The Pride of Worth

Alex visits Doctor MacKay, then returns to his office to try to tend to his patient. He names the boy Peter after Alex"s father. The boy ignores him.

Chapter Two
The Pride of Worth

George McKay folded his stethoscope and placed it on the desk. An instructor at McGill had told him that the worst patient he could have would be another medical man. Such patients posed a continual test of wills, the patient's professional pride clashing with that of the treating physician. George's instructor had never heard of Alex.
Professional arrogance was not one of Alex's faults. When asked his opinion, he would reply that whatever George thought was right, must be right. Alex would neither argue nor listen. George corrected himself. Alex did listen. He listened with all apparent seriousness. He then went away and did the exact opposite. After eleven months George conceded that the only value of these meetings lay in keeping Alex supplied with pills George ordered from Kingston.
Alex pocketed the small, white paper packet. George closed the desk drawer. The young man
leaned back in his chair. “How's your patient, Alex?”
“Well enough.”
He looked at the old man's reddened eyes. “When did you last have a good night's sleep?”
Alex shrugged as he finished buttoning his waistcoat. “I can't remember. Does it matter?”
“Rebecca's been asking about you. So has Maureen.” George fiddled with the handles of the stethoscope. Every week he asked the same question. “When are you going to tell them?”
Every week he received the same answer. “Soon, lad. Soon.”
“You've been saying soon for ten months. If you don't tell them Alex, I will.”
Every week George made the same threat. Alex always countered with the same argument. “No you won't. You gave your word as a gentleman.”
At this point George would let the matter drop. Not this time, “What about your word?”
Alex smiled. “I'm not a gentleman, George. I don't have one.”
George closed his eyes and counted to five. Never shout at a patient. You cannot bully a patient into good health. “Damn it, Alex. This is not a joke.”
. Alex’s smile faded. “I know. I’ll tell them, lad. I swear.”
“When?”
“You’ll be in Kingston tomorrow. Saturday after that, I’ll come up for supper. I’ll tell them then. You have my word on it.”
“You don’t have a word. Remember.” Afraid of offending the old man George turned to another matter. “What about your patient? You can’t keep him much longer. You know that.”
“He’s no trouble at all. Most of the time, I hardly know that he’s there. He’s as quiet as a lamb.”
“That’s not the point. How much longer are you planning to keep him?”
“He’ll be gone in another week.”
George nodded. “So what have you found out about him?”
“Nothing yet. Ian has promised to keep an eye open for any information but he hasn’t heard anything.”
“The boy hasn’t told you anything about himself?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean by not exactly? Has he or hasn’t he?”
“I haven’t asked him.”
“You haven’t? You do plan to ask him, don’t you?”
“I’m waiting until he’s strong enough.” Sensing the young man’s displeasure Alex decided to be more specific. “I’ll ask him tomorrow. He’ll be well enough by then.”
“Maybe,” George muttered. “But will you?” He pushed himself up out of his chair and began to pace the room. At moments such as these his thoughts and emotions having overwhelmed everything above the waist, would begin to push down into his legs. George, as Maureen would often remark, was a pacer. “Jesus, Alex. You hardly sleep. You eat barely enough to keep a bird alive and you take a child in?”
“I couldn’t leave him in the street.”
“Maybe not but you could have told Ian that you’re not well. It’s called telling the truth, Alex. You might try it sometime. Maureen is right. You have less common sense than a five-year-old. I offered to take him off your hands.
That offer is still there. Please Alex, at least think about it.”
Alex shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll be gone in a few days.” He pulled a small piece of paper from out of his waistcoat pocket. “Could you do me a favour, George, when you’re in Kingston?”
George had grown cautious in agreeing to do Alex favours. “What kind of favour?”
“I came across a couple of words while reading. I’m just curious to know what they mean. They’re in German, I think. Could you find someone to translate them for me?” He handed the scrap of paper to George who struggled through Alex’s crabbed handwriting.
“Ma . . . mamin . . . ”
“Maminka. Someone at the college might know.”
“I’ll ask around.” Relieved at the simplicity of the request George placed the paper in his wallet. “Rebecca wants to know what’s happening to you, Alex.”
Alex knew what was to come. “Aye.”
“She’s not an idiot, Alex.”
“I never said that she was.” The old man’s voice became a bit testy.
“No but you act as if she is. She wants to know why you keep pushing your food around on the plate without eating it.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Just old age; a touch of indigestion.”
“She believed you?”
“I'm a physician. Why shouldn't she believe me?”
“Aye.”
