Carol read the file slowly, page by page — notes by the attending physician, Doctor Samuel F. Wickshaw, notes from the half-dozen laboratories consulted, notes from the surgeon who had done the exploratory, notes from the anesthesiologist, remarks and observations from the nutritionist, instructions from Doctor Wickshaw to the square-faced head nurse, and on down the line — so that, by the time she had finished reading, she had imagined a body for this man lying in front of her, an old, diseased, misused but still somehow stubbornly sturdy body. Yes, she decided, she could administer to that body the few services it would require until it expired. They weren’t technically difficult to administer, and the man would not interfere much, she knew, for he would be conscious only intermittently, and less so with each passing week. And the pay — they had discussed it on the telephone, she and the Doctor, and had agreed on a figure that was almost the same as she would have received in Boston — was satisfactory. She asked a few questions about the son and daughter-in-law, learned that they were working people who would be living in the house but in a separate wing of the house, that in fact they would be away much of the time and would most definitely not interfere with her whatsoever, and agreed to take the job.
“Excellent!” Doctor Wickshaw exclaimed. He moved closer, his cheeks reddening with pleasure. “I’m sure you’re going to enjoy it up here.”
“I am?” She took a backward step toward the man in the bed.
“Yes, the fall! It’s beautiful in the fall! The leaves! Look!” he said, pointing out the window.
Carol turned and looked out the large window to the hospital grounds below, and then beyond the grounds to the rippling, tree-covered hills spreading away to the west, a thick carpet of orange, yellow and red all the way to the horizon. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight touched the treetops and brought the colors forward as if on an outstretched hand.
“People drive hundreds of miles just to see these colors,” he said in a reverent voice. “And all we have to do is look out our windows. Isn’t it something?”
“Yes. Yes, it is something.”
He took a step back. “Well, now, let’s get ol’ Harold out of here and back in Catamount where he belongs, eh? The Dame place is lovely,” he assured her. “Up high, a lovely view of the lake, that’s Skitter Lake, and even a view of the White Mountains on clear days. You’re going to love it!” he promised.
For the first two days and nights at the house it rained, a cold, raw, wind-blown rain, and when it cleared, most of the leaves had been driven from the trees and lay wetly on the ground, heavy and faded to dull shades of brown and yellow. The trees were now skeletal, black and boney and nervous-looking. That first afternoon, Carol had met Harold Dame’s son and daughter-in-law, and they had approved of her, but she hadn’t seen them since, though several times during those first days she heard them come and go, returning from the office in downtown Catamount for food and sleep. They did not check in on the old man, she knew, for her room connected to his through a bathroom and she slept with both doors open.
Doctor Wickshaw telephoned several times a day and once again every evening. “To see how the patient’s doing,” he said cheerfully. When she reported no change, he said, “Fine, fine,” and then went on to ask her how she liked it up here in God’s country.
“It’s very pretty,” she said.
“Yes, well, you’ve only seen a corner of it so far. I’ll have to give you the guided tour some afternoon soon. No reason why you can’t take off a few hours and have a look at some of our natural wonders, the lake, the Catamount River, the old Indian fishing weirs. The town is quite pretty, too,” he told her. “The mill pond and the falls, several interesting old historical buildings, the park. A big difference from the city life,” he told her.
“Yes.”
“Safe! People leave their doors unlocked up here. ’Course, you better stay out of the woods in hunting season,” he joked.
“Really? When’s that?” From where she stood in her bedroom, she could see through the bathroom to Harold Dame’s room. He was awake, blinking slowly, like a turtle. Near his chin his emaciated hands clutched the top sheet, as if he were trying to protect himself with it or were ashamed of what lay beneath and were trying to hide it from the rest of the world. Slowly he turned his face toward her, seeking the source of her voice.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she interrupted, “but Mr. Dame’s awake.”
“Fine, fine, of course. Good girl,” he said cheerfully. “And say, call me Sam, will you? Everyone in town does. Save that ‘Doctor’ business for the stuffed shirts down south. Okay?”
“Okay.” She said good-bye and hung up, then walked quickly to her patient. Drawing up her chair, she sat next to the old man and gave him some water.
Taking care with his trembling mouth to use the plastic straw correctly, he studied the woman’s large face for a few seconds, then seemed confused and withdrew his gaze, leaving her alone again.
Gently, she stroked his narrow forehead and pushed his lank, white hair back. His eyes, watery and pale blue, closed, and then he was asleep.
The next afternoon, a Sunday, Doctor Wickshaw arrived bearing a portable television set for Carol and immense good cheer. It was a bright, warm day, and the son and daughter-in-law were home, downstairs in the living room reading the Sunday papers and watching a football game on the large color TV. They had come upstairs that morning around nine, had taken a minute to study the old man in Carol’s silent presence, and had asked her if she wanted to go to church. She said no, thanks, and with clear relief, they returned to their quarters.
Doctor Wickshaw, too, made a brief show of examining the patient, albeit with more precision than the old man’s survivors had. He listened to his heart, took his blood pressure, studied Carol’s notes on the man’s temperature, medication, bodily functions, and so on. Then, clamping shut his black leather bag, he placed it at the foot of the bed, sighed and observed that it wouldn’t hurt the old man if she took off for a few hours. “They’ll be here all afternoon,” he said, indicating with a nod toward the door the couple downstairs. “You must want a break.” He was wearing a brown corduroy shooting jacket with tan leather patches at the elbows and over his right shoulder, green twill trousers and a tattersall shirt. His short, white hair and beard bristled like antennae, and he rubbed his hands together happily.
Carol thanked him for the use of the television set and said no, she’d be just as happy to stay here at the house. She might take a walk later. “You’ve already been plenty kind to me.”
“No, no, you’re coming with me,” he said. “You need a break at least once a week or you’ll get wacky out here with no one but ol’ Harold for company.” He grinned, showing her his excellent teeth. “C’mon, now, go in there and change into some civilian clothes,” he said, pointing with his bearded chin toward her white uniform, “and I’ll wait for you outside. It’s a gorgeous day!” he exclaimed, darting a look out the window.
“All right.”
“That’s a good girl.” He left, and she turned, glancing as she departed from the room at the body of the old man in the bed. He was awake, blinking his watery eyes and looking at the space in the room she had just filled. He had a puzzled expression on his gray face, as if he were wondering where she had gone.
She turned away from him, and when she went into her own bedroom, she closed the door.
Doctor Wickshaw, or “Sam,” as he insisted on being called, talked steadily throughout the tour. He drove his huge, maroon Buick rapidly, nervously, waving his arms and pointing right and left at hills, trees and water as they passed Skitter Lake glistening in the sunlight and choppy in the breeze. They stopped for a minute at the Granite State Trailerpark so he could show her the remains of the old Indian fishing weirs, cruised through the center of town, with Sam enumerating, as they passed them, the several churches, the fire station, the police station, the town hall, the Hawthorne House, where, he told her, they often had first-class country and western bands playing, then stopped for a few moments at the park to watch a gang of teen-agers drink beer at a picnic table. On High Street, when they passed a large, white, Victorian house with a sign outside that said, SAMUEL F. WICKSHAW, M.D., the doctor slowed his car almost to a stop. Half the yard had been paved for cars, and the barn attached to the house in back had been converted into an office.