The Doctor Takes a Wife (13 page)

She dropped her eyes for a moment. “Just what are you suggesting? That I am not properly equipped for my work? Others seem to disagree with you.”

“They don
’
t though. I
’
ll admit you have the brain power and the scientific training for a researcher. You
’
re smart, Page, and I know it. But as a woman whose heart might touch her work with genius, you
’
re not
‘
smart
’
at all. Why, I can name several girls who know more than you
’
ll ever learn for all your degrees and dangling keys! I think of one girl in particular. She has a B.A. in Journalism and works on one of the daily newspapers. Now and then she gets a by-line. She may earn seventy-five a week, though I doubt it.

“But she knows more about life, and people, and the problems of both, than you
’
ll discover if you sit at this lab bench for fifty years!”

Of course, Page was angry; no woman likes to be belittled, or compared unfavorably with another girl. “Then you think the three million dollars this building cost was wasted?” she said in cold amusement.

“Nothing of the sort. For one thing, all the workers in here aren
’
t like you. They know there
’
s an outside world.”

And I don
’
t?”

“I
’
ve known you for three months, and you still call me
Doctor
Scoles.”

“But—what difference does it make? That
’
s your name.”

“So is Phil my name.”

“I think I do you more honor—”

He leaned toward her, and she drew away from him, swiftly. He turned toward the door.
“
Honor
isn
’
t precisely what a man wants from a girl, Page,” he said, over his shoulder.

“Oh,” said she. “I see.”

His eyes flashed.
“
W
hat
do you see?”

“That you
’
re like all men.” She didn
’
t look at him.

“Well, I certainly hope so! What
’
s wrong with men? As such?”

“The fact that you don
’
t know clearly demonstrates their condition,” she said coolly.

Phil turned clear around to look at her. From the top of her capped head, to the crepe sole of her white shoes his eyes moved slowly, and with decision. He didn
’
t say one word; he just turned away, opened the door and went out.

Even as he went back through the air locks, and finally out of the lab building, he was thinking about himself and his unreasonable attitude. He
’
d been trying for three months to get Page
Arning
to talk about her work. He
’
d
finally
succeeded and she
’
d even admitted him to her holy of holies, her own laboratory. But—

For a girl as pretty as she was, it was simply not enough.

He didn
’
t object to brains in a woman. Even, admittedly, to more brains than he himself had. But brains alone were no better than
—
He wanted his women to be rounded out
—
and how!

That evening, feeling disappointed and lonely, he tried to locate Min. He
’
d seen her only a couple of times since coming to the city; he didn
’
t know where she lived, she was not in the book. He called the newspaper.

Miss Brady was not in, and the switchboard could not give out information on the addresses of its employees.

Morosely, Phil spent the evening considering his own damn foolishness and concluding that the best thing he could do would be to go back to Berilo and get to work!

But next morning the Manager sent for Dr. Scoles, and asked him if he
’
d be willing to cooperate with certain technicians who were working on television broadcasts of surgery.

That was the spring of 1950, and color tv. was a gleam in several eyes. Closed-channel telecasts of operations had been tried, but without too much success. Color would be a help; many bugs must be worked out. The Group was ready to help. A live patient was the ideal subject, but for the initial experiment, an autopsy performed by Philip, a skilled surgeon, would be an enormous help. If he
’
d care to cooperate in the great amount of detail work that would be necessary—

Phil was interested, but he drawled a reminder that he
’
d come to Boone to do research.

“McNaire says you have a nice clean scalpel
.
”

“Dr. McNaire has been very kind to me.”

“I never knew him to give praise where it wasn
’
t due.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Afterwards, Phil was to consider his help with the development of color tv. surgery a justification for his year in St. Louis. He immediately sensed the importance of the work. He
’
d seen black and white telecasts, and realized what problems must be solved. Color, well done, would remove the confusion which viewing students found among the varying shades of gray in—say—a telecast nerve operation.

Color t.v. would be better than movies made of the same operation, because in t.v. the student and doctors observing were not any more sure than the operating surgeon whether things would go smoothly. When a snag developed, the observer would learn how the difficulty was handled.

Over a period of hours and weeks and months, experiments were done to determine the proper sort of operating theatre to use, and where the lens turret should be mounted. How many should participate? Should the operating doctor lecture? Where should a mike be placed so that it would not get in the surgeon
’
s way? Should there be a second doctor ready to interpret and explain? Just how would this be done?

Phil did his autopsies before the camera, and the technicians worked at the bugs. Phil, with a glance now and then at his own screen, suggested ways to make the telecast more effective. After several trials, it was at his suggestion that the lens was finally mounted in the overhead light. He had to practice long and patiently to find a throat mike that wouldn
’
t blur, or gurgle when he swallowed. He had a very fine mike-voice, it developed, clear and without vibrato.

