“I . . . I remember you had it around your neck the day you arrived.”
“You remembered that?”
“It’s a very pretty scarf. And it’s a lady’s scarf and yet you were wearing it, so . . .”
“You figured it was hers.”
“Yes. And then I saw her name embroidered on the edge. I knew that man had taken it from you.”
Andrew’s mouth crooked into a smile. “Her mother gave it to her when she was young, stitched her name inside because Lily was forgetful.” He paused for a moment as he fingered the bright fabric. “She was shivering so badly from the fever. I couldn’t keep her warm. Not even with this. I took it off of her before they . . . before they took her. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No need. I’m just sorry it was stolen from you in the first place. I apologize for that.”
“Not your fault.” He folded the scarf carefully. “Is it safe for me to keep? Will it harm anyone?”
“If it is properly washed and sterilized there is no reason you cannot take it with you. Would you like me to see that it is laundered for you?”
“Yes, thank you.” He handed the scarf back to me. My hands brushed his fingers as the scarf moved from his hand to mine and the sensation was remarkably tender. But Andrew seemed alarmed that our hands had touched.
He looked down at his hands. The tops were pasty and streaked.
“All those scales will come off, Mr. Gwynn. They won’t be there forever.”
Mrs. Meade called for me then to ready the emptied beds for new arrivals. I took the scarf to the nurses’ desk and wrapped it inside a clean pillowcase and set it aside. I wouldn’t take the scarf to the laundry facility, where harsh chemicals and rough hands could easily reduce the delicate fabric to tatters. I would wash it myself, carefully, and with the respect it deserved.
When Mrs. Meade and I were finished she left to assist in the children’s wards, where mumps was making the rounds. My ward was now easily managed with just an aide to assist with meals, baths, and bed changes.
An hour or so later it was time for doctors’ rounds. Dr. Randall arrived, smelling of sunshine and sea breezes.
“Good morning, Nurse Wood,” he said cheerfully as he donned his cloak. “I trust you have been outside this morning.”
“I’ve been in the ward this morning.”
He looked about at the remaining men who were sitting or lying in their beds, most of them out of the woods as far as the disease went and in various stages of recovery. “As soon as these gentlemen are well into desquamation, I want them outside for thirty minutes every day. In the sunshine. It’s like a prison cell in here.”
“Outside?”
“Let them see some sky and a bird or two. And breathe fresh air.” He stepped over to the desk to check the master chart. “I see Dr. Treaver has discharged five. That’s encouraging, to see the room empty out some.”
“Well, yes. But the beds don’t stay empty for long.”
He smiled at me. “But today five are empty. Celebrate your successes, Nurse Wood.”
I reached for my cart to follow him. “They are not exactly my successes, Doctor.”
“Of course they are.” Dr. Randall made for the back of the room to work his way forward, stopping first at Andrew’s bed. “How about it, Mr. Gwynn? Would you care for an easy stroll outside on Monday? Just a few minutes of sunshine and fresh air?”
Andrew seemed surprised that Dr. Randall was asking his opinion. “Why, yes. I’d like that very much.”
Dr. Randall turned to me. “See?”
“But I can’t leave the others to take one man outside,” I countered.
“I’ll see that you get another nurse for the afternoons. Doctor’s orders.” He turned to Andrew again, to inspect the blistered vesicles on his chest, back, and extremities. “Let’s start the scrubbing process tomorrow, Nurse Wood. Three times a day. The usual solution.”
I recorded his instructions while Dr. Randall listened to Andrew’s heart and lungs.
“You are making a fine recovery, Mr. Gwynn,” the doctor continued. “You will be out of here by end of next week if all goes well.”
With those words there was no doubt the hourglass was in play with regard to Lily’s letter. As I made a mental note of the days remaining, Dr. Randall turned to me.
“So I’ve brushed up on my Keats and am quite ready to discuss his merits, Nurse Wood.”
I snapped my head up to look at him. “Beg your pardon?”
“I said, I’m ready to discuss Keats tonight.”
I could see out of the corner of my eye that Andrew’s interest had been piqued. I very much didn’t want Andrew to hear that I wasn’t a fan of Keats after all. “I, uh, haven’t had time to brush up, I’m afraid. We may not have much to talk about.”
“We’ll keep to one of your favorite poems of his, then. Which one?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t actually understand his poetry very well.”
“That’s why poems are best discussed. The meaning often comes across through conversation with other people. Don’t you think so, Mr. Gwynn?”
Andrew nodded, but before he could say anything, Dr. Randall went on. “Which one?”
I could name only the one. “Well, I guess ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’”
“Perfect,” Dr. Randall replied. “We shall discuss ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’”
“That’s one of my favorites, too,” Andrew said quietly, more to me than to Dr. Randall.
Dr. Randall moved to the next bed and cheerfully greeted the man tucked inside it.
I slipped Andrew’s chart back inside its receptacle at the foot of his bed so that I could follow the doctor to the next bed.
But Andrew motioned me to come close to him. I obeyed and leaned in with a measure of nervous curiosity.
“‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is about expectation and fulfillment,” he whispered.
