Edmund came down the hospital steps, a dark topcoat flapping about his knees and a cap pulled low over his head. A little girl was perched in his arms. She could not have been more than three. Just behind them, a girl of about six clutched the hand of an older woman. Both children wore red coats and hats. As the small group approached, I saw that the children were very thin, with straight brown hair and a marked family resemblance.
Edmund spotted me over the toddler’s head. A surprised smile lit his features. He said something to the woman. After a curious look in my direction, she took the toddler from Edmund and continued with both children toward Mr. Lafayette. Edmund headed my way.
“Cleo.” Edmund leaned in through the open passenger window. “Hello.”
“Hello.” I looked at the faint smudges beneath his green eyes, at the hair allowed to grow too long, and felt suddenly, inexplicably, out of sorts. I pressed one hand to my stomach to contain the butterflies, dropping it when Edmund glanced down. I gestured toward the girls, who clutched brand-new dolls. “Are those the children from the newspaper?”
Edmund nodded. “I’m never home. Annabelle and Stella will stay there with Mrs. Graham until their parents are well.”
“Has no one else offered to take them in?” I asked, unsurprised when he frowned and shook his head no.
“Mrs. Graham is my old nurse,” he added, watching as Mr. Lafayette helped the girls into the car. “She likes to think she still is.”
We smiled at each other.
“Are you heading back to the Auditorium?” he asked.
I wasn’t. I was on my way home, where I planned to take the hottest bath imaginable and then spend the rest of the evening within arm’s reach of the telephone. Just in case it actually rang. The Auditorium was clear out of my way.
I nodded. “Would you like a ride?”
“I’d appreciate it. I’ll be right back.”
Edmund went over and said a few words to Mr. Lafayette, then stuck his head into the rear window before stepping back onto the sidewalk. He waved as the car pulled away. After turning the hand crank at the front of my car, Edmund climbed in. I started the engine.
“Thanks, Cleo. I came with some others, but they’ve already left.”
“Sure.” I headed back toward town, turning off Westover Road and leaving the hospital behind us.
Edmund picked something up off the car floor. One of my influenza flyers, it looked like. “You dropped this.” He held up the flyer to catch what was left of the afternoon light. “‘Family Limitation by Margaret Sanger.’ Sanger. Isn’t she the nurse—?”
Mortified, I snatched the leaflet out of his hand and flung it over my shoulder, toward the rear seat. Only the windows were all open. The birth control guide flapped in the wind, like a startled chicken, before being whipped right out of the car.
Edmund turned and watched the leaflet fly away. I could not look at him. Both hands gripped the steering wheel. The stupid leaflet had fallen from my stupid coat. What must he think of me? That I was fast? But I wasn’t! “It was Kate’s.” I blurted out the only thing that came to mind.
“Was it?” I could tell he was trying not to smile. “I think it would be fine, even if it wasn’t Kate’s.” He looked over his shoulder again. “I’ve read all of her books. Hannah has them in her office.”
“The ticket office?” I asked, baffled.
Edmund laughed. “No, on Marquam Hill. Hannah runs the nursing program there. It’s right next to the medical school. It’s how I met her.”
I slowed the car, waiting as two brown cows ambled across the road. “Will she get in trouble?” I asked, worry for Hannah overshadowing my embarrassment. I knew a little about the Comstock laws, which made it illegal to distribute obscene material. Didn’t that include information on contraception?
Edmund shrugged. “She doesn’t hand out anything. She just leaves her door open and lets everyone know they can make themselves comfortable.” Mercifully, he changed the subject. “Any word on your Mrs. Foster?”
I shook my head. I’d surprised Edmund and Hannah when I had returned to the hospital the night before, instead of spending the evening with Mrs. Foster as I’d planned. I’d changed bedding and fed patients and scrubbed dishes until Hannah had ordered me home around midnight.
“Cleo, I was thinking . . . My aunt Clarissa lives with my father. Over on Davis. You could stay with them until your family comes home. They’d be happy to have you.”
