by Myra Johnson
“Warmer now?” Annemarie nibbled on a buttery scone.
He prodded his errant thoughts back to the present. “Much. Best coffee I’ve had in ages.”
“So where were you headed when you got off the trolley?” Her lips curled into a provocative smile. “Am I keeping you from some vitally urgent appointment?”
“Nothing that can’t wait. I . . . well, I’m looking to move out of the Ballards’ home.”
Annemarie fiddled with her napkin. “I thought you were quite comfortable there.”
“I was—am. I mean, as far as the living arrangements.” Samuel inched his chair back and drummed his fingers on the table. How could he explain without sounding uncharitable? “It’s just, seeing so much of Mrs. Ballard and Thomas, I’m finding it hard to uphold the necessary standards of confidentiality.”
“I think I understand.” Annemarie nodded slowly. “They expect you to share freely about every aspect of Gilbert’s recuperation.”
“Whether I agree with his reasons or not, as hospital chaplain I’m obligated to respect every patient’s privacy.”
She shifted, folding her hands upon the edge of the table. “Would it infringe upon his rights too severely if I were to ask you how he’s doing?”
“I would be breaking no confidence in replying that, physically, he is mending as well as can be expected.”
“But emotionally, spiritually . . .” Annemarie fingered the handle of her coffee cup. “Your silence on those subjects speaks louder than words.”
“I cannot say more.” Although he wanted to. He wanted to say much more, and not a word of it about Gilbert. He wanted to tell her how beautifully her violet blouse flattered those luminous brown eyes. He wanted to tell her the curve of her mouth when she smiled sent tingles up his spine. He wanted to ask permission to wrap his fingers around the errant curl forever sliding out of her bun, and to caress her ivory cheek.
“Samuel?” She laughed shyly, a curious look bowing her brows. “What on earth is going on in that head of yours?”
Face aflame, he bustled to his feet. “I’ve been dawdling far longer than I should. I’d offer to see you home—or to your factory—or wherever you’re off to—but I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”
Worry etched her forehead. “I shouldn’t have kept you.”
“On the contrary. This was much more pleasant than traipsing through dreary apartment buildings.” He helped her from the chair and into her coat. Outside on the sidewalk he said a hurried good-bye and strode off at a brisk clip toward the hospital.
Arriving at the tiny office he’d been assigned, he flopped into his chair with a groan. For his own sanity he ought to avoid Annemarie at all costs. She made him think thoughts and dream dreams he had no right giving brain space to. Gilbert may have convinced her his feelings had changed, but Annemarie’s love for Gilbert had not faded in the least—of that, Samuel was certain.
He gave his head an annoyed shake, as if to clear away his futile notions. A stack of messages lay in the center of his desk, and with a resigned shrug, he sorted through them. The majority were routine requests for prayer. Two patients had asked for spiritual counseling visits at his earliest convenience. Another message was a note from a nurse working the isolation ward, where a soldier severely ill with the Spanish flu feared dying without receiving absolution for his sins and desperately wanted to see the chaplain.
Absolution for sins. The words twisted through Samuel’s gut, stirring up images he’d been fighting every moment to suppress for the past five months. How could he convey God’s grace to another human being when he struggled so mightily to receive it for himself?
13
For nearly three weeks now, Mary had been working the isolation ward. Saints be praised, the influenza cases had tapered off, and not one death since the worst of the hospital outbreak back in October. Oh, the poor souls suffered gravely, and it was no pleasant task mopping feverish brows and trying to force fluids and nourishment into bodies too weak to respond. But at long last, there appeared light at the end of this dark and dreary tunnel.
She looked up from tending a delirious old gent to see a tall man in mask and gown enter the ward. Ah, yes, the chaplain. “Over here, sir, if you please.” Her voice sounded muffled as she pushed the words through her mask.
Though she couldn’t see his mouth, his eyes smiled a tentative greeting. “Are you the nurse who sent for me?”
