by Ann Tatlock
Where they had come from and how they had found their way to Papa at the hospital, I had no idea. To my shame, I realized that they had been brushed aside right along with my worries about Uncle Jim. I hadn't even wondered what had become of them, so caught up was I in my own father's welfare. After the raid, they had simply disappeared from my mind as quickly as they had disappeared from the riverbank--without one thought or prayer from me. But now, suddenly, here they were, singing "Amazing Grace" and holding makeshift signs of cardboard with charcoal lettering. GET WELL SOON, DOC EIDE and WE'RE PULLING FOR YOU and GOD BLESS YOU, DOC. Even T-Bone wore a sandwich board, one side of which said DOC EIDE: FRIEND TO MAN AND BEAST and the other: T-BONE LOVES SAWBONES.
They were a motley crew, dirtier and more disheveled than ever. Their clothing was torn, their hair matted and flying in all directions, and all ten of Longjohn's toes stuck out of the ends of his tattered shoes. They also carried the wounds they had suffered in the raid: an arm in a sling here, a black eye there, a hand or a foot or a knee wrapped in crude bandages. Even their voices were harsh and raspy, still bearing the effect from the smoke of the fire. They were the sorriest group of musicians I had ever seen, and yet they made the sweetest music I'd ever heard.
Mother, who hadn't spoken up till now, remarked quietly, "Oh, Virginia, aren't they dreadful?"
But she said it with a kind of awe. Her chin quivered and her eyes glazed over with the first tears I'd seen since our ordeal began, and in those few moments Mother must have understood what Papa saw in these people Jesus called "the least of the brethren." She must have seen what it was that took Papa back again and again to their camp to be among them.
And I did, too. When I looked at them as they stood there in their peculiar picket line, I saw the long-handled spoons that Papa had told me about. The instruments and the voices and the improvised signs and the tears on people's faces--these all were long-handled spoons, held up now to Papa's lips with the life-giving stew that Papa couldn't reach for himself. Unlike me, these people understood the riddle of those strange utensils, had probably understood it long ago, and had somehow--in their own way--been feeding Papa across the table all along.
Suddenly, Mr. Donner, the hospital administrator, appeared on the grounds, taking long strides toward the group while waving his arms dramatically. "This is a hospital!" he cried in an angry stage whisper. "We must have quiet here! Either you leave at once or I'll call the sheriff."
At that, Mother flung open the window as wide as it would go and shouted through the screen, "Mis-ter Donner! You will do no such thing! I think the sheriff's done quite enough, thank you. These people have come to sing, and sing they will!"
I couldn't believe it. Here was my very proper mother, standing arms akimbo, yelling at the top of her voice to the hospital administrator.
Mr. Donner, I think, couldn't quite believe it either. He looked around frantically for the source of this unexpected censure until he finally spotted Mother in the window of Papa's room. The Soo City singers had stopped singing, and Mr. Donner's suddenly timid voice came to us from out of the abrupt silence.
"M-Mrs. Eide!" he stuttered apologetically. "I was just trying--"
"You leave those people be," Mother warned. "Let them do what they've come to do."
The man, red-faced, glanced at the dubious singers. He did a double take when Bellowing Bob, the accordionist, bowed and tipped his cap. Mr. Donner responded with a frown. Then moving in his long-legged strides toward the window where we stood, he didn't stop until he practically had his nose pressed up against the screen. "But, Mrs. Eide," he said as he ran his thin fingers through his hair, "I have to think of the other patients. We can't have these--these people"--he spat out the last word as though he considered it a misnomer--"disturbing the residents of this hospital."
"Then they will just have to sing more quietly," Mother replied adamantly. She had that look on her face that meant her decision was final.
Mr. Donner took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped nervously at his brow, and sighed heavily. He looked from Mother to the singers and back to Mother again. "All right," he conceded. "They can sing, but only very quietly and only for a short time." Then gathering up the pieces of his shattered authority, he added sternly, "And no instruments!"
