Until June

by Barbara M. Britton

  “I just can’t seem to fall asleep.” He propped himself up with his elbow. “How ’bout a game of rummy?”

  “At this hour?”

  He opened the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a deck of cards. “Just one?”

  She sighed and perched on the edge of his bed. Arguing was futile. He always got his way. Well, almost always.

  “Thank you.” He shuffled the deck.

  “For what? Beating you at cards?”

  “For being a headstrong runt, and running off with my morphine.”

  “You’re most welcome. I’ll take that as a compliment.” She cocked her head and hid her smug smile. Her bold action had worked out for the best. For both of them. “Now deal.”

  ~*~

  Josephine woke to shouts booming outside the lodge. Why was she not in her bed? Why was she in Geoff’s? Splayed on the bed sheet in front of her was a decent hand of cards. Geoff was asleep, resting against a mound of pillows half as high as the headboard. If he had legs, his toes would be tickling her nostrils. She must have fallen asleep.

  Oh no! She leapt to her feet. Tubby. What would the captain think if he found her in Geoff’s bedroom with the lodge a mess?

  “Geoff. Wake up.” She shook his longest stump. “Tubby’s here.”

  “So,” he mumbled, not even bothering to open his eyes.

  She ironed her wrinkled gingham dress with her hand. “I’m a mess. The lodge is a mess.”

  “Tubby won’t mind.”

  “I mind.” She raced into the living room to pick up blankets and dishes and tea cups.

  Tubby knocked. “Jo?” he bellowed.

  Too late.

  She folded Geoff’s blanket and used it to shield her disheveled dress. Plastering a good morning grin on her face, she opened the door.

  “Happy Bir—” Tubby’s pipe sagged. “What the heck happened to you?” He brushed by her and bent over, half-sliding, half-kicking a box next to the couch.

  “Uh… Geoff’s been ill.” Her heart bounced like a paddleball under the captain’s inquisitive stare. It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t have to admit her mistake. “I haven’t slept.”

  “Not the influenza, is it?” Tubby marched outside and picked up a pink box from the porch.

  “I don’t think so. There’s no fever.”

  “Good. That sickness almost caught us in Nome. Wherever it goes it leaves a graveyard.” Tubby stepped into the lodge and handed her the small box. “Chocolate cake. From your mother. Now close that door before a gust blows you clear out the back of this lodge.”

  She offered Tubby tea and cake. He accepted both.

  “I’ve got letters and cards for you,” Tubby said, wiping frosting from his whiskers. “That big box is full of business ledgers and papers for Master Chambers. “Your mother packed up a crate of sewing what-nots, too.”

  Not wanting to waste any of her birthday cake, she smashed the last remaining crumbs with her fork. “Organizing the threads will give me something fun to do today.”

  “I would have been here sooner.” Tubby shook his head. “With the troubles in Nome, I got detained on a trip for Mr. Todd.”

  “Brice Todd?”

  “His father.” The captain cocked his head. “You know the family?”

  “Not really. I met Brice at the Chamberses’ house before we left for the lodge.” The mention of Brice’s name left a sour citrus taste in her mouth.

  “Should have guessed he’d be there. Those two boys go back a long way. I used to ferry them and their friends on my boat.” Tubby rubbed his whiskers as he reminisced. “They sure knew how to have fun. It’s a shame about the war.” He nodded toward the bedroom door.

  Josephine didn’t want to pry, but she was curious about a certain friend mentioned at the mansion.

  She placed Tubby’s dirty plate on top of her dish. “Do you remember a friend of theirs—a girl named Christine?”

  “Christine Reid? Tall, fair-haired, kind of shy?”

  Her cake settled like a stone in her stomach. Christine was her opposite. Oh, why should she care? “I think so.”

  “She been out here?” Tubby leaned closer as if for a piece of seafaring gossip.

  “No.” She rose and stacked the dishes. “Geoff mentioned her. At the mansion.” Or was it Brice?

  Tubby’s gaze swept the room. “Is he treating you well?” His voice barely crossed the table.

