When the Clouds Roll By

by Myra Johnson

  Gilbert stirred, then cracked an eyelid. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” Samuel stepped around to the side of the bed. “Like I’m checking to see what you have handy to throw at me?”

  “All out of ammo. The nurses have disarmed me.” Angling a glance toward his sling, Gilbert rolled his eyes at the irony of his remark. Then, using his right elbow, he pushed himself higher in the bed. “Buy you a cup of java if you’ll help me with these confounded pillows.”

  Samuel made sure Gilbert had settled comfortably and then pulled over a chair. “How are you feeling? Is the headache abating at all?”

  The tension lines around Gilbert’s eyes and mouth answered for him. “I can’t even bribe the nurses into slipping me some extra doses of morphine. And now they tell me I have to have more surgery.”

  “Your leg?”

  “The surgeon says I’ll never be able to use a prosthesis unless they fix it better.” Gilbert’s jaw hardened. He looked away. “I told him he could save himself the trouble and me the pain.”

  The cold ring of hopelessness had crept into Gilbert’s tone again. Samuel braced his arms on his thighs. “You’ve got to stop talking like that, Gil. You have everything to live for—your family, Annemarie—”

  Gilbert slammed his clenched fist on the mattress. “Don’t you dare talk to me about Annemarie. Don’t you—” His chest heaved, each breath grating like a rasp on green wood. His face blanched with the effort to control his fury.

  Samuel straightened. No sense wasting the usual spiritual platitudes on Gilbert. He could do no more than let the outburst run its course. He looked past Gilbert to the next bed, where a nurse assisted a patient with exercises to restore flexibility to severely arthritic joints. Through it all, the veteran grinned and wisecracked with the nurse, though clearly the pain was excruciating.

  Catching Samuel’s eye, the patient nodded toward Gilbert and quirked his mouth in silent understanding. Returning the nod, Samuel planted his hands on his knees and started to rise. “I’ll come back later, Gil, when you’re—”

  “Don’t leave.” With a hiccupping moan, Gilbert brought himself under control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what comes over me.”

  Easing back onto the chair, Samuel laced his fingers together. “I wish I knew how to help, but all I can give you are my prayers and my friendship. And my friendship won’t do you much good if you keep running me off.”

  “I said I’m sorry.” Gilbert slanted a glance toward the man in the next bed and chuckled softly. “You think he’d sell me a little of his optimism?”

  “You’ll have to find your own, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Gilbert stretched a hand toward the nightstand. “In the drawer there—can you hand me the picture?”

  Samuel pulled open the drawer. Lying atop a fresh pair of pajamas and Gilbert’s shaving supplies was a sepia portrait of Annemarie. The oval frame appeared to be sterling silver, etched with tiny rosebuds and a trailing vine. Its weight surprised Samuel, and he feared if he didn’t grip it firmly it would slip through his fingers.

  The portrait must have been taken on a bright summer day. Annemarie sat beneath a spreading tree, a bouquet of daisies in her hand. Her soft, warm eyes seemed to smile at him, beckon him. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.

  Sensing Gilbert’s silent scrutiny, he tore his gaze away from the portrait. “This is new.” It was all he could think to say.

  “My mother brought it. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Samuel knew he wasn’t talking about his mother. “She is. Very.”

  Gilbert reached for the portrait, and Samuel winced inwardly at how reluctant he was to hand it over. Resting it on his lap, Gilbert traced the outline of Annemarie’s face with the side of his thumb. “You understand why I won’t let her visit me?”

  “Please, Gil, don’t give up like this.”

  “I told you, I won’t be a burden to her. She deserves better.” Gilbert inhaled a breath that seemed to go on forever. He let it out just as slowly. Samuel had to strain to hear his next words. “Take her, Sam. Take her with my blessing.”

  “What?” Samuel stood abruptly, certain he must not have heard correctly.

  The fine lines around Gilbert’s mouth and eyes deepened, whether from pain or anger or grief, Samuel couldn’t tell. “I said she’s yours. Just be good to her.”

