The Hesitant Hero (3 page)

Tyler felt miserable, weak, and shaken as Murphy led him outside and put him into the squad car, where Murphy’s partner was waiting behind the wheel.

When Murphy got in he said to Dan, “Good-lookin’ broad in there. If I get shot, take me to her.”

“Yeah, I’ll do my best to remember that.”

Tyler put his head back and reached up to feel the bandage. Although it was numb at the moment, he knew when the feeling came back it would be sore.

Won’t I ever learn?
he moaned inwardly.
You think a man would get a little sense as he got older, but I never do!

****

Tyler stood beside the bars of the jail as his fellow prisoner, a tall, lanky man named Simms, talked constantly. He paid little attention, but Simms was apparently used to that. “What’d he give you, Winslow?” Simms asked. “The judge, I mean.”

“A fine and a year’s suspended sentence. If I so much as spit on the sidewalk in the next twelve months, that’s it.”

Simms laughed. “Don’t spit, then, would be my advice. That ain’t bad, you know.”

“I know. It could have been a lot worse.”

His attention was caught by the guard who was walking toward his cell. “Come along, Winslow, you’re sprung.”

“Take it easy and don’t spit,” Simms said with a laugh.

As the steel door closed behind Tyler, he vowed,
I’m not coming back to this place.
He hated to be closed in, and as he accompanied the guard down the line of cells, that resolution was the strongest thing on his mind. When he stepped outside, he almost stopped, for he saw Chance standing there—and beside him was Caroline Autry.

Caroline came toward him and hugged him. “Tyler, how awful for you!”

Tyler took her hug, then turned to his brother. “Sorry you got involved in all this, Chance.”

“I didn’t do much. Miss Autry here paid your fine.”

Something in Chance’s face gave his feelings away, and Tyler knew exactly what it was. Chance was a good man but somewhat puritanical—at least for Tyler’s tastes. He was embarrassed that he’d had to be bailed out of his trouble by a woman and said, “I guess you’ll have to tell the folks about this.”

“No I won’t. You tell them if you want to.” Suddenly Chance said, “I’ve got to leave.”

“Your ship leaves when?”

“Tomorrow. This is good-bye.” He turned to Caroline. “Thank you very much for your help, Miss Autry.”

“Well, the whole thing was really my fault, Mr. Winslow.”

Chance shook his head almost imperceptibly and then put out his hand. “Good-bye, Tyler. I’ll be in touch.”

“Good-bye. Tell the folks I’ll . . .” Tyler could not complete the sentence, but added weakly, “Tell them I’ll write soon.”

“I’ll tell them that.” Chance Winslow turned and walked away, his back straight.

“He’s not very pleasant, is he?” Caroline remarked.

“He can be, but he’s right to be sore at me.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Caroline said. “Come on. I’ve got my car here. I’ll take you home.”

She took his arm possessively and led him out to the car. “How’s your head feel?” she asked as she pulled out into traffic.

“Not bad. Could have been worse.”

“When do the stitches come out?”

“Thursday.”

Tyler sat quietly until she pulled up in front of his apartment. “I’m sorry you had to pay the fine,” he said.

“Why, that was nothing.” Caroline leaned over and pulled at him until he turned toward her. “Don’t let this get you down. It’ll all be forgotten. It could have happened to anyone.” She pulled his head toward her and kissed him. “Call me tomorrow.”

Tyler nodded. “I will.” He got out of the car, waved goodbye, and watched her pull away. He turned heavily and made his way into the building. It was a small building with only four units—one of them occupied by the landlady, who kept close tabs on all her tenants.

On the way up the stairs he met his landlady and her eyes flew open. “What happened to you? What’s wrong with your head?”

“Just a little accident, Mrs. Brown. Nothing to worry about.”

Unlocking his door, Tyler stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes fell on the canvas that he had been working on before he had gone out with Caroline. He had thought it was good at the time, but now nothing he did seemed to please him. He stood in front of the canvas and studied the images of children playing in front of a tenement. He turned away in disgust, muttering, “Whatever makes me think I can make it as a painter? I don’t even have enough sense to stay out of brawls with fancy lawyers.”

