Something broke open inside me then, and I grasped the fabric over my wounded heart in a fist. How had my life turned into this? Alone in a big city, counting every penny, responsible for my mother and brother.
Go see the river. I hadn’t yet stood on its banks and studied its mighty flow.
So I walked faster then, forging onward with a fierce determination to push away pain. I had to zigzag around the depots and train tracks. I peered down side streets and finally spotted a public landing. The water rather dingy and brownish, the river impressed me anyway with its power. I kept walking along the bank. Weakened by eating so little and having to concentrate on where I stepped, I lost track of time.
Before I knew it, complete darkness had closed in. Just as I turned around to head back, rain began to fall. I hadn’t noticed that clouds had gathered, and I’d come with so few dresses, I couldn’t ruin the one I wore. I decided to leave the riverbank in search of cover, and huddled beneath the awning of a quiet building until the rain stopped.
In completely unfamiliar territory, I walked again, past smaller and darker buildings than those in the heart of downtown. I found myself in an area of industrial plants, boarded-up storefronts, and bars. A few men standing on a corner took note, and one of them wolf-whistled. I picked up my pace and headed in the direction I thought I’d find the streetcar.
But blocks later, everything looked wrong. The night had turned the shadows of the city midnight black, and warm yellow lights ablaze in the upper windows of a building seemed to mock me. Hunger gnawed in my stomach, but its intensity could not match the longing for my former life. I should’ve stayed near the boardinghouse. I didn’t have the luxury of getting lost.
The streets I walked now emitted a sense of warning from alleys and empty buildings, and the air was cooling. But I broke out in a sweat. I almost entered a small store to ask for directions, but the man behind the counter stared out the open door and gave me a wolfish smile, so I changed my mind.
I made a turn and tried a different direction. Then another. And another. But I’d set myself hopelessly adrift on the inside and outside. The rain began to fall again, and I found myself in an even heavier industrial area. I made a fist and bit my knuckles. My dress soaked, my drenched hair falling from its pins, I had no idea where to turn or how to get out of this bind.
Calm down, I told myself, but as time ticked onward, panic set in.
Nothing looked real, the buildings like the fake sets at the back of a stage during a play. They had no hearts, no souls, so many almost the same. Then I realized I had inadvertently come around in a circle. I could scarcely believe it, but I’d walked this street once before. Tangled in a mess I couldn’t escape and with no idea where to turn next, I plowed onward.
Someone began to follow me. I glanced back to see a man carrying a brown paper bag that appeared by its shape to hold a bottle. He looked huge, and I looked tawdry. I started walking faster, not caring any longer in which direction, just going. Keep moving away. I turned a corner and ran right into something, a person, which froze me with fear. The man took me by the shoulders and held me at arm’s length.
He wore the uniform of a police officer, and I burst into tears. “Now, now.” Young and baby-faced, no older than me, he said, “What have we here?”
Between sobs I managed to say, “I don’t know where I am. I’m new in town. I don’t know anyone. I’m—”
“Now, now.” He stopped me. “I’m willing to bet it’s not that bad.”
I remembered very little of what other kind words he said to me, but I finally stopped crying.
“Let’s get you home,” he said.
After I told the young officer my address, he took off his jacket and gave it to me for covering my head, even though I was already soaked, and with rain pouring off the brim of his hat, he walked me to the boardinghouse door. Shaking and so terribly cold by then, I couldn’t remember if I ever thanked him.
Some people stood about in the parlor, a few women seated. I looked a fright. Dripping water on the wood floor, I darted for the stairs and ran up to my room, where the flood that had already started continued to pour out of me. Tears streaked down my face and mixed with the rainwater that still leaked from my hair. I sat on the bed, even though my wet dress might stain the coverlet. I didn’t care. I let loose all of what I’d been holding inside, and then my eyes landed on the photo of my father with Mr. Edwards.
Papa. He was responsible. He had done this to me, to us. I stared into his eyes, and then with the room going gray and blurry, I grabbed the photograph, crumpled it in my fist, lurched to the window and shoved it open, then tossed the photo out. Still sobbing, I sat again until the fractured image of Papa entering a burning house came back to me, followed by the most horrible guilt, followed by love.
I dashed down the stairs, ran past astonished faces, and flew through the door. The rain had stopped, but a heavy fog had floated in to replace it, and I could barely see in front of my face, the same way the smoke in the house on that awful night had blinded us. I sloshed through puddles until I reached the faint outlines of the back of the building and guessed where I thought my window was situated above. There I found the photograph, wet but intact. I picked up the image of my beautiful father, flattened it as best I could, and held it to my chest, then retraced my steps back inside the boardinghouse, aware that my fellow boarders, perhaps even my landlady, had been watching and now stared agog at me as if I’d turned into a madwoman.
So much for making any friends here.
Chapter Six
In the morning, I put on my damp dress, smoothed it out as best I could, asked my landlady for a slice of bread for breakfast, and set out. With the wind blowing viciously, sending war posters, newspapers, and trash sailing down the street, I closed my eyes and imagined Favier Farm during the green, green summers.
