Home by Morning

by Alexis Harrington

  “Dr. Stavers? Yes, I knew him and his family. They were kind enough to ask me to their home for dinner. I went to the theater with them a few times.”

  “And the son?”

  “Andrew?”

  He sat back and studied her. “Well? What was he to you? Is he why you didn’t come back?”

  She rested her forehead against the palm of her hand. Reaching into the pocket of her dirty apron, she pulled out a handkerchief to swipe at her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.

  “Oh, God, there was never another man,” she said, finally. “There was poverty. There was squalor. And misery and ostracism. I treated immigrant women worn out from hunger and constant childbearing. There were children who died from something as simple as a cold because they didn’t have the strength to fight the infection.” The words tumbled out, and her expression reflected anger and helplessness. “I saw rat bites on babies who were too weak to nurse, and women with black eyes and broken faces because of the beatings they got from drunken husbands or customers they met in dark alleys. I visited old people who’d been left to die in the corners of filthy, airless rooms barely big enough for four people, but were jammed in with twelve. A lot of the rooms had no windows because they were partitioned off from other rooms so the greedy men who owned those firetraps could make even more money. They were dark, stinking boxes of suffering humanity.”

  He listened without flinching, but he clenched his jaw so hard he felt a muscle twitch.

  “If you haven’t seen it with your own eyes, haven’t experienced it, you can’t understand.” Her hands were wrapped around her hankie in a tight knot. “The dogs at your ranch have better lives than those people. That’s why I stayed. How could I turn my back on them?”

  “But you finally did,” he said at last, his throat tight. “Why?”

  Jess turned her face and looked at the bouquet of mums that sat on a small table between them. She didn’t answer. In the silence, broken only by the soft patter of the rain outside, they heard muffled, wordless sobbing coming from upstairs.

  “Oh…dear…”

  Cole glanced up, listening. “It’s over.”

  Jess nodded and rose from her chair. “I’ll keep him here until morning. By then Fred Hustad will be open and the Cooksons can make arrangements with him. He’s still running an undertaking business from the back of his furniture store?”

  “Yeah. Do you need anything from me?” He wanted to help her if he could, wanted to do something.

  To Jessica, it was a loaded question. She could have requested a dozen things from him, none of which was hers to ask for any longer. Yes, oh, yes, please hold me, comfort me, take these nightmare memories from me, help me to feel alive again, make me laugh again, the way you used to.

  She realized she was leaning toward him, trying to close the gap between them and looking at his mouth. He bent toward her, too, as if unseen hands pushed them both from behind. Her field of vision was filled with his face, the straight nose, the mouth that was neither too full nor too thin, the square jaw and his eyes, fringed with lashes that she’d always envied. He smelled of leather…

  The sound of another sob slashed through the quiet, breaking the dangerous spell, and she pulled back.

  “No. I’m fine,” she lied.

  Adam Jacobsen laid Eddie to rest the next day with no one but his parents to witness the burial. Jessica wanted to attend but she was busy seeing influenza patients, and those who were still well had taken to hiding behind their doors as much as possible. Almost as soon as she had put clean bedding on the mattress upstairs, she had another patient to occupy it, a six-year-old boy, and his mother for the other bed in the room.

  With Amy’s help, she strung a sheet between the beds, hoping to reduce the exchange of contagion. But Anna Warneke wept so pitifully over not being able to see her child, Philip, that they took it down again. Jess conceded that it probably didn’t make much difference anyway.

  That night she kept watch over the two, catching naps when she could. Although Philip was certainly sick, he seemed to be doing better than his failing mother, which baffled Jessica. Influenza was known to strike down the very young and the elderly, not people in the strength and prime of their lives.

  Anna was not yet thirty years old.

  Eddie had been just eighteen.

  At lunchtime the next day, Amy and Jess sat at the small kitchen table in her apartment to bolt down quick cups of coffee and sandwiches.

  “Here,” Jess said, pushing a pitcher of cream to her sister.

  “Wherever did you manage to get this?” Amy asked, completely transported by the sight of the cream. She poured enough of the forbidden luxury into her cup to turn her coffee a light beige.

