What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  He could in fact go see the old woman with a leg abscess, which shouldn’t take too long to drain and bandage. Her son’s place was considerably farther away than the young widow’s farm, but Joshua could deal with the abscess first, and then swing by to deliver the dresses on the way back to town.

  Freida took her knitting along — “It’s a lovely day, I’ll be all right in the buggy, finally I’ll get some work done on this shawl” — and they set out, a well-rested Nellie-girl taking them quickly out of town. Freida hailed almost everyone they passed, calling out questions about their news and well-being even though those greeted had little time to answer before they were left behind. She did not, Joshua noticed, greet Clara Brook, apparently out for a walk on the outskirts of town; Joshua took it upon himself to wave instead, tipping his hat and receiving a grave nod in return.

  Soon they were out in farm country and passing corn growing tall and green, with tassels stirring in the breeze, and here and there the vivid red flash of a Summer Tanager, all accompanied by the sweetly varied chirps of meadowlarks. Freida kept up a stream of chatter, with the rumbling buggy wheels as counterpoint. Quite a bit of it concerned the customer in such need of new clothing. Joshua’s vague sense that Freida was up to something soon yielded to the glum conviction that the whole errand was orchestrated to bring Joshua and the customer together. Joshua paid as little attention as he could manage, determined to form his own opinion.

  The old woman’s leg was more swollen, the old bandages more saturated and odorous, than Joshua had hoped. She had probably ignored his instructions to stay off it as much as possible and keep it elevated. He repeated the orders she had already flouted, drained and cleaned the abscess again, bandaged the leg, and left with a dour sense of futility.

  Back on the road, the fresh breeze and birdsong helped put him back in a tolerably good humor by the time they pulled up to a neat little farmhouse with flowering bushes lining the front. It did not look familiar. If the husband had taken ill after Joshua came to Cowbird Creek, it was possible they had called the doctor in Rushing for some reason, or that Joshua had been on one of his infrequent trips out of town.

  Joshua helped Freida down and then retrieved the large linen-wrapped bundle that must contain the dresses. As they approached the door, Joshua could hear the murmur of a woman’s voice, the steady rhythm suggesting she was reading aloud. At Freida’s firm knock, the murmur ceased, and shortly afterward, the door opened to reveal a woman holding a little girl in her arms.

  The woman was of less than medium height and seemed entirely composed of curves, from the loose curls allowed to escape and hang around her face, to her arm holding the child, to what he could see of her figure, to her gently welcoming smile. He must have seen her before, and probably more than once — in fact, she looked vaguely familiar, more than, say, Clara Brook had at first — but he had never noticed her face and figure. Perhaps he had encountered her only in winter, when she had been muffled in an overcoat.

  She looked up at them, her round blue eyes lighting up as she stepped back to allow them inside. “Oh, thank you! I feared it might be days or even weeks before I could be decently dressed again.” Then she looked up at Joshua and said, “I’m Mrs. Arden. Thank you so much for bringing Mrs. Blum. Do come in.”

  Joshua kept to himself his thought that the gray-blue dress she wore, from what he could see of it, was decent and even flattering. He followed her directions and laid the bundle of dresses on what appeared to be a sewing table, given the sections of gingham fabric that lay on it already. Clothes for the child, most likely.

  All this time the little girl was studying him with a surprising solemnity. Freida moved closer to him and said in what she might have considered a whisper, “Poor child, her father and little brother died of a fever last year.” The little girl continued inspecting him and then, apparently satisfied, put out her hand. Joshua took it and bowed over it, asking, “Might I know your name, mistress?”

  The child giggled, then turned shy again and hid her face in her mother’s shoulder. The mother shook her pretty head and said, “This is Hope. Hope, say good morning to the lady and gentleman.”

  The little girl turned back and murmured, “‘Lo, Missus Lady. ‘Lo, Mr. Gentleman.”

  Joshua bit his lip so as not to reveal his amusement. Freida bustled forward, holding out her arms. “Such a darling! May I hold her? You can look at the dresses, they’re nothing much, I hope you like them.”

