A Room of My Own

by Ann Tatlock

  "Is that right?" Papa asked.

  "Here I was walking down Hoover Avenue when I saw a man I've known all my life coming toward me. It gave me quite a jolt, I can tell you that. You just don't expect to see someone you know. But anyway, there he was, and I said, `Alan Getts, what in the world are you doing here?' And he said--easy as you please, just like he'd been expecting to see me--`Same as you, Dick. I'm looking for work.' Well, we had ourselves a nice little reunion. Stayed up all that night talking about old times."

  "Did he have word of your family?" Papa asked.

  "Yes, and that's what I'm wanting to tell you, Doc. My wife and kids are fine--or as fine as you would expect, considering the times. But my sister, Marion, took Eugene's death pretty hard."

  Eugene, Papa later told me, was Dick Mason's brother-in-law, the man who was killed trying to jump the train.

  "See, after Eugene died, I sent word home about it. I was able to get some writing paper and a stamp down at the Lower Street Mission. I didn't give all the details, just that he was hurt while trying to jump the line and died shortly after. But I told them all about you, Doc, about how you came out and offered your services for free. Marion told Alan before he left that if he ever ran into me, he was to tell me to tell you that she was grateful for what you did for Gene."

  I thought that Papa would be pleased, but the eyes he cast toward the ground were glazed with a certain sorrow.

  "Well now," he said, "I just wish I could have done something for Eugene. The truth is, I didn't do a thing other than call the coroner."

  "You came when we needed you, Doc," Mr. Mason said. "That's something."

  Papa shook his head. I knew how he hated to lose a patient, even if the patient was already lost before he arrived. He said, "Whenever you have the chance to send word back to your family again, tell your sister she has my prayers, will you, Dick?"

  "I'll do that for sure," Mr. Mason promised. "Thanks a lot."

  "Is your friend Mr. Getts still in the camp?"

  "So far, though I suspect in a few days he'll move on farther west. He says his final destination is California. Not that things are any better there, but he thinks it's his best chance."

  "Well, in the meantime if he needs anything, you tell him to let me know."

  "I sure will, Doc."

  Papa said that as long as we were there he might as well try to seek out any newcomers to the camp, but before we could get very far, we were waylaid by the three musicians who had once again assembled to keep their vocals geared up. They called and waved us over, and for the first time I learned their names. The harmonica player was Joe O'Hanlon, the guitarist was Oscar Salinsky, and the man who pumped the accordion--affectionately known as Bellowing Bob--was Bob Sbarbaro. All three of them were seated on Soo City lawn chairs, and I soon discovered that Bellowing Bob--an enthusiastic player and foot stomper--had a habit of toppling over and ending up in the dirt, his accordion sprawled across his chest as the last notes wheezed out of it.

  "Hey, Doc, how about that song?" Joe O'Hanlon asked. "We're still waiting on you to join us."

  "Well now, boys, don't mind if I do," Papa replied heartily.

  "Pull yourself up a chair," Oscar Salinsky invited, nodding toward an empty cinder block. Papa complied and seated himself among the men. "How about you, little lady?" Oscar asked, turning to me. "Want to join your soprano to the rest of our voices?"

  I flushed at the thought of singing with these men. Bellowing Bob must have noticed my apprehension because before I could say anything, he piped up, "Maybe she'd just prefer to listen and enjoy the music."

  I nodded gratefully, and swinging Papa's medical bag slightly against my one leg, I kicked timidly at the dust with the toe of my shoe.

  Turning back to Papa, Oscar asked, "What's your fancy, Doc?"

  "Let's see," Papa muttered as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he brightened. "Do you know `Amazing Grace'?"

  "Know it?" Bellowing Bob bellowed. "We practically wrote the song!"

  "Tell that to John Newton!" Oscar cried, laughing.

  Papa slapped his hands together. "All right, friends, let's give it our best."

