The Apprenticeship of Lucas Whitaker (7 page)

Lucas was relieved to find that Doc Beecher was up and about the next day.

“Merely the aches and pains of old age, lad,” he assured Lucas with a wink. “I dosed myself and ordered myself to bed for the day and now I feel quite well again, despite the old saying about doctoring oneself.”

“What old saying is that?” asked Lucas.

“Why, lad, have you never heard it said that he who doctors himself has a fool for a physician?”

Lucas smiled and shook his head.

“Well, now you know me for what I am,” Doc said, laughing. “But, be that as it may, this old fool feels full of spit and vinegar today. And how about yourself, lad? Tell me about your visit with the Stukeleys.”

Lucas and Doc Beecher were sitting in Doc's office. Eagerly, Lucas pulled his chair closer to Doc's and began to talk. “When I got there, Doc, I saw Lydia and Samuel and Mr. and Mrs. Stukeley all standing together on the hillside. They were praying, and looking real sorrowful.”

Doc winced. Lucas, seeing the look on Doc's face, hurried on. “I thought at first they were burying Sarah, but they weren't. Remember, Doc, how they said that Thomas was visiting Sarah, and that he'd visited the others, too?”

Doc, a wary look on his usually jovial face, nodded.

“Well, it's just as Mr. Rood said to me the day—”

“Mr. Rood?” asked Doc.

“Oliver Rood. His farm neighbored ours. He came to me when—well, when he thought there was still time to save my mama. And he told me that he knew a cure for her. He'd used it, you see, to save his own son Enoch. And it worked, Doc!”

Doc Beecher lifted his eyebrows but said nothing, waiting for Lucas to continue.

“And now word of the cure is spreading, must be. The Stukeleys heard of it from some kinfolk. And so when I got to the farm and saw Mr. Stukeley with a shovel in his hand and no burying to do, I figured I knew what they were about. I wanted to help, and Mr. Stukeley said I could.”

Lucas stopped to look at Doc. He realized he'd been expecting—hoping—that Doc would be pleased at this news. Mr. Stukeley had dismissed Doc, but he'd allowed Lucas, Doc's apprentice, to be involved in performing Sarah's cure. Lucas had felt proud of that, and had thought Doc would be, too.

But Doc only asked quietly, “Help?”

“Yes. With the digging. See, Thomas was the first to die.”

“And Thomas was coming round to make Sarah sick,” Doc said.

“That's right,” said Lucas. “So we dug up his grave and, Doc, when we opened up the coffin, Mr. Stukeley saw the signs that Thomas still lived.”

“What signs were those, lad?” asked Doc.

“He looked—well, like himself, I guess. And there was living blood, Mr. Stukeley said, in his heart. His eyes were open and his fingernails, Doc! They had grown.”

“And then?”

“Then Mr. Stukeley took Thomas's heart. And they burned it so Sarah and everyone could breathe the smoke, and then Mrs. Stukeley made a medicine from the ashes, and Sarah drank it, and it will make her well!” Lucas finished triumphantly.

“You say this Mr. Rood told you of the cure after your mother had passed away, Lucas?” Doc asked gently.

Lucas looked away. “He came to tell me before, but—”

“But what, lad?”

Lucas swallowed back the lump that had risen in his throat at the thought of how close he had come to being able to save his mother. “But I didn't go to the door…not until two days later, when Mama was gone.”

There was a silence. Then Doc asked, “Who was the first to die, lad?”

“Uncle Asa,” said Lucas. “Mr. Rood figured it was Asa who was—the mischievous one.”

Doc cleared his throat, looking disturbed.

“I didn't really understand the cure, how it worked. But now I do, thanks to you.”

Doc appeared startled. “How's that, Lucas?”

Lucas was surprised by Doc's question. “Well, you said—you said—lots of things. You said doctors don't always know what to do.”

Doc smiled bleakly. “True enough.”

“And you said that old witch woman—”

“Moll Garfield?”

“Yes. You said she knows a lot even though people call her a witch, and if she used hair from a dog that bit you it might cure the bite. And you told me how you can protect yourself from getting smallpox real bad by making sure you get just a little bit of it. So, when I thought about the cure, the one Mr. Stukeley did…”

“Yes?”

