Don't Put the Boats Away

by Ames Sheldon

  Somehow when I’m with Mr. Pratt, I don’t miss Eddie as much as I do at school or at home. But I sure am lonely without him. What about you? Does being so far away in a new place help you not miss him as much? At Andover I am reminded of Eddie everywhere I turn.

  I wish I could see you, Harriet. Christmas was very odd this year.

  Love,

  Nat

  During the winter Harriet focuses on her work so intently that she no longer notices couples holding hands. When she looks at her photo of Frank, she discovers she doesn’t miss him all that much—isn’t that strange? Days and weeks fly by.

  In March, along with Judy, Harriet attends a Sigma Delta Epsilon talk by Dr. Elizabeth McCann on the studies to increase production of penicillin. She learns that scientists in England and the United States are struggling to produce these powerful antibiotics in quantity. During the war penicillin was found to be remarkably effective in treating soldiers’ bacterial infections, pneumonia, osteomyelitis, gonorrhea, and other diseases, but because of the limited quantities, its use was restricted to the military. Now scientists in labs at the universities of Wisconsin and Minnesota are working to develop a promising green mold that was found on a cantaloupe in Peoria by a very observant housewife.

  While Judy and Harriet walk back toward their respective boarding houses, Harriet says, “I can’t believe research this important is going on at our very own school. What an opportunity!”

  “You want to get in on this, Harriet?” Judy sounds skeptical.

  “Of course I do! The chance to work on something that could help save people’s lives?”

  Judy says, “Penicillin research must be PhD-level work.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m going to ask Dr. McCann.”

  May 20, 1946

  Dear Frank,

  I have an incredible opportunity to do some very important research on penicillin with Dr. Elizabeth McCann here at Madison over the summer, so I will not be coming home until Christmas. I am sorry. I hope you will understand that I need to do this. Not only will the research be the basis for my master’s thesis, but hopefully I’ll be able to help in the quest to ascertain which strains of penicillin can be reproduced in the greatest quantities, which ultimately will result in saving lives. I’m terribly lucky that Dr. McCann wants to have me on her team. I’ll be working with her and other graduate students who are further along in their training than I am, so I’m bound to learn an enormous amount. I might even get my name on the paper when we publish our results.

  This means another six months before we’ll see each other, but maybe we can write letters and talk on the telephone more frequently than we have been. I feel increasingly out of touch with you and your life, and I don’t like that.

  Please don’t be disappointed. I want to hear all about what you’re up to and how your mother and sister are doing as well. Please write.

  Missing you,

  Harriet

  She thinks about signing off with “Fondly, Harriet,” but that seems awfully stiff. She can’t say “Love” because Frank hasn’t used that word, and she’s not sure she loves him either. She does miss him when she thinks about him for more than a moment, so the way she ended her letter is the truth.

  Over the summer, Frank calls her a couple of times, and she telephones him once a month during the fall semester. She writes a few letters to her parents and Nat during that time, but her attention is really riveted on her research with Dr. McCann. She doesn’t even notice as summer changes to autumn until the snow starts to fly.

  December 1946

  Heading home on the train back East to New Jersey for Christmas, Harriet starts thinking about her family and Frank. She’s been so immersed in her research that she hasn’t written many letters to them lately, and she didn’t hear from them as frequently as she did last year. She’s getting really excited to see everyone now.

  Her parents’ farm manager, Hamilton, meets her at the train station in Plainwood. As they approach the house, it looks larger and more imposing than she recalls. She can tell it’s been repainted recently in a paler shade of yellow than before.

  Once he pulls to a stop, Harriet jumps out as her mother hurries down the path.

  “Mummy!”

  “Harry! I’ve missed you so much.” Eleanor grabs Harriet’s upper arms and leans her torso toward Harriet’s in their usual version of a hug. Pulling back, she eyes her daughter. “What happened to your hair?”

  “I’m growing it out. How are you, Mother? You look good.” Eleanor seems more energetic than she did when Harriet left home last year.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Eleanor says, taking Harriet’s arm in hers. “Now, what’s this about wanting to be called Harriet?”

  “Harry was my name when I was a kid. I’ve grown up.”

  “It might take me a while to get used to calling you that.”

  Together they walk quickly up to the front door. It isn’t snowing yet, but the air smells like snow is on its way.

  Inside, Eleanor says, “Dinner is ready. We’ll eat as soon as you wash up.” She heads down the hall while Harriet ducks into the powder room.

  When Harriet enters the dining room, George stands and pats her shoulder.

  Nat hugs her fiercely. Then they all take their usual places around the gleaming mahogany table. Except for Eddie—his spot is vacant. Harriet shuts her eyes. Eddie should be here. Her heart hurts; she feels as though she’s losing her brother all over again.

  When she opens her eyes, she sees that the table is set with the fancy china, crystal, and silver tonight, along with ironed linen napkins at each place. A vase of miniature peach-colored carnations stands in the middle of the expanse, mirroring the hue of the blossoms on the wallpaper; the green of their leaves is the same shade as the room’s cabinets, woodwork, and doors.

