Authors: James Gould Cozzens
He would be glad to get on, George Bull recognized, but his awareness of the fact that he had cut Doctor Bull out on what ought to be Doctor Bull's best paying patients made him anxious not to add incivility to that injury. George Bull grinned again, enjoying Doctor Verney's delicacy. "Yes," he said, "the spring crop's beginning to come in. I've been running round dealing out castor-oil for two days now. Regular epidemic. Every two minutes the telephone rings and somebody doesn't feel so good. Wish I could soak them twenty dollars a visit. That's one of the greatest modern contributions to medical science. Just thinking about it cures half the people who wake up imagining they're sick. Well, I'll have to be getting on. Quite a car, this —" He banged his left fist approvingly on the door top. "You ought to send a snapshot of it to the editor of the
Journal.
Stop all this belly-aching about starving country physicians." He grinne'd again and waved his hand. Doctor Verney stepped on the starter, but for a minute nothing happened as he had forgotten to turn on the ignition. Absorbed in grinning at this slightly uneasy departure, George Bull realized that someone had come up casually and joined him. "Hello, Henry," he nodded, half turning his head. "There's the kind of car you want. Planning to get one next month?"
Henry Harris' face warmed to his silent smile. "Is that when they begin giving them away?" he asked.
They stood watching it down past the end of the green in silence. "Why, no," George Bull said. "But the taxes ought to be along pretty soon. You aren't going to waste them on civic improvements, are you?"
Steadily smiling, Henry Harris said: "We have to pay the Board of Health, I guess. I always believe in sharing the Lord's bounty with the deserving. It's kind of hard when Herring squeezes the buffalo off every nickel; but if it were left to me, George, I'd see you were rewarded in a way commensurate with your sterling abilities. At present my assess are mostly goodwill."
"Uh, huh," agreed George Bull. "So are mine, Henry; so are mine. If you ever burn your hand on red-hot money, you can have my professional services gratis." He started to move towards his car. "Oh," he said, stopping, "was there something you wanted to see me about?"
"No, nothing important. The Democrats are having a little meeting to-morrow night. Just discussing our policies, and so on. Wouldn't care to look in, would you?"
"I'd be sort of out of place, wouldn't I?"
"A lot of thinking people are going to vote Democratic this fall, George. I had an idea you were getting on pretty bad terms with the Republicans. Or maybe I should say the Mrs. Bannings. She's doing her best to get you into trouble. And now I hear Emma Bates is going round saying things. That doesn't seem the right way to treat a regular party man."
"Well, Mrs. Banning's been doing her best for a long time, and it doesn't seem any too good, Henry. As for Emma, she's mostly wind. Quimby and Ordway would want something more substantial. The School Committee would have run me out long ago if anything could be worked there. I must have some friends." "You've got me and Paul Lane. We've always stood up for you. So's Ordway, on occasion. The Bannings don't own the town yet. I'm not saying they haven't influence with their gang of boot-lickers; that's just what I mean. You never know when they may pull a fast one on you. I think you're in the wrong camp, George."
"It's mighty nice of you to be so worried about it, Henry. Now, what were you thinking you'd like to have me do for you?"
"Absolutely nothing. I just hate to see a man knifed in the back. Of course, we'd be glad to have your vote; but we aren't buying them. We're going to get too many free this fall."
"Henry, ingratitude's a terrible sin. I hope you'll never find me guilty of it."
Wednesday morning, George Bull's right hand was too sore for him to shave with any comfort. He came downstairs grumpy, and Aunt Myra said at once: "My goodness, George, you look like a tramp! You go to that barber shop and let somebody shave you."
"Let's have some breakfast."
"I'm not ready yet. You can sit down if you want."
"Where's Susie?"
"Oh. Susie. Well, Pete came up with a note from Mrs. Andrews. Susie's sick in bed."
"She would be! Jumping Jupiter, it's a puny bunch we have around here! Man, woman, and child, they haven't the guts of a two-day kitten. All lie in bed and holler for the doctor. Want me to dose them up with a lot of rubbish, and tell them how brave they are in their afflictions. Even a spell of nice warm weather's more than they can stand. I know of ten cases lying around feeling weak and wanting somebody to wait on them—eleven, with the Banning girl. They don't feel good; they got a belly-ache; they just seem all worn out —"
"Well, it's a good thing those snakes don't bite you often, George. Looks to me as though you got out the wrong side of bed this morning. There are some prunes for you, and don't use all that cream on them. It's got to do your oatmeal and coffee, too —"
"God Almighty! There's the door bell. Can't a man even eat in peace?"