  “Horace Cookson. He told me he’d bring me cream and a little butter from his dairy every day. He’s grateful that I took care of Eddie, but I’m not sure I deserve this after what happened.”

  “Take it anyway,” Amy said, sipping the coffee with an expression of profound bliss. “You did everything you could, and it’s a small gift. It probably makes him feel better.”

  Below, the door opened, ringing its overhead bell. But the women needed no such signal. The visitor’s cough was loud enough to announce his arrival. Jess started to rise, but Amy put a hand on her arm and went to the landing.

  She heard Amy call down, “Oh, Mr. Driscoll, Dr. Layton will be right with you. Please, have a seat.”

  Before Amy returned to her own chair, the bell rang again. “Dr. Layton will be down in a moment, Mrs. Lester.” She came back to the table and said quietly, “You have to eat your lunch, Jessica. You look worn out.”

  Jess was worn out. She had turned her office into a round-the-clock clinic. A few people had called on the telephone, begging her to make house calls, but it simply wasn’t practical. She had no transportation, and when someone came to pick her up, she found patients waiting for her when she returned. They came night and day. Even when she was able to lie down for a few hours, nightmares of indigent, gray-faced patients and dreams of Cole interrupted her sleep.

  She poured a quick dollop of cream into her own cup. “Amy, goodness knows I appreciate your help, but this isn’t going to work. We two can’t treat all of these patients alone, and we need more room. There are people who have no one at home to take care of them, and they can’t be left to fend for themselves. They need to be fed and washed and tended. I have to do something more. Has anyone heard from Pearson?”

  Amy shook her head while she swallowed. “Not a word, as far as I know.”

  “The Red Cross offered me a nurse a few days ago and I told them I didn’t need one yet. Now it’s already too late, and I could kick myself for turning them down. I telephoned their office in Portland and they have their own epidemic brewing. They’re not willing to spare anyone. Will you ask every woman you know if she can pitch in?”

  “Yes, although I think some of them have sick families of their own to look after. I hate to suggest this but…” Amy said and trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Granny Mae isn’t running the café now that it’s closed under the mayor’s orders. I imagine she’s probably available.” Delicately, Amy nibbled the last crust of her sandwich.

  Jess rested her forehead on the palm of her hand. “I know. She’s already crossed my mind. I’m not in a position to refuse, but I don’t know if she’d work with me.”

  “Oh, I think she would.”

  Jess glanced up. “You mean she’d probably revel in it, getting the chance to try and show me up?”

  A shadow of chagrin flitted over Amy’s expression. “Well, yes, probably.”

  “I don’t care about that. I can’t. It’s the least of my problems.”

  Her sister dribbled a little more cream into her cup. “Anyway, I know she’s already seeing some people who’ve gotten used to going to her for medical help. You might as well join forces.”

  The coughing from downstairs and across the hal
l made Jess swallow her lukewarm coffee in one unladylike gulp. She had work to do. “I’ll go talk to her as soon as I get a free minute.” Standing up, she walked to the sink to rinse her cup. “I just hope that old woman doesn’t gloat.”

  It was late in the afternoon when Adam Jacobsen, clutching his bouquet of chrysanthemums and box of chocolates, walked toward Main Street and Jessica Layton’s office. The flowers were the last ones in his yard, and Nettie Stark had picked them herself for the dining room table. He’d grabbed them right out of the vase.

  He wondered briefly if the gift of the chocolates might seem too forward, like he was rushing things. After all, he’d brought Jessica the first bouquet just a couple of days earlier. Another was probably all right, but was it too soon for candy? He hadn’t had much practice in calling upon a lady. He did know that Jessica’s time would be short in Powell Springs if he couldn’t win her over and make her stay permanently—as his wife. Ultimately, he’d gone to Bright’s Grocery, which was allowed to remain open for business, and bought a Whitman’s Sampler. Seeing the bouquet Adam carried, Roland Bright had asked several probing questions, trying to learn who the presents were for. Adam had evaded his curiosity.

