“Are you all right?” Mary Lou asked.
“Not really.” She sighed and let the awful truth have a voice. “I was angry that he gave up a position in Father’s printing company. I was angry that he chose adventure over me. I was—”
“You said you never wanted to see him again.” Mary Lou’s voice was soft.
Zona’s memory of those words—said more than once with the vehemence of youth—returned with fresh teeth. “I didn’t mean it. I was a child. I was hurt. My pride was hurt.”
“You were used to getting your own way. You were determined to get the life you wanted. Your own house. A family. Status of your own apart from your parents.”
Yes, it was true she had wanted all those things, but one past desire rose above the rest, one that should have taken precedence above everything else. “I wanted him! Yes, I wanted all the rest, but …” Memories of her indulgent rants and demands stepped forward to demand inspection. She’d made the details of their future very clear. She had allowed no discussion.
Acknowledging her past faults made her uneasy. Yes, she’d been unreasonable, but wasn’t the greater sin sitting on the table before her now? She put a hand on the letter. “I could have had him back. He would have returned to me if I’d given him encouragement.” Her throat tightened. “I never wrote him. I didn’t know where he was.”
“Would you have written him if you’d known?”
Another sorry truth. “Probably not. Not without seeing these letters.” Another point loomed. “He never knew my anger could be overcome. He never knew I still loved him.”
“Love him?”
Zona shoved the letter in the box, closed the lid with a snap, and pushed it aside. “Don’t be silly.”
“Then why have you never married another? You had suitors.”
The images of Timothy and Dwayne and Oscar passed through her thoughts, a procession of nice-enough men who had not been enough for her to bind her life to theirs.
The reality of her life wrapped around her too tightly and tears began to flow. “This isn’t fair. We loved each other, but now I’m alone. I could have had a life with Cardiff. Not the life I concocted, but still a life.” She glared at Mary Lou. “Mother stole that life from me! How could she do that?”
Mary Lou shook her head. “I don’t know. It was wrong of her.”
It felt good to have her feelings confirmed, yet the validation was hollow. Zona struggled to her feet, her entire being emptied. “I can’t regain the past. It’s gone forever.” Mary Lou’s nod infuriated her, yet what could she say to offer comfort?
There was no comfort.
Zona’s practical nature stepped forward, once again coming to her rescue, defending her against the things she could not change.
“This entire discussion is wasted. Why talk of my love for a man who’s disappeared from my life so completely? Surely Cardiff has moved on.”
“As have you?”
Until now, perhaps yes. But this evening, everything had changed. The letters had fully awakened the dormant pain of what could have been. Her chest tightened as the old wound that had been patched by years of determination was torn open.
She smarted with a new rush of regret.
Cardiff’s landlady stood in the doorway of his room. “Breakfast is served at seven in the morning and dinner at seven in the evening. Does that suit you, Dr. Kensington?”
He dropped his trunk beneath the single window and set his medical bag on top. “I’m not sure I’ll often be here to dine. Work at the hospital creates variable hours.”
“Be here or not, those are the hours I serve the meals.”
“I understand.” He leaned on his cane. His knee screamed with pain. He didn’t want to be rude, but he needed her to leave. His body was weary, and his mind needed silence and solitude.
She pointed to the washstand. “There’s a water pump in the kitchen. I don’t abide by sloshing water on my carpet runners.”
“I’ll be careful, Mrs. Driscoll.”
“I filled the pitcher this evening since you are new, but from now on, it’s your job to get it and pitch it.”
“I understand.” Go now. Go.
She took a new breath, making the bodice of her dress rise. “Each boarder gets an evening to have a bath in the kitchen. Thursdays are free, if that will suit you.”
“Thursdays will be fine.”
She looked a bit surprised, as though she’d expected an argument. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you to settle in.”
Upon her exit, Cardiff’s survey of the room didn’t take long. It was barely ten-foot square, with a narrow bed, a dresser, a washstand, and a chair. The only benefit of the room was that it faced the alley at the back of the house, which should allow him to sleep whenever he got the chance.
Which he needed to do as soon as possible. He’d missed Mrs. Driscoll’s dinner, and knowing that back home shepherd’s pie and plum pudding were on the Wednesday menu made his stomach growl. Although he hadn’t experienced true hunger since the last war, the issue couldn’t be helped, so he set it aside.
He unpacked the trunk, using the bureau and the hooks on the wall, then got ready for bed. His shoes were dusty, and his impulse to tell Gregory to clean them was met with the reality of being totally on his own. He sacrificed a handkerchief to the task, washed, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed.
His feet hit the footboard, and when he scooted up, his head hit the headboard. Sleeping diagonally on the narrow mattress was impossible, so he turned on his side, missing his more generous and softer bed back home. His left knee did not like to be bent to such a degree, so full comfort was impossible.
You didn’t have to come. You didn’t have to take this job. You chose to be here. But then he thought of Will Thompkins and his friend Cooper, and his commitment was renewed. I will serve my country well and with honor. In a hospital far from the battlefield. In Chicago, his hometown. It could have been worse.
