by Неизвестный
Bitterness tasted sharp in his throat. He didn’t want to look her in the face and see sympathy there, and that angered him so he looked anyway.
“Obviously you’ve continued to help your father with work around the farm, so I expect you’re capable of shooting a gun, too.”
“Should probably have stayed on the farm in any case. There’s no one left to help Dad but Mother.”
Bettie took his empty cup. He rubbed his eyes. They felt swollen and burned. Right now the only thing that seemed important was to feel warm again and stop hurting.
# #
Sunday morning, Bettie wiped perspiration from her face and used the long-handled wooden spoon to pull two bowls and spoons from the water boiling in the pail. She set them on the linen towel spread on the floor beside the hot plate. Mrs. Anderson would likely re-boil the items; Bettie would do so herself in the landlady’s position. True to her word, Mrs. Anderson had brought porridge for their breakfast. Bettie had been ravenous, but she hadn’t convinced Carl to take more than a couple spoonfuls.
At Carl’s moan, worry etched itself through her chest. The cinnamon tea had seemed to help at first. He’d slept so soundly that she’d allowed herself to nap in her own bed. After only a couple of hours, she’d checked on him. He was covered in sweat, and awoke while she wiped the sweat from his face with a cool damp cloth. She’d insisted he drink more water before going back to sleep. Then she’d taken twenty minutes to freshen up in the water closet, change into a gray flannel house dress and return to his room.
He’d slept fitfully the rest of the night, tossing and turning, moaning all too often in a manner that made her heart hurt. His obvious pain, fever and restlessness kept her from anything but catnaps on the uncomfortable chair. She’d given him more cinnamon tea about three, but still his fever climbed. Sweat would soak his clothes and sheets, and before long he’d shake with cold again. At the moment, he thrashed his legs to free them of covers, even while she steamed his blanket.
She steeped another cup of cinnamon tea, though it apparently hadn’t helped so far. She didn’t know what else to do. Maybe the chicken soup Mrs. Anderson said she’d bring up at noon would entice him, but she doubted chicken soup lowered fevers.
Mrs. Anderson arrived at noon with the soup and fresh buttered biscuits, leaving the dishes on the floor outside the door after knocking.
Carl ate half the bowl of soup, and Bettie considered that progress. Garlic and onion, two things her mother lauded for health, added strong flavor to the broth. The biscuit he wouldn’t touch, so she set it aside in the hope he might have more appetite later. When she made another cup of cinnamon tea he pushed it aside. “I can’t drink any more of that.”
About two, a knock surprised them. Bettie opened the door to find Michael standing four feet away, a mask hiding the lower part of his face. “How is Carl?”
“His fever is worse, and he’s started coughing.” She could hear the worry in her own voice.
“Maybe this will help.” He held up a small paper bundle. “I called Mr. Eliason this morning. He owns the drug store where I work. I explained about Carl and that we couldn’t leave the house to get medicine because of the quarantine. He dropped these aspirin powders by on his way home from church.”
“How kind of him, and of you, too.”
Michael set the packets on top of the square banister beside him. “Mr. Eliason says if Carl’s breathing gets short, and you see pink spots on his handkerchief after he coughs, call a doctor or try to get Carl into a hospital. Those are symptoms of pneumonia.”
A chill slid up her spine. She’d heard it was the pneumonia that killed, not the flu itself. “Has anyone else in the house become ill?”
“Not yet. We’re staying clear of each other as much as possible, even taking our meals to our rooms.” He pulled a folded newspaper from beneath one arm and set it on top of the medication. “Thought you might like to read today’s Pioneer Press. I’ll check later to see how Carl’s doing.”
A few minutes later, Bettie dissolved aspirin powders in water and woke Carl. She didn’t have to urge him to drink the grainy liquid; he was glad to try anything that might stop the pain wracking his body. He made a face when he finished the water. “Imagine a doctor would have a battle on his hands getting a kid to drink that after trying it once.”
Carl spent the afternoon in and out of sleep, grumpy with pain and fatigue.
