Random Winds (11 page)

“And I—if I couldn’t have been a doctor, there’s nothing else in the world I would have wanted to be.”

Around a bend, they were slowed almost to a stop by a wagon with an enormous load of hay. From the top of the pile a woman called cheerfully, “Hi, Doc!”

“That’s good fodder you’ve got there,” Martin called back.

“Yes, and we’ll be needing it before you know it. The older I get, the shorter the summers get.”

“Just don’t throw that back out again unloading!”

“They like you, Martin,” Jessie said when they drove on. “I like them.”

In his few short months of practice he had been touched a dozen times with powerful emotion and the emotion of power. In their houses, in the beds where the fevered lay with brilliant eyes, they turned to him in trust. Touching their sick flesh, he could feel their engulfing gratitude and
admiration. Something swelled in a man then: might one call it a kind of love? And yet he knew, although they did not, that what he did was often not enough and should be better.

“Most illness is self-limiting,” he mused aloud now. “Fluids, bedrest and warmth will cure most ailments in a matter of days. But what bothers me, Jessie, is the other kind. This morning’s case, for instance. I’m stymied, battling distance and lack of facilities and ignorance. The patients’ ignorance and my own. Mostly my own.” And he repeated his thoughts aloud, “What I do could be done so much better!”

“I’m sure it could,” Jessie said.

On those infrequent times when he had expressed such doubts to his mother, her standard, uncomprehending reply had always been: “Oh, you belittle yourself, Martin.”

“It must be marvelous to know and do!” Jessie cried vehemently. “To be your own person! Why do people think women don’t want that too? They think you’re some sort of oddity if you want what a man does, the same freedom to stretch your thoughts and learn things. You know, if I were whole, I would defy all that and try it anyway. Some women do and always have. George Sand, for instance. I’ve read her novels, and they aren’t very good, but that’s not the point. She was a free woman. That’s the point.” Her hands were tense on the wheel. And she finished furiously, “As for me, every thought I have, every breath I take, is influenced by this damned hump.”

Martin tried to change the subject “The next place we come to used to be the Brook farm. My father would tell me every time we passed it how, back in the nineties, when he made calls in a buggy, they had a big mean dog that would lie in the tall grass beside the road and jump out at the horse. One time it made Pa’s horse bolt, and the buggy turned over in the ditch. Pa broke his arm.”

They passed the Brook farm without event. Silage corn was tall in the fields and cattle chewed dreamily in pasture-shade. A man, recognizing Martin, waved a paintbrush from a ladder propped against the Grecian pediment of his
house, on which the facade of the Parthenon or the temple of Sounion had been reproduced in native wood. Pa, the classics student, had never failed to remark on things like that or on the names of New York State towns: Ithaca, Syracuse, Rome. And Martin’s thoughts drifted on with his father.

“Pa used to carry a wire-fence cutter with him on winter calls. The roads got snowed over so often, he’d be driving through fields without knowing it. He used to fold a newspaper under his vest to keep warm. Sounds like a hundred years ago, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t so long ago, really. Say, doesn’t that look tempting?”

In Gregory’s Pond, the confluence of three streams, a few small boys were swimming.

“Why don’t we bring our suits sometime?” he proposed.

“Oh, I forgot, you don’t like to swim.”

“That’s not true. I really do like to.”

“But you said—”

“I only said so because I didn’t want you to see me in a bathing suit. Now all of a sudden, I wouldn’t mind. Maybe because you’re a doctor. But I wouldn’t be ashamed anymore.”

“Jessie, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

“Well, not ashamed exactly. It’s that I think people will find it—disgusting,” she said, so low that he barely caught her word.

“ ‘Nihil humanum mihi alienum est.’ You said you remembered your Latin, didn’t you?”

“ ‘Nothing human is alien to me,’ ” she said quietly, and after a moment, “Thank you.”

“You ought to put a higher valuation on yourself, you know.”

“I suppose I should. But then, so should you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You ought to be doing what you
want
to do. Something more important than what you’re doing.”

“But what I’m doing
is
important. These sick people are important.”

