“I am afraid,” said Benton, “that you contacted me because of my work in epidemiology. It is only fair to tell you I’ve forgotten most of what I ever knew in that particular field.”
“Well, if it doesn’t help, it certainly won’t hurt. I might have come here anyhow. You may remember I said something about geography. Geography often is an epidemiological factor. Here you are located in a broad, fertile valley, while on either side of the valley lie rugged hills, an almost primitive area. I would assume that you have patients among both hill and valley people.”
“That is true,” Benton answered. “I guess most of the hill people figure I’m their doctor, although I don’t see them often. Either they don’t get sick as often as the valley people, or when they do they manage to tough it out. Some of them may have an ingrained reluctance to submit to doctoring. A lot of them, I suspect, use folk medicine, old-time recipes handed down through the years. That is not to say there is anything wrong with that. Much as we may hate to admit it, some of those old cures work.”
“Geography may have nothing to do with it,” said Abbott, “but it’s a factor we can’t cancel out until we’ve had a look at it.”
“And there’s a possibility you are wrong. There may be nothing to look for.”
Abbott shook his head. “I don’t think so. Doctor, you will go along with me? You’ll walk that extra mile?”
“Yes, of course,” said Benton. “I’ll keep it all in mind. I’ll be seeing you again, you said, or hearing from you, a few months from now.”
“I can’t tell you exactly when. I have a lot of ground to cover. But I promise I’ll be in touch again.”
They talked a while longer, then Abbott left.
Benton followed him out to his car, thinking as he walked along with him that it had been a long time since he had met a man he liked so instinctively. Here was a man whose name in the last few years had become a household word and, yet, there was about him none of the self-importance that so many eminent men wore as a cloak wrapped about themselves. He found himself looking forward to that day, some months from now, when they would be in touch again. Here was a sincere man you did not brush off automatically, even if his ideas seemed a bit offbeat. Thinking of it, Benton had to admit that Abbott’s idea did seem a bit offbeat.
His first patient after Abbott left was Helen Anderson.
Helen and Herb Anderson were old family friends, had been for many years. Herb owned a men’s ready-to-wear store; he was one of the community’s most successful businessmen. Helen was president of the Flower and Garden Club and, for years, her roses had been blue ribbon winners at the State Fair.
She showed him her right hand. The skin across the knuckles was rough and red. When he rubbed his thumb over it, it felt dry and scaly.
“Looks like eczema,” he said. “We’ll try some ointment on it.”
“I worked in the garden after I noticed it,” she said. “I don’t suppose that did it any good.”
“Probably no harm, either. How’s the garden doing?”
“Couldn’t be better. You should see my peas, and I am trying a new kind of tomato. You and Harriet drop over some evening and have a look at it. It’s been a long time since the four of us have gotten together.”
“That’s part of being a doctor,” Benton said. “You think you have an evening and then something happens. You never can be sure.”
“You work too hard.”
“All of us do,” he told her. “We get involved. What we do assumes a great importance. Your garden, for example.”
She said, seriously, “My garden goes me a lot of good. As you know, I’m not a fancy gardener. I’m a dirt gardener. I don’t wear gloves. I get down in there with my hands. I like the feel of soil. It’s so warm and it has such a nice texture. It has the feel of life to it. It plays hell with my hands, of course; but there’s something so elemental in it that I can’t resist. Herb, of course, thinks that I’m crazy.”
Benton chuckled. “Herb’s no gardener.”
“He pokes gentle fun at me. He’s a golfer at heart. But I don’t make fun of his golf. I don’t think it’s fair.”
“How’s his golf this year? I remember he was bragging last year that he had improved.”
Helen Anderson frowned. “He isn’t playing as much this year. Not as much as he used to.”
“Maybe he’s busy. This is a bad year for business. Inflation and tight money and—”
“No, it isn’t that,” she said. “Doc, I’m worried about Herb. He seems to be tired all the time. He has to be really tired not to play golf. Does a lot of eating between meals. He’s gaining weight. Grumpy, too. Some days he’s so grumpy I’m glad to see him go to work. I’ve told him to come and see you.”
“I wouldn’t worry about him,” said Benton. “Maybe he’s working too hard. Why don’t you try to get him to take a couple of weeks off and the two of you go on vacation? A rest would do him good.”
“It’s more than just tiredness,” she continued. “I am sure of that. He’s tired, of course, but there’s something more than that. Doc, won’t you talk with him?”
“I can’t go out soliciting business. You know that.”
“But as a friend …”
“I can tell him you’re worried about him. I can lean on him a little.”
“If you would,” she suggested.
“Sure I will,” said Benton. “But don’t you go worrying yourself sick. It’s probably nothing.”
He wrote her a prescription and she left, extracting a promise he’d drop by soon to have a look at the garden.
The next patient was Ezra Pike. Ezra was a farmer south of town, seventy years old, still working his farm with only occasional help.
He had hand trouble, too. He had a nasty gash across the knuckles.
“The baler broke down,” he explained, “and I was fixing it. The wrench slipped.”
“We’ll get that hand cleaned up,” Benton said. “In a day or two it’ll be like new. Don’t see you often, Ezra. You or Mrs. Pike. I’d starve to death if everyone was like the two of you.”
“Never did get sick much. Neither one of us. The boys, neither. We are a healthy family.”
“How are the boys these days? I haven’t seen them for ages.”
“Dave, he’s down in Pittsburgh. Working in a bank. Investments. Ernie is a teacher over in Ohio. School’s out now, and he’s running a boy’s camp up in Michigan. We’re real proud of our boys, both of them.”
“How are the crops?” Benton asked.
“Good enough,” said Pike. “Some trouble with bugs. Never used to have that kind of trouble, but it’s different now. No DDT, you know. They up and banned the stuff. Was poisoning everything, they said. Maybe so, but it made farming easier.”
Benton finished with the bandaging. “There, that’s it,” he said. “Keep watch of that hand. If it hurts a lot or gets red and puffy, come in to see me.”
Pike got spryly from the chair. “Got a good crop of pheasants waiting for you. Soon as the season opens, we’ll be looking for you.”
“I’ll be out,” said Benton. “Always have, you know. It’s been a long time, Ezra, I’ve been hunting on your land.”
“You’re welcome any time,” Pike said. “But there ain’t no need to tell you. I take it that you know.”