“Well, it seemed the same.” Lucas stopped. All the things he was trying to explain to Doc had fit together perfectly when he'd thought about them. But somehow saying them aloud made his thoughts sound foolish. He tried again.

“So it seemed to be the same kind of cure…to take some smoke from the fire and to make medicine from the ashes, ashes that came from the thing that was making Sarah sick…Like a—what did you call it? A noc—?”

“Inoculation,” Doc said softly.

“It seemed like that. And, at first, when Mr. Stukeley began to cut into Thomas, I got a shivery feeling and I thought maybe we were doing wrong. But then I remembered you said that in medical college you did dissections, and isn't that—well, doesn't that mean cutting into bodies that are dead?”

“It does, indeed,” answered Doc.

“So I figured it was all right. And you said you learned about bleeding people to get the bad blood out. And you had to cut off Clem's leg, because it was the bad part that was making the rest of him sick. So I thought taking the heart out—”

“I can see how you were thinking, lad,” said Doc.

But that wasn't all. There was something else Lucas wanted to explain. “Remember you said that sometimes you think the good of what you do isn't in what you do so much as in the—the kindness you show in doing it?”

“You don't miss much, do you, lad?” asked Doc with a tired smile.

Lucas sat quietly for a moment, trying to find the right words for the certainty that had been growing within him ever since his visit to the Stukeley farm. Finally, taking a deep breath, he began, “I
know
Sarah will get well. I can't say how I know. I—Mama's gone, but I could help the Stukeleys. It felt right, what we did.”

It was coming out all mixed up. But it
was
all jumbled up together. That was what made it so hard to explain. He wished he could find the words for what he knew inside: that his mama's unnecessary death was the very thing that made him so sure that Sarah would live, that his grief and regret over his mama's dying meant he was the right person to bring about Sarah Stukeley's cure. Because he had not used it to save Mama, the cure
had power
. It was only right that he should be able to use it to help Sarah Stukeley. He felt this in his heart, but he didn't know how to make Doc feel it, too.

“Lad,” said Doc, “it's true I said all those things. It's true that doctors, including myself, are far from knowing all the answers. But there are some things we do know, Lucas, and one is that when people are dead and buried, as Thomas was and as your Uncle Asa was, they cannot come back to do us harm.

“This belief your neighbor and Lewis Stukeley hold is based, not on scientific reasoning, lad, but on superstition, and fear, and ignorance. And while it is easy to understand why they would want to believe in it, for the sake of holding out hope that their loved ones will get well, it—”

“I was ignorant before,” said Lucas, his voice rising. “Now I know! Sarah Stukeley
will live
.”

“I hope you're right about that,” Doc said with a sigh.

“But you don't believe it.”

“She may live, but it won't be because of what was done to Thomas Stukeley's remains.” Doc looked almost pleadingly at Lucas's face. “I believe this, Lucas: people who are desperate do desperate things. And I understand that. But—”

Lucas interrupted with another thought. “Doc, what about the signs that Thomas Stukeley still lived? I saw them with my own eyes!”

Doc Beecher looked thoughtful. Then he asked, “What did you expect to see, Lucas?”

“I—Well…” Lucas hadn't thought about that. “Bones, I guess. Dried up, dead old bones! Like that,” he added, pointing to the skull sitting on the shelf.

“It was November when Thomas died, as I recall,” said Doc. “It is now, let me see, why, it's the seventh of March. Thomas's body has been in the ground just a little over three months now, Lucas. Three months, I might add, when the weather was quite cold. What does that suggest to you, lad?”

Lucas shrugged.

“I did not see Thomas, of course,” said Doc, “but what you have described is not surprising. It sounds to me like the normal condition of a body after an interment of that length of time, at this time of the year.”

“Mr. Stukeley said there was ‘living blood' in the heart,” said Lucas.

“By which he means blood that is red and flowing, I take it,” said Doc. “I don't know how to explain that, Lucas, other than to say that it does not mean Thomas was drawing blood from Sarah or any other living soul.

“In medical school we dissected many corpses, lad, and I saw many strange things that I cannot explain.”

“Well, how do you explain Enoch Rood?” Lucas asked eagerly. “He's cured! What about the stories Mrs. Rood heard? People in other places have been cured, too. Lots of people.”