It was decided to locate the second surgeon among the listeners, with a two-way arrangement by which he could ask the operating surgeon to spell out what he had just said or done. At Phil
’
s suggestion, Amie supplied dull
-
finished instruments which would not give off a reflected glare. There were a thousand such details!

Phil soon did his autopsies for classes assembled before a screen, his clear voice pleasant in their ears. He had no nervousness before the camera; his clean, swift movements kept his gloved hands from obscuring what his instruments were doing. The listening surgeon was scarcely needed; Phil
’
s own explanations were crisply clear.

The telecast autopsies were so well done that the students demanded live operations. One was telecast, and the questions poured in. Why hadn
’
t
Scoles
operated?

Dr. McNaire, twinkling, asked why not, indeed? Would PhD?

Well—in his own field, perhaps.

He did a Caesarean and found himself with a fan following. It was flattering, amazing and even bewildering. He
’
d come all the way across the country in search of a new work, and here he was doing telecasts of the very same work he
’
d been doing in Berilo!

A trial was made of sending the telecast out on the cable. Letters came back asking to see the surgeon
’
s face. The other doctor
’
s teased him mildly, and generally without malice. He felt like a ham actor—and still it made a man think.

The telecasts reached so many students, and visiting doctors! They
’
d be worth what they would cost; certainly they were worth the time it was taking Phil to get the set-up developed.

He forgot about going back to Berilo.

He was very busy—and very happy. He regretted having to give up his urology clinic duty, but he managed to stay on with the o.b., and now performed some of the advised surgery. All the old questions were revived, and discussed.

Why did so capable a surgeon waste his talents in vague research?

In order to operate, he had to be put on a staff basis
—
a thing easily arranged because of the teaching he did through the telecast lectures. He began to do lectures for other surgeons hampered by a foreign-accented voice, or by mike fright. It was amazing how many gifted surgeons found themselves paralyzed by that microphone. And a poor voice robbed the demonstration of half its value. Scoles could stand by and lecture with intelligence—and a good voice.

He considered organizing a class in television technique for the staff doctors.

This all took time, and interest. From being the least important person attached to the Group, he was somewhat embarrassed to find himself among the best known. When even Page Arning looked at him, and spoke to him, with new admiration, he confessed that being a “ham” was not precisely the sort of research he
’
d dreamed of when he
’
d come to Boone. And, “If I
’
m not going to do research, why am I here?”

“You
’
re teaching a lot of students what constitutes good Gc. surgery,” she told him.

“Do you remember the lecture I gave you on the need for patient-consideration in research?”

She smiled at him. “Yes,” she said softly.

“Would you say that all this effort I
’
m spending on broadcasts shows that kind of consideration?”

She put her elbows on the table and studied his face
—
exactly, he thought, as she would have studied one of her blackbirds. They had met at the door of the dining room that evening; he knew she
’
d insist on signing her own check, but it would have been silly not to eat together. “I never did agree with you that a single patient was more important than a hundred,” she said in a challenging way that, suddenly, he found attractive in her. And surprising.

“I never claimed he was more important. I said each one was significant in himself. I said that a doctor
’
s first consideration was for that patient! And it is. Just as any professional growth he shows should be toward giving more to that patient.”

“You think you
’
re not doing that?”

“I
’
m not doing any more for the patient. I use the same techniques I always used—under lights. But—”

“There was always a good chance, Doctor, that your techniques, employed on as many patients as possible, furnished a completely worth-while service to humanity.”

He leaned back to look at her in amazement. “Now, I
’
ve heard everything!”

She flushed prettily. “I
’
m proud of you and this new work,” she admitted.

“I
’
ll believe that when I hear you call me
Phil
!”

“But I do, all the time,” she said swiftly. “When I speak of you
—
I always say,
‘
Phil Scoles does so-and-so
...”

“Name dropping.”

“Yes!”

“But to me, Page, you still say
Doctor
.”

She hid her face behind the rim of her coffee cup, wiped her lips and rose. “Yes,” she said hastily, “I know.” And she went swiftly out of the dining room.

CHAPTER
9

A
dozen
times her abruptness, her prim and frigid manner, had caused Phil to vow he was done with Page
Arning
; he
’
d avoid her from then on, wherever possible!

A dozen times her real loveliness, in contrast to that air of cold reserve, made him try, once more, to puncture the girl
’
s shell, to find out why a beautiful and clever young woman should have set up such a guard in the first place.

Sometimes a slight appearance of success would encourage him to try further—though the success was never more than slight.

