by Kris Neville
“I wondered where you’d been?” she said. “I hoped you’d be by this afternoon.”
“I intended to come earlier. I got tied up. And how are you now? Better than this morning?”
“Yes.” She wanted to reach out and touch him. “I’m much better, now.”
Looking into her face, into her eyes, deep and innocent, into her youth, Wing felt a surge of new life. Gone was the sense of weariness and frustration that had been building a shell of insensitivity against his emotions. He felt tender and kind, and the world seemed full of a potent and beautiful magic. He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Well, well,” he said. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk.”
Without taking her eyes from his, she lay back. She moved her hand in coy distraction. She half pouted at him. “Why so solemn?”
“I? Am I, now? Tired, perhaps.” He was disappointed that there was no outward transformation in his face. For a moment she had undone reality, and now she called it back. I shouldn’t work so hard, he thought. I guess it’s beginning to show. But it’s tiredness that isn’t physical, Bettyann . . . He looked around the clean bright room . . . It’s gone, he marveled.
Poor dear, she thought. “Have—have you seen Mr. Starke today?”
“He’s about the same.”
Those were terrible words, filled with ice, and they slammed into her with brutal force.
He can’t be! she cried to herself. Not, not after I’ve done all I can! Her thoughts swirled desperately to escape defeat.
I stopped it! I did, I know I did. You’ve got to see that. Use X rays again, something, anything. I’ve stopped it. Follow up on that!
She looked away from Wing suddenly. She could almost sense his mind throbbing with life, she could almost touch it. She closed her eyes, and she reached out toward that living mind, and she touched fingers of thought to it. I’ve arrested the cancer. Do whatever is necessary now, finish the job, heal him.
She concentrated, seeking to give the appeal substance and project it across the distance between two minds. Then to reinforce the thought, she brought up all her wordless knowledge of cancer and held it before her for an instant and hurled it at him with all the strength of her mind. See! she cried, see! This is what cancer is!, what it looks like, and this is how I stopped the growth. I don’t understand it, its nature, its causes, I only know what I felt and what I did. I haven’t any specialized knowledge. But you have. Use my information. Take it. Here! Here! Now see what you have to do!
“Am I so hard to look at?” he said. And no sooner were the words released than he felt foolish. “Well,” he said, all business, “let’s feel your pulse and listen to your heart and take a little blood. Turn around, now.”
She looked back at him. “No, Dr. Wing. You’re not . . . hard to look at.”
He discovered that her eyes were disconcerting. He tried to remember something that he had heard not long ago and which at the time he had scarcely noted. “I love you,” she had said. I wonder of whom she was thinking, he thought with a passionate objectivity that denied his own existence down to his very finger tips.
After he had completed his examination, Wing left and phoned Dave. “She’s fine,” he said. “By God, as near as I can tell, there’s nothing wrong with her. I’m going to run some more lab tests tomorrow, but there’s no sense in her staying here. Why don’t you have Jane come over and get her in the morning, okay? Fine. Yes, I’ll stop by tomorrow and look at her again. And see that she stays in bed, too. I don’t want her wandering around again.”
He left the hospital, and, as he drew his coat more securely around him, crossing to his car, he paused and looked up. The sky was clear. The moon was pale and misty. The sun was a huge globe of fire sinking away to some distant dawn. The air was crisp and cold and probed icily into his lungs. He breathed deeply and stood unmoving. He was listening for something, although he did not know for what. From far off he heard the sound of children at play and then the lone voice of an adult calling, “Jimmie! Jimmie! Suppertime 1
Smiling, he went to his car.
He thought with renewed affection of the neglected laboratory in the back of his office. I’m still young, he thought. I’ve just gotten lazy. Or tired. Tired, I guess.
New ideas suddenly began to break around him, and he greeted them with an enthusiasm he had not felt for years. His mind was extremely alert. Now, old man Starke . . .
