Scalpel, page 37
I said: “You ought to see yourself. You look like something the goddam cat dragged in.”
He said: “You ought to take a look at yourself, you fancy bastard.”
“Gangwaygangwaygangwaygangwaygangwaygangway—” the state police were yelling: and Joe Rusher was got to the ambulance whose doors were open to receive him.
Suddenly from the crowd a woman darted towards the stretcher; it was Mrs. Rusher, and behind her moved another woman, and this was Mom.
Mom? Mom.
Before anyone could stop Mrs. Rusher, she had yanked the sheet off the stretcher and she and all of them got a look at her son; and there was an instantaneous hissing sigh, great and ghastly, because to people unaccustomed to these things the sight of a man with only a bloody stump where a leg used to be is very gruesome, and sometimes this is gruesome even to people who are accustomed to it.
I took the sheet from Mrs. Rusher and tossed it to the driver to spread back over her son, and said to her:
“He’ll be all right. He’ll be all right.”
The Old Man said: “It was the only way. The only way—”
Mom took Mrs. Rusher out of my arms and put her in her own, not saying anything to me, not even looking at me; looking at Mrs. Rusher, whose eyes were grateful. Mrs. Rusher raised her head and kissed me on the cheek, and Mom smiled the way I hadn’t seen her smile since I was a kid.
“Hey, Doc!” I heard the ambulance driver call.
Mrs. Soothcage and Mrs. Marzano and Mrs. Dorinka came to Mom and Mrs. Rusher now, paying no attention to me, but to Mom; and the Rev. Mullendore moved to them and patted Mrs. Rusher on the back, and then smiled softly at me and shook my hand and said, “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe God was right—”
I looked up on the hill at the tipple house and I thought: back under the shadow of the tipple house, back to the graveyard—
“Hey Doc!” the ambulance driver called again, and I turned away, moving towards it; and as I did I saw Helen Curtis standing with the Old Man, staring at me. I paused; and then went on and got in the ambulance with Joe Rusher, and the driver slammed the doors...
8
1.
BRIGHT WAS THE SUN, AND brighter was the reflection from the silvered wings and fuselages, glinting along the three o’clock angle, and the Constellation from New York, marked Trans-World Airlines, lumbered into the unloading circle and was turned, ever so skillfully, her port side fenceward; and the attendants pushed the steps towards her, and even as the motors died, the steps were in place and the door opened and Lasher was the first one out.
From behind the gate, standing on tiptoes, I waved; and she saw me and waved back, and came down the steps and towards the gate, ahead of all the other passengers; barelegged, bareheaded and looking more youthful than ever. She had a swift reaction to the adhesive tape and the dressing on my face, over the cuts caused by Crowley’s ring, but she said nothing because there were too many standees around. Happily, she said, “Tom—” and I said, “Hello, Sweet—” and took her in my arms and kissed her on the mouth; and out of the corners of my eyes, over her head, I saw several of the people looking at us with sly lascivious curiosity, because this obviously was not the way a father kissed a daughter or even a female relative. And I thought: I should have let Eustace meet her, as he wanted to. Then I broke the embrace and said prosaically, as people always try to say in such moments and in such places, no matter the joy or grief in their hearts: “How was the flight?”
“Pleasant—” she said, but this was just a cover, a bridge to get away from the ears of the others, for she took my arm and we started walking towards the airport building. Now she put her head almost against my shoulder and said quietly: “Your face, Tom. What happened?”
And I thought again: I should have let Eustace meet her. This is no place to rehash the brawl I had with Crowley. The rehashing should be done in the apartment, the office even, where the tempo and the pressure were not so great. Still, she had to find out sometime. “...I had a fight with Crowley,” I said.
Her reaction was not one of surprise, but one of small impatience, of petulance. “He promised me he wouldn’t make a scene,” she said.