  Samuel palmed the back of his head. His gaze darted around the ward to see if anyone had overheard this insanity. Then he grabbed the lapels of Gil’s pajamas and leaned over him until his face was inches away. “Listen to me, Gil. Annemarie loves you—you! You will fight for her. You will fight to live. Do you hear me?”

  “Mary McClarney! Are you eavesdropping again?”

  Mary fumbled with the tray she carried, snagging a medicine vial a split-second before it careened over the edge. “I, uh—no, Mrs. Daley. I was just checking my supplies before I start rounds.”

  “Then you’d best get to it. We have a ward full of patients to attend to.” Mrs. Daley’s stern glare softened slightly, and she laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “It doesn’t do you or our patients one bit of good to get emotionally attached. Do your work and keep your distance. Take it from someone who knows.” Giving her chin a firm jerk, Mrs. Daley marched off.

  Aye, and no wonder the crusty old chief nurse remained a spinster. Besides, how could anyone who worked so closely with these poor servicemen not become emotionally attached? The stories they told—and even more to be pitied, the stories that never passed their lips! Had Mary been stationed at one of the larger hospitals like Walter Reed or Fort McHenry, she could only imagine how much worse she’d hear and see.

  As it was, most of her patients were veterans suffering from rheumatism, arthritis, or other conditions unrelated to serving in the Great War. Only a few, mostly locals like the troubled Lieutenant Ballard, had been transferred to the Hot Springs hospital for treatment of their battle wounds. If Mary had been eavesdropping, it was only because she worried about the poor man.

  Her greatest concern, however—in fact, the concern of everyone on staff—was the outbreak of Spanish influenza that had spread rapidly during the past few weeks. She thanked the Lord above that she hadn’t been assigned to the isolation floor. Though the doctors and nurses took every possible precaution, Mary lived in fear of catching the disease herself, and even worse, spreading it to her poor sainted mother. Already suffering from chronic bronchitis, Mum would never survive this dreaded illness.

  Donning her brightest smile, she set her tray upon a bedside table. “Good afternoon, Corporal Conroy. And how are those knees of yours feeling on this wintry day?”

  The whiskered soldier sat up straighter and smoothed back his sparse gray hair. “One kiss from my angel in white, and I’ll be dancing a jig down Central Avenue.”

  “Kisses, I have none, at least not for the likes of flirts like you.” With a wink and a nod, Mary pushed up his pajama sleeve and swabbed his arm with alcohol, then reached for the syringe she’d filled with his medication.

  Corporal Conroy winced as the needle pierced his skin. “Bet you’d have plenty of kisses for that pretty boy across the way.”

  Mary followed his gaze. Of course, he would be looking right at Lieutenant Ballard. Face tingling, she busied herself with the supplies on her tray. “Now, Corporal. I treat all my patients just the same. And that doesn’t include kisses.”

  Still, her heart beat a little faster as she crossed to the lieutenant’s bed. A handsomer soldier she’d never laid eyes upon. He had a dark, brooding look about him, a sadness in his soul that called out to some deep instinct within her. As he lay there dozing, she longed to touch the errant curl that barely hid the jagged scar above his left ear.

  Enough of this nonsense, Mary McClarney. Giving herself a mental shake, she set down her tray and reached for the lieutenant’s chart. It was time for another morphine injection, but she almost hated to rouse him when
he finally seemed to be sleeping comfortably. Even so, better to stay ahead of the pain.

  As she prepared the hypodermic, Lieutenant Ballard shifted. His back arched. His mouth twisted into a tortured frown. Eyes squeezed shut, he rocked his head from side to side, a mumbling stream of words pouring from his throat—something about rain and rifle fire and blood, so much blood.

  He gave a hoarse cry and sat straight up. He flailed his arms as if warding off an unseen enemy.

  “It’s all right, Lieutenant. The war’s over. You’re safe now.” Mary struggled to settle him before he threw himself onto the floor, only to have him turn his attack upon her. With a sharp blow to her jaw, he sent her reeling against the next bed. A thousand flickering fireflies filled her vision. Her cheek throbbed as though she’d plowed into a brick wall.

  “Hey, get some help here!” someone yelled.

  A flurry of bodies and voices surrounded the lieutenant. Mary tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness knocked her to her knees.

  “Mary! Good heavens, child, are you all right?” Mrs. Daley crouched over her.

