by Anne Groß
“Wait, you were watching me? Why didn’t you step in sooner?”
Elise was relieved to see Thomas looked appropriately uncomfortable at having been discovered lurking in the shadows. He had displayed no shame in murdering, but watching a woman getting beaten up, that, at least, seemed to make him bashful. “I didn’t want to make a bad situation worse. Look here,” he said when Elise rolled her eyes, “how else am I supposed to understand what you’re about if you never open your mouth except to say gibberish? Everyone thinks you’re touched because half the things you say make no bloody sense. But I know there’s more to you than what people think. Watching you fight just now proved it. Where did you learn to do that?”
Elise struggled to find an answer. Where would a 19th Century woman learn to fight? Not one of the pathways she took to learn to defend herself would make any sense to Thomas. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Yes you do. You know. You know everything. You just won’t tell me,” Thomas knocked the ash out of his pipe on the step. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since the day you arrived. We should have swept you out with the Magdalenes when we had the chance, only I suppose it wouldn’t have done any good. You strays always come back for feed.”
“Strays? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? What about you and your secrets? I bet tonight wasn’t the first time you slit someone’s throat. I met Mrs. Robert Elliot today. For some reason she thinks you’re going to hurt her husband; are you going to slit his throat too?”
“I’d never... Robert Elliot?” Thomas pulled his forelock, looking the picture of a guilty man. Then he heaved himself to his feet. “He owes the Quiet Woman quite a bit.”
“You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me a stray. You’re nothing but a thug. That woman’s got five kids to feed and instead of buying food she’s giving Richard—”
“It’s bloody Mr. Ferrington to you.”
“Whatever. Giving Mr. Ferrington money and weeping in the street because you’re strong-arming her husband. Why don’t you just stop him from coming in and drinking?”
“Stop him? You stop him. Aren’t you the one as serves him? In fact, why don’t you stop all the men who come in to the Quiet Woman to get cut and fuddled. That’ll be just grand for business. The Dancing Bear would be so sorry to have to serve all our customers.”
“I’m just saying if they don’t have any money, then they shouldn’t get served. No one should be owing us anything.”
“And I’m telling you that’s just not how it’s done. If we don’t keep a running ledger for the local lads, they’ll take their business elsewhere where they don’t have to pay in advance. But if you want to tell Mr. Elliot when he’s had his last, you go right ahead.”
“I don’t know what he looks like,” Elise said, feeling defeated. The entire system was stupid, she decided, and rigged against everyone. The pubs lose because they rely on drunks that don’t pay up, and the drunks lose because the pubs keep pumping them full of beer. The only winners were the brewers who always got paid.
“That’s your problem, Elise. You’re so wrapped in your secrets you can’t see beyond your own nose. How is it that Mr. Elliot comes in every night and you don’t know his face? You don’t care to learn about anyone, that’s how.” Thomas shook his head. “Every night he drinks away his wages with us, and him with five wee ones and a wife at home. How afraid for him do you feel now?”
Not very, that was true. “It’s not up to you to punish him for being a bad father.”
“Punish him? I’m not punishing him. I don’t care how he treats his children; I just want to get what he owes us.” Thomas held out his hand to help her to her feet, but Elise ignored it and stood up on her own. “Oh, so it’s like that now, is it?” Thomas dropped his hand and snarled. “Then you’d best try to keep up,” he called over his shoulder as he started walking away. “I’ll not hunt you down again if you get lost a second time.”
THE WISDOM OF ONIONS
Ahead, in the middle of the block, a pole jutted from the wall of a building to which was attached a familiar sign adorned with the image of a headless woman, only quiet by default. Elise breathed a sigh of relief at having finally reached the pub and felt comforted by the creaking wooden flag. Somehow, in the short time that she’d been living there, the emblem had etched itself onto her identity. Had the bar been in Tucson, she would have bought the t-shirt.