“What . . . what does that mean?” I whispered back.
“Sometimes the expectation is better than the fulfillment.”
It still made no sense to me. “How?” I whispered. “How does the poem say that?”
“‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.’ Keats is saying what you can still dream about is often sweeter than the reality.”
For a moment I could not move as I let these words soak into me.
I seemed riveted to the floor and Andrew’s gaze.
Dr. Randall called for me and I pushed my cart away from Andrew’s bed, murmuring my thanks.
Sixteen
AFTER our shift was over, and as the New York skyline across from us began to turn auburn, Dolly and I returned to our room, she to dress for her night out on the town, and I to watch her get ready. In my hands I carried the folded-over pillowcase containing Lily’s scarf.
She and I and the other nurses liked to wash our own undergarments rather than send them to the laundry with our uniforms to be scrubbed and boiled by rough hands and rougher contraptions. And we used a lavender-scented antiseptic we made with carbolic and diluted with hot water to kill any contagion lingering on our clothes. It was normal to see wet things hanging in our communal bathroom after a gentle scrubbing in one of the basins. Tonight, when I returned from the commons to my empty room, I would wash Lily’s scarf and allow it to dry unnoticed in my dormitory room.
While Dolly tossed her white nurse’s uniform onto her bed and faced her wardrobe, I nonchalantly dropped the pillowcase in the corner on my side of the room near where my own laundry was gathered in a basket. When I turned back around, Dolly was attempting to stuff her full figure into a lime green party dress that had come in the mail that week from her sister-in-law. I reached into my own wardrobe and pulled out a navy blue skirt and plain ivory shirtwaist.
“Good Lord, no wonder Josephine sent me thi
s thing,” Dolly exclaimed. “She told me she would never fit into it again after the baby, but I bet she never fit into this thing. Help me with these hooks, Clara.”
I laid the clothes on my bed and walked over to her. The bodice was already tight around Dolly’s back, with a good inch of space still gaping between the hooks and eyes. “There’s no way I can fasten them, Dolly. Sorry.”
“Try!”
I pulled at the fabric, knowing it was futile. There was too much Dolly and not enough dress. “It’s not going to work.”
“Oh, bother it!” She pulled at the sleeves and shimmied her hips. After a few contortions the dress fell to the floor and Dolly stepped out of it. “You should wear it for your date tonight.”
“It’s not a date, and I would wear pajamas before I’d step into the commons wearing a ball gown.”
Dolly bent down and picked up the dress. It made a swishy sound. “It’s not exactly a ball gown. More like a . . . a party frock.”
“I’m not going to a party.”
“Don’t tell me you’re wearing that!” She waved her dress in the direction of my bed and the clothes lying on it.
I glanced at the skirt and blouse I’d chosen. “I seriously doubt Dr. Randall will be wearing anything other than street clothes. And that’s what these are.”
Dolly tossed the party dress onto her bed and then turned to face me in her pale pink corset. “Will you at least let me fix your hair?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
She reached into her bureau drawer and pulled out a cloisonné hair comb in shades of periwinkle and cornflower blue. “I’ve always thought you would look good in this comb. It clashes something terrible with my red hair and green eyes and I wear it anyway. Your brown hair and blue eyes, though? Perfect. Turn around.”
“You’ll be late. You’re not even dressed yet.”
“I will not be late. And the girls won’t let the ferry leave without me. Sit at the vanity and face the mirror.”
I obeyed. Dolly pulled the pins from my chignon and they clinked on the vanity top as she tossed them there. My hair fell around my shoulders and then Dolly began to brush it.
“You’ve got the best natural curl in all of Christendom, Clara. Do you know how lucky you are?”
I closed my eyes as the bristles massaged my scalp. “It’s just hair, Dolly.”
“Apparently you don’t.”
I smiled. She continued to brush.
“Will you promise me you will try to have a good time tonight?”
“I don’t think a person can try to have a good time,” I answered. “You either have a good time when you go somewhere or you don’t.”
“You know what I mean. Promise me you will stay longer than ten minutes.”
“I can’t talk about poetry for longer than ten minutes.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Clara, there are plenty of other things to talk about. Ask him where he’s from. What he likes to do for enjoyment. What his favorite color is.” She stopped brushing and I opened my eyes to look at her in the mirror’s reflection.
She brushed one side of my hair up past my ear and slid the comb into place, leaving the other side to fall naturally past my shoulders. The effect was very pretty.
“I don’t usually wear my hair down,” I said.
“Well, you should. You have beautiful hair. Go put on those boring clothes.”
I stood, slipped out of my nurse’s uniform and into the skirt and shirtwaist. It had been so long since I had prepared for an evening out with a man, I had forgotten that getting ready for it was part of the thrill. The day of the fire, as I rode the elevator to meet Edward, I had felt a little like this. Like I had wanted to reach up to my hair and let it loose. I remember pinching my cheeks as the elevator ascended.
When I turned back toward our vanity, I was amazed at the transformation Dolly had wrangled with just a different hairstyle and a pretty accessory. Even my clothes looked better with the cloisonné comb to accent them.
