by Paul Ableman
“Let’s consult a doctor, Tornado. Let’s find out if there’s anything the matter?”
“Of course, there’s nothing the matter, my love. And you know something? I’m still not ready to welcome a child.”
“But you’ll want one some day, won’t you, Tornado? Oh yes, you must have a son.”
“There’ll be time enough—”
“But there won’t! If there is something wrong—if my—my tubes are blocked, which I think is what goes wrong with tubes whatever they are—they might get—well, all cemented up if we don’t do something about it. Let’s go to a doctor, Titch.”
“No—”
“But—”
“I said, no!”
The ferocity in my voice took me by surprise, Horace, and later I tried to analyse why I had reacted so violently to Nat’s suggestion. It was true that I wasn’t desperate to have kids but it was also true that I wouldn’t have minded if she’d whispered to me one day that she was pregnant. So why did I snarl at her when she suggested we get checked out? That was it, Horace! Checked out! Me! Tornado Pratt! Or his lady-queen, my wife! Checked out, like a specimen, like an object! At the thought, a crimson cloud of rage boiled up around my head. Goddamm it, when I wanted babies, I would make babies. When I was ready to secure my lineage and succession, I would smite my lady with my staff and she would gush forth children. The idea of being helped by a doctor to found my own dynasty was humiliating. Firmly, but no longer ferociously, I amplified:
“No doctors, Nat. When the time comes to have a baby, we’ll have a baby but we’re not going to any quack and I don’t want to hear another thing about it.”
She saw that I meant it, Horace, and she never did raise the subject again but I could tell that she often brooded about her empty womb. Funny thing is, Horace, my lady was a true lady. She was the daughter of an English marquis and yet she was totally free of the electric pride that made me crackle with rage when brushed by some suggestion that seemed to demean me. She had no objections to being helped by doctors or indeed by anyone. Half a year or so later, I said to her, with a wry smile:
“Okay, honey, I guess we’re not going to make it on our own. I’m talking about kids. See if you can get us the name of a good doctor.”
And that, Horace, is how we came to encounter Dr Ezra Schumacher. He was a skinny Jew and when I first saw him, he made me think of the joker in a pack of cards. He had a tremendous, angular nose, a face as thin as a trout’s and bulging eyes. I frowned at the thought of such a freak poking about in Nat’s secret innards. And I said to him:
“Okay, Doc, before we start the tests I’d like to have your views.”
“You would, huh?” asked Schumacher, goggling at me and chomping on gum. “Did you bring a chicken?”
“How do you mean?”
“Haruspication.”
“What?”
“Reading the guts. You know, you kill the chicken, pull out the guts and then you can read the future from them. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He went on gazing at me, Horace, out of his huge pop eyes and I began to feel hostility grow inside me. I could tell he was kidding me and it jarred my pride. He continued:
“If you’re not interested in haruspication and you’re not interested in medicine, then why have you come?”
“Now look, Doctor, I want—”
“You want to hear my views on your case. Before I’ve examined you—either of you. But until I’ve examined you, I haven’t got any views on your case. I’m a medical man not a soothsayer. Let me ask you something, Mr Pratt, do you know what the pancreas is?”
“Part of the innards.”
“Eloquently put, Mr Pratt. Could you possibly state, in a few succinct words, what the pancreas does?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Neither could most people—outside the medical profession. I wonder if you know what the liver does—or the spleen? You probably realize that the heart beats, but I wonder if you could draw me a diagram of the heart, Mr Pratt? In my experience, most people know less about the inside of their bodies than they do about the inside of their cars. This is very strange, really, because you’d think it would be a subject dear to them. Now I know quite a bit about the insides of people, Mr Pratt, and what I know has suggested to me how much I don’t know. I believe you’re a millionaire, Mr Pratt?”
I didn’t like this wise-cracking freak, Horace, and I made no reply.
“It would probably be unfair to accuse you of just shuffling papers, Mr Pratt. I know that getting anywhere in this world means you have to be smarter than thousands of other guys who would be in your place if they could. I’m sure you have a sound grasp of your field. Nevertheless, will you believe me when I say that the units with which you operate are as static as stones and as inert as lead compared to the cells and tissues of the human body? You see, Mr Pratt, even after exhaustive physical examination by an A-1 diagnostician like myself, even after laboratory tests, it is still a challenge to know just what is going on inside a particular human body. This is because a man—and, of course, a woman too—is not a crude assembly of inert parts like a car or even a watch but a dynamic assembly of individually dynamic parts. Each sub-division of the whole is itself a living entity. The simplest statement a doctor can make may be contradicted by the human body’s almost infinite capacity for surprising. I have seen three doctors pronounce dead a man who lived to study medicine. I have seen infected wounds heal without treatment and gaping wounds appear, for no apparent reason, in healthy tissue. I have even seen Indians think themselves to death because a medicine man told them they would die. Now it is possible that when I examine you, I will find manifest and obvious reasons for your failure to have a child. But I may also find that the results of all the tests I make are inconclusive and that it is beyond my skill to help. I will be patient and I will attempt, as long as any hope remains, to find the impediment so it can be mended. But I will not, and cannot, Mr Pratt, offer any views at all until I have made an examination.”