Despite Thomas’s parting words, keeping up had been no trouble. What she found hard was maintaining the ten paces she’d deliberately placed between them since the wound in his side had begun to slow him down. He crossed the front of the pub and peered surreptitiously through the windows. Elise followed in a crouch, not really knowing why. She tried to look inside the dining hall, but could only see her own reflection in the soot-caked window. She was truly a mess, with abrasions on her cheeks and a swollen lip. The bun she’d carefully twisted and pinned that morning had exploded into an auburn halo of lopsided frizz after having been pulled and yanked in the fight. Quickly, she tried to flatten it down with the palms of her hands. This, she thought to herself as she longed for her shea butter deep conditioning hot oil hair serum, is why respectable women wear bonnets.
Thomas was already circling around to the back so that they could enter through the kitchen instead of the dining hall. It was a brave thing to do, considering Mrs. Postlethwaite was sure to be standing at the table holding a large knife. Just outside the kitchen door, Thomas paused to take a deep breath and straighten his coat. Then he swung the door wide with conviction. He wasn’t even inside before Mrs. Postlethwaite’s loud voice poured into the courtyard. “For God’s sake Tommy, what’s happened to you this time?” Nothing got past the cook’s shrewd eye. She could have been a fantastic nurse, thought Elise.
When Elise stepped through the door and around from behind Thomas, the cook nearly dropped her carving knife. “What happened to her face?” she exclaimed looking to Thomas for answers.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he replied. “I didn’t have nothing to do with the state of her.”
“I didn’t say you did, so don’t be pert with me.”
“You didn’t have to say it to think it,” Thomas shouted. Elise and Mrs. Postlethwaite stared at Thomas as he stormed out into the dining hall. He didn’t get far. “Do I look like a barmaid?” he snapped at a customer who complained about a delinquent refill. He turned and stomped back into the kitchen. “Where’s Mary?” he demanded. “Where are the Ferringtons?”
“Mary’s tending Mr. Tilsdale,” Mrs. Postlethwaite said.
“Elise, go bring her back down here. We can’t be nursing everyone who falls into our path.”
“He’s got no people, and is doing very poorly,” Mrs. Postlethwaite chided. “We can’t leave him to struggle on his own. At any rate, Mary’s very fond of Mr. Tilsdale and Mrs. Ferrington allowed it wouldn’t do to have another room sitting empty if we can help it.
Thomas turned to press his forehead against the wall. When he raised his hands to work them through his hair, Elise caught a glimpse of a growing red stain under his coat. “Mary’s fondness for Old Tilsdale cannot be more important than getting Mr. Reims another beer,” he said through his teeth.
Elise went to pick up a jug half full of beer that was on the kitchen table, but Mrs. Postlethwaite stopped her. “I’ll do that. You’re not fit to be seen, and Mr. Reims can just wait. I’ve been pouring for him all afternoon so he can’t be in that much of a hurry now.” She took the large kettle off the fire and poured steaming water into an ewer. “Johnny fetched the water when it took you so long to return. I know you’ll be wanting to thank him for that,” she looked directly at Elise, implicating her in everything.
“But I had the buckets,” Elise said, confused.
“Do you really think the Quiet Woman can only afford two buckets at one time?” Her shrewd eyes took note of Elise’s empty hands, but said nothing about it. “Johnny’s gone to collect pots so we’ll have eno
ugh for tonight, and I’ll have him fill jugs when he returns. We don’t need anyone else. So get on with you,” Mrs. Postlethwaite said, waving at Thomas, “and take your bad humor away from my kitchen.”
“I’ll go, but Elise will relieve Mary from Mr. Tilsdale’s room so Mary can come down and help. You might not need her now but you’ll need her soon enough, and the Queen can do more good up there with Tilsdale. Where’s Richard?”
“How should I know? Mr. Ferrington will be here later this evening, I’m sure.”
“Aye. He’ll drag himself back here from his gaming tables when the work’s all done.” Thomas turned and left the kitchen. “I’ll be in my quarters if you need me.”
“I said we won’t be needing you Tommy, so don’t be coming back down tonight or I’ll give you what’s what.” She turned to Elise and placed her hands on her hips. “And you. I don’t want to hear naught about how you’ve come to be all cut and bruised. Not one word. I’ve got to think of my own family. I’ve got my own daughter, you know, my own troubles. I don’t need yours. Just look at what your troubles has done to our Thomas.”