****

The week following his release from jail was not a pleasant one for Tyler. He had to face up to the fact that he was failing most of his classes at college, and he also had to face the anger of his art teacher. Professor Tibbs was waiting for him when he went into the studio and without preamble began bawling him out.

“So I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” he said sarcastically.

“Sorry, Professor Tibbs. I had a little personal problem.”

The man’s eyes went to the bandage on Tyler’s head. “Did you fall off of a building and split your head?”

“Something like that, sir.”

Tibbs stared at Tyler and then shook his head. “I think you need to change your major.”

“Change my major? Why would I do that?”

“Because whatever it takes to make an artist, you don’t have it,” he said bluntly. “You don’t even try. It takes time and practice, two things you go out of your way to avoid.”

“I’ll try harder, Professor. You’ll see. I can do it.”

“No you can’t. You don’t have any discipline. You always take the easy way out. I’ve seen it in your art, time and time again. Look at this one.” He strode across the studio. He shuffled through some paintings on a table and stopped when
he found the one he was looking for. “Look. There’s your last effort. You know what grade I’m going to put on it?”

“Not very good, I would suppose.”

“An F—total failure. The frustrating thing is you had a good idea here, but you couldn’t finish it.”

Tibbs was referring to a painting of the Brooklyn Bridge. Probably ten thousand paintings had been made of that particular bridge, but Tyler had determined he would find a new perspective, something that hadn’t been done before. He had decided to get down beneath the bridge, looking at the underside of it as it soared into the sky. He had spent the better part of a week trying to make it come alive. He had thought he had something, but then Caroline had come along, and the two had gone out every night and had spent every hour together that he wasn’t actually in class, and he had even cut some of those. The deadline for the painting had come, and he had finished it in a slapdash manner. Now he looked at it and just felt sad. “I thought I had a good idea there,” he said lamely. “It just didn’t work out.”

“
It
didn’t work out! What do you mean
it?
What’s
it?
” Tibbs demanded. “I’ll tell you what didn’t work out,” he said grimly. “
You
didn’t work out, or you just quit. I don’t know what you do in your spare time, but I can tell you you’re wasting your time here.”

The scene with Tibbs was only the beginning of bad news. The dean of academics had left a note in his mailbox instructing Tyler to come to his office, and Tyler wearily made his way across the campus.

Dean Smith started by showing Tyler his grade point average, which was depressing enough. “You’ve just scraped by every year since you’ve been here.” Dean Smith was a tall, spare man with a set of hard eyes and a mouth like a trap. “You’ve been on probation almost constantly. Your departmental chairman tells me that you’re loafing and doing nothing. You’re wasting your money—or I should say your parents’ money.”

“I know I haven’t done well—”

“Done well? You’ve done
nothing!
Mr. Winslow, I suggest you find yourself a job. Evidently the academic world doesn’t suit you.”

“But, Dean Smith—”

“Listen, Tyler. I’m going to give you one more chance. But if you don’t show some real discipline and vast improvement real soon, the next time you’re in my office will be the last. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tyler left the office, sobered by the reality of his situation. He had done a good deal of thinking lately about his financial problems. His parents had always paid his bills, and although he had worked summers to help, he knew it had been a hardship for them. They had never complained, and he had more or less taken their support for granted. Now as he mentally added up his bills and compared the sum to his available funds, he saw that there was little hope he could get by unless a miracle occurred.

****

Tyler began to work harder at his studies, trying to play catch-up, which was difficult. He even admitted to some of his instructors that he had been remiss and would do better. They had all given him a rather doubtful look, which he knew he had earned.

On Thursday afternoon, Tyler was glad it was time to go back to the emergency room to get his stitches out. He had endured the humor of his fellow students about the fight and felt like a fool with the top of his head shaved and crisscrossed with catgut.

The hospital was on the edge of the campus, so it took no time to walk there. He remembered that the medical student’s name who had sewed him up was Jolie. When he asked at the desk, the woman said, “Yes, she’s on duty. Have a seat until you’re called.”