  Joe O'Hanlon gave a toot on the harmonica to set the pitch, and in a moment Oscar was strumming and Bellowing Bob was pumping and Joe was tooting heartily, his cupped fingers flapping over the instrument. The voices of Oscar and Bellowing Bob met in harmony but were bumped around a bit by Papa's off-key crooning. Eventually they found themselves back on track again and weathered Papa's assault with as much grace as possible. Being Mother's daughter I was somewhat embarrassed. Mother would have argued that singing with a bunch of smelly hobos wasn't dignified, especially for a man of Papa's profession. Yet at the same time I marveled at the complete lack of arrogance that allowed my father to mingle with anyone who might care to call him friend. That was the greatest difference between my parents. Mother, as I've said, lived by her own strict standards of propriety, while Papa probably never once stopped to wonder whether he appeared dignified or not. The rule my father lived by was "Just be kind to people in every situation, and you'll always do right by them."

  The age-old song, I had to admit, sounded poignant and sweet as it floated through the dusty streets and the stark shanties of the camp. Here and there men and women paused to listen, and a few even gathered nearby so they could hear better. I pushed my initial embarrassment aside and began to hum along quietly as the men made their way through the song not once but twice. In Sunday school we had memorized a verse from Proverbs that came back to me as I listened to the men sing. "The rich and poor meet together: the Lord is the maker of them all." Papa wasn't rich, but to the men of Soo City he must have appeared to be living in the lap of luxury. So in a sense, here they were--rich and poor, the haves and the have-nots--meeting together and singing about amazing grace. And though happy days weren't here again, a certain joy was, along with a certain hope. Money or no, house or tin hut, everyone had a reason to be glad.

  My father and I came away from the camp smiling broadly that day, and Papa whistled all the way home. The sun beat down on the metal roof of the car, and the all-too-familiar dust blew in the open windows until it nearly choked us, but we were happy and neither heat nor dust could diminish our sense of joy.

  But what nature couldn't do, Mother accomplished the moment we arrived home. She met us at the back door and, without so much as offering us a greeting, asked anxiously, "William, have you seen any diphtheria down in the camp?"

  Papa cast Mother a puzzled look and said, "No, there's no diphtheria there."

  "What about scarlet fever?"

  Papa and I stepped into the kitchen, and Papa set his medical bag on the table. "No, Lillian, no scarlet fever either."

  "Polio, then?"

  Mother was close to tears, and Papa placed both hands on her shoulders to comfort her. "No, Lillian, nothing like that. Now, calm down and tell me what this is all about."

  Instead of calming down, Mother raised her voice another notch as she replied, "Well, you must have brought something back from that dreadful place. Both the girls are burning up with fever, and I don't know what it is!"

  Chapter Fifteen

  Papa rushed off to see the girls, sending instructions over his shoulder that Mother and I were to stay put. Mother stood unmoving as she watched him go, her sensible shoes planted on the linoleum floor, her right hand raised to one flushed cheek. Fear, I discovered in that moment, is as contagious as disease--maybe even more so because it takes only a moment, a few words, or a look for it to leap from one person to the next. All the joy I'd felt coming home from Soo City vanished completely as Mother's fear invaded my own blood. I wanted to assure her that everything would be all right, that the girls had come down with some minor ailment, but I knew that no words could lessen the anxiety of her maternal heart. Besides, what good was consolation from the one at fault? I was the one who had gone to the camp against Mother's wishes, after all, and I was guilty of carrying the illness p
iggyback into our home and cutting short the lives of my little sisters.

  I became light-headed at the thought of what I'd done, and I put my arms around Mother's waist in hopes of receiving a hint of her forgiveness. She received me in her arms and held me to her. I was grateful and felt a sob grab at my chest.

  "Mama," I questioned softly, "why didn't you have Dr. Hal look at them?"

  "He was called out early in the afternoon and hasn't yet come back," she explained. Her voice was strained, and I knew she was trying to keep a bundle of emotions in check.

  "Is Simon all right?" I whispered.

  "Yes, all the boys are fine."

  "Claudia and Molly seemed fine this morning, too. Maybe a little tired, but--"

  "They started complaining only a couple of hours ago. That's when I discovered they had fever. I kept thinking your father would be home any minute."