As Alex put on his hat he asked George if he could borrow his microscope for a few days. George placed it in its red walnut travelling case. Alex snuggled it under his arm, thanked him and opened the door. As Alex was leaving, George told him, “I don't enjoy being a liar, Alex.”
“Neither do I, lad.” Alex clapped him on his right shoulder. “I'll tell her in two weeks. I promise you.”
George watched Alex slouch away back up the road towards Anna Cleary's, the red box tucked under his right arm. Lost in thought, Alex did not notice the rut in the road. He tumbled into it almost pitching headfirst into the road. His arms tightened around the box to keep it from falling. George was about to run forward to help him when Alex caught himself. The old man straightened his back and went on his way.
Not far from where George was standing two men observed the small bent figure stumbling across the road. They exchanged nods. Pity about MacTavish, drunk this early in the morning. George's face flamed. He swivelled on his heels and strode back into his office. The street door slammed behind him.
***
Smideti. Stinky. That was what he would call the old man. He would watch him until Stinky made a mistake. When he did that would be the time to escape. The old man had locked the door. The boy thought of dropping out of the window but decided against it. People might see him. Stinky would have someone watching. They always did. In jumping he might break a leg or injure himself in some other way. The best way was the way that he had used before. When Stinky slept he would get control of the door key. In looking through Stinky's chest of drawers he had found a small box where the man kept his money. He had thought of taking it but that would have been the excuse Stinky would use to have him arrested. Once that happened he would never get away. Waiting would be better.
The boy took down a copy of Walter Scott's Ivanoe and carried it to his refuge, the far corner of the room tucked between the bed and a bookshelf, the farthest possible place from Stinky that he could find. He was finishing chapter one when the old man returned. The boy did not look up from his book. Katrina had told him that, unless called upon, one should remain silent.
Alex hung his hat on the peg. He placed the box upon the desk and removed his coat. He poured some water into a mug and then popped two pills into his mouth. He washed them down and t wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Finished he slumped down onto the bed.. As he waited for the pain to ease he looked at the child in the corner.
“Good book,” he asked.
The boy turned a page.
“Are you hungry?” Receiving no answer Alex prepared the child's breakfast, porridge, toast and tea When finished, he placed it on the table.
The boy refused to look at the food. He was hungry but he was not going to let Stinky know that. He would eat but the time of eating would be his choice.
After Alex had cleaned the porridge pot he wondered what he should do next. He could clean up the room or do something about the mess on his desk. Perhaps he could sit in the Royal Arms, see what Joe Morris and his customers where up to but that short visit to George had wrung his energy out of him. Later he would show the boy the microscope. For now he wanted only to rest. Alex lay back on his bed and closed his eyes.
He sensed that the boy would try to slip away. While the boy would have to leave soon his leaving now would not be the wisest thing. In another day or two he could leave but not just yet. Again Alex thought of the microscope. Arousing the child's curiosity might hold him, at least for a while. He tried to remember how the slides were prepared. George had shown him but that had been a long time ago. Alex remembered how awkward he had been in handling the slides. He had always been too clumsy with his hands.
Alex reviewed his conversation with George. He had felt awkward not being able to tell him the child's name. Everyone should have a name. He could not very well go on referring to him as “it.” All previous attempts at asking his name had been snubbed. Perhaps he could be more indirect.
“I'll call you Peter . . . if you like. That was my father's name, Peter MacTavish. He was a fine man, a tailor. My elder brother, he was James. Of course if there's another name that you'd prefer?”
The keys would be in the man's waistcoat pocket. He would wait until Stinky slept, take the keys and go. According to the map in the Gazetteer a large river, the Ottawa, lay somewhere to the north. The river could lead him north or south. Either direction would serve. By the time that they arrived he would be gone. He thought of waiting for the evening. No. Waiting too long had always been the problem in the past. What if Stinky told them that he had stolen something? He would do that anyway. No. He must take the keys and leave while the man was asleep. He would be miles away before Stinky woke. What difference would his lies make then? They always thought that he was so stupid.
What if someone was watching? He would have to risk that. As he gulped down his porridge he watched the old man stir on the bed. Was the man sleeping or just pretending? He put the bowl down on the table and slipped over to the window. He looked outside. Two men stood in front of the store. They would see him if he jumped. He would have to try the door.
Alex's mind kept wandering back to the sounds of the child's screams. What had he been so afraid of? What had sent him running off into the bush wandering for God knows how long. Where had he been going to? Alex had found nothing on him, not even a scrap of paper, just the scar. Someone in the district had to know something about him. He dozed off and then stirred as he felt something groping in his waistcoat pocket. He seized the small hand as it pulled out the keys.
