A Basket Brigade Christmas

by Judith Mccoy Miller

  Mrs. Collins turned a full circle. “I was that bad? Truly, my singing was that dissonant?”

  “Not that,” Lucy said, being the kind hostess.

  Mrs. Collins pointed at her. “It was. I saw your faces.”

  Zona came to their rescue. She slipped her arm through that of Mrs. Collins. “Why don’t we go into the dining room to talk about it.”

  The woman who’d been cutting out squares on the dining table willingly relinquished the room, and Zona closed the pocket doors behind them. She offered Mrs. Collins a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you, but—”

  “They cringed,” she said. “They looked as if they were in pain!”

  So what did you learn from this?

  But what Zona assumed would be a moment of revelation …

  “What’s wrong with the people in this town? I have a lovely voice.”

  Zona was at a loss. If the women’s reactions didn’t make Mrs. Collins recognize the truth, there was little hope. She pulled out two chairs. “Sit down. Let’s work through this.”

  Although the woman sat, it was only for a moment as she popped up and resumed her pacing. “What is there to work through? I am a woman of great generosity, willing to do the work that is required to share my gift. That the citizens of Decatur are blind to it …”

  But not deaf.

  The mention of her “gift” gave Zona an idea, which was solidified as she noticed Mrs. Collins’s dress that sported a jaunty trim along the sleeves and bodice. “Did you make your dress?”

  Mrs. Collins looked down, as if remembering what she was wearing. She smoothed her hands along the skirt. “I did.”

  “There you are. Look at your fashion sense. I don’t know any other woman in town who would think of using that trim in such a delightful manner.”

  “Thank you. I ordered it from Chicago before the war.”

  “It’s very lovely.” Zona stood. “Would you be willing to be in charge of the costuming for the musicale? It’s not an easy task as we have to make do with what clothing people have and the costumes we’ve kept at the theater from past productions, but I know with your creative eye you could make what’s old seem new and fresh. Singers, I have, but a woman with an eye for fashion …. I could really use your help.”

  Zona held her breath, waiting for her reaction.

  Mrs. Collins fingered the edge of the trim on her bodice. “Well, perhaps. Actually, I think I would like that.”

  The tightening in Zona’s belly eased. “I’m so pleased. You will be our official costume mistress.”

  A smile spread across Mrs. Collins’s face. “I like that title. I accept.”

  Zona offered the woman her arm. “Shall we go tell the others?”

  “Here you are, Mrs. Byron.” Cardiff handed her the packet of headache powder. “If you don’t find relief, come back and I’ll do a bloodletting.”

  She handed him a coin and left. When he saw that it was a quarter, he sighed. Not only had the war put a damper on his quantity of patients, but also their ability to pay. He usually charged a dollar for the office visit and twenty cents for the headache powder. And most of his wealthier customers wanted him to come to their homes, which meant he could charge higher fees. As such, he made a good living. Made. As it was, he wasn’t making enough to pay the Millers. And he was not alone. With many of the men off to war, everyone’s business had slowed.

  He tossed the quarter into a dish on his desk and stood at the window, leaning on his cane. It was a good bet Mrs. Byron’s quarter would be his total income for the day.

  He spotted a young man he knew reading a recruiting poster nailed to the shop across the way. Cardiff had brought Will Thompkins into the world. Actually, Will was the first baby he’d ever delivered.

  Will touched his fingers to the poster, on top of the word You. RECRUITS! WE NEED YOU!

  The thought of Will going off to fight spurred Cardiff to grab his coat, rush out the door, and cross the street.

  “Will!”

  The boy turned around. “Hello, Dr. Kensington.”

  Cardiff nodded at the poster. “You’re not thinking of joining up, are you?”

  The boy’s fingers strayed toward the You again. “My pa and my older brother have gone off, and I can’t stand just sitting here, not doing anything to help.”

  Cardiff thought of the Thompkins family. Will had three younger siblings. With Mr. Thompkins also gone … Cardiff put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re needed here, Will. You’re the man of the family while they’re gone. How would your mother survive without you here?” How would she survive if you were killed?

  Will drew in a breath that made his shoulders rise, then let it out. “I know you’re right, but don’t all this make you want to help? Sitting here, doing nothing, seems wrong. Dishonorable.”

  His innocent face pulled with sincerity, his eyes revealing the depth of his heart. Will waited for Cardiff’s response, yet Cardiff didn’t know what to say. The boy’s argument couldn’t be disputed. Yet to agree to it would require him to take personal action he didn’t want to take.

  “Doctor?”

  Will was needed here. But Cardiff wasn’t. Images of Cooper and Dr. Phillips invaded his mind. Their words doggedly resounded in his head: “I will serve my country well and with honor…. Your help is needed…. Please come.”

  Cardiff was surrounded by these men, their words, the recruitment poster, and this earnest boy. He could make excuses and return to his empty office, go home for lunch—it was carrot soup day—and let today play out as yesterday had, and tomorrow would.

  Or …

  Cardiff took his own deep breath and released his answer, letting it loose of its own volition, for if he thought about it too much, he would find a reason to take it captive, and find yet another reason to lock it safely away for the duration of the war.

