“Mr. J-Jonnson? W-we’re here.”
Miss Willems grabbed his arm with both hands. “Did you hear—”
“Shh!” He tipped his head, straining to determine the direction of the voice. “Call again, Tommy!”
“Here! We’re here!”
A second voice—younger and higher—joined in. “We’re here! We’re here!”
Levi, with Miss Willems clinging to his arm, stumbled up the bank. Halfway to the top of the rise, the lantern’s yellow beam fell on two small, shivering forms huddled together beneath an overhang of scraggly brush. Snow clung to the thickly woven branches, creating a canopy of sorts. They’d found a makeshift shelter, and they appeared to be fine. Relief turned Levi’s bones into rubber, and he nearly lost his footing.
Beside him Miss Willems choked out, “Oh, thank You, dear Lord.” Levi echoed the words in his heart, startled by the sincerity underscoring the silent prayer.
The smaller boy bounded upright and half walked, half crawled across the snow-covered ground to Miss Willems, sobbing. She hugged him, murmuring assurances to him.
Levi set down the lantern and reached out to catch Tommy’s hands. “Come on out of there.”
Tommy stood, his sightless eyes blinking rapidly. A smile stretched across his chapped face. “You found us. I knew you would. Thank you, Mr. Jonnson.”
Now that the boy stood before him, repeatedly shuddering with chills but safe, anger replaced the relief of moments ago. He took hold of Tommy by the upper arms and gave him a firm shake. “What were you thinking to take off like that? As cold as it is, you could’ve froze! And if you had, you’d be accountable for your little friend over there, as well. You were irresponsible, Tommy, and I’m disappointed in you.”
Miss Willems hurried up beside them, the younger boy hanging on to her coat. “This isn’t the time for scolding. We need to get the boys someplace warm, and we need to alert the others that they’ve been found.”
Levi tamped down his frustration and nodded. “You’re right.” He drew Tommy tight against his side. “But we’re going to have a talk about making good decisions.”
To his surprise the boy beamed. “A-all right, Mr. Jonnson. If y-you don’t mind, I’d l-like to have s-some supper, get w-warmed up, and maybe s-s-sleep a little. But then … then we’ll have us th-that talk.”
Christina sat on the edge of the narrow bed in Mr. and Mrs. Tatum’s back bedroom and watched Tommy and Joe as they slept. The boys lay snug together on the mattress, their tousled blond heads—one with strands as thick and straight as straw, one with soft coils—tipped toward each other. Tiredness slouched her forward. How good it would feel to stretch out and sleep, too, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Squinting against a fierce pounding in her temples, she shifted her gaze from one flushed face to the other and listened to their deep, even breathing, as the doctor had instructed.
“Keep them warm and force lots of liquids,” Dr. Lang had cautioned with a worried frown. “They’re both strong, healthy boys, but they could take a turn, given the length of time they spent in the cold and the soaking they received from the snow. So keep a watch.”
So Christina ignored her aching throat and throbbing head and kept watch as the hands on the clock moved toward noon. She should be at the boardinghouse, assisting Cora, but Louisa and Rose had promised to lend a hand. She’d stay right here until she knew both Tommy and Joe were fine.
Outside the door the banker and his wife were engaged in a whispered conversation. Although Christina couldn’t hear their words, she sensed it involved the children. Mrs. Tatum sounded particularly distressed, and Christina’s sympathy stirred. The children were certainly suffering from their foolishness—frostbit fingers, toes, and ears as well as a fever—but their care-givers had been given quite a fright, too.
A single pair of footsteps sounded in the hallway, and then the bedroom door inched open. Christina glanced over her shoulder, clutching the edge of the mattress to keep herself from toppling when dizziness struck. The banker peered through the opening, and she gestured him in.
He tiptoed up behind her and looked down at the sleeping pair. A hint of compassion lingered in his eyes, but she also glimpsed something else—a dogged resolve that raised her apprehension.
“Miss Willems, we must talk.” Although he spoke barely above a whisper, Joe stirred.
“Shh,” Christina crooned, stroking Joe’s curly hair.
