The important thing was that she was interested, and her interest had sparked his own.
Zona was unlike any woman he’d ever met. Not that he’d met that many. He hadn’t had time to court or flirt. His parents died when he was twelve, and he’d been on his own ever since. A friend of the family had let him sleep in their attic—which was where he was still living when he met Zona. He’d had a variety of odd jobs during the day, but his favorite job was cleaning the classrooms in a schoolhouse. There, after everyone had gone home, he’d grabbed himself an education. He read the lessons on the chalkboard and pored through the schoolbooks left behind. When he’d taken a book on Greco-Roman history home and had been accused of stealing, he’d made a friend of the teacher, who thereafter let him borrow as many books as he wanted.
Reading so much, learning to spell as he read the words on the page, helped gain him the typesetting job. On more than one occasion he’d been commended by Mr. Evans for catching the occasional misspelled word before it went to print.
In hindsight, he realized Zona had pursued him—and caught him. Although such feminine aggression was not often looked upon kindly by society, he welcomed it. For with his lack of experience, he was all too happy to have a wonderful girl like Zona choose him. If only he’d—
“Doctor? Did you get that last line?”
His mind returned to the present. He was surprised to see that he’d transcribed a two-page letter for Corporal Meyers. He cleared his throat and read back the last line. “‘I love you and miss you more than words can say.’ Is that correct?”
“That’s it,” the soldier said. “Sign it, ‘your loving husband, Rolf.’”
The letter finished, Corporal Meyers gave Cardiff the address for Rhona.
Zona.
Where was she now?
“Come now, singers. Please pay attention.” Zona waited until all had quieted down. “I would like the following people to come in early tomorrow afternoon so we can work on the vocal parts for the caroling at the train station.”
“Don’t we all get to sing?” young Seth asked.
“You all get to sing in the musicale, but I only need a small group to sing for the soldiers.”
“How many?” Mrs. Smith asked.
“Four.” She thought of Johnny and covered herself. “Perhaps five.” Before there was more discussion, she gave the assignment. “Mrs. Smith will sing soprano, Mrs. Greer on alto, and of course Mr. Fleming and Mr. Pearson.” And Johnny.
“What about me?” Seth asked.
Zona was already weary of the boy, whose daily complaints over this and that hounded her. “Not this year.”
“Then when?”
Luckily, Mr. Fleming shushed him. “Quit yer bellyaching, boy. It’s wearing on all of us.”
“But if the rest of us ain’t singing there, why do we need to sing the songs now?”
“Because we will also be singing carols in the musicale on Christmas Eve.”
Seth crossed his arms and began his daily pout. “It ain’t fair. Not at all.”
Life’s not fair.
“Let’s turn to ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’”
“I’m glad we’re not singing this in Latin,” said one of the young ladies.
“Latin is beautiful,” Mr. Pearson said. “You young people don’t know what you’re missing.”
Zona agreed, but disagreed. “What the listeners would be missing is understanding the meaning of the lyrics. Now, come. Let’s begin.”
Since it was a familiar song, the parts were easily conquered. So much so that Zona dropped her arms and closed her eyes, letting the harmonies waft around her.
Then suddenly she was thrust into a memory of another group of singers offering up this very song. Two parts took precedence: her own voice singing the melody, and to her right, their shoulders touching, was Cardiff singing the baritone line with a mellow voice that melded perfectly with her own. We belong together, our lives melded together.
“‘Come and adore Him, born the King of angels …’”
As suddenly as the memory was born, it died. With a jolt, Zona realized she was singing alone.
She opened her eyes.
Everyone was looking at her.
“Sorry. I was caught up in a moment.”
“A moment far from here,” Mr. Fleming said.
Very far.
Zona was right in the middle of directing when she noticed Mrs. Collins come on stage with two costumes folded over her arms. She ignored her and continued the song to its end. “A little less tenor, Mr. Fleming.”
He gave her a familiar grimace—as he did not like to be told to sing softer. Zona was just about to begin the next song when Mrs. Collins interrupted.
“May I speak with you a moment, Miss Evans?”
“We’re right in the middle of rehearsal. Can it wait?”
“If you want the singers to sing naked, I suppose it can.” She stood her ground amid a flurry of giggles.
“I really would rather you waited until the end of rehearsal for your questions.”
“I’ve tried to wait. But you’re always hurrying off. Where do you go day after day with such speed and determination?”
Seth’s hand shot up. “I know! She’s helping—”
Zona’s stomach flipped. She interrupted before he could finish. “Carry on, singers.” She hurried off with Mrs. Collins. She was dismayed that her quick exits had been noted. Had Seth followed her? She’d cut him off just before he said Johnny’s name. Her secret rehearsals with Johnny had been very productive. But if anyone beyond Pastor Davidson knew—especially Mrs. Collins—then word might get back to Johnny’s grandfather. The caroling for the hospital train was starting tomorrow at five-thirty. Johnny was poised to sing. At that time, word would undoubtedly get out to his grandfather, but after the fact. Mr. Folson would hear praise about how good the boy sang, realize how much his singing pleased the soldiers, and relent.
