They Called Her Mrs. Doc.

by Janette Oke

  “Only folks I know who have house help are the ones sick abed, having new babies where things ain’t quite right, or they got ’em too many little ones to handle alone,” said Mrs. Clement.

  Cassie refused to blush.

  “Every woman I know has household help,” she said with a hint of defiance.

  “Well, it ain’t done here,” went on Mrs. Clement, her teeth clicking noisily. “Folks would all wonder jest what was wrong with ya.”

  Cassie did flush then, but before she could make any defense Mrs. Clement spoke again. “Ya don’t know how to cook or keep house?” she asked without embarrassment.

  “Of course I know,” said Cassie with a slight lift of her head. “My mother saw to it that I learned all of the arts of—”

  “Then why ain’t ya aimin’ to do it?” asked the good woman.

  Cassie swallowed hard. Her green eyes met the sharp smoky blue eyes of the woman before her. “I will be doing it,” she responded almost coolly.

  The woman nodded, clicked her teeth, and stood to her feet. “Guess I gotta git those potatoes peeled fer supper,” she said, and left Cassie alone on the porch. Cassie never mentioned the idea of household help again—not even to Samuel.

  Cassie knew she should be interested in the little house Samuel said was taking shape nicely. She supposed that he expected her to walk the short distance daily to see for herself the progress being made. But for some reason, Cassie could not bring herself to do that.

  She found a quiet, almost cool spot behind the house where the breeze sometimes teased her hair and the sun did not beat down with the same vigor. There she busied herself with hemming new curtains from some material she had brought along. Her excuse seemed to be sufficient to keep prying eyes and wagging tongues from condemning the new bride.

  For several days she saw Samuel only at mealtime and at the end of long, busy days when he was almost too tired from his labors to even bring her up-to-date on his doings. Anxious to be in their new quarters, he had hired some help, and from the pounding that Cassie heard as she hid herself away on the sagging back porch, it seemed indeed that progress must be taking place.

  Then one day as Cassie stitched her last curtain hem, a grinning Samuel appeared and announced joyfully that the little house was ready for occupancy. Cassie braced herself for the worst and allowed her things to be loaded in the buggy. Then she stepped up, Samuel’s arm giving her aid, and sat stiffly aboard while the little mare bore them down the dusty street to their first home.

  Cassie was unprepared for the change of its appearance. The fence had been mended and the walk cleared. The white painted exterior had been restored, the windows fixed and the tattered curtain gone from view. Proudly Samuel helped her from the buggy, then whisked her up into his arms and carried her across the threshold as he had promised. Cassie could feel the tears forming droplets in her eyes. She didn’t know why she was crying. She only knew that something deep within her was responding in some way to the man whom she loved.

  He placed her on her feet and grinned broadly. “Our parlor,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  Cassie looked about her at the simple furniture. Two rockers sat before the fireplace and a sofa covered with a bright quilt graced the far wall. In the background a bureau stood, new and unscarred, before a staid white-painted wall. No rugs, no curtains, no pictures yet softened the bareness. Cassie let her glance slide over everything Samuel had provided, and suddenly the woman in her flamed into life. She had a house. Simple—yet clean. She would make it into a home for Samuel. Not elegant—not even pretty—but a home nonetheless. She turned to her husband and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Thank you,” she choked out, unable to say more.

  But even then her inner being whispered, “I’m sure I can be fine here—until you decide it’s time to move back to Montreal.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Adjustments

  Cassie quickly busied herself with adding “touches” to their little frame home while Samuel set up his practice and became too busy almost at once. On some days, Cassie felt as if she had been deserted. Samuel was gone from daybreak to past sundown, and after her daily chores had been completed, there was really nothing for her to do.

  She refused to sit idly on her back porch, but finding enough to fill the hours of the day was difficult. She knew no one of her own age with similar interests and, worst of all, Samuel still had not breathed one word about returning to the East.