  Mrs. Arden had a whispered exchange with Hope and then transferred the child to Freida’s greedy grasp. Hope nestled against Freida’s bosom, appearing pleased with the comfort of it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Arden turned her attention to the linen bundle, untying the twine around it, opening it, holding up the dresses one by one. “Oh, how lovely! Oh, they’re just what I needed!”

  When all the dresses had been displayed and admired, Mrs. Arden disappeared for a moment and returned with a small leather bag, which she offered to Freida. “Here’s what we agreed, and really not enough for all the work you put in.”

  Freida gave the little girl one more snuggle, sighed, and handed her back to her mother, taking the bag of coins at the same time. “My pleasure, so gratifying to dress such a pretty woman, still so young, you should look your best.”

  Mrs. Arden glanced at the mahogany grandfather clock standing in the corner. “It’s almost dinnertime. Will you stay and eat with us?”

  Joshua looked to Freida for clues. She put up her hands and waved them a little. “So kind of you, such a nice gesture, but I really should be getting back, so much work waiting for me. But maybe the doctor could come back another time, you young people should get to know each other.”

  Mrs. Arden blinked at Freida’s boldness, but said prettily, “We would be honored, indeed, if you could join us whenever your work allows you. Would next Tuesday be too soon?”

  Joshua was well aware that Freida had managed the entire encounter. But he was not inclined to balk this time. “I am sure I could make it, if I wouldn’t be intruding.”

  Mother and daughter beamed at him with almost identical expressions. “We will be so looking forward to it.”

  Freida followed Joshua out of the house after a bewildering sequence of repeated farewells. Her praise of Mrs. Arden and Hope began flowing before they even reached the buggy, and continued half the way back to town. “Such a sweet child, she takes after her mama. A girl needs a father. Such a father you would make! And Mrs. Arden — did I tell you her, what do you call it, her Christian name is Dorothy, Dolly for short — such a good homemaker, she really didn’t need me to sew for her, she sews so well, but the little girl keeps her busy, you know how children go through clothes.”

  Joshua could vaguely recall his mother’s weary resignation concerning how often he outgrew his shirts and trousers, and her ire if he tore or otherwise spoiled them while they still fit. It was hard to imagine Hope tearing her dresses.

  That evening, Joshua studied himself in the small mirror hanging near his bed. His hair could use a trim. He would make time before Tuesday for a visit to the barber. Hopefully it had been long enough since their last set-to that he could trust the man to wield a razor near his throat.

  Mrs. Arden opened the door dressed in one of her new dresses. Hope, by her side holding her hand, wore a gingham dress that might have been the unfinished project Joshua had seen on the sewing table during his previous visit.

  The aroma that wafted from the interior made his mouth water. Could it be? With all the bountiful meals he had enjoyed with Freida, she had never served him his favorite pork chops. He had a vague notion that Jews might not eat pork.

  With the pork chops and mashed potatoes and peach preserves — he suppressed the urge to put the preserves on the pork chops, a childhood vice he had not entirely outgrown — he was almost too full to move when Hope invited him on a tour of the house. But he hauled himself upright and let her take his hand and tug him around. It was a good-sized house, well built and appoi
nted. The late Mr. Arden, whatever his origins, had left his widow well provided for as to habitation, at least. There was a pleasant sitting room with fireplace and easy chairs, and one small bookcase. The kitchen would have been snug for a woman like Freida, but was spacious enough for his petite hostess.

  Hope next led him up the stairs to a cozy room with a large bed in it, looking out into a large silver maple tree. Both the room and the size of the bed came as something of a surprise. He heard first footsteps and then Mrs. Arden’s soft voice behind him. “Mr. Arden had modern ideas. He thought married couples should . . . have their privacy. He built this room and made the bed for all our children to share.” She caught her breath in what might have been a sob.

