by Linda Hilton
“Go on home, Julie. Ard will be here in a little while, and I can take care of the rest.”
She shook her head. Why did he always send her away? And why couldn’t she tell him that no matter how difficult, how gruesome the tasks ahead, she would endure any and all of them if only she could stay with him? To go home and be alone while her mind relived the events of the evening would be far worse torture.
“I’m all right,” she insisted, trying not to sniffle. “Besides, what are you going to do with the baby?”
“There’s nothing I can do. You saw for yourself how weak he is.”
She knew he was right. She knew that if she stayed she would only watch another human being die. Another shudder rippled through her like a blast of cold wind. Then warmth enveloped her as Morgan’s hands on her shoulders gently turned her around and pulled her into his arms.
Finally, having steadied his voice if not his hands, he whispered, “Thanks, Julie. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
He had no intention of doing anything more to express his gratitude, yet he still felt somehow relieved when Ard Hammond, the stage agent and undertaker, arrived. Julie found a sheet to wrap the body in before Morgan lifted Alice onto Ard’s stretcher.
“You want some help carrying her down to the shop?” the physician asked.
“Nope, I brought my boy with me,” the grizzled, morbid-looking Ard replied. Julie’s first impression of the man weeks ago had never changed; she could not imagine anyone who fit the image of an undertaker so perfectly. “Dave!” he called suddenly. “Git on in here and he’p me.”
His son, who entered the room briskly and took up the other end of the stretcher, would no doubt eventually look just like Ard.
“The Elroy boy says he’s gonna go back fer his pa,” Ard explained as they maneuvered the stretcher through the door Morgan held open. “It’s a long walk, though, so I loaned him a horse. Not too many people steal from an undertaker.”
He laughed, and the sound, so dry and morbid, sent a chill down Julie’s back.
She watched the men and their burden leave, then returned to her work. The table had to be cleaned and disinfected, as well as the floor. She walked wearily to the kitchen to fill a bucket with hot water from the stove and to get the mop. The cauldron was nearly empty by then, so she pumped it full and added more wood to the fire as well. The mess had to be cleaned now, or it would be impossible to stand tomorrow.
When she returned to the surgery with her bucket and mop, she found Morgan already busy at the table. He had cleaned up the worst of the gore.
“What are you doing?” she asked, echoing his own earlier question.
“I thought I’d lend a hand. I figured you wouldn’t leave until everything was done.”
“You were right. By the way, have you got any spare clothes here you can change into? You ought to get that shirt soaking in cold water or the bloodstains will never come out.”
He looked down at his shirt, knowing it was a ruin. It was a good shirt, too, not one of his old ones. He had worn it to dinner, never expecting an emergency of quite this proportion. The pants, too, were stained, and with more than just blood.
“No extra shirts, but I think there’s a pair of old denims upstairs.”
“Then go put them on and I’ll get these soaking.”
“Winnie can do it; that’s what she gets paid for,” he protested, wringing out a cloth and swiping it across the enamel again.
“Miss Upshaw does your laundry on Monday and this is Friday night. Now, for once, will you do as I tell you without an argument?”
He managed somehow to find a bit of a smile, then dropped his rag into the basin and headed for the stairs.
The two rooms above were almost bare, except for Horace’s bed and dresser in one and a stack of boxes that served as storage crates in another. It was in the second room that Morgan had left the old denims, folded more or less neatly on top of a crate. He set the lamp he had carried with him on the floor and shrugged out of his shirt. He hoped it wasn’t totally ruined. Next came the pants, which at least wouldn’t show the stains. Quickly, knowing that Julie was working and waiting, he pulled the dungarees up over his hips and buttoned them. They fit more snugly than his others, so he didn’t worry about their falling off as he hurried back down the stairs.
Julie had hauled the galvanized washtub from the pantry and filled it about half full of cold water. When Morgan couldn’t find her in the surgery, he went immediately to the kitchen, and there she was, kneeling over the tub while she wrung out the towels that had already been soaking various buckets and bowls and basins.
“Need some help?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside her.
She shook her head and turned slightly away from him.
He sensed the change instantly.
“Julie, what’s wrong? Is it because I’m not wearing a shirt? Shall I get my coat and put it on?”
Again she shook her head, but this time she could not maintain complete control. A softly strangled sob burst from her like a soap bubble, and she dropped a wadded rag into the washtub with a mournful splash.
“The baby’s gone, too,” she said.
“Oh, God, no.”
Torn between not wanting to leave her and yet needing to check on the infant himself, Morgan got to his feet but did not immediately go to the surgery. He told himself over and over again he had known it would happen, that there was no hope, but the reality, the finality, only now hit him.
Let Ard Hammond tend to the dead; Del Morgan’s job was with the living.
He knelt beside Julie again, curling her into the embrace that she fit so well.
“Don’t cry, Julie, please, don’t cry,” he crooned, his words as much for himself as her, and just as wasted on both of them. “There was nothing we could do, nothing at all. God, Julie, please.” He kissed the top of her head and held her tightly. “Don’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry.”
