She managed a weak smile. “I’m just glad it’s finally time. I think you’d better go for the doctor; I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”
“Will you be okay until I get back?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet, still holding onto her hand, unwilling to let go.
“I’ll be fine—go and ask Dorrie to come wait with me until you bring the doctor back.”
“I will.” But still he did not let go of her hand.
“Go on, Janson. I’ll be fine—”
He released her at last and moved toward the door, looking back at her one more time before going through out onto the front porch. Once free of the house he ran, almost stumbling in the front yard, but catching himself, and running on into the muddy, red clay street.
Dr. Curtis Thrasher rubbed his tired eyes and set about repacking his medical bag, going through the contents that morning with eyes and hands that were tired from lack of sleep. He had spent many nights with little or no rest in his forty years of practicing medicine in Eason County, but the past week, with Dr. Bassett bedridden with a back injury, and Dr. Washburn out of town on a family emergency, had seen him as the only able-bodied physician in the county, and had resulted in a state of exhaustion he had not known in many years. He had spent few nights as long or as distasteful as the one he had just been through, however, the one spent cleaning up after a poorly done self abortion on Clois Eason, working through the entire night just to try to save the stupid girl’s life. Well, now he knew she would live, and there would be no child, perhaps no child ever, so badly had she done herself, and perhaps that was for the best. In Curt’s opinion, there were more than enough Easons in this county already.
He stretched, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his back—I’m too old for this, he told himself. He’d become a doctor to save lives and help people, not to clean up after some stupid girl doing away with her child—but I ought to be used to it, he thought. It was not the first time he’d had to attend to the after-effects of an abortion, not even the first time he’d had to lend such care to one of the Eason girls, but, then he’d been called upon to do so many things for the Easons over the past forty years, things that medical school had never prepared him to do. It was just that he was so tired, so unbelievably tired, and not just in body alone.
He closed his medical bag, then stood for a moment staring down at it where it rested on his desktop. He needed sleep, and badly, but he knew there would be no sleep for him this morning, and perhaps not throughout most of the day. He would not be seeing patients in his office, but there were hospital rounds to make even on a Saturday, the occasional emergency, and at least one drive to a patient’s house he could not avoid. After having worked through the night to save the life of Clois Eason, he would now have to spend the morning with her grandmother, as he had to spend almost every Saturday morning. There would be nothing wrong with Patricia Eason, at least nothing that sunshine and fresh air would not cure, but the weekly visit was obligatory—she was certain she was ill; she was always certain she was ill, and her husband, Walter Eason, demanded that Curt be there for her whenever she asked for him. Curt would make the perfunctory examination, prescribe his sugar waters and pills, and listen to her complaints—and the listening, he knew, would be the most effective medicine. He could almost feel sorry for the woman, considering the two sons she had raised, the younger of which she had buried before his eighteenth birthday, and her three grandchildren, the two girls being little better than alleycats, and her only grandson, Buddy, being—
There was a sudden, hard pounding at the exterior door that opened into the reception area of the office. Curt sighed, knowing it would be some emergency that would deny him any rest at all today. He made his way from his book-lined office and across the deserted reception area, wishing he had already left to make the visit on Patricia Eason, for that might have avoided this one extra burden.
He opened the door, preparing himself for some mother with a sick child, or mill hand with a bloody injury. The man standing on the doorstep appeared uninjured, however, and the sight of someone bothering him so early on a Saturday morning who was obviously in no dire need of help replaced Curt’s exhaustion to a degree with anger.
“You’re th’ doctor?” the man asked, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. He was soaked, his overalls muddy; he was dark, too dark to be a white man, and had to be from the mill or village, considering the amount of cotton fibers matted in with the wet black hair that was plastered to his forehead.
“Yes, I’m—”
“You’ve got t’ come with me—”
“I don’t have to go anywhere with you—” Curt snapped, then he forced a degree of control over his exhaustion, making himself speak in a more reasonable voice. “Is someone injured at the mill?” he asked, rubbing his eyes again.
“It’s my wife—she’s havin’ a baby. You’ve got t’ come—”
“Your wife? What’s her name?”
“Elise—Elise Sanders. She’s hurtin’ real bad—”
“Well, of course she’s hurting, man, she’s having a baby,” Curt snapped, then took a deep breath. “Her name’s not familiar. She’s not one of my patients—”
“She’s been seein’ Dr. Washburn. There wasn’t nobody at his place, an’ th’ woman next door, she sent me here—”
“How close are her contractions?” But the man only stared at him. “Well, take her on to the hospital,” Curt said, turning to start across the room toward his open office doorway, hearing the man trudging across the clean floor behind him. “I have a patient to see right now, but I’ll come to the hospital to check on your wife as soon as I’m through. Labor can last for a long while—”
“I ain’t got no way t’ get her t’ th’ hospital.” There was a sound of desperation to the man’s voice.
Curt turned to find him just a few steps behind as he reached the door to his office. “Well, then get a midwife to help her. That’s what most of you mill families do anyway.”
“I promised her a doctor. I’ve got th’ money. You’ve got t’—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Curt said, losing his patience with the man. He had already offered to care for the woman; what more could he do? There were too many other patients needing his services today for him to spend the entire day waiting for one woman to give birth. It could be hours before she was ready to deliver—hours wasted, with hospital rounds to make, and no one else to tend emergencies. That was what midwives were for, when Curt had two other doctors to cover for, the hospital, and Patricia Eason still waiting for his visit. “Now, go on and find a midwife for your wife. There are many good—”
“She wants a doctor. I’ve got th’ money. It’s at th’ house; all you got t’ do is—”
“I’ve already told you I don’t have time for this. Either get your wife to the hospital, or get a midwife to tend her. Now, I’ve got a patient waiting—”
“Elise cain’t wait. She’s bad off; there ain’t no time for me t’ get a midwife. You’ve got t’—”
“I’ve already told you—”
“I’ll give you every cent I got, an’ more when I get it.” The look of desperation in the man’s eyes made Curt feel all the more tired—the woman was probably hours away from delivery, and this man wanted to drag him out in the middle of a rain storm just to sit by her bedside and wait.
“This is just a waste of time. I’ve told you what you can do, and I have no intention of going over it again.