You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  Charlie grinned. “I think you’ll want to see this.” He set the box on the counter and opened it with a flourish. Inside lay a shimmering bolt of white satin alongside a froth of matching tulle.

  Wedding dress fabric.

  My wedding dress fabric.

  My breath caught as I gingerly touched it, light and silky under my fingertips, like a waterfall of the richest cream. My throat convulsed in a swallow.

  Charlie looked at me with concern. “What’s wrong? It’s what you ordered, right?”

  “Yes,” I breathed. “It’s perfect. Absolutely per—”

  The fabric swam before my eyes. The wooden floor tilted. From a far distance I heard Charlie say, “Sis? You all right?”

  Then all was blackness.

  “How long has this been going on?” Charlie demanded, jaw clenched, when I’d recovered enough to sit on the stool behind the counter. “First you pass out in the middle of a movie theater, for Pete’s sake, and now this. How many other times has it happened?”

  “None. Don’t yell at me.” Mercifully the shop was empty of customers.

  “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

  My stomach clenched. “Don’t look at me that way. It isn’t my fault.”

  “It is your fault that you haven’t seen a doctor. Jeepers, Marjorie, something could be seriously wrong with you. What in blazes are you waiting for?”

  “It seems like a silly thing to bother a doctor about. Ladies faint all the time.”

  Charlie slapped his palm on the counter. “Who faints? Name one person we know.”

  I squirmed. “I don’t know . . . Ladies do.”

  “Well, you don’t. This isn’t some Victorian novel, or one of your blasted movies.” He rubbed his forehead. “Wait here.”

  He shuffled off. Outside the front window, two women stopped to admire the dress on display. Please don’t come in, I pleaded silently. Please, just move along and come back later, after my brother has finished raking me over the coals.

  He returned with a glass of water, which I accepted with shaky hands.

  “Charlie, you can’t tell Pop or Frances. They’ll worry needlessly.”

  “I’ll tell anybody I want to. If you’re too stubborn to go get yourself checked out, then—”

  The doorbell jangled, interrupting Charlie’s tirade.

  “Morning, ladies,” he mumbled. Then he leaned toward me and hissed, “Dr. Perkins. Today.”

  “I promise. Just don’t tell the folks.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Today.” He nodded toward the customers and retreated as I glued on a smile, praying that my ghostly pallor wouldn’t frighten away the customers. Later I used the telephone in Pop’s office to call Dr. Perkins, partly out of concern for my health, but mostly to keep Charlie from yelling at me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What’s this about fainting, then? Sounds like it’s becoming something of a habit with you.” Kindly Dr. Perkins had been our family physician since I was a child. The comfortable examination room had a familiar smell of camphor and rubbing alcohol. I supposed I was too old to earn a lollipop by not crying.

  “Only twice,” I said. “I think it’s the heat. I feel perfectly well otherwise.”

  “Hmm.” He tapped my knee, checking my reflexes. “I hear wedding bells will be ringing soon. I believe Dr. Brownlee is the lucky fellow?”

  “Yes. We’re to be married in September.”

  “Ah. Are you feeling anxious about the wedding? About marriage in general?”

  “I suppose I am a wee bit apprehensive,” I admitted. “My stepmother’s idea of a wedding is much more elaborate than mine. However, she’s taken on most of the preparations, so I can’t complain. As for marriage in general, well, I couldn’t hope for a better match.” That’s what everyone said. Who was I to contradict them?

  “That’s good news, my dear.” Dr. Perkins pressed his fingers behind my ears and along my throat. “The life of a doctor’s wife has its challenges, as my Gretchen says, but also its rewards.” He pressed the cold steel stethoscope against my chest. “Breathe in. Now out.”

  At last he straightened up and removed the stethoscope from his ears. “Well, Miss Marjorie, the good news is I can’t find anything wrong. Your blood pressure’s good, your lungs sound fine. You appear to be in perfect health.”

  “Just as I thought.” I gathered up my handbag and gloves. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  He held up a hand. “Not so fast. I’m recommending further testing.”

  I blanched. “Why? You just said I’m in perfect health.”

