Enza

by Kristy K. James

  “You would be in a great deal of pain without it, Mr. Pullman.”

  “Then I suppose I shall have to live with the pain, Miss Hakes. I don’t want any more.” She didn’t respond for several long moments.

  “I’ll have to speak with the doctor about that,” she finally said.

  “Miss Hakes?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “My grandfather had a problem with laudanum after the war between the states. I don’t want that kind of problem.”

  “I – understand.”

  “Miss Hakes?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pullman?”

  “I still think you sound pretty.”

  ~~~

  “Jonafon? Jonafon?” Jonathon felt his hand being tugged and tried in vain to stay asleep. In his dream he was an esteemed war hero, fearlessly fighting in the Great War and killing every bloody Hun he saw. And there were so many of them he could have fought them the entire night. Maybe even a week! For every one he massacred, there were a dozen more to take his place.

  “Go away,” he mumbled into his pillow.

  “Jonafon. I had a bad dweam. I’m scawed.”

  With a mighty sigh, Jonathon let the last remnants of the dream slip away as he rolled to his side and flung the blanket back. Charles quickly scrambled up, snuggling against him and Jonathon could feel him trembling. After he smoothed the covers over his brother, he gently rubbed his back.

  “What did you dream about?” he asked sleepily, then yawned.

  “A monstu was unda my bed. He was gonna eat me!” Charles shuddered against his shoulder. Jonathon rolled his eyes in exasperation, but only said,

  “How could a monster fit under your bed? Monsters are huge. Way bigger than Pop, and Pop can’t even fit under your bed.”

  “It was unda my bed,” Charles repeated stubbornly, shuddering again. “It was big, an’ gween, an’ had big teef.”

  “I guess that would scare me, too,” he said sympathetically, yawning once again. “If I thought there was a monster under my bed. But I already told you, there isn’t enough room for a monster to hide.”

  “You sure?” came the hopeful response.

  “I’m positive. But if you’re still scared you can sleep with me tonight. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  “Okay. Fank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now go to sleep so we won’t be too tired tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Jonathon continued to pat Charles’ shoulder until he was sure he was asleep, then closed his own eyes hoping the dream would come back.

  Babies!

  ~~~

  Marcus looked through the sheer curtain that covered the oval, etched glass window in his front door. As usual there were few people out at this early hour, and he quickly opened the door and hurried across the porch, shivering against the cold.

  Peering up and down the street again, just to be sure that someone hadn’t come out, he ran down the steps to where his newspaper lay, about five yards from his house. In approximately the same spot where it could be found every morning, day after day. Even year after year, which was surprising, considering that he’d had a number of different delivery boys during that time.

  Snatching it up, he ran back into the house, the hem of the silk dressing gown his mother had sent at Christmas flapping about his knees. One of these days he would have to call the editor and demand that it be delivered to the porch.

  Slippered feet made no sound as they padded along the oriental runner that ran the length of the hallway leading to the kitchen. Marcus tossed the paper on the table with a soft thud on his way to the stove.

  Giving the pan of oatmeal a single stir, and deciding it had finally reached the proper consistency, he spooned a generous mound into a china bowl, topped it with several heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar and a little ice cold cream, then carried it, along with a cup of coffee, to the table.

  The telephone rang as he was about to be seated but, after the briefest of hesitations, he decided to ignore it. A man ought to be able to enjoy his breakfast in comfort and peace, oughtn’t he? If it was important, the caller would try again.

  Sighing, he opened the paper to get a better look at the picture of a new American submarine. War officials hoped it would be powerful enough to beat the dreaded U-Boat, he read, as he alternated bites of oatmeal with sips of scalding coffee.

  “Very impressive,” he thought, as he read the dimensions of the vessel. Not that he could imagine ever setting foot on it. In fact, he doubted the sanity of each and every man who could seal themselves in that floating tomb, far beneath the ocean’s surface, for days at a time.

  Just the thought of being trapped in an enclosed place like that, with no means of escape, was enough to pepper his forehead and upper lip with tiny beads of sweat. It brought the memory of the worst thing that had ever happened to him immediately to mind. Back to the afternoon he’d decided to play a trick on his father.

  He’d crept into the storeroom, where there were always two or three extra caskets. A family had just chosen the finest one and had gone home to prepare the body of their loved one for burial. His father was to bring it around shortly.

  So Marcus snuck in and, after quite a struggle, managed to get the lid open. It had been well built, solid wood stained a rich, glossy walnut, and buffed until it gleamed. His plan had been to hide in it until his father came to load it in the wagon.

  “Oh ho!” he had laughed, anticipating the surprise on his father’s face when he opened the lid and Marcus sat up and shouted, “Boo!”

  But the lid had come down with a bang and he worried that the sound might have given him away. When no one came running, he readied himself for the big moment. And waited. And waited.

  After what felt like an eternity, Marcus decided that the idea really hadn’t been such a good one after all and pushed on the lid to open it. Only it hadn’t budged. So he pushed with all his might and it still wouldn’t budge.

  Hindsight, and the common sense that naturally comes with age, might have suggested if he couldn’t easily open the lid while standing and using his body weight to help heft it up, then he certainly wouldn’t have been able to open it while lying on his back, with little room to move.

