after him.
“And what have we here?”
The doctor sported blond whiskers down to his chin, and his face was such a bright pink Lemuel couldn’t help staring at it as he led the boy into the consultation room and helped him up onto a table. Stickhammer’s notice had already been drawn to the boy’s mangled limb, and he knelt to examine it, gingerly pulling the worn sleeve away without causing the boy undue pain.
“My helper’s busted his arm.” I myself wouldn’t have brought any medical problem as challenging as the previous patient’s enlarged nose to Stickhammer, but he’d do for setting a broken arm.
The light of day shining through the window of the room showed to better advantage the discolored, traumatized flesh that extended from shoulder to elbow. The arm was scarred with old wounds as well, more or less healed, including what looked like a bad burn at the shoulder, and I hated to think what the rest of him looked like uncovered. “Sweet Christ almighty.” Stickhammer looked up at me. “You didn’t do this to him, did you?”
“Hell, no. His old man did it.”
“He did, eh? How old are you, lad?”
“Eighteen,” Lemuel said after a moment’s thought, surprising the doctor and me both. I’d have taken him for thirteen or so.
“And why’d the old boy find it necessary to crack your arm this way?”
“Got the farts pretty awful and couldn’t quit.”
Stickhammer nodded, as though that were a common cause of such injuries. “All right, let’s get this old shirt off of you, boy.”
At that I turned to leave. “How much to set it, Ernie?”
“Two-fifty,” he said, and, smarting a bit myself, I left two silver dollars and a half on his desk and told the boy to come back over when he was all done. As I descended the frontstaircase I winced at the sound of the boy crying out in pain at the shirt’s removal.
A ROAST CHICKEN was ready when I returned to the studio, and by the time Mrs. Fenster and I had done eating the boy had returned with his newly splinted arm in a canvas sling, the empty sleeve of his ragged shirt hanging, slit in half, at his side.
“Pay you back,” he said as he started eating, though we all knew he couldn’t reasonably do so any time soon.
“You can work it off,” I said. “It’s a good thing he busted the left and not the right.”
He gaped at me, slack-jawed, then down at his arm as though trying to remember what had happened to it, then back up at me. “Can’t work. Arm’s broke.”
“That’s why nature gave you two of them. There’s plenty of one-armed men my age who’ve been working for a living since the war.”
He nodded, not understanding my point but eager to please.
“All right, then, why don’t you start preparing the plates for the one o’clock sitting,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and he started for the darkroom, very slowly.
“Did Stickhammer give you something for that pain?” I asked, suddenly afraid I would have to do all the afternoon’s work myself after all.
“How do you mean?”
“Did he give you a drink to make the hurting stop?”
“Yes, sir,” he said in a somnambulist’s molasses-thick murmur. I should have thought to tell Stickhammer not to dope him up, but I hadn’t, and for my neglect I found myself saddled with a one-armed, opiated imbecile for a helper.
I had to assist him with all his tasks that afternoon, right down to mixing up the collodion, and by day’s end I despaired of his ever relearning the work one-handed. At the end of the day Mrs. Fenster called me aside.
“Where’s the boy to stay tonight?” she asked.
“At home,” I said, seeing no reason he shouldn’t, as long as he wasn’t farting.
“At home with that man what did that to him?” she said. “No thank you, Mr. Sadlaw. Here’s the place for him. I’ll fix him up a bed in the studio and unmake it first thing in the morning. You won’t even know he’s here.”
“Because he won’t be.” I got quite enough
“And what have we here?”
The doctor sported blond whiskers down to his chin, and his face was such a bright pink Lemuel couldn’t help staring at it as he led the boy into the consultation room and helped him up onto a table. Stickhammer’s notice had already been drawn to the boy’s mangled limb, and he knelt to examine it, gingerly pulling the worn sleeve away without causing the boy undue pain.
“My helper’s busted his arm.” I myself wouldn’t have brought any medical problem as challenging as the previous patient’s enlarged nose to Stickhammer, but he’d do for setting a broken arm.
The light of day shining through the window of the room showed to better advantage the discolored, traumatized flesh that extended from shoulder to elbow. The arm was scarred with old wounds as well, more or less healed, including what looked like a bad burn at the shoulder, and I hated to think what the rest of him looked like uncovered. “Sweet Christ almighty.” Stickhammer looked up at me. “You didn’t do this to him, did you?”
“Hell, no. His old man did it.”
“He did, eh? How old are you, lad?”
“Eighteen,” Lemuel said after a moment’s thought, surprising the doctor and me both. I’d have taken him for thirteen or so.
“And why’d the old boy find it necessary to crack your arm this way?”
“Got the farts pretty awful and couldn’t quit.”
Stickhammer nodded, as though that were a common cause of such injuries. “All right, let’s get this old shirt off of you, boy.”
At that I turned to leave. “How much to set it, Ernie?”
“Two-fifty,” he said, and, smarting a bit myself, I left two silver dollars and a half on his desk and told the boy to come back over when he was all done. As I descended the frontstaircase I winced at the sound of the boy crying out in pain at the shirt’s removal.
A ROAST CHICKEN was ready when I returned to the studio, and by the time Mrs. Fenster and I had done eating the boy had returned with his newly splinted arm in a canvas sling, the empty sleeve of his ragged shirt hanging, slit in half, at his side.
“Pay you back,” he said as he started eating, though we all knew he couldn’t reasonably do so any time soon.
“You can work it off,” I said. “It’s a good thing he busted the left and not the right.”
He gaped at me, slack-jawed, then down at his arm as though trying to remember what had happened to it, then back up at me. “Can’t work. Arm’s broke.”
“That’s why nature gave you two of them. There’s plenty of one-armed men my age who’ve been working for a living since the war.”
He nodded, not understanding my point but eager to please.
“All right, then, why don’t you start preparing the plates for the one o’clock sitting,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and he started for the darkroom, very slowly.
“Did Stickhammer give you something for that pain?” I asked, suddenly afraid I would have to do all the afternoon’s work myself after all.
“How do you mean?”
“Did he give you a drink to make the hurting stop?”
“Yes, sir,” he said in a somnambulist’s molasses-thick murmur. I should have thought to tell Stickhammer not to dope him up, but I hadn’t, and for my neglect I found myself saddled with a one-armed, opiated imbecile for a helper.
I had to assist him with all his tasks that afternoon, right down to mixing up the collodion, and by day’s end I despaired of his ever relearning the work one-handed. At the end of the day Mrs. Fenster called me aside.
“Where’s the boy to stay tonight?” she asked.
“At home,” I said, seeing no reason he shouldn’t, as long as he wasn’t farting.
“At home with that man what did that to him?” she said. “No thank you, Mr. Sadlaw. Here’s the place for him. I’ll fix him up a bed in the studio and unmake it first thing in the morning. You won’t even know he’s here.”
“Because he won’t be.” I got quite enough
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