday morning, observed beneath the cut the minute italics: Courtesy Interstate Light & Power, and allowed himself to smile. You wouldn't catch Marden wasting money.
Henry Harris' interest, though detached, was personal. No one in New Winton knew it, and no one would be likely to guess from the Times' vigorously Republican editorial attitude, but the controlling interest in the paper, and in the Times Print Shop, had long ago joined the host of miscellaneous properties always quietly accumulating in Henry Harris' hands.
Owning the Times was really one of Henry Harris' amusements, and by far the most expensive one. Not that it actually cost him anything, for the printing plant made up its deficit; but he did sacrifice a possible profit for the pleasure afforded him weekly. Marden, a stumpy, swearing little man, was a fanatically honest and economical manager. Knowing of course, that it would be good business for Henry Harris to scrap the paper, politics quite aside, Marden's continued assaults on the Democrats, whether in Sansbury, Hartford, or Washington, had a subtle extra note of defiance. He felt that he was tilting, too, at Henry Harris' indulgence. Every paragraph said also: "Put that in your pipe, Mr. Harris. If you don't like it, you know what you can do."
Henry Harris, his warm private smile lighting over the current example of Marden's valour, turned contentedly on to the section "headed New Winton Notes. These were written by Miss Kimball, and if Marden's exaggerated blustering hadn't been reward enough, Miss Kimball would certainly justify his extravagance. Miss Kimball's importance rested entirely on this little job; it made her feel that she was not merely the underpaid village Librarian, but actually somebody. Probably it contributed the assurance shown when she sided so haughtily with Mrs. Banning against Henry Harris. Not an unkind man, Henry Harris was content to enjoy the irony hard to miss in Miss Kimball's rudeness to the person whose most casual word could knock out the props of her whole self-esteem. The spectacle of her skating with dignity on this (had she only known) thinnest possible ice, tickled him. She did not ever mention Henry Harris, just to pay him for daring to differ with Mrs. Banning. As he did not wish to be mentioned, Miss Kimball was not only funny but perfectly satisfactory. He read: Mr. Norman Hoyt, the well-known artist, is planning to start on a motor trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico, Monday. H
e expects to be away for two or three months. Accompanying Mr. Hoyt will be Miss Valeria Hoyt, his daughter, and Miss Virginia Banning, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Tracy Banning. This item was the unquestioned cream of Miss Kimball's news; but immediately under it appeared the line: Mr. Ralph Kimball is confined to his home by a slight illness.
Henry Harris chuckled. "Next thing to nepotism," he remarked.
Lester Dunn, letting the store door close behind him and standing still on the step, said: "What the hell are you mumbling about, Henry?"
"Just enjoying the news. Smart girl, Miss Kimball. I hope the Times appreciates her. Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
Henry Harris folded the paper and tucked it in the pocket of his old corduroy coat. He pointed a pipe stem at his car, standing isolated by the pavement edge. "Come on," he said, "I'll take you there."
"What's up?"
"You never can tell." He glanced at Lester. "You don't look so hot. Got a hangover?"
"Oh, I got a damn cold or something. I feel lousy. What's the trouble?" —'
"No trouble yet. You're probably getting this influenza I hear so much about."
"Bunk. It's something I ate." Driving slowly down the green, Henry Harris said, "How's Doc Bull's hand?"
"Don't know. I haven't seen him since Tuesday."
"Saw him Tuesday myself. By the way, he didn't say anything to you, did he?"
"No."
"I've got a notion he didn't hear anything that time. But he may think something's up. It would be sort of uncomfortable if he does. More I think of it, the more I'm afraid passion betrayed me, Lester."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, you see the whole business isn't really worth the money. I wouldn't have started it if I hadn't felt the urge to annoy my friend Matthew. He needs to be heated up every little while so he won't mildew. But —" He shook his head thoughtfully.
"Listen, Henry, I'm sorry, but I've spent that money, if you're thinking about a refund and calling it off. Besides, what difference does it make if Doc Bull knows? What will he do?"
"Probably nothing. But I like a neat job." He laughed. "You can usually take a chance on big things, Lester; but you have to be awful careful about little ones. Well, we'll try to mop up the spilt milk. Maybe it'll be a lesson to me."
"Lesson about what?"
"Maybe about paying people in advance."
"Watch out!" Lester said.
A glittering black car, going fast, gave them a perfunctory blare of horn and was by. "Doctor Verney," Henry Harris nodded. "Well, I guess Virginia'd better hurry up and get well if she's going to accompany Mr. Norman Hoyt, the well-known artist, to New Mexico."
"There're an awful lot of people sick in this town. Maybe Doc Bull will be so busy he won't get around to anything, anyway."
"Glad to hear it. What I'm worrying about is his getting around to see the mess the Interstate people left that camp in. I'm going to send Albert Foster up as soon as he gets off the job he's doing for Ordway. I hate to pay somebody else three dollars a day when Albert would do it for two fifty."
"Why didn't you make them clean up themselves?"
"Oh, that Snyder chap was kind of sore. I soaked them pretty hard for rent. That land on the hill isn't worth anything. They could have bought the whole mountain for less. They were late and wanted to get out so I thought I wouldn't bother them."
"What's it to Doc Bull?"
"Nothing, but if he wanted to, he'd probably figure out a way for the Board of Health to fine me. It's right on the edge of the water-supply area. After the way he got Banning about the dumping, anything might happen."
"Doc Bull would never bother to go up there. Being Board of Health here's just a racket. Keep your shirt on, Henry. We may make some money yet. Listen, drive over to my place, will you? I got the trots. Been on the can all morning."
