Benedict Hall

by Cate Campbell

  As he closed his desk and retrieved his hat and coat at the end of a mostly wasted day, he told himself Margot Benedict was a physician. She must have seen worse than Frank Parrish’s botched amputation. On the other hand, he argued with himself, he didn’t want to be her patient. He was tired of being a patient. He wanted—what did he want? To be a friend. And that didn’t mean taking off his shirt and showing an interesting woman the shameful thing his arm had become.

  He swung up into the streetcar. A pert young woman smiled at him, and he touched his hat brim to her. He saw her eyes drop to his empty sleeve. Her smile stiffened, fixed on her face as if it were her duty to hold it there. He nodded to her, trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He made his way to the back of the car and took a seat, wondering if he would ever get used to that.

  When he reached Yesler he got down, and turned his steps toward Post Street.

  He walked past the little businesses, the barbershop, the grocery, the shoe repair. The diner’s door stood open, and the smell of frying onions issued onto the street. The clinic was just a few steps farther, a small wooden building with a single step separating its front door from the street. Its windows, a large one in front and a much smaller one at the side, glowed with light, assuring him the office was still open. A sign swung over the tiny stoop, proclaiming in brave red letters: M. BENEDICT, M.D. Frank straightened his hat, checked that his sleeve was tucked into the pocket of his coat, and opened the door.

  A woman of middle age, with graying hair and a sprinkling of tiny moles on her forehead, sat at a desk in the small reception room. There were two chairs and a low divan, all empty. To one side a glass-fronted cabinet held rows of files. On the other side stood a coatrack with two hats and two coats hanging from it. The woman at the desk looked up, and her gaze swept him with an air of professional assessment. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?”

  Frank took off his hat, and crossed the room to stand in front of her desk. “I was hoping to see Dr. Benedict,” he said.

  The woman stood up. “I’m Dr. Benedict’s nurse. Come this way, please. The doctor can see you in a moment.”

  “Thank you.” Frank followed her toward the back of the office, not realizing until she opened the door of a small room that she had misunderstood. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the examination table, the autoclave on a metal counter, the jars of swabs and cotton and alcohol arranged on a shelf. “Oh,” he said. His cheeks flushed, and he pressed his hat to his chest. “I didn’t want—that is, I’m a—a friend of Miss Benedict. Doctor, I mean.”

  The nurse glanced back at him. “Ah. Sorry.” Her eyes began to drop to his empty sleeve, but she caught herself. Her smile was tired, but sincere. “I should learn not to make assumptions, shouldn’t I? Have a seat in the waiting room. I’ll tell Dr. Benedict you’re here.”

  He walked past the desk again. She called after him, “Your name?”

  “Frank Parrish.” She nodded, and turned to the other side of the office, disappearing down the cramped hallway. Frank took one of the chairs, and belatedly wished he had combed his hair.

  “Major Parrish.”

  Frank jumped up. “Dr. Benedict.” She looked at ease here, in her own space, exactly the opposite of the way she had looked in the Times. She wore a white cloth coat over a straight skirt. Her stockings were of the new flesh tone that made her ankles look bare, and her shoes had almost no heel. Her straight bobbed hair was perfect with her doctor’s clothes, and he found himself smiling with pleasure at the sight of her.

  She came toward him, holding out her hand, giving his a strong shake. “I worried you might not have received my message,” she said. There was no coquetry in her glance, no shyness in the smile she gave him.

  His discomfort fell away. He was aware of her nurse watching them, but that didn’t seem to matter. “I did,” he said. “I didn’t have a private telephone to call you back, so—” He gestured around the tidy office. “I thought I would take a chance on catching you here.”

  She released his hand. “I’m glad you did.” She turned to her nurse, and said, “Thea, as Major Parrish is here on a personal call, I think we’re done for the day.”

  Thea nodded, and went to the coatrack. Frank, awkwardly, one-handedly, helped her into her coat. “Thank you.” As she tucked her pocketbook under her arm, she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Margot.”