She would meet him on the sidewalk, and come into the hotel with him, laughing about some bit of Group gossip, enter the elevator with him, still laughing, and—icily turn down his suggestion that she stop in his room for a drink.

“I
’
d leave the door open
...”
he promised, his tone ironic.

“Thank you,” she said, and did not leave the elevator at his floor.

He sighed, and again said he was through.

But that same week, on impulse, he asked her to go to the Municipal Opera with
him
, and she agreed, seeming pleased.

She dressed prettily, seemed to enjoy the music under the stars, and the crowd—but on the way home in a taxi,
she
’
d hated his taking her hand in his. There was no pretense about her objection. She hated his touch, hated that small gesture of male approval and approach.

Phil didn
’
t know what to do about such a girl.

Ten days later he found out what not to do.

Through the McNaires, he had become rather well acquainted with a group of pleasant, youngish people; most of them were married, but a personable young bachelor made his own welcome. Phil was intelligent rather than intellectual; he read more than the average man of his age and profession, he knew more about the arts—especially the theatre—and that quality fitted him well into the McNaire circle.

Several of those people painted for a hobby, disclaiming any artistic ability but well pleased if some should be accredited to them. The city had a popular Artists Guild which boasted a building of its own where amusing parties were frequently given.

On that particular Saturday night, a former member of the Guild, a man who had made a name and some money for himself doing portraits of children in California and New York, had returned to the city, and a “brawl” was being thrown in his honor.

Phil was invited and would have asked Page to go with him, except for that taxi business.

However, he found her there, not the only unescorted woman by any means, though the loveliest, by far. She greeted Phil in a friendly, offhand way, and he watched her for part of the evening, trying to determine if she were any warmer to other men than she had shown herself ready to be with him. She was not.

In a group, especially if the talk was of scientific matters, she sparkled and glowed. But she never let herself be a part of any of the twosomes into which that sort of gathering constantly divided itself. She was skilled and graceful in her skirmishing to avoid this, but could be equally firm when necessary. Phil grinned to see blank amazement on the face of the visiting celebrity when Page flatly refused his suggestion that they find out what sort of horrors were hung in the Gallery.

He wasn
’
t sure whether he was glad to find that her allergy extended to all men; there was definitely something wrong with a dame who could look like a million dollars in a slim suit of printed silk, put sapphire ear hobs against her pale hair—and not want any man to touch her with his hands, or his eyes.

To hell with it! By eleven o
’
clock, and his third highball, he had stopped fretting about Dr.
Arning
. Twelve o
’
clock, and still another drink, made him indifferent about whom he took home. It was raining hard, and he had his car. When Jean Miller asked him if he
’
d look out for Page—

“I understand you two live together.”

Phil said, “Sure,” meaning that he
’
d take
Arning
home. But that sort of party considered his reply high wit.

Page said frigidly that she
’
d call a cab.

“Don
’
t be silly!” shouted Phil, not meaning to be noisy. He got her familiar pale coat from the check room, and hung it around her shoulders. He took her arm in his firm fingers, and led her down the street to his car. She had to go with him, or make a scene.

She chose to go, though she didn
’
t talk on the drive home. It was a matter of ten minutes at that time of night. He drove into the basement garage, agreed with the boy that it was raining, and followed Page to the elevator. He pushed the button for her floor, though his was two below
it...

In the mirror he saw that his hair was disheveled, and he smoothed it with his hand, glancing at Page
’
s smooth head as he did this. “Don
’
t you drink?” he asked curiously.

“I—I don
’
t drink much.” Her pretty lips pressed inward.

They
’
d reached her floor, and the door glided open. Page stepped out of the cage, and turned to thank Dr. Scoles. But he came out, too, shut the elevator door with great precision, and followed her along the carpeted, silent hall.

Sconces lit the door-studded walls; there was no sound
—
except the slight rustle which Page made in taking her keys from the little blue bag she carried. Phil took them from her, and she glanced up swiftly; he unlocked the door, pushed it open, and put his arm around her shoulders, exactly as he would have done to any girl, exactly as he had done to a hundred other girls! He bent his shining head and kissed her warmly.

It was a kiss of good night—no more—but Page
Arning
stiffened as if struck by a rattler. Her arm drew back and she slapped Phil Scoles squarely across his mouth
—
slipped him hard. There could be no argument about the kind of slap it was.

“Hey!” he said angrily, but he said it to the pale green door, which she had shut sharply between them. Phil put the back of his hand to his lips—then reached for his handkerchief. “Well, of all the dizzy dames!” he snorted, and walked slowly down the hall, dabbing at the red trickle from the cut on his lip. The elevator was where he had left it. He got in and tried his best to slam the inner gate. He did slam things around in his room before he finally tumbled into bed. “Fool woman
...”
he said even as his eyes closed.

