The Cook

by Harry Kressing

  “Oh, Conrad!” Mrs. Hill looked at Conrad despairingly.

  “All our work undone . . .”

  For several seconds the two of them communed with each other in silence, seemingly sharing a vision of an elephantine Daphne. Once or twice Mrs. Hill shook her head and muttered something under her breath. Then she picked up her polishing cloth and began twisting it.

  At last Conrad spoke: “We cannot afford to trust Dr. Law.”

  “No.”

  “Besides, specialists from the City are coming out.”

  “Yes.”

  “And maybe they can help Daphne.”

  Mrs. Hill had stopped twisting her polishing cloth. She was looking quite happy again, and Conrad smiled at her. Then, pointing a finger for emphasis, he said, “You must tell Mrs. Vale.”

  “Yes, I certainly will. I will tell her today.”

  “You must tell her”—Conrad pointed his forefinger straight at Mrs. Hill’s eyes—“that we do not trust Dr. Law, and that we refuse to call him in. He is not acceptable. He was not able to help Daphne before. He was not able to make the Vales healthy. For years he treated Maxfield for his stomach, and look what happened to him. Such is Dr. Law’s past—hardly something to inspire confidence, is it?”

  “No, it is not.”

  Conrad lowered his finger and smiled warmly at Mrs. Hill. “Shall we drink to that? Shall we drink to the rejection of Dr. Law? It seems appropriate, don’t you agree? And I know just . . .” He turned around and removed a tall, narrow-necked bottle from the top shelf in the cupboard. “This will do fine.”

  Mrs. Hill got the glasses Conrad told her to—long, slender ones—and held them out to him. He filled each one to the very brim. Then he took the one she was holding in her left hand, and bending down a little, put his arm around her shoulder.

  They touched glasses.

  Thursday evening of the following week Daphne’s recorded weight was one hundred and eight pounds. The Vales were over that night, and when Daphne said she felt too tired to stay downstairs for dinner, Mrs. Vale became very upset.

  “Indeed, it was all I could do,” Mrs. Hill reported later, “to keep Eva Vale here; she wanted to send for Dr. Law immediately. I had to remind her that specialists from the City were coming. She couldn’t seem to remember. She kept repeating Dr. Law’s name, and I had to tell her over and over that Dr. Law was not—”

  “You did very well,” Conrad assured her. “The specialists will be here tomorrow.”

  The next afternoon four somberly attired, serious-looking gentlemen arrived.

  “We have been sent by Mr. Springhorn,” the oldest one announced. “Where is the patient?”

  They spent several hours alone with Daphne, and when at last they repaired to the dining room it was time for pre-dinner drinks. Mr. Hill served them, explaining that Conrad would be in shortly.

  Two of the specialists sat and two stood. They talked in low tones and shrugged frequently. One of them held Daphne’s weight chart in his hand. Every so often the other three would consult it, and then sigh and shrug in unison.

  After a while Conrad arrived and the specialists spoke quietly to him for about an hour.

  When they were through, Conrad thanked them and said that business was over for the day.

  “It is time to enjoy ourselves now,” he smiled. “Gentlemen, tell me about yourselves . . . Do you all know Monte? . . . And how did you get interested in the fine art of dining—or, as some prefer to put it, the refined science of gluttony?”

  Soon the four specialists were all laughing and talking at once.

  Throughout dinner they talked and laughed, and Conrad regaled them with gourmet stories till after midnight. So light hearted and gay was the company that again Ester stayed up way past her bedtime.

  Saturday morning at ten o’clock sharp Mr. and Mrs. Vale arrived. Mr. Hill let them in and took them to the dining room, where Mrs. Hill, Conrad and Harold awaited them.

  There was a seriousness about the Hill group which the Vales—plump and jolly though they were—immediately sensed and their smiles faded away. They took the chairs Mr. Hill indicated, and said nothing.

  Conrad presided. He waited till all were settled.

