Enza

by Kristy K. James

  “I’m sure he was. And what about you, young man? Were you also angry about having to come home?”

  “No, sir. I was co’d.”

  Elliot smiled, watching his youngest child as he built…well, only Charles knew what he was building, but he took great pride in the effort.

  “Wichad was mad, too.”

  “Goodness,” Elliot exclaimed dramatically. “And I thought sledding was supposed to make children happy.”

  “Jonafon slided down the dangewas pawt of the hill an’ Wichad said he was gonna bweak his neck.”

  This time Elliot couldn’t suppress a chuckle. His oldest son had long ago appointed himself caretaker to everyone, and between Elizabeth and her current attitude, and Jonathon’s adventuresome spirit, poor Richard was turning into a nervous wreck.

  “Is that why you had to come home? Because your brothers were fighting?”

  “No. Me an’ Kafleen was co’d,” he said simply then, seemingly done talking, concentrated on his blocks.

  Not for the first time did Elliot marvel at the differences in his children. Raised by the very same parents each possessed uniquely individual personalities and, with them, their own peculiarities. Especially Jonathon.

  No one need ask where his middle son had hurried off to, first to his room to retrieve his journal and pencil, and then to a ‘safe’ place to take detailed notes on old Mr. Mertz again.

  Jonathon was sure the poor man was a German spy, and had followed his movements relentlessly since America had entered the war. All Mr. Mertz had to do was sneeze wrong and he was under suspicion for some imagined infraction.

  Elliot knew the old man was innocent of any crimes but, much to Margaret’s dismay, did nothing to discourage Jonathon. Truth told, he probably encouraged him because the boy’s enthusiasm and unwavering belief that he would, by war’s end, be hailed a hero, tickled Elliot to no end.

  Richard, finished with the task of cleaning up after his brother, walked wearily to the chair so recently abandoned by his sister. He lowered himself slowly into it, as though he were very tired, and stared vacantly into space.

  Elliot wished he could ease the young man’s burdens but was powerless to do so. No matter that he’d tried time and again to convince Richard that the problems the family faced were for him to deal with, Richard couldn’t seem to help taking them on anyway.

  Within moments of Margaret striding into the hall, announcing the cocoa was ready, the telephone rang. With an exasperated sigh, she lifted the receiver.

  “Hello?” she said quietly into the mouthpiece. Elliot saw her roll her eyes heavenward and grinned.

  Anna Thornton.

