The Doctor Takes a Wife (24 page)

“What good is a beautiful figure if I don
’
t know how to use it?” Page wailed. “And then there
’
s another thing, Min. And it
’
s the worst of all.”

Min looked at her askance. What else could there be?

“I make horrible coffee,” Page confessed miserably. “In fact—I
’
m a rotten housekeeper!”

This climax would have been funny, and Min was inclined to laugh. Only—it wasn
’
t funny at all. It was tragic. And Page was right. That fact
was
the “worst of all.” Such a wife didn
’
t have much chance.

CHAPTER 13

Before
Page could elaborate on her sins as a housekeeper, or Min could advise her—had she been so inclined—the doorbell rang lustily, and Mrs. Whitehill came burbling in with half of a hot cherry pie for “the doctor
’
s supper.” Min departed under the confusion attendant upon this neighborly gesture.

Phil came home then, and at dinner asked, with husbandly brutality, who
’
d brought the pie in—and before he could redeem himself he was called back to the hospital on an emergency.

So Page had that whole evening—and half the night
—
to do what most of us do when betrayed into talking too much and too intimately. She thought over all the things she
’
d told Min, and reached the conclusion that the cute, brown-eyed girl would be a fool if she didn
’
t make use of the situation as Phil
’
s wife had outlined it for her.

Min was no part of a fool. Therefore, she would use it.

And, unquestionably, Min was tempted. It would be so easy—

The party she gave was done with a thought of staking out her claim on Phil. I thought I saw what she was up to, and I was afraid for her—and for me. If she made that big try, it was going to spoil things between us, completely.

Min
’
s folks had gone to the Round Up. Our whole
crowd usually went up in a body. Two years before, Phil had come home engaged to Marynelle; we all remembered that. This year, for one reason and another, none of us went. And Min
’
s party was supposed to be for the old
-
timers who stayed at home.

We were invited to bring our knittin
’
or our whittlin
’
; wheel chairs would be provided, but we must bring our own canes
...

“The “cousins” fell into the spirit of the thing. Walt hung a string mop under his chin for a beard; Lois found a brass ear-trumpet some place. Min had the liquor bottles labeled “liniment” and stuff, and for a while it looked as if all the food was going to be milk toast. “Graveyard stew.”

It promised to be as rowdy a party as our gang had ever helped rocket along, and, of course, the sort of party at which poor Page would be entirely lost. Just as surely, Min would be in her element, saucy, witty, resourceful
...

She wore a gray wig, parted in the middle, with sausage curls bobbing against her red-apple cheeks. Impossible gold spectacle-frames kept sliding down her pert little nose; her calico dress was full-skirted, and she wore black mitts. She was as cute as a button. The minute I saw her I began to float, and had difficulty with my breathing; little flames zinged through me. Life was very beautiful
...
until I saw Phil go swiftly to her, and stand beside her in a wedding “photygraft” pose, a smugly assured smile on his face. The evening seemed set, then, for a disastrous climax.

Page wouldn
’
t have done one thing to block the toboggan slide; she had come to the party wearing the face of a woman in a satin-lined coffin. She was quite prepared to accept this end to her life.

Phil had found a stovepipe hat and a gray shawl, and was too engrossed in being the male half of that handsome couple to notice what was going on. Maybe.

But Min saw. One good look at Page through those spectacle rims showed Min what it was she was about to do—and to her eternal glory, she decided that she must boggle the whole scheme.

She deliberately drank too much, to insure that her old friends would believe in the disgusting show which she put on. And it was such a show
!
Her gray wig awry, her calico skirts draggled, her voice high and foolish, she quarreled nastily with Lois Thornhill, and was downright silly with Walt Maddox and Gene Lowe, knowing damn well that Phil watched her with growing concern. He finally came to me with the plea that I do something. “She
’
s drunk,” I excused her.

“I know that, you saphead. But Min doesn
’
t usually
—
what
’
s got into her?”

“Well, a large part of that-there liniment, I
’
d say.”

“Look, Whit—” He was in no mood for joking.

I just stared back at him. “If everybody
’
d go home,” I pointed out, “the party would be over.”

“We can
’
t leave her like this!”

“
I
’
ll watch her, if that
’
s what you want.”

“Don
’
t you think I
’
d better have Page put her to bed?”

“I think you
’
d better take Page home and put
her
to bed!”

“Now, what in hell...”

“I mean just what you think I mean. So get goin
’
, Redhead.
Get goin
’
!
”

They all finally left, and I helped Min be sick at her stomach—she wasn
’
t used to so much liquor, and I sort of cleaned up the mess in their back yard, making that an excuse to hang around till I saw Min ready to go to sleep on the living room couch. I went home, coming back early enough Sunday morning to help her through the big hangover—and it was a pip!

“What got into me, Whit?” she asked wretchedly.

“No mystery about it. You just plain drank too much.”

“I don
’
t mean that
.
”

“No?”

She glared at me. “No! I was thinking of my party
—
I
’
d labored on it. And it was a swell idea—but it didn
’
t work.”