  It was now or never.

  “You have inspired me, Will. I do want to help. I do want to pursue the honorable choice.”

  The boy’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Cardiff’s cane. “You’re signing up?”

  “I have been called to other service at a hospital in Chicago where I will attend our soldiers, wounded in battle.”

  Will nodded. “That’s terrific, Dr. Kensington. I’ll feel better about my pa and brother fighting if I know you’re there to help them if they get hurt.”

  He was naive, but Cardiff accepted the compliment.

  “When are you leaving?”

  First things first. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and jotted on a scrap of paper. “Would you take this to the telegraph office for me, Will?”

  “Of course.”

  Cardiff’s response to Dr. Phillips was short and to the point.

  I’M COMING.

  “But what about us, Dr. Kensington?”

  Gregory and his wife stood before him in the parlor, deep furrows between their eyes. He understood he was blowing apart their neatly ordered world, which revolved around creating his neatly ordered world.

  “I need you to stay here and take care of the house and my office.”

  “Without you here?”

  “Without me here.” He offered them a smile. “My absence will allow you to vary the menu, will it not, Mrs. Miller?” She often complained about his need for a culinary schedule.

  “I suppose, but it won’t be the same.”

  “No, it will not,” he conceded. “But in many ways it will be easier, for you will have only yourselves to care for.”

  “But who will draw your bath and set out your suits?”

  “And mend them,” Mrs. Miller added.

  Who indeed? Cardiff wasn’t used to fending for himself, be it for meals or his daily toilette. “I will make do without you.” He thought of a reason they couldn’t dispute. “As a sacrifice to our country.”

  Gregory nodded once. “What about your patients? What will they do without you?”

  “They will have to go to Dr. Smith in S
t. Charles.” He did worry a bit for the emergencies that would no doubt crop up. But it couldn’t be helped. “Our brave soldiers need me, and I must go.” He said it as much for his own convincing as theirs. “Perhaps you could use this time to visit your daughter? She lives in Columbia, does she not?”

  Mrs. Miller looked at her husband. “It would be nice to have time to visit. We haven’t seen our newest grandson.”

  “Very good, then,” Cardiff said. “Take this as a blessing in disguise.”

  It was good advice.

  “Go ahead, Anabelle. Play the song.”

  As twelve-year-old Anabelle played Zona’s piano, she hit far more wrong notes than right. With a sigh, she stopped and let her hands fall into her lap. “The notes blur together. I can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can. What have I told you about the posture of your fingers?”

  Anabelle looked to the ceiling. Suddenly, she held her hands like she was mimicking a bear’s paw.

  Zona laughed. “I knew you’d remember, though you need to relax your fingers as you curve them.” She took hold of the girl’s hand and helped them relax from their animal-attack mode. “In order to smoothly move from note to note, you have to strike the key with the pad of your finger, not the length of it. Try again.”

  This time, there were far fewer mistakes. “There you are. Can you actually hear the music in it now?” As much music as there could be in the simple version of “I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.”

  Anabelle finished the song, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I did it!”

  “Indeed you did. Now, please remember: curved fingers.”

  “I will. I’ll try.”

  Anabelle looked to her lap, and it was clear she had something on her mind. “I wanted to thank you for letting me be in the Christmas musicale, Miss Evans.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re a very good singer.” A better singer than a piano player.

  “Too bad about Richard’s voice.”

  “Next year his voice will be all settled—though lower.”

  She nodded once. “I know a boy who sings prettier than Richard ever did.”

  Zona felt her eyebrows rise. “Why don’t I know about this boy?”

  “Cuz he’s shy. I don’t think he likes to sing in front of people.”

  “Then how have you heard him sing?”

  She bumped shoulders with Zona. “He didn’t know I was listening. He was walking a horse with a game leg from the Sandersons’ to his grandpa’s livery and was singing.”

  Livery. “Johnny Folson?”

  Anabelle nodded. “He sings like an angel, Miss Evans. You need to get him for the musicale.”

  Everyone knew Johnny. He was ten or eleven and worked at the livery with his grandfather, but also did odd jobs around town.

  “I’ll go have a talk with him,” she said. “Thank you, Anabelle.”

  “Miss Evans.”

  “Mr. Folson.”

  Johnny’s grandfather removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, which was glistening with the heat of exertion and the forge. “I don’t remember you having a horse.”

  “I don’t.”

  Johnny hauled in a bucket of water from outside, a layer of ice skimming its top. “Hello, Miss Evans.”

  “Hello, Johnny.” She turned to his grandfather. “Actually, I came to talk to your grandson.”

  “You have some odd jobs that need doing?”

  She hesitated, hating to lie but sensing a partial truth was the only way to gain a moment alone with the boy. “I may have.”

  Mr. Folson nodded to the boy and took up his hammer and the tongs that held a horseshoe ready for shaping. “Go on, then. But bring in more wood when you come back.”

  Miss Evans led Johnny outside. As snow was beginning to fall she got right to the point. “I hear you’re a wonderful singer, Johnny.”

  He looked as surprised as if she’d told him he was a wonderful ballet dancer. “Who told you that?”

  “Someone who’s heard you sing.”