Mrs. Anderson brought more soup for supper, along with buttered slices of bread, and an orange. This time Carl ate the entire bowl of soup, though it was cold by the time he finished it. Bettie thought the orange would taste good to him, but after one section he shook his head and rubbed his throat. “It hurts to eat that.”
“More aspirin water for dessert?” she asked, mixing up the concoction.
“Do you think I could take a double dose? My chest aches, the cough is beginning to hurt my throat and the rest of me feels like someone beat me up with a two by four.” He closed his eyes, pain twisting his face into crevices.
“I don’t know whether a double dose is safe.” The idea tempted her, though. She hated to see him in so much pain. “But I have the steamed blanket ready.”
Carl held a handkerchief to his mouth and sat up partially as a coughing spasm grabbed him. He lay back exhausted when it was over.
“May I get a clean handkerchief for you? That one needs to be laundered. I’ll boil it.” She wished she had a large washtub or kettle and a regular stove to boil everything that should be boiled, like his sheets and pajamas.
“There’s more in the top drawer of the chest.”
She brought him a clean white linen handkerchief, and then put the warm blanket over him.
“Are you still healthy, Nurse Watts?”
“Hale and hearty.” Just more tired than she remembered ever being in her life. “I’m going to shut the window, despite the recommendations. The wind is coming directly from the north and blowing right in on us.”
“It feels good to me.”
“Michael brought today’s newspaper,” she told Carl, not wanting him to know how disturbing she found his last comment. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Maybe later. I want to sleep now. Eating wore me out.”
# #
At two in the morning, Carl awoke and couldn’t get back to sleep for coughing. He finally agreed to another cup of cinnamon tea, this time with honey to soothe his throat. “Would you read some of the newspaper while I drink this?”
Articles related to the war still filled the paper, though Armistice Day was three weeks in the past. New pictures and names of soldiers who died of wounds or flu appeared in each issue. As always, Bettie relaxed a bit when she saw the announcements didn’t include the names of her brother or friends. An article on a local project to raise money for French children orphaned by the war touched both her and Carl’s hearts; they agreed they’d each contribute to the cause. Bettie didn’t read him the report that fifteen cases of influenza were diagnosed at Fort Snelling on Saturday and the Fort quarantined. Was his brother among the cases? She fervently hoped not. She assumed the flu would prove even more dangerous to soldiers like Peter who’d experienced mustard gas than to most. Perhaps it wasn’t the correct thing to do, keeping the news of the Fort from Carl, but she didn’t want to weaken his constitution with worry over a situation about which he could do nothing.
Carl fell asleep before she reached the sports pages she thought he’d like. She hoped the aspirin powders were finally helping. She took advantage of the moment to sleep herself, curling up in a corner of the room with her coat for a blanket.
Mrs. Anderson’s knock and loud announcement that she’d brought porridge for Monday morning breakfast woke Bettie. Carl was mumbling. Bettie let her coat fall to the floor as she rose, stiffer than usual, and went to check on him. Sweat beaded his forehead. After bringing the porridge inside, she refilled the pail at the water closet, then dampened a cloth and wiped his face.
Carl opened red-rimmed eyes and looked right into hers. “Thomas, why did you let the goats out?”
Shock stopped her breath. Wasn’t Thomas the name of Carl’s brother, the one who died young?
Carl must be dreaming.
“Drat it all, Thomas. Now we have to drag those mean billy goats back from the apple orchard.” Carl quit talking to deal with a coughing spell.
Bettie stared at him. Her blood pounded in her ears. Maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was delusions. They weren’t as serious as pneumonia, but if she remembered correctly, they were a complication that indicated the fever was higher than considered safe.
She fought against depression as she opened the windows again and shivered when the wind sliced into the room.
She spun around at the sound of a large crash. “Carl!”
Bettie rushed to where he lay on the floor beside the overturned chair. She tried to get behind him and help him up with her hands under his shoulders, but he slid back to the floor like melted butter. Pleading with him to help, she pushed and prodded and pulled him into a sitting position. All the while he mumbled about the need to “get the goats. Dad will be fierce mad.” Finally, she worked her shoulder under one of his arms. He tried to help as she lifted him, though his legs wobbled, and together they managed to get him back on the bed.