And, cool as peppermint, Horace, he ushers Nat into his consulting-room. By that time, Horace, I had already thawed somewhat towards this voluble, gum-chewing doctor and subsequently he became a close friend of mine. And that is just the reason I’ve been telling you all this, Horace. Something has gone wrong with my head and the only person who can put it right is Ezra Schumacher, who was known as “Chuck” to his friends. I had a cable from him this morning, stating: dear old buddy, should you happen to get a stroke today, send for me at once. So what I want you to do right now, Horace, is cable Ezra Schumacher—sometimes we called him “Chuck”—to hustle out here and vanquish the crimson armies that are storming the citadel of my life. Ezra has the modern weapons that can lick them.
PRATT’S TIME OF PAIN
You see—did I mention? I had some scheme for going into politics. Seems inconceivable now, Horace, that I could have—still I did—back about nineteen twenty-eight—thought I’d get me elected junior senator for Illinois and then maybe—then what? Become maybe—maybe President—and then change—some good and—why didn’t I? Because—because—oh God! Nat began to die. So it was not just Pratt’s time of pain but also
NAT’S TIME OF PAIN
First thing she just began to get sick if we stayed out drinking. She might get a pain in the stomach. At first, I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just pretending in order to get me home and away from the booze. All my life, Horace, I have shown a tendency to drink too much. My strong constitution has normally protected me from the adverse effects although it is possible that the reason I have been struck down on this atoll is because I have softened my arteries with alcohol. Before, I was in fine shape, very vigorous for a man of seventy-two and quite capable of screwing two dames in one day. But now the blood-fountain has erupted in my brain and must drown the personality of Tornado Pratt.
So one day, when we were having a party in a circus ring, Nat started complaining about the pain. Supposing
she was feigning the disorder, I just snapped to some stooge: “get my car” and then I sent Nat home alone in the car, making it clear to her, in a kindly but firm way, that I did not believe her and had caught on that she was just trying to stop me drinking. But that was one of the most fantastic parties I ever gave, Horace, and you couldn’t have dragged me away with a team.
Imagine an elephant with a bar on its back! We had that. Imagine police captains swigging bootleg gin on a flying trapeze. I saw it that night. Imagine a United States’ congressman in a clown’s baggy pants and painted red nose volleying custard pies at a supreme Court judge. It happened on that occasion. Imagine a hundred glittering girls wafting through the air in silver pants and bras. Cost fifty thousand bucks that party, Horace. Everyone behaved like a nut with that fierce determination to let go which is only shown by those who normally have to keep a rigid grip on their outlines. I danced with a lion and dove a hundred feet into a net. I drank maybe a quart of imported scotch and it turned my brain into a furnace of delight. So I was not sympathetic when Nat said she had a pain and I sent her home with the chauffeur.
After that evening, she didn’t complain much, because of her desire not to upset me and it was about three months later I noticed she was white and biting her lip. My heart took a dive and I rushed her to Schumacher. I could see he knew there was something wrong but he couldn’t come up with the answer at first and he tried to reassure me. Then, about a month later, he first got it to show up on an X-ray. Nat had cancer of the stomach.
She lost fifteen pounds in weight. She was like a little girl with big eyes. I got Ezra to find out who was the best surgeon in America and then I flew to New York and offered him a huge sum of money to operate on Nat. That doctor turned out to be a communist and would not put Nat forwards even for any amount of money. So then I came at him with:
“Okay, Doc, don’t do it for money. I won’t pay you a thing. But I’m still asking you to fly back with me to Chicago and operate. I tell you why. I’ll give away all my money to the poor. I’ll be a poor man myself for the rest of my life. I give you my word. What I’m asking you now, Doc, is to operate on my wife, not because I pay you more than others and not because I have any claim on a man with your beliefs but just because I love her so much. I promise you this, Doc, there is no one on your waiting list who loves anyone as much as I love my Nat. There just couldn’t be.”
And he came, Horace, and he operated on Nat. The operation was a success but he had to cut away half her stomach. And from then on Nat had great trouble with her digestion. She put on a little weight, not much. I took her travelling to find the best climate for her and we were happy in Australia for a while.
About two years later, she began to deteriorate and I took her back to Ezra in Chicago. This time he diagnosed cancer of the liver. And this time it was inoperable. There was only one place where there was any hope, a hospital in Milwaukee where some doctor had invented a method of treating cancer with a special drug and heat. Ezra said it was the best bet. I asked him:
“Will she be cured, Chuck?”
“It’s possible, Tornado. The body is a wondrous thing. But it would be safer for you to assume she won’t be.”