  She nodded and brushed a few wayward crumbs into her hand. No need to go into the details of the last few weeks. The weeks ahead could only get better.

  “Geoff’s manageable. I’m tired and a little homesick, that’s all.”

  Tubby re-lit his pipe. Fire sparked off the tobacco as he puffed into the stem. The aroma of baked apples and ash filled the dining room.

  “I’d like to stay longer, but I’ve got to get the Maiden up to Skagway.” He stood and patted her shoulder. “It’s good we had our visit.”

  Saved by a schedule. She was too tired to answer an inquisition from Tubby.

  “Thank you for bringing the gifts and supplies.” She accompanied him to the door and opened it.

  “After November, I may not get back this way for a while. Mother Nature’s got a lot to do with that. There’s a musher out this way that can bring the mail.” Tubby turned and blew a ring of smoke into the cool morning. The lazy O disintegrated over the porch misting a smoky fruit scent into the air. He bent over and picked up a metal box. The old, empty medicine box.

  A shiver washed over her skin, whip-starting her heart. He knew they were out of morphine. She licked her lips tasting a hint of cocoa and sugar.

  Tubby held up his find. The lid flopped open displaying a few damp cotton balls and a tube of spent ointment. “Since I discovered this container at the end of the dock, I’m assuming you have Geoff’s pain under control.”

  She cleared her throat and tried to make the jumbled confession in her head into a coherent sentence. “Please take any new morphine back to Dr. Miller.” Placing a hand on his arm, she said, “We’re as good as gold.”

  “Hah. Fool’s gold discarded in a creek maybe.”

  Her posture stiffened at his assessment. “I’m not a fool.”

  Tubby’s gaze did not leave hers for what seemed like a million seconds. “Never thought you were.” He latched the box. “If Chambers ever hurts you, I’ll get here and take you back to Juneau, no questions asked. Just like I didn’t ask about that boarded-up back window.”

  Her mouth fell open. She shut it fast. “Thank you, Tubby. I’m doing my best.”

  “Of that,” the captain said through pipe puckered lips, “I have no doubts.”

  She waved to Tubby one last time as he boarded the Maiden.

  When the door was firmly closed, Geoff wheeled into the living room.

  “You could have gone.”

  “And leave you with this mess?” She shook her head. “But I do hope Tubby brought material for a new bedspread. I don’t think I’ll get the stains out of your old one.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve slept in worse.” Geoff lifted the flaps on the cardboard box Tubby had placed near the couch. “This mine business should keep me out of your hair. Except for this.” He held out a magazine. October’s Companion.

  Memories of their argument flooded into her brain.

  “Take it.” He rustled the pages. “There might be advertisements for a new polish or cleanser. Your red cheeks will tell me when you’re reading the story about the big man.”

  Guilt pinged her chest. She shouldn’t have mentioned the handsome and healthy men in the serials. She took the magazine from him. “Speaking of that man—”

  “I wasn’t.”

  She met his bloodshot gaze. “Would you like breakfast?”

  “Yes, but not chocolate cake.”

  “More for me then.” She spun on her heels. “Eggs for you.”

  Hunger was a good sign. A sign she had made the right decision by discarding the morphine and staying at the lodg
e.

  Her decision was definitely not a mistake.

  Happy eighteenth birthday to me!

  13

  After Geoff ate breakfast, she gathered her cards and letters and headed up to her room, her sanctuary. Her mother’s letter concerned her. The last few sentences, written in Ann’s elegant handwriting, contrasted greatly with her mother’s unsteady cursive. The new arthritis treatment was a failure. But then, it had only been a month since she had left Juneau to take care of Geoff. Now that her mother had a steady income, she could try another remedy.

  Ann’s own letter described the men she had met recently in town. More miners, a salesman, and another poor soul Josephine was too busy to care about.

  As she sat reading, she heard a strange puffing sound coming from downstairs. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened intently, trying to make out what Geoff was doing. Finally, she headed downstairs to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.

  In the corner of the living room, she saw him, stretched out and facing the floor. His torso moved up and down. When his chest lifted off the floor, he exhaled, sounding like a storm wind.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  No answer.