Instead of looking at the retreating barman, Elise looked deep into the ewer that Mrs. Postlethwaite pushed into her hands. The amount of bath water seemed wholly inadequate for removing the amount of crap that was caked and flaking off her legs. “I need a shower,” Elise mumbled, her tears welling again. “I want another dress too.”
“A what? A dress? I can’t wave my hands and get you a dress. I can’t cook one up with potatoes and carrots. Don’t look to me for dresses. The only dressing I’ll be doing is for this beast,” she pointed to the large carcass of unidentifiable poultry with the knife and then brought it down on the neck of the bird. Elise cringed and jumped back. “There’s a new Mr. Dodo-something-or-other showed up today who’s too fancy to eat plain hen. Mary will perk right up when she sees him. Seems Mary’s fond of capons too.” Two more chops and the feet were scraped down the table and out of the cook’s way. Jacob jumped down from her perch and swiftly made off with one of the feet. When Mrs. Postlethwaite turned her back to fuss at the cat, Elise tucked an apple into her apron pocket and slunk out of the kitchen, keeping her own head down and protected.
It was late afternoon when Elise, scrubbed, but hardly clean, finally entered Mr. Tilsdale’s bedroom with Mrs. Southill’s medical kit slung over her shoulder. Although the curtains over the window were pulled wide open, it was still dark in the room. Taking advantage of the feeble light, Mary sat on the only chair in the room directly under the window and squinted at her knitting. Opposite Mary, a narrow bed was pushed against the wall where Mr. Tilsdale’s labored breathing could be heard behind concealing drapes. A rickety nightstand leaned dangerously to one side under a washbasin full of murky water. Next to the basin, a candle remained stubbornly unlit despite the gloom. “I didn’t know you could knit,” Elise said, by way of hello.
“I don’t have time for it most days,” Mary replied without bothering to look away from her project.
Elise pushed the bed curtains out of the way to view her patient. His change in condition from just that morning was alarming. Mr. Tilsdale was a naked potato chip of a man: pale, salty, greasy, and alarmingly thin. “Why are the blankets on the floor?” she asked.
“He messed them the last time he got locked up and arched. I bathed him and he’s been sleeping ever since. I think he was overheated.”
“Locked up? What do you mean locked up?” Elise couldn’t believe the symptoms had turned so bad, so fast.
“You know, locked up.” Mary stuck her arms, legs, and tongue out, her impression of a seized body. “That’s why they call it ‘lockjaw.’ Don’t you know anything?”
Elise swallowed hard and tried to let Mary’s final question slide. “He needs more blankets. He can’t just hang out naked like this.”
“Why ever not? He’s too hot for blankets right now.”
“He’s got a fever. We need to keep him warm.”
“He’s already burning up. He doesn’t need blankets, he needs cooling off.”
“And what happens when his fever breaks and he’s left shivering?”
“He’ll just mess the blankets again. Will you be doing the washing for all those linens?”
Elise sighed. “At least find the man’s coat to drape over him, would you?” She pushed the piled bedclothes further away with the side of her foot. There had always been an objectionable odor in Mr. Tilsdale’s room, so the soiled blankets didn’t add much color to the bouquet, but all the same she didn’t want the pile to sit on the floor right under her nose. Also objectionable was the washbasin. Elise wrinkled her nose and moved it closer to Mary so she could set her medical kit on the cleared table and consider her patient’s options. There weren’t many. Elise cast her eyes down the length of Mr. Tilsdale’s naked body as she thought about whether to continue to use her diminishing supply of willow bark tea or save it, and saw that bulging strips of muslin were tied around the bottoms of his feet. “What’s up with that?” Elise pointed.
“Onions,” Mary said, looking up briefly from her knitting. She’d made no move to find Mr. Tilsdale’s coat, convinced he needed to remain naked.
“Bunions?”
“Onions,” Mary said louder. “Why would I be wrapping his bunions?” She shook her head incredulously.
Elise gently poked a bandage and was rewarded with a distinctive smell. “No way. You tied onion slices to his feet?”
“Of course I did. It draws the fever out. My Gran used to do the same when I was feeling poorly. Everyone knows about onions.”
“Wasn’t it your Gran who told you to sprinkle weed outside the door of the man you want to marry?” Elise thought of Thomas dragging Mary’s future bridegroom down the alley, leaving a trail of blood stained cobblestones. “How’s that working out for you?”
