by Helen Wells
So Wade would be coming to New York! Hurray! When Cherry told the other nurses Wade was coming and had sent his regards to them, they all were pleased.
“Supper!” called Bertha, interrupting the discussion. The Spencer Club adjourned to supper and, not long afterward, to bed.
Next day, Sunday, the members of the Spencer Club were quiet as mice, to discourage the janitor, in case he had any ideas. The sun shone, and peace descended on the Village. The girls practiced bag technique in the morning, rather guilty at having put it off so long. Then they answered their letters. Josie, as the club’s corresponding secretary, importantly wrote a report to Marie Swift. For a long time the only sounds in the apartment were pens scratching on paper.
Cherry made it a point to write to Dr. Joe. “The visiting nurse service puts discoveries like yours, Dr. Joe,” she wrote, “into widespread, everyday use.” She knew he would be interested.
Cherry also wrote to Wade Cooper, notifying him that New York, the Spencer alumni, and particularly herself, would be delighted to see him any time he could come.
That afternoon the doorbell emitted three short rings. It was Ann’s signal. The girls let her in with greetings of pleasure and relief.
“Why are you smuggling me in like this?” Ann laughed. “Now, wait—I didn’t guarantee to work miracles! Can’t we have a visit first?”
Ann Evans, now Mrs. Jack Powell, was the same calm Ann with whom they had gone through nurses’ training. Her dark-blue eyes were still as steady as Cherry remembered them. Her smooth, brown hair was arranged a new way and she wore a blue dress which Cherry had never seen before—otherwise Ann looked exactly the same.
“Marriage hasn’t changed you a bit, Mrs. Powell!” Cherry teased, after greeting her.
“Why should it?” Ann smiled. “I gather Jack married me because he liked me more or less the way I was.”
“But—but—” Josie blurted, “I thought you’d at least get a different expression, or something!”
Ann shook her head and murmured that none of them had changed noticeably, either. Cherry saw her glance with some concern at too-thin Vivian. “Your apartment looks nice,” Ann said. “I came down to help. Give me an apron and a chore.”
“We’re not going to do another thing to the apartment until the janitor decides our fates,” Cherry told her. “He’s a gnome, an ogre, a—a—” she broke off and gave Ann a sly look. “Or do you have a plan of action, Ann?”
“I have.” Ann’s eyes danced.
“Ann!” the others chorused. “Did Cherry tell you? Are you going to help her get us out of this scrape?”
But Ann only said, “I do think you might inquire after my husband.”
“How’s Jack?” they asked, ashamedly.
“He’s very well. I’ll tell you my plan presently. Now can’t we have a visit?”
Under Ann’s quieting influence, they settled down for a long talk. With her they exchanged news, stopped to quibble, laughed at Ann’s accounts of housekeeping. Cherry was doubly glad to see her old friend and classmate, for Ann came from Indian City, near Hilton, and knew Charlie. The afternoon wore on. They talked and talked, and it was evening before they knew it.
“Won’t you tell us the plan now? Please!”
“I was going to invite you all for Sunday night supper.” Ann’s dark-blue eyes twinkled at them. “But Jack’s parents are visiting us and—while they’re darlings—I was afraid two elderly people and you imps might not combine. So I trust you’ll permit me to have supper with you.”
“Shall we let her stay?”
“Well, just this once. As a special concession.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you! As a token of my gratitude, I will introduce you to”—Ann paused for dramatic effect—“your landlord.”
There was a puzzled pause. Gwen said glumly, “I know him already.”
“You saw him just once, when you signed the lease. Is that it? Well,” Ann had a wise air, “you are now going to meet him informally. As a friend.”
“Oh!” said Cherry, beginning to understand. “But will you please stop impersonating the Sphinx?”
“Get your coats,” said Ann, blandly grinning. “We are going to an Italian restaurant where your landlord, for old times’ sake, has his Sunday evening supper.”
The girls went for their hats and coats.
Strolling south of Bleecker Street and leaving Greenwich Village behind, Ann explained. In her husband’s office worked a young man of Italian descent, whose uncle was in the real estate business, who had a friend, who was the Spencer Club’s landlord.