“It worked all right,” I consoled her. “You just changed your mind about what you wanted the party to do.”

She sighed wearily, and nodded. “Me and my better nature,” she grumbled.

“What comes next?” I asked, carting another armful of paper plates and cups over to the incinerator.

“Nothing—till I get rid of this head.” She lay on the glider and kicked her bare heels against its arm.

“You
’
ll get rid of it.”

She opened one brown eye. “You guarantee that?”

“Positively. So what comes next?”

“I
’
m going to have to
help
that dumb Ph.D. keep her man.” She sat up, clutching at her head to bring it up with the rest of her. “And you
’
re going to help me!”

“Glad to,” I assured her. “Just tell me what to do.”

Min lay down again, and talked for two hours. She told me a lot about the girl Page had been in St. Louis. Adding that to what Phil had told me, I now had a fairly rounded-out picture. Then Min told me of the conversation which she
’
d had with Page in the Scoles library a week or so before the party.

That picture didn
’
t come out too happily for me, and she acknowledged the fact with a wry grin. “You
’
ve known me for five years, Whit. My being a fool can
’
t be any surprise to you.”

“Shut up,” I told her. “All this confession must be leading to something.”

“Mhmmm. What I said at first. We
’
re going to have to help Page.”

“We?”

“All of us. You and me, and Red—and the cousins. They won
’
t know they
’
re helping, but they
’
ll be in it up to their necks.”

“If it
’
s another party
...
”

She groaned, and squinted at the sky through the tree leaves. “No party, Whit. But, the way I see this situation, we
’
re all to blame for Page
’
s present stage of unhappiness. It was, you know, downright cruel for Red—and the rest of us—to take that girl out of her germ-proof lab, and what she calls her long-time habit of reserve, and dump her down in our world, which is teeming with the microbes of gossip, the viruses attendant upon housekeeping—” She glanced at me with one of her gamin grins. “This is getting good!” she said in a triumphant parenthesis. “Let me see
—
I
’
m serious just the same
!
—but
—
er—the contagion of strange people, the infections of being a popular obstetrician
’
s wife—and—and—well, then we expected her to survive! And she didn
’
t have a chance, Whit!”

“I know what you mean,” I agreed. “Like the soldiers they draft from isolated rural neighborhoods. Those boys catch every disease in the book, unless they
’
re given the shots usually given to kids—measles, mumps, the whole works.”

“That
’
s it. Page needed, or does need, shots. Hardening to the hazards of her new life. And nursing, when illness comes.”

“As it inevitably does,” I said thoughtfully.

“Sure!”

“And she must be taught to work up an immunity to all those prevalent dangers.”

“Oh, Whit, you
’
re wonderful!” she rewarded me.

“Sure. Didn
’
t you know?”

She looked at me very thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said soberly, “I knew.”

“Where are you going to start on this celery root you
’
ve just set out into the sun of daily life?” I asked her, trying to be funny.

“There are so many things
...
Maybe teaching her how to keep house would be a good beginning. You will help?”

I did help. Min probably knew that she couldn
’
t have kept me off with a club. It was fun, too.

There wasn
’
t any subtlety about it. We went over to Scoles
’
that same afternoon. Phil was at the hospital, but that was just happenstance. Min showed me the finer points of the big house, ending up in the kitchen with its huge cupboards, and its room-sized pantry. “Nobody,” she told me, and Page, “could get a meal in this ba
rn
without a road map.”

“That
’
s a helpful statement,” I pointed out “Of course, if Page would let Phil starve to death, she wouldn
’
t need you to teach her how to keep house.” I looked at Page. “Did you know that
’
s what this dame has in mind?”

“It
’
s very good of her,” said Page uncertainly.

“I think it
’
s important that you learn!” said Min who was exploring one of those vast golden-oak cupboards, setting an assortment of china out upon the table. “As Red
’
s wife, I mean. With some men it wouldn
’
t matter too much—but Red—” She turned on the top of the step
-
stool to wave a plate at us. “I
’
m pretty sure that guy grew up in what is termed a
‘
gracious home.
’
Everything all silver candlesticks and smooth custards, meals on time, clean sheets and soft music—without any effort visible. He
’
s probably as polite as all get-out when Page doesn
’
t manage just precisely that effect.”

“He is,” agreed Page morosely. “But he has a way of looking at a little spot on the table cloth
...”

“That
’
s the surgeon in him.” I tried to salve her hurt.

“No,” she said, earnestly, “Min
’
s right. Maybe—maybe Phil should have married Min. She understands him so well—and I
’
m such a failure.”

“Pooh,” said Min, diving back into the cupboard. “What
’
s a failure or two? They
’
re good for a person
—
teach you what not to do. Whit, come hold my legs
—
there
’
s a dead body up here.”

“Let me get it,” I advised.

“Don
’
t want to hold my legs, huh?” But she got down, and I took her place, and rescued the “dead body” which turned out to be a somewhat scabby alabaster head of a slave girl.

“Great Aunt Jane!” breathed Min. “It
was
a dead body!”

Even Page joined in our rocking laughter.