The Doctor Takes a Wife (18 page)

The spasm of pain released its grip and frightened eyes peered up at him. “You Colt!” she gasped.

“I
’
m the doctor,” said Phil gently.

“You ain
’
t no sech thing
...
Oh, my God, my God!
Mammy tole me not to wed. Mammy, Mammy,
Mammy
!”
Phil knelt beside her, and offered his strong arm against which she could pull with small, childish hands and
thin
arms. A little girl set to do a woman
’
s work.

“She
’
s in labor,” he called to Page who had stopped on the porch.

“How old are you?” he asked the child who was thin
-
cheeked, her young mouth twisted with pain and fear, her fine hair soft and clinging against his hand.

“I
’
m thirteen
—
Colt
’
s gone for the midwife—Jennie—” But Jennie had driven Jared to the nearest V.A. regional office for admission to the hospital.

“Where
’
s your mother?” Phil asked the laboring gir
l.

“She won
’
t come. She tore me out a the Bible when I wed Colt. But, oh, dear Lord, sir, I got to have help!”

“You have help, my dear. Now, let me see
...
” He stood up and looked about the single room; the ceiling almost rested upon his hair. There was a rickety table, two chairs, a sort-of stove—

And Page, still standing on the porch, uncertainly handling her chart board. Phil looked her over. “Will you stay here while I go down for my bag?”

Her eyes were big. “Your medical—bag?”

“It
’
s more surgical than—it has a few things I
’
ll need.”

“I
’
ll get it
.
”

“It
’
s heavy...”

“I
’
ll manage.” She laid the chart board on the porch floor and started down the slope.

Before she returned, Colt showed up—and his name suited him. A slight, dark boy with great brown eyes, a wild, suspicious manner. “I couldn
’
t find no help,” he announced as he came into the house.

The husband looked all of sixteen. Phil barked orders at the boy. He was to get the stove afire. Did they have any newspapers? The boy didn
’
t rightly think they did
...

Phil attended the girl, and sent Colt down to carry the bag for Page. Thus she came into the cabin rather briskly, ready to speak her piece about the social significance of child marriages
...

“Oh, hush!” cried Phil. “Well decide about whether she should have a baby after she
’
s had it!”

Page looked fearfully toward the bed. “Can you work that low?”

“I
’
ll have to work that low. I didn
’
t
‘
bring a delivery table with me.” He took his bag from Colt, and zipped it open, the noise attracting even the mother.

Phil tried to remember the things he had seen Jennie do. He
’
d had some training in home-deliveries—but never in a cabin so poor it afforded no newspapers except the few which had been pasted on the inner side of the wall, so sparsely furnished that the com-shuck pallet lay on the floor. “Did you leave word for Jennie?” he asked the boy. Colt had done so. “What
’
s your wife
’
s name?”

“Marsy. She
’
s a-feared.”

“Of course. She
’
s only a baby herself.”

“Her Ma has a right to come—” he protested resentfully.

“We
’
ll get along.” He handed the envelope containing gloves to Page. At her bewildered look he told her how to hold it thus and so—he drew out the gloves, snapped his hands into them.

“I should have known that,” she murmured.

“Yes!” He would give her no comfort on that score. “What else can I do? Put some water on to boil?” Phil already had a battered kettle singing.

He laughed. “Do you plan soup or coffee?”

“I was only—” Her face blazed white with fury.

“Scrub a patch of floor as clean as you can make it,” he ordered. Then he turned back to the mother. “Colt, get the hell out of my way! You help Page, or get clear out of here! Scrub the floor clean, Page—only about a foot square—wipe it with disinfectant, and lay out forceps, open that box of cotton—my clamp scissors—the saw
-
toothed ones—”

Page said nothing. Still mad, he supposed. Frightened, too—and ashamed of herself. But Phil had his hands full with a shoulder presentation in a pelvic opening so small
—
he heard the rasp of her scrubbing, smelled the tingling odor of carbolic, and grinned behind his teeth.

Rain began to roar through the trees—and to drip through the roof. He sent Colt up—to sit on the hole, if necessary! He heard the boy talking to someone out in the dooryard. “I think it may be the girl
’
s father,” said Page, who sat on the floor near the door, out of Phil
’
s way.

