by Wes Brummer
“Thank you for giving us a chance.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “We should go over procedures since none of you have any caretaking experience. At the foot of each bed is a clipboard. Acquaint yourself with those notes. Get in the habit of writing your own observations. Some residents, like the woman with leukemia, take medication. The bottles are on the shelf above the bed. Note the time and the number of pills given on the chart. When James and I go into town on Saturday, we’ll stop by the drugstore and refill prescriptions as necessary. Are you with me so far?”
Sara nodded. “Write down comments. Keep track of pills and the time.”
She produced a small wind-up clock from a cigar box. “This will help you stay on schedule. Don’t dawdle. These patients will talk your ear off if you let them.”
“I understand.”
“Now, let’s move on to a less savory topic. Each time you enter a patient’s room, take care of toilet matters first. Transfer them to the potty chair, even when they protest about going. Two patients wear diapers because they can’t hold their bladders. I’ll show you how to fold a diaper before you leave. Make sure all patients have clean hands before mealtime. Good hygiene means less sickness. Despite your best precautions, though, accidents will happen.”
“Accidents?”
“A patient may pee the bed. Or worse. In the case of Mr. Evans, it may not always be an accident.”
Sara cringed. What had she gotten herself into? Cleaning up messes? Could she do this? What about Bea and Patrick? This job would demand every bit of fortitude the three of them could muster.
The matron studied her. “Now do you see why Mrs. Robson and Miss Underwood would be more helpful?”
Sara sat up straighter, ignoring the flare in her side. “We’ll do quite well on our own.”
“As you wish.” She glanced at the sheet again. “I should tell you about several of the patients. Mr. Byers is in Room One at the top of the stairs. There are dust masks and rubber gloves hanging outside the door. Wear these at all times when you enter the room and keep the door shut. He has consumption.”
Sara gasped. “Tuberculosis? In this house?”
“The man is dying and has nowhere else to go. The disease spreads by air, hence, the dust masks. Always wash the masks and gloves with bleach water upon leaving his room. Clean your hands and face with soap in a separate basin, and each of you dry with a separate towel. Don’t use those basins or towels again. The idea is to isolate any germs you might encounter. Minister to him last and take no short cuts. This will protect you from exposure. He will probably die within a week.”
“How horrible.” An icy chill skittered down her spine. Entering a room with a man wracked by the dreaded lung disease was like playing poker with death.
“Would my child be in danger?”
“Protect yourself and your child will be safe.”
“I’ll wash as you say.”
“Good. In Room Ten at the other end of the hall is a leukemia patient. Maxine Hiebert is cordial, warm-hearted, and dying as well. Her bones are brittle, and her blood does not clot. Maxine takes morphine in pill form. It’s easier to administer that way. Don’t let her handle her own medicine. She’ll take extra pills if she gets a chance. I give her the early morning dose, but you will be responsible for the other three. She is in constant pain, but during your morning rounds, she’ll be feeling the morphine. Don’t let that fool you. She is a delicate patient with no immunity to disease. Be gentle with her. I doubt if she’ll see the month of May.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Then there is Mr. Cyrus Evans in Room Two.” Gloria’s eyes narrowed. “A thoroughly repulsive individual.”
Sara gave a rueful smile. “Sounds interesting.”
“He’s an ornery, hateful old man with dementia. Lived in Joshua his whole life, beat his wife and daughter and spent his money on hooch. For one who’s lost his memory, he still has an evil sense of humor, so be wary.”
“Sounds like a handful.”
Gloria huffed. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“What happens when a resident passes away? Does family ever come to reclaim the body?”
“These patients have no family.” She pointed out the eastern window. “Look behind you. The county cemetery is about a quarter mile away. There are over a hundred bodies there. Half of the buried came from here.”
Sara turned. In the distance was a grove of willows. “The cemetery is under those trees?”
“Yes. It’s rather pleasant for a gravesite. Lots of wildflowers and mockingbirds.”
As soon as she felt better, she’d have to investigate. “What else do I need to know, Mrs. Eisner?”