  “Call me if Norman is worse tonight,” Margot said. “I should be home by—” She gave Frank a quizzical glance. “What do you think, Major? Dinner, then home by ten or so? That is, if you came here to accept my invitation.”

  A wave of gratitude for her directness swept over him. He had spent months marveling at the ease with which the other engineers at Boeing seemed to chat with women, flirt with them, tease them. He was, he feared, really and truly a mere cowboy, especially when it came to women. He couldn’t put all of that into words, of course. He said only, “Yes. Good.”

  The nurse went down the hall and out the back, where Frank heard the creak of a door that needed sanding. Margot took up her coat and hat. “Now,” she said. “No more Dr. Benedict. I’m Margot. And if I may, I’ll call you Frank.”

  He was surprised to hear himself say, “Just so it’s not Cowboy.”

  She laughed, and he felt a little shiver of pleasure at having amused her. “I hope you’ll forgive Preston. He may not realize you don’t like it.”

  Frank held the door for her, and the two of them went out into the twilight. The streetlights had come on. Post Street looked cleaner, more inviting than it did in the full light of day. Frank was about to suggest a restaurant—having thought hard about this choice on the streetcar—when Margot said, “Good evening, Blake.”

  Frank turned to see the Negro servant from Benedict Hall, the butler. The Essex was parked at the end of the street. Blake lifted his cap, saying, “Major, it’s nice to see you again.” He had a deep voice, with just the faintest reminiscence of a Southern drawl. He sounded more like a college professor, Frank thought, than a servant.

  Frank remembered not to try to shake his hand. Instead, he lifted his hat as Blake had done. “Hello, Blake.”

  Margot said, “Major Parrish and I are going out, Blake. Perhaps you could drop us, and then tell Mother I won’t be home for dinner.”

  “Of course,” the butler said. “The Royal, do you think, Dr. Margot?”

  “Perfect.”

  The Royal Bar and Café was an elegant place, with low lighting, white tablecloths, and candles flickering in pottery holders. Frank held the door for Margot. A man with a spotless napkin folded over his arm hurried forward, smiling. “Miss Benedict! How nice to see you.” Without asking, he led the way up a set of narrow stairs and into a semiprivate dining room. Several tables were already occupied, diners talking quietly amid a gentle clink of glasses and flatware. The waiter pulled out a chair beside an empty table, and held out his hand for Margot’s coat. When she was seated, he turned to Frank.

  Frank shrugged out of his overcoat and let the man take it. As he smoothed his left sleeve into the pocket of his suit coat, the man averted his eyes, saying to Margot, “I hope your father is well? He wasn’t in for lunch this week.”

  “He’s fine, Richard, thanks,” Margot said. She accepted a menu, and took Frank’s for him, laying it at his place. “I believe he and Dick order in when things get busy.”

  “And you’re busy, too?” The man—Richard—unfolded a napkin, and draped it across Margot’s lap. To stop this embarrassing service being performed for him, too, Frank shook out his own.

  “Busy enough,” she was saying. Frank was watching her, and he caught the tension around her mouth, the slight flicker of her eyelashes.

  “Good, good. Well. I wish I could offer you a decent drink, Miss Benedict.”

  Margot lifted her eyebrows. “You can’t?”

  Richard spoke in an undertone. “The Dry Squad has been here twice. The boss says we have to be careful for a while.”

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bsp; She looked across at Frank. “Do you mind?”

  Even as he shook his head, saying, “Of course not. It’s fine,” his arm began to ache.

  When they had ordered, oysters and steak for both of them, Margot sat back, smiling at Frank. Her little hat, a cream-colored affair with a sequined tulip on one side, fit close to her head. It matched her shirtwaist, and made her eyes look very dark in contrast. “I almost forgot I called you,” she said. “I’m glad you decided to come and find me.”

  “Awfully nice of you to think of me.”

  “Not at all.” The oysters came, and while Richard busied himself squeezing lemon juice over them and arranging fish forks beside their plates, Frank felt Margot’s gaze searching his face. When the waiter had gone, she said, “You look well, Frank. Much better than when I first met you.”

  “Good to be out of the hospital,” he said.