"You better take a dose of something and go to bed. We'll never make any money with you laid up. Sure, being Board of Health's a racket; but you can't expect Doc Bull to run himself ragged for three hundred dollars a year salary."
A travelling clock whose silver face could be folded away in its supporting case of pale grey morocco was turned half towards her on the bedside table and Virginia Banning, shifting her head a little on the pillow, could see that it was five minutes to nine. Waiting a moment, concerned, to find out how she felt, she decided that to-day she was all right. There was perhaps a trace of faintness, a hint of yesterday's bad headache, but both would probably go as soon as she had some coffee. Relieved, she remembered wondering, when she felt so rotten on Tuesday and yesterday, if she were really going to be sick. She had not quite dared ask Doctor Verney how long what he called a touch of influenza might last, but her misery had a solid permanence which could easily mean a week or two. The Hoyts wouldn't be able to wait that long.
Brooding on the possible malice of fate so serving her, she had concluded that nothing could be more like life or her luck. You could see in it the dreary pattern of too many remembered anticipations which had somehow come to nothing. In fact, the whole plan had been perilous from the start. Like the first idea of going to Paris, motoring to Santa Fé had an ecstatic desirability which at once jeopardized it, made it inherently improbable. Frowning a little, she could even recall thinking, in feverish extravagance, that probably there was a God. Knowing that she regarded Him as a lot of nonsense, God was always on the alert to pay her sauciness with the inspired punishments of a loving kindness which did not care if she were really injured, and never made any mistake about what could hurt and disappoint her most.
She drew a breath, not wanting even now to tempt Heaven with too scornful a rejection of that possibility, and lifted her head enough to see that the morning was once more clear, the sunlight still warm on the trees. Shifting her head again, something arrested her. She came up sharply on one elbow, staring with a jolt of alarm at her pillow. How it could have got there was a mystery for the moment sinister and appalling, but the stain was undoubtedly blood. Revulsion was eased then by relief. Asleep, she must have suffered a slight nose bleed. Bringing her hand to her face she could feel blood dried on her nostril and lip.
"God, what a lousy mess!" she said. She threw back the covers and sat up, indignant.
The violence of the motion made her giddy, so she sat a moment, recovering her balance. Finally, standing up, impatient, she made for the bathroom door. Almost there, she was forced to realize in new, dismayed anger that she wasn't completely over her illness. An abrupt tightening cramp stabbed her bowels, a wave of sickness rushed up from them, landing with a painful impact inside her skull. The echo of it jarred, lingering, in her ears.
The handle resisted her. She tugged harder, half in support, trying to make her wrist turn. Something gave suddenly, but it was only the surface of the knob sliding on her palm, now lubricated disgustingly with sweat. Frustrated, she stood an instant trying to master the cramping nausea. Sweat was all over her now, and at once she was aware of cold, like a breeze on her. Down her back, under her arms, across her breast, the skin crawled, quailing from this strong draught. She put a bare foot out uncertainly, interrupting her partial stagger, held the sliding door knob and braced her other hand on the jamb while her body seemed suddenly porous, like weak white ice frozen full of air.
She must get back to bed, and she found herself phrasing it through the hard chatter of her teeth: But I would rather go to bed—the word bed was seized by a paroxysmal multiplication, a leaning tower of many million paper-thin but hard sounds soaring past view or reach. Shaken too violently to stand, her legs melted, her icy hands astoundingly failed. She went down on her side, in the weak relief of this surrender anticipating, even as immediately she felt, the cruel remote pain of bone banged on wood. The smooth floor held her face, turned sideways.
Opening, the door seemed only to have been waiting for this. But it was the other door, she realized. The bathroom door had not relented. "Take that damn knob down —" she m
anaged to say. "You can't get in —"
Seeing that it was her mother, Virginia made at once an effort to get up. She would never convince anyone that she was all right and able to go; even what she said was crazy. Shutting her eyes, she forced an order into the words: "I meant, the door, not the knob —"
Picked up, she could feel her own lightness, and it amazed her; she weighed nothing. She could have floated on the ringing air. "Virginia, darling——"
"Leave me alone," she whispered automatically. "I just slipped —"
The bed mounted and met her shoulders and numb buttocks and light legs with a soft, intolerable jar.
"Oh, my God, my head —" she moaned. "Mother, my head aches —"
She got her chill wet hands to her forehead, palms grinding her eyebrows. She rolled her face into the pillow. In this hammer of pain she could hear another voice—it was Mary—crying: "Oh, the poor lamb! There, now—you go on, ma'am. There, Miss Ginny —"
"Hello," Virginia murmured, perplexed by the positiveness with which she could recognize Doctor Verney by his hands, by touch and a distinctive washed smell. His grave, oval face and intent brown eyes moved, smiling. "Hello, Ginny. What have you been up to?"
"I just sort of fainted, I guess —" But fainting, she saw at once, did not in the least describe it. "Have I been asleep?"
"I guess you have. How do you feel?"
"I'm all right. My head hurt so damn much; but not now."
"Well, we'll fix you up in a hurry. Let's see the tongue. Now, wide open. That's it. All right."
"Am I going to be well? I mean, Monday. Am I—"
"I don't know why not! Only you mustn't keep getting out of bed. A little fever can weaken you a lot. Know that now, don't you?"
"I had a nose bleed."
"That's a nuisance; but at least it doesn't hurt much, does it? You stay in bed to-day and to-morrow. Saturday you ought to be all right. What would you like to eat?"
"Nothing."
"How about some ice-cream?"
The Last Adam Page 15
