Frank took an orange and began, with self-conscious dexterity, to peel it, using both hands. He felt Nelson’s eyes on this process and glanced up. “Works pretty well,” he said.
“Works damned well, seems like,” Nelson said. Frank nodded. “Where’d you lose it, Parrish?”
It was the first personal question anyone at March had asked him. There was friendship among the pilots and technicians at the base, a camaraderie based on common experience, but the men who had been in the war kept quiet about it. That felt right to Frank, mirroring his own reluctance to revisit the war and its aftermath. He appreciated Nelson waiting until they had spent some time together, on the ground and in the air, waiting for mutual respect to build, for understanding to grow between them at its own pace.
He lifted the artificial arm now and flexed the fingers. “Lost it near Jerusalem,” he said. “Shell caught me. I was fortunate. Ten inches to the left, and that would have been all she wrote.” It was a Montana expression, but Nelson seemed to understand.
“I know the feeling,” he said. A shadow passed over his face, darkening his usual cheerful expression. He was a Nordic type, blond, burly, with a pencil mustache so pale it barely showed against his skin. “I had a close call or two myself.”
Frank inclined his head, acknowledging this. “We’re luckier than some,” he said.
A silence fell between them for a moment. Frank could guess that Nelson, like himself, was haunted by the memories of those less fortunate, those who never came home, but he wouldn’t mention it. None of them ever did.
“So,” Nelson said after a time. “Army gave you the new arm?”
Frank said, simply, “Yes,” but his heart thudded under the immense weight of everything that simple answer left unspoken. He would never be able to forget the misery of that first year, the agony of the neuroma that made him unable to tolerate a prosthesis, a time when he was only barely able to bear the touch of a shirtsleeve or the weight of his jacket.
Or the touch of a girl’s hand. His girl, the same one who became his doctor, against his wishes, but to his great benefit. He had no way to put any of it into words, not to Margot, or even, he acknowledged, to himself. Margot had changed his life. She had salvaged it from the ruin it had become. She was unlike any woman he had ever met before, and that, he had learned, was not an easy thing for a man to deal with. He could barely think of her now without a rush of confusion that tied his tongue and made him want to bury his head in his hands.
He wasn’t going to blurt any of this out to his flight instructor, of course. He reflected, with private embarrassment, that the person he really wanted to talk it over with was his mother. She was far away in Montana, no doubt already looking out her kitchen window onto the snow filling up the home pasture and sprinkling the roof of the horse barn. He could write to her, but she had never met Margot. On paper, he feared his description of Margot could not possibly do her justice, and might make her sound unapproachable, possibly unreasonable.
He couldn’t help wondering, though, what Jenny Baker Parrish would make of Margot’s views on the public dissemination of information about what the papers called “family planning.” It was sex, pure and simple, something private made public. It was scandalous, which was why Margaret Sanger had almost gone to jail, and why there were laws to control that sort of thing. But would his mother agree with him? He wished he knew.
“Lost you there, Parrish?”
It was Nelson, half smiling, eyebrows raised. Frank said hastily, “Sorry. Got to thinking.”
“Dangerous business, thinking,” Nelson said with a chuckle.
“True,” Frank said. He smiled back. It had been a fine morning, the sun burning through his leather helmet, the wind howling through the ailerons and the struts, and Nelson encouraging him from the rear seat. “You’re right, Nelson. Better not to dwell on things we can’t change.”
“You were thinking about your arm, I guess,” the lieutenant said. “Can’t blame you for that. But you’re halfway to being a pilot, just the same. Got to take pride in that.”
“I do. Thanks.” Frank drained his coffee mug and set it down. “This is an opportunity I never expected, and I appreciate it.”
Nelson made a deprecating gesture, a sideways movement of one hand, a brief shake of his head. “Nah, the captain and your Mr. Boeing are both happy about it. Seems like you’re enjoying it.”
“Yes,” Frank said, inadequately, wishing he had a stronger word. “Yes, most certainly enjoying it.”