  Harriet says, “Everything looks lovely, Mother.”

  Rosalee, wearing a spotless white chiffon apron over her white uniform, bustles in with a platter. “I cooked your favorite meal, Miss Harriet, fried chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans.” She hands the plate of chicken to George.

  “Thank you very much, Rosalee,” says Harriet. “You’re looking well. How is your family?”

  “We all just fine, thank you. Ham Junior be growing like a weed. And see, we’ve got another one on the way.” She pats her bulging stomach.

  “Hamilton told me. That’s wonderful, Rosalee.”

  As Rosalee exits, Harriet notices that the glasses on the table are filled only with water. This is surprising—typically her parents have bourbon with dinner. Has her mother stopped drinking? She looks around the dining room table at her father, mother, and brother. George appears much older than he did when she last saw him; his hair is thinner, and his jowls have started to sag below his jawline. Eleanor, wearing pearls and a becoming green sweater Harriet has never seen before, looks well, and her hair is still quite red despite threads of gray. Nat, on the other hand, is so pale that Harriet wonders whether he’s ill.

  Rosalee returns with the other dishes, which she gives to Eleanor and Harriet. Once Rosalee retires to the kitchen, Harriet turns her attention to her father. Feeling the old pull to please him, she starts asking questions about the farm. His replies are so brief that she moves on to asking how things are going at Sutton Chemical.

  Thin-lipped, George says, “Fine.” It’s clear that he doesn’t want to talk about anything. Harriet finally notices that the atmosphere around the table is tense.

  Eleanor tells Harriet, “You’ll be glad to know that Abba will be joining us for Christmas.”

  “Ew, I never thought to write her.”

  “Did your grandmother send you any letters?” Eleanor asks.

  “No.”

  “Then I wouldn’t worry about it. You may invite Frank to join us for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day—one or the other.”

  “When we spoke a few weeks ago, he said he’ll be celebrating with his mother and sister, but I don’t
know the timing on that. I’ll call him later and see when he’s available.” One of the things she admires about Frank is the way he cares for his ailing mother and young sister.

  “We’d be happy to have him join us.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Harriet wipes her mouth with her napkin. “I was sorry to hear that Halloran Hospital no longer required your services after the doctors and nurses got back from the war—I know you enjoyed your work there as a nurse’s aide.”

  “Plainwood Hospital doesn’t want my assistance nursing patients on their wards either. But two days a week I assemble CARE packages—now it’s for regular citizens in Europe who are hungry. Not nearly as satisfying as caring for wounded soldiers, but at least I’m doing something to help.”

  “Good for you, Mother.”

  “I got bored only doing things that anyone can handle, so I signed up for a class at Douglass.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Not at all. They have a college re-entry program for mature women.”

  “What class are you taking?”

  “A course on Shakespeare. Since I enjoy his plays, I figured this would be a good way to ease back into college.”

  “That’s great, Mother,” says Harriet.

  “Don’t know why you bother,” George puts in. “It’s not as though you need a degree so you can get a job.”

  “I’m doing it for the intellectual stimulation, George.”

  Harriet is about to ask Nat a question, but his head is bent over his plate in such a way that it’s clear he doesn’t want to engage in conversation.

  After several minutes of silence, George rouses himself to ask, “How was your trip, uh, Harriet?”

  “It was fine, Father. I actually got a berth in a sleeping car this time.”

  Again the conversation dies. Although Harriet loves Rosalee’s fried chicken, she doesn’t ask for seconds because she isn’t getting as much exercise these days as she did when she was working on the farm.

  Finally the family rises and moves toward the parlor.

  On the way, Harriet pulls her brother aside. “Are you all right, Nat? Your face is as white as a sheet of paper.”

  “I’ve been expelled from Yale. They told me not to come back. We just found out.”

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry.” She puts her hand on his arm. “That’s terrible.”

  He steps away from her. “Father is furious. I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

  George calls, “Harriet?”

  Nat turns and scurries up the stairs toward his room.

  Harriet enters the parlor, two walls of which are lined with books.

  “Do you want a glass of bourbon with your mother and me?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Father. Lots of ice, please.”

  Once they all have their drinks, Harriet sits on the cushy couch with her mother, facing her father, who takes his red leather chair.

  “Now, Harriet,” George says, “I want to hear all about Madison.” He crosses his long legs and leans forward.

  Delighted to be asked about her work, she replies, “I’m learning so much. Chemistry is absolutely fascinating, especially in the lab. I’m doing research on penicillin.”

  “Yes, tell me more,” George replies. “You haven’t written in a long time.”

  “I’ve been so busy, really consumed by my research. It’s such important work. Penicillin saved the lives of thousands of wounded soldiers during the war—soldiers who would have died from their wounds without this antibiotic. But it’s finicky. Penicillin has an unusual chemical structure that no one could replicate for a long time. The Brits tried at Oxford, and then in 1941 they brought some samples over to the US for our scientists to see what we could do. You’ll like this, Father. The very first patient cured by penicillin, Mrs. Ogden Miller, is the wife of the athletic director at Yale University. She developed streptococcal septicemia after a miscarriage in 1942 and would have died if she hadn’t been treated with penicillin.” When George doesn’t respond, Harriet continues, “Anyway, clinical trials were conducted during ’43, and on D-Day every medic landing in Normandy carried penicillin in his pack.”