The boy bit the back of the doctor's hand and wrested free. Alex cursed and stumbled to his feet. As Alex lurched towards him, the boy seized a whiskey bottle. Smashing it against the stove, he pointed the broken neck at Alex
“You are s**t,” he screamed. “I am leaving. If you stop me I cut you.”
Alex blinked. Then, puzzled, he leaned down and scooped up the dropped ring of keys. He then slumped back down onto the bed.
The boy edged towards the chest of drawers. He pulled open the bottom drawer. Still watching Alex he drew out his jacket and cloak. He then jammed his feet into his shoes. Holding the broken glass in one hand, watching Alex and tying his shoes all simultaneously was not easy but he did his best.
As Alex sucked at the blood oozing from his wound he considered rushing the boy. He decided against it. Alex was not the rushing kind. Anyway it would prove nothing. The boy would only try again. “Expect to get far do you?”
The boy knew that he would have to be careful. Stinky would never allow him to go. “Give me the key,” he shouted. He waved the glass in the air. “I will cut you.”
Alex wrapped a handkerchief around his hand. “You might get a mile or two before the rain comes.”
The boy glanced at the window. A fringe of grey cloud was just visible behind the dirt streaking the top left windowpane. The boy remembered the mud seeping into his shoes, the pelting rain blinding him, the cold eating into him. He shook himself. Stinky was trying to fool him. “You are lying.”
“Probably.”
Alex picked up the small bucket that sat beside the door. He dipped a rag into the water bucket and wrung it out. Alex knelt and mopped up the spilt alcohol. He finished by draping the wet rag on the windowsill.
Stinky was signalling the two men in the street. The boy yanked the cloth away from the window and threw it onto the floor.
Alex sat at his desk placing himself between the boy and the door. “They do say if you don't like the weather here just wait twenty minutes. You might get something better or worse. It changes fast here. You could be walking down the road about midnight; no shelter, no place to go. The rain starts. What are you going to do?”
The boy waved the doctor's words away with the broken bottle. “Give me the key.” Then he added in an unconvincing tone, “I do not want to hurt you.”
“You're going to have to lad. I'm not giving it to you.” Alex turned and began to open the box that held the microscope.
The boy knew what he should do. Cut him. Slash him with the glass. Grab the keys and run. He also knew that it would not work. Even if he could get past Stinky the others waited outside. It was over. The boy slid down until he crouched against the bottom of the wall. Stinky had ceased to exist. None of them mattered. He turned the glass over in his hand pointing the sharp edge at the scar on his left wrist. The broken glass pricked his skin. He remembered standing in the rain outside the hotel. That one time he had known what it was like to be free before the cold and hunger came. He had tried. He had failed. Failure deserved punishment. The boy pressed the glass deeper into his skin.
Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Why not ask?”
The boy's eyes flickered. He looked at the man to see the ring of keys dangling from his hand.
“You just have to ask.,” said Alex. “A man appreciates being asked. It shows consideration.”
About to spit out a curse the boy hesitated. What did the man what? Did it matter? He needed the key. “May I have the key? Please.”
With a soft thunk the keys landed at his feet.
“I keep no prisoners here,” said Alex slumping back down into his seat.
The boy lunged forward and snapped up the keys. As he fingered them he asked himself what Stinky was doing. He was trying to trap him but how? To get him outside, that was how. Once he did, those two men would be waiting for him. He glanced out the window. The two men were gone. They must have seen Stinky's signal. They would be waiting outside the door. He had been right about them. Stinky thought he had been so clever. S****y b*****d.
Alex removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “If you're not in such a hurry you might find a faster way of getting to where ever it is you're going to.”
The boy frowned. He wanted the old man to keep still. He needed to think. Should he tell him to keep his mouth closed? Better perhaps to let him spill out more lies, to know what he wanted. “What?”
“Give yourself a few more days to rest. Weather should be a bit warmer by then. Increase your odds a bit.”
“Odds?”
“Chances . . . Luck.”
“I know luck.”
“Good. If you wait a week it'll help your luck even more.”
“How?” The boy's question bristled with suspicion.
“I'll pay your passage on the steamer north to Ottawa or south to Kingston.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Stinky wanted him to think that he was a friend. Why would anyone want him as a friend? Should he pretend to believe him? He wished that Katrina were here. He had learned one thing. Part of what Stinky said was true. He needed more rest. Since he held the keys he could choose the time to slip away. Tonight, when the old man was asleep he would go. If the rain came back he would wait. “I will stay tonight. I keep the keys.”
“You'll open the door when I have to go out.”
How stupid did Stinky think he was? “No.”