For a moment he seemed poised before a startling discovery. It was almost as if he had somehow, in one clear instant of insight, grasped the basic nature of cancer and understood it. Half a dozen possible approaches to a cure tumbled over one another. If one were to—if a man attempted—if you could only . . .
He could almost visualize the individual malignant cells. And if one could only isolate this factor, here, here . . .
He halted the car at a stop sign. His concentration was interrupted. Ah, hell, he thought. That’s over. What can I do? I haven’t kept up with the research; not the way I should. The way—I—should. Hell, there’s too much going on to keep up with. A man can’t. Even if I really had something, I’d probably go off half cocked.
No, there are too many smart cookies who aren’t getting anywhere. I’m a GP, although I used to think . . . I suppose all the good ideas don’t come from bright young men in laboratories. Pasteur didn’t even have a degree. Still. . .
Ah, you! Don’t even trust your own biopsis. Can’t even diagnose a simple . . . Simple? Well, what the devil is wrong with her?
He set the car in motion again. Yes, but you can fix a broken arm!
Maybe I should, he thought, give the old man an exposure of X rays. Have to move him out of there, though . . . No. What’s the point in it? I mean. Ought to take another bit of tissue. Might find out something.
Find out what?
Hell, I don’t know.
Seemed to be better, that’s funny. Quite a bit better. You don’t suppose . . . No!
Although—didn’t I read about an occasional spontaneous cure of cancer? Where did I read that? The . . . oh, yes, somebody checked. Always (the checker said, the specialist said) an incorrect diagnosis explains it. That’s probably right. Still.
Where did I get that silly idea of trying X rays? It’s far too deep and deadly for X rays.
But I could use the microscope, all right. That wouldn’t hurt anything.
Haul it out.
Damn, damn, damn, he thought wearily.
No, it’s not for me, he thought. I’m a GP, and I’ll let it go at that. What’s a good idea? Anybody can have a good idea. Need knowledge. That’s the whole thing. What you know . . .
My God, I wish Peters would finally pay his damned bill! I’m getting sick and tired of it. It isn’t as if he hasn’t got the money. If Evelyn didn’t keep bringing it up . . . Hell of a nurse in that respect: what does she want me to do, go out and dun him personally? (Serve him right, serve him right if I did.) Like to tell him—what does she bother me with stuff like that for? Wish she wouldn’t. Wish. Stuff like that’s not my department.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes.
We’ll send Bettyann off home Monday. Keep her there in bed. Under observation. Out of trouble. Keep her away from old man Starke . . . Why?
Damned if I know . . . But keep her away from him.
She’s a strange one. She’s—when she looks at you. Soft skin. Damned pretty girl. Those lips . . .
He drew up before his house. Suddenly his mind seemed filled with her.
Bettyann, he said, half aloud. Bettyann. I wish . . .
My God, he thought, she’s twenty years younger than you are! But it would be nice, though. To have her look after you, I mean. Just to know you could see her, have her around every day.
When Jane brought Bettyann home, there was a letter waiting. “Wait till you get into bed to open it.” Jane said.
It was from the Dean. It hoped the illness in the family was not as serious as it had seemed.
“Illness?�
� Jane said.
“I had to explain why I left. I didn’t have a chance to tell anyone. I wrote a letter. I didn’t want the college to get upset, think they’d lost me—think I was kidnaped—send hysterical telegrams to you.”
“Oh,” Jane said.
“She wants to know if I’ll be back for the start of next semester. That’s only three weeks away.”
“If you’re feeling all right, dear, perhaps . . .”
“She talked to my teachers, and they waived the finals. They’re giving me full credit and my mid-term grades.”
“That’s wonderful!”
Bettyann dropped the letter and Jane bent to pick it up.
Why is everyone so good to me? Bettyann thought. To me. She turned over and buried her face in the pillow.
Jane stood beside the bed. She sensed Bettyann’s emotions, and she could think of nothing to say. She left her silently. It was all she could do to keep her feet from hurrying. Downstairs, she picked up the phone and dialed Dave at work. “Dave! Guess what!” She held up the letter in order to read it. “Listen to this!”
