Rebecca grinned. “Hello, Anji.”
“Good afternoon. I’m surprised you are open. But since you are, I’d like a carton of strawberry ice cream, please.”
She frowned. “Is that going to be enough? I’m closing as soon as the ice cream I have made is gone.”
“It’s for cheering up, not fattening up.”
“Ah.” Rebecca dipped her scoop in a bowl of water. “I’m sure it’s frustrating having to stay home when school is out.”
“That’s what I hear. Such long faces. Do you have any idea when this will end?”
“I don’t think anyone knows. I surely don’t.”
“But you hear everything sooner or later. Have you heard anything new?”
“Well, let’s see.” Rebecca scooped some pink ice cream into a container. “The doctors seem to think that once you’ve had the disease, you won’t get it again. So your fellow teacher and swain, Mr. Devlin, has become a nurse right on the train. He says he had diphtheria as a child. Immune or not, it’s a brave thing to do. And apparently he can be right there to pray the prayers for the dying, like Reverend Solberg.”
“Yes, I heard he does that. And I agree he’s very brave. But then, he’s that sort of man. So are Thorliff and Daniel Jeffers.” Anji put her money on the counter.
Rebecca handed her the ice cream. “We are so fortunate to have good people like that. Hug the children for me. In fact, I think after this is all over, I may give a free cone to each child who was good about staying home.”
“What a lovely idea!” Anji said good-bye and headed home. She dropped the ice cream off and told Melissa to serve it with cookies. “I still need to go to Garrisons’.”
Back on the street, her mind reverted to her conversation with Rebecca. Brave? Indeed. Useful? Constantly. She thought of the many times Thomas Devlin had helped her, something as simple as holding her coat or as difficult as getting a stuck window to open. Like Thorliff, like Daniel, like John Solberg, Thomas Devlin was a truly gentle, truly great man.
She was so lost in thought she almost walked right into a passing horse. She stopped. “Oh! I’m sorry!”
The rider was Manny. He drew his horse to a halt and tipped his hat. “G’afternoon, Miz Moen. Have you seen our elephants?”
“No, I’ve not been beyond the mill lately.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t mean where they’re s’posed to be, I mean where they mighta wandered off to. They didn’t get chained up right, and they walked away, looking for forage, I guess. We take them down to the river. They like to wade around in the water and eat on the willows, but they’re not by the river now. Oh, and hey, please don’t let your children play down on the river bottom. There’s a pack of dogs down there—some pretty nasty beasts. I don’t think they’d hurt a child, but you don’t know. You can’t trust dogs what ain’t your own, especially in a pack.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember. The children are not supposed to go down there anyway. And I heard you have been helping with the elephants. My children are jealous. They would love to help with elephants.”
He grinned. “It’s more fun than you think, even the shoveling. I didn’t ever think I could do it, but Mr. Devlin says I have happytude and I could. So I tried and, well, I can!”
“Happytude. Aptitude?”
“That’s it! Anyhow, now I’m taking care of the elephants and even the chimp and the big cats. You know—the lion and the tiger. And the camel. I don’t care for camels, but it needs tending, so I do it. It’s grand!”
She laughed; the happiness in his eyes was infectious. “I can tell. If I hear anything about your elephants, I’ll call the mill.”
“Thank you, Miz Moen.” He touched his hat brim again and rode off.
She watched him as he continued on. His bad leg would never be normal, that was for sure, but he could certainly sit a horse well. He and his horse, Joker, moved together smoothly, as one. No doubt he was good with any animals, even elephants and camels. Happytude. She smiled.
And Thomas Devlin. She smiled again, even wider. The man was such a constant encouragement to all the children at school, the ones in his classes and everyone else as well. That was so important for growing children. And all the children loved him in return.
That was Anji’s main criterion for rating any person, but a man especially. What do children and animals think of that person? True, good dogs sometimes were loyal to quite bad people. Possibly if that was their master, they were loyal more than loving. But usually, children and dogs were excellent indicators. And children and dogs—even the boardinghouse cat—all flocked to Thomas Devlin.