“Simple,” Ann said, still grinning. “Your Mr. Ramiglia knows we’re coming. Dickie—in Jack’s office—fixed it for you. We’ll have supper in that restaurant, too. I’ve been there once, Dickie took us. For practically no money, you get heaps of the most wonderful food. I think I could look at that menu again and pick out something besides the date.”
“You mean the menu is in Italian?”
“I have plenty of misgivings about the landlord!”
“Since when do you speak Italian, Ann?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Neither do any of us.”
“We’ll starve in that restaurant!”
“Never mind a little thing like starving. Think of facing the landlord!”
Ann remained unruffled. They had entered a neighborhood where many Italian-American families lived. It was like any other part of town, except for the Roman-sounding names on the shopwindows and a few unusual wares. The people looked like the rest of town, except for their liquid, dark eyes and an extra vivacity. Here and there was a gesturing grandmother with a shawl over her head, or an old man in a rakish black hat reading an Italian-language newspaper. But anyone under fifty was thoroughly American, the younger the more so, right down to the angelic-faced children busy reading the Sunday funny papers.
“The place we’re going to is called the Grand Paradiso,” Ann said, leading the way. “20 1/2 Derby Street.”
“Can’t be very grand if it’s only a half,” Gwen ribbed her.
“Wait till you meet Mama and Papa Mediterraneo. Wait till you taste Mama’s pasta.”
“Wait till we meet the landlord!”
“Thank goodness, that’s Cherry’s responsibility. Stop groaning, Cherry.”
The restaurant was a small store with a few white-clothed tables and a kitchen at the back. Papa Mediterraneo, the waiter and cashier, was quite an old man. He remembered Ann, and bowing and smiling led the girls to a table. The landlord was nowhere in sight.
Mama Mediterraneo, a monumental old lady with satiny, coal-black hair, in a spick-and-span gingham dress, came out of her kitchen to beam at them. Diamonds flashed in her ears, and her eyes and teeth flashed nearly as brilliantly. Cherry did not understand the voluble Italian but the tone of voice was unmistakable. She smiled back and that was enough. The Mediterraneos, laughing at the girls, took away the menus. They gestured that Mama would outdo herself for Signora Powell and her friends.
And then Mr. Ramiglia came out of the kitchen, beaming and carrying a platter of ravioli. Two small boys tagged at his heels, bearing plates and silverware.
“Hello, Mrs. Powell,” Mr. Ramiglia said, coming over to their table. He was a stocky, middle-aged, fatherly looking man. “These are my sons, Johnny and Joe. Are these your frightened young ladies?” He looked amused. “Oh, yes, Miss Jones. I remember you. How are you?”
Gwen looked uncertain as to whether she wished to be remembered or not. She stuck a blue-stained hand in her pocket.
“Mr. Ramiglia, my friends mistakenly—” Ann started.
“Mr. Ramiglia, we painted the—” Cherry gulped.
“You mean you painted that dining-room set?” He waved a hand, gave a forkful of ravioli to Johnny, then one to Joe. “That old, dilapidated set? Fine, fine.”
“Then you don’t mind—” Bertha said slowly.
“I hope you didn’t spend too much on the paint. Furniture
isn’t worth it.” He set the platter down on the table next to theirs, seated himself, and took a big mouthful of ravioli. “Order ravioli. Take my advice. Come, boys, sit down.”
Cherry turned full around in her chair, eyes like saucers. “But, Mr. Ramiglia! Your janitor—he—”
“He scared you?”
Suddenly they all burst out laughing.
“Sam scares everybody. It is his one pleasure in life. Pay no attention. I will speak to him, maybe on the phone tonight. Johnny! Don’t eat so fast. No, Joe, no—”
When Mr. Ramiglia turned back to his ravioli the girls looked deep into one another’s eyes. All that worrying and tiptoeing for nothing!
“You see,” said Ann softly, “even in New York landlords aren’t so terrible.”
Cherry felt ten years younger. Her appetite, which had lagged all week, returned to normal, particularly when a platter of ravioli arrived for them.
Never in her life had Cherry eaten such magnificent food as came out of Mama Mediterraneo’s kitchen. What went into it even Bertha could not guess, beyond pure olive oil, fresh mushrooms, and the best Texas beef. Then came frozen pudding with almonds. They ate in a sort of rapture, while Papa Mediterraneo stood over them emitting cries of approval and Mr. Ramiglia smiled across the little restaurant. When Papa Mediterraneo gave them their check, it was only fifty cents apiece. They could not believe it.
