The Second Life of Mirielle West

by Amanda Skenandore

  What would these same Hollywood socialites think if they knew there’d been a bona fide leper in their midst? What terrible things would they say then? For a moment while reading, it had been almost like she were home. The crisp, briny air. The squawking seagulls. The glitz and excitement. But that word had pierced her like a giant hook, its barb snagging her flesh, pulling her back to the muggy air and shrieking crickets and utter drabness of Carville. How long could Charlie claim she was visiting a sick aunt before friends and reporters became suspicious?

  CHAPTER 18

  Three days later, Mirielle sat in the pharmacy filling jars with Ichthyol ointment, that silly gossip article still haunting her. Even Irene’s constant gum flapping didn’t prove enough distraction.

  Leper. Didn’t people know what a hateful word that was? Did they care? She’d spent nearly an hour in the shower that morning and gone through half a bar of soap trying to scrub off the shame that article, that word, had doused her with.

  It didn’t help that now her hands were stained purple and smelled like rotten eggs from the god-awful ointment. She tried rubbing her hands on the apron tied over her skirt, but the blotchy color remained. Carville had literally seeped into her, insidious as the disease itself, when all she wanted was to be free of them both.

  Irene, who’d somehow managed to keep her hands clean, wagged her head. “You look a mess. All that water you wasted this mornin’ and you’re just gonna have to shower again.”

  Mirielle looked down at her hands. Tears blurred her vision while laughter pressed at her diaphragm. The laughter won out. Irene heehawed beside her. A stern look from Sister Beatrice, and they both quieted. Mirielle wiped an errant tear from her cheek. This set Irene chuckling again. “You got purple on your face now too.”

  Mirielle scooped a glob of ointment from the mixer and smeared it across Irene’s chin and down the front of her white uniform. Irene’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. She stopped chuckling, and they both stared at the streak of color across her blouse.

  Before Mirielle could apologize—what on earth had gotten into her?—Irene reached into the mixer and flung a gob of ointment at Mirielle. It struck her just below the collar, splattering up her neck and across her blouse. She gaped a moment at the mess, then lunged for the vat of ointment at the same time as Irene. Her laughter roared again, this time uncontrollable as she pawed Irene with her gooey, smelly fingers. Nothing was off-limits—not their hair or skirts or shirtsleeves or earlobes. A pass of Irene’s ointment-covered hand across her face, and Mirielle caught a sharp, sulfur taste on her lips and tongue. But even this didn’t stop her. She hadn’t laughed this hard since before Felix’s death. Hadn’t made a mess like this since she was five years old and had gotten into her grandmother’s rouge.

  A loud stomp finally quelled their playful mayhem.

  “Jesus, Mary, and sweet Joseph!” Sister Verena said. “What is going on here?”

  Both Mirielle and Irene dropped their arms to their sides and froze. Mirielle hadn’t heard Sister Verena arrive.

  “Sorry, Sister,” Irene said. “We . . . er . . . things got a little out of hand.”

  “I’ll say. This is a pharmacy, not a sandlot.”

  Mirielle knew she ought to remain quiet. Sister Verena looked like she’d swallowed a bee and wanted to take the sting out on someone else. But the laughter Mirielle had hastily gulped down bubbled at the base of her throat, inching upward, so she spoke. “It was my fault. I started it. I thought”—something between a burp and giggle escaped her mouth—“I just thought Irene’s uniform could use some color.”

  A few more giggles escaped before Mirielle could silence them. Irene gave her a sidelong glance, her tightly closed lips straining to resist a smile.

  “We’ll clean it all up,” Mirielle said.

  “That you will. And since you claim responsibility, Mrs. Marvin, I’ll be deducting the cost of the wasted ointment and new uniforms from your pay.”

  “Yes, Sister,” she said, her voice squeaky with the threat of still more laughter.

  “And I’ll see you in my office once this mess is cleaned and you’re”—her narrowed eyes traveled the length of Mirielle’s purple-blotched uniform—“presentable again.”

  Before Mirielle could find her voice, Sister Verena turned and left. Irene grabbed a bucket of soapy water, and together they wiped away the globs of ointment speckled across the room.