  The townsfolk had been friendly enough, but Cassie felt a bit strange with them. Unconsciously she held herself apart, feeling that they could not possibly understand her background, her breeding—thus, her thoughts and feelings.

  One day as she went to the store for a few items, she happened to pass a cluster of women. They were unaware of her presence until she was well within earshot.

  “She’s a bit high-hat,” she heard Mrs. Clement click. “But the West will take thet outta her quick enough.”

  Cassie bit her lip and hurried on. But she knew the woman had been speaking of her—and another wall was built.

  So Cassie stayed at home in her own little kitchen as much as she could. And even though she detested household chores of any sort, she soon learned that they were one way she could pass the time.

  She grew more and more lonely and did not know where to turn for friendship. She had to get out. She had to. Yet where could she go? What could she do?

  One morning as she strolled past the little community church, the thought came to her that maybe here she could find something to do. Without a pause, she turned up the walk to the parsonage.

  “Oh my dear,” said the kind elderly wife of the pastor. “We do need help—in so many areas. What would you be interested in doing?”

  Cassie hardly knew. She had attended church all her life, but she had never really been involved in any active role. She had left the many tasks to others.

  “I—I’m not sure,” she responded with a flush. “Do—do you have any suggestions?”

  “Well, we do need a teacher for the children.”

  “I—I have never taught, but I—I guess I could try.”

  “Wonderful!” the good woman beamed. “I’m sure that Mrs. Wilma Canterbury would be glad to give you suggestions. She has been teaching a class, but with the new twins …” She let her voice trail off, but Cassie was able to complete the thought on her own.

  “I don’t suppose you know how to read music?” the woman went on rather hesitantly.

  Cassie nodded her head. “I have had many years of lessons,” she admitted.

  At that the lady really beamed. “Oh, my husband will be so pleased,” she enthused. “We don’t have an organist.”

  “But I only play the piano,” Cassie was quick to explain.

  “Organ. Piano. No difference.” The woman was determined. “They both have keys.”

  “But there is a difference.” Cassie was sure. “The organ has pipes and foot pedals and—”

  “Not our organ,” the woman said, shaking her head. “It just has pedals and you pump.”

  “Oh my,” said Cassie, wondering what she might have gotten herself into. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Well, you can practice as much as you like. The church is always open,” Mrs. Ray said, seeming to feel that the issue had been nicely cared for.

  Cassie nodded mutely and was about to take her leave when the older woman added, “Are you coming to the Sewing Circle on Thursday?”

  “I—I don’t remember hearing about it,” Cassie responded.

  “We have it here—every first Thursday of the month. We meet at one o’clock and we need all the hands we can get.”

  Cassie nodded. She felt quite confident of her needle skills, thanks to her mother’s insistence.

  “Of course we don’t just sew,” the woman went on. “We have a prayer time and a missions study—and we do a bit of neighborly visitin’ too,” she admitted with a smile.

  Cassie’s eyes sudd
enly brightened. She was so lonely and so bored. A visit with neighborhood ladies sounded like a wonderful idea.

  “I’ll be there,” she said, a hint of enthusiasm in her voice.

  That night she could hardly wait to tell Samuel about her day’s adventure and of how she would be practicing the little pump organ at the church and teaching the children under the tutorage of Wilma Canterbury and meeting to sew and visit with the missions ladies. But as she waited for him so she could dish the simple supper meal, Bobby Adams ran up her walk to rap loudly on the door.

  In his hand he held a bright shiny nickel and he studied it carefully as he spoke to her.

  “Doc Smith asked me to run over an’ tell ya he can’t get home yet. He jest got called outta town to doctor somebody thet got his leg caught or somethin’,” said the boy, his eyes constantly on his nickel.

  “When will Dr. Smith be home?” asked Cassie, disappointment welling up and showing in her eyes and voice.

