What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  Joshua could not completely reassure her, but he shared his reasons for optimism. “You may have heard the maxim about presenting the appearance which you intend to make a reality. A doctor with an assistant must be successful, and is therefore the more to be valued and sought after. Your addition to my practice may well generate more than enough additional income. And there may be other possibilities. My friend Robert, the pharmacist, could perhaps use some skilled assistance in preparing his medicines. I am sure you could learn how.”

  Clara frowned, probably at the idea of soliciting work from someone not already committed to the scheme; but speaking of Robert had reminded Joshua of his unread letter. He extracted it and smoothed it out, saying, “I hope you will excuse me. This came by express just before we left, and I have not yet looked at it.”

  It opened with apologies for troubling Joshua while he was, in Robert’s words, “on a mission of mercy.” Joshua took care to keep the paper turned away from Clara’s view.

  But the meat of the matter, when he reached it, banished such concerns from his mind. In fact, he cursed aloud before recollecting his surroundings and his companion. From the corner of his eye, he saw other passengers turning his way with expressions varying from disapproval to surprise to amusement. Clara only looked concerned. “You have troubling news?”

  Joshua ground his teeth. “Robert writes that a medicine show, the one you saw and which Mrs. Blum and I had occasion to notice, has returned. I did not mention to you before the sympathetic interest Mrs. Blum showed in the pitchman. That interest has apparently not waned, and Robert sees signs that the pitchman is at least as interested in my friend. In fact, he describes the man’s behavior as close to pitching woo.”

  Clara’s mouth twitched at the phrase, and possibly at his unintentional pairing of “pitching woo” and “pitchman.” But she moved quickly to addressing his question. “In what ways might this pitchman have engaged Mrs. Blum’s interest? Does he have particularly winning ways, or pleasing features?”

  “She didn’t think he looked like the crook he must be. Men like him have a nose for a mark’s weaknesses. He must be using her sympathetic nature as a way of disarming her.”

  “But why? Is she wealthy?”

  Joshua considered the question. “She told me her late husband left her well provided for. He owned a shop, so it is plausible. And I have never known her to be in hardship. From my knowledge of her, if he were not a good manager himself, she would take over whatever responsibilities would enable the enterprise to prosper.”

  “When did Robert write?”

  Joshua looked for a date and found none. “He says at the start that he had not anticipated writing to me so soon after my departure. This must have occurred within days after I left town.”

  Clara bit her lip. Her earlier pallor had returned. “I hope that your impulse to . . . come to my rescue will not have unfortunate consequences for someone so close to your heart.”

  Her words lingered in his ear, raising some internal echo, stirring thoughts and feelings he had not faced or acknowledged. He sat in silence as his world rearranged itself. What should, what could, he say? Finally, as the silence threatened to be worse than speech, he stammered out, “I would not have you think that I value your friendship less than any other.”

  She started, a flush chasing away the pallor from her face. He held his breath, awaiting a response. But she appeared as much at a loss for words as he.

  His heart had sunk nearly all the way to his boots by the time she said, in her forthright manner, “I am glad of your friendship, and of your affirmation of it.”

  There was more he could have declared, had he the courage. But he retreated to contemplating Freida’s possible peril. Clenching his fists, he muttered, “If only I could know what is occurring as we crawl toward home!”

  Clara’s rare smile brightened her face. “You do our trusty conveyance wrong, I think.”

  He chuckled and nodded his acknowledgment. But he wished, absurdly, that the train were a steed of flesh, and that he could dig his knees in or cry commands to speed it on its way.

  At the next change of trains, as they stumbled sleepily up the steps to the third class car, a voice behind Joshua divided his attention. The conductor was hurrying along the platform, calling out over and over, “Is there a doctor? We need a doctor!”

  Joshua leaned against the side of the train and carefully waved one hand to attract the conductor’s attention. “I am a doctor, and this lady is my assistant.”

