Dottie eased her grip on the door handle as a large white building came into view. “Yes.” She left it at a one-word reply, but she wanted to say, “Al, you have nothing to apologize for—I’m so grateful—I can hardly believe you drove me over here.”
He let her out at the hospital entrance. “I’ll park and meet you inside.”
An air of unreality enveloped her. She hadn’t traveled to Heston for years. And to her knowledge, she hadn’t ever been inside the new hospital. Her first two babies entered this world at home, with Old Doc Schulz, the present doctor’s father, attending. He still lived in a small cottage behind his son, but rarely helped with anything medical anymore.
By the time Cora came along, Owen drove her to Heston for the birth. But back then, an enormous square white house on Third Street housed the hospital. Yes, 607 Third. How could she ever forget? She’d been so far along in her delivery that Owen had to carry her up to the second floor, and young Doctor Schulz arrived after the fact.
Actually, she’d been relieved—such a young man, who hadn’t married or had children yet, embarrassed her. They might just as well have stayed at home and saved the ten dollars.
She stretched her neck at the new brick hospital building rising before her like a palace. With no reason to come to Heston, she hadn’t even viewed it from the street before. Soon after Owen died, she’d sold Owen’s mail vehicle to Millie and Ren, since their oldest son needed an automobile.
“Are you sure, Mom? You could learn to drive, you know.”
“Me? Whatever would I do that for?”
Millie shrugged and held out the money. “Don’t limit yourself—if you got your license, you could come down and visit us now and then.”
But Dottie watched Millie drive off, confident that everything she needed she could find in Sternville. To be anywhere else, even to be here now, visiting someone at the hospital, seemed peculiar. She walked up the cement steps, her chest tight, and pulled on the heavy wooden door.
That old stifling feeling almost overcame her in the entryway, but a few deep breaths gave her strength to open the next set of doors and slip inside. She clutched her purse handle and leaned against the wall. Everything would be all right—Al would be here any second. When he joined her, she gave him a smile and gladly followed his lead.
He stopped at the desk and a nurse asked who they came to see.
“George Hanson, please.”
She pointed down the hall. “Room fifty-four. Mr. Hanson is stable enough for visitors.”
“So he’s not…uh…”
Al put Dottie’s worst worry into words. “He might be able to come home?”
“Let me look at his chart.” A stern-nosed, middle-aged nurse surveyed a clipboard hanging on the wall. “The doctor brought him in for observation. He hasn’t made any final diagnosis, as far as I can see. Mind you, visiting hours end at eight-thirty.”
Outside George’s door, Al stepped back. “You want to go in by yourself?”
Dottie shook her head. She’d cleaned George’s room for three years and cooked his meals every day except Sundays, but couldn’t say she knew him well. She always attempted to chat with him about the weather, but he had little to say. When he did, he called her “Missus,” though she’d told him her name several times.
The white room startled her. Sheets, walls, blankets, table—everything as white as new potatoes in spring. A bare light bulb above his head rendered George’s paleness even more pronounced. Three or four other men occupied beds farther along the wall. At least the room was large—Dottie’s breath came easier.
Al slipped to the corner and switched off the light nearest George’s bed. Through the door, the hallway’s large bulb cast plenty of brightness.
Dottie turned to him. “That’s much better. He couldn’t open his eyes if he wanted to, with that thing shining in his face.”
George’s hand jerked when she touched it. She leaned closer. “George, can you hear me?”
“Wha—Missus, is that you?”
“Yes. We drove over to see how you were doing.”
He rubbed his ear. “You came all the way over here to see me?”
“Yes. This is Al Jensen, my neighbor. He brought me.”
“What time is it?”
Al studied his watch. “A quarter to eight.” He held out his hand. “I remember meeting you in the hardware store a few times, George. Glad you’re at the boarding house, to keep an eye on this young woman while she works.”
George licked his white lips. “She’s a good girl. Treats everybody the same.” He coughed, and lifted a white handkerchief to his mouth.