  Had the entire family, save Elizabeth for the moment, not thought so highly of Colby Thornton, they would long ago have found a new church. Except for other gossipy busybodies like herself, no one particularly liked the preacher’s wife. Margaret was among those who couldn’t bear to think about, much less speak, to the woman.

  ~~~

  “…and the things spewing from the woman’s mouth! Lord have mercy, Margaret,” Colby heard his wife saying as he opened the front door to their parlor. “I can’t even repeat the words.”

  He managed to avoid the expected glare, slinking over to set the small Zourdos and Spires box on the round, polished table in front of her before quietly slipping out of his coat. He hung it in the closet beneath the stairway and hurried out to the kitchen.

  There he poured a cup of scalding coffee, dragged a worn chair before the stove, and sat down as close as he dared to absorb the warmth radiating from its iron jacket. It seemed, for a few moments, that he was actually colder than he’d been outside as his body adjusted to the drastic temperature change. Shivering just a bit, he raised the heavy cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. The hot liquid burned a path all the way to his belly and he thought nothing had ever felt better.

  Absently, the quiet drone of Anna’s voice reaching his ears, Colby took the small bag containing his peppermint stick from the pocket of his suit coat. In a moment of sheer defiance, he dipped the tip of the candy into his coffee and stirred it gently. Anna thoroughly disapproved of the practice, complaining that it was childish, but he thought it added a very pleasant flavor to the brew.

  And there wasn’t much that was pleasant here at home. Instead of enjoying the coziness of the kitchen with a woman who could appreciate it as much as he did, he sat alone, aching for the companionship most people took for granted.

  A sigh that seemed to originate from the soles of his feet escaped him and, finally warming up, he slumped back, staring moodily out the window. Thick crystals of ice that had built up around the edges of the glass during the night cast a rainbow of colors across the room as rays of brilliant sunlight shone through them.

  Though he’d momentarily shaken the gloomy feelings that had assaulted him as soon as his eyes had opened shortly before six, they’d returned with a vengeance as soon as he’d set eyes on Anna again.

  Another sip of the newly, and strongly, minted coffee surprised him, and he looked down to see that almost an inch of the stick had melted. He sat the cup on the sideboard and popped the candy into his mouth, his lips curling around the end with the same anticipation one usually saw displayed in children.

  Count your blessings, he commanded himself sternly.

  A thriving church. A congregation who loved him nearly as much as he loved them. Good, no, wonderful friends.

  Life could be much worse. He could be bound to Anna without those things. And then life wouldn’t be worth living. Not at all. As it was, nearly every moment away from her was heaven on earth. Surely he deserved a bit of heaven before actually making the trip there. Without a doubt Anna provided insight into what hell must be like.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a light tap at the back door. Glancing up he saw that the frost was too thick to see who the visitor was. But he knew, and a grin lit his face as he got to his feet and strode to the door.

  “Good morning, Marcus,” Colby greeted, a fresh blast of cold air chilling him.

  “Good morning,” came the quiet reply. The man stood about a head shorter than Colby on a good day. In the frigid temperatures, huddled against the wind, Marcus McClelland appeared even smaller. “I saw the missus in the hall and took a chance that you might be out here.”

  “And you were right,” Colby said, his grin broader. Though he tried to hide it, he knew that Marcus would rather kiss a hog than spend even a minute in Anna’s company. “Come on in. The stove is hot.”

  “No. I can’t. I just came to return your book.” He reached into a massive pocket and pulled out Tom Sawyer. “I hadn’t read it since school. I’d forgotten what a good author Mark Twain was.”

  “So you enjoyed it?”

  “Immensely. Thank you, Colby.”

  “Sure you won’t come in for a while? You owe me a game of chess. As I recall, you beat me quite badly last time.”

  “I wish I could,” Marcus sighed. “But I got word last night that Mr. Taylor wasn’t doing very well. I’m expecting a call for arrangements any time now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “So was I.” Marcus scuffed his foot in the snow. “Well, I’d best be going.”

  “Come again when you can stay longer.”

  “I will. Soon.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  ~~~

  Marcus made his way back to the road, shivering uncontrollably. He hated winter. It seemed like he could never get warm, as though the chill permeated his bones the moment the last leaves fell from autumn trees and setting in until the spring thaw. Why he remained in Michigan was a mystery because he longed for the warmer climate of, say, Florida or Arizona.

  Pulling the collar of his coat close around his neck against the brisk wind, he quickened his pace. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be frozen through before he got home.

  And he had to stop at Waddell & Boyer’s if he intended to eat something other than oatmeal for su
pper. There was no one to blame but himself. They would have sent a delivery boy if he’d remembered to phone them first thing this morning. But he hadn’t.

  Oh well. He’d survived it before and would this time, too.

  As he walked, he mentally went through his inventory. The Taylors weren’t well off at all. And as he refused to stock the ugly pine boxes, he would be taking a loss on one of the finer caskets stacked in the shed attached to the back of his house. Mr. Taylor’s son, Clive, was a friend of his. Or as close a friend as Marcus allowed himself.

  An undertaker, Marcus had a problem with handling funeral arrangements for anyone he knew well, so he refused to allow himself to get close to anyone. It led to a fairly lonely life, but at least it was a life free from grief.

  And it wasn’t that he was completely alone. He was involved in many community activities and meetings for the businessmen’s association. But, he had to admit, he was a little lonelier than usual today. A game of chess had been on his mind when he started out for Colby’s a short while ago. But the expression on Anna Thornton’s face when he caught a glimpse of her through the etched glass in the front door had quickly put that thought to rest. Better to leave the book and head for the safety of anywhere but there.

  Poor Colby. Life wouldn’t be worth living, in his opinion, if one were saddled with a wife like that. Thank goodness he wasn’t the one who was stuck with her. It was just too bad that Colby was. He didn’t deserve that.

  Suddenly he wasn’t as lonely as he had been. Amazing what the trials of others did to show you that you didn’t have it so bad after all.

  Marcus turned right when he reached Main Street, and was thankful that the bricked sidewalks had been shoveled by conscientious shopkeepers, making his trek a bit easier.

  The weather never seemed to hinder people, he thought wryly, observing the crowded street. Nothing, with the exception of rain (and then even that was debatable) kept the kind folks of Charlotte home when there was shopping or socializing to be done. Marcus realized he was no different, about the same time he realized he’d reached the door of the meat market.

  He grimaced and glared at the door handle as though it might bite him. Then, taking a huge gulp of air and steeling himself for what he knew awaited him, he reached for the knob and reluctantly stepped inside.

  The huge slabs of meat that hung from thick hooks anchored in the ceiling behind the counter turned his stomach, and he stared at the floor as he approached it. But it wasn’t the meat hanging all around him that made the bile rise up in his throat; it was the pungent smell of blood, an odor guaranteed to sicken him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McClelland,” Arthur Boyer greeted him, a smile in his voice. Marcus never actually saw it, but always heard it when he was forced to enter the establishment. He always thought it odd how one could hear a smile, or a frown. “What can I get for you today?”

  “Steak,” was all Marcus could manage as he tried his best not to breathe.

  “Coming right up.”

  Marcus heard the sharp knife slice through bone, then paper being ripped off the roll, and soon a neatly wrapped package was being slapped down on the counter. He paid for his purchase and hurried toward the door as fast as his feet would carry him.

  Safely outside, he leaned against the window and took in huge breaths of fresh air. In a few moments his stomach settled and he felt like he could resume the trip home.

  “Are you all right, Mr. McClelland?” a quiet voice inquired. Marcus looked up to see Daniel Pullman standing in front of him, looking a bit worried.

  “I’m fine,” Marcus said quickly, straightening.

  ~~~

  “Are you sure?” Daniel asked, concern lacing his voice. Mr. McClelland looked a little pale in his opinion.

