The Centaurus

hands, pressing the palms together, lightly chopping the knuckles of one hand with the edge of the other, “the adversity. He always knew success and never developed the character. So he spreads, you see,” and his white fingers crabbed through the air, “like a cancer. He’s not a man to trust, though he gives the Bible lesson every Sunday up at the Reformed. Tcha. If he was a tumor, George, I’d take a knife”-he shifted his hand and held up his thumb and it did seem very stiff and sharp-”and cut him out.” And his thumb, sickle-shaped backwards with pressure, scooped a curt divot out of the air.

“I appreciate your being frank with me, Doc,” my father said, “but me and those other poor devils up at the high school are stuck with him forever as far as I can see. Three out of four people in this town swear by him-they worship that man.”

“People are foolish,” Doc Appleton said, and lurched forward in his chair so that his feet softly plopped on the carpet. “That’s one thing you learn in the practice of medicine. People are by and large very foolish.” He tapped my father’s knee once, twice, three times before continuing. His voice assumed a confidential wheeze. “Now when I went to medical school down at Penn,” he said, “they thought, you know, a country boy, dumb. After that first year they weren’t saying so dumb any more. It might be I was a little slower than some but I had the character. I took my time and learned the books. When the class graduated, who do you think was at the head? Heh, Peter-you’re a bright boy. Who do you think?”

“You,” I said. I didn’t want to say it but the word was forced from me. That’s how those Olinger bigwigs were.

Doc Appleton looked at me without nodding or smiling or in any way showing that he had heard. Then he looked into my father’s face, nodded, and said, “I wasn’t at the head, but I was up there pretty well. I did all right for a country boy supposed to be dumb. George, have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?” And without warning, in that strange way monologuists have of ending a conversation as if their time has been wasted, he got up and went into his inner sanctum and made tinkling noises out of sight. He returned with a small bottle of cherry-colored fluid that from the way it danced and gleamed seemed more mercurial than liquid. He pressed the bottle into my father’s wart-freckled hand and said, “A tablespoon every three hours. Until we have the X-rays we won’t know any more than we know now. Get rest and don’t think. Without death, now, there couldn’t be life. Health,” he said with a little smiling roll of his lower lip, “is an animal condition. Now most of our ill-health comes from two places-the brain and the back. We made two mistakes; one was to stand up and the other was to start thinking. It strains the spine and the nerves. It makes tension and the brain makes the body.” He angrily strode toward me and roughly pressed my hair back from my forehead and stared intensely at my brow. “You’re not as bad on your scalp as your mother,” he said, and released me. I flattened my hair forward again, humiliated and dazed.

“Do you hear from Skippy?” my father asked. All fierceness and shimmer left the doctor; he became a heavy old man in a vest and fastened shirtsleeves. “He’s on a staff in St. Louis,” he said.

“You’re too modest to say it,” my father told him, “but I bet you’re prouder than hell of him. I know I am; next to my own son he was the best student I ever had and not too much of my thickheadedness seemed to rub off on him, thank God.”

“He has his mother’s graces,” Doc Appleton said after a pause, and a pall had fallen. The waiting-room seemed long deserted and the black leather furniture depressed and dented by the shadows of mourners. Our voices and footsteps felt lost in dust and I felt viewed from thousands of years in the future. My father offered to pay. The doctor waved his dollars aside, saying, “We’ll wait till the end of the story.”

“You’re a straight-shooter and I’m grateful,” my father said.

Outside, in the gnashing, black, brilliantly alive cold, my father said to me, “See, Peter? He didn’t tell me what I want to know. They never do.”

“What happened before I came?”

“He put me through the mill and made an X-ray appointment at Homeopathic in Alton for six o’clock tonight.”

“What does that mean?”

“You never know with Doc Appleton what he means.

That’s how he keeps his reputation.”

“He doesn’t seem to like Zimmerman but I couldn’t make out exactly why.”

“The story there, Peter, is that Zimmerman-I guess you’re old enough to say this to-Zimmerman’s supposed to have made love to Doc Appleton’s wife. It happened if it happened at all before you were born. There was even supposed to be some doubt as to who Skippy’s father was.”

“But where’s Mrs. Appleton now?”

“Nobody knows where she went. She’s either alive or dead.”

“What was her name?”

“Corinna.”

Alive or dead, made love, before you were born-these phrases, each rich with mystery, rendered the night brimming around us terribly deep, and from beyond the far rim like an encircling serpent my father’s death seemed to tighten its coil. The darkness that above the heads of the houses swept past the stars and enclosed them like flecks of mica in an ocean seemed great enough to contain even this most mighty of impossible events. I chased him, his profile pale and grim in streetlight, and like a ghost he kept always a step ahead of me. He put on his cap and my head was cold.

“What are we going to do?” I called after him.

“We’ll drive into Alton,” he said. “I’ll get my X-ray at

the Homeopathic and then I’ll go across the street to the

Y.M.C.A. I want you to go to the movies. Get in where it’s warm and come up to the Y afterwards. That should be about seven-thirty or quarter to eight. The meet should be over by eight. It’s about quarter after five now. Do you have enough money for a hamburg?”

“Sure, I guess. Hey. Daddy. How are your aches and pains?”

“Better, Peter. Don’t worry about me. One nice thing about having a simple mind, you can only think about one pain at a time.”

“There ought to be some way,” I said, “to make you healthy.”

“Kill me,” my father said. The sentence sounded strange, outdoors, in the dark and cold, coming from above, as his face and body hurried forward. “That’s the cure-all,” he said. “Kill me.”

We walked west to where the car had been left on the school parking lot and got into it and drove into Alton. Lights, there were lights on both sides solidly supporting us for the full three miles, except for the void on the right that was the poorhouse corn fields and for the interval in which we crossed the Running Horse River over the bridge where the hitchhiker had seemed to lift into the air on his long-heeled shoes. We cut through the gaudy heart of the city, across Riverside Drive, up Pechawnee Avenue, into Weiser Street and Conrad Weiser Square, up Sixth, across the railroad station parking lot, and down an alley only my father seemed to know about. The alley led us to where the railroad embankment widened into a black shoulder sparkling with cinders, near the Essick’s coughdrop plant, which flooded the whole sinister area with its sickly-sweet fumes. The Essick’s employees used this leftover sloping bit of railroad property as a parking lot, and so my father used it now. We got out. The slams of our doors echoed. The shape of our car sat on its shadow like a frog looking into a mirror. It was alone on the lot. A blue light overhead kept watch like a cold angel.

My father and I parted by the railroad station. He walked left, toward the hospital. I walked on, to Weiser Street, where five movie theatres advertised their shows. The downtown crowds were streaming home. The matinees were dismissed; the stores, their windows proclaiming January White Sales and drifted deep with cotton sheets, were stringing pad locked chains across their doors; the restaurants were in the lull of setting up the tables for dinner; the old men with the soft-pretzel carts draped them with tarpaulins and pushed them away. The