  “I will repeat,” he told the newcomers, “what I have already told Mr. and Mrs. Hill and Harold. Four specialists examined Daphne yesterday. Four of the top specialists from the City. They substantially agreed on their findings: something is wrong with Daphne but just what they haven’t the slightest notion. Nor have they any idea what to do. Diet was the one thing they had in mind, but when I told them what she was eating they answered that that was precisely what they would have prescribed. They had no suggestions.”

  Slowly, ever so slowly, two tears rolled down Mrs. Vale’s plump cheeks. She whimpered something about wishing she could give her poor girl some of her own weight.

  “I’m sure we all wish the best for her,” Conrad said in a very matter-of-fact voice.

  He continued, “The doctors had some advice, non-medical. I told them Daphne was engaged to be married in June. They said there was no medical objection to her marriage. But they advised—all four of them—that the marriage not be delayed till June. They did not give their reasons. There was no need to.”

  Mrs. Vale began crying uninhibitedly.

  Conrad ignored her.

  “I assume,” he went on, “that we’re all agreed the marriage should take place as soon as possible.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good. Now, her clothes already need altering. We can get Louise busy on them immediately. How soon,” he asked, looking at Mrs. Hill, “do you think we can have the wedding, all things considered?”

  Mrs. Hill wrinkled her brow thoughtfully, and then began counting on her fingers. “To be on the safe side, Conrad,” she answered at last, “I think we should say about four weeks. That way . . .”

  The Vales stayed for lunch. The only subject of conversation was the wedding; the problems attendant upon advancing the date, the usual myriad of details, etc.—and Mrs. Vale soon became her jolly self again, dismissing from her thoughts the specialists’ visit and what they had said. Nor did she take notice of Daphne’s absence from the table. Of course there was no unused place setting drawing attention. But the prospective wedding alone seemed to occupy her. And it was only when she was leaving, after she had gone upstairs to say good-bye to her daughter, that Mrs. Vale seemed to recall why they were all talking about the wedding . . .

  The wedding was also in Mrs. Hill’s thoughts to the virtual exclusion of all else, and hours after the Vales had left she was still talking about it, planning it and replanning it, seeing it one way and then seeing it another. It did not seem to matter whether anyone was listening, though occasionally she would ask Conrad if he agreed or what he thought about something.

  “What should we have to drink at the reception?”

  Conrad was leaning against the cupboard, glass in hand; dinner was almost ready and Mr. Hill had just fixed drinks, reminding Mrs. Hill that this was an aspect of the wedding affair she’d overlooked.

  “I suppose,” Mrs. Hill said thoughtfully, answering herself, “that we should have something of everything, shouldn’t we, Conrad? After all, we want to celebrate an occasion which—” She was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

  “I wonder who that can be? At this time—”

  Mr. Hill left immediately to find out.

  “Conrad, who do you suppose . . .” Mrs. Hill trailed off as another voice was heard—someone had come in—and a few moments later Mr. Hill reappeared.

  He closed the door firmly behind him. His eyes met neither Conrad’s nor Mrs. Hill’s. Then he announced, in an utterly impersonal voice: “Dr. Law. He wishes to see Conrad.”

  Mrs. Hill’s mouth fell open.

  “Dr. Law!” she exclaimed. “What is he doing here? No one asked him . . .”

  “Dr. Law,” repeated Mr. Hill impassively.

  Conrad was still leaning
against the cupboard sipping his drink, but he was looking past Mr. Hill at the door leading to the dining room.

  Mrs. Hill turned to him. “Conrad, what do you think . . .”

  Conrad continued to stare at the door. Then he finished his drink in a swallow, and straightening up to his full height, said, “Mrs. Hill, Dr. Law said he wished to see me, not Daphne. But perhaps he meant he wished to see me first. Therefore, I think you should go upstairs—patients often like to be at their best for the doctor. You understand? Just tell Daphne that Dr. Law is here.”

  Dr. Law was standing in the center of the room, arms crossed, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. He was staring into the fireplace. Idly, as if from habit, his right thumb and forefinger were twirling the tip of the left fork of his beard.

  At the sound of footsteps Dr. Law spun around, and in the directness of his gaze upon Conrad there was something of a challenge.

  “Seat?” Conrad suggested, nodding toward a chair by the fire.