And what about Anji? Her dead husband’s mother, Anji’s spiteful and bitter mother-in-law . . . Did death break that bond? Mrs. Moen certainly didn’t think so. She regularly sent small sums of money to help support her dead son’s children. That was good. Anji needed those funds. But the mother-in-law insisted that if Anji so much as looked at another man, a new man, Mrs. Moen would cut off all money. Every cent of support.
As she neared Garrisons’, she got angrier and angrier. The money was meant to support the children, not Anji. Whatever Anji did, the children were still Mrs. Moen’s grandchildren. Shame on that angry woman. And that’s what she was. Angry, as if Anji were somehow responsible for her son’s death. Bitter was the best word.
Shame on you, Anji Baard Moen! Shame! The woman watched her grandchildren, the only thing she had left of her son, get on a ship and sail thousands of miles away. Of course she would be frantic. Be charitable! If you were in her shoes, would you not be just as likely to mourn and try to hang on to the children?
She did her shopping and headed back to her children. As she approached her home, her new home, she thought again warmly about how much God had blessed her. Here was a fine house with plenty of room for her and the children, a good stove, good outbuildings—good everything. Just think of all those who had brought cleaning supplies and worked all day to help to bring it back to being livable. And look. When her family needed more food, she simply put some money in her purse and went out to obtain that food without scrimping. Of course she was careful, but there was no true lack. She’d known many a time growing up when they’d had little food and scarcer money. The grocery basket she was carrying was heavy with good things. Her children had clothes to wear, a sheltering home, plenty to eat. She and her children were so blessed!
And for some strange reason, Thomas Devlin came back to mind. He did that a lot—intruded on her other thoughts. She didn’t mean to think about him. He just sort of jumped into her head when she wasn’t expecting it.
She loved his dry wit, that thick Irish brogue, the lilt in his voice. Did he ever feel sad or sorrowful? He must. Every human being did; but Anji had never seen it. He was just naturally pleasant. Positive in outlook.
He was industrious, and yet he still made time to be of good use to people who could not repay his kindnesses. In fact, he did not let a little thing like a potentially lethal illness keep him from helping others. What would it be like to be married to the jovial Irishman? Again she smiled. Yes, he was a priest, but he and others had assured her that in his Anglican faith a priest could marry. Indeed, he said, nearly all of them did, including the bishops. So he was, so to speak, available.
Available? Shame again, Anji Baard Moen! Listen to you! A wanton hussy!
But no, that wasn’t it. He took care of what was his; he showed that plainly. Just as Thorliff and Daniel did. If she were his, he would take care of her. And likewise, Anji took care of what was hers. She had been devoted to her husband, and she was devoted to her children. Were she to marry again, she would do her best to serve him, to take care of him. In short, they would make a good pair, helping each other. And the children would have a complete home again.
Yes, she would lose the money Mrs. Moen sent. No doubt the woman would try to make the children, her grandchildren, return to Norway. Could she do that legally? Surely not. And the money did not mean as much as having
a good stable man in the family would mean.
If Mr. Devlin were to court her—several friends had mentioned that they thought that was his intent—how should she respond? Many people, especially people in Norway, would say she had to wait for the full period of mourning before even thinking about remarrying. But they were in Norway, where all the rules of life were carefully spelled out. Not here in North Dakota. Here, life was lived precariously, and a woman alone was at a severe disadvantage. Here, if you did not raise enough food to live through the winter, you starved. You maintained a good solid house and a decent woodpile or you froze. You had to stand ready to help your neighbors when tragedy struck, as they would gather to help you. She loved living here so much more than in Norway.