  But at nine years old, common sense hadn’t been in great supply.

  Even now, some eighteen years later, Marcus felt his heart begin to race, the panic and fear nearly as real now as it had been then.

  All told, his parents decided he’d spent less than thirty minutes in his confining hiding spot, his father waylaid by a talkative neighbor. By the time he’d been set free, though, he’d screamed himself hoarse, his hands bruised and bleeding from his struggle to escape.

  With a shudder, Marcus pushed the memory away. He never allowed himself to remember that incident, and silently cursed the photograph that had brought it back so vividly.

  He closed the paper abruptly and pushed it away. Now he would be able to finish his breakfast quicker than usual, which would be for the best. He had to pick up a body and deliver it to the church in about two hours anyway.

  In short order, he was walking into his small parlor, wearing one of his customary suits, this one a dark gray. Sometimes he thought it would be a pleasant change to don a pair of woolen trousers and a ratty old work shirt, but he took his reputation as an undertaker quite seriously and was, therefore, never caught looking anything less than professional.

  A glance at the grandfather clock that stood in the northwest corner of the room told him there was ample time until he had to leave. Enough so that he decided that it was a good time to look at the letter from Derek McGovern that had arrived in the post the day before.

  Carefully sliding the silver letter opener in, he made a quick, precise cut and took out a single sheet of paper. Another baby on the way?

  Since graduating from college, Derek had gone on to open a successful funeral parlor in Philadelphia. He’d also married a lovely young woman and, at last count, was the proud fathe
r of four young children, two boys and twin girls.

  Sometimes Marcus owned up to an occasional twinge of jealousy when comparing his lonely, solitary life to that of his friend. Not that he had the remotest desire to saddle himself with a passel of children. But still, sometimes he wondered if he might not be missing out on something. Then again, he’d never had a conversation with a woman when he hadn’t hemmed and hawed, and stammered and stuttered, so no, he probably was better off as he was. If he couldn’t, at the very least, talk with a woman, it was unlikely that he would ever get around to procreating with one.

  His attention back on the letter, he expected to hear about baby number five. Perhaps even another partnership offer. Those came about as regularly as birth announcements.

  But it was just another update on life in the big city, although in closing there was another offer to join him in business.

  ~~~

  Elliot turned the sign in the window so that it said, ‘CLOSED,’ locked the door behind him and took off walking at a brisk pace. Time had gotten away from him and if he didn’t hurry, he’d be late. That just wouldn’t do at all.

  As usual, Charlotte was bursting at the seams with people. Neighbors, friends, even strangers passing through town, stopping for a bite to eat or to put petrol in their automobiles. He waved to everyone who seemed on the verge of stopping him, hoping he looked like a man on a mission, because he really didn’t have time to make small talk. That being the case, he made a point of glancing at his pocket watch every few seconds.

  Elliot only slowed once as he crossed Lovett Street, when Burl Overmeyer commented on his closing up shop so early. He quickly replied that he was late for an appointment and kept right on going.

  Fortunately that was the only thing that threatened to detain him, and he rounded the corner at Seminary in good time. A few more feet and he was bounding up the stairs and letting himself in the front door.

  Kathleen waited patiently in the parlor, her tea set laid out neatly on the table. When Elliot entered the room she smiled brightly and ran over to him for a hug. He lifted her easily and held her close.

  “How’s my girl feeling this afternoon?”

  “Much better, Papa,” she said with a giggle. Kissing her forehead he was pleased to find no trace of the fever that had kept her home these past two days, and he sighed with relief.

  “Well that is good news,” he exclaimed, sitting her down gently. He reached up to loosen his tie and remove his wool jacket before easing down to sit on the floor in front of the miniature child’s table.

  Kathleen was already pouring tea from a tiny pot into equally tiny cups. Very small squares of sandwiches sat on plates that matched the rest of the service, and his young daughter refused to take her place in the small chair until she’d served him first.

  “I have to say that everything looks absolutely delicious, Miss Kathleen,” Elliot said honestly. “I was very glad to leave the store today so I could come home and have dinner with such a lovely young lady.”

  “Papa!” Kathleen giggled softly as her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink.

  “Well, it’s true. Now let me taste this tea because I worked up quite a thirst on my walk, you know.” He made a show of lifting the cup, far too small and dainty for his large hand, and took a sip. “Mmm. Very good. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Papa, your finger.”

  “Oops.” Elliot suppressed a grin as he stuck his little finger out, just as all well behaved ladies should. “I forgot.”

  “Well you shouldn’t,” she said sincerely. “You mustn’t drink your tea if you can’t drink it right.” From the expression on her face, Elliot knew that his wife had actually prepared their repast without help, and Kathleen preferred to pretend that she hadn’t.

  “I’ll try to remember that,” he promised, sitting the cup down and gazing at her. “So tell me, what have you been doing today?”

  “Oh lots of things!” She rattled on and on as they ate diminutive sandwiches, filled with thin slices of roast beef.

  Evidently Meg had continued to confine her to bed, until it was time to prepare for their tea party. Still, Kathleen had managed to take good care of her extensive collection of dolls, rather babies, and she gave her father a detailed account of how each of her charges were doing. Poor Bessie had managed to catch the cold that she, herself, was finally getting over. Annie had also begun to sneeze. Harriet had fallen and bumped her head, requiring a cool cloth so she wouldn’t bruise.

  “My, it sounds as though you’ve had a busy day.”

  “Oh yes, Papa, I have had!” She took a sip of her tea, pinky finger pointed straight out. “And have you been busy, too?”

  “My goodness, yes.”

  He proceeded to entertain her with a detailed description of one of his older customers. Mrs. Winfield suffered from the delusion that her wide, size nine foot would fit neatly into a slender size four. One of his challenges was to convince her that, due to the weather, her poor feet must have swelled, making it necessary to move to a larger pair.

  “She sounds silly,” Kathleen told him, laughing merrily when he held his hands apart to indicate how small a four was compared to a nine.

  “Well, between you and me, sweetheart, she is rather silly. But we must never say that to her.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t, Papa. Never.”

  “I know that. And I appreciate your discretion. We wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. Now, could I impose upon you to pour me some more of that delicious tea, please?”

  “What does ‘scretion’ mean, Papa?” she asked, carefully refilling his cup.

  “Hmm. Discretion means that I can trust you to keep our conversations between just you and me.”

  “And you can trust me, right?”

  “Of course I can trust you.”

  Elliot knew many men who wouldn’t be caught dead having an afternoon tea party with their daughter, but he thought it was great fun. Not only did it enable him to spend some special time with her, but it also made Kathleen feel special to know that her Papa would close up shop an hour early just to be with her.

  “Are you ready for dessert, Papa?” she asked, wiping her fingers daintily on an embroidered napkin.

  “Didn’t you know?” he leaned close to whisper in her ear. “That’s the very best part of a tea party. But don’t tell your mother I said that or she’ll have my head.”

  More giggles as Kathleen sliced a piece of devil’s food cake, no more than two or three bites big, and carefully laid it on his plate. No, Elliot wouldn’t trade moments like this for all the treasure in the world.

  A flash of movement behind Kathleen caught his eye. From the doorway Meg stood watching them, a tender smile on her face. Elliot winked at her then turned his attention back to his hostess.