A small room and a too-small bed were small sacrifices compared to the horrendous conditions the doctors and soldiers endured in the field.
He fell asleep, counting his blessings.
Chapter 4
The hospital was a sea of white, a ward of beds made with white linen that covered pallid men swaddled with white dressings. Bandages covered wounds on heads, arms, legs, and hands. Some wounds would heal and some would not. Notable were oddly shaped appendages where hands and legs and feet should have been.
The men took little notice of Cardiff, many groggy from morphine or despair. All seemed uninterested in seeing yet another person who couldn’t make them whole again, turn back time, or make their futures worth living.
The soldiers ignited memories of Cardiff’s other war, where he assisted in a never-ceasing parade of amputations on the battlefield, soldiers with limbs shattered, their guts oozing, their blood mixing with the dirty ground, creating a ghastly mire. The memory of it made him look to the floor, and for a moment, he was surprised to see that it was made of wooden planks instead of dirt.
“Dr. Kensington!”
He looked up to see the familiar but older face of a man who also belonged in the war memories of his past.
They shook hands. “Dr. Phillips. I’m here.”
“Indeed you are.” His smile still had the power to charm. “But call me Stephen. We’ve known each other too long to be so formal.”
For a moment, Cardiff was taken aback. He was used to “formal.” His life was deeply rooted in order and protocol. The hospital was a serious setting that demanded a level of formality. Not knowing what else to say, he got to the point. “Put me to work.”
Dr. Phillips—Stephen—laughed. “That’s the Cardiff I remember. No dilly-dallying. Straight to the task at hand.”
And what is wrong with that?
Stephen clapped him on the back. “Come. Let me show you where to put your things, and then I’ll tell you what’s what, who’s who, and how things work around here.”
&nbs
p; Stephen led him to a small office off the hospital ward, where Cardiff removed his coat and hat and took a seat in front of a small desk.
“Well then.” Stephen sighed and sank into a chair. “Since you are the expert on amputations, I—”
Cardiff balked. “Please don’t give me that distinction. During the last war, I did no more than you. We learned on the battlefield. And in my practice, I’ve thankfully had little need for that procedure.”
“But you had a knack for it more than I.”
Cardiff was repulsed by the praise—if that’s what it was.
“Come now, Card. Where I cowered you had courage. You learned very quickly what to do—and what not to do.”
His mind tumbled with successes and failures. Under such horrible conditions, there were more of the latter. “These are not positive memories.”
“Remember how Dr. Niles always emphasized that more can be learned from failures than successes?”
Cardiff couldn’t help but smile. “A philosophy he held on to when I apprenticed under him in St. Louis.”
Stephen’s tone changed from welcoming to work. He nodded toward the ward. “Unfortunately, this war has created a need for new knowledge. In play is a far more deadly weapon than we’ve ever known before. The soldiers are supplied with a new rifled gun with a ridged barrel that can shoot with more accuracy than the smoothbore musket of past wars.” He opened a drawer then handed Cardiff a small iron musket ball.
“I’ve seen too many of these,” Cardiff said. Then Stephen handed him something else. “What’s this?”
“A minié ball, the bullet used in the new rifles.”
Cardiff set it next to the musket ball in his palm. “It’s huge.” It was a good inch tall, with a pointed end.
“It’s a .58 caliber compared to the .69 caliber of the musket ball. So it’s smaller in diameter, but—”
Cardiff turned it over. “It’s hollow.”
“And has ridges that make it spin with more power. It’s also made of softer metal that spreads as soon as it is shot, which means—”
“It makes a larger hole when it hits flesh and bone.”
“It shreds flesh and shatters bone instead of passing through cleanly. And the exit wound is larger than the entry wound.”
Cardiff’s usually strong stomach turned over. “So the boys here at the hospital are the lucky ones.”
“A questionable term. But yes, they are lucky in that they were shot in their extremities. The ones shot in their head, torso, or stomach were left to die, there being no hope to repair those obliterated organs.”
Cardiff let out the breath he’d been saving. “So what do you need me to do?”
“I need you to clean up the quick work of the battlefield hospitals, help me treat the gangrene, and do whatever we can to make our boys heal so they’ll be able to get back to their lives once the war is over.”
Cardiff thought of his sheltered world back in St. Louis where his days were filled with bellyaches, births, fevers, and the occasional sprained ankle. Yes, he had on-the-battlefield experience with amputations, but repairing the extensive damage of the current war might be beyond his abilities.
“Now that I’ve thoroughly horrified you, would you like to go on rounds with me?”
Before they exited the office, Cardiff felt compelled to say, “Stephen, I will do my utmost to help, but you are the expert here, and I am but the pupil.”
A crease formed on Stephen’s brow, but he nodded. “Together we shall learn how to best repair our boys.”
Both Zona and Mary Lou heard something at the kitchen door and simultaneously turned their heads in time to see a folded paper slide beneath it.
Zona retrieved it then swung open the door to see who might have left it, letting in a whoosh of November air. There was no one in sight.
“Close that door!” Mary Lou poked at the fire in the stove and added another log. “It must be an important message to venture out in this weather.”