“Lucas, in my experience, accounts like that have a way of growing bigger as they get passed along. They take on a life of their own. And, I'm afraid, the truth often suffers in the process.” Doc sighed. “People like a good story, lad. Each teller of the tale adds a touch here, a detail there, all to make the tale more intriguing and pleasing to his listeners. And if the one telling the story and the folks listening all want very much for the tale to end a certain way, well, you see what can happen.”

Lucas frowned. “Do you mean Mrs. Rood was lying? And Mr. Rood, when he told me of Enoch's cure?”

“No, I don't mean that at all,” answered Doc Beecher. “I've no doubt Mrs. Rood believed what she'd heard. She wanted to believe it, lad, do you see?”

“Well, sure,” said Lucas. “Because it meant maybe Enoch would live, too. And he did!”

“Yes, perhaps he did,” agreed Doc. “Or, God forbid that this be so, perhaps he was merely experiencing a brief respite. I've seen consumption patients who burn with a bright light, seeming to have recovered, just before their flame flickers and dies. But by the time that occurred, you see, word of his ‘cure' would already have traveled far and wide.”

Silently, Lucas puzzled over Doc's words. Could Enoch be dead now, after all? Lucas didn't believe it. “What of the successes Mrs. Rood heard of in Rhode Island?” he asked. “Seems like somebody must have been cured, to get the ‘story' started in the first place.”

“Perhaps such a coincidence did occur,” said Doc. “But the significance of it was exaggerated, lad, because it's our nature to make connections, to try to understand what happens to us, and to think we can do something about it.”

Lucas agreed with part of what Doc had said. Lucas had seen the helplessness of the Stukeleys, and their desperate need to do something to ward off death, and he'd felt that same strong desire himself.

But how could Doc be so sure about everything else? He didn't know the Roods or the other families from Rhode Island. He hadn't been with the Stukeleys when they had performed the cure, hadn't felt the hope and the powerful exhilaration, as Lucas had.

“I still believe Sarah Stukeley will live,” said Lucas quietly.

Doc removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, lad,” he said, “I hope you're right.”

Doc and Lucas did not speak about Sarah Stukeley again as the short, dark days of March passed. Lucas kept his thoughts to himself, certain that time would prove to Doc that what he and the Stukeleys had done was right.

Southwick suffered a spell of weather so numbingly cold that Doc and Lucas treated three cases of severely frostbitten fingers, toes, cheeks, and ears in just one week.

“Half the people in the village are coughing, sneezing, and suffering from chills, and they're the ones who are well enough to get up from their beds,” Doc proclaimed one frigid afternoon.

Several days later, two men arrived at the door carrying the body of Algander Lee, who had been discovered, frozen solid, in the street outside the Boar's Head Tavern. Algander had left the tavern the evening before, having had, in the words of the innkeeper, Horace Clark, more rum than was wise for a man half his age and twice his size. The unfortunate Algander had fallen over in the snowy street and, too drunk to rise, had simply fallen asleep, his stiffened fingers still grasping the handle of the jug, never again to awaken in this world.

It was the first time since Lucas's arrival that Doc had been called upon in his capacity as village undertaker. Most farm families, Doc explained, had their own small graveyards and handled their own affairs when it came to death. It was becoming more common for folks who lived in town to turn to an undertaker, such as Doc.

Algander, it turned out, was brought to Doc because he had no family, and no one knew what to do with him. Doc said he'd take care of Algander himself, and he paid for the plain pine coffin Algander was buried in, despite Mrs. Bunce's disapproval.

“He was a disgrace,” she said.

“I knew Algander before he ruined himself with drink,” Doc said quietly. “The man I used to know would have been shamed to think he'd come to such an undignified end. I'm glad that at least I can give him a decent burial.”

Lucas listened, moved by Doc's kindness. Later, he noticed the gentleness and respect with which Doc prepared Algander's body for burial.

Algander Lee's funeral offered Parson Reynolds an ideal opportunity to warn against “the pernicious effects of demon alcohol.” Mrs. Bunce, along with Parson Reynolds and several of the other ladies in town, was a member of the American Temperance Society and was pleased to report to Doc and Lucas at supper that evening that several more of the townsfolk had joined the society as a result of Algander's hapless end.

