The Hesitant Hero

by Gilbert, Morris

  Finally he felt hands pulling him to his feet. He winced and reached up to touch his head, discovering that it was damp. He looked at the blood on his hands and then at Caroline, who was being held back by a burly policeman. Another officer was holding him by the arm. “You’ll have to come along with me.”

  “He started it,” Caroline cried.

  “The judge will decide who started what. Let’s go.” Tyler was pulled along, and he glanced back to see the big man glaring at him. “What about him?”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s Oliver Blalock. He’s a district attorney. He’s got lots of pull with the judges. You picked the wrong man to hit, young fella.”

  “But he started it!”

  The policeman had a red face and a battered countenance. He grinned as he pulled Tyler out of the crowded room. “Don’t matter who started it. He’s the man with the weight. Next time be more careful who you bust.”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “ ’Course it ain’t fair,” the officer answered. “Most things in this here world ain’t fair. If things were fair, we’d all be born to rich people. But I didn’t make the rules and looks like neither did you. That’s why you’re going to the slammer and Oliver Blalock ain’t.”

  Tyler glared at the policeman but knew it was hopeless. His head was splitting, and all he could think of was what his parents would say when they heard about this little escapade.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Flunking Out

  By the time the squad car had reached the hospital and Tyler had been led to the emergency room by the policeman, Tyler had sobered up considerably. He had a splitting headache, and the blood that trickled from the cut in his scalp had stained his white shirt. He had put a handkerchief on it to staunch the flow, but it had become sodden.

  “Go ahead and find some lunch or something, Dan,” the officer told his partner. “This could take a while.”

  “All right. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  The officer got out of the squad car and helped Tyler get out of the back seat. “That’s a bad cut you got there, Winslow,” he said as he led Tyler into the emergency room. “I reckon you’ll have to have some stitchin’ done.”

  Tyler’s head hurt too much for him to reply, and, in truth, he was ashamed of himself for the whole incident. His temper was a fearful thing, and he had struggled most of his life to control it. Now he knew there would be no way to keep this from Chance, and inevitably his parents would hear of it.

  The officer went to the desk and said, “We need to get this guy fixed up right away. He’s bleedin’ to death.”

  The woman behind the desk gave him a wry smile. “This is an emergency room, Officer Murphy. Everybody’s bleeding to death in one form or another.”

  “Ah, come on, sweetheart,” Murphy said. “Give us a break. We ain’t got time to wait.”

  “All right. Sign him in, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The paper work took little time, and before long an attractive woman was leading Tyler and Murphy through a door that led down a corridor and then through a door in which there were six beds, two of them occupied.

  “Now, what can I do for you?” the woman asked Tyler.

  “I guess I’ve got a pretty good cut on my head,” he said as he pulled the handkerchief away from his forehead.

  “All right. Take this bed here.”

  “How long is this gonna take?” Murphy asked.

  “It shouldn’t take too long, Officer.”

  “Okay, I’m going to go get something to eat, but I’ll have to lock him to the bed. Come on, Winslow, put yourself down here.”

  Tyler gloomily lay down on the bed and watched as Murphy took out a pair of handcuffs, clamping one side to his wrist and the other to the bed rail. “You stay here and let the doc patch you up, then we’ll be goin’ downtown.”

  “What did he do, Officer, rob a store?”

  “No, he just got into a fight and busted the wrong guy.”

  Officer Murphy left as the woman bent over Tyler. Her brown hair was pulled back off her forehead and gathered in a bun. “Does it look bad, Nurse?”

  “It’s going to have to be stitched, and incidentally, I’m not a nurse.”

  “So you’re a doctor?”

  “Not yet.” She stood up. “I’ll need to shave part of your scalp before I can put the stitches in.”

  Tyler lay on the bed feeling worse by the moment. He shut his eyes and wished fervently he had not gotten himself into such a situation. He was certain he would not go to jail, at least not for any significant time. Caroline would see to that. One word from her father would be all it would take. Tyler was disgusted as he realized he was depending on a man who despised him. Denton Autry, Caroline’s father, had little use for artists of any kind—especially for those who ran around getting drunk with his only daughter.

  “Well, what happened to you?”

  Tyler opened his eyes and saw a man standing in front of him wearing a white coat with a stethoscope over his shoulder. “I got hit in the head with a chair by another drunk.”

  “I’m Dr. Lawrence. Let me see that head.” Lawrence looked more like a defensive tackle than a physician. He wasn’t as gentle as the medical student was as he inspected Tyler’s cut. “That’s a pretty good cut you’ve got there, but you’ll live,” he said cheerfully. He turned and said, “I think I’ll let you do this one while I go check on another patient, Jolie. Can you take care of it?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “I’ll be back to check after the stitches are in.” He grinned down cheerfully at Tyler. “I hope you had a good time. How much have you had to drink?”

  “Too much.”

  “Good thing you came here. Dr. Vernay’s got great hands. She’ll take good care of you.”

  Tyler glared at the doctor, and as he left, he turned his head to the young woman, wincing with pain. “He’s pretty cheerful about how much I hurt, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, that’s just his way. He’s really a fine doctor.”