  “I always stand, thank you.”

  Conrad sat down in the chair across from the one he had indicated. “Something on your mind?”

  Dr. Law smiled professionally. “Yes, there are several things. Are you surprised?”

  Conrad sighed and stretched his legs out toward the fire.

  “No,” Dr. Law said after a moment, “I don’t think you are surprised. You have probably been expecting—”

  “Get to the point, friend.”

  Dr. Law’s smile vanished. He looked very hard at Conrad. “The point is this, sir: I see through you. You are not fooling me.”

  Conrad glanced up at him. “Congratulations.”

  “And I don’t like what I see.”

  “Then don’t look.”

  Dr. Law peered at Conrad very intently. For a few seconds he even discontinued his bouncing movement, as if he had to be perfectly still to get Conrad in proper focus. At last he said, almost admiringly, “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” And when Conrad didn’t answer: “You’re certain no one can touch you. You’ve taken care of everything. You’ve thought of all the possibilities. You have left nothing to chance. Nothing can change the course of events . . .”

  “Except you, Doctor,” Conrad said in a bored voice; “is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “You are very sure of yourself.”

  “Bluff, Doctor. All bluff.”

  “Possibly too sure.—No, not all bluff. If that’s what it was you’d be correct in your statement: I would do something about it; I would have done something before now. But it’s not that simple. Not that simple at all—”

  Dr. Law paused. Conrad had turned away from him and was looking into the crackling flames, which made shadows dance across his face, distorting and concealing his expression. Dr. Law moved a step closer. Cocking his head to one side, he tried to see through the shadows to Conrad’s face. Slowly Conrad turned from the fire to look at Dr. Law. For a few seconds the two men examined each other.

  “I am not your friend, sir,” Dr. Law stated abruptly. “I want you to know that. Indeed . . .”

  Conrad turned back toward the fire.

  “It’s not something personal, not at all: no more than, as a doctor, I am a personal enemy of disease. But I’m not its friend and I do fight it. And I hope the word doesn’t offend you. I mean nothing more by it than . . .” Dr. Law paused for a moment, evidently intent that his words convey precisely his meaning. “A disease,” he explained after a few thoughtful tugs at his beard, “is simply something to be treated and, if possible, eliminated. That is, after it has been diagnosed. If it cannot be eliminated it should be contained. If not contained, then inhibited. And so forth. At all events, it is not to be encouraged.

  “Treatment follows diagnosis,” Dr. Law continued. “Diagnosis is simply recognizing the existence of something and calling it by its proper name.

  “And now I will be perfectly frank. It isn’t always obvious what treatment to use. And sometimes the doctor calls in a consultant. Occasionally there are no consultants to call. And other times there is no doubt as to the prescribed treatment, only it cannot be counted on to work. It depends on the individual case. And in very rare instances it seems there is no treatment at all. Only diagnosis . . .”

  Dr. Law trailed off meaningfully, and Conrad, who had slid down so that his shoulders were almost on the seat of the chair, turned over on his side and looked at him. “ ‘Seems,’ doctor? I gather you’re not certain.”

  “No, sir, I am not. I am still hopeful. Having made the diagnosis, one can scarcely rest content . . .”

  “And you have come to me for help? There are no consultants to call on this case—”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “I am glad. There is no one to help you, doctor. No one at all. You are alone. Just you and your diagnosis.”

  Dr. Law began bouncing up and down more vigorously. Then he nodded slowly, evidently agreeing with what Conrad had just said. “Then why, sir,” he asked, “do you think I have come here? Granting, that is, the diagnosis—I mean yours—of my impotency.”

  “Possibly,” Conrad murmured, half turning back to the fire, “you were just passing by.”

  “No, I can assure you I came here quite on purpose.”

  “Well, let me guess again: to exhibit your cleverness. You have come up with the perfect diagnosis . . . you alone—and of course such a feat should not pass unappreciated. So you come to me. Also, you have a nagging suspicion there’s nothing to be done. At least nothing you can do. And still, as you said, you are not without hope: it occurs to you that perhaps I, perhaps Conrad, can do something. That’s possible. Anything is possible. Do I have to make a third guess, doctor?”

