Читать книгу Parris Mitchell of Kings Row - Henry Bellamann - Страница 5

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The courthouse, nobly porticoed and domed, dominated the business section of the town of Kings Row. It had been built before the Civil War, and was a handsome building for a town of four thousand. The floor of the west portico jutted out to make a stand which had been the auction block when the region had sold large numbers of slaves down the river. The huge four-faced clock in the tower kept time with surprising accuracy, and the great bell tolled the hours in a deep and drowsy tone.

The deep shade cast by the elms and maples on the lawn surrounding the building was inviting on this morning of late July in 1916, for the little Midwest town was experiencing an extraordinarily hot day as noon approached. The tall trees seemed to be waiting for some wave of wind to give them voice and gesture, but the air was as still as if the last wind had gone home forever. The humming spell of a summer day was heavy about the place.

Groups of shirt-sleeved men idled about in chairs or on benches underneath the trees. Across the street on the south side of the square was another group at the door of Matt Fuller’s feed store. The popularity of this particular spot was partly due to the fact that it was next door to McKeown’s saloon.

In Kings Row, as everywhere else in the world, these groups of men observed and talked. Year after year, in the casual way of the frontier, they watched and estimated, weighed and decided, praised and condemned. Talk, like the everyday life, was ingrained. Gossip was crossed with gossip; hearsay was grafted on certainty; warp of suspicion and woof of guesswork became a web of binding assurance. This was the tissue of life—the tissue of the town of Kings Row.

Looking deceptively cool in a palm beach suit, Dr. Parris Mitchell viewed this familiar scene as he walked down Federal Street on his way to see Miles Jackson, editor of The Gazette. He caught sight of the men on the benches and returned their salutes with a smile and a lifted hand. The young doctor’s face was browned by wind and sun, and his black hair swept damply back from a broad forehead. His mouth with its full upper lip was sensitive—a little sensuous. It was large enough to denote a generous nature, but there were no lax lines about it. The discipline, the eternal watchfulness of a man whose business was the healing of sick minds, had left firmness in his mouth and chin. And there was no mistaking the strength of purpose and confidence bred of achievement in the carriage of his head and shoulders, though his walk and his general look suggested an age ten years younger than his thirty-five. His hazel eyes, set rather wide apart, were shadowed and thoughtful.

Young Dr. Mitchell, now so well established at the big State Hospital for the Insane there at the end of Federal Street, was a rather lonely man. The very nature of his work isolated him somewhat. The practice of doctors among the insane was mysterious to the layman, and Dr. Mitchell’s work was especially so. People spoke of it in vague terms—even the town doctors. Psychiatry was a new word. Gradually, in the popular imagination, Dr. Mitchell was set apart from other doctors, and to a greater degree from other men. No one quite understood why he had studied all those years in Vienna, just to end up right here in Kings Row—out at the asylum. None of the other doctors had thought it necessary to go to Europe.

True, there was a shortage of practicing physicians in Kings Row just now, and there were times when Dr. Waring, desperately overworked, called on Dr. Mitchell for help. Mitchell’s medical training was superior, and while he was necessarily devoting more and more time to his psychiatric work at the hospital, he never failed to respond to these calls. He was particularly prompt when the calls came from Jinktown, the little settlement of poorer people under Aberdeen Hill. His was a well-known and highly respected figure on the streets down there. His poignant sympathy for those who endured untoward fates and the bitterness of defeat informed his nature with unusual warmth and insight.

Yes, Parris Mitchell was respected in Kings Row, but he had few close friends. An habitual absent-mindedness gave him a detached air, a seeming aloofness that the town vaguely resented. It was perhaps fortunate for him that those few who liked him wholeheartedly were not only intensely loyal but influential as well. Dr. Paul Nolan, his chief at the asylum, was the most intimate of these.

Three old Germans, familiar figures in Kings Row, sat on a bench in the shade. Parris was crossing the square to say hello to them when he met Davis Pomeroy leaving the courthouse grounds. His interest had recently been quickened by rumors concerning Pomeroy Hill, and Parris studied the owner more closely than usual. It was common knowledge that certain Negroes in the neighborhood refused to pass the Pomeroy place after dark, even if it meant walking half a mile out of the way. Parris had laughed when he first heard it and still considered it a wild tale concocted out of nothing—a matter of ghosts, probably. But in spite of his skepticism he was conscious of a certain nagging curiosity about the central figure of the story.

Parris judged Pomeroy to be about fifty—a vigorous fifty, for he walked with the long yet agile stride of a much younger man. His walk, like everything else about him, attested to his years of outdoor living. He looked what he was: a country gentleman. He was a fine physical specimen, well over six feet, broad-shouldered, with a look of muscular hardness that extended even to the capable, big-boned hands. His carriage was erect and proud, his light gray business suit was well cut, and he wore a panama hat set squarely and firmly on his head. He swung along easily, a picture of calm self-confidence. He looked—Parris fumbled briefly for the right adjective—substantial. The last man in the world to associate with small-town mystery.