“Use the dumbwaiter in the kitchen to transport food and supplies. Like the rest of us, the infirmed want someone to talk to. Be friendly, give them comfort, but move on and complete your duties. Sadly, much of their time is spent alone.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Twenty minutes later, Sara returned to her room. Tomorrow wasn’t just a job assignment. It was a trial for Bea and Patrick. And for her.
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday, April 9, 1935
Sara stared at the congealing gravy covering the bread on her pie plate. She disliked the food, but she needed to eat. Skipping meals for an expectant mother was out of the question. She swallowed a few tentative mouthfuls, expecting another bout of morning sickness. Nothing happened. No cramping. No wave of nausea. Nothing to stand in the way of eating or her new assignment.
Across the table, Patrick clenched his spoon to chase the last bit of bread on his plate. Sara tapped his arm. “Are you ready to help upstairs?”
The youth wiped his chin on the sleeve of his shirt. “I forgot what we’re doing.”
Bea scribbled on her slate.
TELL PATRICK ONLY WHAT HE NEEDS TO KNOW
“Good point.” Sara turned to the youth. “For now, let’s meet here after morning chores. Then we’ll go upstairs together.”
The three left the dining table to tend to their rooms.
As Sara freshened her sleeping area, nagging doubts about her decision crept into her thoughts. Should she have gone with the more experienced women, Mrs. Robson and Miss Underwood? Would they have resented taking orders from a younger, less experienced woman? It didn’t matter. This was her crew. They would do things their way and learn from their own mistakes. The feeble-minded boy, the mute girl, and the unwed mother-to-be would become a team. They could be as good as anyone.
Sara cleaned her room, testing her physical limits. She could bend a tad bit more today. If she planned her movements ahead of time, she could manage the twinges of pain.
It was time to get to work.
****
Just after eighty-thirty, Bea sat with the two others in their usual spots in the dining room. Miss Sara talked about the resident behind the forbidden door at the top of the stairs. So, he was dying from a deadly sickness. She’d seen the dust masks hanging by the door and heard the wretched coughing. From within the shadows of her mind, Sally stirred. Oh ho! We’re about to go in the room and see for ourselves!
Bea clasped her hands. This was her chance to show she could work. She hoped Sally wouldn’t interfere. Sally could ruin everything.
Miss Sara glanced at her notes. “Tuberculosis is also catching. Germs spread through the air because of Mr. Byers coughing attacks. That’s why we wear the dust masks and the long gloves—to protect ourselves. We’re leaving his room last so we can wash thoroughly afterward.”
I have to see this. I can’t let you have all the fun, little Bea.
HOW WILL HE DIE?
Bea wrote the words, but Sally wanted to know.
Miss Sara peered at Beatrice. “Mr. Byers could simply give out. People still call it consumption because victims waste away. All we can do is keep him comfortable.”
Bea slid the slate back in her apron. Sally’s urging was satisfied—for the moment.
F
ive minutes later, Beatrice bounded upstairs, Patrick stumbling behind her. Miss Sara came last, taking each step with care, probably due to her injuries.
Sally scoffed. No. She thinks she’s a princess.
Bea shook her head. She had to make a good impression.
Humph. A good impression for Lady Sara. Bea imagined Sally turning up her nose.
Two carts sat at the far end of the hall near the dumbwaiter. Mr. Wheatley had already brought up several items in the small elevator. Beatrice retrieved six ceramic pitchers filled with water and a stack of steel basins. The bottom shelf held a huge enamel pot will hold what Miss Sara called “slop” and—Bea squirmed at the thought—the “business” from the potty chairs. She moved the loaded trolley aside as the dumbwaiter dropped back to the kitchen. Miss Sara and Patrick maneuvered the cart next to the shaft. As they waited, Miss Sara and Patrick talked about a musical. Patrick loved movies.
Now was a good time to peek in the mysterious room. Bea crept down the corridor, leaving her cart behind. What lurked behind the “Keep Out” sign? It was their last room, but the wait was too long. She—Sally—had to know the secret now. She could steal a glance inside and hurry back before Miss Sara knew she was gone.
Bea hesitated outside the closed door. Entering was dangerous.
Sally scoffed. What could be so terrible? Open it.
