by Jeanne Dams
“It isn’t that simple. There’s a lot about blood we don’t know, but we do know that sometimes fresh blood saves a person’s life—and sometimes it kills. I can’t risk it. The best we can do is give her good food and lots of rest, and don’t let her worry about anything. The tonic will help. You must see that she takes it every day.”
“And since when,” said Mrs. Murphy in something nearer to her usual manner, “did Norah Murphy ever do as I told her? She hates that tonic, if that’s what you call it. Smells like cod liver oil to me, and I don’t wonder it’s hard to get down her.”
“She must take it,” said the doctor sharply. It had been a long day and he hadn’t had his dinner yet. “I tell you frankly, good nursing will make all the difference to your daughter.”
Dr. Clark found Hilda in the parlor before he left the house.
“You’re a sensible sort of woman,” he said. “I can be more blunt with you than with the girl’s mother. Mrs. O’Neill’s in a bad way. I’ll wager she wasn’t getting the right kind of food through her pregnancy, and she’s thoroughly run down. That, with the blood she lost, means she’ll have a struggle to recover, and I can’t see any signs she cares to struggle. She seems to think there’s no point in living, even for her baby. Do you know why she feels that way?”
Hilda had to swallow hard before she could reply. The doctor was saying Norah might die! “Yes,” she said at last. “She worries that her husband might lose his job. Also—the worst thing—she worries that he might—Dr. Clark, he is suspected of robbery, at the best, maybe even of arson and murder. He did not do it, Doctor! But she fears that the police will not believe him, and he might—might be hanged.”
The doctor abandoned his need for rest and food. “You say he didn’t do it. You sound very sure.”
“Yes, I—oh, please sit down. You would like some coffee?”
“I would.” He sat down heavily in the nearest chair, letting his bag drop to the floor beside him. “And if there’s such a thing as a sandwich—”
Hilda pulled the bell cord, forgetting for the moment her embarrassment over summoning servants. “You have had no supper?” she asked anxiously.
“Not yet. It doesn’t matter. Tell me about Mr. O’Neill. He has a job?”
“He works for Black’s Bicycle Works, but he fears for his job. The company is not doing well, and even before—oh, Eileen, please bring us coffee. And Dr. Clark has not had supper. Can you bring him something to eat, please?”
“There’s still soup, ma’am. I could heat it up in a minute.”
“Thank you. And some bread, and pie if any is left over.”
“Plenty, ma’am.” Eileen vanished.
“Go on,” said the doctor. “Even before what?”
“Before the trouble. They have not had very much money, I think. Norah could not work—she is a maid like me, Doctor.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Like I was, I mean. We worked together at Tippecanoe Place and she is my best friend. But when she married Sean things were different. We did not see each other so much. And then I married Patrick, and it was worse. She thought I…” Hilda ran down.
“Yes, yes, but what about Mr. O’Neill?”
“Besides worry about money, there is the fire, and the trouble.”
Eileen came in with food and coffee, and as he ate, the doctor extracted the whole story from Hilda, the events of the fire, Sean’s arrest and release on bail, Norah’s request of Hilda. “So it comes down to this,” Dr. Clark said, sipping coffee, “Norah O’Neill thinks you can get Sean off. You’re sure he’s innocent.”
“Yes.”
“What about the police? Seems to me this is their job.”
“The police are not always kind to immigrants, Dr. Clark. even though many of them are Irish, even the chief, they have forgotten, I guess, what it is like to be poor and despised. And they are lazy, I think. They will arrest one person and not look for others. I know Sean did not set that fire or steal any money, but the police believe he did, or pretend they believe it, and they will not give up their beliefs easily.”
“Well, then, it seems you’re Norah’s last hope. See here, young woman. If Norah goes on worrying about finances and her husband, if she worries about anything at all, she’s not going to sleep well or eat well, and she may well die. Forgive me for speaking plainly, but you’d best bestir yourself and go about proving Sean’s innocence. Think you can do that?”
He looked at her over the top of his glasses, his bushy eyebrows drawn in a frown.
Hilda drew herself up and looked straight back at him. “I think I can. I have done such things before. I will try.”
