about referring late-night trauma cases to the ER, but Viola had taught herself to do it by watching the X-ray tech. Within minutes Tom had a beautiful set of films with which to evaluate Jimmy’s fracture. Despite his pain, Jimmy thanked Tom profusely for taking the risk of treating them, while Luther bore everything in sullen silence. Viola barely spoke except to tell Jimmy to keep his voice low. Tom knew she was terrified of being fired for bringing trouble to the clinic. He wasn’t sure what to do about the situation, but one thing was certain: the actions he was taking now put him far over the line of neutrality in the conflict between the races, and well into the danger zone when it came to the Ku Klux Klan.
He’d stitched a rubber drain into Jimmy’s stab wound and was beginning to suture Luther’s remaining lacerations when he heard a desperate pounding on the clinic’s front door. His first thought was the police, but Jimmy assured him that they’d parked their car far way. Viola had ferried them to the clinic. Tom kept working and hoped the knocking would cease, but it didn’t. As he leaned over the sink to wash his hands, he heard a gasp, then turned and saw Viola staring at a pistol in Luther Davis’s hand. Tom started to speak, then held his silence. It would be useless to tell the man to put it away.
“You two stay in here,” Tom told the men. “Viola, get into Exam Three. And nobody make a peep, no matter how close anybody comes to this room.”
Tom switched off the light. As Viola padded across the floor behind him, fresh knocking echoed through the clinic. “I’m going to say I’m alone,” he told her, “but if it’s the police, and they get pushy, I’ll tell them I met one of my nurses up here for a late-night rendezvous. Can you play that role?”
“I’ll prance out in my Playtex if it will save Jimmy,” Viola whispered.
“It just might.”
Leaving her in Exam Three, Tom went to the front of the clinic, checked his shirt for blood, then opened the shuddering front door.
What he saw on the concrete steps was not the police, but three Klansmen he knew all too well. All were employees of Triton Battery. In front stood Frank Knox with his blazing eyes and military crew cut. Behind him stood a giant of a man named Glenn Morehouse, holding up the wiry frame of Sonny Thornfield, whose face was twisted in agony. Thornfield’s T-shirt was soaked with blood, and even in the weak light spilling from the doorway, Tom could see his left pant leg plastered to his swollen thigh, a belt fastened tight just above the knee. All three men were shivering in the cold.
“Evenin’, Doc,” said Frank Knox. “Your wife told us you was out on a house call, but she didn’t know where. We couldn’t go to the hospital with this, so we was gonna bust in and try to use your equipment. Then we saw your light.”
“Why can’t you go to the hospital?” Tom asked in the most ingenuous voice he could muster. “Did you rob a bank or something?”
Frank laughed. “Nah
.
This is nigger trouble. There’s too much FBI in town to risk the hospital. We got a doctor over in Brookhaven who helps us out sometimes—a morphine addict—but that’s too far for this. I’m worried the bullet nicked his femoral artery.”
Tom shook his head. “That leg would be much bigger, or he’d be dead. I’m surprised you didn’t call Dr. Lucas. He’s a surgeon, which is what it looks like you need.”
Knox snorted in contempt. “That son of a bitch don’t care about nothin’ but his bank balance. You think he’d get out of bed to help a workin’ man?”
“Well—”
“Frank can patch this leg,” Thornfield said through gritted teeth. “We just need the equipment.”
“I saw a lot of gunshot wounds in the Pacific,” Knox explained. “Even patched a couple myself. But I’d feel a hell of a lot better with a trained pair of hands on this.”
Tom bent and pretended to examine the wound by porch light,
He’d stitched a rubber drain into Jimmy’s stab wound and was beginning to suture Luther’s remaining lacerations when he heard a desperate pounding on the clinic’s front door. His first thought was the police, but Jimmy assured him that they’d parked their car far way. Viola had ferried them to the clinic. Tom kept working and hoped the knocking would cease, but it didn’t. As he leaned over the sink to wash his hands, he heard a gasp, then turned and saw Viola staring at a pistol in Luther Davis’s hand. Tom started to speak, then held his silence. It would be useless to tell the man to put it away.
“You two stay in here,” Tom told the men. “Viola, get into Exam Three. And nobody make a peep, no matter how close anybody comes to this room.”
Tom switched off the light. As Viola padded across the floor behind him, fresh knocking echoed through the clinic. “I’m going to say I’m alone,” he told her, “but if it’s the police, and they get pushy, I’ll tell them I met one of my nurses up here for a late-night rendezvous. Can you play that role?”
“I’ll prance out in my Playtex if it will save Jimmy,” Viola whispered.
“It just might.”
Leaving her in Exam Three, Tom went to the front of the clinic, checked his shirt for blood, then opened the shuddering front door.
What he saw on the concrete steps was not the police, but three Klansmen he knew all too well. All were employees of Triton Battery. In front stood Frank Knox with his blazing eyes and military crew cut. Behind him stood a giant of a man named Glenn Morehouse, holding up the wiry frame of Sonny Thornfield, whose face was twisted in agony. Thornfield’s T-shirt was soaked with blood, and even in the weak light spilling from the doorway, Tom could see his left pant leg plastered to his swollen thigh, a belt fastened tight just above the knee. All three men were shivering in the cold.
“Evenin’, Doc,” said Frank Knox. “Your wife told us you was out on a house call, but she didn’t know where. We couldn’t go to the hospital with this, so we was gonna bust in and try to use your equipment. Then we saw your light.”
“Why can’t you go to the hospital?” Tom asked in the most ingenuous voice he could muster. “Did you rob a bank or something?”
Frank laughed. “Nah
.
This is nigger trouble. There’s too much FBI in town to risk the hospital. We got a doctor over in Brookhaven who helps us out sometimes—a morphine addict—but that’s too far for this. I’m worried the bullet nicked his femoral artery.”
Tom shook his head. “That leg would be much bigger, or he’d be dead. I’m surprised you didn’t call Dr. Lucas. He’s a surgeon, which is what it looks like you need.”
Knox snorted in contempt. “That son of a bitch don’t care about nothin’ but his bank balance. You think he’d get out of bed to help a workin’ man?”
“Well—”
“Frank can patch this leg,” Thornfield said through gritted teeth. “We just need the equipment.”
“I saw a lot of gunshot wounds in the Pacific,” Knox explained. “Even patched a couple myself. But I’d feel a hell of a lot better with a trained pair of hands on this.”
Tom bent and pretended to examine the wound by porch light,
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