The doctor took Julie in his old Ford car, along the Easter road out to
the Chapins.
She sat beside him very relaxed and still, her hands lying loosely in
her lap. Her eyes were rested and refreshed by the September scenery;
by the tawny hills, black cloud-shadows blowing over them down into
the hollows and racing up the ridges, turning their colors dark for
a moment, and then giving them back to the sun; by the weathered
rail-fences on either side, with red blackberry leaves, asters, and
goldenrod snuggled against them; and by silver fluffs of milkweed pods
that the sun had ripened and burst, and that now the wind was tossing
to pieces to bear each little winged seed away on an adventure of life
of its own.
The Easter road, white and dusty, led away in front of them, with
the mountains towering up on either side and above, the endless sky
bridging it over.
There was still that wide sense of immensity and peace upon Julie, of
freedom, and of return, and the knowledge, also, that Tim had come into
the same deep serenity.
“I’ve come home, I’ve come home”--the words went on saying themselves
over in her mind.
Once, unconsciously, she spoke them half out-loud. “I’ve come home.”
The old doctor looked down at her. He did not seem surprised. “Home’s a
good place to be,” he said.
“It’s where I belong,” she replied.
He nodded, “Yes,” again, his old brown hands on the wheel, turning it
deftly to avoid a sudden hump, his eyes upon the road ahead. Old Doc’
Franklin, riding the roads of Stag County from horseback and saddlebag
days down to gasolene and Ford cars. Old Doc’ Franklin, riding the
roads of life down at the heart of the world; present in the great
moments of existence, in the agony of birth, in the hour of death; sent
for in haste and terror in the catastrophe of pain; forgotten in the
times of health. Old Doc’ Franklin--you don’t fool him and you don’t
shock him. Tolerant, elemental, undeceived, and faithful; familiar
alike with the ravings of delirium tremens and with the prayers of
dying saints; as uncritical of both as life itself, or the showers of
God--old Doc’ Franklin. He hadn’t made the world--not he. Why should he
judge or condemn? He helped people into life if they wished to come,
and he helped them out again when they had to go; but how they behaved
while here was none of his business. His job was to meet each need
that the day presented, patient, forbearing, pitiful, mending where he
could. Old Doc’ Franklin--gnarled, and weathered, and lined, like an
apple tree on a bleak hillside; but sound and deep-rooted still.
Sitting beside him in his mud-splashed car, with the mountains on
either side, the sky above, and the road before them, Julie was almost
as simple, direct, and deep-rooted now as he was himself. Ahead, along
the Easter road, the Chapin man was dead, the mother and the son
desperately ill. Sorrow and disaster awaited them: suffering people and
a distracted house. Here was something that they might do, work for
them down at the heart of the world, work for them that was natural,
sincere, and pitiful.
The doctor glanced down from time to time at Julie, looking at her
clear quiet profile. Once he asked, “What became of little Bixby?”
She turned her still eyes upon him and answered simply, “They arrested
him for not answering his draft call. He was just fixing to give
himself up; they came before he could; but he’s all right.”
“All right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she nodded. “Things can’t get at him now like they used to. They
can’t touch him now--he’s safe, he’s found himself, he’s out in the
deep channel like I am.”
A little later, the doctor brought his car to a standstill before the
Chapins’ dooryard. The log-house, small and weathered, looked peaceful
enough on the outside, with the September sun flowing over it, a white
chicken or two walking its grass, and little borders of late flowers
running down to the gate; but inside human beings were at grips with
death.
Old Doc’ Franklin, long and awkward and loose-jointed, a little
tired-looking about the eyes, but still going, picked up his worn bag
and swung himself out.
“Come on, Julie,” he said, “here’s our job.”
Was it the old doctor, or was it life itself, holding out a hand to
Julie Rose, there at the end of the Easter road?
Printed by McGrath-Sherrill Press, Boston
Bound by Boston Bookbinding Co., Cambridge