  “What kind of an accent do you have?” he asked, more to take his mind off his problems than anything.

  “French. Now, this will be a little painful while I numb your scalp.”

  Tyler tried to lie motionless as he watched the young woman work quietly and efficiently. “I thought you weren’t a doctor yet.”

  “I’m in my last year of medical school.”

  “Then you’ll be a doctor.”

  “Then I’ll be a doctor, but I’ll still have to do my internship.” She stood up straight for a moment to stretch her back. “How did this happen?”

  Tyler caught his breath as she hit a spot that wasn’t completely numb, but he was determined to show that he had a little manhood left.

  “My girlfriend and I were in a nightclub. A fellow there got fresh with her, and we got into it.”

  “Was he arrested too?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s a big shot here in New York.”

  “You shouldn’t hit big shots.”

  Tyler glanced up and saw that she was frowning at him. “Or anybody else, I imagine,” he said.

  When the woman was nearly finished, Officer Murphy returned, a cup of coffee in his hand. He watched with interest and said, “Say, Doc, you’re real good at that.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  “The next time I get shot I’ll be sure to come by and have you take care of me.” He flirted with the young woman as she tied the final knot and bandaged the wound. “There, Officer, all done.” Turning to Tyler, she said calmly, “You need to get those stitches out on Thursday. Come by and I’ll take care of it.”

  Murphy shook his head. “You make house calls?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, you won’t be takin’ these stitches out. Winslow here is headed for the slammer.” He grinned and said, “I called the station. Lawyer Blalock is mad as hops. He’s pullin’ strings to get you at le
ast six months in jail. Come on.” Unlocking the handcuffs, he said, “Thanks a lot, Doc. Send the bill to the City of New York.”

  Tyler felt miserable, weak, and shaken as Murphy led him outside and put him into the squad car, where Murphy’s partner was waiting behind the wheel.

  When Murphy got in he said to Dan, “Good-lookin’ broad in there. If I get shot, take me to her.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do my best to remember that.”

  Tyler put his head back and reached up to feel the bandage. Although it was numb at the moment, he knew when the feeling came back it would be sore.

  Won’t I ever learn? he moaned inwardly. You think a man would get a little sense as he got older, but I never do!

  ****

  Tyler stood beside the bars of the jail as his fellow prisoner, a tall, lanky man named Simms, talked constantly. He paid little attention, but Simms was apparently used to that. “What’d he give you, Winslow?” Simms asked. “The judge, I mean.”

  “A fine and a year’s suspended sentence. If I so much as spit on the sidewalk in the next twelve months, that’s it.”

  Simms laughed. “Don’t spit, then, would be my advice. That ain’t bad, you know.”

  “I know. It could have been a lot worse.”

  His attention was caught by the guard who was walking toward his cell. “Come along, Winslow, you’re sprung.”

  “Take it easy and don’t spit,” Simms said with a laugh.

  As the steel door closed behind Tyler, he vowed, I’m not coming back to this place. He hated to be closed in, and as he accompanied the guard down the line of cells, that resolution was the strongest thing on his mind. When he stepped outside, he almost stopped, for he saw Chance standing there—and beside him was Caroline Autry.

  Caroline came toward him and hugged him. “Tyler, how awful for you!”

  Tyler took her hug, then turned to his brother. “Sorry you got involved in all this, Chance.”

  “I didn’t do much. Miss Autry here paid your fine.”

  Something in Chance’s face gave his feelings away, and Tyler knew exactly what it was. Chance was a good man but somewhat puritanical—at least for Tyler’s tastes. He was embarrassed that he’d had to be bailed out of his trouble by a woman and said, “I guess you’ll have to tell the folks about this.”

  “No I won’t. You tell them if you want to.” Suddenly Chance said, “I’ve got to leave.”

  “Your ship leaves when?”

  “Tomorrow. This is good-bye.” He turned to Caroline. “Thank you very much for your help, Miss Autry.”

  “Well, the whole thing was really my fault, Mr. Winslow.”

  Chance shook his head almost imperceptibly and then put out his hand. “Good-bye, Tyler. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good-bye. Tell the folks I’ll . . .” Tyler could not complete the sentence, but added weakly, “Tell them I’ll write soon.”

  “I’ll tell them that.” Chance Winslow turned and walked away, his back straight.

  “He’s not very pleasant, is he?” Caroline remarked.

  “He can be, but he’s right to be sore at me.”

  “Wasn’t your fault,” Caroline said. “Come on. I’ve got my car here. I’ll take you home.”

  She took his arm possessively and led him out to the car. “How’s your head feel?” she asked as she pulled out into traffic.

  “Not bad. Could have been worse.”

  “When do the stitches come out?”

  “Thursday.”

  Tyler sat quietly until she pulled up in front of his apartment. “I’m sorry you had to pay the fine,” he said.

  “Why, that was nothing.” Caroline leaned over and pulled at him until he turned toward her. “Don’t let this get you down. It’ll all be forgotten. It could have happened to anyone.” She pulled his head toward her and kissed him. “Call me tomorrow.”