  * * *

  Even after a generous lather of soap and a dose of rubbing alcohol, Mirielle’s skin remained spotted with faint reddish-purple splotches. Face powder helped to conceal it, but only a little. She changed out of her stained uniform and donned her simplest outfit—a two-piece suit of lilac wool-crêpe. It hadn’t any beadwork or ribbons or flounces, and the skirt hung well below her knees. She’d done enough today to provoke Sister Verena; she didn’t want to challenge her definition of “presentable” too.

  Sister Verena’s office sat in a closet-sized room in between the two much larger buildings that served as the men’s infirmary. While most of the other whitewashed doors throughout the colony were scuffed and dirtied from use, Sister Verena’s gleamed as if Mirielle were the first to rap upon it.

  “Enter,” Sister Verena called.

  Mirielle smoothed down her suit and opened the door.

  “Ah, Mrs. Marvin.” Sister Verena gestured to a straight-backed chair in front of her desk.

  Mirielle suddenly felt like she had at finishing school when the headmistress had caught her with a case of cigarettes. She’d been holding them for a friend and hadn’t intended to smoke one. Everyone knew cigarettes stained your teeth and made your breath awful for kissing. But she’d been punished nevertheless. Twelve swats with the headmistress’s paddle. She sat now in the straight-backed chair and tried not to fidget, half expecting Sister Verena to pull a paddle from beneath her desk.

  Instead, Sister Verena steepled her hands and drummed her fingers together, her gray eyes trained on Mirielle. For several moments, only that slow, steady thrumming filled the silence. Then the sister spoke. “Today’s incident notwithstanding, you’ve taken to your work in the hospital better than I’d expected.”

  Mirielle cocked her head. “I have?”

  “Mmm,” Sister Verena said in answer. “Some people don’t have the fortitude for it. We’ve even had to redirect sisters to other callings when they couldn’t face the daily horrors here.” She leaned back in her chair and stilled her fingers. “I’m not saying you’re particularly swift or proficient yet, but you do seem to have a certain . . . grit.”

  In her life, Mirielle had been complimented for a whole host of things—her pretty smile and silky hair, her stylish clothes and flashy jewels, her grand house and well-mannered staff—but no one had ever suggested she had any merits beyond the external presentation of herself.

  “Grit?” It was an ugly word to say. Guttural and clipped. But in hearing it again, she quite liked the sound. Lawmen had grit. Mountain climbers and airplane pilots. She straightened in her chair. “Thank you.”

  “None of that matters, though, as you still don’t seem to care about anyone but yourself.”

  Sister Verena’s words shattered any fantasy of scaling mountains. “But I do! I care about Irene and . . . and Hector. Why, a few nights ago I read Jean a bedtime story.”

  Sister Verena gave her an incredulous look, as if she somehow knew the “bedtime story” Mirielle referred to was really an article from the gossip section of Picture-Play.

  “What about today? Think of those patients who will suffer when we run out of ointment. And the women in the infirmary loath to ring their bell because you haven’t a kind word or even a smile for them when you answer. Or those in the dressing clinic who watch you carry away their towels between two fingers as if they were lice-infested.”

  “Some of them smell as if they’ve never seen soap before,” Mirielle said, hoping Sister Verena might manage a laugh. Instead, her frown only deepened.


  “I simply do not see how you can stay on in the position when—”

  A knock at the door saved Mirielle from hearing the words she’d been dreading since the pharmacy. Without this job, how could she prove to Charlie she was a changed woman? How could she help find a cure?

  Sister Verena grumbled something under her breath before saying, “Enter.”

  The door opened, and Frank stepped inside. He looked as if he’d just come from the canteen—shirtsleeves rolled, hair tousled, a dirty dishrag slung over his shoulder. “Sorry for busting in on y’all’s conversation.” He smiled at them both, then handed Sister Verena a box the size of a book. “These came for ya with today’s shipment.”

  The box rattled as she took it, and her sour expression melted away. “I wasn’t expecting these until next week.”

  “Thought ya’d be glad for it.”