  He mulled over the procedure of courting Jessica as he walked along, imagining a future with her. Powell Springs was a town of tidy homes and large yards, with trees that had matured enough to offer shade in summer. It was a good place to raise a family. Of course, if he could win Jessica’s hand, she would have to give up her work. A woman couldn’t devote herself to her own husband and children, and hold the kind of demanding position she had now. By that time, Pearson would be here anyway.

  A few children, given an unscheduled vacation from the new school year, played in their yards and on the damp streets. They waved to him as he passed, and he waved back. Gray clouds scudded overhead, and a stiff breeze rustled the leaves of oak, maple, and locust that had begun to turn and drift earthward. It happened every season, it was part of the cycle of life.

  But this year the change seemed ominous to him. He felt a dread in the air.

  Some houses were quiet, with blinds drawn tightly, although it was only late afternoon. Adam knew without being told that sickness lay behind their doors. His father probably would have said this scourge was God’s punishment of an evil world. He supposed it was true, but these were areas of thought where Adam sometimes felt the slightest tremor in his conviction. His father had been unswerving in his certainty of God’s plans. But what sin had Eddie Cookson committed to deserve the punishment of an agonizing and untimely death? How were the guilty chosen? Or were they chosen at all? He kicked at a stone in his path. Maybe souls were captured in God’s dragnet regardless of their innocence or guilt, like unseen and unsuspecting insects crushed beneath a heedless boot.

  The thought was not only depressing, it was frighteningly sacrilegious, so he shook it off. Despite his occasional questions, he held the unwavering belief in the promise of heaven and that paradise was the reward for the righteous. Just as fervently, he believed that the guilty should and would be properly and unflinchingly condemned to eternal damnation.

  When he reached Jessica’s office, he noticed a few wagons and an automobile or two parked in front. He glanced briefly at his own reflection in the window glass to make sure his tie was straight, then opened the door. In the waiting room, he found a scene he was not prepared for.

  The small space was packed with sick people, at least ten or fifteen of them. Every seat, more than he remembered seeing here before, was occupied. Some patients even lay on the floor under thin blankets. Others listed on their chairs, plainly lacking the strength to sit upright. All of them were shivering and coughing violently.

  Stunned, Adam let the bouquet drop to his side.

  “Mr. Jacobsen,” a man called from a seat in the corner. Adam saw Wilson Dreyer, who sat beside his wife, Lily, propping her up. She was Powell Springs’s librarian and Adam barely recognized her. She looked as horrible as she probably felt. “You aren’t sick too, are you?”

  “Um, no, Mr. Dreyer. I was just…” Just what? How could he explain his arrival with the trappings of a man who’d come courting, especially under these circumstances?

  Some of the others who noticed him looked up with glazed, fever-bright eyes.

  “If you’re waiting to see the doc, get in line. I’ve been here for an hour already,” said another man whom Adam didn’t know. “But I’m ahead of them,” he said, indicating a pair on the floor. The man looked like a drifter, with ragged clothes, several days’ growth of beard, and shifty, reddened eyes. One side of his jaw was swollen considerably. Adam made a mental note of him—with the war on, they couldn’t be too careful about strangers these days. Spies, the American Protective League told its members, were everywhere.

  “Watch your manners. He’s our minister,” Wilson Dreyer snapped. “And I don’t know who you are.”

  “I don’t give a damn if he’s the King of England. He can wait like everyone else. I got me a rotten tooth that needs pulling, the dentist ain’t in, and the barber won’t touch it.”

  Over the racket, he heard the sound of staccato heels on the hardwood floor. Jessica emerged from the back room, looking harassed but tightly controlled. Her sleeves were rolled up to expose pale, slender arms, and she had on a wilted bib apron, like the kind grocers and soda fountain clerks wore. A stethoscope dangled from her neck. But even in this chaos she was alluring.

  “Oh, Adam, it’s you,” she said. “I thought I heard the bell.” She glanced around the waiting room. “There are a lot of people ahead of you.”