“It will work, you’ll see. My Gran was a very clever woman.”
“I’ll bet she was.” Elise put her hands to her temples and forcefully pushed back the memory of the afternoon.
“You’re not staying here, are you?” Mary asked hopefully, putting her knitting down for the first time since Elise arrived. “Mr. Tilsdale likes me better. I should be the one to stay at his side.” She squinted in the dim light. “What’s happened to your face?”
“Mrs. P. wants you downstairs.” Elise ignored the question. Suddenly she really wanted Mary to leave.
“Me? Why not you?”
“Because I’m a better nurse than you.” Elise put the willow bark back in her bag. It would be wasted on Mr. Tilsdale.
“So Mr. MacEwan finally gave you the back of his hand, did he? I’m surprised he showed as much self-restraint as he did. You’re not a better nurse. You’re a know-nothing—didn’t even know about onions to the feet. I don’t believe Mrs. P. sent for me. You just said that so you could sit idly up here.” She picked her knitting back up and sniffed. “I’m staying right here. Mr. Tilsdale needs me.”
“Then stay. Whatever, I don’t care. But you should know that Thomas is down for the count, so if Mrs. P. has to climb those steps to find someone to help her, or if Thomas has to be dragged out of bed, you might end up with a face that matches mine.”
A loud groan drew the women’s attention back to the subject of their argument. “Look what you’ve done,” Mary shouted. “You’ve gone and woken him.” She got up from her chair and pushed Elise out of the way so she could take her place at the head of the bed. With a wide swipe of her arm, Mary pushed all Elise’s herb bundles onto the floor and replaced the water basin on the nightstand.
“Stop!” Elise cried in horror as Mary extended a dripping rag towards Mr. Tilsdale’s face. “You wiped his ass with that!”
Mr. Tilsdale gave another groan, as if to echo Elise’s objection. He balled his hands into fists and drew them up towards his armpits to arch himself backwards in a reverse headstand. “He’s doing it again. He’s locking up,” Mary cried. The rag finished its journey to cool Mr
. Tilsdale’s forehead and he curled his toes in agony.
The sound of Mr. Tilsdale’s breathing filled the room, a desperate whistling wheeze as he struggled against the combined constraints of a ribcage that was clenched so tightly it could no longer expand, a frozen diaphragm, and an already compromised larynx. The rag was completely forgotten. All Elise wanted was that red button at the head of his bed, the one she could slam with her fist the second she knew she was in over her head, and have a team of doctors, respiratory therapists, and nurses miraculously arrive to take over his care. “How long does this last?” she barked at Mary.
“It’s happened twice before and both times lasted forever.” She slopped water onto the pillow and started to cry.
“Get out of my way,” Elise said, pushing Mary. The average person can only stay conscious for three minutes without breathing. Elise calculated that if he’d survived two attacks, then they couldn’t have lasted more than a couple minutes. It must have felt like a lifetime to Mary, she thought with some sympathy. In the hospital she would have given him oxygen and waited for the crash team to come intubate him. He was so tight she couldn’t even reposition him for a better airway. She could grind or mix or steep any herbs she wanted, but anything she made would have to be swallowed, and there was no way she would be able to get anything past his clenched jaw. Even if she had an herb that was powerful enough to act as a muscle relaxant or, even better, a paralyzing agent, she would need direct access into his veins to use it. There was nothing she could do.
“Come back here,” she said softly to Mary who was weeping at the foot of the bed. “Talk to him. Tell him how much we’ll miss him if he leaves us. Do you know any songs? Sing him a song. Something sweet.”
Mary wiped her eyes as she hesitantly approached. Her thin high voice wavered with suppressed sobs as she began a lullaby that could barely be heard over Mr. Tilsdale’s gurgled breathing. “Sleep my child, sleep peacefully. God will send his angels to attend thee,” she sang.
Elise squeezed Mr. Tilsdale’s fist in sympathy, then found his pulse at his wrist. The fever by itself was bad enough, but combined with the overachiever’s gym workout forced on him by the tetany, it was no wonder his pulse raced. Elise hoped Mary’s song would bring down his heart rate. There were all kinds of medicine, she thought.