That was Saturday night—or early Sunday morning. It was the first time a girl had ever slapped Phil
’
s face and he was not inclined to let the experience be repeated. He slept late, went to church as usual, took another nap in the afternoon. It was still raining. He went to Edmonds
’
for his dinner, but came home about nine, and was writing some letters—had done one to me—when his phone rang. He picked it up, his eyes watching the blurring pattern of light reflections on the rain-washed window pane.

It was, an agitated female voice said, Page
Arning
.

Phil
’
s brown eyes snapped. “Yes?” he said warily. It would be really the last straw if she
’
d venture to make an apology
...

“I
’
m sorry to bother you this late, Doctor,” she said, the words tumbling against his ear.

“That
’
s quite all right. It
’
s only a little after ten.”

“Yes, I know. You see, I
’
ve been working over here
...
”

“Over where?”

“At the lab. I often do on Sunday—though I usually stop long before now. But I got interested and—well, the thing is, I believe I
’
m locked in!”

“That
’
s bad,” said Phil. By then his eyes were shining.

“Yes, because I not only have had no dinner—but these floors are a little hard to sleep on.”

“And there
’
s no one else around?”

“I don
’
t know—”

“That
’
s right. You can
’
t hear
‘
em.”

“No.” Her voice sounded small and young—and frightened. “I
’
ve tried to raise the janitor on the phone—but he doesn
’
t answer. I imagine he
’
s out in the alley or somewhere—with a girl, probably.”

“Oh, surely not!” His grin was wide. He was thoroughly enjoying the situation.

“Well—” in a high, nervous voice.

“It
’
s raining, Eh.
Arning
. Pouring, as a matter of fact.” “Is it?” There was a moist, gulping sound, and he felt like a dog.

“What is it you think I can do? Might be dangerous to hunt the guy if he
is
with a girl, but of course I
’
d do it for
you
.”

“No,” she said, sounding more like herself. “My suggestion would be—I
’
ve been trying every way I know
—
for an hour—but you live right in the hotel, and I feel I know you well enough—I could ask the bellboy—but after all, the locks here are complicated, and you
’
ve been through them
...”

“Ah-huh?”

“I
’
ll phone the desk clerk and tell him to let you go to my room—you
’
ll find my pass key to the lab locks on the. ring in my blue purse. I imagine it
’
s on my desk. It isn
’
t one bit like me to forget my purse—and keys—” Yes, it definitely was a sob.

“Now you just calm down,” said Phil quickly, and warmly. The situation no longer seemed funny. It must be anything but nice for a girl to find herself locked in that mausoleum. “I
’
ll come over as fast as I can gallop.” He put on his shoes, and grabbed his raincoat; he got her keys from her purse—the same squashy blue one she
’
d carried the night before—and he took off down Kings highway. He could walk in the time it would take to get his car out, and maneuver it through traffic.

The janitor was still nowhere around, his desk in the
lobby of the central section was deserted, his watchman
’
s time clock lay beside the telephone. "One man out of a job,” said Phil aloud, his voice bouncing eerily from the tiled walls.

He used the key to get into the elevator and sent it up to what he hoped was the right floor. He went through the first lock, defiantly not putting on coveralls—the violet rays could do a little overtime—and through the second air lock. On the far side of that door he found Page, her gauze cap in her hand, her eyes as big as saucers, her lips ready to tremble.

He held out his arms, and she went into them. He kissed her as he would have kissed a frightened child—and she let him.

“Poor kid,” he comforted, and she sobbed against his shoulder.

“I don
’
t know when I
’
ve been so frightened,” she confessed. “It
’
s silly, but—”

“Not silly at all. The place is spooky, even in the daytime, and with people around.” And he kissed her again, this time as he would have kissed a grown, but still frightened, girl.

And again she let him, though she drew herself free
—
almost at once.

She cut her eyes at him sideways, and blushed. “I
’
ll have to change,” she said shyly.

“Sure. I
’
ll wait.”

He leaned against the tile wall, whistling, till she came out wearing a gray raincoat and a little Quaker bonnet with ribbons tied under her chin. She peered at him shyly from under the scoop brim, and made a thing of putting on some green gloves—pale yellow-green they were—the color called chartreuse.

Phil looked at her as curiously as anything had ever been looked at in that lab building.
“
Tell me,” he said, letting her precede him into the elevator, “what was the subject of your doctor
’
s thesis?”

And, in a matter-of-fact tone, she told
him
. “The Brain of a Catfish.”

His laughter roared out tremendously in that empty building of hard steel and tile surfaces. He was still chuckling and gurgling when they reached the lobby.