Rose knelt beside the girl and sniffed. Sweet. Not sugar. “Marie? What is this?”
“Juicy Juice.” Rose wondered if the girl’s slurred speech was the mark of the emerging language of a two-year-old, but the lolling of her head made her appear more like a drunk than a two year-old on the mend.
What the hell was juicy juice?
Rose sniffed the girl’s face and blanket again. The wet wool odor masked the scent of the sticky stuff. Rose didn’t want to do it, but decided to since a little girl’s health was at stake. She licked her fingers then looked at them, turned toward the fire and peered closer at her fingers. Purple. What? Rose shook her head. How could a sick girl be sugared in wine?
A drop of liquid hit Rose’s scalp. She looked up at the dark ceiling and squinted. Something was definitely leaking. Rose bent over the bed just above Marie’s face and turned her face upward, waiting for a drip.
Plop.
Wine. Definitely. Rose growled. Marie was drunk from a steady drip of homemade wine. Elderberry, of course, was du rigor in Donora in October. Rose struggled to stand and her skirt licked the stove just enough to catch a flame.
She yelped and Marie giggled at the sight of Rose’s uniform blazing. Rose ripped the wool blanket from the bed and smacked at the flames, putting them out. But, not before the flames had seared the hem of her uniform.
Oh, this was not good, Rose thought. “Okay, little Marie. Out of bed, now.” Marie reached up but didn’t, or couldn’t, move. Rose scooped her up and flung her over her shoulder, taking her downstairs. In the front room Rose settled Marie onto Mrs. Lipinski’s lap and spoke to her about the wine and the neglect, telling her the girl could not go back into that bed.
“That there wine? Holy shit on a brick! I fergot the wine.” Mrs. Lipinski began to rock Marie, finally conscious. “That was Boguslaw’s wine. Fermentin’ he said. Just a bit of time, he said. But, he got swallowed by that there slag and I fergit, I fergit everthing.”
Rose sighed, torn between knowing what her job required and what she wanted to do.
“Must’ve blew out of the barrel n’at?”
Rose nodded. She would send Henry and Buzzy before their shift to do some repairs. They had an extra lamp; some rags. She didn’t have enough resources to furnish and clean up everyone’s home, but she couldn’t let this go. Her job was to help people help themselves.
She should contact Fanny at the Red Cross and file a complaint regarding the dangerous state of this home. Still, Rose believed she could change this woman’s life and not have to move her out of her home to do it. Stupid, Rose thought. That wasn’t the best plan. It might be the worst, in fact.
“I’ll give this outfit three weeks, Mrs. Lipinski. You have to have your household up and running, the children who are school age, back in school, the home lit, the rotten food gone, or I have to take the next step. Why don’t I send Father Slavin to see you? He’s a whiz at getting people back on their feet.”
“Can’t afford to be religious.”
“It won’t run you a dime,” Rose said.
Mrs. Lipinski pursed her lips, but nodded and squeezed Marie, smiling through tears.
Rose hauled the pot out of its cupboard and filled it with water. She lit the stove and shoved the soiled linens from Marie’s room into the boiling pot while barking a list of orders to Mrs. Lipinski. The woman seemed remarkably lighter in mood when Rose and the Sebastian women headed for the door, but Rose was unsure of the decisions she just made.
Was she showing off for Mrs. Sebastian, suffering from hubris? Thinking she could change things that might be impossible to alter? It wasn’t as though Mrs. Lipinski’s problems were all caused by her husband’s death. But, Rose had work to do and wouldn’t have time to reconsider her decision until later. And lucky for Rose, she was good at simply moving on.
* * *
When the door closed behind them, Rose exhaled. So did Mrs. Sebastian and Theresa, as though they’d all been holding the same breath since the moment they set their heels inside the Lipinski home. Rose would let Mrs. Sebastian have a moment before filling her in on the next visit. Or, perhaps Rose should report the numbers related to poverty and health care and how it affected costs, education, quality of life, longevity, everything.
Mrs. Sebastian unclasped her bag and rifled through it. She pulled a cigarette and Zippo out and held one to Rose. She shook her head. Unless there was a flask of vodka or her checkbook in that purse, the woman had nothing that could help Rose right then. Rose smoothed her coat, making sure it hid the length of the burn from the stove in little Marie’s room.
