American Boy - Larry Watson [58]
“Whoa, slow down, Anna,” Dr. Dunbar said. “I have no intention of leaving without paying the bill.” Although the doctor was making a joke, neither of the McDonoughs would have cared if Rex Dunbar never paid for a meal, so long as he continued to visit their establishment.
“Dale can’t talk,” she said breathlessly. She pointed to the far end of the dining room, where Mr. McDonough was sitting on a high stool, as he so often did, surveying the restaurant’s operations. Like Phil Palmer, the McDonoughs were highly visible owners, doing everything from frying eggs in the kitchen to checking guests in and out of their hotel.
Still in a jocular mood, Dr. Dunbar said, “I’m sure Alice would like to hear how you managed that.”
“No, I mean he’s trying, but—” She was interrupted by a commotion across the room, and we all turned in time to see Dale McDonough topple from his stool and crash to the floor. While everyone in the restaurant stood to see what had happened, Dr. Dunbar took off at a sprint. Anna McDonough trailed behind him, her high heels clacking on the hotel floor.
Janet and Julia started to follow their father, but Mrs. Dunbar restrained them. “Sit,” she said. “Whatever is going on, your assistance is not needed.”
A ring of bystanders had quickly gathered around the fallen hotel owner, making it impossible to see what Mr. McDonough’s condition was or how Dr. Dunbar was ministering to him. Earlier it had seemed as if Dr. Dunbar was among equals as he stood around with the other men, joking and discussing the issues of the day. But now those other men looked passive, weak, and ineffectual alongside the doctor, with his expertise and ability to act in the face of crisis.
While we waited for the doctor to make a diagnosis, I gauged the worsening of the storm by concentrating on the building across the street from the hotel. Frawley’s Office Supplies had its name stenciled on the window in large black letters. Blowing snow whitened the words to gray, but when the wind gusted harder they faded away completely.
Fewer than ten minutes had passed before Dr. Dunbar returned to the table, his expression grave. “Dale has had a neurological episode.” He spoke to his wife, but he made no effort to prevent the rest of us from hearing. “A severe stroke, probably. And his condition is worsening by the minute. Apparently he’d been complaining of headaches and dizziness recently, and just before he lost the power of speech, he said something about blurry vision. He’s paralyzed on one side already, and has limited motor control on the other side. I can’t do much for him. If he’s going to have a chance, I have to get him to the hospital in Bellamy as soon as possible.” Bellamy, Minnesota, was fifty miles to the northwest, and once the doctor left Willow Falls and its valley he’d find himself on open prairie for the duration of the trip, with barely a tree or foothill to block the wind.
Dr. Dunbar looked around the table, just as he had on Thanksgiving Day, after the deputy told him there’d been a shooting and he had to decide whether to join the search party or wait for the victim to be brought to him. The only difference was that now Louisa Lindahl was sitting with the family. And it was upon her that the doctor fixed his gaze. “I’m leaving right away. I hate like hell to ask this, but I need someone to ride along to monitor his condition. Louisa, would you be willing?”
It was all I could do not to jump to my feet and shout No! He couldn’t ask someone else to do what Johnny and I had been trained to do! We were the doctor’s boys—how could he forget that?
Louisa didn’t say a word. But she stood immediately—the good soldier ready to do her duty. The only thing missing was a salute.
“Good. Thank you,” said the doctor. “Alice, Mrs. McDonough will take you and the kids home. Louisa,