“Don’t worry, Martha,” he said. “There isn’t anything wrong with your heart.” Dr. Hedler frowned. “Louis,” said Jonathan, “I’ve a case down the hall I’d like to discuss with you.”
“One of yours? Don’t tell me, Jon, that you give a fig for my opinion!”
“There’s always a first time,” said the younger doctor. “Coming, Bob? Martha, I’ll come in again before I leave.”
Jon carefully shut the door behind him, and the three doctors stood alone in the carpeted corridor. “Well?” said Dr. Hedler, with impatience. “Where is your patient?”
“You’ve just seen her, Louis. And we just came from the laboratories, remember.”
“Yes, yes, so you said! You and your highfalutin slides and tests! Anemia, that’s what you said, isn’t it?”
“To Martha, yes. To you, no.” He turned to Robert. “Dr. Morgan guessed it at first examination; it was only confirmed by the blood test. Bob, tell Louis what we found.”
“Acute leukemia,” said Robert.
Dr. Hedler’s mouth fell open with an audible sound. His eyes popped. He swung to Jonathan. “Why, you’re crazy! Jonathan, you don’t believe what a young fella just out of the ranks of interns says, do you?”
“I do. I believed it last night, before the blood test.”
“Crazy, crazy! Never heard anything so preposterous in my life! It’s insane. Why, that disease is so rare that hardly any of us see a case for ourselves in a whole lifetime! As rare as an angel in hell!”
“It depends on the kind of angel,” said Jonathan. “Louis, stop gulping. The child has acute leukemia. I’d tell you exactly what we saw in the smear, but they’d be only words to you. You must take our word for it.”
“You arrogant young pup, with your scientific ideas!” Dr. Hedler was scarlet with rage. “Do you know what you’re doing? You’re condemning that beautiful little girl to death!”
“Not I,” said Jonathan. “God did.”
“Blasphemous, too.” Dr. Hedler was sweating, though the corridor was cool. He regarded Jonathan with hatred. “No, I won’t take your word for it! The child has rheumatic fever—”
“You’re not her physician, Louis. I am.”
Dr. Hedler breathed heavily. He was incredulous. “Are you going to tell her parents this—this enormity, this guess of yours?”
“It isn’t a guess, Louis. I’ve seen eight cases over the past ten years. It’s becoming more common. Twenty years ago only one doctor in a thousand ever saw a case; thirty years ago only one doctor in five thousand saw one. But the Greeks had a name for it: the White Sickness. Remember Hippocrates? He diagnosed it.”
“I forbid you to tell her parents, Beth and Howard, this terrible thing! If it were possibly true, it would be bad enough. But a mere guess—”
“Not a guess. Louis, she isn’t your patient. You can’t forbid me to tell the truth to my patient’s parents, even if you are Chief-of-Staff. And I’m going to tell them today. They must be prepared. The child has only a little while to live, at the best. And there’s no treatment, Louis.”
“Cancer of the blood! That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Cancer, at her age!”
“One child in twenty thousand now has cancer in some form, Louis. Don’t you read the medical journals?”
Dr. Hedler seemed about to strike him. “The child has rheumatism, rheumatic fever! I’ve seen hundreds of cases. I was never wrong once. And I’ll tell Howard and Beth that you are a fool, and not to believe you. Leukemia! Bah!” He slapped his hand against the wall and waddled off, trembling with fury.
“Hambledon’s crowning medical glory,” said Jonathan. “Smiling old Louis.”
“Couldn’t we have a medical consultation?” Robert asked with misery. “Someone from Johns Hopkins?”
Jonathan regarded him narrowly. “Don’t you trust your own diagnosis? And mine?”
“I never saw a case,” said Robert, “before this.”
“I told you, I’ve seen eight. Not in this hospital, though, and not in the other hospital in town. In Pittsburgh. In New York. In Boston. In Philadelphia. Martha’s case is classic. Well?”
Robert studied his large pink hands. “There’s no cure; there’s no treatment. There are remissions—”
“Not for long. And not always. Do you want to lie to her parents, Bob?”
“No. No, of course not You don’t mean it, do you, that I must tell her parents?”
“No. I didn’t.” Jonathan smiled with bleak pity at him. “But I’d like you to be present. Break you in.
“And now for my other cases. I’m leaving them to you, Bob, with my compliments.”