As the administrator stalked off, Mother slipped me a placid smile. "I knew I'd be glad one day that Father funded this wing," she said. Actually, she'd been proud all along, but now Grandfather Foster's generosity had proved really useful. I smiled at Mother in return and took her hand.
The Soo City singers moved closer to Papa's window, and Joe O'Hanlon stepped forward, took off his cap and squeezed it, together with his harmonica, in his large hands. He looked at me and nodded a greeting, then said to Mother, "The doctor was always coming around doing for us, ma'am. We wanted to do something for him in return. It ain't much, but we know how he favors music. We thought he might like a song or two."
Mother took a deep breath before speaking, appearing to collect herself. When she spoke, her voice was strong and even. "I thank you good people for your thoughtfulness," she said. "I wonder whether I might ask a favor of you?"
"Of course, Mrs. Eide," Joe agreed eagerly.
"Dr. Eide had--" Mother stopped and corrected herself. "Dr. Eide has a special penchant for Christmas carols. I know it's not yet the season, but I wonder whether you might--" Mother stopped when she saw each face in the crowd brighten into a smile.
"It would be our pleasure, ma'am," Joe replied. He returned his cap to his head and, as self-appointed conductor of the group, instructed, "Let's start with `O come, O come, Emmanuel.' I heard the doc whistling that one enough to reckon it's one of his favorites. Listen up, now, here's the note."
He tooted on his harmonica--an effort that did little to get the group on key--and in the next moment Papa's room was filled with something resembling the songs of Christmas.
We listened to those a cappella whisperings for the next half hour while night settled over the hospital grounds. And as the darkness came on, a certain light slipped in as well--a light that began to dispel the inner blackness of our fears, for the singers brought Christmas to us. It didn't matter that it was October and not December, or that what was tumbling from the sky was autumn leaves and not snow. Christmas had come.
"O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appear...."
Emmanuel: God with us. Not up in the sky somewhere beyond the twinkling stars. Not so far away that the earth appears a little speck of dirt hung slipshod in the universe. But here. Right here. In this city ... in this place ... in this room.
"O come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer,
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight...."
I had wanted to shout at Him, to reach my hand up and rattle heaven, to demand His attention: Oh, God, dear God, I'm here! But it seemed only futile, and I questioned His ability to hear me, to see me, to answer me. He who was up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky. But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the people from Soo City had slipped onto the hospital grounds, and in spite of the rags they called clothes, in spite of their poverty, in spite of the failures that clung to them like so much lint on an old jacket, they had brought God with them.
When the notes of the last song subsided, Joe O'Hanlon tucked his harmonica into his jacket pocket and said, "Well, Mrs. Eide, I reckon we'd better be moving along."
Mother took a small step closer to the window and placed her hand on the screen. "I wonder, would you--" she started. She had the same look on her face as when she sometimes watched Papa go off to Soo City, that look of wanting to call him back but wondering whether she should. "Well," she continued, "would it be an imposition to ask you to come back tomorrow?"
Oscar Salinsky strum
med a chord on his guitar. "We'll be here, ma'am," he promised.
Mother thanked them, and good-nights were exchanged all around.
"God bless you, Mrs. Eide."
"See you tomorrow, Virginia."
"Take good care of the doc."
"We'll be praying."
"Sleep well, everyone," Mother called out.
They turned to go, and too late I wondered to ask them where they were going, where they had come from, where they would sleep.
I never did find out.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mother sent me back to school starting Friday of that week. Of course I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay with Papa. Mother tried to console me by saying I could come to the hospital straight from school and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening there with her. She instructed me on where and when to catch the trolley and gave me the nickel fare in the morning before I left the house.
That first day back at school, I felt like the bearded lady at the circus, a misfit to be stared and gawked at. Of course my friends Charlotte and Rosemary and Jean welcomed me back into the fold, and my teacher, Miss Howard, pulled me aside and offered words of consolation and encouragement. But most of the kids regarded me from a distance, with furtive stares and barely concealed whispers.