  “I said you seem healthy. But I can’t dismiss these random fainting spells of yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Your mother suffered from a congenital heart condition.”

  I deflated. “Yes, I know.”

  “As I recall, her condition, too, went undetected until—”

  “Yes.” My throat tightened, willing him not to continue. I was ten years old when my mother died of sudden heart failure immediately after Helen’s birth. Until then, no one had known she had a weak heart, not even she.

  “These things can be hereditary,” Dr. Perkins’s gentle voice continued. “Given your family history, we must rule out any hidden problems. There are some new, more sophisticated tests available now that detect problems early. But I’m not equipped to perform them here in this office.” He pulled a pad of paper from his desk drawer and jotted something on it. “Dr. Cragin is one of the best cardiologists in the Middle West. You’ll be in excellent hands with him. See Mrs. McLean at the front desk on your way out. She’ll make the arrangements.”

  “I’m not familiar with the name. Is he at Kerryville General?”

  “Oh, no, dear.” The doctor ripped the paper from the pad. “He’s at the big university hospital in Chicago.”

  “Chicago?” Frances said when I broke the news after dinner that evening. She set aside her knitting project—a white tennis sweater intended for Richard. “Dr. Perkins is sending you all the way to Chicago?” It might as well have been Timbuktu, the way she said it.

  “I don’t have to go,” I replied, though secretly the idea thrilled me. The Chicago part, not the medical part.

  “Don’t be a goose. Of course you’re going. If the doctor says you need tests, then you need tests. What if something’s seriously wrong with your heart? Mercy, that’s the last thing we need right now.” She resumed knitting, needles clicking with a vengeance.

  “You make it sound as if I did it on purpose. Anyway, Dr. Perkins himself said the tests are merely a precaution. I’ll end up traveling all the way to Chicago only to have this Cragin fellow confirm I’m in perfect health.”

  Frances clutched her knitting to her chest as if it were her heart causing all the trouble. “I don’t understand you, Marjorie. One minute you’re moping around, complaining that Kerryville is small and boring. And now you have a chance to go to Chicago, and you’re balking?”

  “I’m not balking. Just being practical.”

  “If you were so healthy, you wouldn’t have fainted at the Orpheum.” Thankfully it appeared Charlie had not mentioned the second incident at the store. “It’s best to get a clean bill of health now, well before the wedding. Charlie and Helen will manage fine while we’re gone.”

  “We?” I hadn’t pictured Frances going along for the ride.

  Her face brightened. “We’ll do some shopping while we’re there. We need gifts for the bridesmaids. The selection in the Kerryville shops is simply dismal.”

  The weight of wedding chores settled on my shoulders. “When will I have time to shop? I’ll be at the hospital, remember? Getting tests done on my heart.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Marjorie. We can take an extra day or two. I’m sure your father won’t mind.”

  “I’m sure he’ll mind it when the he sees the hotel bill, on top of the medical bills.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Frances muttered. But on that point she didn’t disagree.
r />   “Besides,” I said, “the wedding is still months and months away.”

  “Four months, two weeks, and two days.” She jabbed a knitting needle in my direction. “The sooner, the better.”

  Richard unexpectedly presented a solution to the money problem a few days later, when we went on a riverside picnic. “No need for a hotel,” he assured me as he poured coffee from a vacuum flask. “You and Frances can stay with my father’s aunt, Gloria Brownlee. She lives just a short distance from the university hospital.”

  “I’m sure your great-aunt wouldn’t appreciate complete strangers landing on her doorstep,” I protested, reaching for a cookie.

  “You’re hardly strangers,” he said. “You’ll be a Brownlee soon. Besides, she lives alone in a big house, except for a nurse. She’d appreciate the company, and you’ll all have a chance to become better acquainted before the wedding.”

  I squirmed. “I don’t know, Richard. I don’t want to impose.”

  “Nonsense. You need to have those tests done. Why not kill two birds with one stone and visit Aunt Gloria as well?”

  “I wish you could go with me instead of Frances.”

  Richard reached across the plaid horsehair blanket and touched my hand. “If I could get away from the hospital, sweetheart, you know I would. But we’re terribly short-staffed and—”

  “I know. I’m being silly.”