“It was quite a scene,” I said. “He got drunk and blew his top.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Not the way I am. Not where you can see the damage. It wasn’t much of a fight, really. More of a lecture.”
She said: “That’s why you called me back, wasn’t it? It wasn’t Inescourt at all, was it? It was Crowley—”
“Yes. It was Crowley,” I said.
“Where is he?”
“Here,” I said.
“Here? At the airport?”
“In town. At his apartment—”
She looked at me and the look was almost a lunge and now she knew. I had known that she would know. I had known that somewhere in that long walk between my lips and the parked car she would know. Where she would know, at what specific place—the gate, the sign on the fence that said NO SMOKING, the entrance door, the newsstand, the rest rooms, the ticket counter, the soft drink machine, the popcorn machine, the insurance policy machine, the luggage counter, the exit doors, the crosswalks—where in the parking lot, I did not know; but from something, an inflection, a nuance, a gesture, a look, from something that was said or something that was not said, she would know. And she knew. In a direct line between a portable fire extinguisher and a large iron can with a swinging top that was marked PUT TRASH HERE, she knew...
We walked through the building, not saying anything more, to the luggage counter. She handed me the check and I got her bag, and we walked out, to the parking lot. Moving towards my car, she now said:
“But I don’t love Crowley, you know—”
I opened the car door and put her bag in the rear and then helped her in. “...love doesn’t matter,” I said, and closed the door and went around and got in the other side. I put the switch key in and she leaned over and took it out. She said:
“Why doesn’t love matter?”
“Love is something extra. If you have it, fine. But it’s not necessary. You and Crowley belong together.”
“That’s what he said to me. All of the things he said to me, I’m sure he also said to you.”
“All of the things he said to me were true,” I said. “I’m glad he said them. I needed to hear them.”
Her eyes flashed a little, “—so. While I was gone, you and Crowley neatly arranged my future.”
“He needs you, Joan—”
“But I love you, Tom—”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe what you see in me is the fulfillment of the dream you once had for Crowley. I was willing to believe that you loved me because I so desperately needed you. Then I was sick with the malignancy of fear. You know what you were to my life. You were a Scalpel. You healed me. You’ve served your purpose with me. I don’t need you now.”
“When did you discover that?” she asked with sarcasm.
“Five hundred feet down in a hole in the earth. I discovered it in a hole in the earth—where I was born.” And I told her about the disaster at Coalville. Step by step, stroke by stroke. “...for the first time since I can remember, I’ve got self-respect,” I said.
Slowly, she said: “Could it be just barely possible that what you felt for me wasn’t love?”
She wasn’t looking at me when she said that, and with the tips of my fingers I turned her face to mine. I said: “You don’t believe that because you know that I love you now. I could never love another woman. But don’t you see that anything that could possibly happen after this would be an anticlimax? What’s left for us? What else besides happiness could you give me?”
“Is there something else?”
“Service. A job to be done. Always a job to be done. This. With Crowley—a job to be done. He’s right about several things.” One in particular: going to a small town. I had a long talk with him about that. You were mistaken. It’s not an escape and it’s not an inadequacy. It’s an honest desire to serve. In a small town a doctor becomes much more than just a doctor. He becomes a Court of Human Relations—like a judge. He becomes a spiritual influence—like a minister. The heartbeat of a community he knows. If I had my life to live over and know what I know now, I’d go to a small town myself. Peace and quiet, off the rat race. I may at that, some day—I may. I’m hoping...But Crowley’s got the edge on me by twenty years. He’s lucky to know that now. You belong with him, Joan—”
She shook her head, and there was a little agony in it. “I’ve got a dream too. Of being a surgeon. I’m going to school—”
“There’s time for that too,” I said. “Go to school. But you don’t learn to be a surgeon in school. You only learn how. You learn to be a surgeon by riding in police cars and in coal mines or wherever there is human experience, or wherever your help is needed—and that can be on a bus or in a park. Or scrubbing for me. Or scrubbing for Crowley in a small town. This you must learn before you become a surgeon—so what does it matter whether it’s before you take your schooling or after you take your schooling?” She sighed and glanced out the window as the car beside us backed slowly out of its stall. I said: “Your dream will only come true with someone who needs you. That’s not I—that’s Crowley. You’ve got to be needed, Joan—like Mom has to be needed.”
