“You reckon to practice medicine up there, Forrest?”
“I’ll maybe try it.”
The brothers held on to each other’s hands for a moment; the two youngest children came up to say good-by. Rose stood in the back-ground in an old blue dress—she had no money to wear black for her eldest son.
“Good-by, Rose,” said the doctor.
“Good-by,” she responded, and then added in a dead voice, “Good luck to you, Forrest.”
For a moment he was tempted to say something conciliatory, but he saw it was no use. He was up against the maternal instinct, the same force that had sent little Helen through the storm with her injured cat.
At the station he bought a one-way ticket to Montgomery. The village was drab under the sky of a retarded spring, and as the train pulled out, it was odd to think that six months ago it had seemed to him as good a place as any other.
He was alone in the white section of the day coach; presently he felt for a bottle on his hip and drew it forth. “After all, a man of forty-five is entitled to more artificial courage when he starts over again.” He began thinking of Helen. “She hasn’t got any kin. I guess she’s my little girl now.”
He patted the bottle, then looked down at it as if in surprise.
“Well, we’ll have to put you aside for a while, old friend. Any cat that’s worth all that trouble and care is going to need a lot of grade-B milk.”
He settled down in his seat, looking out the window. In his memory of the terrible week the winds still sailed about him, came in as draughts through the corridor of the car—winds of the world—cyclones, hurricanes, tornadoes—gray and black, expected or unforeseen, some from the sky, some from the caves of hell.
But he would not let them touch Helen again—if he could help it.
He dozed momentarily, but a haunting dream woke him:“Daddy stood over me and I stood over kitty.”
“All right, Helen,” he said aloud, for he often talked to himself, “I guess the old brig can keep afloat a little longer—in any wind.”