  Eleanor says, “Doesn’t penicillin come from some kind of mold?”

  “That’s right, Mother. The first strains came from a fluid given off by the green mold that grows on bread, the same mold that’s used to produce Roquefort cheese. The stuff we’re working on now comes from moldy cantaloupes. The problem is figuring out how to produce large quantities of penicillin quickly and cheaply so it’s available to anyone who needs it.”

  “What kind of luck are you having?” Eleanor asks.

  “Dr. Demerec of the Carnegie Institute took the strain of penicillin from cantaloupe mold that was isolated at a lab in Peoria and treated it with X-rays. Then he sent it to us at Wisconsin and to scientists at the University of Minnesota for testing. We’re working to confirm that this strain provides ten times more yield than the best of the other strains. X 1612 may prove to be the most effective strain yet for the mass production of penicillin.”

  “You might as well go work for a drug company when you’re through with this,” George remarks. “There are plenty of them around here.”

  Harriet feels as though he slapped her. “I have no interest in working for a drug company, Father. I was hoping to work for you.”

  “That’s news to me.” George drains his bourbon and sets the glass down before he speaks. “I don’t see how your research relates to any of the products we make at Sutton Chemical.”

  Harriet’s voice rises. “I’ve taken courses in accounting, financial reports, and budgeting, along with my chemistry classes. They should be useful.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Harriet hoped her father would be proud of her work in chemistry. Hurt and confused—devastated, actually—she turns to her mother.

  Eleanor says, “Let’s not discuss this anymore tonight. Everyone’s tired.” Quickly swallowing the rest of her drink, she stands. “It’s late. Time for bed.”

  Harriet rises from the couch. After years of critical comments from George, she wonders whether she’ll ever be good enough as far as he’s concerned.

  George stays in his seat. “Don’t mind me, Harriet. I’m in a foul temper. It’s been a very bad day, and I have a difficult decision to make.”

  Together Harriet and Eleanor climb the stairs to the second floor. When they get to the landing, Eleanor says, “I’m sorry George didn’t show more interest in what you had to say, dearie.”

  “Research excites me, Mother. I’m finally doing something that really matters.”

  “I’m so glad. And I must say it almost makes me weep to think that you want to save people’s lives. You’ve definitely got Henri’s blood running through your veins.”

  “Really? You’ve told me so little about my real father.”

  When Harriet first figured out for herself that George wasn’t her biological parent, she was angry at her mother for hiding the truth from her. Eleanor always pretended that George was Harriet’s father until the shocking revelations about Eleanor’s service in the Great War and her marriage to a Frenchman came out three years ago, the night they learned that Eddie had enlisted. That night her mother was so upset that she lost control and started telling them all about how horrible war actually is—and she knew, from her own experience. Since then Harriet has come to understand more about why her mother held on to all her secrets.

  “I told you Henri was a surgeon in the Great War. He died at the front. “

  “I know that much.”

  “He was a very good doctor, a serious scientist who kept himself informed about the latest medical information, but he was also a most compassionate man. Your wanting to save people’s lives reminds me of him. You’re following in his footsteps.”

  Harriet throws her arms around Eleanor. “Thank you, Mother. That makes me feel better.”

  After a moment, Eleanor pulls back. “What about Frank? Do you think he’ll
propose while you’re home?”

  “I hope not! I’m not ready to think about that yet.”

  “He seems to be a very patient man.”

  “I really appreciate how direct and matter-of-fact Frank is. Do you remember the first time he came here to have dinner with us?”

  “I’ll never forget that evening,” Eleanor says. That was the night they received the telegram about Eddie.

  “When he said he figured you’d all want to take a good look at the guy who was going out with me, I thought Father would choke.”

  “Remember, George said ‘good for you to call a spade a spade.’ He liked Frank’s forthrightness.”

  “I do too.” Harriet embraces her mother again. “Oh, Mummy, I’m so glad to see you acting more like yourself.”

  Eleanor murmurs, “I’m trying.”

  “I’ve got to call Frank now. I can’t wait any longer.”

  All during Christmas break, whenever Harriet invites Nat to take a walk with her, he refuses. When she asks him a question, he answers in an angry monosyllable, so eventually she gives up trying. He keeps to himself, playing the piano at all hours. Nat seems to have placed himself in isolation while he awaits his father’s decision about what’s next for him.

  Although Nat is unavailable, Eleanor is more candid with Harriet than she’s been in a long time. During one late night tête à tête, Harriet is shocked to learn that her mother blames herself in part for Eddie’s death. Eleanor claims that if she hadn’t kept her role in the Great War a secret all those years, if she’d talked about the horrors she’d seen, maybe Eddie wouldn’t have been so quick to enlist. Harriet assures her mother that’s completely irrational, hugs her, and they say good night.