Flying was, in fact, the most liberating thing he had ever done. Every time his airplane rose above the scrubby grass and low-roofed buildings of March Field, his heart rose with it. Every time he soared away across the valley, with the mountains in the distance and the blue sky empty and inviting all around him, he felt as if the problems of earthbound life fell away, letting him fill himself to the brim with confidence and joy. When he was flying, he felt whole, and that was more intoxicating than the whisky he used to drink to soothe the pain of his missing arm.
He gave his head a shake and pushed back his chair. “Better go write up a report for Mr. Boeing,” he said.
“See you at dinner,” Nelson said.
Frank bent to pick up his leather helmet and goggles from the chair beside him. “Thanks again.”
Nelson reached for the coffeepot to refill his cup. He touched his sandy forelock with two fingers. “It’s a pleasure.”
Frank left the mess hall and turned toward his quarters. All this, he knew very well, was possible only because of what Margot had done for him. Without her skill—and her courage, which would make any soldier proud—he would still be suffering through long days of pain, searching for whisky every night. That, too, had been in defiance of the law of the land. Was it right for him to object to Margot resisting the law when he had broken it so thoroughly and regularly himself?
He stalked across the grounds to the barracks, suddenly angry with himself, with her, with life in general. He wished he could go straight to the airfield, untie the Jenny from its moorings, and take off, all alone. Leave the whole sorry mess behind on the mundane earth.
Margot, since installing herself in Blake’s apartment, had developed the habit of breakfasting in the kitchen with Hattie and the maids. Hattie protested that this was unseemly, but Margot reminded her that her odd hours made it difficult sometimes to sit with the family at breakfast, and that she and Blake had often shared a pot of coffee before anyone else was awake. On this morning, when she needed to be at the hospital early to scrub for the operating theater, she quietly let herself into the kitchen through the back porch door.
There was no one about, but Hattie, bless her, had left the percolator ready. Margot plugged it in, and brought down one of the big china mugs that were only allowed in the kitchen. She found cream and butter in the icebox, and took bread from the box on the counter. Hattie would scold if she didn’t eat more than coffee and toast, but she was no good with eggs. They were always either scorched or runny, and the smell of the sizzling butter and soon-to-be-spoiled eggs would only bring Hattie hurrying from her bedroom, dressed or not. Hattie would cluck, push her away from the stove, and urge her to sit down and “let old Hattie do for you.”
Hattie had been “doing for her” as long as she could remember. As Margot waited for the percolator to finish its bubbling, she wondered how old Hattie really was. She knew Blake’s age, fifty-something, because he had been born right after the Civil War. As a child, she had pestered him for his history, and he had given it to her in bits and pieces, glimpses into a life begun in the shadow of slavery, developing into one lived in the light and warmth of a family he loved.
But Hattie, as she often said, “kept herself to herself,” and believed that was the proper way for a servant to behave. When the young Margot had begged her for stories of her childhood, Hattie only gave that familiar cluck, shaking her head so her round cheeks jiggled. “Ain’t much to tell,” she would say. “Nothin’ a girl
like you needs to know. You just remember,” she sometimes added, shaking a surprisingly long finger, “how lucky you are, a bitty girl with this big ol’ house and a sweet mama and daddy to take care of you.” Margot had always thought Hattie was hinting at a hard childhood, but could wring no details out of her.
She’d asked her mother about it once. Edith had been the one to hire Hattie, she knew. Her father had said once, in Margot’s hearing, that Edith should have asked her to cook a meal before she gave her the job, and her mother had heaved a sigh and spoken the line they had all used for years. “Well, Dickson. I know Hattie’s a bad cook, but she’s a good woman.”
When Margot pressed her mother to tell her something about Hattie, though, all Edith would say was that if Hattie wanted the children to know her story, she would tell them herself. Hattie took pride in the reputation of Benedict Hall, in its proper complement of a butler, two housemaids, gardeners and handymen, and her own position. Margot guessed Hattie feared her background would make her ineligible to be on the Benedict staff. It spoke to the honor of her family that despite Hattie’s shortcomings as a cook, there was never the slightest consideration of letting her go.