“You know what?” Cherry asked, after they had exchanged cordial good-byes with the Mediterraneos and Mr. Ramiglia and staggered out into the street. “I think our landlord is a human being. I think our janitor is a character, to put it mildly. I think New Yorkers who eat any place except at the Grand Paradiso are crazy.”
“They don’t know about it,” Ann replied.
“They should, when it’s right in their own town,” Cherry retorted. “It’s a shame for people to keep cooking like that to themselves! Maybe it’s time all the people of different antecedents got better acquainted.”
Bertha nodded wisely. “Wait. I will take you to a Swedish smorgasbord restaurant my uncle’s brother-in-law runs. I mean, if we can ever eat again.”
Mai Lee said she was almost too full to talk, but offered, “I’ll take you to Canal Street someday. We’ll have Chinese roast duck.”
“I mean more than restaurants,” Cherry persisted. “I mean—I mean—I just have an idea.”
“You told us to ignore you whenever you had one of your ideas,” Bertha warned.
“But this is a good idea!”
“You mean,” Vivian prodded gently, “it’s a new one, so you’re rarin’ to go.”
“No, it’s a good idea.”
Gwen sighed. “Well, what is it? Tell us in advance, so we’ll have time to duck.”
“I’m—not sure,” Cherry said. “I have only a piece of an idea so far. But wait!”
When they arrived back at No. 9, a gnarled, gnomish figure was waiting on the step. It was the janitor. He approached them politely and said, in tones they had never heard issue from him before:
“Is there anything you young ladies would like? A stepladder? Or some fuses, or—or anything?”
They gasped. Cherry had just presence of mind enough left to say:
“Could you lend us an extra paintbrush?”
CHAPTER V
Tryout
THE CENTER TO WHICH CHERRY, GWEN, BERTHA AND Josie reported on Monday morning was in an obscure section of the city which they had never seen before. They hunted up the address and found a small, brick building wedged in among several larger factories and stores, on a busy, shabby street.
“Our center!” Cherry announced with a flourish. She did not feel nearly so merry and assured as she sounded. The black bag slung from her shoulder was a weight on her mind, as well.
“So this is ‘home.’ ” Gwen scowled at the noncommittal building. “What do you suppose it’s going to be like?”
“One way to find out is to go in,” Bertha observed matter-of-factly.
“Wait!” Josie Franklin drew a deep breath and righted her navy blue roller. “I’m all undone from that wild subway ride!”
“Ready now? Forward! Courage!” Cherry impatiently opened the door and the other three followed her in. They found people waiting on some long benches, then a switchboard and a very busy operator. They went on in.
This was a big, plain, sunny office. At long tables fifteen or eighteen blue-clad nurses were just settling themselves with piles of documents. Two executive-looking women worked at desks. At the far end of the room, Cherry saw rows of filing cabinets, a row of typewriters, and several young women who evidently were the clerical staff.
Telephones were everywhere, ringing constantly. The only medical things Cherry saw were some examining booths—or perhaps they were used for interviews—and some bright-colored posters.
A smiling young woman approached the four new nurses. She was not much older than they were, and she had an efficient air and a twinkle in her brown eyes which reassured them. She said very rapidly:
“You must be Miss Franklin, Miss Larsen—how do you do!—Miss Jones and, er, Miss Ames. I’ll have your names and faces straight in a moment! I’m Miss Davis, Dorothy Davis, your supervisor. Will you come over to my desk?”
Like a flash Miss Davis was off across the busy room. The girls sprinted after her. She already had pulled forward four chairs around her desk, and waved them into them. An athletic girl carrying an armful of folders loped up, and Miss Davis drew her forward.
“And this is Ethel Hall, your unit’s clerk. Ethel—only we call her Bobbie—is general co-ordinator and trouble shooter. Just ask her for anything you need.”
Ethel—or Bobbie—grinned at them. She had dancing, light-blue eyes, tennis muscles, and extreme youth. She turned to grin affectionately at the supervisor.
