52 THENEWYORKER,JANUARY18, 2021
happy returns, if I’m not too late. Your
mother tells me you had a wonderful
birthday party. Let’s take a look at you.”
The doctor sat on the chair. His
mother sat on the bed. This was how
it always was. There was no question
of it being the other way round. His
mother stroked his foot or knee and
sometimes leaned toward him. And
Dr. Henderson bent over him in his
professional way.
Each time, lying there, he’d have the
thought, but keep it to himself, that they
were like a little family. They were like
the little group of three that normally
lived in this house. And suppose his fa
ther, who was now busy at work, were to
be suddenly replaced by Dr. Hender
son. Would it be so terrible? Dr. Hender
son had a way—though at ten he didn’t
yet have the word for it—of being fa
therly. Was Dr. Henderson even more
fatherly than his own father?
His mother’s face was so bright and
glad, and there seemed this morning
to flutter round them all a particular
kind of glee.
He knew what it was. He felt it him
self, even though he was unwell. It
seemed that he had now completed the
list of illnesses that, though they were
illnesses, it was highly desirable he
should have. It was like a duty, a duty
that had taken, in his case, ten years.
His whole life! Each illness was chal
lenging, one or two were nasty, but at
the same time a strange source of pride
and pleasure. Now he’d done them all.
He was to be congratulated, and not
just for his recent birthday.
And as he lay there, ill, the object
of his mother’s and Dr. Henderson’s
attention, he felt a strange surge of hap
piness. Even the word “happy” seemed
to hover over him, like Dr. Hender
son’s not yet conferred diagnosis, like
something that might hover over him
all his life.
“Well, Jimmy, I’d say, by the look
of you, your mother was quite right.
She’ll be doing my job next. Mind you,
as illnesses go, it’s not one of the hard
est to spot.”
Dr. Henderson gave his mother a
quick glance that might have been
called cheeky. It was a nice glance. His
mother often used the word “cheeky”
(usually about her son)—“Don’t be
cheeky.” And now it would have been
particularly appropriate.Dr. Henderson said, “Scarlet fever.
I’d say so, too.”
Then his mother said, with a sly kind
of smile, “Unless he’s just blushing.”
Dr. Henderson couldn’t have known
what special meaning this had. If his
mother had been given to winking, she
might at this point have winked.
Dr. Henderson gave a half snort,
half laugh. “So what have you got to
blush about, young man? Open wide.”
And how clever of him. To have asked
such a question, then taken away the
means of answering it. The question
floated off into the air as Dr. Hender
son inspected his tongue and tonsils.
“Scarlet fever, no doubt about it.
Let’s have a look at your rash.”A
s he drove now between rows of
tomblike houses, he remembered
his little pajama top, striped like the
chair, but in softer colors. And he re
membered his rash, the creepy feeling
of it, and how, long after it had gone
away and he was otherwise well, his
skin was still strange and rough. And
he remembered the whole list—of which
this, in his case, was the last—of those
childhood illnesses, with their names
that were themselves faintly childish
and fairytalelike, as if invented for in
fant use. Measles, mumps, chicken pox,
whooping cough... All of them to be
undergone, then left behind, usually
forever, like little piles of children’s
clothes that were no longer needed, like
miniature versions of the clothes on the
chair in his parents’ bedroom.
Children everywhere went through
it. The illnesses had once been peril
ous and in some cases still were, and
could even potentially kill. When he
was smaller, there had still been the
real frightener, polio. Though that had
been simply dealt with, one morning,
by a jab in his arm. Frightening enough.
But he hadn’t cried. And his mother,
then, too, had looked particularly glad,
though it was a different kind of glad
ness. There was even a slight wetness
in her eye. It was all over. Polio dealt
with. And you didn’t even have to lie
in bed for two days. A jab in the arm.
It meant you could never get it, be
cause you’d had it already, in a manner
of speaking. His mother had tried to
explain. It was called vaccination.
Another fox. In the dim light, you“Just call now and then, to let us know you exist.”