So what if Mr. Devlin did warm up to her? As she thought about it, how should she receive his attention? How would she respond if he chose to court her? Favorably. Yes. For sure. She would much rather have him than the approval of a demanding woman on a different continent. She would much rather have him than Mrs. Moen’s money. Closeness. Love. A helpmeet in a harsh land. Mutual affection. Happiness. How she missed all that! And to go through life married to this man? She blinked at the rushing of her thoughts. Where had all that come from? Anji, Anji, she chided herself, you are wasting your time and . . . She paused and closed her eyes, feeling a smile start inside and bloom on her face. A life with Thomas Devlin? Absolutely wonderful! She looked around. If anyone was watching her, they would think she’d gone daft. Get on home, you silly woman.
She had nearly reached her front gate when she heard wild laughter out back. What were the children doing that was so entertaining? She left the heavy grocery basket on the steps and walked around to the back yard.
Gilbert and Annika, laughing uproariously, were patting a fuzzy baby elephant. The baby was obviously loving every moment of it, swinging its trunk to this child, to that one. Melissa and Joseph were cautiously laying their hands on the mother elephant, feeling her skin, stroking her cheek, reaching high to pat her shoulder.
And the mother elephant was tearing at Anji’s newly trimmed shrubbery.
“MAN-NY!”
Devlin watched Dr. Astrid count the medicine glasses in the dispensary closet.
She turned to him. “Do you think a dozen are enough?”
“Aye, unless, of course, ye happen to have thirteen patients.”
She half smiled, and that pleased him immensely. Lately, she hardly ever smiled. And her face looked so drawn.
He offered, “I raided the kitchen car on the train, and I think we have enough there. They not be marked glasses with which to measure dosage exactly, but they be about the same size. They’ll serve. Use one graduated glass to measure with and the train’s glasses to serve the medicine in. So I suggest ye can dismiss the needs on the train. Yer main concern is to have enough for the hospital, particularly if new patients come in.”
“Not if, Mr. Devlin. When. I am terrified that the disease will spread into the town. So many of our people are vulnerable. And the children . . .” That was not mere worry or concern in her eyes. That was cold fear.
“Mayhap I can go out around town and round up some more.”
“Yes, would you, please? And spoons. We are very low on spoons.”
“How about rubbing alcohol? Miriam mentioned she’s low on alcohol.”
“We’re low on everything.” Dr. Astrid flopped down into a chair. “You have a good idea of our needs and what we have. And you have a better idea of what’s available in the train than we do. Can you go out and find as much as you can for us? Even if we’re not out of something but you think we will be, get more.”
He chuckled. “An Irishman above all is a forager. We be grand at scrounging. I shall do me best.”
“Take the wheelbarrow in our backyard.”
“The very thing! I shall return as rapidly as I can.” He walked out into the sun and fresh air, away from the smell of misery and death. Once upon a time when he was young, he was torn between choosing a life in medicine and the life of a priest. He occasionally regretted the choice he had made, but not today. He would have failed miserably as a doctor. He hadn’t the heart or the stamina for it. This nursing job was bad enough. How those women could be doctors day after day after day, he could not understand.
For one thing, he had a headache. It wasn’t a massive headache such as he very occasionally got, with pounding temples. Just a . . . a . . . O God, no! He crossed himself rapidly. What if he was getting sick? And here he was waltzing about town as if he were the king of Spain. He himself could be the person who triggered Dr. Astrid’s deepest fear by spreading the pestilence out into the town. And yet they desperately needed supplies. He stood there for a moment.
It was probably just an ordinary headache, to which he was frequently prone. But what if . . . Sore throat? No. But that meant nothing—yet. What to do?
He got the wheelbarrow in the Jeffers’ backyard, waved to Amelia, and trundled it down to the general store. Spoons. They had an unopened carton of spoons. No glasses, but he could try at the boardinghouse. Good idea. Rubbing alcohol? Two bottles. He bought both. He noticed they had towels, and the laundry at the hospital could not keep up with towels. He bought all they had.
His wheelbarrow was pretty much filled. Rather than risk dropping something over the side, he would return to the hospital, empty the barrow, and go back out foraging.