“Mary McClarney, at your service.” She pointed toward a curtained-off area at the other end of the ward. “I’ve got a patient who’s certain he’s dying of pneumonia. He’s not nearly as close to death as he fears, but he’s been asking all morning for a priest. I told him on such short notice our nice Protestant chaplain would have to do.”
The chaplain’s brows drew together. Beneath his mask, Mary could see his jaw muscles flex. “I’ll offer what comfort I can.”
“I don’t have to remind you to keep your mask in place, and to wash up good when you leave the ward.” Mary led the way and positioned a chair beside the bed. “Sergeant King, sir,” she whispered close to the patient’s ear. “I’ve brought the chaplain.”
Rheumy eyes fluttered open. Dry lips parted in a gap-toothed smile before a cough rumbled through the man’s chest. He wiggled his fingers, signaling the chaplain to come closer. “Need to . . . confess.”
Chaplain Vickary sat on the edge of the chair and cradled the sergeant’s hand between his own. “The Lord knows your heart, Sergeant King, and His promise is sure: ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”
Catholic or Protestant, layman or clergy, truer words were never spoken. Mary smiled beneath her mask and left the chaplain to his duties. A fine man, the chaplain was, so kind and gentle, always ready with a listening ear and a comforting word of Scripture.
A shame he always seemed so lonely, though. Once during the holidays she’d seen him showing his mum around the hospital and grounds, and Mary was glad to know he wasn’t spending his Christmas alone. She’d heard he’d taken rooms with the family of handsome Lieutenant Ballard—who, thankfully, hadn’t been transferred to an asylum as she’d feared. Mary would admit to no one how often she peeked into the officers’ wing, hoping for even a glimpse of the dark-haired lieutenant or at least news of his condition. She had a few sins of her own to confess, mainly for . . . well, for stretching the truth a bit about nonexistent errands taking her past Lieutenant Ballard’s room.
“Nurse? Some water, please?”
“Here you go, sir.” She held a glass to a grizzled patient’s lips. This one was on the upside of his battle with the flu. Another few days without a fever and he’d be disinfected and returned to a regular ward.
A commotion behind her made her whirl around. The chaplain strode past in a blur of white, his face grim, and his breath coming in stuttering gasps. Besides his obvious distress, Mary saw immediately he’d lowered his mask.
Saints above, she’d warned him, hadn’t she? She darted after him, catching up as he pushed through the doors. “Chaplain! Do you want to be the next patient in my ward?”
He halted by the hamper, a dazed look in his somber gray eyes. He pulled off his gown and wadded it into a ball. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Now I know Saint Paul wrote about putting on the whole armor of the Lord, but when it comes to the Spanish influenza, God expects us to use a little common sense.” Mary pointed to the sink. “You get yourself washed up right this instant.”
Meek as a chastised young schoolboy, the chaplain bent over the sink and soaped his hands. Mary folded her arms and watched, not so much to be sure he didn’t miss a knuckle or nail, but because her instincts told her something more than a sick old soldier’s confession had happened just now.
“Chaplain, sir, are you all right?”
He shut off the water and dried his hands, then braced his palms on the rim of the sink. Without meeting her gaze,
he asked, “Do you believe God forgives every sin?”
“If I know my Scripture, there’s only one sin the Bible says won’t be forgiven.”
“To blaspheme against the Holy Spirit.” He turned, lifting weary eyes to meet hers. “What do you think it means?”
“You’re asking me?” Her face grew hot behind her mask. Gingerly she lowered it but stayed by the door. “Well, I was always taught it means to reject the truth of Jesus’ messiahship, like the Pharisees did. In other words, to deny God is God.”
His gaze slid to somewhere beyond her shoulder, and he nodded slowly. “Exactly.”
Then, looking as forlorn as if he himself were walking the road to the cross, Chaplain Vickary trudged away.
With the war behind them and the country slowly returning to normal, factory orders had increased significantly since the first of the year. Her days filled with bookkeeping, invoices, and filing, Annemarie was compelled to limit her own pottery making to the evening hours—and keeping busy suited her just fine.