  “I’m fine, just fine,” the man assured him and hurried away. Daniel just stood there and shook his head. Mr. McClelland struck him as an odd sort of fellow, nice enough, but there was just something about him…

  He shook his head again and started across the street, glad to be finished working for the day. It seemed as though half the town had letters and postcards to mail and the post office had been a beehive of activity from the moment he’d arrived that morning. Of course he preferred it when there was plenty to keep him busy. It helped the hours to pass quickly.

  He glanced back at Mr. McClelland, just to assure himself that the man was all right, a grave mistake he would regret a few seconds later when he failed to see the gleaming Model T round the corner. The driver took it faster than was safe under the best of conditions, but considering his attention was on a pretty girl across the way instead of on the snow covered road ahead of him, he didn’t see Daniel until it was too late.

  Daniel heard the shouts from passersby just before the bumper plowed into his hip. But that pain was nothing compared to the tires rolling over his leg after he was thrown to the ground. He felt the bone break in at least two places.

  Just before he lost consciousness he lamented the fact that his enlistment in the army would have to be postponed for a while.

  Chapter 2

  Despite the fact that someone - or something - seemed to be sitting on his leg, and though his eyes seemed to be very firmly closed, Daniel felt surprisingly good. In fact, he felt better than he had in quite a while. Happy, even. Now if he could just open his eyes.

  With a great deal more effort than it should have taken, he managed to raise a hand to his face and tried to lift one lid. It helped a bit and, for a brief moment, he saw a flash of daylight.

  “Hmm.”

  And so he concentrated a little harder – but only succeeded in pushing his fingertip across his eyeball, which was definitely not his intention. Not to mention that it hurt like blue blazes. After giving it a little thought, he decided that there really didn’t seem to be any urgency in opening his eyes after all, and he let his hand fall back to his side.

  Since there wasn’t anything he could do for the moment, he wondered what he might do to pass the time. Because, even though he felt terrific, it was rather boring to simply be lying here doing nothing.

  “If you would please remove yourself from my leg, I would be most appreciative,” he said to whomever was sitting on his leg. No one responded, which was probably just as well. What exactly did one say to someone who had been using your leg for a chair?

  “Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez–vous,” he began to sing. Or to try to sing. His lips didn’t seem to be working a whole lot better than the rest of him, but he liked the song and concentrated on recalling the words.

  “She hasn’t been kissed for forty years.” Did that sound more like, ‘he hasn’t been kicked for fourteen ears’? No, he was singing it right. It had to be that his ears weren’t up to par either.

  “Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez–vous, she got the palm and the Croix de Guerre, for washin’ soldiers’ underwear.” Daniel wouldn’t even consider what that part had sounded like to him.

  “Mr. Pullman?”

  Now he was talking to himself?

  “Mr. Pullman?” No, that was definitely not his voice.

  “Are you the person who has been sitting on my leg?” he asked curiously. “Because it is quite rude, you know. I would appreciate it if you removed yourself immediately.”

  “I assure you, sir, that I am not sitting on your leg.”

  “Then could you please request that whoever is, go and sit somewhere else now?”

  “There’s no one sitting on your leg, Mr. Pullman.”

  “I can’t move it,” he said reasonably.

  “That’s because it’s in a splint.” He thought about that for a moment and figured his ears were in worse shape than he’d imagined.

  “No, I believe someone is sitting on my leg.”

  “Mr. Pullman,” came the amused response. “Your leg was broken in four places when the automobile ran over you. You also have a concussion.”

  “An automobile ran over me?” Daniel asked, clearly doubtin
g the validity of that possibility.

  “Yes, sir. Early this afternoon.” Vague images of a shiny black Model T flashed through his mind.

  “I think I might remember that” he murmured, wondering why his memories were so unclear. “Why doesn’t it hurt? If I broke my leg?”

  “Laudanum,” she answered.

  “Oh, I can’t take laudanum,” he told her pleasantly. “Who are you?”

  “Your nurse.”

  “’Your nurse?’ That’s a very unusual name.”

  “I am Miss Hakes, your nurse.”

  “Well, Miss Hakes, your nurse. You sound very pretty. Are you? You see, I find that I am unable to open my eyes and, therefore, cannot look for myself.” He heard an exasperated sigh.

  “Whether I am or not makes little difference. How are you feeling, Mr. Pullman.”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “No pain?”

  “If I were in pain I wouldn’t feel very well now would I?” he asked patiently.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “Not especially. Are you?”

  “No. Hungry?”

  “Then you should eat something.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said if you’re hungry, you should eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then why did you say you were?”

  “Mr. Pullman, I was asking if you were hungry.”

  “No. I distinctly remember you asking me if I were thirsty.” He thought he heard a low growl. It seemed to him that if she were getting frustrated, then she should be a tad more clear in trying to get her point across.

  “Mr. Pullman, are you hungry?”

  “No, Ma’am, I am not.”

  “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  “I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you.”

  “Then, if you’ll excuse me-”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Miss Hakes.”

  “Miss Hakes, I don’t want any more laudanum.”