I filled out applications at two factories but did not gain an immediate interview. At noon I walked back to the closed office I had found the day before. A polished-looking brunette secretary asked me to fill out an application. The waiting area, spartanly furnished with nothing on the walls, had a temporary feel, which struck me as a bit disconcerting.
On the application, I gave my name, age, and schooling. I had nothing to report concerning previous employment, but I wrote that I had worked with horses and knew how to drive a Model T. Then the secretary invited me to sit in a chair before her desk. She looked down at my application. “And you are Miss Arlene Favier?”
She said Favier with the r sound at the end, but even as I opened my mouth to correct her pronunciation, the words screeched to a halt in the back of my throat. And I had clenched my hands together; I forced them apart. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“And you’re interested in becoming an ambulance driver?”
I blinked. Ambulance driver? The ad hadn’t said anything about that. It had mentioned needing drivers but not ambulance drivers. No matter; I had to jump on any opportunity or at least find out more. “Yes, ma’am, I am,” I said again.
“Miss Favier”—again with the r sound—“where are you from, and why are you seeking employment?”
I had decided to keep my explanations truthful but brief. “I’m from Paris, Kentucky, and I’m seeking employment in order to help my family after an unfortunate fire.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Brave girl.” She took my application, glanced at it, and sighed—I could only assume because of its incompleteness. She appeared about forty-five, a bit heavyset. Probably a widow or never married—she hadn’t introduced herself.
At home, such women were pitied, but here she had a profession and a position of authority. I couldn’t stop watching her smooth movements as she proceeded to measure my height and weight. She tested my hearing and eyesight, too. She recorded everything but made no attempt at small talk. I was a horse at auction, scrutinized and judged and hoping someone would purchase me.
“You’re of a different social status than many of the girls who come
in here,” she said and perused my face after we sat again. “I have little doubt you can master the necessary skills, and we will train you thoroughly. But a girl like you is sure to meet a nice man in this city. I worry we’ll pay you, train you, and then you’ll meet a man and leave us.”
I gathered my thoughts together quickly. “My goal is to return to Paris, Kentucky.” I stopped, realizing that I might be making a mistake. “That will take many years, of course, but I won’t fall for a man here, because I wouldn’t want to stay here.”
She gave a small laugh. “The other day, one of the doctors suggested we look for unmarriageable girls.”
I hadn’t a clue what would make a girl “unmarriageable,” and I had to rummage around in my brain for a quick response. “But I am unmarriageable,” I said.
“And why is that?”
I slightly cocked my head and summoned my sense of humor. “I like horses more than I like men.”
“That so?” she asked, the hint of a smile in her eyes. “But there are horsemen around here, many of them. You could have a husband and horses, too.”
I wasn’t about to tell her what I’d pledged to Maman and Luc. No matter what, I would return to Paris. Whether I succeeded at finding work or not. “Perhaps, but in my brief experience with matters of the heart, I’ve found that men don’t fare well taking second place.”
She laughed heartily, then stopped. “How much experience do you have driving?”
“I can drive a Model T.”
“How much do you know about the engine?”
“I assisted my father many times when he worked on our motorcar. I know how an engine runs—well, the basics.”
Gauging me differently now, she appeared to have seen something she liked. “I’m not sure if Dr. Rayne can see you at the moment.”
I rose and extended my hand to thank her.
“Miss Favier.” She almost laughed. “Hold your horses.”
I couldn’t believe she’d used that old saying. Hold your horses. That was what we Faviers were trying to do: hold on to our horses and our way of life.
With no idea how I had done it, I seemed to have passed a first test. Five minutes later the secretary ushered me into an office to meet with Dr. Beryl Rayne, a woman in her forties. I was taken slightly aback. Of course I had heard of female doctors; I simply had never met one before. Dr. Rayne appeared fashionable in her traditional tailored suit, which contrasted with her more modern-looking hair, cut to chin length and waving about her face. It looked naturally blond with a few streaks of white flowing from her temples. She wore no jewelry other than a wedding band.
We sat in chairs and scooted them to face each other. An immediate sense of safe harbor emitted from the doctor. She had a generous mouth and smiled easily, although a sad weight in her eyes seemed to reveal evidence of an enduring grief. Her face moved softly with each change of expression, but her sturdy jawline made her appear as if she held something urgent inside—ambition or purpose, it seemed to me.
After asking me some facts about myself, she looked over my application.
“I see you have some driving experience and have even done a few repairs. How well can you speak French?”
The ad had said something about French-speaking drivers, and a slow dawning came over me. They were looking for women to drive ambulances in France. I couldn’t reveal I’d only then figured it out. “My father was born in Paris—Paris, France, I mean. While my mother taught my brother and me to speak English, Papa taught us French.”
“Would you say you’re fluent?”
I smiled. “Papa would have never said that; he always wanted us to speak as if we were born there, but yes, I can speak French.”
Then she inquired of my stamina.
“I’ve worked on my feet with horses for many long hours since I was a girl,” I answered without hesitation.
