When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  14

  Gilbert was about to lose his ninth straight game of solitaire when the telephone rang. Learning his mother was arranging an elaborate welcome-home dinner, he’d pleaded fatigue and retired for some peace and quiet before the evening’s festivities. It would be a few more weeks before he’d be fitted for a prosthesis and learn how to manage stairs again, so for now his bed remained in the study.

  The phone on the desk jangled on and on, until Gilbert thought his head would explode. Surely, Mother or Thomas would pick up one of the extensions? For pity’s sake, there had to be at least five telephones in this house. Mother simply hated missing a call from one of her society friends.

  Unable to stand it a moment longer, Gilbert snatched the earpiece off the hook. “Hello, Ballard residence.”

  A pause. “Gilbert? Is that you?”

  Mrs. Kendall’s voice was almost as familiar to him as his own mother’s. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. “I, uh, don’t know where everyone else is. Did you want to speak with Mother?”

  “Actually, I’m glad you answered.” Mrs. Kendall released a shaky breath. “Your friend Chaplain Vickary is here, and he’s very sick, probably the influenza. It might not be wise to return him to your house and expose everyone there, but he’s delirious with fever, and Annemarie—well, that is, we all thought you’d know best what he’d want us to do.”

  Guilt sucked the moisture from Gilbert’s mouth. He drummed his fingers upon the cards strewn across the desk. “Maybe you didn’t know—Sam’s taken an apartment across town. He moved out yesterday.”

  “Oh. I see.” She paused. “Then would you know if there’s a particular doctor we should call, or—”

  In the background, Annemarie’s voice rang out. “Mama, hurry! We need you!”

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming!” Mrs. Kendall stammered an apology and told Gilbert good-bye. The line went dead before he could spit out a hurried demand she report at once about Samuel’s condition.

  Shouting a curse, he scraped his forearm across the desk and sent fifty-two playing cards flying in all directions. Even with his weak left arm, he somehow got his chair across the room and jerked open the door, only to bang his newly healing stump and yelp in agony. More curses spewed from his lips. “Mother! Thomas! Where are you?”

  Footsteps pattered along the upstairs landing. Mother appeared over the railing in robe and slippers, her hair done up in an array of pin curls. “I’m dressing for dinner, Gilbert. What is all the shouting about? And you simply must refrain from foul language. You know I don’t abide such talk.”

  “I don’t give a—” He clamped his teeth together and exhaled sharply through his nose. As soon as he found the wherewithal to speak without yelling, he tried again. “Mother, can you please find Zachary for me? I need to get over to the Kendalls’ immediately.”

  “Now?” His mother scurried down the stairs. “Oh, darling, I’m delighted you’re so anxious to work things out with Annemarie, but Zachary has been dismissed for the day. Besides, dinner will be served in less than an hour, and Marguerite has been cooking all afternoon, and—”

  “Samuel is at the Kendalls’. He’s taken ill.”

  She skidded to a halt at the foot of the staircase. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll phone Dr. Lessman straightaway. I’m sure he’ll go right over.”

  Mother darted off toward the study before Gilbert could reply. He let out a sigh of frustration and stroked the day’s growth of stubble along his chin. Dr. Lessman was the crusty old coot who’d been the Ballard family physician since Gilbert was in knickers. What he lacked in bedside manner, he made up for with a keen eye for symptoms and enough medical know-how to fill his own library. It pained Gilbert to admit his mother’s bossiness might prove worthwhile in this instance, but asking Dr. Lessman to make a house call at the Kendalls’ would probably be quicker than transporting Samuel to the hospital and getting him seen by one of the busy staff physicians.

  And if it was influenza, little could be done beyond palliative care. Hearing of so many fellow soldiers admitted to the field hospital after falling victim to the disease—and far too many carried out days later for burial—Gilbert knew firsthand.

  His mother returned from the study. “I reached Dr. Lessman. He’s on his way as we speak.”

  Just then, Thomas strode in from the kitchen, his overcoat draped across his arm. “Dr. Lessman? Who’s sick?”

  Mother explained briefly about Samuel.