  Mary rubbed her jaw and tried again to get her bearings. “Lieutenant Ballard—”

  “The orderlies have him restrained. What happened?”

  “Restrained?” Mary forced herself to stand. Leaning upon the chief nurse’s arm, she watched as two orderlies struggled to hold down the lieutenant while another nurse injected him with a hypodermic. “Saints above, don’t hurt him!”

  “They’re only sedating him. He is clearly out of control.” Mrs. Daley seized the lieutenant’s chart and dashed off some notes. To the orderlies she said, “I want this man under restraint until further notice.”

  Mary hovered at the lieutenant’s bedside. “He was only having a bad dream. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  Mrs. Daley seized Mary’s wrists and forced her to turn away from the man now shivering under blankets in a drugged half-sleep, his torso, right arm, and right leg secured to the bed with strong strips of gauze. “Listen to me, young lady. You’ve no idea what a shell-shocked infantryman is capable of. You’re to stay away from Lieutenant Ballard from now on. I’m ordering him moved to another ward until he can be transferred to a hospital with psychiatric facilities.” Mrs. Daley harrumphed. “That’s where they should have sent him in the first place.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Jones. You have a merry Christmas, too.” Annemarie disconnected the call and jotted a note on the order form. They’d be hard pressed to fulfill the request before the first of the year, what with several employees taking time off for Christmas, but Jones Restaurant Supply was one of their largest accounts, and Annemarie had no doubt her father would find a way. They couldn’t afford for Mr. Jones to take his business to Ouachita Pottery, a much larger operation.

  Which, naturally, meant even less time for Annemarie to spend on her own projects. Thanks to the display Thomas had arranged for her at the Arlington, she’d received several requests for her one-of-a-kind ceramics as Christmas gifts. At least most of the pieces had already been fired and glazed.

  If only Papa could see the merit of artistry in ceramics. Ouachita Pottery already employed talented women to decorate their ceramic ware with artistic glazes and designs. Though the specialty items sold for a higher price, by their very nature they took more time and personnel to produce, and Papa was all about mass production and the bottom line.

  The workroom door banged shut, and moments later Papa ambled into the front office. “Still at your desk, Annie-girl? It’s after six o’clock. Your mother will have supper on the table soon.”

  “Mr. Jones called with a last-minute order.” She handed the sheet to her father. While he looked it over, she tidied up her desk, then bolted the front door and shut off the steam heat.

  “Hmm, looks doable—if Ben and Bryan are willing to put in some overtime.”

  Annemarie slipped on her coat, scarf, and gloves. “For a little extra income at Christmas, I’m sure they will be.”

  “Naturally.” Papa set the order under a paperweight and retrieved his coat. He switched off the electric lights, and Annemarie followed him out the back door.

  Crossing the alley behind the factory, they trudged up a long hill toward home, a brisk north wind whipping at their coattails. Papa held open the gate of their backyard picket fence, and Annemarie darted across the lawn and into the warmth of the kitchen.

  “Just in time, you two.” Mama ladled steaming mashed potatoes into a serving bowl. “Five minutes more and my gravy would have turned to glue.”

  Annemarie laughed as she slid her arms out of her coat sleeves. “You couldn’t ruin gravy if you tried, Mama. Someday you’ll have to teach me your secret.”

  Mama tweaked her cheek. “I’ve tried, dearest, I’ve tried. But a certain young lady seems to care not a whit for learning to cook.”

  “Well, she’d better learn mighty quick.” Papa draped his coat on a hook by the back door. “Otherwise her husband-to-be will soon be thin as a broomstick.”

  At the mention of Gilbert, Annemarie turned away with a sniff. Late this afternoon she’d telephoned the hospital to ask about him, only to be told there’d been an “incident” and he was under sedation. Since she wasn’t a family member, they wouldn’t offer details. Thinking perhaps Chaplain Vickary would know more, she’d asked to speak with him but was told he was conferring with patients.

  Annemarie couldn’t shake her concern that “conferring with patients” meant one patient in particular.