“I could easily hate you,” Dolly muttered. “You look like you just stepped out of the pages of Vanity Fair.”
“I do not.”
“You make even those schoolmarm clothes look nice. If I wore those I’d be mistaken for Mrs. Nesbitt.”
“He will think I am trying to impress him.” I touched a curly lock of my hair as it rested on my shoulder.
“He will think nothing of the sort. He invited you, remember? He’s trying to impress you.”
I tossed the lock behind me. “I don’t want to be impressed.”
“I don’t believe you. You don’t even believe you. Help me pick another dress.”
Dolly went to her open wardrobe, slid the hangers on the rung, and pulled out a ruffled dress the color of the sky. She held the dress up to her face. “Does this make me look pale? Nellie says this dress makes me look pale.”
“It doesn’t make you look pale. And I know what you’re doing. You’re pretending not to hear what I’m saying.”
She tossed the hanger onto her bed and stepped into the skirt. “I’m not pretending anything. I just don’t believe you. You’re in love with a dream, Clara. Sooner or later you’re going to wake up from it and you’ll be glad I didn’t coddle you while you slept.”
“Edward wasn’t a dream.”
“I’m not talking about Edward. I’m talking about the reason you’re hiding here on this island. You’re in love with what might’ve been. Help me with the hooks.”
It took me a moment to close the distance between us so that I could grab hold of the hooks and eyes and yank them together. “What would’ve been.”
“Might’ve.” She turned to face me. “Might’ve. You barely knew the man.”
“I knew enough! And in case you’ve forgotten, he died before I could know more.”
“And then you came here and stopped wondering.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dolly stepped into a pair of dancing shoes. “I already told you. You could easily find out more about Edward if you really wanted to. But you’re here where you can’t.”
A knock on our door silenced us. I wrenched the door open and Nellie and Ivy were standing there, both clearly having heard too much.
I’d been stupid to have this conversation when I knew Dolly was getting ready to meet the ferry to Manhattan. I should have guessed the girls would come looking for her. Stupid.
“I’ll be there in a jiffy,” Dolly called over her shoulder.
“Sorry you can’t come with us,” Ivy said to me, her voice sounding thoroughly patronizing.
“Yes, too bad,” Nellie chimed in, sounding slightly less so.
I could see it in their faces. Who is Edward?
“Another time perhaps.” I stepped aside so that they could wait for Dolly inside our room if they wished. They remained on the threshold.
“Your hair looks nice down like that,” Nellie said.
“She has the hair of a goddess.” Dolly doused her neck with cologne and grabbed a wrap and a plumed hat from inside her open wardrobe. She came to me and took me into her arms to hug me good night. But she also whispered in my ear, “Don’t be mad at me. And be nice to the doctor.”
“Don’t tell them,” I whispered back before she could let go of me.
She pulled away, leaving her freshly sprayed cologne on my clothes and hair. “Of course not,” she said. She pressed the hat to her head and grabbed a handbag from the top of her dresser as she swished to the door.
They said good night to me, each one wearing an expression that I couldn’t look away from fast enough. Dolly’s was a mix of maternal care and encouragement, Nellie’s a sympathetic stare, Ivy’s a look of itching curiosity.
I closed the door and waited for the heat of my embarrassment to dissipate. They would pump Dolly for details on
the way down to the ferry. Who is Edward? What happened to him? How did he die?
I didn’t want Dolly to lie to them. I didn’t want her to tell the truth.
I wanted her to tell them it was none of their business.
And maybe she would. But that wouldn’t end their curiosity. The breach was widening in my in-between place and it seemed I was now thoroughly powerless to close it.
I sat on the edge of my bed, contemplating my options. Edward’s name was no longer a secret; nor were my feelings for him. I could not keep Nellie and Ivy forever in the dark about who he was. If they came back later tonight having gotten nothing out of Dolly, they would surely press me for details. And if I didn’t fill in the blanks, they would speculate, not just between each other, but probably with other nurses on the island.
There would be talk, whispers on the air—because what else was there to talk about here?—of my sad little tragedy. And once the island knew what I had brought with me, it would cease to be a place that the fire had not touched.
Maybe Dolly was partly right. Maybe I was in love with a dream as well as with the man who had spun it. But it was my dream. And on the island I could keep it spinning. It seemed the only place I could keep it.
I reached under my pillow for Lily’s book and “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” hungry to find those lines of poetry that spoke of the images on the urn occupying a better place than the real things they represented. I read it twice. The second time through the poem seemed on the very edge of clarity to me. It was as if I stood just outside the door of a well-lit house, but I was on the mat outside, waiting in the darkness to be let in. In that moment I longed to rush to Andrew, not Dr. Randall, to ask him about the poem. I imagined reading it aloud to Andrew and having him tell me, line by line, how the words spoke of the tension between that which changes and that which stays the same.
When it was time to go down to the commons, I couldn’t decide whether I should bring Lily’s book with me or leave it. I didn’t want to answer any questions about where I had gotten it. Then again, I wouldn’t have to.
A Fall of Marigolds Page 13