It was only on closer observation that Parris was aware that Pomeroy’s expression was at variance with the rest of him. The deep furrows in his sun-browned skin reflected strain and—could it be—fear? Was there something almost furtive in the way he peered eagerly into his face, to look hastily away again? A flicker of doubt touched Parris’ mind. There might be more to the rumors than he had conceded.

Pomeroy’s response to Parris’ greeting was curiously eager, confirming his idea that the man was ill at ease. “Dr. Mitchell! Well, well, well! It’s been a long time—several weeks—you stay pretty close at the hospital, it seems. How is your charming wife?” He talked fast and disconnectedly as a man does, Parris noted, who wishes to forestall an unwelcome question or comment. “I walked over to the old von Eln place the other day,” Pomeroy said, not waiting for an answer. “Beautiful place. Beautiful. I wondered if you ever paid it a visit. Run down, of course—not like it was when your grandmother lived—”

“I haven’t been out in a long time. Not since the state closed the Experimental Station there. I guess I’m a bit sentimental about the old place. I was born there, you know.”

Davis Pomeroy did not reply, and Parris, determined to put the man at ease, went on. “I’ve been hearing a lot about your new herd of prize cattle. The finest collection in the state, they say. I’d like to stop by at Pomeroy Hill one day soon, if I may.”

At mention of his hobby Pomeroy’s tension visibly relaxed. “Do come. Any time at all,” he said cordially, the tight lines around his mouth giving way to a half smile. “I am proud of my stock,” he said. “Like a kid with a new wagon, I like to show it off!”

“Pomeroy Hill is very beautiful, I think. Your trees are magnificent.”

“Yes, and there’s nothing Hart Sansome, our honorable Mayor, can do about cutting them down.”

Parris laughed, and Pomeroy’s eyes twinkled as he added, “Sansome thinks we must destroy beauty in the name of progress.”

Parris looked at Davis Pomeroy with growing respect. “I’m glad you feel the same way I do about such things. I think you and I should know each other better.”

Pomeroy’s smile froze. He suddenly averted his eyes. “Yes—well, it’s been nice meeting you, Dr. Mitchell.” He shook hands rather stiffly and hurried off.

Parris stared after him, surprised but thoughtful. Now what had suddenly got into the man? he thought. He seems to be a likable fellow—but he’s a queer duck at that.

As Parris approached his three German friends, he felt a surge of sympathy for them. He had already become aware of a growing hostility in the town to these gentle old men because of their nationality. The war in Europe was doing this. Knowing how deeply they would be hurt, he hoped they had not sensed it. They had helped to build Kings Row—Lenz and Kelner and Eger, and others like them. He remembered how his grandmother had liked and respected them as honest workmen.

“Are you taking a holiday?” he asked in his easy German as he joined them.

Louis Kelner shook his head, disclaiming any such frivolity. “Not much of a holiday for me, Doctor. I got too many coffeepots to mend, and Herman, here, a row of shoes he’s got would reach from here to Camperville and back.”

Jacob Lenz lifted his blind face and spoke eagerly. “Won’t you sit here with us and tell us what you think about this war? Will we be brought into it, too?”

“Yes, Doctor, tell us what you think,” Herman, the hunchbacked shoemaker, urged. He moved nearer to Lenz to make room on the slatted bench.

Parris sat down, fanning himself with the brim of his panama hat. “It’s hard to say, but it looks bad, very bad. Germany seems to have set out to conquer the world.”

“I’d like to tell that Kaiser a thing or two,” Louis grumbled.

“I’m afraid it’s not simply the Kaiser, Louis. Many of your people—”

“My people are American people—Kings Row people—like yours and Herman’s and Jacob’s.”

The other two nodded in agreement, and Parris spoke hurriedly. “Of course, of course. I meant people still living in Germany. They go about saying, ‘The seas must be free’ or ‘We demand a place in the sun.’ I heard it many times spoken by Germans in Vienna.”

Jacob leaned toward Dr. Mitchell and spoke earnestly. His voice shook a little. “I was born in Vienna. I was thirty when I came away. I do not remember that there was talk like that. Men sat in cafés and ate their sausages and drank their beer and talked of—music. I remember well.”

“But that was before the day of German domination. Your Vienna is not the same.”

“Yes, maybe now is different,” Jacob agreed sadly.

“But there was talk of music when I was there, too, good talk. And, by the way, my wife has learned some new things to play for you. She’s never satisfied about them until she has had a lesson from you. When could you come?”

The blind musician flushed with pleasure. “Any time you say, Herr Doktor, any time at all.”

“On Sunday at four, perhaps?”

“On Sunday at four, and thank you. The little Frau Elise, she will play Mozart, hein?”

“Probably. She is happy when you come to help her.”

“Maybe you will play Beethoven for me? That is too big for her small hands.”

“Maybe—but I have too little time for any real practice. I’m neglecting my piano these days.”

“Now, that is wrong. Music, it is necessary for a man like you—a man who works always with sick minds. Music will rest you.”

Parris nodded in agreement. “Music has definite curative value. I’ve introduced a special department of musical therapy out at the hospital. It’s hard to get the equipment we need for—well, for anything new. But we’re making a start.”