  Sister Verena tore away the brown paper wrapping and lifted the lid. Inside were hundreds of colored candy hearts. She put on the glasses that hung from her neck on a chain and rooted through the candies, reading the mottos stamped in the center before at last selecting one and placing it on her tongue. She closed her eyes and breathed a delighted sigh.

  Mirielle’s lips clamped around a laugh. She glanced askew at Frank, who seemed to find nothing funny or peculiar about the sister’s childlike enjoyment in a candy handed out at St. Valentine’s dances and kiddie parties.

  Sister Verena popped another in her mouth before holding the box out to Frank.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He used his contracted fingers like pincers and plucked a yellow heart from the box. He tossed it in the air and caught it on his tongue.

  Sister Verena gave a tittering laugh and, as if with an afterthought, held the box out to Mirielle.

  She took a candy and turned it over in her palm. Be Mine was printed in the center. Felix had loved these as a young boy. Had delighted in reading every candy aloud before eating it. She could almost hear him chirp Ask Dad, Sweet Talk, I Love You. She chewed the small candy quickly, all but choking as she swallowed.

  “Mais, I’ll leave y’all to it.” He stepped outside, but turned back before closing the door. “Say, ya coming to the What Cheer Club meeting Monday, Mrs. Marvin?”

  The What Cheer Club? What kind of Southern gibberish was he talking? Then she remembered him jabbering about some do-good social club the first day she’d arrived. She glanced at Sister Verena and then back to Frank. “Why, yes. I’m most looking forward to it. You know how much I care about—er—spreading cheer.”

  His vivid blue eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Glad to hear it. I can count on your help with the July Fourth celebration, then?”

  “I’m your gal.” She stood and turned to Sister Verena. “Thanks for the chat, Sister. I hate to keep you from your candies. You can rest assured, I’ve taken everything you’ve said to heart.” She flashed her most innocent smile. “See you Monday in the infirmary?”

  That serious, flat-lipped expression returned to Sister Verena’s face. She wiped a small crumb of candy from the white bib that overlay her habit. “I’ll expect you promptly at seven, not nine or nine thirty as you’re used to sauntering in. Since you’ll be leaving early to attend Mr. Garrett’s club meeting, that is.”

  Mirielle’s smile wobbled but held. “Seven it is.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Sister Verena kept her busy in the infirmary all the next day. No sooner had Mirielle answered a call bell or jotted down a patient’s temperature than Sister Verena was calling to her to sharpen needles or roll bandages or remake the empty beds. When the bandages weren’t rolled tightly enough, or the corners of the bedclothes weren’t tucked in just so, Sister Verena made her start again. By one o’clock when she was finally dismissed, Mirielle was actually looking forward to the What Cheer Club meeting. At least it would give her a chance to sit down.

  When she arrived at the rec hall, the meeting was already underway. The heavy door slammed behind her. Frank, who was seated on a low platform in front of several rows of chairs, stopped talking, and the few dozen people in attendance craned their necks to look at her.

  Mirielle smiled and waved that they should continue, but the clap of her heels atop the pinewood floors reverberated through the hall almost as loudly as the door. Frank remained silent as she picked her way past several empty chairs to a seat near the front beside Irene.

  “You ready and comfortable now, Mrs. Marvin?” he asked.

  “Yes, quite. Thank you.”

  Frank resumed reading through last month’s minutes, and Mirielle looked around. The gamblers who usually haunted the far corner of the hall playing cards and shooting dice had cleared out. Few, it seemed, had decided to stay for the meeting. The windows on either side of the hall were open, a light breeze sweeping out the cigarette smoke and peanut smell that lingered after last night’s movie. Even so, the air was hot and sticky, and she wished she’d brought her fan.

  Irene leaned over. “Happy surprise to see you.”

  “Surprise? Don’t I seem like the do-gooder type?” she whispered back.

  “Baby, you seem like a lot of things, but a do-gooder ain’t one of them.”

  “I’ll have you know—” A grumble sounded behind them, and Mirielle realized she was no longer whispering. She lowered her voice and continued. “I hand-delivered a check to the Votes for Women Club when I was sixteen.”