"Her pa got shot."
"His head's all bashed in like an old pumpkin."
But the one that really bothered me was "They say he might die any minute now." The fragmented whispers followed me wherever I went. I clenched my jaw and forced myself not to cry, thinking, Let them say what they want. What do they know, anyway?
Danny Dysinger tried repeatedly to catch my eye in class, but I ignored him. He had wanted to help in his own way, I knew, but I couldn't get it out of my mind that it may have been Danny's own father who wielded the blow to Papa's head when he was already down.
Good old Charlotte spent most of the time between classes and at recess with her arm around my shoulder like a mother hen tucking a chick beneath her wing. She didn't offer me any sympathy, for which I was grateful, but repeatedly made statements that began with "When your pa gets better ..." or "When your pa gets home ..." She didn't entertain the possibility of any other outcome, and she wouldn't let me either.
Saturday gave me some relief from the curiosity of my classmates, though it was another day spent from morning till night at the hospital. I realized on Saturday that during those hours I was away from Papa, it was easier to hope for his recovery, much easier than when I was with him. Because when I stood beside his bed and looked upon the gaunt and vacant face that didn't resemble my father at all, I'd think, How can he possibly ever be Papa again?
Sunday morning Mother insisted that we all go to church, and Rev. Winchell's prayer--"O Lord, comfort the good doctor's wife and children at this, their hour of trial ..."--and the sympathy of our fellow congregants just about killed us.
"Oh, Lillian, you're holding up so well. I remember when my Harry died...."
"God will never give us more than we can bear...."
"There's a purpose in this--someday you'll see...."
"... and your children so young, but God takes care of His own. You won't be alone, Mrs. Eide...."
Mother and I dragged ourselves to the hospital that afternoon with the condolences of our fellow churchgoers hanging like chains around our necks and threatening to choke us. "They mean well, Virginia," Mother explained. "Try not to let their words bother you."
But bother me they did, and I was in a deep funk until early evening when some unexpected guests showed up. Mother and I had just returned from supper in the hospital cafeteria when Charlotte and Mrs. Besac appeared in the doorway with small cloth bags in their hands like a couple of trick-or-treaters. Only instead of asking for handouts, they were bearing gifts, and instead of being all made up, Mrs. Besac was alarmingly colorless. I think she knew she'd offend Mother if she came around wearing her usual rouge and lipstick. My friend and her mother stood in the doorway awkwardly, not quite sure what to do, until my own mother finally said, "Mrs. Besac, Lottie, how nice of you to come. Please come in."
Mother stood to greet Mrs. Besac, and all the while the latter was apologizing for having shown up unexpectedly. "We called your house," she explained, "and Mrs. Dubbin told us you were still here and to just come on over."
"Of course," Mother responded. "I'm so glad you did."
Her words surprised me because I was well aware of her opinion of Mrs. Besac. And yet I should have known that Mother would hardly turn up her nose and send the woman away. Charlotte and I smiled at each other as our mothers exchanged pleasantries.
"Won't you sit down?" Mother invited, pointing to the one chair beside Papa's bed. "I can get some more chairs--"
"Oh no, really, I can't stay," Mrs. Besac interrupted. "I just wanted to bring Lottie around and give you this." She pulled out of the bag something all wrapped up in wax paper and handed it to Mother. "I made some bread this afternoon. It's banana bread. I don't know whether you like it--"
"Why, yes, of course," Mother said, accepting the loaf. "Banana bread is one of our family favorites. Thank you so much."
"You know I hate to cook, Virginia," Charlotte blurted out, "but I tried to make you some cookies. They're chocolate chip. I don't think they turned out so good, but anyway, here they are."
"I'm sure they're very good!" I said as I took the little bag she handed me, though, in fact, I could imagine she had forgotten some vital ingredient like the sugar. But I didn't care.