"You better sit still. I'll see who it is." When she came back, she said: "It's that Ward boy, from the Bannings'."
"What's he want?"
"Wants to see you. He looks kind of peaked. I suppose he isn't feeling well."
"Huh! Why don't they get Verney up? I guess they figure he isn't worth it. Horse doctor will do for him —"
Passing by the back door through his office ten minutes later, George Bull looked into the waiting-room. Larry Ward was sitting slumped in a chair by the front window. "All right, come in," George Bull said. "Might as well see you, since you're here. My morning hours are from nine to ten. Don't come banging around at half-past eight next time." He closed the door. "Sit down. Well, you look kind of green. What's the trouble?" Larry clasped both hands together, swallowing. He shifted in the chair. Finally he said, hushed, "I think I got something, Doc."
"Oh, you do, do you? Well, what have you got?" Larry gulped again, wordless, and George Bull snorted. "Uh, huh," he agreed. "Well, don't get in a sweat. This isn't the Y.M.C.A. When do you think you got infected?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Been fooling with Betty Peters?"
"No, I never —"
"You going to tell me you must have got it off a toilet? Have to be a minister to manage that. Where did you get it?"
Finally he said, "I guess it must have been Charlotte Slade, Doc. She's the only one—"
"That kid? When did you have intercourse with her?"
"I guess it was a week ago Friday. I felt pretty rotten for a couple of days, now. I —"
"Well, she's certainly starting young. All right. We'll have a short arm inspection. Don't get the wind up; we'll take care of you. Just come over here —"
When he had finished he said, "There's nothing wrong with you. What are you, crazy? Charlotte tell you she had something?"
"You mean, I'm all right, Doc?"
"Sure, you're all right. When you're not, you don't have to wonder about it. I didn't think it was very likely with a kid like that —" He considered Larry, standing stupid in his incredulous relief. "Got any reason to think you weren't the first?"
"Oh, she said I was; but —"
"Well, the odds are you were. Somebody always has to be. Old man Slade's been afraid of God for forty years and so he gets back at life by making the women and children afraid of him. Charlotte isn't old enough to have stopped being scared of him long. Do you mean business?"
"Hell, I don't know, Doc."
"If you don't, stick to girls old enough to know what they're doing. You'll find plenty of them. Once is an accident; might happen to anyone. But if it goes on, and by any chance I see her start swelling, this town'll be too hot for you not married to her. That'll be five dollars, just to help you remember. And tell her if she isn't regular this month to come up here and I'll see what we can do."
"All right," Larry said. "But listen, Doc. Just the same I feel pretty bum. I mean, kind of sickish —"
"That's called the fear of God. Take a dose of castor-oil to-night and go to bed early. Generally fixes it up."
Larry grinned uncertainly. "All right," he repeated. "I got to admit I feel some better. I was certainly scared, Doc."
"You were. But you get over it pretty quick. Until the next time. You better think about marrying Charlotte. She can give you all there is, and it might save you plenty of trouble and expense. Nice little kid, in spite of her old man. Beat it."
With Larry gone, he set himself to putting a new dressing on his thumb, reflective; for now that he thought of it, he could remember Charlotte Slade's birth. Or maybe it was the Slade boy, who was killed in a motor accident. When he got there the baby was just about born, with Mrs. Slade yelling as loud as she could, and Slade, who didn't think it was decent to be present, yelling prayers in the front room even louder. On second thought, he decided that it was Charlotte, not the boy. The boy had been born in winter. George Bull guessed that he himself was at least twenty years older, but Slade seemed something left from a long time ago. Old man Slade preserved a sort of mean and comic rusticity which might have been general once in the outlying farms. Even sixteen or seventeen years back there had been little of it left—it was hard to believe that those illiterate, goat-bearded farmers, stubborn and credulous, had ever existed.
Well, they had, all right. Their vanishing was part of the process in which Charlotte Slade, a year or so ago caught up by the heels while he slapped the breath into her, was being seduced by what had once appeared a perpetually fixed brat in rompers. George Bull gazed at his thumb and he thought that he could almost see the proof of age. The first steps in healing looked reluctant. Other people, perhaps, hadn't got around to noticing, but to his own body he was old man Bull, hardly worth the effort. Cresting the swell of inflamed flesh, the angry crust of the still frail blood clot filled the criss-cross slash like a red mark of his certain mortality.