  The conductor hurried over, speaking almost too fast for Joshua to understand him. “Our fireman is hurt — a nasty cut on his shoulder — it needs stitching up and whatever else, and we don’t want to leave him here for whatever doctor we could find, and we aren’t supposed to hold the train for long — can you tend him?”

  He did not wait for an answer, but maneuvered himself ahead of them and led them to the dark, smoky cab at the front of the locomotive, with its looming furnace and multiple pipes and dials running every which way. The fireman was collapsed on a bench, gritting his teeth, sweat shining on his face in spite of the cold overpowering the heat from the furnace. A bowl of red-stained water sat beside him, and the engineer was wiping at the fireman's shoulder with a blood-soaked cloth.

  Clara briefly studied the engineer and the conductor and chose the latter. “More water, please. Warm, if you can manage it.”

  The conductor stood staring at her, looking flummoxed. Had he not heard Joshua’s naming Clara as his assistant? Joshua cleared his throat and stepped closer; the conductor started to attention and then headed off, either to fetch the water or to be bewildered somewhere out of reach. Joshua retrieved the apron in his bag — he had not thought to bring two — along with a clean cloth and gave both to Clara. She seemed about to refuse the apron, but then looked at his clothes and her own and accepted it. She put the clean cloth aside, using the already stained one to apply firm and steady pressure to the wound. Joshua fished out a spare shirt and turned it backwards, tying the sleeves around his neck for a makeshift apron, and prepared his needle and sutures.

  By the time Clara said the bleeding had slowed, the conductor had returned, somewhat to Joshua’s surprise, with a large basin of clean water. He set it down and said awkwardly, “It’s warm. Sir. Ma’am.” With that, he retreated as far as the limited space allowed, leaning against a wall and watching with furrowed forehead.

  The fireman refused Joshua’s offer of an injection of morphine, but accepted the alternative of whiskey and took three deep gulps before Joshua began stitching up the wound. When the wound was closed, cleaned again, and bandaged, Joshua stood up, stretched his aching back, and rubbed his strained and blurry eyes. By the time he looked over at Clara, she had finished with any similar motions and was shaking out the wrinkles in her skirt. At almost the same moment, they took off their aprons, actual and improvised, and tossed them on the bench next to the fireman. The conductor stepped forward to pick them up, along with the two blood-stained cloths. “I’ll bundle these up for you.” He was gone before they could reply.

  He returned, carrying a tied-together sheet, just as Joshua was wondering where they might find a seat. Emigrant class might be full. They could upgrade to second class, after all . . . . But the conductor said smoothly, “The railroad would like to offer you a choice as to compensation. We can pay you cash money, of course, but would you by any chance prefer accommodation in our Pullman car?”

  Joshua had hoped Clara would agree to the Pullman car, for her comfort and his own. He had less than usual need of cash, after getting third class tickets west. But he suspected that Clara’s assent had more to do with a sense of irony and of mischief. At least, the barely contained merriment of her countenance suggested as much, as they made their bedraggled and weary way past the startled and well-dressed occupants of the luxuriously upholstered seats. Dressed neither like wealthy members of society nor like railroad employees, Joshua and Clara were clearly viewed as intr
uders.

  Under such scrutiny, Joshua had no wish to gawk at his surroundings, but the black walnut paneling, the mirrors suspended from the walls, the ornate chandeliers overhead put the finest drawing room in Cowbird Creek to shame.

  What next commanded his attention was the unexpected and welcome warmth of the air. Somehow, this car had heat. It might soon be possible for them to shed their coats. And was the car actually riding more smoothly than those in third class? It certainly seemed so, though Joshua was beginning to wonder whether his imagination had got the better of him.

  The conductor accompanied them a short way into the car and then beckoned sharply to a tall colored man in uniform. “George, you take good care of Doctor —” The conductor stopped, eyebrows shooting upward. “My word, in all the commotion, I never got your names.”