“Good girl. And look after yourself as well. You look tired. I don’t need two patients in this house.”
“There is much to do, Doctor. The Boys’ Club—that will help me to find out what really happened to Mr. Jenkins. And I must help look after Norah. And Mrs. Murphy is staying here, too, and she does not like me. And there is the house, and of course Patrick, and—”
“Enough.” The doctor held up his hand. “We’re talking about saving a life here. If you say this Boys’ Club will be some use, very well. But you can let the servants run the house for the time being. Your husband won’t starve, I’m sure. And as for Mrs. Murphy, surely she can see that you’re helping her daughter. I’ll send in a nurse for Norah; I’m none too sure her mother’s good for her just now.”
“She is too sad,” said Hilda in a whisper, looking around to make sure Mrs. Murphy wasn’t there. “She weeps over Norah, and I think it is better to be cheerful. And she will not make Norah eat or take the tonic, and becomes angry with me when I try. She will not like a nurse coming to take over, but…” Hilda took a deep breath. “Send the nurse, Dr. Clark. We must have help.”
As Hilda went to bed that night, tired and worried as she was, she suddenly burst into a fit of giggles. Patrick stared at her.
“Oh, Patrick, it is nothing—yoost that I had a thought. It is only two days ago I thought I might die of boredom!”
O what their joy and their glory must be,
Those endless Sabbaths the blessed ones see…
—O Quanta Qualia
Peter Abelard, c. 1129
13
SUNDAY WAS ALWAYS a difficult day. Hilda and Patrick separated, Hilda to the Swedish Lutheran Church with her family, and Patrick to—where else?—St. Patrick’s Catholic Church with his. Patrick usually walked, as his church was nearby. Hilda, who had walked over a mile to her church from Tippecanoe Place every Sunday for more than six years, now took the carriage. She found it pleasant to arrive with clean, dry skirts and shoes, no matter what the weather, although some of her family tended to look askance at what they viewed as an unseemly display of wealth.
This morning Hilda was especially glad of the carriage, for it gave her an extra few minutes to look in on Norah. The nurse had arrived the evening before, starched, cool, and competent. Norah had eaten a little late supper, taken her tonic, and was sitting up in bed eating breakfast when Hilda came into the bedroom.
“Good morning, Norah. You look much better today.”
Mrs. Murphy, sitting in the corner, sniffed. “Pale as a ghost, she is.”
“Much better color, today,” said Miss Pickerell firmly. “And eating her breakfast like a lamb. Just you finish that egg, dear, and then it’s time for your tonic.”
“Horrible stuff,” said Mrs. Murphy. “It’d make me sick, I can tell you that.”
“I don’t want it,” said Norah weakly.
“Ah, we’ll follow it up with some good rich milk to take the taste away. Open up, now.”
Norah opened her mouth for another protest, and the nurse deftly inserted the spoon. Norah swallowed, then gagged and coughed.
“Just you hurry and get well and there’ll be no more need for the tonic,” said the nurse. “Now the milk, dear.”
“Norah, I am going to my church,” said Hilda, eager to escape the conflict betw
een Mrs. Murphy and Miss Pickerell, “and Patrick is going to his. I thought he might ask Father Faherty to come and visit you.”
“Glory be to God,” cried Mrs. Murphy, falling to her knees and crossing herself, “and are you sayin’ my Norah’s dyin’, that she needs a priest?”
?No! I thought you both might like to see him, and Sean when he comes to see you, and perhaps the good Father could baptize little Fiona. I do not know what you do in your church, but in mine babies are baptized when they are tiny, and you have been tired and ill, I thought you might have forgotten.”
At that Mrs. Murphy set up a complicated wailing, invoking the saints, rebuking Norah for putting her baby in danger of hell, praying for mercy, expressing amazement that a heathen should remember duty a good Catholic forgot. Hilda fled before the storm. Let them solve their own religious problems!
Hilda usually enjoyed church with her family, enjoyed the opportunity to hear and speak Swedish, enjoyed the beautiful new church and the hymns. Sometimes she even enjoyed the sermon, though their new Pastor Borg, inclined to be gloomy, didn’t preach as well as had Pastor Forsberg. But after church came the time of trial. For Sunday afternoon was family time, spent with Hilda’s family or Patrick’s, alternately. And since neither family entirely approved of the marriage, the time together was always something of an ordeal.
