Until June

by Barbara M. Britton

He was too quick. Seizing her wrist with one hand, he confiscated the magazine with the other.

  “Not finished with what? Advertisements?”

  “Give it back.” Her words deflated in defeat.

  He wheeled toward the hearth and turned to face her. He flipped through the pages and began reading.

  She glared at him while her boot tap, tap tapped against the floor.

  “These two people really like one another. Don’t they? I can see why you were blushing. This gentleman’s a sweet talker. Don’t you think?”

  She shifted, facing the side of the chair, her back a shield from his inquisition.

  “I don’t know. I’m tired.” Her jaw muscles tightened. “I don’t know him.”

  “There must be something about him that keeps you reading. Tell me one thing and I’ll give this back to you.” He wheeled closer and dangled the Companion in front of her.

  She blew out a disgruntled breath.

  “He has big shoulders.”

  “And?”

  “Muscular arms.”

  “How can you tell that?” He inspected the drawing. “The man’s wearing a suit.”

  Rising to her feet, she reached for the magazine. “You said if I told you one thing you’d give it back.”

  “You told me two.” He belly laughed and rolled backward, taunting her with the Companion. “Besides, I paid for this, and I won’t pay for you to sit there lusting over a drawing of a phony man. Especially, when I need pain relief.”

  No morphine. Not for a few more hours.

  “I wasn’t lusting. I was reading.” She cinched her hands at her waist and stomped one last time—hard. “Now, give it back.”

  “Sure. Pay me. It’s only twenty cents.”

  Her anger charred her insides. She had no money. Her mother depended on her earnings and he knew it. She envisioned screaming into his stubbly face and pummeling his body with her fists.

  “I might want to read this story myself,” he continued. “This woman’s drawn very well. Rather pretty wouldn’t you say?”

  Josephine’s face flushed. She could be dolled up pretty if Geoff didn’t drain all her energy. Working all night and all day had to stop. She had to stop the morphine. Stop the erratic behavior. Stop the nightmares.

  I won’t make it until June. Not with the drugs. I’ll fail. For me and my family.

  She bolted up the stairs and removed aspirin and syringes and ointments from the medicine box. Carrying the box close to her chest, she raced downstairs. There would be no more abuse of the doctor’s orders. No more abuse of her dignity.

  The front door was in reach.

  “What do you have there?” His voice rose, questioning, but like he already knew the answer.

  She opened the door.

  Frigid night air blasted her face.

  One staggered breath. Two.

  She jogged down the steps.

  “What are you doing?” His wheels whirred on the porch. “Get back here. Obey me!”

  At full stride, she hit the dock. Glass vials jostled and clinked with her movements. Reaching the end of the wooden bridge, she whipped out the vials. Fistfuls of morphine bottles flew into the inlet. The midnight-blue water sucked the drug into its depths.

  Done.

  There was nothing she could do to bring the morphine back.

  Bending over, her mouth blew puffs of smoke into the moonlit air as if she were a small steam engine. Her heart chased her lungs trying to keep a pace, keep rhythm. The burning in her throat flashed down her windpipe.

  When her panting subsided, she turned and faced the lodge.

  His wheelchair blocked the front doorway.

  “Look at me,” she called out, raising her arms for all of nature to take notice. “I cannot be that woman in the magazine. I have lost weight. My skin is dry as dust. My hair is duller than this life.”

  Tripping on a stone at the edge of the dock, she fell to her knees. Frost dampened her dress. “Take it,” she shouted, rubbing mud from her palms. “Take the magazine. Why should I read about other people’s happiness? Keep your twenty cents.” The wet ground under her knees felt like rock bottom.

  The light from the doorway started to vanish.

  Fear-drenched adrenaline fired up her heart.

  “No,” she cried, stumbling toward the porch steps.

  She was almost at the door. So close. Close enough to hear the lock shift into place.

  11

  She had to get inside the lodge. The cold had kept its distance while she was running down to the dock but now it nipped at her skin and seeped into her bones.