The boy murmured, squirmed a bit, and then snuggled his head on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy made a face, but his eyes remained closed. She waited for a moment to be certain the boys wouldn’t rouse. Then she rose and pointed to the hallway. Mr. Tatum followed her out.
After clicking the door shut, Christina leaned against it and raised her gaze to the grim-looking man. “Yes?” She winced. Speaking hurt, and she sounded as croaky as a decades-old bullfrog.
He locked his hands behind his back as if keeping a grip on his control. “Miss Willems, we think it best if you find another location for the children.”
Christina’s heart sank. “But they’re sick. You heard what the doctor said. They need rest and to stay warm.”
The man flinched. “Of course they’re welcome to stay while they recover. But as soon as they are well enough to be moved, they must go.” He glanced up the hallway as the clank of pots and pans carried from below—his wife apparently beginning lunch preparations. Then he turned back and pinned Christina with a grave look. “Please understand, we aren’t cold hearted. But my wife … she has a delicate disposition. She struggled even when our youngsters were still living at home, constantly worrying some ill would befall them. The boys’ slipping away has shaken her confidence. Caring for three children, one of whom is handicapped, has proven more of a burden than she can bear.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it was a mistake for us to invite the children to reside with us. You must find other arrangements.”
Other arrangements? She’d battled so hard to make these arrangements. What other options did she have? If only she had resources beyond what the mission board provided, she’d purchase property on her own and open its doors. But her parents had never saved a penny. Whatever extra they possessed they gave away to those in need. She had nothing on which to draw now.
Christina’s head swam. She grabbed the doorknob and clung to keep herself upright. “I … I …” Oh, how her head throbbed. She touched the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh my. I believe I may be ill.”
Mr. Tatum darted forward and took her arm. He guided her back into the bedroom and helped her sit on the second bed in the room, the one they’d indicated Florie used. “Stay here,” he said, “and I’ll fetch the doctor to take a look at you.” He strode out of the room.
Christina had no desire to suffer another bout of dizziness. Palms pressed to the patchwork quilt, she sat as still as possible and drew deep breaths into her aching chest. Very slowly she turned her head to look at the still-sleeping boys. Such a tight fit on that little bed together. She should shift one of them to this second bed as soon as the wave of weakness passed.
Two beds …
She scowled. The Tatums had indicated all three children shared this room, which meant there should be three beds. Had the two boys been sharing that narrow bed? How uncomfortable for them. Then her gaze dropped to the corner, where a pallet of some sort was rolled against the wall. An ugly picture formed in her head, painted not only by the rolled bedding but also by the curious comment Tommy had made early that morning as Mr. Jonnson placed him on the mattress. She pressed her memory, seeking the boy’s exact words, and they returned in a rush. “A bed … Oh, a bed … It feels so good.”
She’d passed several well-furnished bedrooms when she and Mr. Jonnson had carried the boys through the long hallway to this room last night. Why hadn’t the Tatums allowed Tommy the use of one of those beds? If the boy had been denied appropriate sleeping accommodations, what else might he have lacked while under their care? She didn’t want to think ill of the
banker and his wife—they were, after all, leaders in the community—but what else could that rolled-up stack of quilts mean? If her suppositions were right, no doubt this was why Tommy had asked to speak with her. And she’d put him off, which told him his concerns weren’t important to her.
A sudden worry struck—were her other charges living in less-than-acceptable situations, too? The throb in her temples increased. She groaned, closing her eyes and pressing her hands to her head. So many things to fix, and she didn’t know where to begin. Father, help me …
The squeak of the door handle turning drew her attention. She forced her head upward as Mrs. Tatum, escorted by Florie, slipped into the room. Florie scampered to Christina and climbed up beside her. Christina knew she should push the child away—if she was ill, she might inflict the sickness on Florie—but the little girl’s presence was comforting. At least Florie seemed happy and well cared for.
“Harold asked me to let you know the doctor is seeing to another patient right now, but as soon as he’s free, he’ll come here.” Mrs. Tatum stood stiffly beside the door, her hands clamped against her ribs. “It shouldn’t be long.”