It was a logical string of events. Yet life was known to break such strings.
“What do you need, Mrs. Collins?” she asked from the side of the stage.
“What was Seth going to say?”
Zona didn’t dare glance back at the boy. “Who knows? Now then, you have a question?”
Mrs. Collins hesitated, as if she was reluctant to leave one conversation for another. Finally, her own concerns took over. “Look at these costumes for the three kings. They are positively pitiful, not even worthy of three peasants.”
“They’ve served their purpose well enough.”
“Served, past tense. They look old and worn. I would like to redo all three of them and add some extra trim.”
“Who is going to pay for this?”
“The theater of course.”
There was no of course to it. “I’m afraid you have a misconception regarding our funds. We subsist solely on donations.” At the last moment, she remembered the curtains the Collinses had donated. “Generous donations, as you well know.”
Mrs. Collins’s face pulled as though she’d been ready to jump on Zona’s misspeak and was rather disappointed her recognition of the donation prevented it. “Surely my husband and I are not the only citizens of Decatur contributing.”
Pretty much. “War times are tough, wallets slim, and contributions are rightly going to help our soldiers.”
Zona remembered seeing Mrs. Collins at the sewing bee at Lucy Maddox’s. “Of course, you know about sewing for our boys with the other ladies of the Basket Brigade.”
Ha. Foiled you again.
“Indeed I do. I’ve sewn two shirts this past week and baked three dozen muffins. How many shirts have you sewn, Miss Evans? How many food items have you contributed?”
“Sewing and baking are not my talents.” As you well know.
“Or perhaps you are too busy with your … other projects?”
Zona’s stomach flipped. What did she know? Had she seen or heard Johnny practicing?
With a look of satisfaction at her
discomfort, Mrs. Collins moved on and gave her attention to the costumes. “I do believe I have some soutache braid at home that I was going to use on a new dress. But I would be willing to sacrifice my own ensemble to dress up these sad sacks.”
“That’s very generous of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the rehearsal.”
As Zona walked away, Mrs. Collins whispered after her. “The sopranos seem a bit weak.”
Touché.
As Cardiff studied the stump of a newly arrived soldier who’d had his leg amputated on the battlefield, he sensed someone standing nearby. He didn’t let himself be distracted and kept his focus on the badly sewn flap of skin over the stump.
When he heard the person breathing behind him, he said, “State your business, then leave me to the work.”
“I’m not here to leave you to anything, Doctor. I’m here to do the work for you.”
The words themselves were shocking in their audacity, but it was the gender of the speaker that caused Cardiff to turn around.
A middle-aged woman in a simple black dress and apron stood nearby. She peered around him and pointed. “You really should use finer suture for that.”
Cardiff couldn’t believe his ears. “Excuse me?”
She pointed again. “I could get some for you if you’d like.” While she was talking with him, she tucked in the sheets of the soldier in the next bed. “When was the last time these sheets were washed?”
Cardiff was taken aback. Who was this woman?
The soldier answered. “I been here three weeks, ma’am. They’s never been washed since.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She scanned the room. “All these linens need to be washed immediately.”
Cardiff was rendered speechless. How dare she act like she was in charge? He looked around for Dr. Phillips, but he wasn’t in the ward. “Under whose authority do you come in here and order things done?”
The woman lifted her chin, met Cardiff’s gaze, and said, “On the authority of our Lord God Almighty. Have you anyone who outranks Him?”
Some of the patients and attendants laughed.
Cardiff glared at them then put his needle down and escorted the woman to a private corner.
“I demand to know who you are and why you are here.”
“My name is Mrs. Breston. And I’m here to give aid to my boys.”
“Your boys?”
She gave a strong nod. “All of them. Mine to care for.”
“Who hired you?”
“No one.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am not an employee of the army or the hospital. Or you.”
“Then you have no business being here.”
“I have every business being here—without pay. Think of me as an angel of mercy.” She swept an arm toward the soldiers behind her. “As long as they’re here, I’m here.”
Cardiff spotted Dr. Phillips coming into the ward and motioned him over.
Stephen joined them and kissed the woman on both cheeks. “Mrs. Breston. I’m glad you’re here.”
She gave Cardiff a smug nod. “Just arrived—and just in time from what I can see.”
“You invited her here?”
Mrs. Breston answered for him. “I have no need for an invitation. I go where I’m needed.” She looked at Cardiff directly. “As I told Dr. Phillips, I have worked in four hospitals near the battlefields—I was an eyewitness to the carnage at Fort Henry and Fort Donelson. And I set up hospitals in Cairo, down south.”
Then why are you here?
As if she’d read his thoughts, she said, “I am here because I am a widow with two boys of my own, and though relatives are kind enough to keep their care, I returned to Chicago to be near them. And while I’m here …” She turned her attention to Dr. Phillips. “I need vats of boiling water to get these sheets washed. Where can that be set up?”
“There’s a barn outside.”
“That will do.” She strode away and pointed to an attendant. “Boy? I need you and two others to move four of these soldiers to these clean, empty beds, carry their sheets down to the vats, wash them, dry them, make up the beds, then transfer more boys to the clean beds and—”
The attendant looked aghast. “I ain’t no washerwoman.”