”
‘The quality of mercy is not strained,‘except that God never heard that particular saying,” said Jonathan, pushing open another door which led into a handsome suite of rooms consisting of a private bathroom, sitting room and bedroom, all cheerfully and expensively furnished and open to sun and wind and perfumed by many flowers. Jonathan put his hand on Robert’s arm and said to him in a low voice, “This is a very interesting case. Old Jonas Witherby, eighty years old, old settler, old money, old mansion, good old bonds and stocks and fine old land. I want your opinion.”
They went together through the sitting room to the bedroom where, in a Morris rocker, sat an old man with the most beautiful and tranquil face Robert had ever seen among elderly people. He was small and daintily made, with tiny hands and feet and a noble head richly flowing with white and rippling hair. He had the eyes of a young child, clear and blue and steadfast, a snub nose, a sweetly smiling mouth and pink ears. He sat by the window looking at the sunshine and smiling musingly, and when he turned his long head, Robert felt warmth and peace rising in him and something very close to affection.
“Ah, dear Jonathan,” said Mr. Witherby, holding out one hand to the older doctor and winking. “I never see you without pleasure. How are you this glorious day?”
“Just terrible, Jonas,” said Jonathan. “Everything’s just as bad as it can be. By the way,
this
is my replacement, Dr. Robert Morgan.”
The old man clung to Jonathan’s hand and smiled merrily at Robert, then became sad. “How do you do, Doctor? You all seem to get younger all the time. Replacement for Jonathan, eh? You must truly persuade him to change his mind. What will Hambledon do without him?”
“Just jog along as meanly as ever,” said Jonathan. He sat down in another chair, crossed his long legs and put his hands in his pockets and studied Mr. Witherby with an ambiguous expression. “Never mind. We won’t repeat the old arguments for Bob’s benefit. As he will replace me, I am turning you over to him. With your permission, of course.”
“Certainly, certainly, dear boy!” Mr. Witherby smiled more radiantly than before and considered Robert with great interest. “Anyone you recommend—”
Jonathan stood up in his dark blue suit and gave the appearance, all at once, of extreme emaciation. He took Mr. Witherby’s chart, frowned at it, laid it down. “Still weak, I see. Still eating like that proverbial bird; I know birds; they eat all the time, all through the damned day. But your nurses note down, ‘ate breakfast like a bird.’ Silly old hags. How did you sleep?”
Mr. Witherby sighed. “Please sit down, Dr. Morgan. You will find that chair very comfortable; I like to look at young faces. Well, Jonathan, you know at my age one doesn’t sleep very well at all. I think, lying awake all night.”
“And you have plenty to think about.” Jonathan, still standing near the bowered dresser, looked at Robert. “Old Jonas here was a widower. Two sons, one fifty-three, one fifty-one. Both married, both deserted by their wives. Bill is in a private madhouse, Donald is a chronic alcoholic. DTs, most of the time. In a private sanitarium which dries him out, then looses him again. No daughters. No grandchildren. Wife,” said Jonathan in the bald tone of a clinician, “committed suicide. Very sad, wouldn’t you say?”
Robert was disturbed at this impersonal recital, which seemed cruel. He bent his head with apology to Mr. Witherby as if in some way he were guilty of Jonathan. But Mr. Witherby’s fine old face took on a sad melancholy and dejection and he folded his hands with resignation on his knees. “It was always said that I had everything, from birth, but in reality, in my old age, I have nothing.”
Jonathan snapped a pink rosebud from a vase and fixed it in his buttonhole. He was detached, as if no one were in this room but himself. He said, “Languid, listless, tired, enfeebled, anorexia, vague but disabling pains, sometimes severe headaches, though no hypertension, tachycardia frequently, some indications of mucous colitis, occasional rales in the lungs. Otherwise, no overt signs of disease. Well, Bob? Want to examine the specimen?”
Robert silently opened his bag and removed his stethoscope and various other instruments. No doubt, he thought, the sorrowful old man was suffering some psychosomatic ailments due to his unfortunate relatives and his disappointment in them. His examination was thorough. Mr. Witherby flaccidly submitted to everything as if nothing meant anything any longer to him. Finally Robert put away his instruments and looked long and earnestly at the old gentleman, his kind young eyes full of pity.
