Evening of the Good Samaritan by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Page A
Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis
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“You’ll have to explain to the sisters …”
She said nothing. Nor would there be any need for explanation. She would not be late.
Then as they parked at the station and the chauffeur took her case, Winthrop said, “Your father will not thank you for your heroics, Martha.”
She stepped out of the car and then turned round and said to him, “I’m sorry if I offended you, Dr. Winthrop.” But she took her suitcase from the chauffeur and went quickly into the station.
6
D R. HOGAN SCOWLED, TAKING the infant’s hand in his and separating the fingers so that he might draw enough blood from one of them to put under the microscope. He saturated the cotton and wiped the finger clean. The smell of alcohol in its purest form had a great deal to recommend it, for his office was heavy with the smell of humanity in a far from pure condition. The scowl was intended to concentrate the attention of the parents on their sick child; they tended, once in his office, to give the child over to his concern so that they could devote themselves to the abuse of one another. He hoped to get them out without having to share in their family recriminations. He had neither the energy for it, nor, he sometimes feared, the love.
“Now, young fellow, this is going to hurt you more than it does me. That’s because I know it’s for your own good.” To the mother he said, “We’ll hear from him now.”
“Oh, doctor, if only he’ll squeal, it’ll be music to my ears.”
It was a hoarse rasp, the baby’s sound of protest.
Marcus quickly drew his specimen into the pipette. He was his own nurse and technician. “Brave lad,” he said.
“Sure, what can you tell from that? Take some blood, man,” the father said.
“Don’t be telling the doctor what to do, Donel. The child needs all the blood he’s got, poor thing.”
“He’s an O’Shaughnessy, damn it! Full-blooded, every man child of the clan!”
Marcus grinned and stored his specimen. If he had taken a milliliter more, O’Shaughnessy would have passed out at the sight of it. “Wrap him up well, but not until you’re ready to go out. I’m going to write a prescription for you.”
O’Shaughnessy, following him to his desk, watched him, frowning more deeply at every symbol. “Is it expensive, that medicine, doctor?”
“Not very.”
“What you’d think was cheap ’ud bankrupt the likes of us, sure.”
“I’ll give you a requisition on the clinic pharmacy,” Marcus said.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, a pale, undernourished woman who was somehow nourishing—at Marcus’s last count—six children, said, “Oh, I don’t think you’ll need to do that, doctor. I’ll manage, Donel.”
“She has the devil’s own fear of charity, doctor, and getting it all her life without knowing it.”
“It isn’t the charity offends me. It’s them social workers—you’d think it was coming out of their own pockets.”
“I don’t think a bottle of cough medicine will bring them down on you,” Marcus said.
“But he’s working now, doctor.”
“Working? Oh, I’m working, true enough, but you’d never know it from what they pay a man—ninety-six dollars a month.”
“He’s on the W.P.A.”
“Good,” Marcus said.
“Ninety-six dollars a month,” O’Shaughnessy repeated. “And you know what it says on the check? It says: ‘The Treasury of the United States,’ it says. Wouldn’t you think they’d be ashamed to write a check the size of that on the Treasury of the United States?”
Marcus laughed and gave the prescription and requisition to the mother. “Bring the child to the clinic next Monday unless the fever kicks up again. In which case, you’d better call me.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
He went to the outer door with them. They had come a long way by streetcar—from the West Side downtown and to the South Side—to offer a child into his care that might die without ever saying a word to prove he had speech, or who might live to become, by grace of
She said nothing. Nor would there be any need for explanation. She would not be late.
Then as they parked at the station and the chauffeur took her case, Winthrop said, “Your father will not thank you for your heroics, Martha.”
She stepped out of the car and then turned round and said to him, “I’m sorry if I offended you, Dr. Winthrop.” But she took her suitcase from the chauffeur and went quickly into the station.
6
D R. HOGAN SCOWLED, TAKING the infant’s hand in his and separating the fingers so that he might draw enough blood from one of them to put under the microscope. He saturated the cotton and wiped the finger clean. The smell of alcohol in its purest form had a great deal to recommend it, for his office was heavy with the smell of humanity in a far from pure condition. The scowl was intended to concentrate the attention of the parents on their sick child; they tended, once in his office, to give the child over to his concern so that they could devote themselves to the abuse of one another. He hoped to get them out without having to share in their family recriminations. He had neither the energy for it, nor, he sometimes feared, the love.
“Now, young fellow, this is going to hurt you more than it does me. That’s because I know it’s for your own good.” To the mother he said, “We’ll hear from him now.”
“Oh, doctor, if only he’ll squeal, it’ll be music to my ears.”
It was a hoarse rasp, the baby’s sound of protest.
Marcus quickly drew his specimen into the pipette. He was his own nurse and technician. “Brave lad,” he said.
“Sure, what can you tell from that? Take some blood, man,” the father said.
“Don’t be telling the doctor what to do, Donel. The child needs all the blood he’s got, poor thing.”
“He’s an O’Shaughnessy, damn it! Full-blooded, every man child of the clan!”
Marcus grinned and stored his specimen. If he had taken a milliliter more, O’Shaughnessy would have passed out at the sight of it. “Wrap him up well, but not until you’re ready to go out. I’m going to write a prescription for you.”
O’Shaughnessy, following him to his desk, watched him, frowning more deeply at every symbol. “Is it expensive, that medicine, doctor?”
“Not very.”
“What you’d think was cheap ’ud bankrupt the likes of us, sure.”
“I’ll give you a requisition on the clinic pharmacy,” Marcus said.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, a pale, undernourished woman who was somehow nourishing—at Marcus’s last count—six children, said, “Oh, I don’t think you’ll need to do that, doctor. I’ll manage, Donel.”
“She has the devil’s own fear of charity, doctor, and getting it all her life without knowing it.”
“It isn’t the charity offends me. It’s them social workers—you’d think it was coming out of their own pockets.”
“I don’t think a bottle of cough medicine will bring them down on you,” Marcus said.
“But he’s working now, doctor.”
“Working? Oh, I’m working, true enough, but you’d never know it from what they pay a man—ninety-six dollars a month.”
“He’s on the W.P.A.”
“Good,” Marcus said.
“Ninety-six dollars a month,” O’Shaughnessy repeated. “And you know what it says on the check? It says: ‘The Treasury of the United States,’ it says. Wouldn’t you think they’d be ashamed to write a check the size of that on the Treasury of the United States?”
Marcus laughed and gave the prescription and requisition to the mother. “Bring the child to the clinic next Monday unless the fever kicks up again. In which case, you’d better call me.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
He went to the outer door with them. They had come a long way by streetcar—from the West Side downtown and to the South Side—to offer a child into his care that might die without ever saying a word to prove he had speech, or who might live to become, by grace of
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