She tried, as hard as she could, but the tears refused to come under her control. And the sobs shaking her whole body resisted all her attempts to still them, as though they had been too long imprisoned and now surged free. Clinging to him, she wept for Alice and the tiny life that had so briefly breathed, but also for other tragedies, both old and new.
For Ted Sheen and Amy Morgan. For Del Morgan, who had lost so much of himself when he lost his wife and son. And for herself. Never before had she cried out her own pain, her own sorrow. Always she had wept for someone else. But holding him, knowing that at least at this particular moment he needed her as much as she needed him, she suffered the sharpest pain she had ever felt. The tears of self-pity obeyed no commands.
Somewhat awkwardly, Morgan stood again, without losing his hold on Julie. The floor was too uncomfortable a place to kneel for long, and their position not far from the open back door left them visible to any of the neighbors who might heed a call of nature, including the Hollstroms. The infirmary, away from the sights and smells and images of the surgery, offered some comfort.
He stumbled in the darkness, then found the sofa and sank onto it with a sigh. With one hand he reached behind him to open the window and let in the cooler evening air, and Julie, still crying softly on his chest, nestled close to him. He stroked her temple, the gesture familiar now. But as her hands moved on his body, the unfamiliar pain blossomed.
His skin was warm and slick with sweat under her trembling fingers. Trapped behind him, her hands became too aware of the texture of the man, but the act of freeing them only increased the awareness. From the almost satiny smooth skin of his back, under which she could feel the firm muscles glide easily, to the tight flesh over his ribs, she drew her hands slowly, exploringly, reluctantly. She tucked one arm between her body and his, feeling the sudden lurch of her own heart against the back of her wrist while the tips of her fingers encountered the coarse silky hairs on his chest.
He could hardly breathe. He must not let her continue this, but he could not
find the words to make her stop. When they came, he wondered who spoke, and could not believe it was he.
He captured her hand in his and squeezed it as he said, “No, Julie. Don’t touch me like that. Just hold me, and let me hold you, and then we’ll both feel better.”
If he had thought to halt the rising of his desire by stilling her hand, he found only defeat. The fingers he clasped so tightly curled possessively around his and held his hand against the warmth of her body. Now he, too, felt the rapid pulse thudding against her ribs. When she turned her tear-wet face toward him and her lips moved in a tentative kiss just above his own heart, his sigh became a moan of agony.
“No, Julie, please, no,” he gasped, though his body betrayed him and he could not stop her kisses or deny the effect they had on him. “This isn’t right, Julie, not now, not here.”
Though he continued to murmur against their actions, he could not ignore the delightful rightness of his feelings. She felt good in his arms, as though she belonged there, belonged to him, but he knew she didn’t. She belonged, of her own volition, to another man, and Del Morgan had no right to step between like this. He shivered against the cold of losing her embrace, but he found the strength to grasp her arms and set her away from him.
“No, Julie,” he insisted firmly when she struggled briefly to free herself. It wasn’t easy denying himself either, but he dared not take advantage of her the way others had.
She lifted a hand to touch his shadowed cheek.
“But I—”
“No arguments,” he interrupted. “It’s something that happens, Julie, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but we have to forget it, all right?”
He tried, by keeping his voice level and telling her that such moments were perfectly natural, to spare her embarrassment. Though in the dark room he could not see the flush of humiliation that stained her cheeks, he knew it was there by the way she turned away. Still holding her arms, he felt the tensing of muscles that signaled preparation for flight.
“Julie, we have to talk,” he said earnestly. “For God’s sake, will you look at me?”
“I can’t. I just tried to tell you—”
“Listen to me first, all right?” He halted her confession before it started. “I know what you’re thinking. If you hadn’t told me about Ted—that was his name, wasn’t it?—I might have misunderstood what happened here tonight.”
He talked, but she couldn’t listen. His words could not penetrate the screaming echoes that rang between her ears. He hates me; I’m wicked and he hates me. I love him, but he hates me.
The breeze that had been barely strong enough to stir the curtains gusted through the room, blowing upon the unlatched door to the surgery. Pale but blinding light poured into the dark. Julie turned her eyes away from the open door and the scene it revealed, but neither could she bear to look at Morgan’s face with disgust written so clearly in his scowl. She lowered her gaze slowly, lingering against her will on the sharply shadowed planes of his chest where she had kissed him so wantonly. Even now her lips hungered for the taste of him.
He stood and pulled her to her feet, too, and she forced herself to hear what he was saying. The echoes, though fainter now, remained, like a mournful chorus.
“Go home, Julie. Get some sleep. And don’t show up here tomorrow, do you understand?”
Horrified, she lifted wide eyes to him. He was sending her away, not just for tonight but forever. Her heart stopped beating and her breath strangled in her throat.
“You’ve been working much too hard, and an extra day’s rest is the least I can give you,” he went on. “I’ll stop by around noon, to see you and to take a look at your mother’s arm, all right?”
With a gasp of relief, her lungs filled again, and the frantic pulse resumed its rhythm.
“I’m all right, really I am,” she insisted. “I can stay and finish here. I don’t want—”
“I said, no arguments.” God, would she never leave? He was approaching the limits of whatever control he had, and he doubted he had much.