“Is there anything we could bring you—anything you need?”
“Not that I can think of. No, they feed me fine. ’Course, not like what she serves up.” He waved his right hand toward Dottie and coughed again.
“I don’t expect so.”
Dottie’s mind veered to Helene. She would be glad to know George would be returning, or at least for his monthly payment. She put such thoughts aside. George sounded hoarse and dry.
“Can I get you some water?”
“That would be—” He broke into another spasm.
In the hall, Dottie found another nurse, younger and pleasant. “Do you have a glass? George in room fifty-four needs a drink.”
“Sure. Glad you came to see him. You’re his only visitor so far.”
“He has no family that we know of.”
“So you are friends?”
“I work where he lives. I hated to think of him being all alone here.”
“Thanks so much for coming. Visits like yours can make all the difference to heart attack patients, ma’am.”
“So he did have a heart attack?”
“Probably.”
When Dottie returned, George eagerly drank the entire glass.
“Here, let me refill that.” Al grabbed the glass and left the room. Dottie tipped her head close to George’s face, with a splendid view of his right ear. A sudden temptation almost overcame her—she wanted to twist the end of the sheet into his water glass and wash out the gritty wax.
“The house won’t be the same until you come back.”
“Hah. Nobody’d even miss me.”
“I would.”
George didn’t answer, but his glinting eyes revealed more than words. This man was built thick, like Owen, with a wide face, wide nose, and large ear lobes. Thick was the only word Dottie could think of to describe him.
She tried not to stare at his wrists, more muscle than bone. These were thresher’s wrists, hay-baling hands, with fingers strong and sinewy. A line from an old rhyme her Mama used to repeat went through her mind: “The smith, a mighty man was he, with large and sinewy hands.”
From the other side of the bed, Al handed George a fresh glass of water. Bony as a willow sapling in the cold of winter, he made quite a contrast to the patient, but his eyes, bright with compassion, turned George’s head his way.
“There you go. After we’re gone, don’t hesitate to ask for more. You need lots of water. That’s what those nurses get paid for.”
George hid his emotions in his glass. The older nurse came in.
“Mr. Hanson, it’s time for your medications. I need to check your vitals, too.”
Al looked to Dottie. She gave a little nod of agreement that they ought to leave.
“We’ll be going then, George. I hope you feel better. But we’ll be back tomorrow night, and we’ll try to think of something to bring you. You like to read?”
Dottie turned to Al, questioning. She wasn’t sure George could read.
“Some. Maybe a newspaper…”
“All right. Good night then.” Al patted his arm and walked around the bed.
Dottie touched George’s hand again and witnessed the closest thing to a real smile from him since she’d worked at the boarding house. Even the cherry pie she made for his birthday produced less facial reaction.
Chapter Eight
&
nbsp; “If I had my way, I’d find a new boarder. Don’t know if we can count on old George any more.” Helene swung her coat around like Greta Garbo, waltzed down the back stairs, and slammed the door behind her.
“She makes me so mad!” Bonnie Mae stamped her foot on the linoleum. Dottie had a mind to tell her if she had enough time to stand around and fume, then maybe she had time to scrub the floor. But she understood the girl’s feelings.
“Don’t it bother you? Can’t you see how unfair it is?”
Helene’s pronouncement rang in Dottie’s ears as she scrubbed the sink with the corner of a pad she brought from home. It was hard enough to hear her say that, but she wished Bonnie Mae hadn’t been in the kitchen at the time. That girl just couldn’t let anything go, and churning things around in her mind caused more problems.
Fifteen minutes later, as Bonnie Mae folded clothes at the table, Helene walked in again. “Here’s George’s mail, with a bill from Dr. Schulz, I’m thinking. Don’t know how he’ll be able to pay it, what with all this time he’s missed working out at the Miller’s farm. You know he does their chores when Heinie has to be gone some days with his seed corn business.” She flipped the bill onto the table and walked over to the sink gave a shrug. “But then, that’s not my problem.”