  “Geoff.” She pounded on the front door.

  No answer.

  The blood pulsing through her veins echoed in her head as if her skull had turned hollow.

  Think.

  Rounding the lodge at full speed, she scaled the ramp to the kitchen door. With a twist of the doorknob, she shouldered the door and prayed it would open.

  No luck.

  Geoff’s shadow was visible through the curtains.

  “Please, Geoff. Let me in.”

  She knocked until the side of her fist split open and blood settled into the cracks of her skin.

  Her back bumped against the horizontal logs of the lodge as she dropped to a sitting position. She had no coat to keep her warm, no gloves, not even a hat. She never thought Geoff would lock her out of the lodge. Yell. Pinch. Curse. Yes. But lock her out where she could die?

  Chunks of glacier ice seemed to clog the circulation to her toes and fingers. She rubbed her hands together and crunched her toes to melt the blood slush.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw ferns swaying in the underbrush. Bear? Wolf? Moose?

  She eased out her breaths—long, quiet, and controlled.

  An animal emerged from the black timbers. Its back end wiggled.

  Whistling or calling the beast wasn’t an option. Her lips couldn’t pucker. She clapped once. The vibration stung her hands.

  The beast jogged up the ramp, slowed, then sat by her side. She welcomed his warm breath and thick fur. Stroking his winter coat gave her fingers life. But then she remembered the gun. What if Geoff heard the clack of the beast’s paws on the porch? Would he shoot her friend? Her back stiffened. What if Geoff did something to harm himself? Would the marshal hold her responsible? Even if the law didn’t blame her, she would hold herself responsible.

  “I’ve got to check on Geoff.”

  The dog quirked his head at her statement.

  Glancing around the yard, she spied the wood pile. She ran and grabbed a log, juggling the ice-glazed wood in her hands. She threw the log into the glass of the back door. The pane shattered. Glass shards fell onto the kitchen floor. Careful not to bloody her hand, she reached in and found the key in the lock. Her breathy exhale fogged the air. Success.

  Wide-eyed, she rushed into the lodge, welcoming the warmth from the kerosene heaters.

  Geoff was spread out on the bed, facing the ceiling, no covers on his body. His shirt lay on the floor. His skin had an unusual gleam as if he had been misted with water. He reached for her when she entered the room.

  “I need my morphine.” His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling. “And I need you to rub my feet.” His muscles tensed, making his body as rigid as the plank she had tossed through the window.

  What have I done?

  Tears tingled behind her eyes. “I threw the morphine in the inlet.” Her voice rasped from the cold.

  His eyes dilated like a startled barn owl. “I thought that was a dream?”

  “Now, I wish it was. Chalk up another mistake.” She struggled to remove his pants. Pushing her palms into where the surgeons had sealed up his stumps, she caressed his scars. His skin was too warm. Her fingers weren’t warm enough.

  Short bursts of sound exited his mouth. Not screams. More like groans with intense fluctuations.

  “I’m sorry.” Her throat seized as she stared at his strained face. “I thought it would
get easier without the drugs. They made things difficult.” They made it difficult for me.

  His body quaked.

  “I tried to do what the doctor said. You wouldn’t listen.” Her voice cracked with fear. Fear short of panic. This wasn’t pneumonia. The doctor wasn’t a phone call away. “I’ll do a better job. Tell me what to do.”

  “Stay with me,” he said before his teeth clamped shut.

  She stayed. Dutifully, massaging his limbs and wiping the sweat from his face. When the thrashing started, she retreated to the couch in his room, but not before laying pillows on the floor by his bed.

  Geoff bolted into a sitting position.

  “Danny. Barbed wire. Entrench.”

  He was going where she could not follow. Where she didn’t want to follow.

  Geoff eased back into the covers—mumbling—most likely to Danny.

  When he quieted, she laid on the bed next to him.

  “Jo?”

  Her eyes shot open.

  “I’m burning.”

  “I’ll get the aspirin.” She scrambled to her feet.

