“It’s a bit early to say,” Dr. Baker notes. Mrs. Cane sits before him, her feet dangling over the chair, as if to emphasize her small form. She was only a girl a year or so ago; now, a wife to a man far too old to be having children—but he keeps that opinion to himself. “Have you felt any nausea? Headaches? Any discomfort in your abdomen?”
The girl shakes her head.
“Often a woman’s bosom becomes tender in her first trimester?”
“None of that, Doctor,” she tells him.
He sets his stethoscope aside and helps her to her feet. “It is my medical opinion that you are not with child, Mrs. Cane,” he tells her.
She frowns, fixing her dress.
“I see no abnormalities or concerns on my end. It just isn’t your time yet.”
He leads her out of the examination room and into his attached office, glancing at the time as he moves—a quarter to noon. The stage coach will be arriving soon.
“Thank you, Dr. Baker,” she says, reaching for the door.
“Now don’t become too discouraged,” he tells her. “I predict you’ll be heavy with child by the end of the summer.”
He finds his hat and follows her out, bidding her farewell as they go their separate ways. Dirt from the road rises into dust when a carriage nears him. The driver, Charles Ingalls, waves as he carefully steers around him.
“Afternoon, Doc,” he greets, and continues on.
“Charles,” the doctor acknowledges, approaching the restaurant.
Mrs. Oleson sits indelicately in a chair outside, fanning herself with a folded newspaper, blissfully unaware of his presence. He quietly ascends the steps and settles beside her. Still, she does not notice.
“How are you today, Mrs. Oleson?” he says with the tip of his hat.
She straightens, closing her legs. “D-doc Baker—how nice to see you,” she says, in her sweetest tone. She gestures to the restaurant. “Stopping in for some lunch?”
He nods, pulling out his watch to check the time again: twelve, exactly. “An old friend is stopping in on his way to Mankato,” he tells her, searching for the incoming stage coach. Nothing yet. “It’ll be nice to catch up. He’s been living in England for almost twenty—”
“Willie! What have you done to your clothes?” She stands abruptly, distracted by the boy running past them covered head to toe in dirt. She quickly takes off after him. “Oh! ‘Scuse me, Dr. Baker—Willie! Willie… NELS!”
The stage coach finally arrives. And Hiram smiles as it approaches. From the window, his friend waves—T. Kafka, M.D: the most rambunctious boy Hiram knew in school.
But his smile slightly wavers at the sight of his now portly form exiting, nearly tipping over the entire carriage when he steps out. Hiram hides his shock easily and moves to shake the man’s hand.
“My God, Baker, you’ve let yourself go,” says Kafka.
He eyes him. “I could say the same for you. Still sneaking licorice, I see.”
And together, they laugh.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, dear Hiram,” the man says.
“How are you, Tupper? It’s good to see you.”
Mrs. Oleson returns with Nels at her heels, looking visibly repulsed by Dr. Kafka. Nels is the one who approaches.
“I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Dr. Tupper Kafka,” Hiram introduces. “We, uh…”
And a stoic man in a brown suit and bowler hat quickly emerges from the carriage, distracting him. He is completely ordinary with yellow hair and a matching bushy mustache to hide his youth. And yet, Hiram visibly stalls when blue eyes meet his own—the moment passes quickly, unremarkably. The man blinks, unbothered, moving on to retrieve the bags from above, and the doctor’s attention returns to his old friend.
“Well, we went to school together,” Hiram continues with the clear of his throat.
“Roommates, if you can believe it,” laughs Kafka. Pointing, he mimics Baker’s loud snoring. His audience shows little amusement.
“Tupper, this is Nels and Harriet Oleson. They own the town’s mercantile, as well as the hotel you’ll be staying at tonight.”
And Kafka turns to the young man pulling down bags. “Ah, then, will you kindly tell… uh, the boy here…”
“Clarkson, sir,” reminds the man in a Scottish drawl, unflinching. Hiram find the accent charming.
“Yes, Clarkson, my, uh, borrowed valet,” says Kafka, returning his attention to the Olesons. “Do show him where to put my things.”
“Valet?” questions Harriet, pushing Nels aside. “You mean, uh, Carter here, is in service to you?” She smiles when he nods, suddenly becoming sweeter at the man’s now known status. “Why, of course! My husband will be glad to show him to your room, wouldn’t you, Nels—NELS! Don’t just stand there. Show the servant to Dr. Kafka’s room.”
Harriet takes Kafka by the arm to personally escort him into the restaurant as Hiram and Nels move to help the valet. “I suspect you’ll be dining with us,” he says. He puts his arm out for the man to shake. “Dr. Hiram Baker.”
Hesitantly, he takes the doctor’s hand, his thumb gently brushing against his knuckles. Something inside him flutters. “Your town doesn’t interact much with servants, I take.”