He took a seat in the waiting room and paged through a six-month-old issue of
Collier’s
magazine but found nothing in it that interested him. Finally his name was called, and he followed a nurse down the hall.

He sat on the edge of the bed and the medical student he remembered entered the room. “Do you remember me?” he asked her. “You told me to come back and you’d take these stitches out.”

“Yes. We’ll see how you’re doing.”

She picked up the chart the nurse had hooked to the end of the bed. “Your name is Winslow, is that right?”

“Yes. Tyler Winslow.”

“Tyler? Is that a nickname?”

“No. My mother’s brother was named that. She wanted to keep the name going.”

“Unusual name.”

Tyler studied the young woman as she took some instruments out of a cabinet. He had forgotten how attractive she was. Once again her hair was pulled back into a bun, emphasizing her beautiful blue eyes and incredibly even complexion. When she came closer, he noticed her full name on her name tag: Jolie Vernay. He sat still as she examined his head.

“It looks like it’s healing very well. We can take the stitches out.”

As she began to remove the stitches, Tyler felt her firm grasp and noticed also a faint perfume. “I never went to a woman doctor before.” When she did not answer, he said, “Where I come from we don’t have too many doctors of any kind.”

“And where is that, Mr. Winslow?”

“Africa.”

Jolie leaned back. “Africa?”

“Yes. My parents are missionaries there. I only came here a few years ago to go to school.”

“I’ve often wanted to go to Africa. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance.”

“It’s quite a place,” he said. Then he asked curiously, “You said you’re from France?”

“Yes.”

“Did you come to this country to study medicine?”

“No.”

Tyler waited for her to explain, but she did not. He tried to make conversation as she went back to work on his stitches, but she only supplied brief answers.

Finally she stepped back and said, “There, all done. I’d try not to get hit in that spot again if I were you.”

Tyler grinned crookedly. “I’ll try. Listen, when you get off, do you suppose we could get something to eat?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I might have a relapse. I’d need a doctor there.”

The woman smiled, and he saw an appealing dimple on her right cheek. “You have a dimple,” he remarked.

Instantly the smile went away. “I hate it.”

“I think it’s cute.”

“Well, I don’t. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.”

“I really would like it if you would come out and have dinner or at least coffee with me.” She appeared to be examining him, and he said quickly, “I may have a lot of faults, but I’m rather persistent.”

Somehow his remark amused Jolie, and she said, “I won’t be off for two hours.”

“It’s a date. I’ll meet you in the waiting room in two hours.”

****

As Jolie stepped out into the waiting room, she saw Tyler Winslow relaxing in a chair. He got up at once and came over.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m starved. How about you?”

“I’m always hungry when I get off.”

“Do you have a favorite place close to the hospital?”

“I have a favorite Italian place. Do you like Italian food?”

“I love it.”

The two walked to the small restaurant called Gregorio’s. “They have very good Italian food,” Jolie told him as he opened the door for her.

When they entered, a short, rather rotund man greeted Jolie with a big smile. “Ah, Doctor, good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too, Gregorio. We’re awfully hungry. Just bring us something good. You pick it.”

“The very best for you, Doctor, and for your friend.”

As the two sat down, Tyler said, “You’ve been here before.”

“The food is cheap and good, and it’s handy to the hospital.”

Tyler was studying a painting of an Italian landscape on the wall near the table.

“Do you get involved in fights very often?” Jolie asked abruptly.

“Well, not as a rule,” Tyler said. “This one was sort of forced on me.”

“I’d like to hear about it.”

“It’s not a very pleasant story.”

“Are you ashamed of it?”

He felt like squirming. “I’m not proud of it.” He tried to change the subject, but the conversation was stilted, and Tyler was feeling more and more awkward. Finally Gregorio strutted from the kitchen with two plates held high and set them on the table.

“Escarole with fresh lemon juice, chicken parmigiana, and green beans with olive oil and lemon,” he explained. “This you will like!”