In the hall the telephone rang. Aunt Myra must have been close enough to reach it, for he heard her almost at once screaming into the mouthpiece: "Hello —"
"Tell them I'll be over when I can," he called. "I've got to go down and get shaved. Who is it?"
He could hear her gabbling a form of this information and then she hung up. "Who is it?" he repeated.
"That's Mrs. Bates, George. She wants you to see Geraldine."
"Huh! Changed her tune, has she? Well, we'll let her stew a while. I've got half a dozen visits to make. Doubt if I get back for lunch."
"I expect I'll go to Sansbury, George. I'll leave an apple pie in the pantry and there's plenty of milk, if you want anything."
"You better hang around and answer the telephone."
"No, I'm going to Sansbury, George. There's a picture I want to see. I'll ask that little girl at the telephone to write down any calls and you can ring her up from wherever you are and ask her. There'll be plenty of sickness, I dare say. Mr. Cole's mother always said a green Christmas makes a full churchyard, and —"
"This isn't Christmas, Aunt Myra."
"Well, I expect it still holds good, whatever it is."
He picked up the five-dollar bill which Larry had laid on the desk and went to the door. "Take this along," he said. "You might see something you want."
"I can manage, thank you, George. I've got my fares and twenty-five cents for the theatre. I don't want to be a burden to anyone, and those people keep sending me the cheques. I must say it's very kind of them."
"Don't you worry about them, Aunt Myra. Alfred spent most of his life trying to pay for that insurance." Taking her hand, he pressed the five-dollar bill in it, closing the fingers. "Now don't put it in the stove," he said, "it's money."
Louie, his loose hand working in the lather spread on Doctor Bull's chin, said: "I hear Mr. Jackson's sick-—" He tipped his head indicatively towards the wall which concealed Gosselin Brothers' scarlet-fronted store next door. "He come and opened up, but he went home pretty soon. Gus Ferris said he was awful shaky. He was going to get Mrs. Jackson to come over and help Gus, but she hasn't come, so I suppose he must be real sick. I hear you got a lot of patients."
"Quite a few. It looks like a mild form of influenza, whatever that is. I'm damned if I know how to help them. That what you want to know?"
Louie laughed. "Sure," he admitted. "Lot of people ask me. Not contagious, is it?"
"Very likely. It's been spreading around somehow."
"I was over shaving Joe Tupping. He don't feel so good. If I get it from him, I'm going to be mad. I fixed it up to go to New York over this week-end."
"Well, I wouldn't worry. It doesn't amount to anything. Come on! Get going! I can't stay here all day." He lay practically prostrate in the chair, staring at the pattern of the once-white-painted, stamped sheet tin which covered the ceiling. Louie, getting through his preliminaries in a burst of activity, smeared down the side of his face and applied his razor.
"What the devil have you got there?" George Bull roared. "A meat axe?"
Louie lifted the razor. "You grow an awful tough beard, Doc. I'll give it a couple more licks." He struck the strop a few times with it. "I hear you're turning Democrat, Doc."
"That's news to me. Didn't hear it from Henry Harris, by any chance, did you?"
"Somebody said something about some row you had with Bates."
"Well, you tell Henry that when I want a row I know how to make one. He doesn't have to think up any for me."
"I thought Mrs. Bates was kind of sore at you."
"That was yesterday. To-day she's been ringing me up and wanting me to rush right over and look at Geraldine. Guess we'll have a truce as long as she thinks she needs me. While you're at it, you can just spread that around. But Henry oughtn't to stick his nose in so far. First thing he knows he'll find it pulled off." George Bull clasped and unclasped his left hand. "Come on! Hurry up! I've got to see all these invalids!"
Janet Cardmaker, in breeches, boots, and a man's white shirt with the collar open on her thick neck, sat on the kitchen steps in the noon sun. At the corner of her lips a neglected cigarette smoked itself away. The many folded sections of last Sunday's
New York Times
lay on her lap. Occasionally she read a paragraph at random; mainly she looked past the barn and the bare apple trees. A confused, unready touch of spring showed in blotches of new green over the dull, sear, sunny fields; the buds on some bushes-were already big and beginning to split. The valley was filled with vague haze in the mild, windless sunlight.