Today they were all going to Sven’s house, two blocks from the church. Mr. O’Rourke had picked up Patrick, whose service let out before Hilda’s, and brought him to the Swedish Church. There Hilda got into the carriage. On days when the weather was bad, Mama and the two eldest sisters joined them in the carriage. Otherwise Hilda and Patrick were driven in solitary splendor, which to Hilda’s discomfort emphasized her new wealth and the family’s relative poverty.
Mama, this time, chose to walk. Patrick raised one eyebrow as Hilda settled herself on the cushioned seat. “How’s Mama’s temper this mornin’?”
Hilda shook her head. “As usual. She has said nothing except good morning, and she kissed me, but she has looked.”
Patrick grinned. “I know those looks, darlin’. never mind. Looks won’t kill us, and I’ll talk them around in time. Be patient.”
“I am not patient! They should not treat us this way. It was your family who brought Mama and the young ones to America. It was your family who gave you a job and gave us a house, and you do everything for my family that they will let you do. It was you who helped find Erik when he was in such danger. They should be grateful!”
“Ah, but folks don’t like bein’ grateful, ye see. It’s like bein’ in debt, and your people’d sooner starve than be in debt to the no-good Irish. They’ve got this idea that the Irish are all idle lay-abouts, and knowin’ me uncle’s rich and respectable upsets ’em.”
“It is foolish. They should know better.”
“Ah, well, it isn’t all of ’em. The younger ones like me fine, and Sven never says a word agin me. Anyway, there’s nothin’ they can do to us. And here we are, so put on your best Sunday face and together we’ll charm ’em all.”
He handed her down with tender care, winked at her, and escorted her into the small house.
Hilda immediately put on an apron over the traditional Swedish clothes she liked to wear on Sunday, and went to the linen chest for the old, embroidered tablecloth used on Sundays and special occasions. Hilda’s grandmother, whom she could barely remember as a very old lady, had made it for her wedding chest when she was younger than Hilda. Now it was worn fine as a handkerchief, and neatly darned in places, but the embroidery was still bright and beautiful.
Meanwhile Patrick was helping Sven and Erik put up the trestle table and arrange chairs. Nine people made a tight squeeze in the tiny living/dining room, but the young ones didn’t mind being crowded and the older ones coped.
When Birgit and Elsa had set the table and Gudrun and the older girls had set out the food, Sven took his place at the head of the table and Mama at the foot, and they all stood while Sven solemnly pronounced a long Swedish grace. Patrick bowed his head as devoutly as any of them, and chimed in on the Amen. He had no idea what Sven was saying, but he doubted God cared much one way or the other. The idea of gratitude was enough. Truth to tell, Patrick didn’t understand much of the Latin in his own church, either, and he took the same attitude toward that. God presumably knew what was being said and what was intended; that was what mattered.
Dinner, as usual, was delicious. Gudrun and Mama were superb cooks, and the little gifts of special, expensive foods that Hilda slipped them from time to time didn’t hurt. There wasn’t much talk until everyone had satisfied their first hunger, and then Erik swallowed a mouthful of potato sausage and dropped a bombshell.
“Have you found out any more about that murder, Hilda?” he demanded.
Several pairs of eyes swiveled in Hilda’s direction. Mama and Gudrun laid down their forks. Patrick, under the table, reached for Hilda’s hand and squeezed it.
Hilda raised her chin. “I do not think it is a thing to talk about at dinner,” she said sternly, aiming a kick at Erik.
“Oof!” said Birgit, and then put a hand to her mouth. Hilda grimaced. evidently the kick had missed.
“Hilda, we will speak of this later,” said Sven in his head-of-the-family voice. “Have you had a pleasant week?”
The change of subject was not entirely welcome. Hilda rapidly reviewed her week, but all she could think of was the murder, the police suspicion of Sean, the baby, and Norah’s illness. She chose the least controversial. “Norah—you remember my friend Norah—had her baby on Friday. At our house. She was visiting when—” she glanced at the younger children “—when the stork arrived. She will be staying with us for a little while, she and her mother and the baby.”