“I see. So I am to be your prisoner?”
“Yes. Until I leave.”
“Bread and water, eh?”
The boy pulled out a book and flung it at him. “You think this is funny,” he screamed.
“No.” Alex picked up the book, his dog-eared copy of Gulliver's Travels. “I just don't think that you've thought this through. Guarding a man is a twenty-four hour job. Are you planning to give up your sleep?”
The boy shrugged. He would not stay long. Once the man fell asleep he could slip away
“A couple of other problems. We're almost out of food. Are you going to do the shopping?”
“We have enough.”
“Then there's the other problem.”
“What?”
“Call of nature lad. The privy's outside. You won't enjoy watching an old man grunting over the pot. It's not very elevating.”
Let the old man s**t himself. What did he care? Even so he had made a mistake. He frowned but said nothing.
“Then there's another problem.”
“You have too many problems.”
“True but they all have to be considered to make this work. Now what if company comes? Will you be making prisoners of them as well?”
“You will send them away.”
“I could but that looks a wee bit suspicious. You have to remember appearances, lad.”
“Appear . . .?”
“Appearances. The way things seem. If it doesn't look as if I'm a prisoner people won't suspect anything. You don't want the whole town thinking that I'm being held against my will, do you?”
“So I let you go?” He knew the old man was trying to fool him.
“No. Let them come in. If nothing looks wrong people won't suspect anything. Appearances, lad. It's all very simple, really. Don't you think so?”
He explained to the puzzled child that if company came, it would not stay long. He admitted that he was expecting one visitor. Putting up with him would be less suspicious than turning him away. The visitor would leave believing that nothing was wrong. Refusal to admit him might make the visitor suspicious. “You wouldn't want that.”
Instead of answering the boy pulled out another book and crouching beneath the window hid his face behind the volume. As he stared at the pages he considered old Stinky's words. The man seemed as anxious as he did to deceive visitors. Was that another trap being set? Whatever it meant he would go along as long as Stinky did nothing to threaten him. Stinky could neither leave nor call for help without being cut by the glass. For now that would serve.
Alex busied himself with adjusting the microscope and preparing slides using a drop of water and a smear of his own spit. He hoped that the microscope might attract the boy's attention. The hope grounded upon the child's refusal to move beyond the shelter of his book. As morning passed into afternoon Alex began to prepare lunch. Anna had given him an apple tart. He set that beside the boy. The boy, once he knew that the old man was not looking, took the tart.
***
Every Friday after evening mass at the Church of the Sacred Heart Father Liam Byrne would visit Alex. Contrary to the mutterings of the local Orangemen, the priest’s reason for calling was not religious. Father Byrne brought neither bible nor missal. Instead he carried a set of chessmen and a home-crafted chessboard. Father Byrne and Alex had been duelling over the chessboard for the eight years since the priest had come to Kilmarnock. After a quick supper the priest would spend a couple of hours with Alex, playing, sipping tea and chatting about the district’s affairs.
Alex had confessed to him that he was not a very good player. He had learned the game while a prisoner of the French. After returning to Scotland he had no time for it and no one to play with. James had always considered the game to be a waste of time. Jean, James’ wife had tried learning it to please Alex. Only when settlers began to arrive in larger numbers had he found a few other players. Alex always claimed that if he had been more dedicated he might have improved. Perseverance he would note had never been one of his strong points.
On the average Father Byrne beat Alex three out of every four games. The priest favoured a strong offensive pinning Alex into a corner and stripping him of his ability to manoeuver. Sometimes carried away by overconfidence he would try for a sudden lunge. He prayed to have the strength to resist the temptation. He had lost too many important pieces in the past. By temperament Alex played a defensive game. As his opponent romped over the board he would remain almost stationary content to concentrate on building walls. When he sensed a weakness in his opponent’s advance he would lash out with a knight or a bishop. The strategy usually failed but it did work enough to force the priest to keep alert.
Father Byrne had heard of Alex's patient. The doctor had asked him if one of his parishioners might know of a missing child. Father Byrne had written to Bishop Phelan in Kingston about the case but the bishop had not yet replied. Father Byrne was therefore not too surprised to find Alex's door being opened by a child. What did surprise him was the boy's reaction. The boy looked up with a sullen glare at the black cassock, white collar, round clerical hat and at the twenty-eight year old priest's youthful smile. He paled and slammed the door shut in Father Byrne's face.
The priest wondered if he should return at a better time. He heard Alex murmuring something about appearances. The boy replied with what Father Byrne hoped, was not an obscenity. He then heard the key being placed back into the lock. The door opened just wide enough to allow him to squeeze through. Once the priest had stepped inside the boy closed and locked the door.
