The Final Diagnosis

Twenty-one

In the pathology office the telephone bell jangled sharply and Pearson reached out for the receiver. Then, his face pale, nervousness showing, he stopped. He said to Coleman, “You take it.”

As David Coleman crossed the room there was a second impatient ring. A moment later he was saying, “Dr. Coleman speaking.” He listened, expressionless, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

His eyes met Pearson’s. He said quietly, “The baby just died.”

The other man said nothing. His eyes dropped. Slouched in the office chair, the lined, craggy face half in shadow, his body motionless, he seemed aged and defeated.

Coleman said softly, “I think I’ll go to the lab. Someone should talk with John.”

There was no answer. As Coleman left the pathology office, Pearson was still sitting, silent and unmoving, his eyes unseeing, his thoughts known only to himself.

Carl Ba

There was a silence, then, still without turning, Alexander asked softly, “It’s . . . over?”

Without answering Coleman reached out his hand. He let it rest on the other’s shoulder.

His voice low, Alexander said, “He died, didn’t he?”

“Yes, John,” Coleman said gently, “he died. I’m sorry.”

He withdrew his hand as Alexander turned slowly. The younger man’s face was strained, the tears streaming. He said, softly but intensely, “Why, Dr. Coleman? Why?”

Groping for words, he tried to answer. “Your baby was premature, John. His chances were not good—even if . . . the other . . . hadn’t happened.”

Looking him directly in the eyes, Alexander said, “But he might have lived.”

This was a moment of truth in which evasion had no place. “Yes,” Coleman said. “He might have lived.”

John Alexander had risen to his feet. His face was close to Coleman’s, his eyes imploring, questioning. “How could it happen . . . in a hospital . . . with doctors?”

“John,” Coleman said, “at this moment I haven’t any answer for you.” He added softly, “At this moment I haven’t any answer for myself.”

Alexander nodded dumbly. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then he said quietly, “Thank you for coming to tell me. I think I’ll go to Elizabeth now.”

Kent O’Do

Joe Pearson was still sitting, exactly as Coleman had left him. He looked up but made no attempt to rise.

Dornberger spoke first. He spoke quietly, without antagonism, as if wanting to set the mood of this meeting as a service to an old friend. He said, “The baby died, Joe. I suppose you heard.”

Pearson said slowly, “Yes. I heard.”

“I’ve told Dr. O’Do

Pearson made a small, helpless gesture with his hands. There was no trace of his old aggressiveness. He said expressionlessly, “It’s all right.”

Matching his tone to Dornberger’s, O’Do

Twice, slowly, Pearson shook his head.

“Joe, if it were just this one thing . . .” O’Do

Pearson looked at O’Do

There was a pause. O’Do

“Yeah.” The word was a whisper as Person nodded dully.

“Of course, you’ll be eligible for pension. It’s only fair after thirty-two years.” O’Do

For the first time since they had come in Pearson’s expression changed. He looked at O’Do

Thirty-two years! O’Do

The administrator had entered hurriedly, not waiting to knock. He looked first at Pearson, then his glance took in Dornberger and O’Do

Before O’Do

O’Do

Tomaselli turned. His expression was serious, his eyes troubled. “Typhoid has been discovered in the hospital,” he a

As Elizabeth looked up the door opened and John came in. He closed the door, then stood for a moment with his back against it.

There was nothing said, only with their eyes—grief, entreaty, and an overwhelming love.

She held out her arms and he came into them.

“Joh