Trying to catch her breath, she dampened another towel and laid it in a roll behind his neck. He pulled it out and dropped it on the floor.
It took a good fifteen minutes to convince him to take more aspirin water; he was certain Thomas had doctored it with hot spices. He wouldn’t touch the porridge for the same reason.
For the next hour-and-a-half, Bettie watched closely over him, wiping his face and arms repeatedly with cold, damp cloths, restraining him time and again from leaving the bed to go after the goats or otherwise assist Thomas or their father. She responded in quiet, soothing tones to his nonsense talk — and fumed inwardly that she could do no more for him.
When he finally fell back into a fitful sleep broken with long coughing sessions, she reheated some porridge and steeped cinnamon tea for herself. The rest of the day was more of the same — coughing and delusions and begging him to eat and drink and take the aspirin powders.
Late in the afternoon, the delusions finally left and Bettie breathed a sigh of relief that once again only physical symptoms needed attention.
“Do you think the old battle-axe will be here with dinner soon?” Carl asked, his mind clear again. His attempt to talk brought another fit of coughing. When he was done, he laid back on his pillow, his handkerchief clutched in one hand and his eyes closed. His breathing came short and hard. “Could I have another handker — ”
A cough strangled the word, but Bettie understood. She brought him a clean handkerchief and took the soiled one. She started the hot plate and set the pail on it. Before long the water was boiling. She was about to drop the soiled handkerchief into it when she saw the stains — pink.
Her heart plummeted to her stomach. Michael said pink stains meant pneumonia.
She dropped the kerchief into the water and sat back on her heels, trying to get her fear for Carl under control. How could she help him fight pneumonia? Michael said he’d need to go to a hospital.
Bettie raced down the hall and pounded on Michael’s door, stepping back quickly when he opened it. She didn’t give him a chance to speak. “It’s Carl. I saw the pink spots. Will you call a hospital?”
As he hurried down stairs to the phone in the entryway, she rushed back to the room. All she could think to do was keep Carl as comfortable and free of pain as possible until she could find a way to get him to a hospital.
But half-an-hour later Michael brought the news that every hospital in the city was filled past capacity. “Even the hallways are filled with patients,” he told her.
Hopelessness filled her eyes with tears. She brushed them away impatiently. She wasn’t going to give up on Carl.
When Mrs. Anderson brought the tray with the evening meal, Bettie was ready with a request. “Please, would you make a poultice? My grandmother used to make one with onions and garlic, with some flour and vinegar for a paste. If you’d rather not make it, I will, if you’ll bring me the ingredients.”
“I’ll make it.” She bustled away.
Carl tried to eat the chicken barley soup while they waited, but coughing spells made it difficult.
Mrs. Anderson brought the poultice back wrapped in a linen dish towel and left it on a metal tray in the hall. The odor of garlic and onions filled the room when Bettie carried it inside, and steam rose from it in the cool air.
Carl winced as she placed it on his chest over his under shirt, and she immediately lifted it off. “Too hot?”
“Hot, but not too hot. The odor is mighty powerful, though.”
She placed it back and pulled the blankets up to keep the heat in. “Let’s hope the odors are powerful against the pneumonia, too.”
Bettie retrieved her pillow and a blanket from her room. She refused to leave Carl again to take cat naps in her room. She used her coat as a mattress, curled up on the floor in a corner as far from the window’s draft as possible, and tried to sleep.
Bettie and Carl grew accustomed to the odors of garlic and onion the next few days. Bettie applied a poultice morning and evening. It seemed to allow Carl to sleep easier with less coughing spells. She called on Mrs. Anderson again to make her grandmother’s garlic and olive oil treatment, and fed Carl a spoonful every waking hour.
“I’m going to smell like garlic for the rest of my days,” Carl complained. “I’ll never get a girl.”