  We sat in silence for a while, listening to the chirping of sparrows. The truth was, I didn’t want Richard to go with me, either. I wanted to travel to the city alone and savor the sights and sounds, enjoy one last fling of independence before married life. But few things sounded less appealing than going to Chicago with Frances to take care of medical tests and wedding chores.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said, after some thought. “If I don’t have any more fainting spells, then I won’t go to Chicago. But if I have another one—even one—I’ll go willingly. I’ll even stay with your great-aunt, if she’ll have me.”

  Richard frowned and adjusted his spectacles. “If Doc Perkins said—”

  “He said I’m fine. The tests are just a precaution.”

  His lips tightened. “One more episode and you’ll go willingly?”

  “Willingly.”

  “No arguments?”

  “No arguments.”

  “Even once? Even just a tiny dizzy spell? Even just a—a loud sneeze?”

  “I promise.”

  He sighed, but I knew I’d won. I leaned back onto the blanket and nibbled on the cookie. There’d be no more “episodes,” I felt sure of it. So there’d be no way in blazes I’d be going to Chicago. No way in blazes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “All aboard for Chicago.” The conductor leaned out of the car and swung his lantern in the midday drizzle.

  At the last minute, Frances had been laid low with a bad cold. So I was on my own after all. “Don’t talk to strangers,” she’d rasped from her bed. “Telephone the very minute you get to Miss Brownlee’s. And mind you make a good impression. You’ll be joining her family soon.”

  While Charlie paid for my ticket, Helen clung to me like a barnacle. “I’ll miss you so much.”

  I peeled her arms from around my neck. “I’ll be back before you know it.” My confidence was pure bravado. I’d never traveled to a city alone, and had only the vaguest notion of what I’d do when I got there.

  “Thanks for finishing my dress,” Helen said. “I’ll be the prettiest girl at Spring Fling. I hope you get home in time to do my hair.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “Richard should have come to see you off.”

  “He can’t miss his morning rounds, goose. His patients need him.”

  “Still,” she said, “he should have tried.”

  I playfully tugged her braid, not wanting to admit I’d been thinking the same thing.

  Charlie walked up and handed me my ticket. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he instructed. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  I gave him a peck on the cheek, then climbed aboard for the two-hour train ride to Chicago.

  The train lurched and I lurched with it, nearly sprawling in the lap of a startled gentleman huddled behind a newspaper. “Beg your pardon,” I stammered. He peered at me over the top of his spectacles, then snapped his newspaper back into place.

  I found a seat next to a woman wearing a dove-gray traveling suit and matching fedora. Something about her appearance sparked a cringe-inducing memory of the Hospital Auxiliary tea a few days earlier. Richard had been remarkably sanguine about the matter, under the circumstances, but I wondered if Frances would ever forgive me for disgracing myself, and therefore her, in front of the esteemed Mrs. Cavendish.

  That fateful Tuesday, after burnt toast, a torn stocking, and a futile attempt to wrestle my long, thick, wavy brown hair into something resembling a style, I felt defeated from the get-go. Then a sudden thundershower had caught me without an umbrella en route to the tea.

  The Cavendish home, in what Frances called the “better” part of Kerryville, loomed in half-timbered glory behind a circular driveway. A maid swung open the heavy door, accepted my dripping wrap, and directed me through an arched doorway into a parlor filled with impeccably dressed women. Thick carpeting and velvet draperies gave the room a hushed quality in spite of the crowd. Mrs. Cavendish, whom I’d only briefly met once before, glided toward me.

  “My dear, how lovely of you to come all this way on such a beastly afternoon. Do come in.” To the assembled flock she announced, “Ladies, may I introduce Miss Marjorie Corrigan. Miss Corrigan is the bride-elect of our fine young Dr. Brownlee.” A low-pitched hum ensued. Several ladies nodded coolly in what I hoped meant approval. Dampness formed under the arms of my white cotton voile frock, snatched from the front-window display at Pop’s store after every other dress in my closet had been considered and rejected by me or by Frances, who’d hovered all morning as if I were headed for tea at the White House with Grace Coolidge herself.