“You’ll be whatever I need you to be—whatever these men need you to be. Do you understand?”
The man looked to the doctors, clearly wanting to be saved. “Best do as she says, Corporal Hines,” Stephen said.
With a nod and a thank-you, Mrs. Breston left them.
“I’m not at ease with a woman in the ward,” Cardiff said.
“Neither am I. But times are changing. She seems capable and willing to work hard. She brought along letters of recommendation from Generals Grant and Sherman. I can’t turn her away. Can you?”
I’d like to try.
Yet as Cardiff returned to his suturing, he did think about getting some finer thread.
But no. He was the doctor here, and he refused to let this woman bully him into changing his ways.
After rehearsal, Zona went to the kitchen, expecting to help Mary Lou with dinner. But the stove was cold, the pots empty. And Mary Lou was absent.
She looked on the table, hoping for a note to explain her absence. There was nothing.
It wasn’t like Mary Lou to be late, and she was always good about leaving a note when she went out.
Just as Zona was making the decision whether to go look for her or start dinner herself, the kitchen door opened and Mary Lou came in.
“Where were you? I was worried.”
Mary Lou removed her bonnet, dusting away the snowflakes. She hung up her cape. Only then did she face Zona. “You need to sit down.”
Zona’s mind swam with horrible possibilities, but she gratefully took a seat. “What happened?”
“Richard Grimble was killed.”
Zona felt the air go out of her. Richard, whose voice had just changed, who’d gone off to war to be with his big brother. “He wasn’t a soldier. He wanted to be a drummer boy.”
“Bullets don’t discriminate.” Mary Lou took a seat at the table. “I’ve been at the Grimbles’. Martha is devastated and worried about her other son.”
“Have they heard from him?”
Mary shook her head. “It’s very hard for letters to get through to a specific soldier.” She pressed her open hands on the table and took a fresh breath. “I feel the need to do something to help our boys. And so I’m going to write another letter for the Basket Brigade to distribute. I’ll leave it to God to deliver it where it’s best needed. Would you like to join me?”
Of course.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Driscoll said when Cardiff entered the foyer. “Home for dinner. Will wonders never cease.”
Cardiff removed his hat and coat and brushed the flurry of snow off his boots onto the entry rug. He didn’t want to endure the battle that would ensue if he got his landlady’s floors wet. He’d had enough female battles for one day.
“I think I’ll just have a plate in my room, if you don’t mind.”
“I mind very much, Dr. Kensington. Once was a favor. Twice is an imposition.” She pointed toward the dining room where the two other boarders sat with their napkins tucked into their collars.
“Come, Doctor.” The speaker was a man who’d previously introduced himself as a lamplighter.
“Since we can’t beat Mrs. Driscoll, we might as well join her,” the hack driver added.
Mrs. Driscoll put her hands on her hips. “And who would want to beat me? Who would dare try?”
The other men laughed, and Cardiff took up his place, tucking in his napkin. “I am surrounded by strong women today.”
Mrs. Driscoll ladled soup into bowls—it smelled like squash or carrot. “Of whom are you speaking?”
“A woman has come to work at the hospital.”
“Is that allowed?” the lamplighter asked.
“It’s certainly not proper,” th
e hackman said. “Women shouldn’t see such awful things.”
When she was finished serving the soup, Mrs. Driscoll took her place at the head of the table. She bowed her head, and the men did the same. “God bless this food and the people eating it. Amen.”
Short and to the point. Cardiff was glad for the brevity and noted the prayer’s directness corresponded with the prayer’s nature. And personally, he found more poignancy in brief prayers said from the heart over the rambling prayers of people who overvalued the sound and eloquence of their own voice.
The men waited until Mrs. Driscoll took her first taste. “Back to your comment about women in the hospital, Mr. Johnson,” she said. “Do you think I haven’t seen awful things? Your room was a sight.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to keep it in better order.”
The soup warmed Cardiff from the inside out. “I don’t think Mrs. Breston cares whether it’s proper for a woman to work in a hospital.”
“Mrs. Breston?” Mrs. Driscoll asked.
“You know her?”
“I certainly do. And a finer woman you’ll never find.”
That was just dandy. They were two stubborn peas in a pod. Yet perhaps their acquaintance could be put to good use. “Tell me about her,” Cardiff asked. “Has she always been so zealous about caring for soldiers?”
Mrs. Driscoll considered this a moment then said, “Her eldest son joined up back in sixty-one and was wounded early on.”
She only mentioned two sons at home.
“Probably didn’t even know how to shoot,” the hackman said.
“He died, Mr. Johnson. Show a little respect.”
“I’m sorry. I apologize.”
Mrs. Driscoll continued. “She was already a widow of two or three years when he died.” She shook her head. “So much sorrow.”
Mr. Johnson tried to make amends. “So much sorrow for too many families.”
“Such is war,” Cardiff said.
Mrs. Driscoll looked to the heavens with open hands. “May it be over soon.”
Amen.
Cardiff sat at the desk in his bedroom and readied a piece of paper.
A Basket Brigade Christmas Page 26