He had shed his jacket and plaid shirt; his thighs would ache for a month, he knew, from all this kneeling. He had almost to get into bed with his patient to care for her
—
and didn
’
t dare leave her for a minute. Her strength was going fast; he still might have to free the baby surgically; but shortly after midnight he succeeded in turning the child enough so that—

He held the baby in his hands, waiting for it to fill its lungs and cry, then, no other provision for it being evident, he wrapped the child in his own shirt, and gave the bundle—to Jennie.

She smiled at him. “I this minute got here, Doctor.”

He was again busy with the mother. “Did you bring some newspapers?” was all he said.

“Colt
’
s bringing my things from my car. It
’
s a bad night—Marsy have a hard time?
”

“Very hard. Me, too.”

“I
’
m glad you was here.” Dawn was breaking before Jennie and Phil could join Page out on the porch. She was shivering, and sleepy. Ashamed of herself. Jennie sensed this. “You might fix us a mite o
’
breakfast,” she suggested. “Colt, you got side meat, or eggs?”

Colt produced these things, and he and Page managed some food; mother and baby slumbered on in their
corner
of the room. Phil stood up to eat, glad to stretch his aching muscles. Jennie drank Coke, from a supply in her car which had come closer to the cabin than Phil had brought his. While she chewed the thick bacon, she got the particulars on the delivery.

“I
’
ll get her mother over here to tend her,” she promised.
‘
Time
’
s gone for feudin
’
.”

“You can
’
t really blame her for not wanting that child
...”

“
’
Twasn
’
t her bein
’
too young to marry, Miss Page,” said Jennie, “but Colt—he
’
s jest that. No pappy—”

“Morals?” asked Page, surprised.

“They righteous folks. They make mistakes—and accidents happen. But Marsy
’
s folks are Rollers. And they are mighty proud! Still
—
I
’
ll
get her Mammy over.”

She sighed, and smiled at Phil. “I guess God sent you into our
hills
just to help Marsy,” she said winningly.

“I t
hink
God has His eye on these hills, Jennie,” he said reverently, “to put you here.”

“He knew that I needed you last night. Did I hear you right when you said you
’
d given up doctorin
’
?”

“Only to study more deeply,
”
Page spoke up.
“
To do research.”

Jennie looked thoughtful. “But his
hands
, Miss Page. They
’
s so much work for hands like his. You may say Marsy and her baby don
’
t amount to much, but they
’
re creatures, same as you and me. She needed Dr. Phil last night—jest as I know these folks need me. Without me, the old granny midwives would be a-tearin
’
and a-cuttin
’
. Without him—there
’
s not near enough doctors to cover this mountain, let alone the world. It seems to me that folks with hands are
bound
to use those hands.”

She got wearily to her feet. “Well walk up now to talk to Marsy
’
s Mammy, Doctor.”

Phil stood for a minute looking at his hands, big, capable—blunt-fingered, strong. Aware that she waited, he packed his bag, and they started along the path. Colt was to stay close and watch the fire, said Jennie. Not to let it go out—nor bu
rn
the shack down, either! And he was not to go to sleep
...

As they trudged along, Phil attempted to tell Page something of Jennie
’
s duties and work; the Negress shrugged off his praise. “We all of us do what we seem set to do, Doctor,” she said gently.

“I understand Dr. Caldwell wants you to give some lectures to the State Board of Health,” he mentioned.

“Yes, sir, but I don
’
t feel that my people can spare me. Look what happened to Marsy when I took one day off.”

“Did you get things fixed up for Jared?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I felt I had to take him; other times he
’
s backed out—but now he
’
s safe. Pension and all.” She plodded on up the steep stretch, her black coat pulled close about her—and she sighed heavily, shaking her head.

“You
’
re tired,” said Page softly.

“I reckon you could call it more discouragement, Miss Page, or maybe hurt.”
Phil glanced at her over his shoulder. “It does hurt, Doctor,” she said firmly. “
The
waste
...”

“Now, Jennie—”

“You tell me you quit workin
’
—and it can
’
t be because you
’
re not a good worker! You can work—but you just don
’
t—and I can
’
t figure that out. Why, why,
why
you
’
d just put your fine hands into your pockets and—”

Again Phil and Page tried to explain about the research in clots. Both admitted that he
’
d not done much—in fact, he
’
d been what she called piddling in St. Louis. But there was still a chance—

“I know it
’
s not my place to speak up,” Jennie conceded, “but you asked me what worried me, and that
’
s it. Of course, maybe the folks back in your home neighborhood could spare you?” Her black face brightened in the misty, early light.

“Well
—
I suppose they are getting along.”

“But are they doin
’
as well?”