 

The next morning Doc announced, “Lucas, Clem Buell's wound has had two weeks to heal.” He grimaced. “And Clem's had two weeks to cool down about losing the leg. Much as I hate to go all the way out there in this cold, I need to pay him a call and see how he's getting on. Can you get the wagon ready?”

“Sure, Doc,” said Lucas.

When they entered Clem Buell's cabin, they found him sitting alone in the dark, dirty room. Nat was nowhere in sight.

“How's the leg, Clem?” asked Doc.

Clem's eyes glared from his sunken face. “Gone,” he said. “Thanks to you.”

Doc sighed. “Clem, I was sorry to have to take the leg. Surely you know I wouldn't have done it unless I had to. If you'd called for me sooner—”

“I never did call for you,” Clem growled. “It was that witless nephew of mine did it.”

“That witless nephew of yours saved your life,” said Doc sternly, “and I hope you haven't been abusing him for his effort. Now, are you going to let me look at the leg?”

Buell didn't answer. Doc appeared to take that as permission. He untied the bottom of Clem's pants leg and rolled it up to expose the stump. Lucas was relieved to see that the man's upper leg had shrunk back to a normal size. He watched as Doc prodded the flesh above where the tar sealed off the wound.

“You're lucky, Clem,” Doc said.

Buell snorted.

“It looks as if the rot has stopped spreading. It'll be a while yet before I can fit you with a wooden leg, but I can get one prepared ahead. If you'll let Lucas here help you stand, I'll be able to take a measurement.”

Clem Buell sat unmoving while Lucas struggled to get him up and balanced on his one foot.

“Help the lad out, can't you, Clem?” said Doc.

But Clem remained uncooperative as Doc made measurements around the thigh and from the stump to the dirt floor, saying only, “Don't want no peg leg.”

“You'll change your mind about that. How have you been making out with the crutch?” Doc asked.

“That confounded thing?” said Buell with disgust.

“It takes some getting used to,” Doc said. “I'll be back in another couple weeks, Clem, and we'll see about fitting you with a new leg, how's that?”

Buell didn't answer. Seated again, he stared straight ahead without expression.

“We'll be going, I guess.” Doc picked up his black bag and nodded to Lucas. “It's going to be all right, Clem,” he added gently. “Give it some time.”

As they drove away in the wagon Lucas asked, “Is he always so ornery?”

“Put yourself in his shoes, Lucas,” answered Doc. “Right now Clem's not thinking about the fact that he's alive; he's mourning the loss of that leg. To him, the remedy seems more painful than what ailed him, and he holds me to blame.” He took a weary breath. “We do our best, lad, but our patients don't have to like it, and they don't have to thank us for it, either.”

 

Several days later, as Lucas swept the office and Doc sat working at his desk, James Freeman stopped by with a loaf of headcheese, which he handed to Doc. “That's by way of payment for that lucky shave and haircut you gave me,” he said, smiling hugely.

Doc allowed as how he'd heard through the grapevine that Martha Pitcher and James were betrothed, but that he was happy to hear it was true. “And to think I'd always thought Martha had sound judgment and good taste. It must have been a powerful moon out that night to addle her wits,” he teased.

“It was no moon, I'm telling you. It was my own smooth cheeks and curly locks that won her,” said James.

“Don't you be telling Martha that I barbered you, then,” answered Doc. “When she figures out she got a pig in a poke, I don't want her blaming me!”

James left, promising to bring Martha by for a visit sometime soon, and Doc turned to Lucas. Blowing on his fingers to warm them, he said, “I see you're keeping the fire going, lad, but it seems to make no difference with these temperatures. It's the coldest month of March we've had since I started keeping these records some sixteen years ago.”

Lucas smiled. The previous evening, even Mrs. Bunce had agreed that the kitchen was too cold for bathing.

“Pull that chair over here and have a look,” Doc continued. “You might find this interesting.”

Lucas joined Doc at the desk, where the book Doc had been studying lay open. “In these columns I've recorded the date, the patient's name and age, the nature of the disease or ailment I was called to treat, particulars of weather, such as the temperature, and whether or not there was snow or rainfall, and other miscellaneous details such as the phase of the moon and what-have-you.”

Lucas remembered that Doc had been about to show him the record books the day Lydia Stukeley arrived at the door. He looked, seeing such entries as:

“Now, some ailments, such as broken bones or accidents like Clem's, seem to occur with the same frequency at all times of the year, in all sorts of weather, in every phase of the moon, you see,” Doc explained.