Zona unfolded the small page and read it aloud. “‘Meet me at Trinity Church at 4. J.’”
“You have a secret admirer?”
Not likely. Zona was a bit confused until she added up the childish printing and the initial. “It must be from Johnny.”
“Why didn’t he just come in and tell you in person?”
She glanced at the clock. “He’s probably on his way to school.”
“What can he want?”
“Maybe he has a question about the music I gave him.”
Mary Lou’s eyebrows rose. “His grandfather will not approve.”
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Even with a knit cap beneath her bonnet and the hood of her cape raised and held shut at her neck, Zona walked to the church with her head bowed to the wind. She hugged the storefronts and took a deep breath at every intersection before braving the full force of the wailing winter wind.
She reached the church and hurried up the steps. She was just about to open the door when Johnny emerged from a crouched position nearby, hunkered down against the cold. “Miss Evans.” His cheeks were bright red, though she was glad to see he wore a hat and mittens. “You should have waited inside.”
He didn’t answer but held the door open for her. When the door closed behind them, Zona’s body relaxed enough to shiver. “I suppose we should seek out Pastor Davidson. Have you ever met—?”
“Johnny!” The pastor entered the narthex from the nave of the church. “So good to see you again.”
Zona was surprised they knew each other. She’d never seen Johnny in church.
“And Miss Evans. May I help you?”
Before she could speak, Johnny did it for her. “Would it be all right for Miss Evans and I to sit in here and talk?”
“As I’ve told you before, you are always welcome in God’s house. Any time, any day.” With a bow, he said, “I’ll leave the two of you to your discussion.”
Johnny removed his cap then led Zona into the sanctuary to the first row, just to the right of the center aisle. “This is my place.”
Now Zona was really confused, for this spot was usually taken by the Dormish family on Sunday morning. Although there wasn’t assigned seating, most of the congregation had their favorite spots. “I’ve never seen you here.”
He set his cap and mittens on the pew. “I come other times. Pastor says he don’t mind a bit. Grandpa and Pa don’t abide by God since He saw fit to let Mama and my sister die.”
“But you do—abide by God?”
He hesitated a moment then set a hand on the pew between them. “Mama used to sit here every Sunday, and I sat beside her.” He looked to the stained-glass window above the altar that depicted Jesus with His hands extended. “She’d sing every hymn by heart, looking at Jesus’ face, smiling like she was singing just for Him.” He stared at the window, caught in the memory.
Zona felt it would be disrespectful to disturb the moment. She felt privileged to learn more about this boy.
Finally, Johnny turned toward her. “I been singing the music you gave me when I make deliveries and can find some time alone. I know most of the carols by memory now.”
“Already?”
“They ain’t that hard. And I remember some of ’em from Mama.” He looked at Zona, his eyes bright. “I heard you’re going to sing at the train station for the soldiers?”
“We’re starting soon.”
Johnny nodded once. “I want to do that. I can’t do the other, the big musicale with all its rehearsals, but I want to do the caroling for the soldiers. It’ll make me think of Pa.”
“I’m so glad, but … will your grandpa let you go? The train comes through at half past five every day. Aren’t you working then?”
He squirmed in the pew, pushing himself back so his feet dangled. “I wasn’t going to tell him. The depot’s close by the livery. And I told Miss McHenry that I would come help her set up the tables for the basket ladies, so I’ll already be down there. I’ll be bac
k before Grandpa misses me too much.”
Actually, that did sound like the best alternative. But Zona’s conscience and the memory of Mary Lou’s words that morning dogged her. She was the adult here. Shouldn’t she set a good example and teach the boy the virtue of honesty? Shouldn’t she insist they not go behind his grandfather’s back?
But he’ll forbid it.
Zona weighed what was right against her own needs. Wasn’t it her responsibility to bring joy to the wounded soldiers as they passed through Decatur? Didn’t that need override the illogical directives of one man? She thought of the biblical defense she’d originally used to get Johnny to sing for her: God didn’t want people to hide their gifts under a basket but to share them for all the world to see.
Accompanied by a small but ignorable twinge, she made her decision. “If you think you can be there, we’d love to have you.”
He agreed with a nod then said, “Would you like to hear ‘O Holy Night’? I been working hard on that one—practicing in the church here.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Johnny stood and moved to the center aisle, but instead of facing Zona, he faced the window depicting Jesus. As he began the song, his face rose in a rapturous communion with its subject, as if the music was the boy’s offering. Zona felt a stitch in her heart and her throat tightened. She saw Pastor Davidson standing at the back of the nave, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, a look of pure pleasure on his face. He nodded at Zona.
She nodded back. This boy was meant to sing. He was born to sing this song.
When Johnny finished, he paused a moment, letting the last notes hang in the air. Then he blinked and lowered his gaze back to earth, to Zona. “Was that all right?”
She stood and put a hand upon his shoulder. “Your mama would be so proud.”
Johnny beamed and nodded toward the window. “Him, too?”
“Him, too.”
After dinner, Zona retreated to her room, foregoing the usual reading aloud with Mary Lou in front of the fire. She used the excuse that she felt a headache coming on, but it was only partially true.
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