Theresa let out a groan then burst into tears, startling Rose. The young lady huddled up to her mother, latching onto her arm. Her face crinkled up in pain. Seeing how affected Theresa was moved Rose. She wasn’t accustomed to being taken by such emotion.
Mrs. Sebastian shooed her daughter away. “You’ll be fine, Theresa. Remember, you don’t actually live in that home. You don’t need to get all blue and…I just wanted you to see…oh, please start down the steps, so you don’t get winded.”
The girl followed her mother’s orders and disappeared down the way, still crying.
Rose was concerned about Theresa but knew that wasn’t her responsibility. She looked over the hills. The fog had burned off and left the sun a silvery moon rather than an egg-yolk sphere.
Say something. Rose wanted Mrs. Sebastian to signal that she was ready to fund the clinic.
As if she sensed Rose’s thoughts, Mrs. Sebastian held up her hand. “I need to further absorb what I saw.” She swung her hand back into her chest as though wanting to dislodge a chunk of meat from her windpipe, and bent forward, shaking her head. “It’s indescribable.”
Rose nodded, keeping her face relaxed, her outward professionalism intact despite her insides contracting with nerves. This was good, Rose thought. Like the cleanest windows revealing the worst circumstances of a person’s life, Mrs. Sebastian saw the need and was clearly impacted. Rose was sure the woman would not walk away without emptying her wallet.
Rose would give Mrs. Sebastian time to collect her emotions. She turned toward the view down the hillside—bright compared to before—a colorless backdrop for the blast furnace fires and busy citizens scurrying here and there. It reminded Rose of pencil drawings she’d seen by Raphael Soyer, beautiful even without dazzling hues.
Bright as the late morning seemed in comparison to when they went into the Lipinski home, the smoky waste from the mills obscured her view of the town across the river. Rose watched Mrs. Sebastian out of the corner of her eye, waiting for the right time to continue her sales pitch.
The sound of feet thumping over the wooden porch made Rose turn. She’d forgotten about Leo. He flung himself into Rose, and she patted his back.
“Why Leo. Meet Mrs. Sebastian. She is the wife of one of our leading citizens in town. She is very important.
He cowered behind Rose. She pulled him out from behind her. “Shake her hand.”
Leo stretched his hand to Mrs. Sebastian but didn’t look at her.
“Make eye-contact Leo,” said Rose. “You know the proper way to greet a grown-up.”
Mrs. Sebastian shook Leo’s hand and looked at Rose.
“My nephew. You know how those things go sometimes…maybe not. But he’s a good boy this one. Smart.” Rose patted his back as he grinned at her.
Mrs. Sebastian exhaled deeply, clutching at her chest again. “Well, thank goodness. That would have stopped this outing cold—a nurse with a young son, traipsing around town, in questionable situations with questionable people. A woman should be in the home. If it’s a proper one.”
Rose’s earlier exhaustion set back in and Rose swallowed a yawn and forced a smile.
“Mrs. Sebastian and I have one more home to see and we’re short on time. So, why don’t you see your way home, Leo?”
Leo clutched at Rose’s torso, not willing to leave.
Rose pried off his hands and she sq
uatted down to his level, lowering her voice. “Go on home, Leo. Stay on the walks and be polite. Don’t chitchat and keep people from their daily round, sit your ass on the steps until your father or uncle Hen wakes up. Don’t light the stove, don’t waste electricity, don’t…just sit there. Read the funnies. And I’ll be home just as soon as I can.”
Rose patted him on the behind, sending him on his way.
Mrs. Sebastian held her hand palm-up. “Feels like rain.”
Rose was relieved the conversation changed course.
“No,” Rose shook her head and pointed northeast toward the zinc mill, toward Mrs. Sebastian’s home. “See the smoke there, running across the Mon?”
“The black smoke?”
“No, the whiter, yellowish smoke comes from the zinc mill—across from your house.”
Mrs. Sebastian adjusted her gaze and nodded.
“The plume runs directly over the water, to Webster.”
“Like a river,” Mrs. Sebastian said.
“Well, when that plume runs over your house instead of over the river, that’s when you know rain is coming.” Rose raised her hands into the air. “Not a bit of wind.”