Three days later, just past midnight, Bettie awoke and chastised herself for sleeping so long. Pleasant surprise flickered through her when she laid her hand on Carl’s forehead and thought he felt cooler. By the meager light coming through the window from the streetlight, she lit the oil lamp and carried it over to his bed. His face looked peaceful and less flushed. The fever was coming down! Thank you, God.
He awoke when she slid the towel from behind his neck. “Hi, Nurse Watts.”
He started coughing, and she waited until he stopped before replying. “Hi, yourself. I think your fever broke. It’s not gone, but it’s lower.”
“My chest doesn’t hurt as bad anymore.”
“The reports say the cough hangs on for awhile after the flu is over. That’s probably all it is.”
“Hope so. Is there anything to eat?”
Relief brought a laugh. “Besides garlic and onions?”
Mrs. Anderson brought mashed potatoes and apple sauce for him. “Nothing too heavy right away,” she advised Bettie.
While he ate, Bettie steeped a cup of cinnamon tea for herself, and sat down beside his bed just for the pleasure of watching him eat. A quiet joy filled her; he’d made it. He wasn’t going to be one of the Spanish flu’s victims; she knew it in her bones.
Coughing, Carl handed his plate back to her after only a few bites. “It tastes wonderful, but I can’t eat any more.” Minutes later he fell back asleep.
After cleaning up the dishes, she put out the light, lay down in the corner and pulled her blanket over her. She could hardly keep her eyes open. It’s likely just relief he’s better, she thought.
Another bout of coughing awakened her. The room was still dark, so she lit the lamp. “Are you all right, Carl?” she asked when he seemed able to catch his breath.
“Yes, but you look…exhausted.”
She brushed hair behind her ear. “I must look a wreck.”
“You look like an angel.”
“I think that’s a pretty mean thing to say about angels.”
His weak chuckle ended in another cough. When he caught his breath again, he said, “Why don’t you go sleep in your own bed? You said yourself my fever is down and this lousy cough will probably hang on for awhile. I’ll be all right.”
Sleep in her own bed; it sounded wonderful. “If you’re sure — ”
“I’m sure.” He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Just to show you how well I’m doing, I’m going to walk to the water closet all by my lonesome.”
She rose quickly and reached for him with her free arm, her tea sloshing over the edge of her cup.
“I can make it,” he assured her.
She watched, anxious, as he made his wobbly way to the door.
He grasped the door knob and leaned his head against the wooden door. “On second thought — ”
She helped him down the hallway, leaving him at the water closest door as she had numerous times in the last five days.
Still, after returning to the room they agreed he was well enough she could sleep in her own room and stop by to check on him periodically. Bettie picked up her blanket, pillow and coat. She stopped in the doorway and waved with one hand from beneath the load she carried. “Sweet dreams, Carl.”
# #
1975
“That was the last time I saw her.” Carl sighed and stared out the nursing home common windows. He could still see Bettie Watts, looking back at him from the doorway, exhausted from days of helping him fight the flu and pneumonia, but still with that sweetness in her face that never left even during the worst challenges they faced together.
“No, it wasn’t.” The elderly woman’s soft comment cut into his memories.
He withdrew his gaze from the past and frowned at her. “Excuse me?”
“It wasn’t the last time you saw her.” Her voice cracked on the words. She held a thin, blue-veined hand to her throat. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “That was me. I was that Bettie.”
Shock shimmered through him. He studied her face. Could it be true? The eyes were similar, though the brown wasn’t as deep. The general shape of her face could be that of the younger Bettie, though gravity pulled at the skin along her chin line. “Bettie.” The word was a whisper.
“I’ve often wondered what became of you. Mrs. Anderson told me your father came that night and took you home.”
Carl nodded, still trying to digest the fact this woman and the woman he’d dreamed of all these years were one. “He’d come to the city to see my brother, Peter, but Fort Snelling was quarantined. Then he came to visit me, and found me with the flu and the house quarantined. He brought news we’d lost my brother, Andrew, to the war. He feared he’d lose me and Peter to the flu. He entered the boarding house in spite of the quarantine sign.”