It did Bettyann no good to protest; she had to stay in bed. “Dr. Wing, this is silly!” she said Tuesday. She was angry with him, but instantly she repented. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” She wanted terribly just to call him Jerry, Jerry, dear.
“And I suppose,” Wind said, “you’ll want to know how he’s doing today? He had an easy night.”
“. . . have you tried treating him with X rays? Mightn’t that . . .?”
An uncertain little thrill touched Wing briefly. Not long ago he remembered thinking, as if the thought had stolen into his mind, of trying X rays on the old man. “You know,” he said, “that occurred to me the other day. God knows why. You wouldn’t use X rays for a deep-seated cancer like that . . . No, Bettyann. If you get it in time, you can sometimes localize it and destroy it. But if you don’t—if it once gets away from you—there’s not much you can do.”
“Maybe,” Bettyann said, “maybe the cancer’s stopped growing. How can you tell? Maybe there was something you did in your treatment that actually stopped it.”
“Things don’t happen like that.”
“But you said he’s better . . .”
“Temporarily. It’s only superficial.”
“He’s not going to die,” Bettyann said intently.
“He isn’t?”
I mean, I’ve just got a feeling, Dr. Wing. He’s not.”
“No, Bettyann, no. Not a chance. Not one in a million.”
“He’s not! Oh, now, please. We don’t want to argue. I don’t like it, to argue with you. I like so much better to agree with you. Like a good . . . patient should.”
“That’s the spirit.” He stood up. “Well, I’ve got to move along.”
“Don’t go yet! Please!”
“I’d like to stay, Bettyann,” Wing said. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than sit here all afternoon with you.”
True, he thought. That’s true: I don’t want to leave you.
“You’ll come by tomorrow?”
“I’ll be by. But not really for a professional visit. Just to see you aren’t up helling around. You’re going to stay there for a little while and keep out of trouble.”
“Good-by, Doctor,” she said.
By Wednesday she was so frustrated she could have wept. To forestall boredom, she changed various part of her body into amusing shapes. Take the foot now and web it for long-distance swimming, so. The thigh, here, slenderize it to sculptured sleekness; and the calf of the legah . . . What a pinup-girl I could be! (And how would Jerry react to me in a slinky formal with everything adjusted around and about and smelling of some daringly fatal cologne like Black Widow’s Insanity?)
She tossed and turned and set her lips and promised herself: I’m going to get up come hell or high water!
She imagined herself at some exotic party. (Well, why not? I’m an adult now. Nearly.) There would be a huge dance floor full of moonlight. Jerry would hold her tightly, and they would waltz. They would be the perfect couple, and the subject of universal approbation and envy.
And then, her fancies dissolving, she decided that perhaps she wasn’t really the sophisticated type.
She picked up her book and resumed reading.
But after a while her attention wandered. She day-dreamed again. She would take into account all of Jerry’s smooth and considerate gestures—the grace with which he would light her cigarette (it seemed incumbent on her to be smoking), how deftly he would field her coat, how properly he would open doors and place chairs for her. And in return for all these small, visible manifestations of captivity, she would reward him with love and understanding.
Oh! Nonsense! she thought.
Jerry, Jerry! Let me get up. I’ll be a good girl. And then: Jerry, dear, I do love you, Jerry.
Jane stopped Wing as he was leaving on Thursday.
“Dr. Wing! Doctor!” she called. “Will she be able to go back to school in another week?”
Hat in hand he stopped “Oh? Is she going back that soon? I had thought . . .” He did not finish the sentence. Thought what? he asked himself. An angry welter of emotions rose in him seemingly out of nowhere. A thief was coming to steal something intangible away from him.
“Her Dean wrote her. They want her to come back for next semester.”
She’ll go back to school, Wing thought, and she’ll change, and she’ll find some idiot freshman utterly unworthy of her; and when she comes back this summer, she will come with a new love to remember and she will be a new personality.
“Jane, I’ve told you, I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with her. I talked to Dr. Albertson again yesterday and told him what I’d been doing. He doesn’t know either.”
