Thomas Wolfe: Of Time and the River, You Can't Go Home Again & Look Homeward, Angel. Thomas Wolfe
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out. She had on her hat. She was ready to depart.
“Do you want to see the doctor?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Ben, “is he busy?”
“Come on in, Ben,” said Coker, coming to the door. He took his long wet cigar from his mouth, grinning yellowly. “That’s all for today, Laura. You can go.”
“Good-bye,” said Miss Laura Ray, departing.
Ben went into Coker’s office. Coker closed the door and sat down at his untidy desk.
“You’ll be more comfortable if you lie down on that table,” he said grinning.
Ben gave the doctor’s table a look of nausea.
“How many have died on that thing?” he asked. He sat down nervously in a chair by the desk, and lighted a cigarette, holding the flame to the charred end of cigar Coker thrust forward.
“Well, what can I do for you, son?” he asked.
“I’m tired of pushing daisies here,” said Ben. “I want to push them somewhere else.”
“What do you mean, Ben?”
“I suppose you’ve heard, Coker,” said Ben quietly and insultingly, “that there’s a war going on in Europe. That is, if you’ve learned to read the papers.”
“No, I hadn’t heard about it, son,” said Coker, puffing slowly and deeply. “I read a paper — the one that comes out in the morning. I suppose they haven’t got the news yet.” He grinned maliciously. “What do you want, Ben?”
“I’m thinking of going to Canada and enlisting,” said Ben. “I want you to tell me if I can get in.”
Coker was silent a moment. He took the long chewed weed from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully.
“What do you want to do that for, Ben?” he said.
Ben got up suddenly, and went to the window. He cast his cigarette away into the court. It struck the cement well with a small dry plop. When he turned around, his sallow face had gone white and passionate.
“In Christ’s name, Coker,” he said, “what’s it all about? Are you able to tell me? What in heaven’s name are we here for? You’re a doctor — you ought to know something.”
Coker continued to look at his cigar. It had gone out again.
“Why?” he said deliberately. “Why should I know anything?”
“Where do we come from? Where do we go to? What are we here for? What the hell is it all about?” Ben cried out furiously in a rising voice. He turned bitterly, accusingly, on the older man. “For God’s sake, speak up, Coker. Don’t sit there like a damned tailor’s dummy. Say something, won’t you?”
“What do you want me to say?” said Coker. “What am I? a mindreader? A spiritualist? I’m your physician, not your priest. I’ve seen them born, and I’ve seen them die. What happens to them before or after, I can’t say.”
“Damn that!” said Ben. “What happens to them in between?”
“You’re as great an authority on that as I am, Ben,” said Coker. “What you want, son, is not a doctor, but a prophet.”
“They come to you when they’re sick, don’t they?” said Ben. “They all want to get well, don’t they? You do your best to cure them, don’t you?”
“No,” said Coker. “Not always. But I’ll grant that I’m supposed to. What of it?”
“You must all think that it’s about something,” said Ben, “or you wouldn’t do it!”
“A man must live, mustn’t he?” said Coker with a grin.
“That’s what I’m asking you, Coker. Why must he?”
“Why,” said Coker, “in order to work nine hours a day in a newspaper office, sleep nine hours, and enjoy the other six in washing, shaving, dressing, eating at the Greasy Spoon, loafing in front of Wood’s, and occasionally taking the Merry Widow to see Francis X. Bushman. Isn’t that reason enough for any man? If a man’s hard-working and decent, and invests his money in the Building and Loan every week, instead of squandering it on cigarettes, coca-cola, and Kuppenheimer clothes, he may own a little home some day.” Coker’s voice sank to a hush of reverence. “He may even have his own car, Ben. Think of that! He can get in it, and ride, and ride, and ride. He can ride all over these damned mountains. He can be very, very happy. He can take exercise regularly in the Y. M. C. A. and think only clean thoughts. He can marry a good pure woman and have any number of fine sons and daughters, all of whom may be brought up in the Baptist, Methodist, or Presbyterian faiths, and given splendid courses in Economics, Commercial Law, and the Fine Arts, at the State university. There’s plenty to live for, Ben. There’s something to keep you busy every moment.”
“You’re a great wit, Coker,” Ben said, scowling. “You’re as funny as a crutch.” He straightened his humped shoulders self-consciously, and filled his lungs with air.
“Well, what about it?” he asked, with a nervous grin. “Am I fit to go?”
“Let’s see,” said Coker deliberately, beginning to look him over. “Feet — pigeon-toed, but good arch.” He looked at Ben’s tan leathers closely.
“What’s the matter, Coker?” said Ben. “Do you need your toes to shoot a gun with?”
“How’re your teeth, son?”
Ben drew back his thin lips and showed two rows of hard white grinders. At the same moment, casually, swiftly, Coker prodded him with a strong yellow finger in the solar plexis. His distended chest collapsed; he bent over, laughing, and coughed dryly. Coker turned away to his desk and picked up his cigar.
“What’s the matter, Coker?” said Ben. “What’s the idea?”
“That’s all, son. I’m through with you,” said Coker.
“Well, what about it?” said Ben nervously.
“What about what?”
“Am I all right?”
“Certainly you’re all right,” said Coker. He turned with burning match. “Who said you weren’t all right?”
Ben stared at him, scowling, with fear-bright eyes.
“Quit your kidding, Coker,” he said. “I’m three times seven, you know. Am I fit to go?”
“What’s the rush?” said Coker. “The war’s not over yet. We may get into it before long. Why not wait a bit?”
“That means I’m not fit,” said Ben. “What’s the matter with me, Coker?”
“Nothing,” said Coker carefully. “You’re a bit thin. A little run down, aren’t you, Ben? You need a little meat on those bones, son. You can’t sit on a stool at the Greasy Spoon, with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and get fat.”
“Am I all right or not, Coker?”
Coker’s long death’s-head widened in a yellow grin.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re all right, Ben. You’re one of the most all right people I know.”
Ben read the true answer in Coker’s veined and weary eyes. His own were sick with fear. But he said bitingly:
“Thanks, Coker. You’re a lot of help. I appreciate what you’ve done a lot. As a doctor, you’re a fine first baseman.”
Coker grinned. Ben left the office.
As he went out on the street he met Harry Tugman going down to the paper office.
“What’s the matter, Ben?” said Harry Tugman. “Feeling sick?”