“Of course they are! But you’re one of the movers, the
advance guard, Martin. Listen! There are people who sing in the chorus, and we need them. Then there’s the tenor lead, and we need him most of all.”

“Maybe you overestimate me.”

“Oh, I despise false modesty! What’s that magazine sticking out of your bag? You’ve had it there since last week.”

“This?” He drew out a copy of
Brain
. In a moment of high hopes he had taken a subscription to it. “Oh. There’s a fascinating article this month about an operation for the removal of the frontal lobe. I’ll lend it to you if you want to read it.”

“I wonder what a person is like after that?”

“From what I’ve read they’re recognizably ‘normal.’ They do lose some—mental energy, I guess you could call it—desire to figure out new undertakings, and so on. But I guess that’s better than the alternative.”

“Incredible! The whole business is, delving inside the brain.”

“Yes. I used to watch Dr. Albeniz operate—It seemed almost magical to me.”

“Isn’t he the one who wanted you to train with him?”

“Yes.”

“It’s been horrible for you to give it up, hasn’t it?”

“Well, not easy.”

He would have to stop thinking about it, learn to accept reality and cultivate patience. He’d never had much patience and that was another flaw in him.

“I’m sorry I brought it up just now,” Jessie said soberly.

“That’s all right.”

“It’s not all right. It’s like taunting you with your impossible dream, and that’s cruel.”

“I’m not the most deprived person in the world, after all.”

“No, but you are depressed more than you should be.”

Was it so evident then? And he was always so careful to be briskly cheerful!

“Oh, you don’t show it. You needn’t worry about that But I’ve told you, I’m queer that way. I can sense hidden things in people.”

Astonishing girl! For it was true. Melancholy, sticky and gray as cobwebs, had been clinging to him.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you, Martin. I haven’t done it because you’re so reserved and I—”

“Reserved? Is that how you see me?”

“Of course. Don’t you even know that about yourself? What I wanted to say is: I hope you have no thought that I’m running after you.”

He was embarrassed. “Of course not.”

“Most people wouldn’t agree, I suppose, but I always think that men and women can be good friends. So I just wanted to set you straight, in case you might be thinking I was fool enough to think otherwise. These last months have been wonderful for me. You understand?”

“I understand.”

The little car spun along. Jessie’s keen face frowned at the road. Then she turned back to Martin.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something else, too. Were you terribly in love with Fern?”

Ah, but this was too much!

“In love with her?” he answered curtly. “I scarcely knew her!”

“There’s no reason to be angry.”

“I’m not angry!”

“Offended, then. It was a natural question, wasn’t it? Why all this so-called ‘tact’ and secrecy?”

No matter how blunt or shocking, this outrageous girl would say it! Yet, he thought, I am a supersensitive cuss and I know I am; my pride will be my downfall.

“But what made you think—”

“What made me? Because Fern is—Fern. If I hadn’t had my own problems, I would have loved her myself.” Jessie sighed. “As it is, I’ve almost hated her. I was rotten to her when we were children … Once I bloodied her nose, then when she hit me back they punished her, even though I’d started it. I have some mean memories, I can tell you.”

He began vaguely, “Well, children—”

“Of course,” she interrupted, “it’s not bloody noses anymore. It’s just feelings. As if she could help the way she is
any more than I can help the way I am! I’ve felt so guilty sometimes, I’ve been sick with it.”

He didn’t want to listen. And he wondered whether this girl would be stripping herself before him if he hadn’t been a doctor. People seemed to think that if you were a doctor you would welcome every possible confession.

“I’ve begrudged her very existence. Even her name, I’ve begrudged her that, too.”

“Her name?”

“Yes, It sounds so cool and full of grace. ‘Mary Fern.’ ‘I’m lovely,’ it says. ‘Mary Fern.’ While I, I’m ‘Jessie Gertrude.’ It’s a black-woolen-stocking’s name. As if they took one look at me when I was born and gave me a name ugly enough to suit.”

Jessie shifted gears to climb a hill. Then she said, “Fern’s the total sentimentalist, you know.”

Martin didn’t answer. Below them the valley spread its wide, green peace. Jessie was spoiling the afternoon.