A turn of the knob, and the door squeaked open.
Bea gaped at the sight.
Even Sally was speechless.
The reek was an odorous stew of blood, urine, feces, and vomit. Mr. Byers lay snared in his bed, his head pinned beneath the iron rail. He must have jostled loose the heavy upper bar, and it slammed down like a guillotine. Blood and vomit ran down the side of the mattress, dripping onto the floorboards.
Get closer. Lift his head. Sally was exuberant. Let’s see his eyes.
Bea shuffled into the room like a marionette, reaching to pull Mr. Byers up by his hair, her eyes unblinking.
“Stop!” An unseen hand grabbed her from behind, jerking her from the room. A well-placed foot kicked the door shut.
Sally shrank away with an exasperated shriek, leaving Bea to face Miss Sara alone.
“What’s gotten into you?” Sara hissed, yanking Bea to a cart. The older woman poured water and a generous amount of bleach into a basin, then grabbed Bea’s wrists and dunked her hands in the solution. “Never mind. I know, you can’t write.” She snatched a rag and dipped it in the bleach water. “Close your eyes!” her voice snapped, wiping Bea’s face none too gently with the pungent rag. “Now dry off.” She thrust a clean towel at her. “That was supposed to be our last room. Why did you go in there?”
Beatrice sighed and drew out her slate.
I WAS CURIOUS
Miss Sara pursed her lips. “Now you know—a dead man.” She shook her head and turned to Patrick. “Call down the dumbwaiter to Wheatley. Tell him we need Mrs. Eisner.” She turned back to Bea. “That was a reckless thing to do. You’ve got to follow directions. Otherwise, I’ll have to find someone else.”
Bea widened her eyes. She raced to put down the words.
I’LL TALK TO DO BETTER
She couldn’t allow Sally to endanger her job again.
Miss Sara stared at her. “You promise to follow orders?”
PROMISE
She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to break up the team before we even get started. You push the cart. Let’s get the rest of the supplies. We’re already behind schedule. Mrs. Eisner will take care of Mr. Byers.”
Bea steered the trolley back down the hall. She got a second chance. Miss Sara was more than a boss—she was a friend.
Perhaps, a better friend than Sally.
Chapter Nineteen
With both carts fully loaded, Sara, Beatrice and Patrick stood outside of Room Ten. Sara looked at her notes. The occupant was Maxine Hiebert. “This is a delicate woman with cancer of the blood,” she said to her companions. “We must treat her gently.”
A door closed down the hall. “Sara!” Mrs. Eisner removed dust masks and gloves from their hooks on the door. “Mr. Byers has passed. We’ll have to sanitize his room after the mortician has retrieved his body.” She waved and headed downstairs.
Bea held up her slate.
THANK YOU FOR NOT TELLING ON ME
Sara gave her a serious look. “This can’t happen again.”
Bea nodded, eyes lowered.
Sara knocked on Mrs. Heibert’s door, and the three entered.
The room was gray with plaster walls and one tall window. It held a hospital bed, rolling table that could extend over the bed, nightstand, raised potty chair, white-painted rocker, and a straightback chair in the corner. A white-haired lady with dull hazel eyes and skin as withered as old parchment sat with the bed cranked to a sitting position, an open Bible propped on pillows before her. Gloria had been here earlier giving the resident her pain medicine.
She crept into the room and curtsied. “Good morning, Mrs. Hiebert. My name is Sara.” She gestured behind her. “This is Beatrice and the young man at the door is—”
“Maxie!” Patrick charged at the frail woman, his arms outstretched.
Mrs. Hiebert glanced up as Patrick smothered her in a tight hug.
Sara rushed to separate the two. Patrick was squeezing much too tight. But Maxine clung to him as well, a quiet smile spread on otherwise drawn features.
Sara grabbed Patrick’s shoulder. “Be gentle! You’re crushing her!”
With surprising tenderness, he lowered her onto a mound of pillows. The gray woman lay on her back, eyes closed, thin chest rising and falling. At last, she said in a voice heavy with emotion, “Thank you for bringing Patrick to me. I’m so blessed.” Tears rolled down sunken cheeks.