  Mrs. Cavendish steered me toward a white-clothed table spread with silver platters bearing delicate crustless sandwiches and dainty pastries. I didn’t think I could swallow a bite, but placed a teacake on a plate. A woman standing near a gleaming teapot produced a porcelain cup and saucer.

  “Lemon?”

  “Yes, please.” Balancing cup and saucer, plate, fork, and lace-edged napkin, I made my way to a brocade armchair in a quiet corner. Too late I realized the armchair sat next to an enormous palmetto plant that thrust its annoying fronds in my face.

  “So you’re the future Mrs. Brownlee,” crowed a large woman with a pince-nez as she settled herself on a nearby sofa. “How pleased we were to hear of Dr. Brownlee’s engagement. Such a fine young doctor.” I nodded, mouth full of dry cake. She continued, “I’m Eleanor Steiglitz. My husband, Dr. Herman Steiglitz, is head of podiatry at Kerryville General. Perhaps you’ve met my daughter, Constance. She’s away at Bryn Mawr now.”

  I swallowed the cake with some difficulty and dabbed at my lips with the napkin. “How do you do.”

  “And this is Mavis Gleener, wife of Dr. William Gleener. Obstetrics.” She gestured to a thin, rabbit-faced woman who joined her on the sofa.

  “We’re so looking forward to having your help with the bazaar,” Mrs. Steiglitz continued.

  My teacup halted in mid-air. “Bazaar?”

  “The Hospital Auxiliary Spring Bazaar. Surely Dr. Brownlee has mentioned it.”

  “Oh . . . yes. The bazaar.” I wracked my brain for any mention of such an event and made a mental note to ask the Fine Young Doctor about it later. “I’ll check my calendar and see if I’ll be available.”

  “My dear, all of the doctors’ wives help with the bazaar,” Mrs. Steiglitz pronounced in ringing tones. “It’s our major fund-raiser of the year.”

  “We’ll be setting up all week. Do you prefer pricing or folding?” Mrs. Gleener cut in.

  “Well, you see, I have a job,” was my feeble answer. “So
I’m not usually available during the day.”

  “A job? How inconvenient.” Mrs. Gleener and Mrs. Steiglitz exchanged a glance. “Well, there’s always the summer cotillion. I’ll introduce you to the chairman. Diantha, darling,” she called discreetly across the room. “Come meet your new recruit.”

  “Cotillion? Oh, I don’t think—Ow!” I turned my head too quickly and was poked in the eye by a palmetto frond. Tea sloshed into my lap.

  “Oh, dear, Miss Corrigan, do be careful,” said Mrs. Steiglitz.

  “I’m all right,” I stammered. “It isn’t too hot.” I patted my skirt with the napkin.

  “I meant, be careful of the plant,” she clarified. “That’s Lucille Cavendish’s prize-winning palmetto. It won first place at the county horticultural exhibition three years in a row.”

  I eyed the offending plant and leaned away from its menacing green tentacles.

  Mrs. Cavendish suddenly materialized. “Ah. I see you’re admiring my Ravenia rivularis.” She lovingly stroked a frond. “Dr. Cavendish and I brought it back from our travels. I’m told it’s a very rare specimen.” She beamed at me. “Have you an interest in horticulture, Miss Corrigan?”

  “Then you simply must join the Garden Committee,” Mrs. Gleener broke in before I could answer. “We donate all of the flowers on the hospital grounds. This year we’re doing zinnias. Simply acres of zinnias.”

  “Where is my new cotillion recruit?” asked the tall, fair-haired woman called Diantha.

  “She’s right here. She’s engaged to marry our young Dr. Brownlee.”

  “Marvelous. How is your quadrille?”

  “But I never said . . .” I faltered. Suddenly a clear vision of life as a Kerryville doctor’s wife panned across my mind: an endless round of committees and teas and teas to plan the committees and committees to plan the teas. The doctors’ wives circled me like a pack of well-dressed wolves eyeing fresh prey.

  Mrs. Cavendish turned to me with wide eyes. “Oh, by the way, Miss Corrigan. Eugenia Wardlow and I were speaking just the other day, and your name came up.”