“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth said. Then directly to Coleman, smiling, “Hullo, Dr. Coleman—I remember you very well. Didn’t you used to come into my father’s store sometimes?”
“That’s right.” He recalled her clearly now: a cheerful, long-legged girl who used to clamber obligingly around that cluttered, old-fashioned store, finding things that had got lost in the confusion. She didn’t seem to have changed much. He said, “I think you once sold me some clothesline.”
She answered brightly, “I believe I remember that. Was it all right?”
He appeared to ponder. “Now you mention it, I think it broke.”
Elizabeth laughed. “If you take it back, I’m sure my mother will exchange it. She still runs the store. It’s more of a mess than ever.” Her good humor was infectious. Coleman smiled.
John Alexander had pulled back a chair. “Won’t you join us, Doctor?”
For a moment Coleman hesitated. Then, realizing it would be churlish to refuse, “All right,” he said. He put down his tray—it contained a Spartan lunch—a small fruit salad and a glass of milk—and sat at the table. Looking at Elizabeth, he said, “If I remember, didn’t you have pigtails when I knew you?”
“Yes,” she answered promptly, “and bands on my teeth as well. I grew out of them.”
David Coleman found himself liking this girl. And seeing her here today had been like suddenly turning a page from the past. She reminded him of earlier years; Indiana had been a good place to live. He remembered the summers home from school, driving on rounds with his father in the doctor’s old and battered Chevrolet. He said reflectively, “It’s a long time since I was in New Richmond. My father died, you know, and Mother moved to the West Coast. There’s nothing to take me back there now.” Then drawing his thoughts away, “Tell me,” he said to Elizabeth, “how do you like being married to a medical man?”
Swiftly John Alexander put in, “Not a medical man—just a technologist.” When he had said it he wondered why. Perhaps it was a reflex action from what had happened this morning. A few minutes ago, when Coleman had joined them, John had considered telling him about the incident in the lab. But immediately afterward he had decided not to. Talking freely with Dr. Coleman had got him into enough trouble already. He decided to leave well enough alone.
“Don’t sell technology short,” Coleman said. “It’s pretty important.”
Elizabeth said, “He doesn’t. But sometimes he wishes he had become a doctor instead.”
Coleman turned to him. “Is that right?”
Alexander wished Elizabeth had not brought this up. He said reluctantly, “I did have ideas that way. For a time.”
Coleman speared some fruit salad with his fork. “Why didn’t you go to medical school?”
“The usual reasons—money mostly. I didn’t have any, and I wanted to start earning.”
Between mouthfuls Coleman said, “You could still do it. How old are you?”
Elizabeth answered for him. “John will be twenty-three. In two months’ time.”
“That’s pretty old, of course.” They laughed, then Coleman added, “You’ve still got time.”
“Oh, I know.” John Alexander said it slowly, thoughtfully, as if knowing in advance that his own argument was unconvincing. “The trouble is, it would mean a big financial struggle just when we’re beginning to get settled. And besides, with a baby coming . . .” He left the sentence hanging.
Coleman took the glass of milk and drank deeply. Then he said, “Plenty of people have gone through medical school with a baby. And financial problems.”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!” Elizabeth said it intensely, leaning forward across the table. “I’m so glad to hear it from someone else.”
Coleman wiped his mouth with a napkin, then put it down. He looked directly at Alexander. He had a feeling that he had been right in his first impression of this young technologist. He seemed intelligent and conscientious; certainly he was interested in his work—that had been evident the other day. Coleman said, “You know what I think, John? I think if you feel like this, and don’t go to medical school while you have the chance, it may be something you’ll regret the rest of your life.”
Alexander was looking down, absently moving his knife and fork.
Elizabeth asked, “There’s still a need for a lot of doctors in pathology, isn’t there?”
“Oh yes.” Coleman nodded emphatically. “Perhaps more in pathology than anywhere else.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s a need of research for one thing—to keep medicine moving ahead; to fill in the gaps behind.”
She asked, “What do you mean—the gaps behind?”
Momentarily the thought occurred to David Coleman that he was talking more freely than usual. He found himself about to express ideas which most of the time he kept locked in his own mind. But the company of these two had seemed refreshing, possibly because it was a change to be with someone younger after being around Dr. Pearson. Answering Elizabeth’s question, he said, “In a way medicine is like a war. And, just as in a war, sometimes there’s a spectacular advance. When that happens, people—doctors—rush to the new front. And they leave a lot of pockets of knowledge to be filled in behind.”
Elizabeth said, “And that’s the pathologist’s job—to fill them?”
“It’s the job of every branch of medicine. But sometimes in pathology there are more opportunities.” Coleman thought a moment, then continued, “There’s another thing too. All research in medicine is very much like building a wall. Someone adds a piece of knowledge—puts one brick on another; someone else adds one more, and gradually the wall grows. Finally someone comes along and puts the last brick on top.” He smiled. “It isn’t given to many to do spectacular things—to be a Fleming or a Salk. The best a pathologist can do, usually, is to make some modest contribution to medical knowledge—something within his own reach, within his own time. But at least he should do that.”
John Alexander had been listening intently. Now he asked eagerly, “Will you be doing research here?”
“I hope so.”
“On what?”
Coleman hesitated. This was something he had not spoken of before. But he had said so much now, he supposed one more thing would not make any difference. “Well, for one thing, on lipomas—benign tumors of fat tissue. We know very little about them.” Unconsciously, as he had warmed to his subject, his normal coolness and reserve had fallen away. “Do you know there have been cases of men starving to death, yet having tumors thriving inside them? What I hope to do is—” He stopped abruptly. “Mrs. Alexander, is something wrong?”
Elizabeth had gasped suddenly and put her face in her hands. Now she took her hands away. She shook her head, as if to clear it.
“Elizabeth! What is it?” Alarmed, John Alexander jumped up from his chair. He moved to go around the table.
“It’s . . . it’s all right.” Elizabeth motioned him back. She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them. “It was just . . . for a moment—a pain, then dizziness. It’s gone now.”
She drank some water. Yes, it was true it had gone. But for a moment it had been like sharp hot needles—inside where the baby moved—then her head swimming, the cafeteria spinning around her.
“Has this happened before?” Coleman asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Are you sure, honey?” It was John, his voice anxious.
Elizabeth reached across the table and put a hand on his. “Now don’t begin worrying. It’s too early for the baby. There’s at least another four months to go.”
“All the same,” Coleman said seriously, “I suggest you call your obstetrician and tell him what happened. He might want to see you.”
“I will.” She gave him a warm smile. “I promise.”
At the time Elizabeth had meant what she said. But afterward, away from the hospital, it seemed silly to bother Dr. Dornberger about a single pain that had come and gone so quickly. If it happened again, surely then would be the time to tell him—not now. She decided to wait.
Fifteen
“Is there any news?”
From the wheel chair Vivian looked up as Dr. Lucy Grainger came into the hospital room. It was four days since the biopsy, three since Pearson had sent the slides to New York and Boston.