  “That’s awful.” Thomas hung his coat in the hall closet. “I just saw Annemarie—” He bit off the word, his face reddening.

  Gilbert gave his head an annoyed shake. “Just put your coat back on and hand me mine. You’re driving me over to the Kendalls’.”

  Annemarie stood between her parents in the parlor doorway, wringing her hands as she waited for Dr. Lessman to complete his examination. Samuel was less agitated now but still moaning in delirium. Moments after Mama went to telephone the Ballards, Samuel had nearly flung himself off the sofa, muttering horrible things about guns and bullets and bodies.

  Dr. Lessman straightened and closed his medical bag. Still wearing his mask, he said, “Point me to the bathroom so I can wash up. I’ll speak with you in a moment.”

  Mama nodded toward the far end of the hall. “You’ll find fresh towels in the cabinet.”

  Annemarie started toward Samuel, but her father caught her arm. “Best wait until we hear what the doctor has to say. No sense taking any chances.”

  “It’s too late for that, don’t you think?” Annemarie pressed one hand to her mouth in a futile effort to hold back tears. She leaned into her mother. “I told him and told him not to go about in this weather without his coat.”

  “There, there, dearest.” Mama slanted a look at Papa. “Just like all men, he’s only an overgrown boy who’ll do things to suit himself no matter how much mothering he gets.”

  The doctor returned and stood before them in the entryway. “I understand he’s a chaplain at the Army and Navy Hospital. Does he have family in town, anyone he could stay with?”

  “His mother is in Indiana,” Annemarie said. “He’s been living with the Ballards.”

  Mama squeezed Annemarie’s arm. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Gilbert said Samuel moved into his own apartment yesterday.”

  “So he’s living alone?” Dr. Lessman frowned. “In that case, it’s best he stay right here.”

  “Here?” Papa palmed the back of his neck. “But wouldn’t he get better care in the hospital?”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, in a hospital setting he’s much more likely to contract a secondary infection.” The doctor pursed his lips. “No, unless this turns into pneumonia, he’ll do better with private care. I can check in on him once or twice a day, and you can always call me if he takes a serious turn for the worse.”

  Annemarie exchanged a look with her mother. She couldn’t miss the worry reflected in Mama’s face.

  Mama kneaded her hands before offering a tight-lipped smile. “We can move him into the downstairs bedroom.”

  “Ida, we don’t have to.” Papa’s tone warmed with tender concern. “If he must stay here, we’ve a spare room upstairs. Between the doctor and me—”

  “No, no, it’s all right.” Mama lifted her shoulders and took a few short steps down the hallway. “Just let me tidy the room a bit. It’s been a long time . . .”

  Fourteen years, in fact. Mama herself had been the last to occupy the room, where sad memories of a difficult pregnancy and a stillborn child yet lingered. Annemarie hurried after her mother and caught her by the wrist. “I’ll see to the room, Mama.”

  “No, we’ll do it together.” A resigned sigh escaping her lips, Mama looped her arm around Annemarie’s waist. “It’s high time I put the past behind me.”

  Annemarie’s parents seldom spoke of their loss, but the haunted look in her mother’s eyes a few moments ago suggested a heart that still grieved. Even so, Mama briskly took charge of setting
the room in order. Fresh linens for the bed, a quick swipe across the dresser with a feather duster, opening the windows a crack to air out the mustiness.

  By the time they finished, Papa and the doctor used a blanket to fashion a litter of sorts. Between the two of them, they carried Samuel into the bedroom. “Best you ladies excuse yourselves while we get him undressed,” Papa said. “Ida, fetch a pair of my pajamas. They’ll swallow the poor lad but will have to do for now.”

  Mama had just gone upstairs when a strange clatter sounded outside the front door. A frenzied knock quickly followed.

  “What on earth?” Annemarie hurried to the door, but with an influenza patient in the house she hesitated to open it and expose some unwitting visitor. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Gilbert. Let me in!”

  At the sound of his voice, her stomach heaved. She peered through the filmy curtains covering the narrow strip of glass beside the door. Bundled in overcoat and scarf, Gilbert sat in his wheelchair, with Thomas standing next to him. Both looked anxious and impatient.