But I don’t want to leave you, her throbbing heart ached to tell him, and I can’t bear the thought of your being alone with what’s in that other room. Let me stay. Please, God, let me stay.
The contents of that empty packing crate was something she could not bring herself to speak of, and the determination she saw in his eyes made her wonder if anything at all would have changed his mind.
She let him guide her to the door, first with his hand gently cupping her elbow, then without even that slight contact. Nervously she touched the coil of her hair and found only a few strands worked loose.
“Good night, Dr, Morgan,” she said quietly, not able to leave without some farewell. “And I’m sorry.”
“I thought I told you no apologies.”
“I meant about Alice and…and the baby.”
Guilt knifed through him. He had been so thoroughly preoccupied by the living woman that he had forgotten the other. And the infant. Remembering them, he regretted the need to send Julie away. Now he wanted her with him, needed her desperately to share the burden of pain with him as he knew she would. At the same time, he knew even more certainly that he dared not.
“We did everything I knew how, and it just wasn’t enough. Like I said, no apologies. We did our best.”
He opened the door and she walked out onto the porch, then stopped to turn halfway to him again.
“Shall I walk you home?” he offered.
“No, it’s all right. I just….”
After a few seconds’ silence, he asked, “Just what?”
Should she tell him? So many times in the past few minutes the words had risen to the very tip of her tongue and he had either interrupted her before they quite reached the surface or she herself had bitten them back, as now.
“Nothing, I guess. I’m so tired I forgot what I was going to say.” She looked up at him one more time and gave him a weary smile. “Good night.”
“Good night, Julie.”
He held the door open, though moths flitted in, drawn by the lamps still burning in the parlor. As much as he hated to see her go, he breathed a long sigh of relief when she walked down those two steps. That last smile of hers almost made him take her in his arms again, and if he had, he would never have let her go. The surge of engorging blood to his loins was unmistakable and unignorable.
At the bottom of the stairs, Julie turned, seeking one last glimpse.
She saw, clearly delineated by the lamplight, a man.
Chapter Twenty-two
He had lied to her. No, she quickly corrected that accusation. He had lied to Hans. The Del Morgan standing in the front door of Horace Opper’s house was no impotent drunk. The well-worn denims clung softly to his trim body. If the darkness and distance and tears had fogged her image of him, she might have ignored what she saw, but from no more than six or eight feet away, and with the lamplight full on him, the evidence even to her innocent eyes was plain.
He waved a last farewell, and she returned it before finally heading home. Her thoughts were in such a turmoil that she very nearly strode past her own gate.
Katharine was waiting for her, an indication that the hour could not possibly be as late as it felt, but Julie mumbled to her mother that she was too tired to do anything but fall into bed, whatever the time. She did not care where Wilhelm was, so long as he did not keep her from sleep.
She undressed in the dark, dropping her clothes to the floor and leaving them there. The dress was probably ruined anyway. Her mind, however, refused to deal with such matters as bloodstains on calico or even wrinkles that would take slaving over a hot iron to smooth away. She could think only of Del Morgan.
Despite what she had seen with her own eyes—and she did not doubt the veracity of what she had seen—she could not think him a liar. Not now and not on that searing Sunday afternoon when he had talked with Hans. The only explanation, therefore, was that he had regained his manhood since then.
Sh
e collapsed, almost literally, onto the bed. Clad in a thin cotton shift, she pulled the sheet up to her chin, for comfort rather than warmth.
He had been aroused, fully aroused, and yet he had sent her away. As sleep stole up, weighting her eyelids and dulling her consciousness, Julie found too many justifications for his action, which had to have been the correct one. But they all meant just one thing: he had sent her away because he didn’t want her.
*
Del nailed the lid back on the box with a heart as heavy as the hammer in his hand. He had not been able to look at the tiny form inside. He forced himself to reach under the single thin blanket and touch the baby to verify what Julie had told him, but once certain that the boy was dead, he could not look. He would take the makeshift cradle turned coffin down to Ard before he went home.
The worst of the mess had been cleaned, and he probably could have left the rest of it until morning, but working served another need. When, some two hours after Julie’s departure, he blew out the lamps and closed the door behind him, he felt in control again. He lifted the crate and began the short walk to the stage depot where Ard had his other business in the back room.
Relieved of his burden, Morgan walked slowly home. Emptiness waited for him, an emptiness he was in no hurry to reach. Only his conscience resided there now, and he was too weary to face its accusations.
He brought warm water from the roof to the kitchen and washed there, then walked to the dark parlor. Winnie no longer left a light for him; she didn’t worry about his tripping or stumbling in drunken blindness. Still wearing the old denims, he stretched out on the sofa, his feet hanging over the arm as he lay his head back and closed his eyes.
Guilt blanketed him, exactly as he had known it would, and he was too tired to fight it. He had seen the horror and humiliation in her eyes when he forced her to leave. But what else could he have done? If he had let her stay and had tried to explain, he would only have succumbed to his own newfound weakness. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Either way, he knew she would assume he thought the worst of her. If he rejected her, it was because he thought her wicked, and if he took advantage of her it was because he thought her wicked.