even spoke about doctors ... harped on the subject, in fact. I had never gone to a doctor in my adult life, feeling instinctively that doctors meant either cutting or, just as bad, diet. I was close friends with Doc Tatum who used to fish and hunt with me, but he was in a different category ... otherwise I just let doctors alone and hoped they would leave me alone. Except for the falling-out spells I was in the pink of health. When Doc Tatum died I had a terrible toothache ... I think it was psychosomatic, so I went to Doc's brother who was the best mule doctor in the county. I drank."
"Mule doctor!" His faith in the Judge's reasoning echoed with a sick dismay. The old Judge did not seem to notice.
"Naturally, it was the week of Doc's funeral, and what with the wake and cortege and all, my tooth hurt like an electric bell ... so Poke, Doc's brother, just drew the tooth for me ... with novocain and antibiotics which he uses for mules anyhow, as their teeth are strong and they are very stubborn about anybody fooling with their mouths and very sensitive."
Malone nodded wonderingly, and as his disappointment still echoed, he changed the subject abruptly. "That portrait is the living image of Miss Missy."
"Sometimes I think so," the Judge said complacently, as he was one of those persons who felt that anything he owned was greatly superior to the possessions of others ... even if they were identical. He added reflectively:
"Sometimes when I am sad or pessimistic I think that Sara made a bad mistake with the left foot ... at my worst moments it sometimes resembles a kind of odd tail."
"I don't see that at all, sir," Malone said comfortingly. "Besides it's the face, the countenance that matters."
"All the same," the Judge said passionately, "I wish my wife's portrait had been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds or one of the great masters."
"Well that's another story," Malone said, looking at the badly drawn portrait done by the Judge's elder sister.
"I have learned not to settle for the cheapest, homemade product ... especially when it comes to art. But at that time I never dreamed that Miss Missy was going to die and leave me."
Tears brightened the dim, old eyes and he was silent, for the garrulous old Judge could never speak about his wife's death. Malone was also silent, remembering. The Judge's wife had died of cancer and it was Malone who had filled the doctor's prescriptions during her long illness, and he often visited her—sometimes bringing flowers from his garden or a bottle of cologne as though to soften the fact that he was delivering morphine. Often the Judge would be lumbering bleakly about the house, as he stayed with his wife as much as possible even, Malone thought, to the detriment of his political career. Miss Missy had developed cancer of the breast and it had been removed. The Judge's grief was boundless; he haunted the halls of the city hospital, harrying even doctors who had nothing to do with the case, weeping, questioning. He organized prayers at the First Baptist Church and put a hundred dollars in her envelope every Sunday. When his wife returned home, apparently recovered, his joy and optimism were boundless; also, he bought a Rolls-Royce and hired a "safe, colored driver" for her daily airings. When his wife knew she was ill again she wanted to spare her husband the truth, and for a while he went on with his joyous extravagant ways. When it was apparent that his wife was failing, he didn't want to know and tried to deceive both her and himself. Avoiding doctors and questions, he accepted the fact that a trained nurse had become a member of the household. He taught his wife to play poker and they played frequently when she was well enough. When it was obvious that his wife was in pain, the Judge would tiptoe softly to the refrigerator, eat without tasting what he ate, thinking only that his wife had been very sick and was just recovering from a serious operation. So he steadied himself to his secret
"Mule doctor!" His faith in the Judge's reasoning echoed with a sick dismay. The old Judge did not seem to notice.
"Naturally, it was the week of Doc's funeral, and what with the wake and cortege and all, my tooth hurt like an electric bell ... so Poke, Doc's brother, just drew the tooth for me ... with novocain and antibiotics which he uses for mules anyhow, as their teeth are strong and they are very stubborn about anybody fooling with their mouths and very sensitive."
Malone nodded wonderingly, and as his disappointment still echoed, he changed the subject abruptly. "That portrait is the living image of Miss Missy."
"Sometimes I think so," the Judge said complacently, as he was one of those persons who felt that anything he owned was greatly superior to the possessions of others ... even if they were identical. He added reflectively:
"Sometimes when I am sad or pessimistic I think that Sara made a bad mistake with the left foot ... at my worst moments it sometimes resembles a kind of odd tail."
"I don't see that at all, sir," Malone said comfortingly. "Besides it's the face, the countenance that matters."
"All the same," the Judge said passionately, "I wish my wife's portrait had been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds or one of the great masters."
"Well that's another story," Malone said, looking at the badly drawn portrait done by the Judge's elder sister.
"I have learned not to settle for the cheapest, homemade product ... especially when it comes to art. But at that time I never dreamed that Miss Missy was going to die and leave me."
Tears brightened the dim, old eyes and he was silent, for the garrulous old Judge could never speak about his wife's death. Malone was also silent, remembering. The Judge's wife had died of cancer and it was Malone who had filled the doctor's prescriptions during her long illness, and he often visited her—sometimes bringing flowers from his garden or a bottle of cologne as though to soften the fact that he was delivering morphine. Often the Judge would be lumbering bleakly about the house, as he stayed with his wife as much as possible even, Malone thought, to the detriment of his political career. Miss Missy had developed cancer of the breast and it had been removed. The Judge's grief was boundless; he haunted the halls of the city hospital, harrying even doctors who had nothing to do with the case, weeping, questioning. He organized prayers at the First Baptist Church and put a hundred dollars in her envelope every Sunday. When his wife returned home, apparently recovered, his joy and optimism were boundless; also, he bought a Rolls-Royce and hired a "safe, colored driver" for her daily airings. When his wife knew she was ill again she wanted to spare her husband the truth, and for a while he went on with his joyous extravagant ways. When it was apparent that his wife was failing, he didn't want to know and tried to deceive both her and himself. Avoiding doctors and questions, he accepted the fact that a trained nurse had become a member of the household. He taught his wife to play poker and they played frequently when she was well enough. When it was obvious that his wife was in pain, the Judge would tiptoe softly to the refrigerator, eat without tasting what he ate, thinking only that his wife had been very sick and was just recovering from a serious operation. So he steadied himself to his secret
Similar Books