  And I knew what else she was thinking: Papa would have been home if we hadn't gone running off to Soo City. I could only wonder how she'd feel if she knew he'd spent the last half hour not doctoring but singing. Singing with a group of hobos while his own two babies lay on their deathbed.

  Mother took a deep breath, then turned from me and went to work attacking the dirty dishes in the sink. I barely had time to grab the dish towel to help when we heard Papa on the stairs, merrily whistling "When We All Get to Heaven." Mother and I gaped at each other in disbelief. How dare Papa whistle such a tune when Death was lurking nearby, threatening to snatch away our little girls!

  He further mortified us by entering the kitchen and laughing outright in the face of all our concerns. He threw his big arms around Mother and squeezed her in an uncharacteristic display of affection. "Lillian!" he chided. "You scared us all out of ten years of life for nothing. What's the matter with you? Don't you recognize the chicken pox by now? The girls have got the telltale rash all over them." He laughed again and pinched Mother's cheek. She responded by narrowing her eyes in a frown.

  "What do you mean, chicken pox?" she asked, flustered.

  "You know." Papa tapped at one of his outstretched arms with the tips of his fingers. "Scabs, itching--surely you haven't forgotten that most enjoyable of childhood diseases. Seems like only yesterday Ginny and Simon were scratching away with it."

  Chicken pox! Then I wasn't a murderer! The thought of it was enough to make me want to do cartwheels the length of the kitchen floor--and I might have, if Mother hadn't been there.

  Mother pushed a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of one soapy hand. The fear reflected in her eyes refused to be assuaged so easily. "Are you sure, William?" she asked. "Are you absolutely certain it's only the chicken pox?"

  Papa answered with a question of his own. "Didn't the girls attend a birthday party a couple weeks ago?"

  "Yes, at the Ryans', but--"

  "That's what I thought. Cindy Ryan came down with the pox only a couple days later. It seems the hostess gave a little gift to her guests, or at least to a lucky few. I've diagnosed chicken pox in a couple other kids, but I'd completely forgotten Claudia and Molly were at the party."

  Mother turned away from Papa and rested the palms of her hands on the edge of the sink. She sighed deeply.

  The jovial look slid off Papa's face and was replaced by one of puzzlement. "What is it, Lil?" he asked, subdued by Mother's reaction. "I should think you'd be relieved."

  Without turning Mother said, "I am relieved. It's just that I worry all the time now--"

  "You worry far too much," Papa said, laying a consoling hand on her shoulder.

  Mother dropped her eyes and shook her head slowly. The wisp of hair fell across her forehead again and swung like a pendulum marking off time. "I feel as though I'm waiting for something dreadful to happen, William. Every morning I wake up thinking `Maybe today. Maybe today that terrible thing is going to come.' "

  Her words sent shivers down my spine. Mother wasn't one to put much stock in feelings or presentiments. She was far too practical for that. But suddenly, in recent weeks, she'd begun forecasting doom, and her predictions put me on edge.

  "Come now, Lillian," Papa said soothingly. "There's no use entertaining those kinds of thoughts. We're all a little tense because of the strike and the heat and, heaven knows, just the way things are in general, but we can't allow ourselves to get overwhelmed. Come on, it's best for you to do something constructive. Why don't you go upstairs and give the girls a nice cool bath with baking soda? It might help both you and them to feel a little better."

  Mother shut her eyes as though trying to hold back tears, but then she turned and smiled bravely at Papa. "All right, William," she agreed. "A cool bath does sound like a good idea for the girls."

  "I'll finish the dishes for you, Mama," I quickly volunteered, wanting to do something to help Mother feel better.

  "Thank you, Ginny," she replied quietly. "When I come back down, we'll put a cold dinner on the table. I imagine everyone's getting hungry."