  The family sat down to supper, but Annemarie had lost her appetite. After forcing down as much as she could of her mother’s savory pot roast and vegetables, she excused herself and carried her dishes to the sink. “Mama, would you mind if I went over to the Ballards’ for a short visit?”

  Mama reached for Annemarie’s hand and gave it an understanding squeeze. “We’re all concerned about Gilbert. Perhaps Evelyn has some news that will ease your mind.”

  “Let me drive you, darling.” Papa eased back from the table and tossed his napkin next to his plate. “You don’t need to be walking alone after dark, especially on a cold night like this.”

  While Papa went to bring the car around, Annemarie bundled up once more. Mama walked her to the front door and made sure her scarf was tucked snugly around her ears. “Tell Evelyn we’re praying every day for her dear boy.”

  “I will, Mama.” Annemarie tugged on her gloves, recalling that day at the depot. How she longed for the touch of Gilbert’s strong, firm hand. How she hungered for a tender kiss from his sweet lips.

  Mama used her thumb to brush away a tear that escaped the corner of Annemarie’s eye. “Cling to your faith, my girl. The Lord holds Gilbert firmly in His arms. You’ll both come through this time of trial and be the stronger for it.”

  Offering a weak smile, Annemarie pulled her mother into a hug. “Faith is all I have right now. If only I could give some of it to Gilbert.”

  8

  Annemarie shivered on the Ballards’ broad front porch as she waited for someone to answer the bell. A full moon crept slowly up from the east, casting silvery beams across the windows. Wood smoke and evergreens scented the crisp night air, reminding Annemarie that Christmas was only a few days away.

  A shadowy form appeared on the other side of the beveled-glass door, and Marguerite peeked through the filmy curtain. The door swung open. “Get yourself in here, Miss Annie, before you turn into an icicle.”

  Annemarie bustled inside and greeted the servant with a grateful hug. “Is Mrs. Ballard in? I hope she won’t mind my stopping by unannounced.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome here.” Marguerite helped Annemarie out of her coat and hung it in the entryway closet. “Everyone’s in the parlor by the fireplace. Mrs. B’s doing some sewing, and Thomas and that nice chaplain just started a game of cribbage. You go on in, and I’ll fetch you a cup of hot cocoa to warm you up.”

  While Marguerite trotted off to the kitchen, Annemarie
marched down the hall to the parlor. She gave a polite rap on the partially open door and peeked inside. “Mrs. Ballard?”

  “Annemarie!” The plump woman tossed her handwork to the other end of the settee. “Come in, dear. I’ve just been sewing some buttons on pajamas for the Red Cross effort.”

  Both Thomas and Chaplain Vickary rose from their seats. The chaplain looked much different in civilian clothes, more relaxed and comfortable. Annemarie recognized the pale gray argyle sweater as one of Gilbert’s, and it brought a pang of nostalgia to her throat.

  She drew a quick breath and stepped into the room. “Please don’t let me interrupt your game, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, boys, do continue.” Mrs. Ballard patted the seat next to her. “Come and sit, my dear, and let’s have a nice long chat.”

  Annemarie lowered herself onto the settee and picked up the pajama top Mrs. Ballard had been working on. The soft, blue-striped flannel smelled faintly of talcum powder. Nerves on edge, Annemarie decided busy hands might ease the tension. “Do you have another needle handy? I could help with these.”

  “That would be lovely.” Rummaging through the cherry-wood sewing kit at her feet, Mrs. Ballard found a needle, thread, and packet of buttons. She handed Annemarie another set of pajamas from a stack on a nearby chair. Taking up her own work again, Mrs. Ballard released a noisy sigh. “I can guess why you’re here. You must have heard about Gilbert’s little setback.”

  From what Annemarie could gather, it wasn’t a little setback by any means. She snipped off a length of thread and worked it through the eye of the needle. “I tried to visit him earlier today, but he still wouldn’t see me.”

  “Small consolation, I’m sure, but he has refused my visits as well.” Mrs. Ballard nodded toward the chaplain. “If not for Samuel being such a good friend of Gilbert’s, we’d know little more than what we can wheedle from those closed-mouth doctors and nurses.”

  Annemarie sensed more than saw the chaplain’s sudden tensing. She glanced his way, and he offered a concerned half-smile.