The Doctor Takes a Wife (7 page)

“Poor Marynelle,” she sighed. “She did so want to marry a professional man!”

I couldn
’
t think of anything to say to that but, “Oh?”

“Yes. The steam shovels and cats and bulldozers in her ancestry weighed very heavily upon Marynelle.” She raised a rueful eyebrow at me.

I looked with new respect upon the woman. Eugene Lowe, I decided, was a lucky man. I hoped more than ever that Phil would not find it necessary to explain his mental jilting of Marynelle.

He didn
’
t. He was lovely to Mrs. Lowe, and after an hour it looked as if we could leave. At the first hint of farewell, she put her scrawny little hand upon his brown jacket sleeve, and peered nearsightedly up into his face. “You
’
ll always be a second son to me, Philip,” she assured him. “I hope you will come often to see us, and have Sunday dinner with us as you would have done with
—
Marynelle.” She gulped, and the tip of her nose went red again. “And the Lodge,” she went on tearfully. “Papa and I were going to give it to you children as your wedding
gift...”

It was my turn to gulp. That hunting lodge at Coeur D
’
Alene—
Wheee
_t
there was a gift!

“We want you to use it and enjoy it
.
”

I recovered enough to look at Phil and I could see that guilt was eating him up. He was in a spot I wouldn
’
t have envied, garnished with ten
de luxe
lodges
!

B
ecause he sure needed
‘
em, I was glad he had all his charm, his good looks, his crinkly-eyed smile
and
his deep, warm voice. “Mrs. Lowe,” he said earnestly, “I thought you must have heard—I
’
m leaving Berilo.”

She peered up at him, not comprehending. “But, Philip
...
”

“I want to do some research work in St Louis
...
And I
’
m going there next week.”

“But there
’
s no reason for you to do that, dear.”

“I feel I must, Mrs. Lowe.”

“Oh, you
’
re young—but you
’
ll find out that running away from sorrow is not possible.”

“That isn
’
t exactly—Of course, I hope that being busy will help
...”
He jiggled from one foot to the other.

“I realize,” Mrs. Lowe
’
s thin, troubled voice went on, “that you must blame yourself for—for—what happened to Marynelle.”

Red crept into Phil
’
s cheeks. How could Marynelle
’
s mother have known that they
’
d quarreled?

“I didn
’
t want her to go skiing that week end,” she was explaining. “She was so busy—and her skin and her hair
—
but it was what you wanted to do. Of course, men don
’
t understand about girls and their needs. Anyway, she did what you wanted, for, in a
w
ay, that was what she wanted
...
”

Oh, brother
!
If Marynelle had ever done one thing she didn
’
t want to do, it was news to me, and to Phil!

“So you
’
ve no reason to feel responsible, or to leave, Philip,” her mother concluded.

“Have you sold out your interest in the Clinic?” asked Eugene, his tone coldly practical.

“No,” said Phil, glad to turn to such matters. “I thought I
’
d first find out how good I was at research.”

“Sounds to me like running away, too,” Eugene decided. “Seems to me your job should have first claim—and I think you could please my mother a little. Under the circumstances.”

Phil blinked. The talk around town had been underground, and I hadn
’
t listened to much of it. But I knew there was some talk. Phil had been so wrapped up in himself, and his plans, that he
’
d not paid any attention to how his behavior might be judged.

“Mr. Lowe and I,” mourned Mrs. Lowe, “were planning to equip and endow an operating room at the hospital, Philip, in Marynelle
’
s memory. But if you won
’
t be there to use it
...
” She paused, and smiled slyly and confidently at him
.

I could appreciate both sides of the situation. Mrs. Lowe was desperately hanging on to what she could of Marynelle
’
s life and interests. Phil was just as desperately endeavoring to untangle his limbs from these cerements.

“Mrs. Lowe,” he said quietly, and as courteously as one may kick an old lady in the teeth, “I wasn
’
t marrying your daughter because of her family
’
s money. I certainly shall not let it change my life now that she is—dead
.
”

Well, of course, we left on that unfriendly note.
The
Lowes felt bewilderment and hurt at his defection; they showed resentment at his leaving—his “walking out,” they called it. I think the family, as a whole, had longed for, and hoped to keep, a
‘
professional man” in its gilded circle.

In the train, that afternoon, Phil was sorry that so much ugliness had been turned up. Surely he could have managed the thing more gracefully
!

CHAPTER 6

Phil
wrote to me at some length about his train journey and his arrival in St. Louis. The Midway, he said, was changed. They
’
d cleaned it up somehow but, unlike most things one remembers from childhood, it still seemed as big as it had done when the ten-year-old Philip Scoles had moved with his parents to Boston.

He had planned, he wrote, to stay at a hotel near the Group, and he went there first, but because of some sort of baseball meeting, he
’
d had to take what he could get, which was a room in a downtown hotel. It was pure chance that he went to that particular hotel, pure chance that he came downstairs at seven that evening, hunting the dining room, and turned by error into the bar.