  “No, no, I’m not sick. I, well—” He gestured slightly at the flowers and candy, trying to be discreet. “I didn’t realize you were so busy.”

  Seeing his gifts, her cheeks flushed slightly. “It’s very nice, but—” She stopped and considered him. “Come to the back.”

  “Hey—what about my bum tooth? I was here before him,” the seedy man complained, jerking his head in Adam’s direction.

  “Yes, and I’ll be with all of you just as soon as I can.” She turned and nodded toward her back office.

  “I’m sorry,” Adam said, once they were out of the others’ earshot. “I guess this isn’t very appropriate.” He held out the candy and flowers. She took them and put them on the work table.

  Smiling, she said, “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the thought, Adam. It’s just that, well, it’s been a…trying day. I had to send Amy home. She’s a big help, but she’s not used to dealing with this much bedlam.”

  He felt heartened that he hadn’t seemed to offend her. Then from overhead, a child’s thin cry reached him. He glanced up.

  “I’ve got two patients in the beds upstairs, but I need more room. I can’t use this office to treat all the people who are going to need me. And I can’t go to their homes.”

  “You need a hospital.”

  She nodded. “Yes, ideally, and Powell Springs doesn’t have one. I need more help, too, but I’m working on that part. You’re on the town council. Do you know if there’s a bigger space available around here? Like—like the grange hall, or a meeting place?”

  He thought for a moment. “What about the high school gymnasium? The schools are closed anyway.”

  “That would be perfect!” She gazed up at him with such a grateful expression that he felt a foot taller. “I hate to bother Mayor Cookson with this—can the town council act without troubling him? Do you think you can arrange for that?”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it.” Buoyed by Jessica’s attention, Adam believed he could manage anything.

  “Well, well. So now you want my help, eh, Doctor Layton?”

  How was it that some people could make her title sound like a filthy epithet? Jessica wondered. She had dashed through the rain to climb Mae Rumsteadt’s stairs with some trepidation. Her uneasiness was not without merit, she realized. She clenched her jaw as she stood in the woman’s parlor, feeling most unwelcome.
Mae lived in rooms above her restaurant that were cluttered with mismatched furniture and stacks of newspapers. Jess could see a length of clothesline strung in the small kitchen, from which hung bunches of drying herbs and other plants. The smell of rosemary and sage were especially strong.

  “I need every pair of hands I can get,” she said. “People are getting sick and I’m asking for volunteers. I need women to provide nursing care.” Jess was practical but not without her pride—she didn’t want to give Granny Mae the impression that she was the only person who could help.

  Mae’s high-cut nostrils usually made her look as if she wore a perpetual sneer, and right now Jess swore she could see all the way up the woman’s nose to her frontal sinuses. Her jaw was set, and her smug expression made Jess sorry she had come.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she drawled, plainly enjoying her position. “I’m already taking care of sick folks, myself. You’re not getting every patient in town, you know.” She crossed her bony arms over her flat chest.

  Ignoring her coyness, Jess continued. “Adam, that is, Mr. Jacobsen is arranging for me to use the high school gym as a temporary infirmary. We need the space, and it will be easier to treat people if they’re grouped in one spot. We just need to get some people to help us set up.”

  Mae smoothed the sleeves of her faded house dress and brushed at her apron. “I suppose that might work. I’m not saying I’ll do this, mind. I still don’t hold with a lot of that folderol you school-learned doctors use. Just because you didn’t hear about something at college or read it in a medical book doesn’t mean it won’t work. I’ve seen my share of ills and cures in my lifetime, and I’ve got books, too. Handed down to me by my grandmother and great-grandmother. A lot of the remedies came straight from the Indians. They know plenty about healing and natural cures. Like the Bible says, ‘The Lord hath created medicines out of the earth: and he that is wise will not abhor them.’ There’s a reason that kidney beans have their name—they’re good for kidney troubles! Drinking nothing but cold water stops diarrhea. And a good soak in urine will cure ringworm. I told your father and Cyrus Vandermeer the same things time and again, but would they listen to a word I said? Oh, no, they just…”