Margot put two slices of bread in the brand-new pop-up toaster. Toast, at least, Margot could manage. She had learned to make it by holding a wire toasting rack over Blake’s hot plate, turning and turning it while trying not to burn her fingers. The automatic toaster did all of that for her, and renewed her appreciation for modern conveniences.
The toast popped up neatly, perfectly browned on both sides. The percolator finished, and Margot filled her mug and sat down at the table to butter her toast. The sky was still dark outside, but the warmly lighted kitchen was peaceful, fragrant with the scents of newly brewed coffee and toasted bread. Margot sipped her coffee and pulled Frank’s letter out of her pocket to read one more time. After surgery this morning, and her rounds in the children’s ward, she would find a quiet corner and write back. She would be as careful with her wording as he had been. She could fill her letter with reports on the clinic’s progress, the stocking of the storeroom and the examining room, all the bits and pieces Frank had launched for her. She would tell him again how grateful she was for his help, and she would finish just as he had, with a restrained expression of her affection. The real issue that lay between them was, just as he had said, too complicated to be resolved in letters.
She wouldn’t tell him the funding from the Sheppard-Towner Act had come through. The Women and Infants Clinic would soon be a reality, and would teach hygiene, home health care, and contraception to women and girls. There was no point in announcing that, because she was going to do it no matter what Frank might feel or say. All she could do, though it went against her nature, was postpone their conflict until they were face-to-face, until they could decide how big an obstacle it was going to be.
She finished her breakfast and was stowing the butter and cream back in the icebox when Hattie came in, smoothing her printed cotton housedress over her broad figure. “Oh, Miss Margot! Good morning! Let me cook you some eggs.”
“Thank you, Hattie, but I don’t have time. I’m assisting in the operating theater this morning.”
“Oh, my goodness, my goodness, Miss Margot.” Hattie bent to take a fresh apron out of a drawer, pulled it over her head, and began tying the ribbons. “You’re gonna have a long day! Let me send you with a sandwich, at least.”
Margot refolded Frank’s letter and slipped it into her pocket. “I had some toast,” she said. “And I can have lunch in the hospital canteen. No need to trouble yourself.”
That won not one but two resounding clucks from Hattie. As she selected eggs from the pottery bowl on the counter, she said, “Canteen food! Cold meat loaf and overcooked vegetables!”
Margot had to hide a smile. There were evenings in Benedict Hall when the canteen’s meat loaf sounded appealing. Hattie was right, though. It was often cold.
“I wish you’d tell me when you got to make an early start, Miss Margot,” Hattie went on. “I got me a perfectly good alarm clock, same one as you children gave me years ago, and I can sure get up to see you have a proper breakfast.” She was in motion even as she spoke, opening a drawer for the egg whisk, taking a mixing bowl from the cupboard, setting the heavy cast iron skillet on the stove. “You may be a doctor now, but old Hattie knows what it takes to get a body through the day.”
“I know you do, Hattie. Thank you. I’ll try to remember to tell you next time.”
Loena and Leona came in, yawning. It had been uncomfortable at first, Margot having breakfast in the kitchen, but the maids had gotten accustomed to it. They had stopped curtsying every time they saw her, thank God. They merely nodded politely, murmured their good mornings, and moved around her to begin assembling flatware and china for the dining room table, including the thin porcelain coffee cups Margot swore held only three thimblefuls of coffee.
Before she left the kitchen, Margot stepped close to Hattie to speak in an undertone. “Hattie, have you noticed whether Cousin Allison’s appetite is everything it should be?”
Hattie’s eyes came up to hers, a swift flash of whites and a gleam of dark iris, then back to the eggs she was whisking. “You ask me, Miss Allison doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive,” Hattie said. “Looks it, too.”
“I don’t remember her being so thin when she was here for her party last year.”