  “I dunno. He didn’t say. Oh, yeah. He said don’t hold supper, he’ll likely be late. Thet’s all he said.”

  The boy looked anxious to be off to spend his nickel, so Cassie thanked him and let him go.

  She couldn’t eat the supper. The few bites she took kept sticking in her throat, so she finally gave up, cleared the table, and looked for something to read. There was nothing new, and she had read her treasured books so many times over that she couldn’t keep her mind on them. She wished she could go for a long walk in the cool of the evening, but it was another thing that simply wasn’t done around here. She knew no one to visit. There was no play, no opera, no anything. Cassie went early to bed and cried herself to sleep—again.

  She didn’t hear Samuel slip quietly into bed very late. During their hurried breakfast the next morning, Cassie tried to tell him about her new activities, but somehow the glow of it was gone, though Samuel was interested and approving.

  After Cassie had finished her household duties, she slipped on a bonnet and hurried off to the little church at the edge of town. At first she felt self-conscious about opening the door and walking across the plain board floor to the little organ.

  Carefully and almost stealthily she lifted the lid to expose the keyboard, then let her fingers tentatively press down a key.

  Nothing happened.

  She extended her hand a little more aggressively and tried another key with a bit more force. Still nothing happened. Suddenly Cassie remembered that she was not dealing with a piano but a pump organ. There would be no sound until she provided some air for the bellows.

  She reached down and ran a hand over the worn bench to check it for dust. It wasn’t too bad, though it was dusty. She swished her hand back and forth in hopes of removing most of the problem and then settled herself on the bench, carefully arranging her skirts, and felt for the pedals with her foot.

  There were no pedals.

  Puzzled, she stood again and began to peer around this way and that. After some time she discovered a little door at the lower front of the organ. But the door had no handle that Cassie could see.

  She was about to give up and go home when the church door opened, spilling bright sunshine across the plain wooden floor. It startled Cassie and a little gasp escaped her.

  “S’cuse me, my dear,” said a kindly voice Cassie recognized as that of the gentle old pastor. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Mrs. Ray said you had agreed to play the organ for us, and when we saw you coming to the church she sent me on out to make sure you had the hymnbook. We’ve only got one with the music. Rest of the folks just use the words.”

  Cassie looked around. She could see no hymnbook.

  “It’s there—in the organ bench,” the pastor explained. “Can’t tell you how thankful we are to have someone who can play. You just go ahead and practice all you’ve a mind to. Here’s a list of the hymns we’ll sing on Sunday—unless someone requests a favorite.”

  Cassie took the lengthy list with trembling fingers.

  “We like to sing,” the pastor told her. “Only bright spot in a difficult week for some of the people.”

  Cassie nodded.

  “It will make the singing so much more enjoyable for folks. Can’t thank you enough for playing for us. And now I’d best leave you alone and let you do your practicing.” The pastor turned and was almost to the door before Cassie could get up the courage to call after him.

  “Pastor Ray!”

  He turned.

  With some embarrassment Cassie managed to tell him, “I—I’ve never played an organ before.”

  “So Mrs. Ray said. But that’s fine. You’ll do just fine if you know the notes for a piano. It’s the same—”

  Cassie interrupted with eyes lowered, “Could—could you show me how to find the—the bellow pedals, please.”

  With a chuckle the good man came back and showed Cassie how to lift up the little door and drop the foot pedals into position; then he chuckled softly again and left her on her own.

  Cassie made a good attempt of accompanying the congregational singing the next Sunday. She flushed a few times over her errors, but the people did not seem to notice. They sang heartily and Cassie wondered if they even heard her mistakes.

  Samuel seemed tremendously proud of her, and that made Cassie feel good. He had been pleased to learn that she would be joining the ladies of the Mission Circle and helping with the Sunday school class.

  “It seems my little wife is becoming one of the church pillars,” he teased, and in spite of her remonstrance, Cassie had to smile.