Christina slipped her arm around Florie’s waist and looked up at the woman. “That’s fine. While we’re waiting,”—each word was a knife slicing her throat—“will you please tell me where the children have been sleeping?”
Mrs. Tatum’s brows came down in a sharp V. “Why, in this room, of course.”
Slowly—oh, how her head pounded!—Christina glanced around the space. “There are three children and two beds. Have the boys been sharing that bed, or …” She looked pointedly at the rolled bedding, then turned again to Mrs. Tatum.
The woman’s lips pursed. “As you can see, there’s scarcely room in here for two beds, let alone three. So I laid out a pallet on the floor.”
“For Tommy,” Florie supplied.
“Of course.” Mrs. Tatum spoke briskly. “Joe and Florie were already settled. It seemed unkind to force one of them to give up their bed for a—” Her teeth clacked as she closed her jaw.
A chill zinged from Christina’s scalp all the way down her spine. “For a …”
For several seconds Mrs. Tatum stood with her jaw tightly clenched. Then she threw her hands outward and raised her chin, defiance on her face. “It isn’t as if he’d know the difference. After all, he can’t see where he’s sleeping.”
“A bed … Oh, a bed … It feels so good.” The relief in Tommy’s voice as he’d muttered the words had pierced Christina.
Florie tugged at Christina’s arm. “Tommy had to eat in the kitchen instead of eating with all of us. Mrs. Tatum said he’d drop food on her pretty rug.” The child wrinkled her nose. “She doesn’t like him much, I don’t think.”
Mrs. Tatum snapped, “That’s quite enough, Florie. Go out to the parlor. You shouldn’t be in a sickroom.”
Florie leaned against Christina, but Christina gave her a little nudge. “Go on now. Mind Mrs. Tatum.” With a sigh the little girl scuffed out of the room. The moment she departed, Christina pushed herself to her feet. With the backs of her knees locked against the bed’s frame, she gripped Papa’s watch for strength and faced Mrs. Tatum. “If you were concerned Tommy would be a burden, why did you offer to take him in?”
The woman sniffed. “You’d left him with that Jonnson man, who never attends services and keeps to himself like a hermit. It was our Christian duty to be certain Tommy was placed in a God-fearing home. So we took him in.” Her gaze narrowed. “And despite your insinuations, we have not mistreated him. He’s been fed, clothed, and sheltered.”
To Christina’s shame she’d looked at Tommy’s clean clothes and combed hair and thought him well cared for. But true care went deeper than the surface. Her entire body trembled, less from the fever than from indignation. It pained her throat to speak, but she would have her say. “Fed, clothed, and sheltered—yes. But treated differently than the two sighted children in your care. Did you stop to think how it would make him feel?”
Again Mrs. Tatum released a derisive sniff. “How would he know if the other two children slept in a bed or sat at a different table? For all he can see, everyone in this household sleeps on the floor and eats at the kitchen table.”
Christina gawked at the woman. She’d encountered this mind-set before—that somehow a person with a handicap was of less value than a whole, healthy person—but she would never have expected it from a woman with such apparent intelligence. If only her throat would allow her to rail in fury. But she could merely rasp, “Just because he can’t see doesn’t mean he can’t feel—he knows there are beds in this room. Or hear. I’m sure he listened to every word and every clink of a fork in the dining room. Of course he knows the difference.”
Stumbling forward two steps, she released the watch and aimed a quivering finger at Mrs. Tatum’s face. “The Bible I have read my entire life instructs us to treat others as we would like to be treated. Others, Mrs. Tatum, which implies everyone we encounter. Would you like to sleep on a mat on the floor or be forced to sit alone in the dark?”
“Well, I—”
“Of course you wouldn’t!” She pressed a palm to her aching throat, irritation at the woman’s insensitivity giving her the strength to continue. “You claim Mr. Jonnson is not God fearing, and you intimate he is less than acceptable because he keeps to himself, but guess where Tommy was going. To Mr. Jonnson. Because apparently he felt more valued by a godless, reclusive man than by a well-to-do, supposedly Christian man and wife! That, in my opinion, Mrs. Tatum, is reprehensible.”