“I’m cookin’ Mrs. Edith’s favorites all the time, tryin’ to get her to eat a bite now and then. Maybe Miss Allison doesn’t like what I’m fixing.”
“It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?” Margot settled her hat on her head and pulled on her gloves. “I should be home for dinner.”
“You have you a fine day, Miss Margot,” Hattie said. “You go and make that poor soul all well who has the operation, and then you have you a fine day.”
“You, too, Hattie.” Margot turned toward the front hall, then thought better of it, and walked back through the kitchen to use the door onto the back porch. Just as she put her hand on the knob, Hattie called after her, “And don’t you go making that bed up there, either. You don’t need to fuss over chores like that. Leave it for Loena.”
Margot, bemused, said, “Yes, Hattie,” and made her escape into the gray morning before Hattie could think of something else to chide her for.
She would write all about this conversation to Frank, she decided. He was always entertained by Hattie, and he understood why Margot and all the Benedicts were so fond of her. It would make something safe, and might fill a whole letter. She wouldn’t be tempted to tell him Margaret Sanger was coming to Seattle. If he stayed in California for another two weeks, he would miss Mrs. Sanger’s visit entirely, and they wouldn’t have to argue about whether Margot should be seen with her.
CHAPTER 7
Allison heard the porch door open and close, and went to her window to watch Cousin Margot walk around the back of the house and out to the street. She worked awfully hard, Allison thought. She left early almost every morning, and seemed to work late as well. She must be important at the hospital.
Of course, Margot knew she was important. You could see it in the way she walked, that quick, decisive stride, the way she carried her head. The way she spoke to people, looking right at them and acting like she expected an answer every time she asked a question. She was the opposite of all the women Allison knew, women who simpered and spoke in soft voices, who minced when they walked and deferred to men—all men. Cousin Margot certainly didn’t behave that way. What an ego she must have! She spoke to Cousin Dick and Uncle Dickson as if she were also a man, and no one seemed to find that strange.
A surprising stab of emotion shot through Allison’s breast. Was that jealousy? It couldn’t be. It was only her temper. It had to be temper. She was furious with Cousin Margot, after all. At least, she was trying to be.
She pulled the comforter from her bed and wrapped it around herself. It was so cold in Seattle, colder and damper even than it
was in San Francisco. She shivered with goose bumps half the time, here in this rain-soaked city. Her very bones seemed to ache, as if the chill could reach right inside.
Ruby gave a timid knock on the door, opened it, and put her head in. “Miss Allison? Are you ready to dress?”
Allison turned away from the window. “Yes. I suppose I’d better.”
Ruby came in, already neatly attired in her skirt and shirtwaist and apron. She went to the wardrobe and opened the doors. “What about the plaid frock? You haven’t worn that yet.”
Allison shrugged. “That’s fine. It hardly matters.”
“Mrs. Adelaide wanted me to pack that one especially,” Ruby said with confidence. “She says it makes you look so slim.”
“Yes, I know she does, Ruby.” Allison couldn’t keep the sourness out of her voice. Even Ruby, not sensitive to nuance as a rule, gave her a questioning look.
Allison had liked the plaid dress when her mother brought it home from Magnin’s. It was short, falling barely past her knees, with a dropped waist and a deep lace neckline. There had been one just like it in the last Harper’s Bazaar. With her mother watching, she had put it on, tugging it past her hips, then frowning into the mirror. “It’s too small, Mother.”
Adelaide stood behind her, also frowning. They looked very much alike, everyone said, both of them fair, with light blue eyes and fine features. Adelaide’s frown was perpetual, and had plowed permanent furrows in her forehead. Her thin cheeks bore a delicate web of wrinkles, accentuated by the face powder she used. She put her hands on her bony hips, staring past Allison into the mirror. “You’ve gained weight,” she pronounced. “And the Pettersons’ ball is this Saturday.”
“I haven’t gained weight,” Allison protested. “It’s this frock.”
“It’s your usual size.” Adelaide twitched the skirt, but that didn’t help. It still pinched and pleated above Allison’s thighs.
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