Mrs. Besac appeared flustered as she stood near Papa's bed. She kept dropping her eyes, seeming afraid to look at him. "I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Eide," she said, clenching her hands together, "that I really am sorry about what's happened to Dr. Eide. He always treated me good whenever I came to him with a problem, or whenever Lottie's been sick. And, well, I'm not a praying woman, Mrs. Eide, but ever since I heard the doc was hurt, I've been asking God to help him. Lots of good people are praying for him, and well ..."
Her voice trailed off, as though she'd simply run out of words. Mother smiled at her then, not a false smile prompted by propriety, but a genuine smile.
"Thank you for your prayers, Mrs. Besac," she said gently. "That means so much to me. And it will mean a great deal to Dr. Eide, too, when he wakes up and learns you were praying for him."
Mrs. Besac's face flushed slightly, but she returned Mother's smile. "Well," she said, sounding relieved, "I'll be back when visiting hours are over to pick up Lottie."
"Are you sure you won't stay awhile?" Mother asked.
"Thank you, but I can't. Lottie," she said, turning to Charlotte and me, "you be good and don't bother Mrs. Eide."
"I'll be good, Mama."
"I'll meet you out front at eight."
"All right, Mama. And, Mama?"
"Hmm? Yes, Lottie?"
"It's Charlotte."
Mrs. Besac sighed and exchanged a knowing glance with Mother before walking out of the room. Mother stood there holding the loaf of banana bread in her hand and staring at the doorway through which Mrs. Besac had just passed. There was a gap a mile wide between the two women, but I decided Mrs. Besac had just laid the first brick in the foundation of the bridge that might one day connect them.
Charlotte walked over to Papa's bedside and looked down at him with a sorrowful expression in her eyes. "He doesn't look very much like his old self, does he?" she asked quietly. She didn't wait for an answer before looking up at Mother and saying, "But don't worry, Mrs. Eide, he's going to be all right. I can feel it in my bones."
"Thank you, Charlotte," Mother said. She finally placed the banana bread on the side table and settled herself in the chair beside Papa. I'm not sure she put much trust in Charlotte's bones, but she smiled at my friend as though she were Dr. Rawls himself telling her Papa was bound to wake up any minute now.
"You wanna take a walk, Virginia, just around the halls?" Charlotte asked.
I looked at Mother. "Can we, Mama?"
"All right, but do it quietly. This is a hospital, remember." When my friend and I headed for the door, Mother called, "You'll be back in time for the singers, won't you?"
"Of course," I said. "You want to hear the singers, don't you, Charlotte?"
"The Soo City singers?" Charlotte asked. "Sure I do! We'll be back soon, Mrs. Eide."
Out in the corridor, we threw our arms around each other and started to walk. "Think we'll see anything gory?" Charlotte asked expectantly.
"Naw," I said, shaking my head. "They pretty much keep the gory stuff hidden as much as possible."
"The only time I got to be in a hospital, besides right now, was when my great-aunt Bernice was dying of a gall bladder attack. I only got to see her before she was dead, though, and not after, so it was hardly worth going."
I remembered the dead man I'd seen in the street during the riot in front of the grain mill. "Well, I can tell you, Charlotte, people look a whole lot better alive than dead," I assured her. "But if you're really all that interested in it, maybe you should think about becoming an undertaker."
"Naw," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not going to become anything. I just want to get married. I spun the globe last night even though you weren't there, and you know where it said I'm going on my honeymoon? Saudi Arabia! Can you beat that? Maybe I'm going to marry one of those rich sheiks over there--you know, the ones that wear those towels over their heads even though it's hotter than blazes...."
We walked on, talking about our dreams, our hopes for romance, our wish that a handsome new boy would enroll at school and fall madly in love with us. So for a time, with Charlotte at my side, I almost forgot where I was and why I was there. Friends can do that, bring a bit of real comfort in a time of distress like balm on a wound. When I saw the clock above the nurses' desk and realized the Soo City singers would be performing soon, I steered us back to Papa's room.