“A plume? Huh.” Mrs. Sebastian said. “We get plenty of smoke without a funnel of soot rushing overhead. Theresa suffers from all manner of issues and, well the list is long in regard to how she suffers. There are times I think the smoke causes her more distress. But others say, many doctors have said, no. She’s just weak, and sometimes, well, I’ll deny it if you repeat that—what I said about the smoke making her sicker.”
Mrs. Sebastian turned her back to Rose, sucking on her cigarette.
Rose didn’t think Mrs. Sebastian’s words were an invitation to confide so she changed the subject. “The second home I have on the list is quite different from the Lipinski’s.” Rose explained to Mrs. Sebastian’s back. “The Hornack home is two doors down. The mother died giving birth to premature twins.” When Rose delivered them, she thought the babies would die, too, but they didn’t.
She outlined the care plans she had enacted to Mrs. Sebastian. She had contacted Mr. Hornack’s sister and she came to live there and while the Mister continued his shifts, Rose mentored the sister to care for the fragile babies. Rose organized the home (the pregnancy had left the mother unable to keep house and the husband unwilling to do it for her) and arranged a breast-milk bank with thirteen women willing to donate their extra breast-milk to the cause.
Rose constructed warming tubes from bicycle tubing to keep the babies’ temps up, and trained the father to do the housekeeping he never would do before his wife had died. He and his sister lived up to all the standards of hygiene to discourage diseases like polio, TB, flu, and skin infections as directed.
Mrs. Sebastian flicked her cigarette onto the dirt hill beside the porch, but didn’t face Rose.
“A breast-milk bank?” Mrs. Sebastian lit another cigarette then rested her hand over her belly, nearly singeing the fine blue material of her suit. Rose waited for her to spout something off about women should keep their milk to themselves.
“Now that’s a bank a girl could get behind,” Mrs. Sebastian said. “I wonder if I could…when this baby comes, make use of that bank.” She rubbed her belly, looking down at it.
Rose hid her initial inclination to frown at the woman. This was an opening, a bit of leverage. Perhaps she could lure Mrs. Sebastian toward funding the community nurse if she saw a need for it herself. She would tempt the woman; make her want the service, something that perhaps she could not have.
“I’m sure with this not being your first pregnancy, you’ll be an old pro at nursing your baby. Even though you’re more mature than a lot of mothers—uh, that sounded atrocious. I didn’t mean to note your age.” Rose meant to note it. She didn’t feel very warm toward the woman.
Mrs. Sebastian swung around to face Rose. Rose stiffened, waiting to be scolded. She should learn to keep her mouth shut.
“I like you, Rose Pavlesic, nurse Pavlesic.”
Rose’s eyes widened. She hoped the woman wouldn’t pick up on Rose’s worries.
“Dr. Bonaroti said you were forthright. Therefore, I feel I can be honest and say that our Theresa—she’s twenty now—was adopted. That wasn’t easy. We didn’t quite adjust as I had hoped. At the time I thought not breastfeeding might be part of our difficulties. But now I don’t want any part of the baby suckling, even this one who will really be mine. Isn’t it strange the way the world works?”
Rose held her hand up. “Adopted?” Rose had assumed Theresa must resemble Mr. Sebastian more than the Missus.
“Yes, and you can understand that I’m the age that many women have their sixth or eighth child, but this one will be my first. And if some other woman, more comfortable with being milked like a cow than I am, is willing to bank her milk then I’m willing to buy it. At my age, having a baby, dealing with, well all of it…I can’t say I’m ready for this.”
Rose’s face seized, possibly revealing her confusion and disgust, neither of which she wanted to. She forcibly relaxed her expression. She felt her lips quiver under the strain of a phony smile.
Adoption.
The word thrust Rose back to that day. That day, that one.
Rose saw something out of the corner of her eye and jerked toward it. Nothing. Just the soul shadow. She rubbed her arms, staving off the familiar chill brought on by memories she would rather bury.
“Well,” Rose said. “I’m sure we can make arrangements, especially since you’re willing to pay.”
Tingly heat rushed through Rose, as she tried to shake off her past. She grasped the railing at the top of the steps. “Shall we go?”