Patrick turned to Sara. “Maxie is my friend. My best friend.”
Sara stepped back. “You know each other?”
Maxine wiped away flowing tears. “Patrick and I met four years ago. I sold tickets for the movie theater in Salina at the time. Patrick was our best customer.”
Sara grabbed an arm of the rocker. “Amazing.”
Maxine gazed at Patrick. “How did you find me?”
Patrick shrugged, unkempt hair falling across his forehead.
Sara stepped forward to place Patrick’s chubby hands around Maxine’s thin fingers. “I have good news. Patrick lives downstairs. The three of us started work today serving meals to the residents on this floor. So, you’ll be seeing a lot of him.”
Maxine’s eyes lowered. “Except for a little water, I don’t eat much these days. Not much of an appetite, but I’d love for Patrick—all of you—to visit. Being alone is worse than the pain.”
“We’ll be coming often,” Sara said. “But we should get working.”
Patrick grabbed the basin, emptied it in the big enamel pot and refilled from the pitcher. “Can I stay with Maxie when we’re finished?”
“We still have eight more rooms to go. Afterward—with Mrs. Hiebert’s permission—you can visit with your friend.”
He groaned, his lower lip stuck out.
Maxine brushed his arm. “Young man, you have a job to do. Other people are depending on you.”
“I know,” Patrick said. “They need me ’cause I’m strong.”
Sara hid her smile. This was becoming a litany for the man-child.
Fifteen minutes later, the three were finished. Maxine’s room smelled of pine oil and bleach. As Patrick and Beatrice rolled out their carts, Maxine motioned for Sara to remain behind. “I need your help. You must talk to Patrick for me. Tell him I’m dying. He needs to know, but I can’t bear to tell him. Will you do this for me, dear?”
Sara paled. “I’m not sure I can do that, Mrs. Hiebert.”
Maxine’s hand gripped hers with surprising strength. “Please. You have a way with him. He listens to you.”
Sara swallowed. Maxine’s eyes bored into her heart. “I’ll find a way to tell him, Mrs. Hiebert.”
She placed Sara’s hand against her cheek. “Thank you. I don’t feel alone anymore. God has sent me a guardian angel. And you are His hand and feet. Bless you for bringing him to me.”
“I don’t…” How could she explain her doubts to this devout woman? Mrs. Hiebert suffered constant pain, yet she seemed armored with unshakeable faith. It was unfathomable why a caring God would put a poor old woman through such torment. She stood firm, like a rock. It was a rare privilege to meet such a genuine person. “Thank you, Mrs. Hiebert.”
Sara turned away before Maxine saw the tears.
Chapter Twenty
Larry Bigger worked the third floor Tuesday morning, sorting a delivery of hand tools and nails. He’d spent the morning carting merchandise up from the dock. The Old Man had lectured him the day before about customers shopping. “People will buy an item they might need while looking for something else,” he said. So, Larry found some work gloves to display along with the tools. Fat chance his father will notice.
Donning a work apron, he cut the drawstring from a bag of nails with a pocketknife and dumped the contents into a large wooden bin. The nails fell with a jangling thump. Four bags to go.
Running footsteps on the concrete floor raced toward him. A kid with a newsboy cap stared at him for a moment, then pointed back the way he came. “Hey, Mister! Your car is leaking gas, and some fella is standing next to it smoking a butt. You’d better take a look. Imagine a car like that catching fire!” The kid turned tail, sprinting down the steps.
Larry pocketed his knife. With visions of his precious Chevy in flames, he hustled out the front door and ran down the street to the parked Roadster. No fire or smell of fumes. A walk around the vehicle showed no sign of trouble. Taking off his panama, Larry peeked under the rear bumper. Everything seemed in order.
He examined his baby one more time, scratching his head. With a pat on the hood, he headed back to the store, passing a man reading a newspaper. The stupid kid ought to be throttled. Larry mounted the stairs and reentered the store.
****
Jason smiled to himself. That was easy. He refolded the newspaper. A block away, Michael paid the newsboy a quarter, returning a few minutes later. “Did you see the car?”