Grounded Hearts

by Jeanne M. Dickson

  His eyes opened wide. “Where am I? Where’s my crew?”

  “You’re safe. They’re safe. Remember?”

  He looked around the cabin, and his expression softened. “Nan. Good morning.” A smile swept the corners of his mouth, though pain was in his eyes.

  “Have your tea. And I’ll see to re-dressing your wound.” She placed a tray beside him. He sipped the tea and watched her.

  She cut the gauze around his arm, but it stuck to the wound, prompting her to place a wet towel over the bandage until it loosened.

  Her insides pinged as she inspected his gaping, swollen laceration.

  Terrible, awful. This wound was beyond her capabilities to heal, and she knew it. Her attempts to bring down the swelling with more hot towels seemed futile, but she had to at least try.

  “Are you in much pain?” she asked, placing a clean wet cloth over his arm.

  The teacup rattled as he set it on the tray. “No.”

  “If you’re not hurting a’tall, that means you’ve got nerve damage or your arm is dead. So don’t go all Hemingway on me. Be honest.”

  He glanced at the wound before pinning his focus on her. “It hurts like someone stomped on it, lit it on fire, and then a mad dog got ahold of it.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You know what I mean.” She couldn’t recall being more afraid for one of her patients than this one. Disaster all around if he succumbed to his fever.

  The blast of a car horn broke their connection.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Probably Tuda.” She repositioned the hot towel over his arm, then strode to the window. Outside, heavy rain banged against the glass.

  “She’s here. I’ll be right back.” Nan paced out, intending to unlatch the gate, but Tuda had already opened it. She roared the van into the yard, barely missing the cat as she skidded to a stop.

  “You nearly flattened Mr. Dee. What’s the rush?”

  “I’ll tell ya. I passed Father Albert on his bike. He said he’s on his way here to talk to ya.”

  The slice of bacon Nan had eaten for breakfast lurched in her stomach.

  “What about?”

  “I dunno, but it can’t be good. He’s not one for a friendly visit, especially in the rain. If ya got the flyboy inside, I suggest we hide him. Now.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Nan led Tuda into the bedroom. The cat sped past them, jumped onto the bed and sat next to Dutch’s head, then meowed into his ear.

  Dutch opened his eyes and looked up. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re hiding you, or Nan’s midwife days are over. I’m Tuda, by the way. Out of bed,” she instructed him.

  “The girl mechanic?”

  “I’ve been called worse. Can you please get your handsome young self out of bed?”

  Nan opened the hiding cubby and batted the cobwebs with a towel. “Get in here.”

  Dutch angled his legs off the mattress. His feet trembled, hovered above the floor.

  “Do you need help?” Nan asked.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  But he wasn’t fine. His eyes were glassy. His face was red. He shivered. He stretched his hand toward the headboard, missed, and fell back onto the mattress.

  Nan sucked in a gasp. Her hand went to her throat.

  “Ah, for the love of Mary. Don’t pass out,” Tuda said, lifting him up.

  He got up and stumbled toward the open hiding place. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine as snow in a volcano,” Tuda said, helping him across the room. He leaned into her, seemingly incapable of making the journey on his own.

  “Finn? Is he here again?” Dutch asked.

  “Worse.” Nan grabbed her robe from the peg beside the door. “Father Albert.”

  “Your priest? How is that worse?”

  “Finn can send us to jail, but Father Albert can send us to hell. In you go.” Nan swung the robe over Dutch’s shoulders and slid her arm around his back. “I can take him from here. I’ve got him.” Tuda slipped away.

  He leaned on Nan with so much weight, she fought to keep her balance. A drip of sweat streamed from his forehead and trickled over his cheek, yet he still shivered. A very bad sign, indeed, Nan thought. The gauze around his wound was seeping, the stitched area bulging.

  “In you go.” She guided him through the small opening.

  He stopped. “I won’t fit. It’s too small. You won’t get the door closed.”