“I must say no to that,” said Phil Gruffly. He had to say “no.” Before leaving the city, he
’
d had a letter from me telling him that we
’
d not been able to get a surgical o.b. man to replace him, and there had been a case or so—

“Then I don
’
t see why you
’
re in Missouri at all!” said Jennie flatly.

Page undertook to mention the future, the overall picture of medical advancement
...

“The future,” Jennie repeated wearily. They were all weary. And pushing their way through a thicket of wet hazel bushes was no picnic
...
“Well, of course, I
’
m one to take care of today, Miss Page. Today is mine. Tomorrow will have another Jennie.”

“We hope!” said Phil.

Jennie smiled at him. “There will be.”

“But someone,” Page insisted, “has to study and explore.”

“Yes, ma
’
am, they do. And somebody else has to work. I work. Dr. Phil could, too—like he did last night. Now, I
’
ll set myself to point that out to Marsy
’
s mother.”

She did a good job. Within half an hour the older woman was whipping her way down through the bushes, and the rest of the family were telling what they knew about “the sickness” to Miss Page. With Jennie sternly at hand, they talked to her, let her take her blood samples; Jennie helped trace relationships.

She told Page and Phil where to go next, what to say, what to do. By Saturday night, Page had gathered enough material so that they could plan to start home the next day. Page even thought gleefully that she had a “carrier” spotted.

“The darnedest things make you happy!” Phil teased. They had stopped to bid Jennie farewell, and now he turned the car toward the city; they should be there by dark.

Page sighed and leaned back against the car seat. “I
’
m happy,” she admitted. “I have something to take back to the Director.”

“Thanks to Jennie,” murmured Phil, giving the windshield wiper a poke. Next time he
’
d make these hills in a boat!

“Thanks to Jennie!” Page agreed. “And to you,” she added shyly, lifting her eyes to Phil
’
s face.

“Well, I
’
ll admit to carryin
’
a mean sample case,” he drawled.

“No, I
’
m serious,” she protested. “It was your saving Marsy that did it. That got the Tharps to talking—they were grateful, not so much for her life, as for a chance to stop being—what was their term?—
stranged.
Stranged from her. They never really wanted that child to be punished. Not so severely
...”

Phil smiled down at her. She was a cute thing, when relaxed this way. “Good for you, Page!” he said warmly. “You
’
re learning.”

“And high time, tool” She dimpled at him.

Phil had to watch the road, and Page knew it, so she didn
’
t talk too much. A detour sign set their wheels on gravel—it was a fair road, but channeled now with runnels of water. In places, two cars could not have passed. “Wonder what happened up the highway?” he murmured.

“Repairs?” “Not in the winter—except emergency. Maybe the rivers are out down below
...”

He drove slowly, his eyes always aware of the beauty of the hills and valleys even in the stre
am
ing
rain. Now and then he pointed out an especially handsome vista to Page.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Like a picture you
’
d paint—if you can paint?”

“Me?” asked Phil, startled and amused.

“Well, how would I know? After all—”

“That
’
s right,” he agreed. “Eight months isn
’
t very long.”

“Has it been eight months?” she asked in amazement.

“Must have been. Your fingers are free. Count
‘
em. April, May—”

She obediently counted, and Phil chuckled.

“I
’
m glad you came to St. Louis,” she decided. “And certainly glad you offered to come down into the Ozarks with me. My goodness, imagine me in that place alone! I
’
d not have got beyond Caldwell
’
s office.”

“For all we know, you
’
d have got through your business more quickly. He
’
d have taken you around—or sent you with Jennie.”

“Yes. And what of their work? His mastoiditis? And Jennie
’
s babies?”

“That
’
s right.” He stopped on a bridge and looked intently down at the muddied river. He opened the door and leaned out to look up the hillside, upstream
...

“Anything wrong?” asked Page.

“I don
’
t know. Some of the streams must be out of their banks to bring that mud down.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, except that I
’
ll drive carefully and not take any chances on being caught by a flash-flood in a low stretch.” The road began to climb again, but he kept his eye on the stream wherever it appeared.

“And then there was Marsy,” Page continued her line of thought. “What would have happened to her if I
’
d come down here alone? I mean, of course, if you had not been here.”

Phil
’
s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, dropped. “What
always happens when there
’
s no doctor around. The patient gets well—or—he doesn
’
t.”

“Marsy would have died,” said Page with conviction. Phil was silent.

She turned in the seat to look at him. “Wouldn
’
t she?”