  Hope started down the hall as if intending to show him another room, but Mrs. Arden intervened. “That’s enough, Hope. Take our guest back downstairs to the sitting room so he can let his food settle.” Hope pouted briefly, but obeyed. Joshua surmised that the forbidden portion of the tour would have included the widow’s own bedchamber. A vision came to him, unbidden, of a bed with a carved headboard painted white, with pastel comforter and fluffy pillows, and — He jerked his imagination back into line and focused on the little girl descending the stairs ahead of him, looking back at him frequently as if to ensure he was still there.

  When Mrs. Arden deemed Joshua had had time to digest his dinner, she let Hope take him out to the sunny yard he had seen from the child’s bedroom. The maple tree had a swing suspended from a sturdy, low branch; Hope hopped on the swing and begged him to push her. Joshua obliged, smiling to see her struggle with the (to her) complex and mysterious task of pumping herself higher.

  Joshua looked at his watch, sighed, and let the swing slow to a stop. “I’ve got to be going, little Hopeful.” The nickname surprised Joshua as well as the child. She ducked her head in a return of her earlier shyness, but then smiled at him, hopping down from the swing and dipping into a creditable curtsy. As she bobbed back up, she said in apparent imitation of her mother, “Do come again.”

  Mrs. Arden, watching from the doorway, added softly, “Yes, please do.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am.” He bowed first to Mrs. Arden, then to Hope. “I’d be most happy to.”

  He found himself smiling and humming “O, Susannah” as he rode Nellie-girl back to town.

  Joshua hesitated to encourage Freida by reporting how much he had enjoyed his visit with Dolly and Hope, but upon reflection decided he owed it to her. She crowed over him as much as he had anticipated. “I knew it, such a lovely woman, such a sweet child, just what you need in your life, and dear Dolly, she needs a strong, reliable man like you . . . .”

  Joshua was not sure he merited either adjective. There was a side of him Freida knew nothing about, or so he hoped. But he let her continue spinning out his probable future, which evoked a longing he had not thought himself to have within him.

  Except for that dinner at Mamie’s, it had been a long time since he had called on a lady — or rather, given just how long, a girl — in other than a professional capacity. And times had changed, though he was not sure in what way or direction. He consulted Robert about what would be proper. “Should I bring her flowers next time?”

  Robert, amused at his ignorance, informed him that his question was far too general. “You’d have to make sure you picked the right flowers. There are I don’t know how many books telling ladies just what to read into the choice of this flower or that.”

  Joshua gulped. “Why so many books? Don’t they all say the same thing?”

  “Not all of ‘em.”

  Joshua blew out a long breath and shook his head. “Never mind flowers, then.”

  But as he rode to Mrs. Arden’s on a fine summer day, wildflowers all around him, he decided to take the chance. He pulled Nellie-girl to a halt, jumped down, and gathered as varied a bouquet as he could manage. Hopefully, if they conveyed any message beyond scent and beauty, it would be varied and confusing enough not to land him in any irretrievable difficulties. He managed to mount again, ride the rest of the way, and dismount without dropping any of the impromptu bouquet in his left hand.

  He was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when Hope ran out to meet him and exclaimed, “Are those for me?”

  Mrs. Arden, joining her daughter, scolded her gently. “Don’t be forward, Hope.”

  Joshua extracted a purple coneflower from the bouquet and handed it to Hope. Gathering his courage, he held out the remainder to her mother. “I saw these on the way and thought you might like them.” That explanation might make it less likely that she would read any deep meaning into the gift.

  Her smile added warmth to the sunshine. “How kind of you. Let me put these in water, and then we can sit on the porch swing for a while until the roast is ready. Hope, you can finish setting the table, and then work on your sampler until I call you.”

  The little girl hustled indoors. Mrs. Arden settled lightly on the porch swing and looked up at him expectantly. Feeling three kinds of fool, he studied the portion of swing left to him and sat in the middle of it, leaving about a foot of space between them.