  “In my grandmother’s day, she’d stick three men in there, no problem.”

  “They must have been leprechauns.”

  “Just get in. There’s a panel that slides open beside the seat. You can see inside the cabin. But not a sound out of you. Understand? Sit.” She released him, pressed him down on the bench.

  Before he had a chance to agree, she shut the door. From inside, his muffled voice said, “Hey, it’s pitch dark. And cold.”

  Nan grabbed the coat from her bed. “Don’t be such a baby,” she said, opening the door. She threw the coat in over his lap. “Let me open the viewing hole.” She climbed in and the back of her legs squeezed against his knees. He let out a groan. She fumbled around, searching for the secret panel. “Do you suffer from claustrophobia?”

  “No. I only suffer.”

  “Don’t we all?” She found the panel. Sliding it open, a small amount of light filled the compartment. She patted his chest. “You going to be okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “Not another sound. You understand?” For once, he obeyed without comment. “Be careful not to knock your arm.”

  “You mean don’t move?”

  Backing out and then closing the door, Nan spun on her heel. Tuda had already made the bed and stuffed the medical supplies beneath. “The poor lamb. He’s really sick, isn’t he?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Yes. And I’m worried.”

  “We’ll sort him out later.”

  A fist beat on the door three times. Each knock sent a hit to Nan’s gut. “Father Albert.”

  Tuda nodded. “I’ll make the tea. We’ll act real natural-like.”

  “Like I hide a flyboy in my closet every day.”

  “Just like your granny and the IRA. It’s in your blood.”

  They hurried into the main room of the cabin. Tuda seized the teapot and dashed a load of new tea leaves in before filling it with boiling water. Her motions were so fast, it was like watching a sped-up film.

  “Will ya open the door already, Nan O’Neil? I’m getting a soaking out here, waiting.”

  Nan squared her shoulders and opened the door. “Sorry, Father. I was making myself decent.” The comment struck her as an odd choice of words, considering what had just transpired. Was still transpiring. Oh, how the confession booth beckoned her.

  “Welcome, Father. Come in. May I take your coat? And what brings you to my door? Will you take tea?”

  Nan helped the priest take off his sopping coat. While she hooked the garment onto a peg, Father Albert removed his wet trilby, shook the water from it, and placed it on a hook beside the coat. He slicked back his thinning hair with a wet hand.

  “I’m not here on a social visit, but I’ll take tea. And bread if you have it.”

  “Hello again, Father.” Tuda sliced the soda bread Nan had left on the counter.

  “What are you doing here, child? Don’t you have a petrol station to run?” He rubbed raindrops off his thick glasses with a handkerchief.

  “She’s fixing up my Ford,” Nan said. “I’ve decided, after last winter, a car may help me move about more quickly.”

  “Getting old, are ya?” He shook his head.

  “I suppose I am, Father. Will you sit by the fire?”

  He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “You ought to marry again, Nan.” He sat in front of the fireplace. “Will ya give us some privacy, Tuda?”

  “Of course, Father.” She had almost made it outside into the downpour when he said, �
�By the way, are you planning to buy Mass cards for your da?”

  “Of course, Father. I will.”

  “May he rest in peace.”

  “Amen.” They all blessed themselves.

  Tuda closed the door behind her. Nan delivered the tea, plus a slice of bread on her finest china, the plate with the pink roses and the golden rim.

  “That soda bread looks dry. Have you your apple butter?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Father. I know it’s your favorite, but I’m still waiting on the jars. Will strawberry preserves do?”

  He waved his hand. “Just the tea. Sit here, my child.”

  She sat on the chair opposite him. “What brings you out here, Father?”

  “I’m on my way to give last rites. The fancy lady doctor told me Pat Connor is a goner. But I have business with you, too.”

  “Have you?”

  He sipped his tea loudly. “I’ve heard some salacious gossip concerning you.”

