A Treasury of Doctor Stories
Page 54
At the end of a week, houses were going up again, made of the old boards; and before the end of the long, lush Alabama summer the grass will be green again on all the graves. But it will be years before the people of the county cease to reckon events as happening “before the tornado” or “after the tornado,” and for many families things will never be the same.
Doctor Janney decided that this was as good a time to leave as any. He sold the remains of his drug store, gutted alike by charity and catastrophe, and turned over his house to his brother until Gene could re-build his own. He was going up to the city by train, for his car had been rammed against a tree and couldn’t be counted on for much more than a trip to the station.
Several times on the way in he stopped by the roadside to say good-by—once it was to Walter Cupps.
“So it hit you, after all,” he said, looking at the melancholy back house which alone marked the site.
“It’s pretty bad,” Walt answered. “But just think; they was six of us in or about the house and not one was injured. I’m content to give thanks to God for that.”
“You were lucky there, Walt,” the doctor agreed. “Do you happen to have heard whether the Red Cross took little Helen Gilrain to Montgomery or to Birmingham?”
“To Montgomery. Say, I was there when she came into town with that cat, tryin’ to get somebody to bandage up its paw. She must of walked miles through that rain and hail, but all that mattered to her was her kitty. Bad as I felt, I couldn’t help laughin’ at how spunky she was.”
The doctor was silent for a moment. “Do you happen to recollect if she has any people left?”
“I don’t, suh,” Walt replied, “but I think as not.”
At his brother’s place, the doctor made his last stop. They were all there, even the youngest, working among the ruins; already Butch had a shed erected to house the salvage of their goods. Save for this the most orderly thing surviving was the pattern of round white stone which was to have inclosed the garden.
The doctor took a hundred dollars in bills from his pocket and handed it to Gene.
“You can pay it back sometime, but don’t strain yourself,” he said. “It’s money I got from the store.” He cut off Gene’s thanks: “Pack up my books carefully when I send for ‘em.”
“You reckon to practice medicine up there, Forrest?”
“I’ll maybe try it.”
The brothers held on to each other’s hands for a moment; the two youngest children came up to say good-by. Rose stood in the background in an old blue dress—she had no money to wear black for her eldest son.
“Good-by, Rose,” said the doctor.
“Good-by,” she responded, and then added in a dead voice, “Good luck to you, Forrest.”
For a moment he was tempted to say something conciliatory, but he saw that it was no use. He was up against the maternal instinct, the same force that had sent little Helen through the storm with her injured cat.
At the station he bought a one-way ticket to Montgomery. The village was drab under the sky of a retarded spring, and as the train pulled out, it was odd to think that six months ago it had seemed to him as good a place as any other.
He was alone in the white section of the day coach; presently he felt for a bottle on his hip and drew it forth. “After all, a man of forty-five is entitled to a little artificial courage when he starts over again.” His mind jumped to something else: “She hasn’t got any kin, because if she had they’d have sent word after the first storm.”
He patted the bottle, then looked down at it as if in surprise.
“Well, we’ll have to put you aside for a while, old friend,” he said aloud, for he often talked to himself. “You’re expensive in more ways than one, and any cat that’s worth all that trouble and loving care is going to need a lot of grade-A quality milk.”