peopleâs suffering. But that had not been enough for my grandfather. A single framed print hung in each examination room. One was of Leonardoâs anatomical sketch of a disembodied human hand, in the other room the Rembrandt now in Billâs office. As a child Iâd found those pictures, as I did Nebo, the source of nightmares. I did not enter the rooms unless coerced. Yet Bill had been drawn here, and when offered the chance to cut and stitch and probe heâd not hesitated. The painting is a reminder of why I can never be complacent , Bill had said about the Rembrandt, but now I wonder if his displaying the print was more an act of nostalgia.
No one in Sylva complained, at least openly, about Billâs involvement, which spoke of Billâs competence but also the respect, and fear, my grandfather had garnered from being the townâs sole doctor for four decades. If patients didnât finish an antibiotic or walked on a sprained ankle, Grandfather berated them, often in public, whether the person was a cashier at the drugstore or Mr. Ashbrook, who owned the bank. If it happened again, Grandfather refused to treat them, forcing a drive of twenty miles to Waynesville. People make choices in life, heâd told us often, and you must acceptthe consequences of those choices. He was on the town council, and there as elsewhere he was deferred to. At election time, local and state politicians vied for his support. In 1961, another doctor opened an office in Sylva, but after six months he had so few patients that he left. People were afraid not to keep going to Grandfather.
Because he knew all their secrets, my mother claimed. He knew which husband had contracted gonorrhea, which daughter needed to visit an aunt for a few months, which mother took Valium. After two, sometimes even three generations of his care, how could any family not have something potentially embarrassing? But now as I look at this boutique that was once my grandfatherâs office, I wonder if small-town doctors derive as much power in those moments they probe, with hands and eyes if not with instruments, the bodyâs most intimate places. How many years afterward might a person, though fully dressed, yet feel that naked vulnerability, that sense of surrender, like a dog exposing its belly to another dog?
Those who hadnât known Grandfather might believe the war experience had made him the way he was. He had certainly suffered physical pain, as the truncatedfingers proved, but trauma caused by fear seemed less likely. Heâd told Bill and me that he never believed for an instant he would die in the war, even when the shrapnel tore into his fingers. Some of us just knew we would live, heâd said. As long as we didnât tempt death, it would leave us alone . Yet he had witnessed many others who suffered and died. Had it changed him? Iâd asked my mother that question the day of his funeral.
âYour grandmother told me that when he was overseas, sheâd prayed that he would not return,â my mother had answered. âThis was soon after your father and I married. Your grandmother wanted to prepare me, I suppose, for whatever he might say or do to me. I donât think he ever physically beat her, your father said not, but your grandmother always seemed to be waiting for that first slap or fist. Iâd see it in her face and in her body, mostly in her eyes. I cannot remember a time when those eyes rose high enough to meet his, Eugene, not once. Her dying may have been the only thing she ever did without your grandfatherâs permission.â But then my mother had paused. âWell, the second thing, which brings up the question of when during the war your grandmother started praying heâd not return. Funny, isnât it?â my mother had mused.âAll these years and Iâve never thought of that before.â
I have several photographs of my grandmother. One is when she is eighteen, at
No one in Sylva complained, at least openly, about Billâs involvement, which spoke of Billâs competence but also the respect, and fear, my grandfather had garnered from being the townâs sole doctor for four decades. If patients didnât finish an antibiotic or walked on a sprained ankle, Grandfather berated them, often in public, whether the person was a cashier at the drugstore or Mr. Ashbrook, who owned the bank. If it happened again, Grandfather refused to treat them, forcing a drive of twenty miles to Waynesville. People make choices in life, heâd told us often, and you must acceptthe consequences of those choices. He was on the town council, and there as elsewhere he was deferred to. At election time, local and state politicians vied for his support. In 1961, another doctor opened an office in Sylva, but after six months he had so few patients that he left. People were afraid not to keep going to Grandfather.
Because he knew all their secrets, my mother claimed. He knew which husband had contracted gonorrhea, which daughter needed to visit an aunt for a few months, which mother took Valium. After two, sometimes even three generations of his care, how could any family not have something potentially embarrassing? But now as I look at this boutique that was once my grandfatherâs office, I wonder if small-town doctors derive as much power in those moments they probe, with hands and eyes if not with instruments, the bodyâs most intimate places. How many years afterward might a person, though fully dressed, yet feel that naked vulnerability, that sense of surrender, like a dog exposing its belly to another dog?
Those who hadnât known Grandfather might believe the war experience had made him the way he was. He had certainly suffered physical pain, as the truncatedfingers proved, but trauma caused by fear seemed less likely. Heâd told Bill and me that he never believed for an instant he would die in the war, even when the shrapnel tore into his fingers. Some of us just knew we would live, heâd said. As long as we didnât tempt death, it would leave us alone . Yet he had witnessed many others who suffered and died. Had it changed him? Iâd asked my mother that question the day of his funeral.
âYour grandmother told me that when he was overseas, sheâd prayed that he would not return,â my mother had answered. âThis was soon after your father and I married. Your grandmother wanted to prepare me, I suppose, for whatever he might say or do to me. I donât think he ever physically beat her, your father said not, but your grandmother always seemed to be waiting for that first slap or fist. Iâd see it in her face and in her body, mostly in her eyes. I cannot remember a time when those eyes rose high enough to meet his, Eugene, not once. Her dying may have been the only thing she ever did without your grandfatherâs permission.â But then my mother had paused. âWell, the second thing, which brings up the question of when during the war your grandmother started praying heâd not return. Funny, isnât it?â my mother had mused.âAll these years and Iâve never thought of that before.â
I have several photographs of my grandmother. One is when she is eighteen, at
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