I glanced at him. “You’ve already asked them?”
Edmund wouldn’t look me in the eye. “There’s plenty of room. And they know you’re helping out at the hospital. You could come and go whenever you liked.”
Kate had offered up her own family home. And now Edmund had as well. It dawned on me that had it not been for the influenza, I would not have met either of them.
“I drive around all day, and everything looks different,” I said, trying to explain. “The Auditorium looks nothing like it used to. There are circus tents outside County. And everywhere I go, people are wearing masks. But at home . . . nothing’s changed. It’s the only place I recognize.”
Edmund’s silence was followed by a long, frustrated sigh. “Will you let me know if you need anything, at least? Firewood? You won’t try and chop down a tree all by yourself?”
His words, and his disgruntled expression, made me smile. “I promise. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
I drove on. Houses appeared, growing closer together as we reached town. I passed six automobiles, far fewer than normal, even for this time of day.
Edmund peered out the window, then straightened. “Cleo, stop, will you? Right here.” He pointed to the side of the road.
Frowning, I did as he asked. “Why?” I looked around.
We were outside the cemetery. I could see headstones through the iron railing, outlined in the dusk and protected by great weeping willows. And then I saw what had caught Edmund’s attention. A lantern had been set on the grass, just inside the gates, illuminating a small patch of earth. A man thrust his shovel into the ground, tossing the dirt clumps behind him. He stopped to glance over at us, then resumed digging.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“No, but I don’t think he’s a gravedigger. At least not a regular one.”
I leaned forward to get a better look. The man was dressed not in the old work clothing you would expect a person digging dirt to wear, but in trousers and shirtsleeves and a vest.
I scanned the cemetery. Eighty-six people had died so far. As much as I tried not to think about it, I knew there would be more. There should have been men here, preparing the graves. There wasn’t another soul to be found.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Where are the gravediggers?”
Edmund removed his cap and set it on the seat. “Most of them are sick. We have two at the Auditorium. And the others won’t go near the bodies.”
His meaning sank in. “Are people burying their own family?” I asked. “But that’s hideous!”
Edmund nodded. “They don’t really have a choice. There’s a waiting list for burials, and it’s getting longer and longer.” With that bit of horrifying news, he opened his door and climbed out. After a second’s hesitation, I followed. We walked through the cemetery’s ornate arched entrance.
The man had stopped shoveling to watch our approach. He was in his thirties, older than Jack, and slight. His dark hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, but his face was already streaked with dirt and mud. I didn’t know how long he’d been here. I hoped not long, because he’d barely managed to unearth a foot of dirt. I looked from the sad little pit to the stranger, wondering whose grave it was meant to be. A parent? A wife? Please, I thought, not a child.
Edmund and I stopped just shy of the unfinished grave. “Sir. My name is Edmund Parrish. This is Cleo Berry.” His tone, suddenly formal, made me think of Sergeant LaBouef.
The man’s answering nod was stiff, like a puppet on a string, and his voice
was uneven. “Tom Nesbitt,” he said.
Edmund gestured toward the extra shovel that lay beneath a nearby tree, alongside the lantern and a silver flask. “I’d be glad to help.”
The light was fading fast, but still I saw the tears that sprang to Mr. Nesbitt’s eyes at Edmund’s offer and his valiant effort to blink them away. I was as startled as Mr. Nesbitt. I looked around the graveyard. The wind had picked up, gathering the leaves and sending them rustling over the stone markers. I moved closer to Edmund and felt his hand rest against the small of my back.
“I’d be obliged,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “My brother would have been here, but . . . he’s feeling poorly.” He looked down at the grave. “It’s for my wife.”
My own eyes welled up in response. “I am very sorry, Mr. Nesbitt,” I said.
He acknowledged my words with another nod. “They told me she couldn’t be buried for two weeks. That’s how long I’d have to wait while my Elizabeth . . .” He stopped. “So I said I’d do it myself.” He walked slowly over to the tree, reaching for the shovel.
