It was a lie. As much for the boy’s benefit as her own. Mirielle turned from the shipyard, looking past Mr. Jessip into the darkness as he paddled them homeward.
CHAPTER 63
It was past midnight when they arrived back in Franklin. Mr. Jessip helped Mirielle carry Jean to the hotel. He tried to refuse the money Mirielle handed him—double the day’s fee, as promised—but she insisted, even though it left her with less than twenty dollars to get Jean and her back to Carville.
Jean shivered beside her through the night, despite the blankets Mirielle heaped atop her. The next morning she was feverish again. Mirielle drew her a bath, remembering from the nursing textbook Sister Verena had forced her to copy not to use water that was too cold. She lugged Jean to the tub and hoisted her in with a splash. The water turned cloudy and brown from weeks’ worth of dirt. Her eyes fluttered open as Mirielle began gently scrubbing her down.
“Mrs. Marvin?”
Mirielle’s throat tightened at the sound of her voice. “It’s me.”
“Are we home?”
“No, but we’re on our way.”
Jean rested her head on the lip of the tub and closed her eyes again. She flinched and whimpered as Mirielle drew the washcloth over her boil-covered arms and legs. A leprous reaction, Mirielle was sure of it. Inflamed nerves protruded beneath her skin. The whites of her eyes were crisscrossed with red. If Mirielle didn’t get Jean back to Carville soon, she could go blind or even die.
They managed to make it to the train station, Jean leaning heavily on Mirielle as they walked. There was no direct route to New Orleans out of Franklin and none at all until the next morning. But if they caught the next train coming through the station, changed lines in Lafayette and again in Opelousas, they could be in Baton Rouge by nightfall.
Mirielle upended her purse on the counter, handing over the last of her crumpled bills and most of her coins to pay the fare. The platform rumbled, and a whistle blared to signal the train’s approach. She swept the remaining change back into her purse along with the tickets and hurried with Jean to the edge of the platform.
Jean slept through the first leg of their journey, stumbled through the crowded depot in Lafayette at Mirielle’s side, and fell asleep again once they’d boarded the second train. Oaks and cypress and towering evergreens passed outside their window in a blur of green. When the train slowed to collect more passengers at the tiny village depots along the route, pink azaleas and pearly magnolia blooms took shape amid the green.
Under different circumstances, Mirielle might have admired their beauty. The lush Louisiana landscape offered sights entirely different from coastal California. But every flicker of movement within the train car yanked Mirielle’s gaze from the window. A rustle from Jean, and Mirielle’s stomach clenched with worry that her condition was worsening. A sidelong stare from a new passenger, and Mirielle’s mouth went dry with fear that the police dragnet had found them. To keep herself from fidgeting with her scarf, she slipped her hand inside her purse and fingered the few remaining treasures inside. Irene’s ring, hidden safely inside the inner pocket. Sister Verena’s St. Christopher medal. The remaining coins that jangled at the bottom.
The Opelousas depot was even more crowded than Lafayette. Mirielle clutched her purse and valise in one hand, Jean’s clammy fingers in the other as they shuffled inside to wait for their next train. Hurried passengers and scuttling porters crisscrossed their path. Women herded their broods of children this way and that, too distracted to hush them when they hollered or comfort them when they cried. Men bullied past without a pardon or tip of the hat.
Not a single seat was open inside the station, so Mirielle propped Jean up against the wall. “Wait here.”
She filled a paper cone with water from a jug in the far corner and brought it to Jean, who managed several sips despite insisting in a weak voice that she wasn’t thirsty. Mirielle drank the rest on her way to the telegraph counter. Her thoughts raced as she waited in line. She needed to alert the sisters of her and Jean’s arrival in Baton Rouge without arousing suspicion from the operator or anyone else who might see the telegram. She wanted to return to Carville by way of ambulance, not police paddy wagon.
Her turn at the counter arrived before she’d come up with a ruse the hospital staff could decipher. At three cents a word, it had to be short.
“Address,” the woman at the counter said without looking up from her machine.