“Yes,” she said. “But I’m talking about stamina of a different sort. Once in France, we’ll focus our efforts primarily on the villagers and refugees, but don’t expect it to be easy. I’ve toured the area, and let me tell you, even though I’d thought myself prepared, it came as a shock. We’ll enter a razed countryside peopled by impoverished villagers and those forced from their homes under the worst of wartime conditions. We’ll face food shortages, see destroyed towns, and you’ll have to traverse barely passable roads. We’ll witness typhus, dysentery, and tuberculosis. People will die; children will die. If you’re squeamish or suffer from the vapors, don’t bother to come.”
I nodded. My mouth had gone as dry as paper. Before everything changed, I’d once wanted to go to France as a volunteer, but both Maman and Papa wouldn’t hear of me being anywhere near a war zone. And now this opportunity had fallen into my lap. “My father’s family is French. Some of those people you refer to could be distant relatives of mine.”
“Your French is a fine advantage. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re a pretty girl.” She glanced away momentarily.
I didn’t know how to respond. The way she’d said pretty girl didn’t sound like a compliment. So I kept quiet with my hands folded in my lap.
She reached for a pair of glasses on a table nearby and placed them on her face. Her keen eyes and scrutiny intensified as she assessed me through the lenses. I became a specimen on a petri dish.
“We’re an all-female team raising money to go overseas and start a hospital in France. The military won’t take female doctors, other than a few contract surgeons, so we’ll go on our own, probably with the help of the Red Cross.” She paused. “We have the education and the skills, but the powers that be still exclude us from the good ole boys’ club. We need drivers we can trust, who know how to fix things, and who won’t flinch when faced with illness, injury, and death.”
I raptly listened, further amazed by everything she had told me. I’d not heard of any female teams heading to France.
She continued, “Our leader is a skilled surgeon, but in many ways she’s still a woman of the old order. Our nurses, drivers, and aides must not join us with the purpose of fraternizing with soldiers—or any men for that matter. Personally, I don’t care what someone does with her time while off duty, but Dr. Logan does. If I choose you to go with me as my personal driver, you must promise not to embarrass me.” She paused, I presumed for effect.
Nodding again, I found it hard to believe she might consider me for her personal ambulance driver.
“So why—besides your family history—are you so willing to go over?”
Dread poured over me then. “I must tell you something. I need to work for money. I’m not a volunteer. I wish more than anything I could be, but I’m not able.”
She stared hard.
I continued: “My family lost everything, including my father, in a fire, and I’m doing my best to earn enough money to build a new house for my mother and brother. I need to make a good amount of money.”
She looked slightly amused. “A good amount?”
“Yes,” I said while almost squirming.
“Relax,” she said. “I’m not as intimidating as I might appear. And I like the way you present yourself.” She rubbed her chin. “How much are you making now?”
“I’m not employed yet. I only just arrived, but the factories are paying eleven dollars a week,” I said and then quickly added, “plus bonuses and sometimes extra shifts.”
She seemed to like me; her voice softened as she said, “The Red Cross will pay our salaries for overseas hospital staff, and it will come to much more than that, I can assure you. We’re looking for specific skills, and we know it.”
I exhaled with such relief I feared she could hear it.
She proceeded to relay the requirements for acceptance—an interview with the Red Cross to make it official. Then I would receive vaccinations, and I would have to provide loyalty letters, proof of birth within the United States, and a passport. No persons of German or Austrian heritage would be accepted.
“I understand you need to start work
ing now, and it so happens we’ve just received good news; we’ll leave soon. We can hire you and set you up with a mechanic for further training right away.”
Could I do this? I had come in search of a job, but I’d never imagined this. Some would say it could be the adventure of a lifetime, in addition to a chance to see Papa’s homeland, albeit now decimated by war.
But it was France. Notre-Dame and the Seine. The Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.
But also trench warfare, maimed soldiers, and shelled villages. The war reports horrified me. I wanted to help, but now that the opportunity had presented itself, I wondered if I could really do it. I would have to cross an ocean and work in a battle zone, and I had only driven Papa’s car down lazy country roads. I tried to imagine what it would be like to drive an ambulance in a foreign country. I tried to imagine what Maman and Luc would say.
I’d never thought of going so far away, across an ocean. Maman and Luc might feel as if I were abandoning them. My parents hadn’t wanted me to volunteer in France, but our lives had completely transformed since then. Maybe this was a touch of fate like a whisper in my ear.
Arlene, il faut bien écouter, it said. “Arlene, you must listen.” And then the old French saying, Sans destination, il n’y a pas de destinée. “Without destination, there is no destiny.” How many times had Papa said those things to me . . .
Snapping back to the conversation at hand, I smiled at Dr. Rayne. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that.”
Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, a curious look on her face, she asked, “So . . . what happens after the war?”
I took in a sharp breath. “I hope I’ll have enough money to rebuild our lives, beginning with a home.”
“How much will that take?”
Before I’d left Kentucky, I’d studied the Sears & Roebuck catalog and found a modern home for sale for $872. Since we owned the land back home, and I assumed that Luc and I could put the house together with some hired help from others, my goal was to save at least nine hundred dollars before I returned home. But my nervousness wouldn’t allow me to ask for that much. “I need about eight hundred dollars.”
Mercy Road Page 5