“Oh, Edmund,” I said softly.
“Yes” was his quiet response. He looked into my upturned face. “Will you tell Hannah where I am?”
I stared at him. “No. I’m staying here. I’ll wait for you,” I said.
But Edmund was already shaking his head. His hand dropped from my back. “You’re not.” He was adamant. “This is going to take hours.”
The lantern’s glow sent long, twisting shadows across the grass. “Edmund, it’s nearly dark. This is a graveyard.” I kept my voice low, not wanting Mr. Nesbitt to hear. Thankfully, he was taking his time, allowing us some privacy.
Edmund’s smile was grim. “I’m not afraid of these ghosts, Cleo. I have enough of my own to keep me company.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant. Standing there, with the wind blowing hair into my eyes, I wanted to know everything about him. About his family, his friends. About his dream of becoming a doctor. About the war in France. I wondered why there was always something sad around his eyes even when he smiled. I wanted to ask about all these things, but Mr. Nesbitt was making his way back with the shovel. Now was not the time. And so I asked, instead, “What if it rains?”
Edmund was already shucking off his coat. “Then I’ll stop.” His voice softened. “I won’t do anything foolish. You know I can’t leave him here.”
“I know.” There was nothing else to do but agree. Edmund tossed his coat to the ground and took the shovel. After bidding farewell to Mr. Nesbitt, I walked out of the graveyard, into the night, leaving Edmund to dig a grave for a perfect stranger.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday, October 16, 1918
For the next few hours, I fed any patient who showed the slightest interest in eating. Up and down the stairs I went, with bowl after bowl of watery chicken soup. Hannah asked if I would help her in the ticket office. I did that too. We sat at the desk across from each other, folding a mountain of linen that had just been sent over from the laundry.
The entire time I watched the clock. The hour struck eight, then nine. With each passing minute, I grew more anxious and fidgety, until Hannah finally said with some exasperation, “Stop worrying, Cleo. He’ll be here.”
“I wasn’t worrying.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “No?” But even she glanced at the clock with a frown. “We’ll give him another half-hour, and then I’ll send Sergeant LaBouef to fetch him.”
I looked at her, grateful. “You will?”
“Yes. Now fold.”
I told myself I could put Edmund out of my mind for thirty minutes. We continued folding the bedding and towels, which ranged in color from bright white to worn gray. After a few minutes of companionable silence, I said, “Hannah?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you like being a nurse?”
Hannah looked surprised. “I would wish for a little less excitement than we’ve had. But, yes, I like it most days. Why? Are you thinking of becoming a nurse?”
“Oh, I . . . no. I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”
Hannah lowered a towel, frowning. “Why do you say that?”
I shrugged, wishing now that I had kept silent. “I’ve seen the things that you and the other nurses have to do—”
“What things?”
“Well . . .” I looked toward the ticket window, though the waiting room was closed for the night. “You’ve had to tell people that someone they love is dead, or dying. You’re always calm, even when they start to cry. Even when they start screaming at you. I would fall to pieces if I had to do that.”
“I didn’t start off knowing how to talk to patients or their families. It takes practice. I’ve fallen to pieces many times, I promise you.”
I gave her a skeptical look, then said, “And everywhere you turn, someone is bleeding or vomiting or having a needle poked in their ear . . . It’s awful. I don’t think I have a strong enough stomach to work in a hospital.”
Hannah smiled. “Don’t you?”
“No, and—” I broke off, struck by a sudden, unpleasant thought. Edmund knew he wanted to be a doctor. He’d always known it. It was the same with Kate and her piano. And Jack had always intended to follow the same path that our father and grandfather had taken. Then there was me. And the unsettling realization that perhaps I was not meant to be anything at all. “I’m not like you, Hannah. I’m just . . . ordinary.”
Hannah’s eyes were fixed on me. “Cleo, how many of your schoolmates do you see here? Wearing that armband?” She shook her head at my blank look and would have said more, I was sure, but one of the soldiers stuck his head in the door.