  “No doubt.” She scooped an oyster out of its shell with the tiny fork, and put it in her mouth. Frank watched her carefully. He didn’t want to tell her he had never eaten oysters. He stuck the fork in the grayish lump of meat as she had, and tried to tug it free while holding the shell down with his little finger. The shell skidded away from him, across the table.

  Deftly, Margot stopped it. Without hesitation, she plucked the meat out with her own fork, and held it out to him across the table.

  He knew his cheeks were burning, and blessed the dim light in the room. He let her put the oyster in his mouth, feeling her eyes on him as he tried to chew it. It was slippery and salty, escaping his teeth as he tried to bite into it.

  Margot chuckled. “You haven’t eaten oysters before, I’m afraid.”

  He swallowed, finding that it slid easily down his throat, and left a wonderful ocean tang in his mouth. When he could speak, he said, “No.”

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  Frank grinned at her. “I do. Not the kind of oyster we have in Montana.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You have oysters in Montana?”

  He shook his head, laughing. “When I know you better, I’ll explain.”

  She smiled again, and without asking, extracted another oyster from its shell and fed it to him. As he chewed it, she said, “Tell me how things are going at the Boeing Company. Interesting work?”

  It was a welcome topic, and as he explained what he had been doing recently, working with new materials and adapting existing engines, she listened and nodded as if she not only understood but found it interesting. The steaks arrived. Richard set Frank’s plate down without comment, and Frank saw that it had been neatly sliced for him, artistically arranged with roasted potatoes and grilled onion slices.

  Margot nodded her thanks to the waiter. To Frank she said, “It must be a nuisance for you.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It’s wonderful that it doesn’t hinder your work.”

  He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Lucky, I guess,” he said. He picked up his fork, took a bite of the excellent steak. “Certainly luckier than some.”

  “I know. I saw some terrible tragedies.”

  Frank said, “I admire you for doing what you do.”

  She lifted one shoulder, and sliced a generous chunk of steak. “It was all I ever wanted. My family hates it, of course. My mother wanted a normal daughter, you know—a debutante in a white dress, pearls around her neck and flowers in her hair. My father would have liked a son-in-law to bring into the business.”

  Frank laid his fork down. “Surely they don’t all feel that way?”

  She looked across the table at him. The candle flame shone on the strong planes of her face, and something stirred in his belly. He liked her face. He liked the steadiness of her dark gaze. He liked the length of her fingers as she cupped her chin in her palm and answered his question.

  “No,” she said thoughtfully. “Not all of them. Dick—my older brother—he’s a good sort, and he doesn’t mind, though his wife . . . well, Ramona is much more traditional than I. And Blake . . .” She hesitated. “Maybe you’ll consider it odd that I think of Blake as family.”

  He shook his head. “A fine man.”

  “He is.” She dropped her hand to pick up her fork, and applied herself to her steak again. The smooth curve of her hair brushed her jawline when she bent forward. Frank found himself wishing he could touch it.

  He picked up his own fork again. “Is your practice growing?”

  Her mouth full of steak, chewing unselfconsciously, she gave him a wry look. When she had swallowed, she said, “My clinic is surviving on the money my grandmother left me. I can make it perhaps six months more, and then—” She gestured with her fork. “Then I don’t know. I’ll have to go to work for someone, I suppose. Charity work, probably.” She laughed. “As if I don’t already do an abundance of that!”

  Frank suspected the casual way in which she spoke of failure, of losing her clinic, was an affectation. He wanted to ask, but it seemed too personal.

  She went on. “But perhaps things will improve. I’ve had patients this week, actually. Even one or two who could pay.” She cut another piece of steak, and changed the subject.

  By the time they had finished their meal and drunk their coffee, Frank’s arm had begun to burn in earnest. As he put on his coat, he couldn’t resist touching the stump, trying to quell the nerves that flamed beneath the scar tissue. He felt her eyes on him, watching, and he hastily put on his hat. They were at the head of the stairs when he suddenly remembered. “Oh! We didn’t get the bill!”