  Striving for a calm she didn’t feel, Annemarie eased open the door. “You shouldn’t come in. Samuel’s very sick.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Gilbert snapped, tacking on a curse that burned Annemarie’s ears. “What did Dr. Lessman say? Are you taking Sam to the hospital?”

  Gilbert’s belligerent tone shot bristling indignation up Annemarie’s spine. Their engagement may be off, but he had no right to speak to her as if she were a lowly private in his army. “I’ll thank you to speak civilly to me—if you speak to me at all, Gilbert Ballard.”

  “Just tell me—” His jaw trembled as if he fought for control.

  Thomas shuffled forward. “What my irascible brother can’t seem to ask politely is, is Sam going to be all right? Can we do anything to help?”

  “Dr. Lessman thinks it best if we care for Samuel here. We’ve moved him into our guest room.”

  “You’re not serious?” Gilbert’s eyes shot daggers. The fingers of his right hand curled and uncurled around the end of his armrest. “You can’t do this, Annemarie. I won’t have you getting sick.”

  She didn’t know whether to feel touched by his concern or more indignant than ever. Indignation won out. “First of all, I am not one of your underlings to be ordered about. Second, as we are no longer engaged, you have absolutely no say in what I do or don’t do. Now, if you will excuse me, my friend Samuel is ill, and I must see to him at once.”

  Casting an apologetic glance at Thomas, she closed the door with a thud and rammed the bolt home. Then, before her knees gave way, she stumbled over to the coat tree and sank upon the bench seat.

  A pair of pajamas clutched under one arm, Mama hurried downstairs. “Was someone at the door just now? I thought I heard voices.”

  “Gilbert and Thomas.” Annemarie looked up at her mother, a crazy mix of remorse, uncertainty, and stubborn pride twisting through her chest. “I just slammed the door in their faces.”

  15

  Heaven seemed so close . . . close enough to touch. Samuel tried to raise his hand toward the luminous face of the angel hovering over him, but molten chains held him down. Seared his skin. Boiled the breath from his lungs. He was drowning in an ocean of fire.

  “It’s all right, Sam. Just rest.” Cool rain bathed his face.

  He slept.

  And woke.

  And slept.

  And dreamed. Smoke and flame. Thundering explosions. The cries of the dying.

  He stood on the precipice of a black and bottomless hole, a grave with dragon teeth waiting to chew him up and swallow him. Oh, God, so many graves! Row upon row, death upon death. He read prayers over them, consigned them to Jesus, remembered their names when names were known, remembered their spirits when not a shred of identity remained.

  Every one, branded into his memory for eternity. Soldiers who died together and yet utterly alone.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow . . .” The words scorched his throat. His lungs spasmed in a racking cough.

  An arm moved beneath his head, lifting him. Warm liquid touched his lips. “Here, Sam, try to sip this. It’ll help.”

  He swallowed something lightly salty, gently soothing. Somehow, he found the strength to open his eyes. “Annemarie?”

  “Right here.” Above a square of white gauze, a tender smile lit her gaze. “Your fever’s down a bit. But we’ve got to get some nourishment into you so you can get your strength back.”

  He tried to take in his surroundings, but the slightest shift of his eyes sent stabbing pain through his head. Nothing looked familiar—velvet drapes at the window, pale roses vining the wallpaper, a lamp nearby with a pink brocade shade bathing the room in a restful glow.

  Not his room at the Ballards’, not the hospital. Not the starkly furnished bedroom of the flat he’d just rented. “Where—how long—”

  More coughing, until he thought his lungs would tear loose from his chest. Annemarie helped him sit higher, holding an enameled basin near his chin. He was mortified she should see him like this and so graciously attend to such a repugnant task, but he could no more control his body’s rebellion than he could hold back a fresh surge of admiration for this kind and gentle woman.

  “It’s all right, just cough it out.” As soon as he’d quieted, she disposed of the basin, then adjusted pillows behind him and bathed his face with a warm cloth. He drifted off again, floated on calm seas, angel’s breath whispering in his ear. Surely heaven could be no sweeter than this.

  If there is a heaven.