  She did her best to put him at ease, though her innocent questions did not always have that effect. How he had become a doctor, for example: he had to tug the truth well out of shape, dredging up memories of the doctor who had tended him as a child. This sunny front porch, the pretty woman at his side, did not bear soiling with the filth and blood and anguish of a wartime medical tent, the dogged courage and endurance of the doctors who had humbled and then inspired him. And his family back in Pennsylvania . . . He couldn’t talk about the two grandparents who had died a year before he had made it home. But he could at least interest and amuse her somewhat with talk of his father, who after a lifetime buried in books had decided to write one and was apparently finding it a daunting task. As for his mother, he managed to say something superficial about what a fine woman she was. He could not talk about her at any length without showing how much he missed her.

  When Mrs. Arden hopped down from the swing and announced that dinner must be ready, he followed her inside with relief.

  Dinner helped to relax him. The pot roast was tender, the green beans a deep green in color and just the right side of crisp. And the pie — “Is that blackberry pie?”

  “Yes indeed! We have plenty of blackberry bushes in that field yonder.” She pointed northwest. “Hope helps me pick them, don’t you, Hope?”

  Hope nodded vigorously while chewing her first bite of pie.

  Joshua bent down to speak to her more easily. “You know, I used to pick blackberries with my mama and sisters, when I was not much older than you. They had me pick the berries lower down on the bushes.”

  Hope beamed at him. “That’s what Mama and I do!” She bounced in her chair, drawing a rebuke. (“Sit like a lady, now.”) Hope stopped bouncing, changing the subject with a question. “Can we go pick blackberries now? With Mister Doctor?”

  Joshua was seized by a rare impulse toward silliness. He turned to Mrs. Arden and clasped his hands dramatically. “Pleeez, can we?”

  Hope let out a high-pitched peal of laughter. Mrs. Arden followed suit in a tuneful soprano. “All right, you two. Hope, go get your apron. Doctor Gibbs, do you have anything with you to protect your clothes?”

  He had had no reason to bring his bag, with the smock tucked away in it, so often covered in much less savory substances than berry juice. The thought punctured his giddy mood, but he tried to hide the fact. “Not with me, I’m afraid.” He reached for silliness again. “But I could borrow one of your aprons. No doubt Hope would find me most fetching in it.”

  Hope giggled. Mrs. Arden shook her head, wavy locks bouncing. “The pair of you! I have something more suitable, I believe. An old shirt of my husband’s. You could wear it back to front, if you don’t mind being a bit untidy.”

  “That’ll do just fine, ma’am.” He could hardly withdraw from the plan at this point, not without disapp
ointing the child and being rude to her mother.

  The sunshine and the smell of blackberries, together with Hope’s delight in the project, helped Joshua focus on his mission. He challenged Hope to a berry-picking contest, making a point of losing. They collected enough fruit for several future pies before Mrs. Arden called a halt and led them back into the house.

  She relieved Joshua of his bucket, put it in the kitchen, and held out her hands for his improvised smock. As she took it, he saw, and pretended not to see, a shadow of sadness pass over her face. The memory of her husband clearly still carried some pain.

  Dolly sent the child off to wash her hands. When Hope returned, Joshua squatted down and reached out his own hand, heedless of the traces of water on Hope’s. “Shall we shake hands goodbye?”

  Solemn now, the child put her hand in his. “Goodbye.” She paused, her expressive little face warning him before she said, “I wish you weren’t going.”

  Joshua swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’ve had a lovely time.”

  Mrs. Arden put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “As have we.”

  When he got back, Robert saw him ride in and came by for a report. Joshua confessed having collected flowers after all.

  “What kind?”

  “Coneflowers in three colors — I gave a purple one to the little girl. And black-eyed Susans.”

  Robert’s mouth twitched in amusement. “I had a feeling you’d do something like that. I went by Mrs. Blum’s social library and subscribed, just so I could look for a book on flower language. Let’s see what you were saying, shall we?” He pulled out a book bound in dark red leather embossed with vines and leaves. “Coneflowers, let’s see . . . Well, you lucked out there. They mean ‘strength’ or ‘health’ — very appropriate for a doctor. And black-eyed Susans . . . .” He leafed through, stopped, and started to laugh. “Well, my boy, those mean ‘encouragement.’ If she’s set her cap for you, you told her she’s welcome to do so.”