  ~~~

  The scent of apple pie and fried chicken assaulted Colby’s nose the moment he walked in the front door and he closed his eyes in anticipation. Two of his most favorite foods, and both of them on the same day. Anticipation mingled with unease over the reason behind the treats. Anna never did anything nice for him unless she wanted something. He only hoped it wasn’t too extravagant because, of course, he would have to agree to whatever it was. Or bear her wrath over the coming weeks.

  A glance at the grandfather clock in the parlor told him that he had about a quarter of an hour before supper would be served and so he crept quietly down the hall to his office. Putting off the inevitable, he knew, but at the moment he couldn’t face her and another of her selfish requests.

  A new dress, he figured, sinking into his chair and closing his eyes. She had enough dresses, skirts and blouses to clothe ten women, yet she always wanted more, which explained the tattered clothes he, himself, wore. By the time Anna finished spending every cent he earned, there wasn’t much left over for the things he needed.

  “I thought I heard you come in.” Colby looked up to see his wife in the doorway, the pinched smile he’d come to recognize through the y
ears in place, and he very nearly grimaced. She wanted more than simple garments.

  “Just a moment ago,” he said weakly.

  “Have you had a difficult day?” she asked, forcing compassion into her voice. He had to stifle a groan when she rounded the desk, coming to stand behind his chair.

  “Not especially,” he murmured, closing his eyes when she reached out and began to rub his shoulders.

  “I made fried chicken and apple pie for you,” she said softly.

  “I know. I could smell it when I came in. What’s the occasion?”

  “Does there have to be a reason for me to make a special meal for my husband?” she asked, her high pitched laugh grating on his nerves.

  “Usually,” he said under his breath. He let his head drop as she continued the massage. Oh but it felt good. It had been such a long time. More than three months this time. Not since this past Christmas, in fact, because she’d wanted the new buffet for the dining room. And had gotten it. He truly hoped whatever it was she wanted wasn’t quite so costly this time.

  “So tell me about your day, Colby.” Dear Lord, he thought despondently, it was probably twice as expensive as the buffet.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” he sighed. “Just some visits to members of the congregation who can’t get out or are sick. The same thing I do every day.”

  “You’re a good minister, Colby.” He felt her kiss the top of his head and squeezed his eyes closed. “So who did you visit?”

  Wishing her interest weren’t contrived, he sighed and told her about his day, knowing she wouldn’t let up until he did. Knowing that he would play along with her game because he lacked the control to do otherwise.

  “I really don’t know how you do it,” she said, when he’d finished telling her about Archie Baker’s broken ankle. “All those sick people. It would drive me insane. But not you. You have the patience of a saint. No wonder everyone in the church loves you.”

  Not everyone, he thought, as she took his hand and pulled him along to the dining room. Usually they took their meals in the kitchen, unless they had company, which was seldom. Or unless Anna wanted something, which she very obviously did.