“Mother worried so about her! She used to say Fern would rather
suffer
than destoy her idea of perfection. For instance, she would never get a divorce and come home if she were to make a bad marriage. That would be an admission of defeat. Did I tell you she’s pregnant?”

“No.”

“They didn’t lose any time, did they? But I’m glad for her, I really am. Alex is awfully nice; they’ve a marvelous house and a flat in London and he’s really giving her encouragement with the art thing, for whatever it’s worth. It should be a very good life for her at last, not having me to keep her from going places.”

“Don’t dwell on that, Jessie. Things probably weren’t nearly as bad as you’re making them.”

“Yes, they were … You know, I’ve never told these things to anyone before. Do you think I’m a rotten, nasty person, Martin?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“I swear to you that I really, deep inside me, want everything to be good for Fern. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you and I think you’re wonderful,” he said
gently. “Even with that sharp tongue of yours” He smiled. “You’re perceptive and honest
I
’m glad I know you.”

She answered with untypical shyness. “Are you? Then I’m glad, too, because it’s the same for me.”

The second winter began. Still winters of the north! A branch cracks, snow sifts and falls sighing to the ground. For five months the ground is white and the spruce-covered hills are black. In the morning before you see it, you can smell the fresh snow that has fallen during the night You hear the ringing silences of evening.

Martin’s mother said suddenly, “You ought to be married.”

A flush spread up her cheeks. She must have been thinking the words ever since they had left the supper table and not meant to speak them with such startling abruptness.

“There’s no girl around that
I
want to marry.”

“You haven’t tried
to
find one, have you? AH you ever do is work or go to play chess with that Jessie Meig. It’s no life for a young man.”

The telephone rang and Martin went to answer it “Hello?”

“This is Donald Meig.
I
was thinking maybe you could run over tonight Can you? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Yes, surely, I’ll be right over,” Martin said, with some surprise.

Half an hour later he was in the familiar library.

“Excuse us, Jessie, will you?” Meig said. “I’ve a medical matter to discuss with Martin.” He closed the double doors firmly. “Have a brandy. It’ll warm you. You’re wondering why
I
called you.”

Meig sighed, and Martin waited. “You have problems. I have problems. Or I should say
I
have one problem. Yes. But I’d like to talk about yours first I know you’re sot satisfied with your life here.”

Martin felt ashamed. Jessie must have talked, making him look like some sorry malcontent So he defended himself.

“I feel I’ve been doing a fairly good job, learning practical things that I needed to know.”

Meig waved him aside. “Nonsense! Platitudes! You’re not the average run-of-the-mill country doctor, and we both know it. So let’s get to the heart of the matter. You’ve had some spectacular offers.”

“One offer.”

“All right. One spectacular offer. Jessie tells me it was the opportunity of a lifetime, and you’ve had to pass it up. Is that true?”

“True.”

“A damn shame! The door opened to the future and then shut in your face for want of a few dollars!”

“A great many dollars, I’m afraid.”

“All relative. What’s a fortune to one man is pennies to the next. And compared with what you might earn if you could have this training, it actually is only a few dollars.”

Surely the man wasn’t offering to lend him money? Martin felt a peculiar distaste.

“It’s not because of the dollars, however many, that I would have taken the training,” he protested.

“I’m aware of that,” the other man said shortly. “You’ve heard of Hugh Braidburn in London, the neurosurgeon?”

That was almost like asking whether one had heard of Darwin or Einstein! “Of course. He’s coauthor of the textbook. Cox-Braidburn.”

“Well, I’m acquainted with him. His father-in-law was the head of our plant in Birmingham. We sold the plant about ten years back, but the contacts are still there. As a matter of fact, Braidburn had dinner with us on his last trip over just before my wife died.” Meig sipped the brandy thoughtfully, twirling the snifter, tilting the little amber lake. “I could get any favor I asked him for.”

On a table behind the sofa stood a photograph that Martin had never seen before. Framed in silver, Mary held an armful of calla lilies, a lace veil swirling to her feet. He tried to decipher her expression but could see only the calm, reflective smile of the traditional bridal picture.