The woman’s face flamed red. She drew back, her eyes shooting darts. “You are certainly welcome to your opinion, Miss Willems, but as of this minute you are no longer welcome in my home. I shall ask the doctor to transport you to the boardinghouse when he arrives. And as soon as he deems the boys well enough, I expect all three of the children to be removed from beneath my roof as well.” She whirled and stormed out of the room.
Christina’s knees gave way. She staggered to the mattress and sat. Defeated, she let her head droop low. Papa’s watch swung like a pendulum, its silver face glinting in the soft lantern light.
A soft, frightened voice reached her ears. “Miss Willems?”
She turned her head and looked at her young charges.
Tommy and Joe sat up in the bed, their fever-flushed faces aimed in her direction although Tommy’s eyes seemed locked on her shoulder while Joe squarely met her gaze. Joe spoke again. “Miss Willems, where are we gonna go?”
Christina had no answer.
Chapter 16
Doctor Lang, at Mrs. Tatum’s insistence, bundled Christina in his buggy and drove her to the boardinghouse immediately upon completing his examination. The night’s snowfall had left behind a thick coating of white. The sunshine reflecting on the snow was so dazzling it hurt her eyes. But the wind had blown itself out, and she enjoyed the cool air against her feverish cheeks. The doctor helped her into the house, using the front door—although Mrs. Beasley fussed about the snow they tracked in—and insisted she go straight to bed. He left a bottle of foul-tasting medicine with which she was to gargle twice a day and informed her to rest until the fever broke.
Cora stood in the doorway with Louisa and Rose peering over her shoulders. All three women seemed to absorb the doctor’s directives, and the moment he departed, Cora dashed to the wardrobe and removed Christina’s nightgown from its hook. “Here you are, Miss Willems. Get yourself under those covers now. Me an’ the sisters”—Cora had chosen the nickname for the widowed sisters-in-law, who’d been together so long they had begun to resemble each other—“will see to the cookin’ an’ such ’til you’re on your feet again.”
Christina shook her head weakly in protest. “Oh, but—”
“Not one word,” Louisa stated. The elderly pair stepped into the room, hands on hips, and glared down at Christina. “Rose did some nursing when she was younger, so she’ll look after you while I assist Cora in the
kitchen. You just turn your attention to getting well.”
Christina took the cotton gown but crushed it in her lap rather than donning it. She shifted her gaze from Louisa to Rose. “As much as I appreciate your kindness, I can’t expect you to disrupt your routines to take over my responsibilities here.”
“Humph. Disrupt our routines, she says.” Rose rolled her eyes. “Ever since the fire, the two of us have been sitting in a little room from morning to night, darning socks and tatting doilies to keep ourselves occupied. Coming over here and helping will be a treat.” She shook her finger in Christina’s face, her eyes twinkling. “I intend to be certain you follow each one of that handsome doctor’s orders. So”—she shooed the other two out of the room—“you go see to dinner. I’ll get our Miss Willems settled.”
Christina allowed Rose to assist her into her nightgown, and then she slipped beneath the quilt. So lazy to be in bed in the middle of the day, but once she’d stretched out on the soft mattress, she lost all will to rise. Rose fluffed Christina’s pillow before placing it gently beneath her head. After pulling the covers to Christina’s chin, the dear woman bent forward and deposited a brief kiss on her forehead.
Rose straightened and offered a sweet smile. “I’ll go fetch a glass of cool water and put it here on the stand for when you feel thirsty.”
Not since she was a child of ten—before Mama died—had someone tucked her into bed with such tenderness. Tears stung Christina’s eyes. Before she could form a thank-you, the woman exited the room with a swirl of dark gray skirts.
Although she appreciated Rose’s kind ministrations, she couldn’t deny a fierce sense of guilt. She was supposed to be taking care of the others, not having them take care of her. She rolled to her side, tugging the quilt to her ear, and allowed her eyes to close. She must do exactly as the doctor directed so she could get well as quickly as possible. Rose and Louisa could help Cora with kitchen duties, but many other, more pressing responsibilities awaited Christina. And she couldn’t allow anyone else to assume those.
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