Even so, she’d hinted to Papa that perhaps someday soon they might consider hiring part-time office help. Ever since Monday, the name Ralph Patton had played through her thoughts. Pointless to even make an inquiry when clearly she was in no position to rent shop space. But if she didn’t increase production and sales of her ceramic designs, she’d never save up enough to be able to open a shop.
The telephone rang, and Annemarie moved the ledger aside to answer the call. “Kendall Pottery Works.”
“Hello, Annemarie. It’s Thomas. Will you be there for a few more minutes? I have another nice little wad of cash to bring you.”
She drew in a squeaky breath. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” Thomas chuckled. “Why do you always sound so surprised that people are buying your work?”
She had no answer for him and instead replied, “It’s almost closing time, but if you’re on your way, I’ll wait for you.”
“Be there in a jiff.”
By the time Thomas drove up, Papa had shut down the plant for the day and headed home. Annemarie tucked a receipt into the filing cabinet and then hurried to answer Thomas’s tap on the locked front door.
He sauntered into the office and with dramatic flourish pulled an envelope from his inside coat pocket. “For you, Miss Kendall.”
Not as plump as last time, but still a sizable amount. Annemarie ran her thumb along the tightly packed bills. “Thank you, Thomas. This is wonderful.”
“Oh, and I have three more special orders for you. These folks will be in town for a month or two for spa treatments, so no big rush.”
Annemarie glanced over the pages he handed her. “I’ll start on these right away.”
“I’ll be on my way, then. Mother’s got big dinner plans for us tonight.” He angled a foot toward the door. “Maybe you’ve heard. Gil was released from the hospital this morning.”
A tremor started in Annemarie’s abdomen. She swiveled away and laid the envelope and papers on the desk. “No, I hadn’t heard. Good news, indeed.”
“He’ll go back several times a week for outpatient therapy. They’re trying to get his arm strong enough so he can handle crutches and won’t have to use the wheelchair.”
She smiled over her shoulder. “I’m glad for him. For all of you.”
“Annemarie.” Thomas’s voice softened, became pleading. He grazed her elbow with the fingers of one hand. “You should come over this weekend. Let Gil know you still care. He’ll come around in time. I know he will.”
“I don’t think a visit right now would be wise.”
“Did it ever occur to you that Mother and I miss you, too?”
“Oh, Thomas.” Seeing the forlorn look on his face, she went to him and offered a quick hug. He smelled of spearmint and tobacco smoke. Straightening, she flicked a piece of lint off his lapel and then gave his shoulder a sisterly pat. “You should get home. I need to close up, too, or Papa will be back to drag me home by my ear.”
She shooed him out the door and locked it behind him, then fetched her coat and turned off the lights. If not for the scolding she’d get if she skipped supper, she wouldn’t even bother going home but would set to work at once on those special orders. Her fingers itched to knead the clay and shape it into something uniquely beautiful upon the wheel, then to fire it in the kiln and add color and drama with paint and glaze.
Soon enough, soon enough. Leaving the steam heat on in the workroom, she exited out the back and started up the street toward home.
The savory aroma of roasting chicken greeted her as she burst through the kitchen door. Her stomach let out a growl, reminding her she was hungrier than she’d thought. “Smells delicious, Mama. Let me hang up my coat and I’ll help you get supper on the table.”
Mama donned quilted mitts and tugged open the oven door. “Call your papa in from the parlor. He’s looking at the mail.”
Annemarie paused in the entryway to hang up her coat on the hall tree and then strode into the parlor. Papa sprawled in his favorite chair, a monstrous thing upholstered in plush gray velveteen, and riffled through a small stack of letters and advertisements. She looked over his shoulder. “Anything interesting?”
He glanced up with a shrug. “The light bill. A circular from Stolzenberg’s Grocery. And here’s a belated Christmas card from your great-aunt Stella, along with a six-page letter. Looks like your mother’s already read it. Probably quicker to let her fill you in.”