“That is good,” Jacob said. “Could we help? I have a little money saved up.”

“Oh, no. Thank you for the offer, but it is the state’s business to finance it.”

“Doctor,” Herman Eger said rather timidly, “there will soon be a litter of dachshund puppies at my place. Do you think your wife might like one?”

“Why, I’m sure she would. Thank you very much. She will be pleased that you thought of her.”

Parris rose to go, his heart warmed by the simple kindliness of these old friends. As he walked toward The Gazette office the three old men looked after him.

“That young doctor,” Herman said, “he speaks languages very good—very good.”

“Vorzueglich!”

“Ausgezeichnet!”

“Ueberraschend!”

Matt Fuller, owner of the feed store, looked across the courthouse lawn and watched young Dr. Mitchell talking with the three Germans.

“That’s a funny thing,” he said to the group ranged along the walk in splint-bottomed chairs they had brought across from Burkhalter’s hardware store. “What the hell do you reckon them Heinies find to talk about? Jim B. says he passes ’em sometimes an’ they’re talkin’ Dutch.”

“ ’Tain’t Dutch, it’s German.” Ricks Darden prided himself on his accuracy. “I see Parris Mitchell over there talkin’ to ’em. Bet he’s tryin’ to show off. He talks German to ’em. He can talk French, too, maybe Italian, fur as I know.”

“Aw, he don’t have to show off to that gang. He’s already got ’em buffaloed.”

“He’s got a lot of folks eatin’ out o’ his hand. I can’t understand it at all.”

“Beats me how he does it. He’s awful hard to talk to.”

“You don’t have to talk to Parris Mitchell—unless you plannin’ to go out to the asylum to live.” This sally brought a guffaw from the crowd.

“That asylum ain’t no laughin’ matter,” Ricks said. “Long’s I been passin’ that place out the end of Federal Street, it makes me feel creepy ever’ time I look up at them barred windows.”

“Go on! That’s one of the biggest an’ best hospitals in the country. We got to have a place for crazy folks. An’ what’s more, we got to have doctors for ’em.”

“Say, how come Mitchell to marry a foreigner, you reckon?”

“Well, he was sort of half foreigner hisself. His gran’ma von Eln come from France an’ she had them German servants an’ all. Guess he just got used to foreigners.”

Matt Fuller brought his chair down from its tilted position with a bang. “You all knowed Parris Mitchell all his life. He growed up here, went to school an’ the Presbyterian church an’ to Aberdeen College, where his pa used to teach. You talk like he was a stranger or somethin’.”

“He acts like a stranger—sort of foreign—like his wife.”

“He ain’t purty as she is,” Ricks said with a grin.

“Ain’t but one woman in Kings Row can hold a candle to her, that’s the truth—an’ that’s Randy McHugh.”

“Randy’s a well-to-do widder now, Ricks. Looks like all you bachelors around here would be settin’ yore caps for her.”

“Shucks! She ain’t studyin’ marryin’ again. She was mighty fond of Drake, seems like. Since he died she’s made a right smart pile sellin’ real estate. Got as much sense as a man.”

“She’s got the nicest house in Kings Row, if that’s any sign. She don’t put on no airs, though, fur as I can see. Her an’ Doc Mitchell’s wife is mighty thick.”

“Yeah. She’s thick with Fulmer Green’s wife, too.”

“Fulmer Green an’ Parris ain’t chummy so’s you’d notice it.”

“That’s the truth. Looks like somethin’s always croppin’ out between ’em. They got no use for each other.”

“The Doc jest seems to get Fulmer’s goat, somehow. Even that kid brother of Fulmer’s, that Donny, he’s always puttin’ in his oar about Parris Mitchell.”

“Oh, he’d say anything Fulmer put him up to.”

“That’s the God’s truth. Danged if I ever seen anything like the way Fulmer puts up with Donny’s shenanigans. That kid’s a tough ’un, an’ looks like Fulmer ain’t ever got on to him.”

“Fulmer shore has spoilt Donny. He’d give him the shirt off his back, seems like. Funny, too. Fulmer’s a skinflint fur as other folks is concerned.”

“I reckon Fulmer’s doin’ a pretty good job over to the capital. They tell me he’s a big shot ’mongst them politicians.”

“Oh, he’s got sense all right. Sharp as a razor. We need folks like that in politics.”

“You reckon he’s got his eye on the governor’s mansion?”

“Who?”

“Fulmer.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me none if that ain’t what he’s got on his mind. He ain’t satisfied with bein’ big boss in Kings Row. He ’lows to git holt of the whole state. Art Swenson’s gonna git elected in November. Fulmer’s electioneerin’ for him.”

“Fulmer’s got a right smart followin’. Whoever he backs is more’n apt to git elected.”

“But I bet Fulmer’ll run next time.”

“If he does come out for Governor, Miles Jackson will just about skin him alive. He’s got no use for Fulmer, judgin’ by the things he prints in his paper ever’ now and then.”

Momentarily having finished with gossip and politics, some of the men drifted away and gradually the group dissolved.