“No overt signs of disease,” he repeated.
Jonathan moved restlessly. He was not a man to fidget, but now it appeared to Robert that he was fidgeting. He went to the window, stared out, yawned. “When’s Priscilla due to arrive today?” he asked.
“Prissy?” Mr. Witherby smiled his enchanting smile. “In an hour or two, I think.” Jonathan looked over his shoulder at Robert. “Priscilla, or Prissy, is old Jonas’ second wife. Thirty years old, or a little older. A luscious piece.”
Mr. Witherby laughed in delight. “That she is, my boy, that she is!”
Robert stared. This made Jonathan chuckle. “A rare old bugger, this Jonas,” he said to Robert, making a rude sound. Robert flushed. Mr. Witherby laughed again. “You mustn’t listen to our dear Jonathan,” he said, putting his little hand on Jonathan’s blue alpaca sleeve. “He loves to shock. You must really see Prissy. The Florodora Sextette are witches in comparison. There’s only one girl prettier in all Pennsylvania—” and now he smiled slyly at Jonathan—“and that’s Jennifer Heger, whom Jonathan loves to call his niece.”
Well, thought Robert, I suppose you can’t blame the old gentleman. He has to have some happiness in his life. Jonathan said, “Priscilla was the town’s most expensive doxy. I assume you know what a doxy is, Bob?”
“Now, now, Jonathan,” said Mr. Witherby, not in the least offended. In fact, he laughed again. “Didn’t David, in his old age, have a plump young maiden to sleep with him to warm his old bones?”
“But Prissy hasn’t been a maiden since she was sixteen, if not younger. But a fastidious little bitch, always. Never slept with anyone for less than fifty dollars; mostly more,” said Jonathan. “Look at Bob. He’s blushing again.”
Robert stared at him helplessly. “Well,” said Jonathan, with considerable impatience. “Where’s that nose of yours? Smell anything?”
“What a blackguard you are,” said Mr. Witherby fondly, and watching Robert with renewed interest. “Here I am, an old man of as many afflictions as Job, and Jonathan can do nothing but tease me. I came in here after a collapse—”
“Something odd about that collapse,” said Jonathan, as if meditating. “At first I thought you were trying to show Prissy that you still had it and almost dropped dead trying. Then I decided that Prissy had fed you a little something so she could slip out for some clean air. Come on, Jonas, what was it?”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Witherby. “You are very disturbing and uncouth, Jonathan. You will give Dr. Morgan some very peculiar ideas about me.” His ancient yet angelic face beamed on the younger doctor. “I’ve known Jonathan since he was born and he was always like this. Very startling and unpredictable and forever trying to shock others with the rudest language. But I know him! A kinder heart never beat, a more gentle soul—”
“Shut up,” said Jonathan. “Don’t be such a sanctimonious scoundrel, Jonas.” He looked at Robert sharply and frowned. “Well? Where’s that nose?”
What in God’s name does he want me to say? asked Robert with that new anger of his. He’s been insulting this gentle old man steadily, and his young wife—Robert lifted his head with a jerk. There were those middle-aged sons, one mad, one a drunkard; there had been a wife, who had taken her life. Robert turned his eyes on Mr. Witherby and studied him with more concentration. Then indeed he did smell something and he said to himself, The stench of evil.
He was horrified at the thought. Mr. Witherby, as he had done with Jonathan, put his hand on Robert’s arm and the muscles in that arm involuntarily stiffened. “Do I smell badly?” asked Mr. Witherby, in a sweet and coaxing tone. “I was just bathed and powdered like a baby!”
Still clutching Robert’s arm, he said to Jonathan, “You’ve almost persuaded me to contribute to that tuberculosis ward for indigent children, dear boy, at the Friends’. A little more of your refreshing conversation and I’ll give you my check. And won’t stop payment on it!” He laughed joyously.
I must have been mistaken, thought Robert, and stood very still. It was my imagination, and Jonathan’s prompting, that made me smell corruption.
“If you do give me that check,” said Jonathan, “it’ll be the first decent thing you ever did in your life. You might even get a reprieve and go to purgatory rather than to hell. But you don’t believe in either, do you?”
“Jonathan! I’m a Christian! Ask the Reverend Mr. Wilson— Oh, Jonathan, you are teasing me again.”