“Probably so.” Annemarie couldn’t help but chuckle. They usually only heard from this eccentric old aunt at Christmastime, and she was known to ramble on about the events of the past year. “Mama’s ready to get supper on the table. She said to . . .”
A motion outside the front window caught Annemarie’s eye. She edged behind her father’s chair and drew back the curtain for a better look. Across the street, someone tottered back and forth along the sidewalk in front of the Trapps’ house. The corner streetlamp didn’t provide enough light for her to make out the man’s features, but the uniform and fair hair made her think it must be Jack Trapp. “What on earth is he doing?”
“Who?” With a grumble, Papa heaved himself out of the chair. “What are you looking at out there, Annie-girl?”
“Jack Trapp. He looks half drunk.”
Joining her at the window, Papa pressed his forehead to the glass. “I don’t think it’s Jack.”
“Then who—” A sudden jolt of recognition made Annemarie suck in her breath. She clutched her father’s arm. “Papa, it’s Samuel Vickary, the chaplain. Gilbert’s friend.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Now that he’d moved farther into the lamplight, she couldn’t mistake his broad forehead and curly blond hair, nor the fact that—yet again—he walked the wintry streets without his overcoat.
Annemarie hurried to the hall and pulled on her coat, then yanked her father’s heavy wool overcoat off the hook. If Samuel Vickary hadn’t the good sense to dress for winter weather, she’d have to convince him—or throttle him.
Halfway across the street, she slowed her steps. Samuel saw her. Turned. Smiled. “You’re here.”
“Well, of course I am, seeing as how we’re standing in front of my house.” Something clearly was not right. She marched forward. “Samuel, what are you doing here?”
His teeth chattered. He tilted his head as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “Walking . . . I was walking . . .”
“You idiot. Here, put this on.” She draped her father’s overcoat around his shoulders. He staggered under the weight, threatening to collapse right there on the sidewalk. “Samuel Vickary, have you been drinking?”
“I walked to your house. I wanted to—” The words slurred. He closed his eyes, shook his head, staggered again.
Annemarie propped him up with an arm around his waist. She didn’t detect the least smell of alcohol on his breath. Then in the glow of the streetlight, she saw beads of perspiration across his forehead and templ
es. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek. “Oh, dear Lord, you’re burning up! Papa! Papa, help me!”
Thank goodness, her father had been keeping watch from the front door. He bounded down the porch steps and trotted toward them. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s feverish, confused. I’m not even sure he knows where he is.”
“Let’s get him into the house.” Papa looped one of Samuel’s arms across his broad shoulders and wrapped his own arm around Samuel’s torso. With Annemarie helping to prod Samuel along, they somehow propelled him across the street, up the porch steps, and through the front door.
By then, Mama had come to see what all the commotion was about. “Put him on the sofa. I’ll get some blankets.”
“Keep your distance, Annemarie,” Papa barked as he deposited Samuel onto the sofa. “If this is the Spanish influenza, you don’t need to be exposed—if you haven’t been already.”
“I didn’t catch it when you were sick. I’ll be fine.” Annemarie took a throw pillow from one of the armchairs and eased it under Samuel’s head. Last spring her father had contracted a relatively mild case of the Spanish flu, and Annemarie and her mother both had tended him without becoming ill. Hopefully, they had some immunity.
Mama returned with blankets and tucked them in around Samuel’s shivering body. His teeth clacked together in rhythm with his labored breathing. “Cold . . . so cold,” he murmured even while shoving off the blankets and clawing at his collar as if he couldn’t get enough air.
“Poor man. Joseph, should we call our doctor? Maybe we should drive him straight to the hospital.”
“We should call Gilbert. He’s at home now.” Though Annemarie was loathe to make the call herself, Gilbert seemed likely to know what Samuel would want done on his behalf.
Mama met her gaze with eyes full of empathy. “Get some cloths and a pan of cool water to bathe his face. I’ll telephone the Ballards.”