There was a chorus of exclamations and questions, to which Hilda replied as seemed prudent. A little girl, very pretty, with lots of dark hair. Named after me, but in Irish—Fiona, which means fair. Because my hair is fair, Erik, and we do not yet know what color the baby’s will be when she is older. Yes, her husband is very pleased. Well, Norah is very tired, of course, but getting lots of rest. (Hilda crossed her fingers under the table at that one. It was not really a lie, just not all the truth. And Norah was going to be better soon—she was.)
“And yes, there is one other interesting thing to tell. Mrs. Elbel and I, and some other ladies, are to form a club for boys.” The sour look on Mama’s face made Hilda realize she should have said women rather than ladies. Again a reminder of the elevation of Hilda’s station in life. Hilda hesitated, then mentally shrugged. The change was real. Her family was going to have to get used to it. “The club will be for the children of immigrants, mostly—”
“Hilda! You never told me! What’ll the club do? Where’s it going to meet? Can I bring—”
“Erik, you interrupted your sister.” It was Sven’s authority-voice once more. Erik subsided, but he reminded Hilda of a jack-in-the-box, ready to pop up again at any moment.
Hilda smiled. “I will tell you everything I know, but I do not know very much yet. I am to meet with the other ladies tomorrow to make plans. We must work quickly, because the first thing we will do is give a Christmas party—”
“Ooh!” said Erik, but he said it quietly, with a glance at his brother.
“—and Christmas is only three weeks away. Yes, Erik, before you burst from wanting to ask, there will be presents for everyone. Not big things, you know. We will ask people for donations, and I think they will give, but there are many boys who—who will want a gift.” She had almost said need. It was tiresome being so careful of her speech, she who had said exactly what she thought all her life, but she didn’t want to hurt any feelings.
“I will give,” said Sven. “I have little money to give, but I can make good toys. And Mama and the girls can maybe make scarves and hats and mittens.”
“Thank you!” Hilda was truly grateful. “I am not so good at knitting and sewing—”
There was a roa
r of laughter, in which even Patrick joined, for Hilda’s total lack of needlework skills was a joke in the family.
“Well, I said I am not! I am not good at making anything with my hands, even cooking.”
“I can teach you to cook,” said Gudrun eagerly, at the same moment that Mama made a sour face and said, “But you have a cook to do that for you.”
Hilda could not let that awkwardness continue. “Yes, we have a cook, and Patrick is fortunate that we do, for if he had to eat my cooking he would starve.” Patrick looked so bland that sister Elsa stifled a giggle. “But we may not always be so lucky,” Hilda pursued, “so I think it would be better for me to learn a little. I would be happy, Mama, if you would teach me, too. You and Gudrun are the best cooks I know.”
Mama looked slightly mollified, and nodded, but Sven frowned. “Do you mean that Patrick may lose his job, so you cannot afford a cook? That would be very serious. You are working hard, ja, Patrick?”
Patrick nodded. “Yes, my uncle seems happy with me. I admit that times are bad and folks aren’t buying as much at the store as they sometimes do, but there’s no chance I’ll lose me job. I wish I could say as much for everybody in town. I’m worried by these bank failures all over the state.”
“I meant only,” put in Hilda, “that Mrs. O’Rourke, our cook, has a very bad temper and threatens every week to leave us.”
“Yoost like the Irish. Undependable,” muttered Mama.
“If she ever does,” said Hilda, ignoring her mother, “it will not be easy to find another cook. So I must learn. Mama, Gudrun, I know you are busy with Christmas baking now. May I come and help one day, and learn?”
“On me knees, ma’am!” said Patrick. He pushed his chair back and fell to his knees, looking up at Mrs. Johansson in the attitude of a begging dog.
Everyone roared except Mama, who said, “Get up, Patrick,” with would-be severity. But Hilda was sure her mother was hiding a smile.
When the afternoon was finally over and Hilda and Patrick were heading home in the carriage, Hilda had one more touchy subject to discuss. They always took Elsa back with them to Tippecanoe Place, where she now worked and lived. She was required to be in by twilight, and the carriage ride meant she could spend a few more minutes with her family.