Realizing his mistake—“I was hungry, not thirsty,” the letter said. “I started out of the place and then
.
..
”

He would not claim that he
’
d failed to notice the girl who was perched on the stool nearest to the door. There
’
d been an air to that girl, even with her
head
turned—a sheen to her smooth dark hair, a certain eye-catching sophistication in the red suit, an
ah-hem
quality to the sheer
-
stockinged legs crossed at the knees, one foot dangling. The girl was laughing, her head thrown back. Phil gave her a second glance but would have passed her by. Regretfully. “Hey,
Red
!”

For all his ginger-colored hair, few people called him that. No girl did except—it had to be—it
was
Min!

“Imagine that, Whit,” he wrote me. “The very first person I saw in St. Louis was Min.” Reading this, my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.

“She
’
s changed incredibly! Even you would have walked past. You simply would not believe a girl could change so much in two months! You know, she was always the jeans
-
and-plaid-shirt sort—even when she dressed up to leave the mountings, she still looked like a mounting-gir
l.
But this Min—ha! Slick clothes—that red suit was sump in! Her thong sandals—red thongs and a sole, no more. Her manner! She ain
’
t our little girl no more, pardner. This Min knows the answers and gives
’
em. Maybe we just didn
’
t appreciate her, do you think? Maybe she had this line all the time we were slapping her on the back and letting her climb on her own horse.

“Her manner—and the people she was with
—
She made me
think
of those two-actor plays.
Voice of The Turtle
sort of thing. Min always could take care of herself, so maybe, given the right setting, she
’
d have looked this way out home. But I doubt it
.
She was with three men, and another girl. Woman. That one was buyer for the book department in one of the big stores, and she
’
d been around. A long way and a long time. The men—one, fortyish, was an editorial writer for Min
’
s paper; one, glamorous, was a test-pilot out at the big aircraft factory; and the third was lily-fingered. His kind lives in the drain of bar sinks and crawls out when the lights go up. Min was different
from all of
‘
em, but like
‘
em too. It took some doing to realize she was our girl
...

“The change isn
’
t bad
.
She
’
s cute as a button in that tricky Dutch bob; I like the way she slants those pretty brown eyes—you would, too. But she still isn
’
t Min.

“Not our Min.

“I had a drink with them, but wouldn
’
t go on to the riverboat jazz session they had in prospect. I was tired, and I reminded Min of my recent indisposition. She agreed that bed would be a good idea, and they left, promising to see me soon, and often.

“Of course it was simplest to agree to that, but
I
’
ll
have none of it, Whit. I came here to work, and I mean to get at it at once. To work hard. I won
’
t be ruining my lungs in smoky bars, or frittering my money away. Or fooling around with your girl, either.”

That
’
s what
he
thought. But I knew what happened when those two were together. Sparks would fly. And his assurance did nothing to put my mind at rest.

Phil reached St. Louis on Thursday. He would not go to the Group office until Monday, which gave him a couple of days for exploring the city. His father had lived there for twenty years, had been on the Group Staff and had married a St. Louis girl. Phil knew St. Louis vaguely from childhood memories, and from family talk about it. That talk had centered naturally about the Group and its neighborhood. Phil was going to learn a lot about those things, so he devoted the preliminary days to other spots of interest.

It was March, with spring well advanced. Because, I thought, of his encounter with Min, he sent me a flock of post cards. He didn
’
t need to tell me that he
’
d fallen in love with the old city. His brief messages were notes of rapture.

He waxed lyrical about the cobble stones of the levee, the shadows cast by Eads Bridge, even the smell of the Mississippi River. He went to Shaw
’
s Garden, and burbled about the carpet of rich green myrtle around the tomb of the donor, promised that his some-day home would have ginkgo trees. The zoo—he remembered that from his childhood. “This is an honorable city; it fosters a child
’
s memories.” In search of the home where his mother had lived
—
she
’
d died when Phil was fifteen—he tramped the sidewalks of the private squares, “Places” they were called, in St. Louis. Magnificent, horrendous and beautiful homes stood in them. But Vandeventer Place was gone. Oh, woe!

“They
’
ve had the grace to make a museum-monument of one fine home here. It stands serene in the expensive heart of the city.” He sent me pictures of the Campbell house with the suggestion that Berilo do the same sort of honor to one of the big houses on Spring Avenue.

He took a lengthy bus trip into the County because he
’
d been told of the tremendous growth in that direction.
Again he was impressed with the fine homes, the air of gracious, unhurried living—as well as the prosperity. And recognition of
modern
needs.

“They
’
ve planted their roots deep into the rich earth of their past, and grown upward and outward in a handsome fashion.” This on a card showing the McDonald Air Craft Factory. I felt that he
’
d gone there because of Min
’
s test
-
pilot companion. But he didn
’
t mention the chap again. Or Min.

Phil had chosen to go to St. Louis because of his memories of the city. He had used his father
’
s contacts to secure his place in the Boone Group. On his arrival, he had written a short note to an old friend of his father
’
s. This man—Dr. Samuel Lowry—was famous around the world as a surgeon of imagination and skill, and noted within his profession for his long labor at establishing the standard requirements for specialist-qualifications. Only the year before, this man had retired as Chief Surgeon of the Boone Group. Phil knew him slightly, his father having at one time brought the great man to their home.