When Dottie looked up from peeling carrots, Helene faced her with the frazzled scouring pad in her hand. “Dorothy, what’s this? Have you been wasting money on scouring pads?”
“Not your money, Helene. I bought that myself.”
“Tch, tch. Waste not, want not.”
Bonnie Mae launched a sizzling look over Helene’s head toward Dottie, peeling carrots at the dishpan. Her narrowed eyes, set teeth, and jutting jaw declared she would careen into a rage about thirty seconds after Helene left for the beauty parlor.
Dottie’s estimate was accurate. The trouble was, so were Bonnie Mae’s sentiments.
“What’s she going to do, throw him out if he can’t pay his rent? I don’t know how a woman so unjust stays in business. She could offer him a little help, couldn’t she? After all, he’s paid her a lot of rent money over the years. Wouldn’t you think she’d extend some human kindness to him now?”
It was one of those times when Dottie felt something way down inside her, like those geysers she’d heard folks describe out in Yellowstone National Park. The pressure built and built until it had to let loose. But she couldn’t let go yet—what might happen then?
Bonnie Mae pounded up the stairs with the folded laundry, leaving Dottie with the flak from her outburst. Pieces of it scattered all over the kitchen like broken china shards. No matter what Dottie put her hand to, the bare, unpleasant facts stared her in the face. An undeniable reality grew inside her as she mulled over both women’s pronouncements.
Hard to believe those two came from the same family—blood relatives. How could they see life in such opposite ways? Their perspectives were so at odds—Helene churchgoing and proper, and Bonnie Mae as cynical as her gum cracks. And yet, the younger woman truly cared about a lonely man like George Hanson, while Helene lacked even the pretense of concern.
No doubt about it. This time, Dottie had no choice but to side with Bonnie Mae. She scooped three cups of flour into a yeast mixture for a double batch of bread. Little by little, soft dough formed under her fingers. She liked working the pliable texture.
Of course, she didn’t always agree with the cleaning girl’s tempestuous conclusions, but this time, her words found their way into Dottie’s insides. She’d gotten to know George so much better over the past two weeks, and Al thought a lot of him.
On the way home from the hospital that first night, her heart had almost overflowed with gratitude. “Al, I’ll never forget you doing this for me.” At first, he didn’t hear her, so she repeated her words a few levels louder. His response touched her.
“He needed a visit—you were right, he’s a lonely man. Did you notice how hard he grabbed my hand just before we left?”
Dottie had.
During the rest of the ride home, she kept her eyes on the firmament, as the Psalms called it. After the all-day storm and misty evening, the stars shone so bright, she might have rolled down her window and touched them with the tip of her index finger. It felt good to be riding beside Al, good to have taken the right action, visiting George.
So many times, she thought about doing something, but even when she knew it would be right, she held back. What was that about? Thank goodness, neither of her girls followed in her footsteps—both Millie and Cora spoke up when they needed to, and every time, Dottie was proud of them.
She pressed her head into the seat and allowed her shoulders to sag. It seemed awfully good to be proud of herself tonight. Of course, without Al, she would never even have thought of going to visit George.
Now, her bread batch molded under her hands—the fourth time she turned the wad of dough over, its elasticity responded to her ministrations. Only a couple more minutes, and she’d plop it into the bowl she’d already greased. The oven, turned off from the noontime meal but still warm, waited to help the dough rise.
Her thoughts turned back to George—and Al. The afternoon after their first trip to the Heston Hospital, Al stood at her back door five minutes when she got home from work. She hardly had time to take off her coat and light the burner under her kettle.
“Shall we go see George a little earlier tonight? I gathered some magazines and several newspapers for him to read. Thought maybe he could use a toothbrush and a washcloth, too. That hospital doesn’t offer anything but a bed. Do you think he’d be offended if we added them to a basket of cookies and candy?”