The rusty metal shuddered under Rose’s weight as she waited for Mrs. Sebastian to move along. She wondered if the feeling of shame would ever go away. Rose caught herself doing the sign of the cross.
Mrs. Sebastian joined Rose. “I’ve embarrassed you.”
“No, no. I’m a nurse. I’ve heard it all.” Rose cleared her throat and re-established the tight smile on her face. “It’s my schedule. I’d really like to show you—”
“I saw plenty.” Mrs. Sebastian pulled on her gloves, the soft leather teasing Rose with finery she may never enjoy herself. “I’ll speak to Mr. Sebastian this evening and then well…I’d like you to examine our Theresa, thoroughly. She had an appointment with Dr. Bonaroti and he suggested you were the best for follow-up.”
“Theresa, yes. Absolutely.” Rose met Mrs. Sebastian’s gaze knowing she needed to force the woman to say yes to the funding very soon. “Tomorrow?”
“I’ll arrange my schedule.”
Rose gripped the handles of her bag and pushed back her shoulders. “What about—”
“There’s time for that later,” Mrs. Sebastian said.
Rose wanted her to clarify what Mrs. Sebastian meant, but reconsidered, thinking she shouldn’t push. Rose knew her strengths and if she could offer Theresa relief from asthma, it would go far to hook the Sebastians’ interest in the clinic.
Rose cleared her throat to stave off her building desperation. “Tomorrow, then.” She didn’t like to be patient, but she knew with this woman, it was her only choice.
They headed down the steps to where Theresa waited. Rose offered to walk Mrs. Sebastian to the trolley or wake Henry to borrow a neighbor’s car. But Mrs. Sebastian declined saying she’d prefer to walk with Theresa, to think.
Rose looked down at Mrs. Sebastian’s shoes. One of the exquisite appliqués was missing. Rose shut her eyes, wondering what other damage had been done to Mrs. Sebastian’s clothing in the Lipinski home.
“Your shoe.”
Mrs. Sebastian turned her slim foot back and forth as though the action would make the appliqué reappear. “Yes, I know. No sense in going back into that nightmare to root through the debris for a piece of glittery shoe décor. Besides, everyone can use a little piece of shiny glass something in her home. Don’t you agree?”
Rose watched Mrs.
Sebastian and Theresa weave in and out of the crowd of grey suits and everyday calico dresses of housewives headed out on errands, and felt a tinge of hope. Rose said a quick prayer that Mrs. Sebastian saw the experience as Rose had—as proof that her role in the community was vital. But, she wasn’t so sure she had shown that. She wasn’t sure at all.
* * *
Someone was shaking Henry like a martini. He opened his eyes, blurry and dry, and rubbed them. Who was bothering him? He swung his legs over the side of the bed to see Sara Clara. She dug her cotton candy colored nails into his shoulder, whispering, like a snake hissing.
“I need your help.” Her heavy, lavender perfume turned his stomach, but her face, its perfect porcelain, heart-shape made him want to pull her into him and hold her as though she were his wife. He pushed her away.
“What the hell’s half acre are you doing?”
“Rose is gonna string me up.”
Henry saw Sara Clara’s face strained with fear. He’d always thought Sara Clara put on an act, being afraid of Rose, a performance of insufficient housekeeping skill so Rose wouldn’t actually ask her to do anything around the house. But this time, it was clear, Sara Clara was scared to death.
“Get the hell out. Get Buzzy up,” Henry said.
“No, Henry, it’s not another burnt roast. It’s that woman, superin-whatever y’all call it; she’s here for her own little home visit she said. Rose. Is. Going. To. Fry. My. Kiester. This woman makes Rose seem sweet. A girl is with her. Beautifully dressed. Rose is gonna have my hide.”
Henry’s mind was half-asleep as he ripped away the blankets and pulled on his jeans. Sara Clara must be mistaken. He grabbed a white undershirt and then threw it back and took a more tailored shirt, two toned with buttons down the front.
He went to Rose’s wash table, threw water over his face and wet his hair back with a comb. He scurried to the room at the front of the house, but no one was there. Henry jogged down the hall to the kitchen, paused and saw two very well dressed women, the younger one, not much older than Magdalena. This was going to require his best gentleman act.
After the Fog Page 9