  Conrad wasn’t looking at the doctor—indeed, his eyes were almost closed—and when Dr. Law didn’t reply immediately, he added: “You’re very proud of your powers of observation, aren’t you? Very proud—probably even a point of honor with you. ‘Others may be blinded. Others may be taken in. But not I. No, sir, not I’—not the good old doctor.”

  Dr. Law smiled his professional smile. “It is pleasant to know,” he allowed, “even when one is not quite sure what to do. But as you observed, I am hopeful. And I will further admit that the pleasure of knowing is increased by recognition: I appreciate your admitting my comprehension of all—”

  “You don’t know, Doctor,” Conrad said bluntly; “you don’t know at all. You don’t even listen to me when I talk—I said you came to convince me of your brilliance. You failed. You and your diagnosis . . . you couldn’t diagnose a case of hanging!” Conrad turned and faced the doctor. “You can leave now.”

  Dr. Law stopped bouncing, and the smile disappeared from his face. “What did you say? What did—”

  “My dinner is waiting,” Conrad returned casually. “I don’t know about you, Doctor, but cold food tries my temper.”

  For an instant the doctor seemed to doubt his hearing. And then: “Sir, you are . . .”

  But Dr. Law evidently didn’t trust himself to speak: indeed, the twin points of his beard were quivering like the prongs of a tuning fork in vibration.

  “What am I, Doctor? Tell me—what’s the professional classification? I’d like to know.” But when Dr. Law didn’t answer immediately Conrad got to his feet. “I’m tired of waiting. Good night.”

  “Just a moment!” Dr. Law quickly interposed himself between Conrad and the door. “I have not done with you, sir. Not by any means. I will not tell you what you are. Name-calling is both unseemly and unprofitable. But this is what I wish to say. My diagnosis is not wrong. And what is more—this may surprise you—I have a treatment. I am not absolutely sure of its efficacy. But I have the highest faith. Sir”—and Dr. Law took a half-step toward Conrad, which required him to bend his head almost straight back to look up into Conrad’s eyes—“sir, I demand to see Daphne Vale. At once.”

  Conrad cocked his head slightly, as if trying to get someone so much smaller than himself i
n focus. Then he bent down and laughed in Dr. Law’s face.

  Dr. Law held his ground. “This is scarcely a laughing matter. You know that as well as I do. But you have overreached yourself—a not uncommon mistake among the confident. And you shall pay the price.—Sir, I repeat: Daphne Vale is my patient. I demand to see her at once.”

  “She is not your patient.”

  “She is, and as her doctor I demand to see her.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I insist. I shall not leave this house till I do.”

  “And suppose you are put out?”

  “I shall come back. And I shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Vale with me.”

  Conrad stepped right up next to Dr. Law. “And just what good would that do?” And he bumped the doctor a little.

  “Sir, they are her parents.”

  “So what? Who cares?” Conrad bumped the doctor harder, and Dr. Law had to take a quick step backward to keep from falling over. No sooner did he recover his balance than Conrad’s hand shot out to grab him—

  “Conrad!” Conrad spun around quickly; it was Mrs. Hill. She was standing in the deep shadow at the foot of the stairs. Beside her, all in white, was Daphne Vale.

  “What are you doing down here?” Conrad demanded angrily. “You know better than—”

  “Daphne!” came the startled cry from Dr. Law. “Is it really you? I can’t believe it! My dear . . .” and he started across the room toward her, but Conrad grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back. “Stay where you are. Daphne requires complete rest. Mrs. Hill, you know what the specialists said.”

  “Conrad, we decided to come downstairs,” Mrs. Hill explained somewhat nervously. “I told Daphne that Dr. Law was here and she insisted.” Mrs. Hill turned to the young girl. “Now, Daphne, dear, don’t you think . . .”

  Ignoring the restraining hand Mrs. Hill held out toward her, Daphne Vale slowly crossed the room.

  “How are you, my dear?” exclaimed Dr. Law, incredulous at what he saw. He grasped one of her hands between his own and patted it very affectionately. “How are you?”