  But inwardly she answered, There seems to be no choice. I have no other way to fill my dreary days while you linger on in this little spot at the edge of the world.

  Had Cassie felt free to do so, she would have spoken the words aloud to her young husband, but she did not wish to sow discord. Their brief times together were too precious to spoil with quarrels. Besides, she hoped daily that he would soon be suggesting they return to the comforts and possibilities of the city. Didn’t city folk need doctors too?

  As the weeks marched slowly by with lumbering steps, Cassie watched and waited for each letter from home or from Abigail. When one did arrive she grasped it as her lifeline, read it over and over, and then spent the next hours crying because of her intense loneliness for those she had left behind.

  The letters were no comfort to her. They were a constant pain. Either she was waiting with impatience for one to arrive or else she was grieving because one had. And between yearning and sorrowing, Cassandra allowed herself no peace.

  When fall came, the leaves on the few small trees that the little town possessed turned gold and left the shelter of the branches to dance freely on the prairie winds. The hot days slowly cooled to bearable, and then one morning as Cassie crossed to the little church for her daily practice, she could feel a definite sting in the morning wind.

  “I do believe we are heading for winter,” she said to herself, raising her eyes to study the mountains on the horizon.

  Sure enough, there on the slopes lay the whiteness of winter snow.

  “Oh dear,” breathed Cassie. “I had so hoped we would be back East before winter settled in. Perhaps we will get snowbound here until spring.”

  She hastened her steps as though that would help Samuel more quickly make the long-awaited decision to return East.

  She did not spend as long playing the organ that morning. The little building’s stove was not in operation yet and her fingers soon became numb with the cold. She hurried home and built up her own fire in the kitchen stove. She felt the need to warm her thoughts as well as thaw her bones.

  Tears stung her eyes as she stood at the kitchen window looking out across the expanse of dry prairie grasses that bowed and lifted in the wind. “We are stuck here,” she whispered. “I just know we will be stuck here. We won’t be able to go home now until spring.”

  She let the tears run down her cheeks and fall heedlessly to the front of her gown. “What ever will I do?” she cried. �
��How will I ever manage to survive a prairie winter shut away here in this little house with the wind howling around the corners and Samuel always away on call? I will never make it. I just know I won’t. I don’t think that he has any—any idea of how difficult—” And Cassie put her hands over her face and wept for the comfort of her mother and home.

  It was another three weeks before the first flakes of snow began to drift around the little town, burying the bare brownness of the yards and garden spots. By then Cassie was resigned to staying where she was, but she still hated the thought. Deep down inside a new storm was brewing. She was a bit angry with Samuel. Her anger swung from hurt to frustration to bitterness, and the enemy of her soul used all three to feed her loneliness and dissatisfaction.

  “I can’t do a thing about it now,” she told herself, “but come spring, I am going home.”

  Samuel must have noticed the difference in his young bride. Or he most certainly would have if his busy practice had given him time to notice anything. But he continued on in the same manner, enthusiastically leaving the house early each morning and whistling his way home again at the end of a long, yet rewarding day. On Sundays he tried to free the day the best he could so he might attend the morning worship service and then share the rest of the time with Cassie. It was the only day that Cassie felt as if she had a husband—and even then it was often interrupted by some emergency.

  Cassie planned over and over to use one of those Sundays to tell Samuel exactly how she felt about his West, but his never-changing cheerfulness always made her feel like a whiner, and she couldn’t get the words through her choked throat.

  “There’s no use telling him right now,” she would reprimand herself. “We have a whole winter to face with only each other as company. It will be even more difficult if we quarrel. But come spring—come spring I’ll ask Samuel to take me home,” she determined, breaking the covenant she had made with herself not to force Samuel’s hand but to wait until he realized that the West was an impossible place to live. Now he seemed to be so wrapped up in his work that he was blind to everything else, she decided. She knew that if her situation was to change, she would have to demand a release from the horrors of the little town.