“U.S. Marine Hospital Sixty-Six, Carville, Louisiana.”
The woman’s quick fingers froze at the word Carville. She glanced up at Mirielle with narrowing eyes. Mirielle’s heart leaped from one beat to the next. She fled the woman’s gaze, looking down and fishing through her purse as if she had more than loose change and a silver medal inside. St. Christopher, set in relief with his flowing robes and gnarled walking staff, struck her with an idea. She squared her shoulders and met the woman’s eyes.
“Did you get that address?”
“Ah . . .” The woman quickly finished typing. “Yes. Go on.”
“Dear Sister Verena. Stop. Sister Jean and I will be returning from our . . . retreat at Sacred Heart Cloister this evening at six. Stop. Send transportation to the depot in Baton Rouge. Stop.” Here Mirielle hesitated. She had only one shot at making sure Sister Verena understood. “Saint Christopher travels with us. Stop. Yours in Christ. Stop. Sister Pauline.”
The woman’s eyes remained pinched. “You don’t look like any nun I seen.”
“We’re—er—from a liberal order,” Mirielle said, doing her best to impersonate Sister Verena’s superior air. “God cares about what we do with our lives, not what we wear.”
The woman’s expression turned perplexed. She pushed her glasses farther up her nose and counted the words of Mirielle’s telegram. “A dollar seventeen.”
Mirielle handed over the money, her heart still beating off-tempo. Not until she walked away and heard the woman say, “address” to the next customer was Mirielle satisfied they’d make it onto the train unmolested by a mob or the police.
With only seven minutes left until their train arrived, Mirielle checked on Jean, who’d slid from standing against the wall to sitting. She dabbed at the sweat along Jean’s brow with her hankie. “Hang in there. We’re leaving soon.”
Jean’s eyelids fluttered open, and she nodded.
“Sister Verena will be waiting for us at the station when we arrive.” At least Mirielle hoped so. She kissed Jean’s forehead. “I’ve got to make a quick telephone call. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
A bank of three telephones stood along the far wall beside the water jug. The stalls were walled off one from the other but had no doors to block out the lobby noise. Mirielle pressed the receiver to one ear and cupped her hand over the other to muffle the din.
“Hello?” a voice said when the operator connected the call.
Mirielle’s lips failed her. She hadn’t expected an answer, let alone Charlie’s voice over the line.
“Hello?” he said again.
“Charlie? It’s me, Mirielle.”
When no response came, she said his name again.
“I’m here. I—er—the butler said you’d called.”
“Half a dozen times. How’s Helen?” she asked, holding on to her breath as she awaited his reply. She couldn’t endure it if—
“She’s fine. Home from the hospital and on the mend.”
Mirielle turned away from the mouthpiece and let out a happy sob. “Oh, thank God. I wanted to come to you but—”
The screech of slowing train wheels sounded from outside.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I can’t talk now, but I promise to write when—”
“You haven’t left the facility again, have you?”
“I’ll explain everything when I—”
“Did you get my last letter?”
The urgency in his voice gave her pause.
“Of course I did. That’s how I knew Helen w
as ill.”
The train blared its whistle as its screeching wheels came to a stop. “I’ve got to run, Charlie. Give Helen and Evie my love and—”
“I sent another letter and . . . well, just read it.”
The clamor in the lobby grew to a near-deafening level as disembarked passengers crowded inside. Mirielle had to go or she and Jean would miss the train, but her feet wouldn’t move.
“What does it say?”
He made no reply.
“Damn it, Charlie! What does it say?”
“I never blamed you.”
“Blamed me for what?”
“His death wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“You can say his name, Charles. He’d want us to say his name.”
“I wasn’t the one who fell apart whenever someone mentioned him.”
“My son died. What was I supposed to do?”
“Our son, Mirielle, and anything would have been better than trying to kill yourself.”
She flinched and clasped her wrist.
“There! I’ve said it,” he continued. “You want to call things by their proper names? How about this: suicide.”
“At least I cared! You were back at the studio a week after his funeral.”
The line was silent for several seconds.