She looked at me and there were tears in her eyes. “I love you, Tom—as long as I live I shall love you,” she said.
“No,” I said. “Call it what you like: guilt complex, sado-masochism in one of its varying degrees of refinement, the Oedipus complex—whatever; but love is not for you and love is not for me. And that’s good because it produces. You’ll be a great surgeon some day. A great surgeon is a great artist, and a great artist can love only his art. Like Utrillo—pure love. With us, with many others—we can have compatibility, pleasure. And what have we sacrificed without each other? What really have we sacrificed? Is a meal less palatable for the absence of one of us? Is a drink? Is a walk in the rain? Is a sexual affair? No. There can be but one love for you—and but one love for me: the job to be done. Yours is Crowley. I was a hack—and you made me great. He’s a hack—and you can make him great—”
...she handed me the switch key.
2.
Eustace was not in his office and Davis was not in his office, and when I opened the door of my own office I saw that they were in there, waiting for me. They both got up when I came in, a little eagerly.
“You meet her?” Eustace asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“—how’d it go?” Davis asked.
How’d it go? How’d it go? Clinicians examining the corners of the human heart. The chordae tendineae are slightly torn from the papillary muscles, Doctor. Not only that, Doctor; the atrium is pinched a little, the right one. And have a look at the ventricle fibrillating...I bit my lip and flung my hat against the wall above the bookcase. “Jesus!” I said. “How’d you expect it to go? It knocked the props out from under her. Was there any reason to think it wouldn’t?...How’d it go—Jesus!” I said.
Eustace picked my hat off the floor and put it on the bookcase. Davis said: “Sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean it that way—”
“No, of course you didn’t,” I said. “You’ll just have to bear with me. I’m—”
“We understand—” Eustace said.
“What could I say to her?” I said. “What could I say. Words—just words. An eruption of meaningless words. You love a woman, you’re going to marry her and then you say: You’re not for me, you’re for the other guy. All of a sudden you say that. Can any woman roll with a punch like that?” They looked at each other, sympathetically. “Still, this is right. It’s right that she be with Crowley.”
Eustace said: “You think it’ll be all right between them?”
“I think so,” I said. “I dropped her off at his apartment. I think it’ll be all right between them. I think so—because I believe that’s the way it should be.”
Eustace said: “Tom, I hope I’m not out of line for saying this, but I want to tell you something. Ever since I’ve been associated with you, I’ve thought you were a remarkable surgeon. Professionally, I’ve admired you tremendously; but personally, I’ve had damn little respect for you. As a man, I mean. But I say to you honestly now, that you’re more man than any son of a bitch I ever met in my life. May I shake your hand?”
“Thank you, Ben,” I said, and shook hands with him.
The dictograph buzzed. I leaned over the desk and pressed down the key. “Yes?” I said.
Murphy’s voice said: “Dr. Crowley calling, sir—”
“All right—” I released the key and said to Eustace, “You take it. I’m not here—”
Eustace picked up the phone and I moved to the window and stood looking through the shutters.
“Hello...This is Ben, Jim...No, Tom’s not here...I suppose later...I don’t think I’d try to reach him if I were you, Jim...” Here there was a long, long pause; fully thirty seconds. “Yes, I’ll tell him, Jim. And good luck to both of you. Yes, I’ll tell everybody. Drop us a line when you get where you’re going. Good-by, Jim—” I heard the phone being hung up and I turned around. Eustace said: “He said, thank you, Tom.”
Yes, indeed.
Thank you, Tom.
Thank you.