  Darkness and doubt crept in to gnaw at his brain like hungry rats in a foxhole. The graves again, bodies everywhere, and all around him the thunder of artillery fire, the chat-chat-chat of machine guns, the telltale sting of mustard gas in the air.

  “Please, God, make it stop! Make the killing stop!”

  “Padre! What are you doing? Get down—”

  He forced himself awake, sucked air as if every breath could be his last. Even though I walk through the valley . . .

  “You sound awful, but Dr. Lessman assures us you’re on the mend.” Annemarie went to the window and adjusted the drapes, letting in a wider sliver of sunlight. When he winced and rolled his head toward the wall, she gasped an apology. The room darkened once more.

  Again, she offered him the salty liquid. “There, that’s good. This is Mama’s special recipe. Normally she’d simmer it with huge chunks of chicken and a big batch of dumplings—which is what we’ll be having for our supper later, but you’ll have to settle for just the broth until you’re stronger.”

  Annemarie’s prattle nudged away the demons. He swallowed down as much of the broth as his stomach could handle and relished the warm comfort. With his eyes he offered Annemarie his thanks, and then sank into restful sleep.

  Mid-January and the isolation ward was almost emptied. Praise Jesus, the influenza seemed to be loosing its death grip on the world, and both Mary and her mother had avoided the sickness. She’d heard the poor dear chaplain had succumbed, though, and prayed for him every day. He was being tended at home by friends, so she’d been told, which she took to be a good sign. Serious hemorrhaging or the onset of pneumonia would have landed him in the hospital straightaway.

  Mary had even more for which to thank her Lord and Savior when Mrs. Daley finally changed her assignment. Returning to a regular ward, she went back to her usual duties caring for the ailing soldiers most likely to benefit from the unique healing properties Hot Springs offered. Indeed, she’d seen some amazing cures after a course of treatment with the radioactive mineral waters. Thermal baths relieved the pain and inflammation of rheumatism, and drinking the water was said to detoxify the body while stimulating bodily functions.

  “And good morning to you, Corporal McDonough.” Mary rolled a wheelchair next to the snowy-haired veteran’s bed. “Are you ready to go down for your therapy?”

  “Been counting the hours. What took you so long, young miss
y?” A teasing spark lit the corporal’s eyes. “Did you have to go all the way to Ireland to fetch that wheelchair?”

  “Aye, and don’t you wish you were back on the Old Sod? Now get yourself on out of bed, old man, before I call for one of them big bruiser orderlies to toss you over his shoulder and haul you out of here.” Mary winked and set the brake on the chair, then offered Corporal McDonough her arm as he eased himself off the mattress.

  Their banter continued all the way to the therapy wing. The corporal, not much bigger than a leprechaun himself and just as feisty, was a long-term patient with chronic rheumatism and gall bladder problems. As Mary checked him in for his session, a familiar voice behind her sent a quiver up her spine.

  “Pick me up in two hours, Thomas, and don’t be late this time.”

  Mary turned as the tall man pushing Lieutenant Ballard’s wheelchair looked away with a grimace. In the same moment, the lieutenant’s gaze met Mary’s, and a shock of recognition made him blanch.

  “I, uh . . .” His mouth twisted. His glance darted sideways, then slowly crept upward again. His brows drew together in an embarrassed frown. “I believe I still owe you an apology, Miss—”

  “McClarney. Mary McClarney. And it’s perfectly all right. No harm done, none at all.” She took a step closer and hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. “May I say, sir, you’re looking so much improved. I heard you’d been released.”

  The man with him cleared his throat and clapped Lieutenant Ballard on the shoulder. “An apology, eh? Someone else you’ve sliced to ribbons with the razor-sharp tongue you brought home from the war?”

  The lieutenant’s upper lip curled in the beginnings of a sneer. After a slow, deep breath, he clamped his teeth together and muttered, “Miss McClarney, may I introduce my little brother, Thomas Ballard.”

  The younger Mr. Ballard’s eyes widened in a knowing look. He gave a low chuckle. “Don’t tell me. You’re the nurse he decked last month.”

  Mary pursed her lips. “It wasn’t as bad as all that, now.”