  Clara’s friendly smile put him at ease as she identified them. The conductor then went on, as if the colored man would not have heard, “George, this here’s Doctor Gibbs and Miss Clara Brook, and they’ve done the railroad a good turn today. They’ll be in this car now. Doc, Miss Barton, George is the porter for this car. Anything you need, you tell him to get it.”

  Joshua noticed the porter’s mouth twitch as the conductor said “George,” and wondered if the conductor could have misremembered the man’s name. The conductor interrupted Joshua’s musings by grabbing his hand and shaking it before tipping his cap to Clara and heading out of the car.

  The colored men Joshua saw at home were mainly cowboys. The porter in his pressed and spotless uniform made quite a contrast with the grubby cowboys in their boots and dusters. Another contrasting vision tried to surface: the colored troops Joshua had seen once during the war, their uniforms covered in mud and worse . . . He shook the memory off as the porter spoke. “Doctor, Ma’am, I’ll be pleased to help you in any way you require.”

  Clara replied before Joshua could. “Thank you, George — if that is your name. Did the conductor report it correctly?”

  The porter’s eyes widened before he reverted to an impassively polite expression. “It is the custom for Pullman porters to be referred to as George, the given name of the company founder.”

  Clara frowned. “Would you like us to use your actual name?”

  The porter seemed, for the first time, at a loss for words. After an awkward silence, he said quietly, “It might lead to . . . confusion. But I appreciate the thought.”

  Finally able to catch his breath after the flurry of activity, Joshua realized he was hungry. Clara must be as well. He asked the porter, “Do you know when a news butcher is likely to come through with refreshments for purchase? Or must we wait for the next depot?”

  The porter spoke as if choosing his words carefully. “Many of the Pullman car patrons . . . dislike dealing with the vendors you mention. Porters like myself, under the supervision of the conductor, make a point of reviewing the vendors’ offerings and stocking the most palatable for those passengers who do not have their own supplies. If you will take a seat in the parlor, I will bring you a selection. And I can make up your berths at the same time.”

  The porter pointed to a portion of the car they had not passed through, visible through an open door, where a selection of armchairs and benches played a variation on the theme of luxury evident throughout. Clara headed through the door, then stopped and turned to watch the porter’s activity. Joshua did the same, marveling at the swift efficiency with which the porter folded two facing seats into one bed, attached a headboard, closed the curtains, pulled down the polished and decorated compartment overhead into an upper berth, and whisked sheets and blankets and pillows onto both. He let out a low whistle of appreciation before heading toward a well-upholstered chair, one of two close together, and sinking into it. Clara took the other. When the porter arrived a few minutes later with a selection of quite edible-looking sandwiches, he managed to refrain from snatching the food out of the man’s hand, though he did allow himself to gobble it with dispatch. Rather too late, he thought of what his companion might make of his manners, and looked toward her for any sign of displeasure. But she held his gaze, took a large bite of sandwich, chewed with exaggerated vigor, swallowed — and winked.

  * * * * *

  Both Joshua and Clara chose to sleep in their clothing rather than changing in the limited berth space or attempting to maneuver night clothes and themselves in the even more cramped washroom. That choice reduced the intimacy of sleeping so close together to a level with which Joshua, at least, was comfortable. As he climbed the ladder the porter provided and slid into bed, he said a short prayer that his dreams would not have any embarrassing effects.

  His prayer went unanswered.

  Joshua came awake to find Clara standing next to the lower berth and saying his Christian name aloud. He was at first disoriented, looking around for the camp hospital, thinking her still a nurse, before the motion and sound of the car’s progress along the track brought him to himself. The dim light through the curtains suggested it was the middle of the night or not long after.

  Had he moaned or shouted in his sleep? He looked down at Clara to confirm the dismal assumption. She seemed self-possessed, but rather pale. Before he could summon his wits enough to ask, she said softly, “You appeared to be having a nightmare.”