“Evening, Alex.” As the priest hung his hat he heard feet scuttling away from him. He turned to see the boy retreating into the farthest corner of the room, the ring of keys in his hand.
Alex finished moving the chair and table next to his large chair. The priest noticing the cloth wrapped around his right hand asked him what had happened.
“Scalded myself. Nothing serious. Take your seat, father.”
The visit was a quiet one. They played one game that Father Byrne won handily. He could see that Alex's heart was not in the game. The man slumped in his chair a shrunken, bent figure. To add to the priest's discomfort two small brown eyes kept staring at him from out of the corner. They would duck behind a book whenever the priest looked towards them.
Father Byrne hoped that Alex would mention something about the boy. The old man said little about anything that evening. Between the boy's staring and the old man's exhaustion the priest lacked the heart to ask. After the game ended he excused himself pleading a long ride in the morning to visit sick parishioners. Normally Alex would have asked about the nature of the illness but tonight he merely gave a tired nod. As Father Byrne left he decided to tell Rebecca Cleary after Sunday mass that Alex was ill.
The boy locked the door. Alex remained slumped in his chair his head resting upon his right shoulder. Having glanced at the old man to check that all was safe the boy placed the broken neck of the whiskey bottle under the pillow and settled under the blanket. Once the old man was asleep he would slip away. Stinky had only been lying about the rain. True he had not cried out for help nor had he tried to grab the keys. The broken glass kept Stinky from trying anything. Stupid coward. Anyway, tomorrow the old man and the priest would be far away and forgotten.
Above him rain thudded against the roof. He could wait another night, to help his luck. The boy was still wondering where to go when he tumbled into sleep.
Alex removed the broken glass from under the boy's pillow. The child might roll on it and cut himself. He placed it on the washstand. Alex thought of tossing it but the boy would only break another bottle. Alex dropped back down into his chair. He was nodding off when the murmuring began. Alex rose and shuffled over to where the boy lay. As he had done the night before, he held the child. Racked by screams, the boy pounded him with his fists. Long after he quieted, Alex continued to rock him, whispering to him that there was nothing to fear.
After he had finished pulling the blankets over the boy, Alex returned to his chair. The boy would sleep until the morning. He tried to do the same but sleep would not come. Feeling cold he went over to the stove. He opened the grill, poked at the embers and tossed in a stick. Alex then lit the lamp. If he could not sleep, at least he could read. He went to the chest. Opening it he drew out an envelope and took it back to his chair. Once seated, he pulled out a bunch of letters from inside the envelope. As Kilmarnock slept, Alex read through the night.
The boy stirred in his sleep. He opened his eyes to see the doctor shirtless, washing himself. Water trickled over scarred ridges of thick gray scar tissue crisscrossing his back Alex, noticing the boy staring, reached for a towel. “You never saw an ugly man before?”
The boy frowned.
Alex pulled on his shirt. “Ugly … bad to look at, to see.” He glanced towards his back. “That? An ccident. A long time ago. Go back to sleep.”
Peter reached under his pillow to find the comforting feel of the keys. He then groped for the broken glass. Around the jagged shard a dirty checkered handkerchief had been wrapped.
Alex shrugged. “I thought you might hurt yourself. Should be safe enough now.”
The boy stared at the kerchief. He felt it not trusting that the man had returned the glass. Feeling feeling its hardness under the cloth he shoved it under his pillow. Not knowing what else to do the boy pulled the blankets up over his head and twisted away from the doctor.
Alex returned to his chair. The boy would sleep until the morning. He tried to do the same but sleep would not come. Feeling cold he went over to the stove. He opened the grill, poked at the embers and tossed in a stick. Alex then lit the lamp. If he could not sleep, at least he could read. Going over to the bed, he leaned over the sleeping boy. The child was in a deep sleep. Alex slipped his right hand under the boy’s pillow and drew out the keys. He went to the chest. Opening it he drew out an envelope and took it back to his chair. Once seated, he pulled out a bunch of letters from inside the envelope. As Kilmarnock slept, Alex read through the night.
Towards the morning the doctor dozed off. A familiar throbbing pain in the abdomen woke him. Opening his eyes he saw the cold light of a grey dawn. The old man rose from the chair, stretched and rubbed the stiffness out of his limbs. He returned the envelope to the chest, careful to lock it. He then put on his overcoat. His right hand dug into a pocket and drew out the paper packet he had received from George. Alex swallowed two pills. Picking up the bucket, he unlocked the door and stepped outside.

Alex Amazon Press

Author's Note

Canadian English