  She felt guilt pouring through her. She’d been a very bad girl indeed, all cozy in bed with her flyboy last night. But how could the priest know? Or did he realize Dutch was hiding in her wall? The tea burned the roof of her mouth. “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “It’s come to my attention that some of the women in the parish are practicing the rhythm method.”

  “Are they?” Nan knew they were. And still conceiving.

  “And I hear you’ve taught them how it works. You know what we call people who practice such things?”

  “Parents.”

  “Sinners.” Deep wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. “Don’t make a jest of it, Nan O’Neil. This is very serious church business.”

  And so was having ten children when the poor mother could barely find the means to raise two. “I’m sorry, Father. You’re wrong. I haven’t taught the method to anyone.” She’d merely explained how their bodies function, how each month they have a cycle. For some, she had to read the pamphlet aloud, not because the women couldn’t read, but because they were too ashamed to talk or think or even read about such things.

  Someone must have overheard and gone running to the priest.

  He nailed her with an accusing glare. “Are ya telling me not a one? Not a word regarding the sinful practice?”

  “Father, if a parishioner comes to you, confesses her wrongdoings, do you go and tell the Garda?”

  His lips pinched together. “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m sworn to confidentiality as much as you are. I will not betray my patients.”

  He pointed his finger at her. “So you are.”

  She leaned back and said nothing.

  “Practicing the rhythm method is a sin.” He jabbed his finger with every word.

  If he only knew what she was really up to, he’d slap her. “That may be true, but that’s between themselves and the Lord and you. I swear on the cross, I have not given anyone instruction on the rhythm method.” Only confirmed a thing or two.

  “See that ya don’t.” His nose twitched. “And you tell them, if they ask, that married people are to have sex with the full expectation that children could result each time. A married couple should in no way interrupt God’s plan for them to have lots of children. To do anything else is a grave sin. Tell them to confess to me promptly.”

  “Perhaps that’s your place to say, not mine.”

  “Ah, the cheek on ya. Mind, Nan. I may not be able to see what you’re up to, but the good Lord does.” He pointed skyward. “There’s no hiding from Him. You understand your immortal soul is at risk?”

  More than he knew. “I do, Father. I didn’t mean any disrespect or disobedience.”

  He set the teacup on the stand beside the chair. “My sermon on Sunday will touch upon this very topic.” He stood. “I’ve got to be on my way. I’ll see you in church on Sunday.”

  “Of course, Father. Unless the good Lord decides it’s time to provide another member to your flock.”

  “I’d be happy if for once a member of my flock would do me the favor of dying when there isn’t the storm of the century brewing.”

  “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “One more thing,” he said as Nan helped him back into his rain slicker. “Don’t cross me on this matter. I will not tolerate insubordination.”

  She nodded. “I know, Father.”

  “And why haven’t you been to confession lately?”

  Because she was heaping up the sins, and would come clean all at one time. “I’ll go to confession soon, Father.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched him ride his bicycle out of the yard and through the pouring rain.

  Tuda swung the barn door open. She ran across the courtyard and into the cottage. “What did he want?”

  “The village women to stop sinning. Stop using the rhythm method.”

  “If men could get pregnant, they’d make the rhythm method a holy sacrament.”

  “Tuda, you’ll surely go to hell for that remark.”

  “Probably. But you’ll be beside me. We best get the source of your damnation out of the closet.”

  Nan carried clean towels into the bedroom, her nerves fraying like a used wool sweater. Tuda placed a hot towel over Dutch’s festering arm. He gave her a weak smile. “Are all Irish women beautiful?”

  “You must have bit the Blarney stone on your way down to earth.”

  “He did.” Nan dipped a cloth into the water, running it over his neck and chest.

  His gaze settled on hers. “I should never have worked on the car yesterday.”

  “You’re a man on a mission. Today, your mission is healing.”

  “Easy. Especially with two Irish angels nursing me.”

  Tuda signaled for Nan to join her in the other room.