“I’ll look out for ’em, Miss Davis.” Their family report forms were ready for them, and Bobbie would show them how the Filing Department worked. “Oh, Miss Davis, Mrs. Tchechl had her baby this morning at six o’clock. Want a layette assigned? I saved one.”
“Good. Yes.” Miss Davis signed a requisition slip which Bobbie thrust out for her. They held a rapid-fire conversation before the four interested new arrivals.
“Where are Mr. Smith’s false teeth?”
“Coming at two this afternoon.”
“What word on the runaway girl?”
“Police are working on it but nothing definite yet. Do you want me to buy cakes for the Mothers’ Club tea or are we broke again?”
“We’re broke, all right, but three of the mothers offered to bake cakes. Tell Nurse Sullivan, doctors’ conference, ten tomorrow, on her suspected smallpox carrier. She’s invited. Tell Nurse Kane,” said Dorothy Davis without pausing for breath, “special diet allowance approved by headquarters for the Doremus case. Tell Nurse Marrow thanks for her fountain pen and here it is.”
The supervisor handed a pen to Bobbie who said, “Yes, ma’am, Miss Davis!” grinned again at the newcomers, and dashed off. Two telephones rang on Miss Davis’s desk. She answered them both at once, while the four new nurses looked on in amazement. In two minutes she had arranged for a moving van and a class in child care. Cherry had seen plenty of teamwork but never as speedy and easygoing as this.
“Well, now!” said Miss Davis. She had hung up and sat back comfortably in her desk chair. “I’ll introduce you to your fellow nurses in a moment. We’re all really awfully glad to have you here. You certainly are needed! To start with, you’ll be floaters, then you’ll be assigned to your own districts. Providing, of course,” Dorothy Davis said briskly, “that you make good on this job. But of course you will.
“You’ll each go out in the mornings, today and tomorrow, with an experienced nurse. Additional lectures when and if Mrs. Clark specifies. Then you’ll go out alone on a few selected cases. At the end of this week, I’ll go out on the districts with you, to see how you’re getting along, and to help you.”
“We’re going out
alone? This very first week?” Josie Franklin wailed. Cherry and Gwen and Bertha looked uncertain, too.
“Why, of course! Don’t be afraid to ask me questions—or to ask me for help. That’s what I’m here for. Or go to Mrs. Berkey, she’s assistant supervisor—introduce you in a moment.”
Cherry let out her breath. Since this Davis dynamo casually expected instantaneous wonders from them, perhaps they might measure up, at that. Her confidence was catching! Miss Davis raced on to describe the daily routine.
Mornings, for an hour or two, the nurses wrote up their visits of the previous day in the folder maintained for each family. These were called case records. The nurses read and answered mail from their patients. These letters, Miss Davis said, were lively reading and she handed the four new nurses a note that had come in this morning: “Dolling Nurs I bag you plis to com not sick nomor but nu Girl babe!! we name him four you, plis duet now Resp.”
If mail as touching as that could be called “daily routine,” Cherry reflected, this job must be extraordinary!
“—then Bobbie will give you your list of calls for the day and the doctors’ orders, and you’ll go out on the district,” Miss Davis was continuing. “If you get lost or stymied, phone back to the office. Phone back, anyhow, to see if any new calls have come in for you. You don’t have to return here at five o’clock, unless you want to leave your bags or change into street clothes. Have your lunch at any restaurant you can find. You see, you’ll be strictly on your own.”
Cherry gulped. It sounded grueling, challenging, lonely—but an adventure in human dealings! Judging by Gwen’s shining eyes and tight lips, she must be feeling the same way. Bertha and Josie looked awed.
Dorothy Davis turned a warming smile on them. “You’ll come to love this work, and you’ll really care about the people on your districts,” she promised them. For all her dash and speed, Dorothy Davis had the graciousness which all the people in this work radiated.
Next Miss Davis introduced them to the assistant supervisor, Mrs. Berkey, a tall, capable woman whose gray eyes looked through and through the newcomers. Cherry did not find her as approachable as Miss Davis. But she liked the nurses very much. They were not only a friendly, sturdy lot, but surprisingly cheerful. Cherry was startled to hear them address one another as “Snookie” and the two supervisors as “Miss and Mrs. Snookie.”
