American Boy - Larry Watson [6]
3.
UPON RETURNING TO THE DUNBAR HOUSE, our senses were immediately assaulted. Though the meal had been prepared hours earlier, the aroma of stuffed turkey and pumpkin pie lingered, as inseparable from the house as its warmth from fire and furnace. Then Janet came bounding toward us shouting, “She’s here! She’s here!”
“Who’s here?” Johnny asked.
“The shot girl!”
Julia ran into the room just in time to correct her sister. “The girl who got shot!”
Mrs. Dunbar hurried close behind, trying to quiet the girls. But their excitement had them bouncing in place.
“Mom?” said Johnny, “what are they talking about?”
Mrs. Dunbar put her finger to her lips, as if to indicate that even his question was too loud. “They brought her here shortly after you left,” she whispered.
Johnny and I looked at each other, trying to comprehend what we’d just been told. It felt almost as if we were the victims of a practical joke.
The snow we’d stamped from our boots hadn’t even melted when Dr. Dunbar entered the room. “Well boys, sorry if your search was for naught.” He was still wearing the vest and tie he’d had on at the dining room table, but he’d exchanged his suit coat for a white lab coat.
“She’s here?” Johnny asked again.
“She is indeed.”
“How is she?” I asked. “Is she ... ?”
“She’s seen better days, I promise you that. But all in all, she’s faring pretty well.” He was smoking a cigarette, but he’d only taken a couple drags. He handed it now to Mrs. Dunbar, who smoked Chesterfields as did the doctor, but she held the cigarette as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “In fact,” he added, “I should probably get back in there. She’ll be coming around soon.”
As he turned to walk back through the house to the clinic, something came over me. I don’t really remember deciding to follow the doctor, but follow I did, as surely as if I’d been invited.
Johnny trailed along as well, but to this day I believe he was following me and not his father.
Dr. Dunbar had not gone far before he realized he was being shadowed. He slowed and looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”
Mrs. Dunbar had also joined our little entourage, but all of us stopped now, and we stood in a small, dimly lit parlor. Back in the bright foyer, the twins were still spinning with excitement.
“What is it?” the doctor asked. I had no doubt that his question was directed to me.
I had no reply.
“Would you like to see the patient?”
Of course I wanted to see the patient, but Dr. Dunbar knew this about me before I knew it myself.
“Oh, Rex,” said Mrs. Dunbar, “do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Let’s leave it up to them. If they’d rather not, that’s just fine as well.” He turned to us. “Well?”
I was instantly ready to say yes, but I knew Johnny had to answer first.
“Is she ... okay?” he asked.
Dr. Dunbar reached inside the sleeve of his white coat and readjusted a cuff link. “She is now,” he said succinctly. “Or will be soon enough.”
“All right,” said Johnny, looking at me. “Sure.” Apprehension flickered in his eyes. He might have hoped I’d say that I wasn’t interested, but there was no chance of that.
“Very well then,” Dr. Dunbar said. “Let’s see if I can teach you something about the treatment of bullet wounds.”
As odd as this situation might seem, there was reason and precedent behind it. Both Johnny and I had expressed an interest in medicine as a career. Dr. Dunbar hadn’t prodded us in that direction, but since he made every endeavor—from casting a spinner into the river to manipulating a dislocated shoulder back into joint—look enticing, it was hardly surprising that we were drawn to his profession. Medicine might not have had as strong an appeal for Johnny