  Nan stood. “You rest now, Dutch. We’ll be back in a second with your tea.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said. His voice sank into her heart. She’d seen mums in a bad way, infections setting in after birth. The doctor was called in, and sometimes he’d been able to rouse the pink back into their cheeks. Sometimes not. This was no different. Something had to be done, or Nan risked losing him.

  Perhaps it was worry, or the raw sense of doom, but she felt numb. The doctor needed to be called, but Nan feared it’d be the end of her. She followed Tuda into the main room, recognizing, deep down, the only choice was to heal him.

  Her friend rested a hand on the mantel and peered at the picture of Jesus. “Nan, he’s in an altogether bad way. You better get the doctor.”

  “Yes, I must.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know if I can trust her, but if she turns me in, so be it.”

  “She’s one of us.” Tuda threw four bricks of turf onto the fire, stabbed it with the poker, and then tossed on two more bricks for good measure. “You can trust her.”

  “How do you know?”

  Tuda bowed her head to the statue of the Virgin holding the baby Jesus, mumbled a prayer, and then clapped her hands clean.

  “I saw her in action at Mrs. Odin’s pub last night. I was there with the mister. Dr. Mann was enjoying the fiddling music, and having a grand old time. Mick Hart sat next to her at the table. Did ya hear what happened to him?”

  Nan shook her head. “What now?”

  “That mean old cow of his succeeded in stomping on his foot. Broke it this time.”

  “Ah, the poor unfortunate.”

  “He had no choice but to seek Dr. Mann. She fixed him real good. She laid a big old smacker of a kiss on the cast, leaving a lovely red-lipstick stain. Then she took him to Mrs. Odin’s pub and bought him and everyone there a pint.”

  “You trust her because she drinks and kisses casts?”

  “Let me finish. We’re all enjoying a bit of the craic. Some grand songs last night, when who should come swaggering in like he owned the place?”

  “Let me guess. Finn.”

  “Himself.” The corner of her mouth slipped into a mischievous smile. “He took one look at Dr. Mann a
nd made a beeline for her. Intimidated the bloke sitting next to her into giving him his seat. Juliet nodded to him, then returned her attention to the lads fiddling and drumming. A few seconds later, Finn whispered something into her ear.”

  “What do you think he said?”

  “I dunno, but it was enough to change her expression from enjoyment to absolute disgust.”

  Nan covered her mouth with her hand. “The blaggard.”

  “So she got up, strolled over to the bar, ordered another pint, and who do you think followed her?”

  “The blaggard himself.”

  Tuda nodded. “He got real close to her, backed her against the wall with that belly of his. She listened for a second before she said something to him. He got that cocky look. You know the one?” Tuda made a face.

  Nan laughed. “Ya have him down.”

  “Dr. Mann threw her drink in his face.”

  “No.” Nan laughed. “You’re joking.”

  “Ah, she did. She did. If you could have seen the look on Finn’s face. I’m afraid the doctor made herself an enemy last night. But she showed herself to be one of us. You can ask her for help. She’s no fan of Finn’s.”

  “But there’s still Sergeant Halpin to contend with.”

  “Paul? Don’t be daft. He’s far too focused on Kelly. Do you know what he did?”

  “What?”

  “He filled up his car yesterday, and he paid me twice. His mind is elsewhere. Isn’t the baby due soon?”

  “About two weeks.”

  “Go get the doctor. I’ll stay with Dutch.”

  “I’ll have to take the risk,” Nan said. Even if Dr. Mann turned her in and she ended up in prison for a couple of years, at least Dutch would have a chance to survive.

  Prison. The thought chilled her. Not that her family members hadn’t seen their share of jail cells. But what would the expecting mothers of Ballyhaven do with her locked up? Yet how could she put herself before the sick lad in her bed? She’d made him a promise.

  “Shall I go into town and fetch the doc?” Tuda asked.

  “No. I can’t let you do that. I don’t want you to be involved.”

  Tuda laughed. “Then what am I doing here?”

  “If this goes wrong, I don’t want you to go down the drain with me. You must remain innocent.”