Something else he had said too, for Eustace had listened for thirty seconds (and thirty seconds is quite a while to listen), but whatever—it didn’t matter.
She was going away with him...
There was a rap at the door. Davis opened it. It was Copp. She said: “Telegram for Dr. Owen.” Davis took it and brought it to me.
I opened it; unfolded the message:
I showed it to Eustace. Davis read it over his shoulder.
“What does it mean?” Eustace asked.
Davis said: “Harvard—Morningstar. Dean Morningstar?”
“I’ve accepted an offer from Harvard,” I said. “Starting in September.”
Eustace frowned. “What do you mean—you’ve accepted an offer from Harvard?”
“Medical school. To teach. Surgery.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said blankly.
“That’s wonderful, Tom!” Davis said, shaking my hand, so excited he was very nearly dancing. When he stopped dancing and shaking hands with me, he started patting me on the back. “Simply wonderful! Automatically now, this gives you a national reputation. By God, sir, I am proud of you!”
Eustace shook hands with me. “He’s right, Tom. This is something. Makes you one of the biggest men in the country.”
“You bet!” Davis said. “We’ll hold down the fort here till you get back. Oh, Poppa—” he laughed. “Ain’t that wonderful! Harvard professor!”
“Sure—don’t worry about the office,” Eustace said. “One term is nothing at all—”
“This is for a lot of terms—I hope,” I said. “For keeps.”
“For keeps?” Davis said.
“For keeps?” Eustace said.
“For keeps. Permanent. Associate Professor.”
They stared at each other.
“But what about the practice?” Eustace said. “This is a hell of a fine practice. You mean you’re giving it up?”
“It’s yours,” I said. “Yours and Walt’s—”
“Oh, no, Tom,” Davis said. “Wait a minute. Speaking for myself, I’ll be glad to hold down my end of it but you’ve got to keep a partnership in the office.”
“He’s speaking for me too,” Eustace said.
“No—” I said. “No partnership, no financial interest—just a sentimental interest.”
Soberly, Eustace said: “Well, now, I hope you’ve given this some thought. I hope you didn’t do this on the spur of the moment. On the rebound. I hope you didn’t let that other thing influence you—”
“No,” I said. “That was influenced by this. This is what I want.”
There was a moment of silence.
Eustace said: “It’s a hell of a sacrifice. But you know something, my friend? This is the kind of thing that makes me proud to be a doctor. This is the kind of wonderful thing that keeps medicine going—”
“It proves one thing,” I said, trying to shake off some of the emotion. “Harvard wouldn’t want me if I weren’t good—”
“You’re better than good, Tom,” Davis said. “You’re one of the most gifted surgeons in the country. One of these days they’ll be writing books about you—”
“I won’t live that long,” I said.
“The hell you won’t,” Eustace said: “fine surgeons are something else that never dies.”
The dictograph buzzed. I pressed the key. “Yes?” I said.
Murphy’s voice said: “Mr. Kronman for you, Doctor.”
I said: “I’ll take it—” and picked up the phone.
Kronk said: “Well, for Pete’s sake, don’t tell me I finally nailed you down—” He talked so loudly I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. “I was gonna leave my number once more and if I didn’t hear from you I was gonna wash you right off my books—”
I laughed. “How are you, Kronk?”
“Well, I’m fine and how the hell have you been? You get lost in that forest of beautiful women? God, I wish I’d studied medicine. Goddamnedest business I’m in. Got two loaded vans of furniture lost between here and Los Angeles.”
“How can two loaded vans of furniture get lost?”
“Don’t ask me. They’re lost. What the hell, it’s the insurance company’s baby now, not mine. Tell you why I called. I took a wild chance that maybe you and Mrs. Curtis could have dinner with the wife and me tonight. Or do you think we’d drive ’em cuckoo talking about the old days? Remember that day when you got mouse-trapped on that crucial play by Rutgers and that big bastard got through to make the tee dee that beat us?”