  “Turnin’ out your velvet-lined pocket and marchin’ in the streets ain’t the same thing.” Irene pulled a palm leaf fan from her bag and waved it in front of her face. “Did Sister Verena force you to come?”

  “No. I came of my own accord, thank you very much.” She grabbed Irene’s fan and turned it on herself. “But I do need to do something to get her off my tail.”

  “Something y’all wanna share?” Frank said, looking directly at Mirielle and Irene.

  Mirielle shook her head. Irene turned to him and smiled. “Why, yes. Polly here was just tellin’ me how anxious she is to help out.”

  Mirielle jabbed Irene with her elbow. Irene snatched back her fan and continued to smile.

  “Glad you’re eager to contribute, but could ya kindly—”

  “You can help out by quitting your yapping,” someone behind them called, cutting Frank off.

  “Why don’t Polly help by turnin’ her nose down once and a while,” said another man in the crowd.

  Irene swiveled around. “Who said that? I got two fists that can show your nose somethin’ right now.”

  “What, Little Miss Uppity can’t stand up for herself? Too afraid she’d chip a nail?”

  “Why don’t we have a bake sale. Polly can bring the humble pie.”

  Irene started to climb over her chair, flashing those around them a peek of her red girdle straps. Mirielle grabbed her arm. She’d heard far worse things whispered about her in Los Angeles tea rooms and cabaret clubs. “Don’t bother with them. They’re just jealous.”

  “I’d sooner be jealous of a pig,” someone said.

  “You look like a pig, so no surprise there,” came a voice from the far back.

  Mirielle remained forward-facing, refusing to let her chin drop while more insults were flung, some directed at her, some at others. But inside, she felt the sting of the words.

  Frank rapped the side of his hand on the small table in front of him. When that didn’t work to quiet the group, he took the Coke he’d been drinking and banged down the bottle. “That’s enough! This club ain’t a place for bullying and name calling. Mais! Don’t we get enough from the rest of the world?”

  The shouts and grumbles ceased. Irene turned around with a huff, whipping her fan back and forth in front of her.

  “There, that’s better,” Frank said. “Now, I expect there are some apologies to offer up around here.”

  “Sorry,” someone said behind her.

  “Apologies, Polly,” said another.

  Frank’s eyes shifted to her.

  “Apologies accepted,” she said.
His gaze didn’t lift. If anything, it grew more pointed. She took hold of her necklace and twisted the beads around her finger. The silence of the room was as stifling as the heat. “Oh, all right.” She turned around and faced the rest of the club members. She’d passed them all on the walkways or in the dining hall. Many of them had come for a dressing change or shot of chaulmoogra oil during one of her shifts. But she hadn’t taken the time to ask any of their names or where they were from.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed a little . . . aloof.”

  “A little?” a man in the back row said. Another bang from Frank, and the man sank down in his seat.

  “Well, maybe more than a little. But I’m new here and all this”—her throat tightened—“is a little overwhelming and not at all what I’m used to.”

  “I’ll say,” a man seated a few rows back said. “I heard the devil himself stopped by Carville but left the very next day, preferring Hell to this shithole.”

  Frank banged his bottle again, though Mirielle heard him chuckle with the rest of the group. The tension in the room, thick as molasses only moments before, was gone. Mirielle faced forward. Irene grabbed her hand. Mirielle didn’t realize she’d been shaking until she felt the steadiness of Irene’s palm against her own.

  The meeting continued with a report on the canteen’s income and expenses. She hadn’t known the store was patient run or that proceeds funded club activities—like the upcoming July Fourth celebration—as well as a small stipend for the blind patients.

  When Frank explained the plans for the celebration—a special flag-raising ceremony in front of the administration building that the patients could watch from beyond the hedgerow and a picnic supper under the oaks—Mirielle raised her hand.

  “That’s all?” she asked. “Where does the celebration come in?”

  Frank drank the final swill of his Coke and looked at her with a bemused expression. “If ya got other ideas, by all means, share ’em.”

  “You’ll need decorations, for starters. Linens, centerpieces, perhaps some sort of streamers. And music. And if there’s going to be music there ought to be dancing too. Fireworks, if we can get them. Games for the children. Ooh, and what about a punch fountain in the center of the yard.”