It took her nine months to die, Horace. At first she seemed to respond to the heat treatment and, after about three months, the doctor said we could go for a drive in the country. We had a terrific day, Horace. It was early spring and the woods were sprouting. After lunch, we decided to take a walk. The nurse had said we should take it very easy but Nat felt so well she persuaded me we should walk. It was one of those days which are still dank from winter but across which, every so often, waft intoxicating hints of spring. These whisked us back to the cliffs of Devon and the pine trails of Carolina. Hand in hand, we cantered down a hill and ahead saw a longish trail winding up through maple woods. I said:
“We’ve got to reach the top, Nat.”
She looked sceptical.
“I’ll never make it, Titch.”
For answer, Horace, I whinnied and crouched down and when Nat had climbed aboard I went bounding up the trail with her on my back. It was a pretty big effort, even for me, but in the end I staggered out of the maple wood and there, Horace, the countryside fell away beneath us into a little gully with a stream and then into forest and meadow land which rolled away to the horizon. It was one of the finest views I ever saw, Horace, and Nat, still mounted on my back, gasped. I put her down, Horace, and we settled ourselves in a little hollow, half full of dry leaves, that commanded that amazing view and there we had our last true talk. I began:
“What do you say, honey, shall we build us a house here?”
“Titch, I think I’m going to die.”
When she said this, Horace, so calm and matter-of-fact, anguish welled up in me and I just gulped and moaned: “oh no—oh no”—shaking my head from side to side. She put out her arm, Horace, and pulled me down against her, my head against her breast, as if I was the afflicted one.
“Oh Titch, I am sorry. I don’t want to leave you. I’d like to be with you and look after you until you’re old—but we have to face facts, Titch.”
I could hardly speak but just gasped: “Why?”
“There isn’t much sense in this world, Titch. I realized that when I was quite young. The universe hasn’t got much concern for people, Titch.”
“It’ll kill me. I can’t stand it—I can’t go on.”
“I’ll be with you, Titch. My love will—because love is never destroyed in the world. We’ve had eight years, Titch, and that’s the same fraction of eternity as a lifetime.”
“Nat—this afternoon I had to carry you some, but you’re stronger than you have been. You could be getting better.”
She smiled and stroked my cheek.
“You never know, Titch.”
I had to ask her, Horace.
“Do you want to go home?”
“To England? Oddly enough, not in the least. I suppose it’s because you’re my home now. Tornado. Mark you, I will want to see Daddy. You’ll send for him won’t you—in good time?”
She was serene, Horace, and she diffused that serenity through me. In the late afternoon, we walked slowly back through the maple wood to the car but when we reached it, Nat surprised me. I was about to help her in when she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me fiercely. I exclaimed:
“Nat. My love! My dear—what is it?”
And I felt the cool wet of her tears on my neck then, Horace, as she shook me slightly with her arms and begged:
“Don’t forget me, Titch—ever—ever—”
I think that’s how it was, Horace, but I’m not one hundred per cent sure. I know we had one day in the country before she began to deteriorate but it’s possible it wasn’t a fine day but a foggy day or a rainy day. There may even have been a blizzard gusting. I’m not even certain we entered a maple wood although I distinctly remember carrying Nat on my back. Trouble is there was this book I once read which had a girl in it who was dying and her guy carried her piggy-back through the woods and they had an emotional talk. But I’m pretty sure I’m not confusing that book with what really happened. I mean, sprawled here, Horace, with my body’s muscles dimmed, the muscles of my brain can still feel that weight of Nat near fifty years ago. So it must have happened the way I’ve told it, mustn’t it? The past is real, boy, isn’t it?
PRATT-TAT-TAT
For the next couple of months I was with Nat all the time. I slept in the Ritz Hotel where I had my breakfast sent up to my suite. Then I would gulp it as I dressed and shaved and then dash about four blocks to the hospital. It was quicker than taking the car.
Nat had a private room which I hated. It was dead white in colour and its window looked out on to another wing of the hospital. At first I tried to get permission to decorate it more cheerfully but they wouldn’t let me. They said the smell of paint would distress Nat. I said: “Well, move her while it’s being done.” But they wouldn’t agree. Each time I entered that r
oom it dazzled me by its coldness. Nat pretended she didn’t mind but I believed that she did mind.
I was going home one evening late when, to clear my buzzing head, I walked in the back streets awhile. In a basement I saw a guy painting at an easel and, just on impulse, I went down and knocked at his door. He was a guy of about forty-five and he told me that he lived, or starved, on ten bucks a week. All around the room were these big canvasses bursting with life and colour. I offered him five hundred dollars in cash for three of them and Elmer Drake (now you know), at first pretty sceptical about the offer, watched me peel off the big bills and then flopped down on a chair and exclaimed:
“Mister, you’re jumping the gun. I’m not due to be posthumous for a couple of weeks yet!”
Later, I learned that Elmer really had been near starvation when I discovered him. Five years later the “Van Gogh of Milwaukee”, as the press began to call him, was the most successful American artist and I reckon he’s still one of the best—or at least that his pictures are amongst the best we’ve produced. Elmer himself was blown up in southern Italy where, a special operations’ colonel, he was trying to salvage a booby-trapped painting from a collapsing villa in the latter part of the second world war.