“She seems all right now,” Jane said. “She looks so healthy, so full of energy.”
Wing felt that if she were to go away now, he would lose her forever. He was suddenly at a loss to define his professional responsibility. It was terribly important to him that she remain. He recognized the heartbreaking pace of time. A moment, brief as a candle in terms of a lifetime and possessed of an impossible brightness, was fading and would never recur: for Bettyann was in love with him. He viewed this as objectively as though it were a clinical detail. He was unable to face with equal candor his own emotions because he dared not let them become real and be recognized as elements of the real world. And yet if she returned to Smith, the barrier of dreams between the two compartments of himself would collapse; the fantasy world would lose its colors and loss and sadness would seep outward into his life.
“Well, Jane.” he heard himself saying, “I’d say, yes. If nothing else happens, I’d say it would be all right.” With a sense of frightening emptiness, he turned to the door. “Oh!” he said. “I don’t think there’s much point in my coming around tomorrow. Unless you call tire, I won’t look in until one day next week.”
Saturday morning was clear and warmer. Bettyann awoke with the first direct sunlight. Within an hour the snow was melting. Little plinks of water dripped from the icicles under the eaves.
She lay listening for her parents to get up, and when she heard them stirring, she got out of bed and tiptoed to the closet. She dressed herself quickly.
There! she thought. I’m up! Thank God, I’m up! I’ve humored them all far too long, site thought.
Dr. Wing, she thought, bearing down heavily on the professional sound. Stay in bed, she mimicked his voice.
Where was he?
Jerry! she thought. Why didn’t you come Yesterday? There was a dull ache in her heart. He doesn’t care. I’m just another patient. Oh, Jerry, Jerry, can’t you see! Her lips thinned in vexation as she brushed her hair.
He could have phoned! she thought. Well, I won’t put up with it.
He’ll see.
I’ll go right down to his office. I’ll find out how old Mr. Starke is. I’ll sit on his desk. I’ll ask him foolish questions. I’ll ha
unt him all day until he’ll wish he’d never heard my name.
He’ll see.
Gathering up her toothbrush, she trooped resolutely to the bathroom.
When she came downstairs, Jane was just starting breakfast.
“What are you doing up!” Dave said.
She dropped into a chair. “I had to. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I won’t get sick again. I promise you. Not ever again. I couldn’t stand it!”
“We’d better phone Dr. Wing and find out what he says,” Jane said.
“Can’t keep her in bed forever,” Dave said.
“I’ve read, I’ve read, I’ve read! I’ve read Bulwer-Lytton’s Last Days of Pompeii, I’ve read James Jones’ From Here to Eternity, I’ve read Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel, I’ve read a Western novel of yours. I’ve read How to Play Bridge in Ten Easy Lessons, I’ve read nineteen of E. Haideiman-Julius’ Little Blue Books and I now know what every young girl should know, and I’ve read part of Plato’s Republic. I’m never going to bed again!”
Dave laughed. “Okay, okay, okay!”
But after breakfast Jane insisted on phoning Wing.
“It’s all right,” Jane said. “He said he guessed we’d kept her in bed as long as physically possible. And he wants you to come down to see him this morning if you can, Bettyann.”
“I’ll drive you down, and I guess you can walk back, if you want to, or take a cab. But I’ve got to go over to Frank’s and pick up my shotgun first, if you don’t mind the ride.”
“Good, good,” Bettyann said. She hurried for her coat. “I’ll be ready in a second.”
“Did he say what he wanted her for?” Dave asked.
“No. I imagine he wants to make some tests or something.”
In the car, Bettyann felt that she had never been happier. The bright sunshine glistened on the windows of the houses. The sky was blue and distant. Under the tires of the car, the melting snow slushed sleepily.
She’s coming out of it fine, Dave thought. She’s recovering from whatever she learned about her parents. When she gets back from Smith next spring, she’ll tell us then what she’s afraid to now, and we’ll laugh about it together.