  He shook his head and scuffed at the snow. “I don’t let nobody hear me sing.”

  She lifted his chin with a hand. “God says we shouldn’t put our light under a basket.”

  “Huh?”

  His eyes were the deepest hazel. “Your light—your gift of singing—is meant to be shared, not hidden.” She dropped her hand. “Sing something for me.”

  “Now? Here?” He scanned the street, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

  “Then come to my house when you’re free today.”

  “Grandpa won’t let me.”

  She thought a moment. “I do need help taking some props out of the storeroom. I’ll pay you a nickel for your time.”

  He hesitated then said, “All right, then. I’ll come.” He turned to head back inside. “But I’ll only sing for you, Miss Evans. No one else.”

  This could be a problem.

  A knock rattled the door.

  Zona peeked out a window and saw that it was Johnny. “Go!” she said to Mary Lou. “Go upstairs or he’ll never sing.”

  “I’m not sure this is wise, sneaking around his grandfather.”

  “I’m not hurting him. Now, go!”

  Although grumbling, the older woman disappeared up the stairs. Only then did Zona open the door. “Johnny. I’m so glad you came.”

  He entered warily, looking around the small front room. “I can’t be gone long.”

  “And you won’t be. I promise.”

  She started to sit on the settee then realized it might frighten him by placing her in the position of being an audience. “Let’s go into the auditorium.”

  She led him through the connecting door to the piano. She took a seat and patted the place beside her on the bench. “I do love Christmas carols, don’t you?”

  “I remember Mama singing ’em when I was little.”

  Little-er. She remembered hearing that Mrs. Folson had passed away in childbirth a few years previous. The baby had died, too. And now Johnny’s father was off to war.

  “Do you know ‘Joy to the World’?”

  When he nodded, she played the last few measures as an introduction then began to sing, to entice him into the song. “‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come…’”

  When he joined in, it was as though she had Richard back, yet a better Richard, for Johnny’s voice had a simple purity that made her forget every other voice she’d ever heard. She let her own voice fall away and let him sing a phrase by himself.

  He stopped singing.

  She looked at him. “You have a tremendous gift.”

  He reddened, looking to his lap. “I like to sing.”

  “You are meant to sing. Born to sing.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes mournful. “Pa didn’t think so. Grandpa doesn’t think so.”

  “So they’ve heard you?”

  He shrugged. “They heard me once, but they told me to stop because I reminded them of Mama and it made them sad.”

  “That makes me sad. Your mama was a good singer?”

  “She was always singing. When she was cooking dinner or mending or tucking me in at night. She couldn’t walk to the pump to fetch water without singing.”

  Zona put an arm around his shoulders. “What wonderful memories you have.”

  “I miss her.”

  “I miss my mother, too. And my father.”

  He looked at her with new eyes. “You don’t have neither?”

  She shook her head. “My mother was musical just like yours was. That’s why I play the piano and put on the musicales. In her honor. You could do the same.”

  He slid off the bench. “I can’t. It’s not allowed. I needs to go. You needed help with some props?”

  “I can handle it.” She led him toward the exit then remembered… “Here’s a nickel for your trouble.”

  He palmed the coin and looked up at her, his eyes sad. “Sorry I can’t sing with you, Miss Evans.”

&n
bsp; She closed the door behind him feeling sorry for herself, for Johnny, and for the world.

  Chapter 3

  Cardiff settled into his seat on the train, his heart pumping with the exertion of the trip preparations. When he’d come downstairs this morning, he’d spotted three trunks stacked neatly in the foyer and had informed Gregory that one trunk and his medical bag would have to suffice. He was taking up residence in a rooming house near the hospital—arranged by Dr. Phillips, who had telegraphed last night, expressing his joy at Cardiff’s affirmative answer.

  Sorting through his belongings, choosing just the basics, was taxing on both men’s nerves. By the time Cardiff got to the depot, bought his ticket, checked his trunk, and chose a seat, he was exhausted and relieved he’d made it on time.

  He checked his pocket watch. Three minutes to spare.

  As the train filled, he watched the final soldier on the platform, his hands cupping the face of his beloved. Their gazes were locked upon each other, her chin upraised, their bodies as close as propriety would allow. Closer.

  Suddenly, Cardiff was taken back to another soldier leaving his love …

  He closed his eyes and saw Zona’s face peering up at him, her eyes rimmed with tears. It was another depot in another time. Another war. And other emotions beyond love and longing.

  Anger was involved. And bitterness.

  For they were betrothed, and Zona had designed a life for them to suit her girlish dreams. They would marry and have three children. They would live in a house near her parents in Chicago, and Cardiff would work in her father’s printing company, grooming himself to take over one day.

  Because he loved her, Cardiff had let her weave the dream around the two of them. But as the weeks wore on, as Zona began making wedding plans, he found himself pulling away. He’d been on his own since he was orphaned at twelve. He wasn’t used to anyone else making plans. He made his own.

  He’d been thrilled by Zona’s attention, for he was but an employee at her father’s printing company. Who wouldn’t be flattered? She was a petite and pretty girl with auburn hair and brown eyes that flashed with wit and a zest for living. And willfulness.