Joe Pearson was still sitting, exactly as Coleman had left him. He looked up but made no attempt to rise.
Dornberger spoke first. He spoke quietly, without antagonism, as if wanting to set the mood of this meeting as a service to an old friend. He said, “The baby died, Joe. I suppose you heard.”
Pearson said slowly, “Yes. I heard.”
“I’ve told Dr. O’Donnell everything that happened.” Dornberger’s voice was unsteady. “I’m sorry, Joe. There wasn’t much else I could do.”
Pearson made a small, helpless gesture with his hands. There was no trace of his old aggressiveness. He said expressionlessly, “It’s all right.”
Matching his tone to Dornberger’s, O’Donnell asked, “Is there anything you want to say, Joe?”
Twice, slowly, Pearson shook his head.
“Joe, if it were just this one thing . . .” O’Donnell found himself searching for the right words, knowing they did not exist. “We all make mistakes. Maybe I could . . .” This was not what he had intended to say. He steadied his voice and went on more firmly. “But it’s a long list. Joe, if I have to bring this before the medical board, I think you know how they’ll feel. You could make it less painful for yourself, and for all of us, if your resignation were in the administrator’s office by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Pearson looked at O’Donnell. “Ten o’clock,” he said. “You shall have it.”
There was a pause. O’Donnell turned away, then back. “Joe,” he said, “I’m sorry. But I guess you know, I don’t have any choice.”
“Yeah.” The word was a whisper as Person nodded dully.
“Of course, you’ll be eligible for pension. It’s only fair after thirty-two years.” O’Donnell knew, as he said them, the words had a hollow ring.
For the first time since they had come in Pearson’s expression changed. He looked at O’Donnell with a slight, sardonic smile. “Thanks.”
Thirty-two years! O’Donnell thought: My God! It was most of any man’s working life. And to have it end like this! He wanted to say something more: to try to make it easier for them all; to find phrases in which to speak of the good things Joe Pearson had done—there must be many of them. He was still debating how when Harry Tomaselli came in.
The administrator had entered hurriedly, not waiting to knock. He looked first at Pearson, then his glance took in Dornberger and O’Donnell. “Kent,” he said quickly, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Before O’Donnell could speak Tomaselli had swung back to Pearson. “Joe,” he said, “can you come to my office immediately? There’s an emergency staff meeting in an hour. I’d like to talk with you first.”
O’Donnell said sharply, “An emergency meeting? What for?”
Tomaselli turned. His expression was serious, his eyes troubled. “Typhoid has been discovered in the hospital,” he announced. “Dr. Chandler has reported two cases, and there are four more suspected. We’ve an epidemic on our hands and we have to find the source.”
As Elizabeth looked up the door opened and John came in. He closed the door, then stood for a moment with his back against it.
There was nothing said, only with their eyes—grief, entreaty, and an overwhelming love.
She held out her arms and he came into them.
“Johnny! Johnny, darling.” It was all she could murmur before she began to cry softly.
After a while, when he had held her tightly, he moved back, then dried her tears with the same handkerchief he had used for his own.
Later still he said, “Elizabeth, honey, if you’re still willing, there’s something I’d like to do.”
“Whatever it is,” she answered, “it’s ‘yes.’ ”
“I guess you always wanted it,” he said. “Now I want it too. I’ll write for the papers tomorrow. I’m going to try for medical school.”
Mike Seddons got up from the chair and paced around the small hospital room. “But it’s ridiculous,” he said heatedly. “It’s absurd; it isn’t necessary, and I won’t do it.”
“For my sake, darling. Please!” From the bed Vivian eased herself around so that her face was toward him.
“But it isn’t for your sake, Vivian. It’s just some damn silly, stupid idea you might have got out of a fourth-rate sentimental novel.”
“Mike darling, I love you so much when you get mad. It goes with your beautiful red hair.” She smiled at him fondly as, for the first time, her mind moved away from immediate things. “Promise me something.”
“What?” He was still angry, the answer curt.
“Promise me that when we’re married sometimes you’ll get mad—really mad—so we can have fights, then afterward enjoy the fun of making up.”
He said indignantly, “That’s just about as daft a suggestion as the other one. And anyway, what’s the point of talking about getting married when you want me to stay away from you?”
“Only for a week, Mike dear. Just one week; that’s all.”
“No!”
“Listen to me, darling.” She urged, “Please come and sit down. And listen to me—please!”
He hesitated, then returned reluctantly to the chair at the side of the bed. Vivian let her head fall back on the pillows, her face turned sideways toward him. She smiled and reached out her hand. He took it gently, his anger dissolving. Only a vague, disquieting sense of doubt remained.
It was the fourth day since Vivian had returned from surgery, and in the meanwhile her progress had been good. The stump of her thigh was healing well; there was still some localized pain and inevitable soreness, but the big and overwhelming agony of the first two days of recovery had eased, and yesterday Dr. Grainger, with Vivian’s knowledge and agreement, had withdrawn the order for injections of demerol which had helped dim the pain over the worst period, now behind. Only one thing Vivian found distressing—a surprising thing that she had not anticipated. The foot of her amputated leg—a foot that was no longer there—itched frequently with a malicious, recurring torment; it was anguish not to be able to scratch it. At first when the feeling came she had groped with her remaining foot for the sole of the other. Then for a while, lightheadedly, she had begun to believe that there had been no amputation after all. It was only when Dr. Grainger had assured her that the sensation was entirely normal and something experienced by most people who had any limb removed that she realized her belief was illusory. Nevertheless, it was an uncanny feeling which Vivian hoped would disappear soon.
Psychologically, too, her progress appeared to be good. From the moment when, the day before surgery, Vivian had accepted the inevitable with the simple courage that had so impressed itself on Mike Seddons the mood had continued and upheld her. There were still moments of blackness and despair; they came to her when she was alone, and twice, waking at night, with the hospital around her quiet and eerie, she had lain crying silently for what had been lost. But mostly she banished the moods, using her innate strength to rise above them.
Lucy Grainger was aware of this and was grateful; it made easier her own task of supervising the healing process. Nonetheless, Lucy knew that for Vivian the real test of her emotions and spirit lay somewhere still ahead. That test would come after the initial shock had passed, when the real significance of events had had time to develop more gradually in Vivian’s mind and when the implications for the future were closer and more real. Perhaps the moment might not come for six months or even a year; but sooner or later it would, and Lucy knew that at that time Vivian would pass through the deep darkness of despair to some permanent attitude of mind beyond, whatever that might be. But that was for the future; for the present the short-term prognosis seemed reasonably bright.
Lucy knew, of course—and was aware that Vivian knew it too—that the possibility remained that the osteogenic sarcoma which Dr. Pearson had diagnosed might have metastasized ahead of the amputation, spreading its creeping malignancy elsewhere in Vivian’s body. In that case there would be little more that Three Counties Hospital, or medicine generally, could do for Vivian beyond temporary, palliative relief. But later would be time enough to learn if that were true. For the patient’s sake it seemed best and wisest at this moment to assume that for Vivian the future stretched indefinitely ahead and to help her adapt to it actively.