Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

She showed him her right hand. The skin across the knuckles was rough and red. When he rubbed his thumb over it, it felt dry and scaly.

“Looks like eczema,” he said. “We’ll try some ointment on it.”

“I worked in the garden after I noticed it,” she said. “I don’t suppose that did it any good.”

“Probably no harm, either. How’s the garden doing?”

“Couldn’t be better. You should see my peas, and I am trying a new kind of tomato. You and Harriet drop over some evening and have a look at it. It’s been a long time since the four of us have gotten together.”

“That’s part of being a doctor,” Benton said. “You think you have an evening and then something happens. You never can be sure.”

“You work too hard.”

“All of us do,” he told her. “We get involved. What we do assumes a great importance. Your garden, for example.”

She said, seriously, “My garden goes me a lot of good. As you know, I’m not a fancy gardener. I’m a dirt gardener. I don’t wear gloves. I get down in there with my hands. I like the feel of soil. It’s so warm and it has such a nice texture. It has the feel of life to it. It plays hell with my hands, of course; but there’s something so elemental in it that I can’t resist. Herb, of course, thinks that I’m crazy.”

Benton chuckled. “Herb’s no gardener.”

“He pokes gentle fun at me. He’s a golfer at heart. But I don’t make fun of his golf. I don’t think it’s fair.”

“How’s his golf this year? I remember he was bragging last year that he had improved.”

Helen Anderson frowned. “He isn’t playing as much this year. Not as much as he used to.”

“Maybe he’s busy. This is a bad year for business. Inflation and tight money and—”

“No, it isn’t that,” she said. “Doc, I’m worried about Herb. He seems to be tired all the time. He has to be really tired not to play golf. Does a lot of eating between meals. He’s gaining weight. Grumpy, too. Some days he’s so grumpy I’m glad to see him go to work. I’ve told him to come and see you.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” said Benton. “Maybe he’s working too hard. Why don’t you try to get him to take a couple of weeks off and the two of you go on vacation? A rest would do him good.”

“It’s more than just tiredness,” she continued. “I am sure of that. He’s tired, of course, but there’s something more than that. Doc, won’t you talk with him?”

“I can’t go out soliciting business. You know that.”

“But as a friend …”

“I can tell him you’re worried about him. I can lean on him a little.”

“If you would,” she suggested.

“Sure I will,” said Benton. “But don’t you go worrying yourself sick. It’s probably nothing.”

He wrote her a prescription and she left, extracting a promise he’d drop by soon to have a look at the garden.

The next patient was Ezra Pike. Ezra was a farmer south of town, seventy years old, still working his farm with only occasional help.

He had hand trouble, too. He had a nasty gash across the knuckles.

“The baler broke down,” he explained, “and I was fixing it. The wrench slipped.”

“We’ll get that hand cleaned up,” Benton said. “In a day or two it’ll be like new. Don’t see you often, Ezra. You or Mrs. Pike. I’d starve to death if everyone was like the two of you.”

“Never did get sick much. Neither one of us. The boys, neither. We are a healthy family.”

“How are the boys these days? I haven’t seen them for ages.”

“Dave, he’s down in Pittsburgh. Working in a bank. Investments. Ernie is a teacher over in Ohio. School’s out now, and he’s running a boy’s camp up in Michigan. We’re real proud of our boys, both of them.”

“How are the crops?” Benton asked.

“Good enough,” said Pike. “Some trouble with bugs. Never used to have that kind of trouble, but it’s different now. No DDT, you know. They up and banned the stuff. Was poisoning everything, they said. Maybe so, but it made farming easier.”

Benton finished with the bandaging. “There, that’s it,” he said. “Keep watch of that hand. If it hurts a lot or gets red and puffy, come in to see me.”

Pike got spryly from the chair. “Got a good crop of pheasants waiting for you. Soon as the season opens, we’ll be looking for you.”

“I’ll be out,” said Benton. “Always have, you know. It’s been a long time, Ezra, I’ve been hunting on your land.”

“You’re welcome any time,” Pike said. “But there ain’t no need to tell you. I take it that you know.”

Nurse Amy appeared as soon as Pike had left. “Mrs. Lewis is here,” she said. “She has Danny with her. Someone bounced a rock off him. She is frothing mad.”

Danny, who by all odds could be classified as the meanest kid in town, had a goose egg on his head. The rock had broken the skin and there was some blood, but an X-ray showed no fracture.

“Just wait,” his mother raged, “until I get my hands on the kid who threw that rock. Here Danny was doing nothing, just walking down the street …”

She went on and on, but Benton got her quieted down and the two of them finally left.

After that came Mary Hansen, with her arthritis; Ben Lindsay, in for a post-coronary check; Betty Davidson, with a sore throat; Joe Adams, with a lame back; Jenny Duncan, who was going to have twins and was twittery about it.

The last patient of the day was Burt Curtis, an insurance man.

“Goddamn it, Doc,” he said, “I feel all beat out. Sure, a man expects to be tired after a long day’s work, but I get tired in the middle of the morning. By ten o’clock, I am all pooped out.”

“It’s sitting at that desk,” said Benton, kidding him, “lifting all those heavy pencils.”

“I know, I know. You don’t have to rub it in. I’ve never done an honest day’s work in all my life. Selling insurance isn’t something you can classify as labor. The funny thing is that I feel as if I were building roads. Muscles get sore and achy.”

“Hungry, too?” Benton asked.

“Funny you should say that. I’m hungry all the time. Keep stuffing my gut. A lot of snacking. Never used to do that. Three squares were all I needed.”

“Even-tempered, I suppose.”

“What the hell, Doc! I come in to tell you I get tired and you ask about my temper.”

“Well, are you? Even-tempered, I mean.”

“Hell, no. I’m all out of sorts. No patience. Let one little thing go wrong and I start storming. No way for a businessman to act. Keep on like that, and you get a reputation. Adele says I get harder to live with every day.”

“How about your weight?”

“Seems to me I’m getting heavier.” Curtis patted his gut. “Had to let out my belt one notch.”

“We’ll get you on the scales and see,” said Benton. “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do: run some tests. Nothing fancy or expensive. We could do them here.”

“You got something in mind, Doc? Something wrong with me. Something really wrong.”

Benton shook his head. “Nothing at all. But I can’t even make a guess until I see some tests. Blood sugar. Things like that.”

“If you say so, Doc,” said Curtis.

“Don’t worry about it, Burt. But when a man comes in and says he’s all tired out and gaining weight and getting downright mean, I have to look into it. That’s my job. That’s how I make my living and keep my patients well.”

“Nothing serious, then?”

“Probably nothing much. Just some little thing that once we know about it, we can get it straightened out. Now, about those tests. When can you come in?”

“Tuesday be all right? Monday I’ll be busy.”