“None at all,” he admits.
“Richard Clarkson,” he introduces himself, his hand lingering longer than perhaps it should. “As Dr. Kafka’s valet, sir, I am not permitted to dine with him or any of his pupils.”
“We don’t see many valets around these parts,” Nels notes. “They just seem like the sort of thing to leave in the old country.” Realizing Richard might take offense, he backtracks. “Oh, uh… that doesn’t mean you’re not welcome here, of course. Far from it. Just… try to keep away from my wife.”
Richard smiles, and the whole world somehow feels brighter. “In truth, it’s not entirely common for doctors to have valets where I’m from, either. Dr. Kafka is a bit… eccentric. He thinks himself a lord of medicine.”
Hiram laughs. “Then I guess he hasn’t really changed.”
“Anyway, I won’t be in his employment for too much longer,” continues Richard. “He’ll have no use for a valet in Mankato, if he even needs one now. I’ll be back in Scotland before too long.”
“That’s too bad,” says Nels. “America is a great place to explore.”
“Are you sure you won’t join us?” asks Hiram. “Hester Sue makes the best peach cobbler in all of Minnesota.”
“I’m not sure you’re grasping my role here, doctor,” he says, almost teasingly. And with that, he grabs Kafka’s bags and follows Nels into the building. Hiram watches them from the window; something inside him flutters.
At lunch, both doctors are far too excitable, far too loud for the liking of the other customers around them, their laughter booming throughout the restaurant—just like old times. The topic remains on their childhood antics, because that’s all they have in common now: the trouble Kafka got into; the excuses Baker made for him. “I can laugh about it now,” says Hiram about one of their failed antics. “My eyebrows grew back.”
Hester Sue, more than once, comes to their table to scold them. “We have other customers to mind, doctors,” she scolds as if they were small children in need of a smack.
It only makes them laugh harder.
But their laughter fades as Hiram slowly runs out of stories. Kafka became a bigwig doctor in Europe, dining with Earls and Lords and having servants tend to him, while he stayed behind to care for farmers and their mules. They are no longer the same, he realizes, as the lunch comes to an end—he shakes the thought away as he stands, promising to meet up with him again after his rounds.
Hester Sue clears their table. He takes out his wallet but Kafka insists on paying. “The next one’s on me,” he says, moving to the door.
The rest of the afternoon is uneventful. The Smith boy fell from a tree and hurt his wrist; no sign of breakage. Old man Barkley, as usual, doesn’t want to see him, but he’s over due for a checkup; he gives him a piece of candy for being so brave, and some morphine to ease the pain. Laura finds a wounded bird and stops him on his way to see the Thompsons; there isn’t much he can do—still, the young girl is determined to rescue it. A frantic Mrs. Oleson stops him, too. Willie stands beside her with a limp arm, his elbow bleeding; strawberry jam, he determines with a quick taste. And he finally makes it to the Thomson’s farm to check in on Eliza, their mare in foal. “Any time now,” he tells Mrs. Thompson over tea.
He returns to his office soon after, anxious for a quick rest before his return to the restaurant. Knowing Kafka, he’s in for a long night of whisky breath and gloating. A small part of him wishes for an emergency—nothing too critical; just something to keep him away until the next morning where he can instead see his old friend off.
He finds Richard in his office, flipping through the medical book he left on his desk. A special keepsake for whenever he needs to brush up on his animal anatomy. He was reading up on horses this morning in preparation for the mare’s birth.
Hiram stalls at the threshold, watching him carefully as he reads. And then, suddenly, blue eyes meet his own again. “Beg your pardon, doctor,” Richard says, closing the book and stepping away.
“Quite all right,” he says as he approaches. “It’s only natural to be curious. A fascinating read, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but”—he blinks, confused—”I was under the impression you were a physician.”
“And people, too,” he says, nodding. “Sick cattle are just as bad as sick children in these parts, if not worse. No horse to sow the fields or carry the lumber means no crop to sell or even a house for winter. A baby can easily be made. Cattle cost money. But don’t go around telling the women folk here I said that. My tongue has gotten me into enough trouble as is.”
“It’s all so… new,” Richard reflects, his eyes gleaming. “And a great deal bigger than Scotland.”
Hiram smiles. It lingers for a moment before he continues. “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, er… I’ve come to tell you—Dr. Kafka has decided not to stay the night after all. He’s on his way to Mankato as we speak.”
“I suspect Mrs. Oleson isn’t too happy about that.”
“She chased after the carriage,” Richard says, amused.
And Richard’s gaze turns to the ground, shifting his stance—hesitant. “Might I ask a personal question, doctor?”
His stomach tightens. “Yes?”
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