His kindness floored Dottie. How could one man be so thoughtful? “Why, I don’t know. If he found them amongst the other things, maybe not…”
Al angled his head, waiting for her to say more. His eyes revealed genuine concern, as if he’d known George Hanson all his life.
“Give me a few minutes, all right? I’ll see what I can add to your basket. You’ve already put in cookies?”
Al’s smile came easily now. “My source brought me two dozen more today—thought I might as well share them with George. Spread the pleasure, you know?”
Dottie chuckled. “You definitely are all about that.”
He took a step toward her, his fingers edging around the cap in his hands. “Uh…I thought afterwards we might stop by that little diner in Heston we passed last night.” His Adam’s apple pulsed. “For supper.”
The tips of his ears flamed scarlet. “I thought it would take less time that way—we wouldn’t have to cook.”
“Why, I suppose so. Let me get my…”
“My treat. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes, all right?”
Dottie observed the wide spread between his shoulders as he headed into the porch. Then he turned toward her again. “George reminds me of my dad’s brother Arthur—the kind of man who doesn’t say much, but holds a lot inside. I like him.”
Through the window, she watched Al cross the crisp, frosted lawn. Thoughts pummeled her mind like racing horses. He liked George, and he liked helping people. She noticed a lilt in his walk that she didn’t recall. And he went to all the trouble of putting things in a basket…
When the kettle burbled, she poured some steaming water over a scoop of tea. Fifteen minutes. Enough time for that cup she’d been longing for all afternoon, and to find something to add to Al’s gift. In the back porch, she chose her three best apples and a couple of pears she’d picked green and wrapped in brown paper to ripen.
If she’d known ahead of time, she could’ve stopped at the grocery store for a banana. Well, maybe they’d go over again tomorrow—she stopped herself. Al had used we—something about what we put in the basket. She glanced out the window toward his house and sat down to her tea. She couldn’t corral her unruly thoughts—they kept trailing back to the night before like mischievous children.
Now, with the dough rising in the oven over a bowl of hot water, Dottie p
ulled out a bag of turnips and washed them. She relived the closeness she felt with Al when they walked into George’s room and found him sitting up in a chair. The way George’s eyes lighted warmed her heart, and she knew instinctively that Al sensed it, too.
And what was “it”? Maybe joy? The joy Pastor Langley mentioned last Sunday—the kind that came from giving. He always meandered to the theme of giving around Thanksgiving Day, but this year, his sermons sank deeper, maybe because she’d moved to a better place.
The ache in her chest whenever she passed Owen’s picture, or something else reminded her of him, had let up. When she arrived home at night, she no longer lingered at the thermostat, but wondered what interesting adventure the evening would bring.
She pared enough turnips and potatoes for supper and checked the dough—time to punch it down. She liked the sound of air escaping and the blurp the soft ball made when she gave it a pat. She turned the growing mass over and covered it with a dishtowel before sliding it back into the oven.
Downstairs, Bonnie Mae still slammed things around, but Dottie ignored the extra noise. If that’s how she worked out her anger, so be it, as long as she got her work done. In the dining room, she checked the table for supper—oh, Bonnie Mae had forgotten the napkins.
Well, the poor girl trekked up and down both sets of stairs fifteen times a day. Forgetting napkins was a small thing. Dottie pulled out a drawer and carefully set one under each fork, noticing how precisely Bonnie Mae ironed and folded them. She was such a good worker, even if Helene didn’t notice.
Somehow, that hospital visit altered things in Dottie’s mind—the good side of things showed up more. Maybe it was George’s exclamation over the basket and the newspapers, such small offerings. She’d never seen him so enlivened.
“This’ll keep me busy for a few days. And cookies! Did you make these, Dottie?”
She hated to tell him she hadn’t, but Al took over and explained that a lady pursued him with enticements from her kitchen. George guffawed so heartily, Dottie feared he might endanger his health. Al talked with him so easily, she only added a comment here and there.
In This Together Page 7