  He looked away, gritting his teeth. He would have welcomed even a blush as an alternative to the sickly expression he was sure she saw.

  She persisted despite his rudeness. “Would you like to get down and sit quietly for a while?”

  He had to bite his lip to keep from snapping at her for the reasonable suggestion. He would have refused, but before he had the chance, the porter appeared with the ladder, his expression impassive. He seemed inclined to linger and steady it for Joshua’s descent, but Clara motioned him away and performed that office herself. Joshua could hardly dismiss her without further discourtesy. He waited until his hands stopped shaking before climbing down.

  Clara sat on the lower berth and wordlessly made room for him to sit beside her. When he did, she put her hand on his shoulder, moving slowly so that he could see her intention.

  Joshua did not shake off her hand. In spite of himself, he found its warmth and light pressure comforting. It was so unlike anything he had experienced in his nightmare, or in the living nightmare that had given rise to it.

  He turned toward Clara as she asked, “Would you like me to ask the porter to fetch you some water? Or if you have a flask of spirits with you, you could tell me where you keep it, and I could bring it to you.”

  Joshua would in fact have welcomed a dram of whiskey, but he would not display further weakness. “Thank you, no. I am very sorry to have disturbed you. I should not have allowed myself to sleep.”

  Clara’s eyes studied him gravely. “Are bad dreams so likely for you, then?”

  He could think of no answer that would extricate him from mortification. Clara removed her hand from his back and clasped her hands together. “I would never think less of you for such an affliction, as I share it myself to some extent. And, I would venture to guess, from a similar cause.”

  Now Joshua did blush, in shame at his self-absorption. He had every reason to know that her wartime ordeal had been at least as traumatic as his own, possibly even more so. As he searched for a proper apology, he found, to his horror, that he was saying something entirely different. “It was a patient. A patient who did not survive.”

  He snapped his mouth shut; but Clara loosened her hands and reached out to take one of his. “Please go on. I believe it will ease you.”

  He drew a shuddering breath, searching for strength. “I was acting as an orderly, carrying the wounded to the surgeon. He had no leisure for seeing who had the greatest need of him. We did not, like some units, have an assistant surgeon to perform that task, and it was too early in the war for an ambulance corps. It was left to soldiers like myself to make the best guess we could as to whose need was most pressing.”

  He could feel his hand tr
embling again, until Clara grasped it more firmly.

  “There was a soldier — I noticed first that he still wore his forage cap and his cartridge box. So many of the wounded had lost or abandoned one or both. I could see some sort of dark stain on his coat, but not whether it was sweat or blood. He sat on a stump, not quite upright, but not slumped low. I thought his injury must be one of the less pressing.” Now it was his lip trembling. He forced himself to go on. “I walked by him to a man lying on the ground with a bleeding wound in his leg, and summoned another orderly to carry him to the surgeon, who then pressed me into service assisting him. By the time I could return to the wounded, I did not see the man. It made me uneasy, for some reason I could not — or did not dare to — understand. And then I turned, and saw where some of the —”

  He shut his eyes tight, as if he could hide that tears had started there. “I saw a row where some of the dead soldiers had been laid, and were being placed in body bags. He was there, his face not yet hidden, and I could see, now, that his coat was soaked quite through with gore.”

  He could not remember when he had ever heard anything so gentle as her voice. “And was that what you dreamed?”

  He could not stop himself from opening his eyes, reddened as they must be, to see her face. “Only part. That memory, and my remorse for my failure, would haunt me without the aid of my imagination. But sometimes, like this time, the dream goes on. Instead of lying still and waiting to be stowed, the corpse rises to his feet. And stares at me. Saying nothing, only staring, and pointing to his wound.”

  Clara’s face echoed the horror of the dream. “I hardly wonder that you cried out. I would surely have shrieked, and louder.” Her voice grew quiet. “And probably have done, when my own ghosts haunt me. It is only chance that your distress woke me, rather than the reverse.”