  “Water. Lots of water.”

  She hurried to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with cold water. She remembered bringing him water from the expensive crystal pitcher at the mansion. One month with her, and he looked worse than the night they had met.

  He drank two glasses of water and sank back into bed.

  She reached out to stroke his legs.

  “Don’t touch my legs.” His warning came fast and sharp like an arrow. “My skin’s on fire.”

  She felt his forehead. No fever. When he fell back to sleep, she slept.

  Late morning, she strapped on a work apron and scurried off to feed the chickens and load up on wood. She set bread to rise using white flour, skipping the addition of other grains for “war bread.” No one could question her sacrifice for the doughboys. She set tea to steep.

  Laughter rang out from the living room. “Got you, you louse.”

  She rushed to the living room. What else did Geoff have to endure? What else did she?

  Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. “Geoff?”

  He didn’t acknowledge her. He sat on the couch with a lit candle in his hand. The flame almost scorched his bare stomach. He lifted the fire closer to his neck, his chin, his hair. One twitch and he would be ablaze.

  “I got another one, Danny. I’ll get rid of them once and for all. Dreaded lice.”

  She inched toward the couch and tried not to startle Geoff. Why did he have to have these nightmares? Taking care of him was hard enough without the ghosts.

  The candle moved up the center of his chest, around what looked like an imaginary collar, down his left arm, and circled his wrist. If he dropped the candle, she was sure the rug would ignite.

  “Let me help you.” Her voice was calm, almost upbeat like this was a mundane chore. But inwardly, she was aware of every motion her body made, every swallow, every exhale.

  She reached for the candle.

  Geoff flinched.

  The candle slipped between his fingers. He jerked causing the candle to drop to the ground.

  The carpet smoldered. A toasted yarn scent filled the room.

  She stomped on the carpet and trampled the start of a flame. Bending over to see if the fire had gone out, a canister of tea fell from her apron pocket.

  “Mustard gas.” Geoff lunged forward. His clammy chest slammed into hers.

  Air whooshed from her lungs. Their bodies missed shattering the coffee table. Her shoulder rammed the front of her reading chair. Pain radiated down her arm. She lay on the floor as starbursts blurred her vision. Geoff’s half-naked body pinned her against the pine planks.

  “Move,” she gasped.

  His body relaxed, but it did not move. She feared waking him. What if he viewed her as the enemy? A German spy? Getting tackled again or having to fight a frightened soldier would be dangerous.

  She laid still. Her heart and lungs pumped like steam engines on an uphill climb. His shallow breaths tickled her neck. Closing her eyes, she pretended she was playing a part in a movie. Everything was make-believe. Nothing was real. She had played this game before when her parents fought and Ivan had won.

  What time was it? She couldn’t see the clock. Had an hour passed? Minutes? She thought about the tea steeping in the kitchen. It was probably cold by now. How she wished she had drank some before trying to disarm Geoff.

  Finally, Geoff shifted. He rolled toward the table. His eyes opened slowly and grew wide. Wider when he saw her.

  “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  His eyes filled with disbelief at her sprawled-out frame. He studied her face as if he was looking for a scratch, or a bruise, or blood. His head bobbed like a hungry hen at feeding time as he surveyed their surroundings.

  “What happened?”

  She took hold of his arm and pulled herself up. “Nothing. You’ve done nothing. Except try to save me from mustard gas.”

  “Gas?” He dragged himself to the couch and used it as a back rest. “I must have been at the front.”

  She stretched her hands to the ceiling. “You called out to a man. A man named Danny.”

  “Danny O’Rourke.”

  “You’ve mentioned him before. Was he a friend?” She sat next to him on the floor.

  Geoff stared at the fire—its waning embers barely visible through the ash logs.

  “He was my trench mate. He died in the explosion that took my legs. Saved my life.”

  “How’s that possible?” She rubbed her arms. Without Geoff’s body for warmth, her skin chilled.