“Look, I never should have brought it up. I just wanted you to know that wasn’t the reason.”
Mirielle glanced at the clock above the lobby door. One minute until the train departed. “Reason for what?”
“Read the letter. You don’t need to sign anything. It’s already done.”
Mirielle’s stomach dropped, and her hands went cold. The train’s whistle blared again.
“Charlie, I . . . I don’t blame you either,” she said, and set the receiver back in its cradle.
CHAPTER 64
Mirielle staggered with Jean to the platform just as the train was set to depart. She pushed Jean onto the first step of their car and grabbed hold of the railing. The train lurched into motion. Jean swayed as if she might fall backward, landing them both in a heap on the platform. Mirielle dropped her valise and planted a hand on Jean’s back to keep her upright. With her feet still on the platform, Mirielle stumbled alongside the accelerating train, her grip on the railing loosening. Did she let go and retrieve her valise? The clothes and shoes and jewelry she could live without. But the beachside picture of her and her family could never be replaced. Her fingers strained to hold on to the slick metal railing. Jean’s weight pressed against her other hand. Her purse dangled from her wrist.
A backward glance at her valise, and Mirielle leaped onto the train’s step. Only her toes gained purchase. She tottered backward, her fingers slipping from the railing. The platform fell away, and the blur of gravel several feet below flashed at the periphery of her vision. Just as she was about to fall, the conductor appeared in the doorway above. He grabbed hold of her wrist. Once she was steadied, he yanked both her and Jean up the stairs and inside, muttering a string of curses.
All the coach seats were taken except one. Jean drifted back into unconsciousness before Mirielle could fully settle her into the seat. Her face was flushed and hot to the touch. The whites of her eyes were colored entirely pink. Her breath had grown raspier, and Mirielle feared lesions had erupted in her throat. Thank God they had only one leg left of the journey. When they arrived in Baton Rouge, Sister Verena would be waiting. They could begin treatment right away in the back of the ambulance, even as it jostled down the River Road.
Mirielle found a place nearby to stand, holding on to the handrail that jutted from the top corner of the bench seat. Tears threatened in her eyes. Tears of exhaustion and frustration and mourning. But she held them back, not wanting to cause a greater scene than she already had.
She had other pictures of Felix, though none were quite as dear. She’d write Charlie to send one right away.
What had he been trying to say to her over the telephone? Had he truly not blamed her for Felix’s death? She had blamed him, at the time. And herself. And God and anyone at all connected to the event, down to the laborers who’d laid the foundation of the pool. But most of all, herself. The tears became harder to stem. She fanned her face, hoping only to appear overly warm.
The train listed, and Mirielle bumped into the shoulder of the woman seated beside her. “Excuse me,” Mirielle said.
The woman scowled and said nothing. She smelled of pickled cabbage. Someone else nearby smelled of barn dust. Another of cooking grease. Mirielle tried not to breathe in too deeply, regretting she hadn’t the money for first-class tickets.
A laugh bubbled inside her. It slipped out before she could clamp her lips to stop it. Surely she stank as much as these apple-knockers. Stank of sweat and swamp water and musty silk.
A few of the passengers glanced in her direction. With effort, Mirielle composed herself. Laughing was no less conspicuous than crying. She couldn’t afford to do either until she and Jean were safely on their way to Carville.
When the train finally arrived in Baton Rouge, Mirielle stepped aside and let the other passengers alight before rousing Jean.
“I don’t feel good,” Jean muttered as Mirielle looped an arm around her waist and hoisted her up.
“I know. We’re almost there.”
Jean teetered a moment, then collapsed back onto the seat. Mirielle sat down beside her, looped Jean’s arm around her neck, and stood with her again. They wobbled off the train and onto the platform.
People buzzed thick as mosquitos about the station, pushing carts piled high with luggage. No, not just luggage, but crated chickens and clinking chinaware and mismatched chairs. Was it always this busy here? Two men struggled to unload a piano from one of the baggage cars. A young boy led a goat through the crowd. Women carried enamel vases and wall clocks beneath their arms.