  Was he upset with her? Oh, why did I have to mention anything about men’s biceps? She watched him pump up and down. “This isn’t about that serial in the magazine. Is it?”

  He froze at the height of a push-up and flipped himself over.

  “I stormed up hills with a heavy pack on my back, carried barbed wire, bandoliers of ammunition, and a bayonet at the ready. I stayed alive. Don’t you ever compare me to some imaginary gent sketched in a woman’s magazine.”

  Her pulse quickened. His combative reply reminded her of Ivan’s outbursts. Punishment usually accompanied her stepfather’s rage. Childhood tricks flashed into her brain. Hide. Run. Apologize.

  “I didn’t mean to…” She hugged her waist and glanced at the sheen on the coffee table.

  Geoff turned over and continued his routine. Up. Down. Up. Down.

  She’d leave him be. Since Geoff was preoccupied, she decided to clean his bedroom. While she sorted his closet, she would look for a place to store his old bedspread. The sooner he had a new bed covering, the sooner they could put the memory of his withdrawal behind them.

  The box of mining papers Tubby had brought to the lodge took up space on the closet floor, not to mention Geoff had a complete wardrobe of pants, long, short and uneven. She scanned the room for another storage site for the box. The small closet, half-hidden by the lamp on the nightstand on the other side of the bed, caught her attention. That door hadn’t been disturbed since they moved into the lodge.

  After removing clutter, she braced her hand on the closet frame and jimmied the warped door open. A large rectangular box leaned across the bottom of the closet. Empty shelving occupied the rest. Good. Lots of storage.

  She bent over and picked up the box—a box with considerable weight. Had the lone box belonged to Mr. Gilbertsen? Maybe Mrs. Gilbertsen didn’t even know it existed. For sure, the widow would want its contents. Something shifted inside. Placing her find on the bed, she cut the twine securing the flaps with Geoff’s nail scissors. Upon opening, she spied two long tubes wrapped in linen. When she picked up the first tube, her grip slipped, and a black dress shoe emerged from the cloth.

  A man’s shoe.

  Her fingers trembled as she pushed the linen over the shiny black leather and up a wooden replica of a leg.

  She knew it wasn’t real but she dropped the fake appendage on the bed as if it were infected with the influenza. White broadcloth straps unfurled above the fake knee.

  “Geoff, can you come into the bedroom?” She kept her tone free of accusation, but who else did she know who needed wooden feet?

  “In a minute.” Geoff blew out a loud breath as if his last push up was worth a prize.

  Soon, she heard his wheels crossing the living room floor. When he entered his room, he halted near the French doors.

  “What is this?” She held up the leg and tried to untangle the attached straps.

  “Watch it. Those straps are impossible to straighten out.”

  She pointed the black shoe in his direction. “How long have you had these? You’ve never mentioned having wooden legs.”

  “I’ve had them since the hospital.” He repositioned himself in his chair.

  And kept them a secret. “Won’t your father expect to see you wearing them come June?”

  “It’s not my father’s business if I wear them or not. They hurt. And it takes too much effort to move around in those logs.”

  She could sense a battle coming. Speaking as if to sell the latest and most expensive fashions, she said, “But your bed sores are much better. What if we could get them totally healed. Now, that you’re weaned from the morphine—”

  “Weaned?’’ He furrowed his forehead.

  “Your phantom pains might lessen with exercise.” She laid the leg back on the bed. “I think we should try these. Don’t you want to look normal?”

  His face stilled as if he sensed an enemy nearby. “The Germans took care of that.”

  She wished she could gulp back her words. Her lips went dry. Moisture seeped into her palms. “I want your father to think I’ve done a good job. If he expects you to be walking—”

  “He doesn’t. Your job is to keep me alive and out of his wife’s hair. You’re doing that. I’m more alive now than when I was in his house. Although, he lets me win at cards once in a while.”

  “Don’t mention the cards,” she snapped. “My mother would have a fit if she found out I was playing rummy.”