Phil decided, with the doctor retired, it would not seem like apple-polishing to send him a note of friendliness. On Sunday he went to service at the Cathedral—loving that, too! He sent me a picture of the reredos. “I
’
m a push-over for carved wood. You don
’
t need a sermon preached in this church.”

When he came into the hotel, he found a message that he was to telephone Dr. Lowry. He did this, and the old man
’
s hearty voice said he was delighted to know that Bob
’
s son was in the city; he was to come out to the “place” for supper and the evening. A crowd of his hungry friends had made a habit of such get-togethers—perhaps Phil would enjoy it. Phil accepted and turned to the desk clerk for directions.

“My goodness, Dr. Scoles, that
’
s way out in the north part of the county! Those homes overlook the Missouri river. I guess it could be reached by bus—about six of
‘
em. Take all afternoon. Wait a minute
...”
He consulted a map. Even with the six buses, Phil would still be a mile from his destination. “I
’
d advise a taxi, sir.”

Phil started about four—dressed in one of his becoming brown suits, with a brown knit tie. He isn
’
t a strictly handsome guy, but he
’
s big, and his smile is a wonder. That smooth reddish hair, the way his eyes crinkle shut and one eyebrow quirks up quizzically, and his big mouth with those fine, even teeth. And his interest in other people makes everyone like him at once.

Given his destination, the taxi driver warned him that the trip would be costly. “You take many trips out Jamestown Road,” the man advised, “you can buy your own hack.”

“This may be my one and only trip.”

“They all docs out there. Bunch of
‘
em bought up the whole district, and then divided it up. Looks like they wanted their own folks—got their own church and all. Docs must be different from hackies. Me, when I
’
m off the job, I
’
d rather talk to guys in another line of work.”

Phil agreed that such was a good idea, and leaned bade to enjoy the scenery and avoid the sight of the clanking meter. He
’
d have to get a car, that was evident. He wished he
’
d brought his old one from Berilo, though he had sold it favorably.

Traffic was thick on the roads, though rain threatened, and it was sundown before the cab turned into the grounds of the Lowry home. Paying the driver, Phil told the man that the trip was worth what it had cost And it was fittingly climaxed by the sight of the fine home, its white walls and columned porch rising serenely from its lawn and rose garden, its windows commanding a long view down the hill to the river and across the wide vista of valley and other hills. Yes, the trip was worth every dollar.

The taxi departed, and Phil went across the drive, up the steps to the front door. A half-dozen cars stood along the double sweep of gravel; the chatter of many voices could be heard from within the house. If the guests were neighbors—and doctors, as the taxi man had promised—Phil stood ready to meet some folks who would be useful in his future work.

He was not disappointed. Dr. Lowry greeted
him
warmly, presenting him to his slender, lovely wife, and then handed him on to “my son-in-law, Renny. Dr. M
c
Naire, for your future reference. He has my old job at the Group, you know.”

Phil did know. He was fortunate to meet this man in this particular way. The tall, thin Chief Surgeon was glad to meet Dr. Scoles
...

“You
’
re in o.b., Philip?” asked Dr. Lowry. “Your father
’
s son has to be.”

“I
’
m qualified in surgical o.b., sir,” Phil admitted. “But my project here is some research in blood clots.”

“You
’
ve given up practice?” asked the old man, scowling.

“Doc has a very short nose,” his son-in-law drawled to the newcomer.

Old Doc snorted and said he
’
d talk to Phil in private. No respect was to be had from these whipper-snappers. But—a man
’
d done enough doctoring to qualify
...
Judas Priest!

Renny McNaire chuckled and touched Phil
’
s arm. “Come meet some of the other folks, Doctor,” he urged. “The girls look eager. I warn you, a new man among us is fair prey.”

Names and faces of so many strangers were inevitably a blur. Some of the men were doctors—the women were more attractive than not. In general, the group was made up of close friends. First names were used, the talk was of children and gardening and golf scores; tastes were known. It was just such a gathering as would have got together in Berilo among our crowd. Phil hoped he might become a part of such a group here; he was a sociable guy. Supper was served before Dr. McNaire had made all the introductions, and his wife came up to the two men. “Renny,” she said earnestly, “Mother wants you to get into the dining room and carve the ham.”

He whirled on his pretty blonde wife. “Oh, now, see here, Jane
...”

“You know how Father does. He either gets to talking and no one gets any meat—or he generously piles it on the first few plates, and the rest go hungry. She says you
’
re to go in and begin slicing it.”

McNaire made a comical face at Phil. “You
’
re a surgeon, aren
’
t you?” he suggested.

Phil chuckled. “This looks to me like a closed-staff job.” Renny started off. “The next roar you hear
...”
he said gloomily.

Jane smiled at the new man. “I don
’
t suppose you
’
ve met everyone, but come along—we
’
ll get your plate filled, and I
’
ll pick out a good group for you to eat with. Do I understand you
’
re from Idaho?”