“Bee sting, naturally, will occur in the planting and harvest season, when bees and people are out and about. Other kinds of sickness, consumption being an obvious example, appear to occur much more often during the winter months. See this…and this…and here…”

Doc was running his finger down the columns, pointing out the dates when “consumption” was listed as the patient's complaint. Lucas nodded. He could see that the first symptoms usually came, as Doc had said, during the months of December, January, and February, although treatment of the illness might continue for longer than a year. The person could die from consumption, it appeared, at any time. But, yes, it looked as if most people came down with it during the winter.

“What of it, Doc?” he asked. “What does it mean?”

Doc laughed. “You do get right to the point, don't you, lad? As to what it all means, the answer is
I don't know
. But it seems likely to me, and there are other doctors who share my opinion, that just as there is a relationship between summer and bee stings, there is a relationship between winter and certain disease processes, whether it be from the presence of snow or cold, or the short days and long nights, or something else that occurs during these dark, dreary months.”

Lucas thought for a moment. “Since those who are undead make their visits during the night,” he said, “then longer nights would give them more time to make others sick. Yes!” He continued excitedly. “So in the winter—” He stopped when he saw the look on Doc's face.

“Lucas,” said Doc, “I was hoping you'd forgotten about that—that business, but it's plain that you have not. What I'm asking you, lad, is to set aside your thinking about Thomas Stukeley or anyone else coming back from the grave to cause ill to others. Just put it aside for now, and see if what I'm telling you makes better sense.”

Lucas answered stiffly, “I'll try, sir.”

“I'm thinking, Lucas, that you've shown a lot of promise in your time here as my apprentice,” Doc said. “I've found myself hoping you'll continue in the study of medicine.”

Lucas shifted in his chair. He was pleased by the praise, but still angry at Doc's refusal to believe that Lucas understood what had made Sarah Stukeley ill, and what had cured her.

“But, Lucas, if you're to pursue this course of study it is my responsibility to instill in you a scientific way of thinking. The study of medicine is progressing quickly, lad. I believe that someday, not in my lifetime, but perhaps in yours, we will understand the mysteries of consumption and many other diseases. But we cannot let ourselves be distracted by false ways of thinking.

“Now, you are looking for cause and effect in the case of Sarah Stukeley's disease, and you're right to do that, lad, with any illness.

“Example: A bee stings you. It causes you to have pain, swelling, itching, trouble breathing in some cases. The bee sting is the cause and the pain is the effect. But suppose that at the same moment the bee stung you a rooster crowed. Would you be correct in saying that the rooster's crow caused your pain and discomfort? The next time a rooster crowed, would you have the same symptoms?”

Lucas couldn't help grinning at Doc's suggestion. “'Course not,” he said.

Doc smiled, too. He continued enthusiastically. “Now, suppose you never saw the bee but you did hear the rooster. Do you see how you just might be fooled into thinking it was the rooster that caused your symptoms?”

Lucas laughed. “What if the sun came out at the same time? You might say the sun was the culprit, but you'd be wrong!”

“Exactly, lad!” Doc exclaimed, pounding his fist on the desk. “So, you see, a true scientist will put his theories to the test time and time again to see if they hold up. In that way, he would prove that each time a bee stings, it causes certain effects to follow, but those same effects do not follow the crowing of the rooster. He can, therefore, eliminate the rooster as the cause of his discomfort.”

“But everybody knows roosters don't sting, Doc,” said Lucas.

“Aaah, then, let me choose a less obvious example,” said Doc, rubbing his chin with relish. “Let us consider a case in which—”

Doc looked up as the door opened slightly and Lydia Stukeley's face appeared. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her dark eyes shone brightly with some strong emotion. “Good day, Dr. Beecher. Good day to you, too, Lucas,” she said.

“Come in, come in, Lydia,” said Doc. “What brings you out on a cold day like this?”

“It's Sarah,” cried Lydia excitedly.

There was a moment of silence while Lucas's heart thumped with anticipation. He was almost afraid to ask. “Sarah,” he repeated cautiously.

“Oh, lass,” said Doc, “is she—”

“She is well! She has recovered.” Lydia's voice rose, trembling with joy. “Lucas!
Sarah is cured!
”