  “So, I shouldn’t mention cards.” He folded his hands in his lap. “What else? Splitting bedsores, hurling my medication in the inlet, slapping me?”

  “We’re forgetting about my mistakes. Remember?” Her temples throbbed a warning not to anger him.

  “Sew me a new bedspread. Whatever you want. You don’t have to worry about the legs.”

  Her foot tapped an annoyed rhythm while she batted her eyes at the wooden planks above her.

  “Besides,” he continued, “even if I did become proficient at walking with them, I’d need a new wardrobe. You’d have to hide straps and flare pant legs.”

  “Done.” She relaxed her neck and beheld his slack-jawed face. “You said I could sew whatever I want.”

  He started to back track his chair out of the room. “I didn’t agree to use the legs.”

  “But if I made you slacks to fit the legs, you’d have something to practice in.” She controlled her smile so it didn’t seem as though she was gloating.

  He turned an about-face and shoved off toward the living room. “I can’t win. It’s a gift you have, supernatural or otherwise, that lets you win ninety-nine percent of the time. Measure me at your own peril. But only after my nap.” He stopped and glanced back. “I warn you, those straps are hec—.”

  “Horrible.” She corrected him. “Those straps are horrible.”

  He grinned as if he figured out the punch line to a joke. “At least we agree.”

  ~*~

  “Hand me my right leg.” Geoff gestured to the shorter wooden limb composed of a shoe, calf and knee. He sat on the bed wearing a long-sleeve white shirt that snapped down to his crotch and formed underwear. “The German’s didn’t blow off as much of my right one.”

  She picked up the prosthetic leg. It shone brownish-black except for an egg shell colored kneecap. Wide straps that hooked below the knee dragged on the floor. Her stomach hollowed as she envisioned joining the wood to his stump.

  “You’ll have to push as I pull it on.” He took the limb from her and lined it up with his stump.

  Trying not to stare at his puckered flesh, she gave a gentle push. His leg sank two inches into the wood.

  “The straps fasten up here on my chest.” He secured the buckles.

  The left leg, much longer than the right, was more difficult to attach. She poked skin
into the opening with her fingers as he eased the indentation over the end of his upper thigh. She anchored the straps from the top of his leg, over his shoulder, and across his chest.

  “We’ll need to tighten the straps when I stand up.” He grabbed the bedpost and drew to a height over six-feet tall. He towered over her.

  A maze of straps and buckles crisscrossed his torso. Designing a shirt that would hide everything was going to be difficult. Flaring his pant legs was the least of her concerns. Aligning a pant zipper with the unitard underneath would be more of a challenge. The wheelchair looked better every minute.

  She wrapped the tape measure around his chest. His body twitched.

  “Ticklish?” she asked.

  “No.” His voice trembled. “But you’re more of a runt from up here.”

  Hopping on the bed, she said, “Hold out your arms.” With the bed underfoot, she was not a runt anymore. When she was done measuring, she poked him in the ribs with her finger.

  “Watch it. Sudden movements make me fall.”

  “Inseam next.” She stepped down and knelt in front of him. A rush of heat warmed her cheeks as her hand hovered above his inner thigh.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ll hold the top of the tape.”

  “I usually do dresses.”

  “That might be a solution.”

  “Your father would not be amused.” She tilted forward as she stood.

  “Don’t lean into me.” His eyes bulged as if in fright. He tried to steady himself. “Move.” He pushed her away as he teetered.

  Losing his balance, he careened backward. She jumped to the side but not soon enough.

  Crack.

  A dull, throbbing ache shot across her face from her chin to her cheek. Salty, tin-tasting blood teased her tongue. A wave rolled through her stomach. She pressed her palm against her jaw as if to hold it in place. How would she explain being decked by a fake shoe?

  Reaching forward, Geoff tried to peel her fingers off her jawbone. “Can you move your mouth? Good heavens, say something.”

  “Unfortunately for you.” She sounded like a toothless old seaman. “Nothing’s broken. I’ll be fine. I might need to borrow some of your aspirin.”

  Geoff helped her to her feet.