  That night I started sleeping on the couch in Papa's study. I was immune to the chicken pox myself, having already had them, but I thought the girls would be more comfortable if they had more room in the bed. The couch in the study was old and lumpy, but I marveled that I hadn't thought to spend my nights on it earlier. It was cooler in that room simply because it was downstairs and also because there weren't two little girls curled up beside me generating heat. I was able to sleep much better there. More than that, all night I felt surrounded by the presence of Papa, and sometimes in the early morning, an hour or so before sunrise, I'd awaken to see my father at his desk with his back to me, the small desk lamp shining dimly on his open Bible as he engaged in "the first order of the day." I'd watch him for a few bleary-eyed moments, comforted by his discipline and enjoying his company even though no words passed between us. Then I'd succumb to sleep again with a warmth that kindled in my mind sweet and lingering dreams.

  Shortly after Papa diagnosed the girls with chicken pox, their skin began to blister. The first blisters turned into scabs while a second set of blisters broke out. Within a few days both girls itched all over, a misery exacerbated by the heat and their own perspiration. Mother gave them cool baking soda baths twice daily and fed them aspirin ground up in applesauce to try to relieve the itching. She also cut their fingernails way back so they wouldn't scratch off the scabs and cause infection or scarring. I spent part of every afternoon diverting their attention from their physical misery by entertaining them with songs and stories. Though relieved that they weren't suffering from anything more serious than the pox, I remembered my own discomfort from the disease some years before, and I felt terribly sorry for Claudia and Molly and helpless to do them any real good.

  At the same time, there was constant speculation among the grown-ups as to when Emerson Thiel might start bringing in scabs to break the strike at the grain mill. Whenever anyone mentioned scabs, all I could imagine was the picket line being crossed by gigantic sores resembling the ones that dotted the skin of my little sisters. The girls scratched their scabs and cried, and on the tenth day of the strike, the tenth of August, the picketers were finally faced with scabs and fought. No one was sure which side started it on that sultry afternoon when the first riot broke out. The picketers said the police swung their billy clubs without provocation, but the police said one of their own was attacked by a picketer. Either way, it was a bloody ordeal.

  We were alerted to the rioting by Aunt Sally's cry of "They've come! The scabs have come and the men are fighting!" She had just returned from serving lunch at the commissary. The riot presumably started while she rode home, unaware, on the trolley. As had lately become her habit, she turned on the radio as soon as she stepped into the house in case a news bulletin about the strike should interrupt the usual afternoon serials--which, to her dismay, was exactly what happened. "Lillian, Rufus, Luke--come listen! There's rioting down on the picket line!"

  In a moment we all came running from every corner of the house to gather in the p
arlor. Mother and I, having just finished cleaning the kitchen, rushed down the wide hall toward the radio, wiping our hands on our aprons as we flew. The boys nearly knocked us over as they ran into the parlor from the front porch where they'd been playing marbles. We arrived just in time to hear the newscaster announce excitedly, "... and now the police are in front of the Thiel Mill attempting to subdue rioting strikers with tear gas bombs and threats of arrest. Fighting broke out less than an hour ago when police attempted to escort a caravan of pickup trucks, carrying replacement workers, through the picket line...." Mother and I resigned ourselves to the couch, knowing that the fighting could go on for a while and not wanting to miss the news. Rufus, Luke, and Simon sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the radio, looking up at the dial with great anticipation on their faces, as if they were listening to "The Lone Ranger."

  "Get 'em, Pa!" Luke cried, slamming a clenched fist into an open palm.

  "Hush, Luke!" Aunt Sally scolded. "This isn't a game. Your father could get hurt--" She stopped abruptly, picked up a fan from the coffee table, and nervously fanned herself.

  Confirming my aunt's words, the newscaster announced, "There are reports of casualties on both sides, and the city's ambulances have been deployed to transport the wounded to an unconfirmed hospital."

  Aunt Sally gasped, and her skin took on the color of bleached linen. She leaned forward in the rocking chair and was listening so intently to the radio that she jumped visibly when the telephone rang.

  "I'll get it!" Simon yelled, leaping up from the floor and running to the phone in the hall. We heard him pick up the receiver but didn't hear him speak. After a moment he ran back to the doorway between the hall and the parlor and announced, "They've called Doc Bellamy down to the strike hospital. Doc Wilson's there but there's too many men for him to handle. Some's bleeding real bad! Doc Bellamy said he's on his way."