  “Danny fell across my body. His weight slowed the bleeding from my limbs.” Geoff’s shoulders slumped as his head rested against the couch cushion. “We used to tease him about his weight. Only guy we knew who gained pounds in France.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Everything about the war seemed to bring him grief. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  His torso shivered.

  “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  “No, I want to stay out here by the fire.”

  She struggled to stand. Her joints needed an oil can.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get you a blanket and…um…and to pee.” She untied her apron.

  He glanced down at his pants. “Guess I already did.”

  “It’s a thick apron. Washable.” She turned to leave. “I’ll get you some fresh clothes.”

  “What day is it?” He rubbed his forehead as if he summoned memories from the past two days.

  “It’s Friday. Tomorrow is my birthday.” She steadied herself against his bedroom door.

  He gazed upon her with eyes as lifeless as the ashen logs. “Here’s my present. When Tubby comes, get on the Maiden. Leave me the new morphine.” His eyes slammed shut. “On the couch, leave the rifle.”

  12

  She whirled around. Her ears hummed. Her fists curled. Her face flushed as if she had checked the oven’s temperature for supper. How could he even suggest she leave after all she had done for him? Leave him to a no-good end. She couldn’t go home a failure. What would Mr. Chambers think? Her mother? Ann?

  “Are you firing me?” She choked out her words between dry sobs. “Because I’m not leaving. I’m a good nurse.” She stomped her foot. “I am.” And good nurses don’t leave weapons with hurting people.

  “Go lay down, Jo. You look worse than I feel.”

  “I will not.” She stomped over to the hearth and threw a log on the fire. Then another.

  Stepping back from the hearth, she jabbed a finger at the rifle on the wall. “And that…that…” She couldn’t bring herself to name the weapon. “Is for protection. Nothing else.” Her arm shook so violently she brought it to her side. “Look around you, Geoff Chambers. Look around you.” Her voice grew too loud for the living room. “Count your blessings. I have never lived in a place this nice.”

  He stared at her as if she were a stranger sauntering
into the lodge.

  She grabbed a cup off the coffee table and wished it were something larger she could hide behind. She glanced in his direction. “Captain Barrie will be stopping by in the next few days. I don’t want him to see this mess. If I don’t strip your bed and wash your soiled clothes, he won’t come near the door.”

  “Oh, he’ll come. And if he finds out I blacked out and left you in the cold—” Geoff leaned forward and punched the table for emphasis. “The reason Tubby stops here is to see if you’re all right. For all he cares, I could be stone cold dead.”

  “Don’t say such a thing. I’m not going to let you die.”

  “How many times have you almost killed me?”

  She stilled. Pressure mounted behind her eyes liked a kinked hose. She pressed the cup into her belly to keep her muscles from cramping and plopped into her reading chair. The high back cushions seemed to be the only support she had at the moment. The newly invigorated embers of the fire held her attention. “I didn’t know what I was doing throwing the morphine away. I didn’t realize it would be so bad. I’ve never done this before. Taken care of someone with such…”

  “Such what?”

  “Need,” she said, her tears flowing freely. “I’m doing the best I can. I guess I should have stuck to sewing.” Her fingers quivered as she swiped a tear from her cheek.

  “Hey.” He dragged his body over to where she sat and tugged at her skirt. “I’m alive. Forget about the mistakes. I shouldn’t have run off at the mouth.”

  She shook her head. “We can do better.” Ragged breaths shook her chest. “We have to do better.”

  “And we will.” His pity-filled eyes and lopsided grin didn’t overflow with confidence.

  Her stomach growled in agreement. “Are you hungry?”

  “I could use some tea.” He let go of her skirt.

  “What a coincidence.” She blotted her cheeks. “So could I.”

  ~*~

  That night, she checked in on Geoff before she headed up to her room to change into a nightgown. He lay in bed facing the doorway, wide awake, his newly cropped hair still damp from his bath.

  Crossing her arms, she leaned against the doorframe. “Are you in pain?”

  “No, I don’t think I am.”

  “Good.”