With Jean’s weight heavy against her, Mirielle picked through the horde. The lobby and front curb were equally congested. She rose onto her tiptoes and scanned the street. No ambulance. She looked for the orderlies’ white uniforms and sisters’ spread-winged hats but saw neither among the thick of travelers.
She stepped back beneath the eaves of the station and propped Jean against the brick wall to wait. After nearly an hour, the rate of trains stopping at the station slowed, and the crowd thinned. Darkness had crept across the sky from the east, but the western horizon still glowed a peachy orange. Uncertain from which direction the ambulance would come, Mirielle kept watch up and down the street. Jean sat cross-legged beside her on the ground, resting her head against Mirielle’s leg.
A man in a cheap cotton suit came up to her. He nodded to an outmoded and mud-speckled taxicab across the street and asked if she needed a ride. His breath smelled of garlic and tobacco. “No, thank you,” she said, looking past him. Any moment the ambulance would arrive. He shrugged and shuffled on.
Another train pulled up to the station, and a swarm of passengers disembarked. The glow of twilight faded. Street lamps flickered on. The policeman who patrolled the station strolled by for the third time. As before, Mirielle flashed him a nothing-is-amiss smile even as her heart pounded. This time, he didn’t smile back.
“Afraid ya can’t loiter here, ma’am,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry, we’re not loitering. Our ride should be here any minute.”
He glanced down at Jean and frowned. Mirielle tensed. Had he noticed the outcropping of boils on her arms? Would he realize they were lepers?
“She sauced?”
Mirielle gave an uneasy laugh. “Heavens no. She’s just a child. Tuckered out from our journey is all.”
“What’s on her arms?”
“Er . . .” Frank’s easy demeanor that night in the bar flashed to her mind again. “Strawberries. Would you believe it? She’s allergic to strawberries. We’ve just come from Opelousas where a friend made the most delicious berry pie—mulberry and cherry, I thought—but darned if there weren’t strawberries in there too.” Mirielle no
dded down at Jean. “She ate two full pieces before I realized and—”
The policeman waved her off. “Just see that you ain’t here when I come back.”
Mirielle watched him saunter away, her tautly wound nerves slowly unspooling. Where was Sister Verena? Maybe she hadn’t gotten the telegraph or had misunderstood Mirielle’s meaning.
Jean stirred beside her. She needed to get to Carville where Doc Jack and the sisters could care for her and soon. Every moment they waited here, the worse the reaction became.
Across the street, Mirielle saw the cabbie loitering by his car and waved him over.
“I’ll take that ride now,” she said.
He flashed a brown-toothed smile. “My pleasure. You and the girl?”
“Yes.”
“It’s fifty cents a mile. Where ya headed?”
“Fifty cents? That’s more than double the cost of a gallon of gas!”
“Most of the filling stations are running dry on account of the flood, so I figure it’s a fair markup.”
“Flood? What flood?”
The cabbie gave her a curious look, then peeled a battered sheet of newsprint from the sidewalk. MISSISSIPPI FLOODING IMMINENT, the headline read.
That explained the hordes of people at the train station and hum of uneasiness in the air. She looked up and down the street for a more reputable conveyance, but the few other remaining cabs were already engaged. Jean moaned behind her.
“Fine. You know the way to Carville?”
The cabbie held out his hands and backed away. “Whoa now, you two ain’t sick, are you?”
“At fifty cents a mile, you’re not entitled to questions,” she said with more bluster than she felt.
“A dollar.”
“That’s robbery!”
“A dollar a mile, and ya gotta pay up front.”
Mirielle crossed her arms and raised her chin. “You’re mad as a hatter if you think I’m gonna pay that.”
“Suit yourself.” He crumpled up the newsprint and threw it at her feet before turning away. “I ain’t inclined to be helpin’ no filthy lepers anyhow.”
She fought the urge to smack the back of his head with her purse. Or holler after him that he was the filthy one. A dollar a mile! She could hire a shiny new limousine for less than that. If she had any money.
The Second Life of Mirielle West Page 35