  She was on his left, and she took what there was of his arm as naturally as if it were whole, tugging him gently toward the stairs. “This was my invitation,” she said. “And my treat. We have an account.”

  Frank felt helpless before her decisiveness, and humiliated by the gesture. His arm throbbed beneath her fingers, so hot he was afraid it would burn her hand. Richard stood nodding, wishing them a pleasant night. When they emerged from the restaurant, Blake was waiting with the Essex. Frank forced himself to speak politely to Blake, though frustration constricted his throat. He couldn’t even escort Margot home. Gently, he extricated his arm from her grasp, and held the car door for her.

  She climbed in, and looked up at him. “Get in, Frank,” she said. “Blake will drop you at your place.”

  “No, thanks,” Frank said. He saw her blink, and he supposed he had spoken harshly. His arm hurt like the very devil, and his wounded pride hurt even more. He tried to soften his tone. “I appreciate it, but I can use the air. It’s not a long walk.”

  Seeming uncertain for the first time all evening, Margot said, “Well. Good night, then.”

  Frank knew he should say something elegant, something casual. He had no idea what it would be. He blurted, “Thanks for the dinner. It was swell.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded, and turned her head away. Blake closed the door, touched his cap to Frank, and got into the driver’s seat. Frank watched the curve of Margot’s cheek glistening in the light that spilled from the restaurant’s open door. He stood where he was, hating himself, as the Essex pulled away. Margot didn’t look back.

  “Everything all right?” Blake asked as he started the Essex and drove south on First at a ponderous pace.

  “Fine, Blake, thanks,” Margot said. She smoothed her gloves, and concentrated on keeping her face turned forward, not looking back to see in which direction Frank Parrish turned. What had happened, there at the end of their pleasant evening? Was it the issue of the bill? She had never considered letting him pay for it. She was the one who had asked him to dinner, but—did men feel differently about those things? In this modern era?

  Exasperated, she folded her arms, and let her head fall back against the plush of the seat.

  “Major Parrish seems a pleasant man,” Blake said.

  Margot lifted her head, and saw that he was watching her in the rearview mirror. “Very,” she said. There was a pause as Blake negotiated the turn onto Madison.
r />   “Proud sort,” Blake said.

  Margot pondered this. She had no experience with men outside of medical issues. There was her father, of course, and Dick, but they had always treated her as an equal, argued with her as their equal. She thought about Edith, and Ramona, with their soft voices and fluttering manners. That was probably what men expected. What they wanted. Her mouth twisted, and she saw that Blake was watching her again. “I’m hopeless with men,” she said.

  In the darkness, he flashed his white teeth at her. “You want to talk about it?”

  Margot managed to smile back at him. “I don’t even know what to say, Blake. I don’t know what went wrong. It was really a lovely evening, and then . . .” She shrugged.

  “He’ll come around,” Blake assured her. “For a woman like you.”

  Margot shook her head. A woman like her. What did that mean? A blunt, awkward, unconventional woman? Probably Frank Parrish had someone just like Ramona back in Montana, someone soft and pretty and winsome. He was a good-looking man. He was wounded, but he was obviously smart, and surely strong despite the lack of an arm. There could be a dozen girls waiting for him to come home and claim them.

  Margot went straight up to her room, bypassing the small parlor where her father and mother were listening to a radio program. She meant to have a long bath, put Frank Parrish out of her thoughts, and retire with a book. Blake had loaned her his copy of This Side of Paradise. Margot couldn’t remember the last time she had read a novel. It might be nice to read something that wasn’t a medical text or a professional journal.

  Leona tapped on her door just as she was gathering her robe and nightgown to go down the hall to the bathroom. Margot opened the door. “Did you need something?” she asked.

  Leona looked back over her shoulder, though the corridor was empty. Margot hesitated just a moment, then held the door wide. “Come in,” she said. “And tell me what’s wrong.”

  Leona slipped inside, and shut the door hastily, guiltily, behind her.

  Margot scowled, feeling impatient and irritated. “You’re allowed to be in my room, Leona. You’re in here every day, aren’t you?”