  Tyler nodded. “I will.” He got out of the car, waved goodbye, and watched her pull away. He turned heavily and made his way into the building. It was a small building with only four units—one of them occupied by the landlady, who kept close tabs on all her tenants.

  On the way up the stairs he met his landlady and her eyes flew open. “What happened to you? What’s wrong with your head?”

  “Just a little accident, Mrs. Brown. Nothing to worry about.”

  Unlocking his door, Tyler stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes fell on the canvas that he had been working on before he had gone out with Caroline. He had thought it was good at the time, but now nothing he did seemed to please him. He stood in front of the canvas and studied the images of children playing in front of a tenement. He turned away in disgust, muttering, “Whatever makes me think I can make it as a painter? I don’t even have enough sense to stay out of brawls with fancy lawyers.”

  ****

  The week following his release from jail was not a pleasant one for Tyler. He had to face up to the fact that he was failing most of his classes at college, and he also had to face the anger of his art teacher. Professor Tibbs was waiting for him when he went into the studio and without preamble began bawling him out.

  “So I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” he said sarcastically.

  “Sorry, Professor Tibbs. I had a little personal problem.”

  The man’s eyes went to the bandage on Tyler’s head. “Did you fall off of a building and split your head?”

  “Something like that, sir.”

  Tibbs stared at Tyler and then shook his head. “I think you need to change your major.”

  “Change my major? Why would I do that?”

  “Because whatever it takes to make an artist, you don’t have it,” he said bluntly. “You don’t even try. It takes time and practice, two things you go out of your way to avoid.”

  “I’ll try harder, Professor. You’ll see. I can do it.”

  “No you can’t. You don’t have any discipline. You always take the easy way out. I’ve seen it in your art, time and time again. Look at this one.” He strode across the studio. He shuffled through some paintings on a table and stopped when he found the one he was looking for. “Look. There’s your last effort. You know what grade I’m going to put on it?”

  “Not very good, I would suppose.”

  “An F—total failure. The frustrating thing is you had a good idea here, but you couldn’t finish it.”

  Tibbs was referring to a painting of the Brooklyn Bridge. Probably ten thousand paintings had been made of that particular bridge, but Tyler had determined he would find a new perspective, something that hadn’t been done before. He had decided to get down beneath the bridge, looking at the underside of it as it soared into the sky. He had spent the better part of a week trying to make it come alive. He had thought he had something, but then Caroline had come along, and the two had gone out every night and had spent every hour together that he wasn’t actually in class, and he had even cut some of those. The deadline for the painting had come, and he had finished it in a slapdash manner. Now he looked at it and just felt sad. “I thought I had a good idea there,” he said lamely. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “It didn’t work out! What do you mean it? What’s it?” Tibbs demanded. “I’ll tell you what didn’t work out,” he said grimly. “You didn’t work out, or you just quit. I don’t know what you do in your spare time, but I can tell you you’re wasting your time here.”

  The scene with Tibbs was only the beginning of bad news. The dean of academics had left a note in his mailbox instructing Tyler to come to his office, and Tyler wearily made his way across the campus.

  Dean Smith started by showing Tyler his grade point average, which was depressing enough. “You’ve just scraped by every year since you’ve been here.” Dean Smith was a tall, spare man with a set of hard eyes and a mouth like a trap. “You’ve been on probation almost constantly. Your departmental chairman tells me that you’re loafing and doing nothing. You’re wasting your money—or I should say your parents’
money.”

  “I know I haven’t done well—”

  “Done well? You’ve done nothing! Mr. Winslow, I suggest you find yourself a job. Evidently the academic world doesn’t suit you.”

  “But, Dean Smith—”

  “Listen, Tyler. I’m going to give you one more chance. But if you don’t show some real discipline and vast improvement real soon, the next time you’re in my office will be the last. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tyler left the office, sobered by the reality of his situation. He had done a good deal of thinking lately about his financial problems. His parents had always paid his bills, and although he had worked summers to help, he knew it had been a hardship for them. They had never complained, and he had more or less taken their support for granted. Now as he mentally added up his bills and compared the sum to his available funds, he saw that there was little hope he could get by unless a miracle occurred.

  ****

  Tyler began to work harder at his studies, trying to play catch-up, which was difficult. He even admitted to some of his instructors that he had been remiss and would do better. They had all given him a rather doubtful look, which he knew he had earned.

  On Thursday afternoon, Tyler was glad it was time to go back to the emergency room to get his stitches out. He had endured the humor of his fellow students about the fight and felt like a fool with the top of his head shaved and crisscrossed with catgut.

  The hospital was on the edge of the campus, so it took no time to walk there. He remembered that the medical student’s name who had sewed him up was Jolie. When he asked at the desk, the woman said, “Yes, she’s on duty. Have a seat until you’re called.”

  He took a seat in the waiting room and paged through a six-month-old issue of Collier’s magazine but found nothing in it that interested him. Finally his name was called, and he followed a nurse down the hall.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and the medical student he remembered entered the room. “Do you remember me?” he asked her. “You told me to come back and you’d take these stitches out.”

  “Yes. We’ll see how you’re doing.”