His headache was getting worse. Was he doing the right thing? He noticed in his ministrations on the train that diphtheria clouds the ability to make good decisions. He might be making a fatally wrong one right now.
Confusion and determination struggled with each other.
And suddenly, the worst thing in the world occurred: Anji Moen was coming across the street toward him, aiming herself straight at him with her shopping basket on her arm, smiling that glorious incandescent smile. Anji!
God knows he had not been honest with her. Never had he told her how he craved her presence or how she lit up his world simply by appearing. Never had he admitted to her that he thought about her so much. Or how bashful this mature man became in her radiant presence. He was afraid to tell her he secretly adored her, for fear she might laugh. He had remained somewhat aloof from her—as much as he could—because she sometimes seemed aloof from him.
And now she was aiming herself right at him. She stopped before him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Devlin.”
“And the top of the day to yerself, Mrs. Moen.” What if he was infectious? Remote chance, but a chance, no matter how unlikely. He could give her the disease, then she would give it to her delightful children, and one or more of the family might die, and it would all be because he . . . what could he do?
Get away from her! He must, for her sake. He touched the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Moen, I must . . .” I must stop being tongue-tied. I can’t think. No! He didn’t want to, but he must, for her sake. For her children.
She looked at him quizzically.
“Mrs. Moen, I cannot see you. Good-bye.” He pivoted the wheelbarrow around so violently that one of the bottles of alcohol fell off. It shattered.
He glanced back. She had lost both the smile and the quizzical look. Now she appeared ready to cry.
For her sake, leave! He walked as fast as he could, his headache ringing, the wheelbarrow bumping and rattling. He parked it at the back door of the hospital and jogged to his little room on the train. He sank to sit on his bed, cradled his aching head in his hands, and wept.
CHAPTER 18
Ah, Devlin, me lad, sure and ye’ve slept under some mighty strange skies, but this one beats all.” Thomas Devlin lay on his back studying the low ceiling above him. Bright red greeted him, and yellow trim around the sides. He knew that these train cars were painted just as gaudily inside as out. Well, some of them were. Some were also quite staid on the inside, with tasteful, muted colors. The dawn sun pouring in his window turned the red and yellow into fire and gold.
He rose, tugged his beddin
g into some sort of tidiness, tended to personal matters, and walked out into the passageway. He had long ago learned that sleeping in his clothes made answering an emergency during the night much easier. And those emergencies happened constantly on this beleaguered little train.
He stopped at B compartment in the fourth car, rapped quietly at the door, and stepped inside.
The middle-aged man in the bed by the window turned his head to Devlin. “I think he’s dead, Padre. He won’t talk to me.”
Devlin knelt by the foot of the man’s bed, where a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve lay. They were having to stack people two to a bed, head to foot, so many were ill. The boy did not respond to his touch. Devlin murmured, “Violet’s been asking for ye, lad.” No response. He spoke louder, “Michael?” He stood up. “I’ll take him out to the tent, Mr. Mason. He’s still breathing, so there be hope.”
“No hope in this old man’s heart.” Mr. Mason coughed.
Best to get the vital data, for the lad’s tombstone. “How old did ye say he be?”
“Twelve in August. August fourth. He looks older than he is.”
“Aye, that he does. And handling a man’s responsibilities too. Fine lad. Can I get anything for yerself before I go?”
The fellow wagged his head, his eyes closed, and coughed some more.
Devlin rearranged the man’s covers, gathered the boy in his arms, and left. The warm, bright, welcome sun hit him in the face as he left the car and carried Michael Mason over to a tent the circus had pitched behind the mill. He stepped inside and, keeping his voice hushed, asked, “Free cot?”
Miriam gestured with a wave of her arm. “Three in that corner.” She was speaking softly as well. She followed behind. “Is this boy alive?”
Devlin laid the limp body on the cot. “Nae, and I’ve committed a sin.” He stood erect and crossed himself. “I just lied to a sick old man and told him the lad is still breathing.”
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