“Ma’am?” It was the freckled soldier, the skinny one. He looked agitated.
Hannah was already on her feet. “What’s wrong, Andrew? Where’s your sergeant?”
He acknowledged me with a quick nod. “He’s out back. He wanted me to ask if you’d come? As soon as you could?”
Hannah was nearly out the door when she threw a “Come with me, Cleo” over her shoulder. I dropped the towel onto the desk and rushed to catch up.
“What happened?” Hannah demanded as we bypassed the men’s ward and hurried directly backstage.
“Freddy—I mean Private Nolan—and I were out back unloading supplies. He tripped coming down from the truck. Landed pretty hard,” Andrew said.
“On his head?” Hannah asked.
“No, ma’am. His arm. It doesn’t look right.”
Hannah looked relieved. I couldn’t blame her. An injured arm didn’t sound so bad. Not after everything I’d already conjured up in my imagination. We held our silence as we walked by the dressing rooms, knowing some were resting up before they started late shifts.
We pushed through a set of doors and found ourselves in a narrow alley. A truck was parked at the bottom of the staircase. The lighting wasn’t as bright as in the front of the building, but it was still enough to see the man sitting at the very back, legs hanging off the sides. Sergeant LaBouef was with him. A trio of soldiers hovered a few feet away, looking queasy. As I followed Hannah around the sergeant’s massive form, I saw why.
Despite the bitter night air, Private Freddy Nolan’s shirt uniform had been removed. He was stripped down to a sleeveless white undershirt. I winced when I spotted the large bump protruding from his shoulder, beside his collarbone. I had to agree with Andrew. This arm did not look right. I backed away to stand with the other soldiers.
Sergeant LaBouef looked more annoyed than worried. “Fool was monkeying around and fell out of the truck,” he said to Hannah. “Looks like it’s dislocated.”
“It certainly does.” Hannah studied the arm. “How are you feeling, Freddy?”
He unclenched his jaw long enough to say, “Like hell, ma’am.”
Sergeant LaBouef gave him a look but must have felt some pity in his heart, because he held his peace.
“I imagine you do. Andrew?” Hannah said.
He stepped forwa
rd. “Yes, ma’am?”
“There’s a sling in my office. To the right of the door, bottom shelf. Please bring it here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He trotted up the steps and into the building.
Hannah glanced over her shoulder and beckoned someone forward. I turned to the three soldiers, to see which one she was calling. They were all looking at me. Uncertain, I turned to Hannah.
“Me?” I asked.
“Cleo” was Hannah’s impatient response. She moved aside so that I could stand directly in front of Private Nolan. Sympathy stirred within me. I was close enough now to see the sweat beading on his forehead and the pain clouding his eyes. The bump at his shoulder looked red and angry. I would have liked to pat his good arm, to offer some comfort, but I was afraid to touch him. Sergeant LaBouef looked on quietly.
“Hey, Freddy,” I whispered.
“Hey,” he said, grimacing.
Hannah clasped both hands behind her back. “Private Nolan’s shoulder needs to be put back in its rightful place.” Her calm, measured tone made me think of Miss Abernathy during our morning lectures.
“Yes?” I wondered what any of this had to do with me.
“His arm is unbent, as it should be,” Hannah continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “The first step is to take hold of his elbow.” She looked at me expectantly.
Horrified, I stepped back, understanding too late her intentions. “You . . . you’re not serious!”
“I am perfectly serious. Stop dawdling. He’s hurting.”
She was right. Freddy’s head had dropped forward. He sat there, breathing heavily through his nose, like a bull. I looked behind me. The soldiers blocked the alley. Running would be fruitless. I sent a last desperate glance toward Sergeant LaBouef, but he only lifted his shoulders, his expression clearly asking, What can I do?
Enough. I was wasting time. I reached for Freddy’s elbow, snatching my hand away when he gasped.
“No, it’s all right,” he said, sounding shaky. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
A Death-Struck Year Page 14