You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  “It isn’t normal for a healthy young woman to faint with such frequency.” The doctor leaned back in his chair, holding his fingertips in a V formation. “Have you been under any unusual strain recently? Any problems of a mental or emotional nature?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing I can think of.”

  “At our first appointment you mentioned you’re getting married soon. Are you feeling anxious about that?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I see,” he said in that doctorly way that means nothing and everything. My glance strayed to a calendar on his desk, where “May 18, 1928” glowed in red type. Less than four months to my wedding day.

  “Not anxious at all.”

  But at those words, my insides gave a lurch. If I’d been Pinocchio, my nose would have grown an inch. My mind flashed back over my fainting spells. That day in the theater, mooning over John Gilbert’s portrayal of wartime romance. The day my wedding dress fabric arrived. The day of the Hospital Auxiliary tea. The visit to Field’s bridal department.

  Suddenly I realized with lightning clarity that every dizzy episode had happened when I was contemplating my upcoming marriage. No wonder I didn’t like to think about it or talk about it. I was allergic to my own wedding.

  A strange sort of horror mixed with hilarity gripped my chest, and I nearly burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

  Dr. Cragin’s forehead creased. “Miss Corrigan? Are you all right?”

  I had no desire to discuss my premarital misgivings with Dr. Cragin. I needed time and space to sort things out. I swallowed hard and tried to speak normally. “You—you said you wanted to run more tests.”

  “I do, but not on your heart.” He tapped a pen on his desk. “When tests come back clear, as yours did, we start looking for other possible sources of the problem.” He pressed a little box on his desk. “Nurse, please summon Dr. Finkelburg. I believe he’s waiting for us.” He turned back to me. “Dr. Finkelburg is one of my esteemed colleagues. He’s a doctor of psychoanalysis. I’d like to have him run some tests to determine your mental state.”

  “Psychoanalysis?” I sputtered, staring at Dr. Cragin in disbelief. “I don’t need a psychoanalyst. I’m not crazy.”

  “Of course you’re not,” he soothed. “But since I can find nothing wrong with you physically, I believe your attacks must have some psychological cause. Dr. Finkelburg will help us find out what that is. Ah, here he is now.”

  A kind-looking older gentleman in a white lab coat stepped into the room, but before he could say a word, I gathered my belongings and stood, struggling once again to suppress a wave of inappropriate laughter that bubbled up from my chest.

  “I believe there’s been a mistake, Dr. Cragin. I don’t need a psychoanalyst.”

  “Now, Miss Corrigan, be reasonable.”

  “I came here to discover whether I had a heart problem, and you’ve verified that I do not. Thank you, and good day.”

  Dr. Cragin’s face reddened. “But I’ve spoken to Dr. Brownlee about it and he agrees that a psychiatric evaluation would—”

  My blood chilled. “Wait a minute. You spoke to Dr. Brownlee about me? But Dr. Perkins is my doctor.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Dr. Perkins and I did discuss your heart condition. But then just yesterday Dr. Brownlee called me. He said he was concerned—”

  I lifted my chin and fought to keep my voice even. “He called you? Dr. Richard Brownlee? To discuss me?”

  Dr. Cragin scowled. “Who else? He and I discussed the possibility that you might be undergoing some kind of nervous—”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. I was already halfway down the stairs. I burst out onto the sidewalk, panting with exertion and rage.

  One thought kept swirling across my steaming brain. Richard thinks I’ve lost my marbles. He’d been discussing my situation. With Dr. Cragin. Behind my back. I had not known he was capable of such betrayal.

  No wonder I was allergic to the idea of marriage. How could I possibly marry a man I couldn’t trust?

  I pounded up and down city sidewalks, no destination in mind other than to delay going back to Miss Brownlee’s. After some time, I found myself in the Loop, sweaty and spent. The roar of the elevated train overhead matched my turmoil. To calm my roiling spirit, I sought out the cool, serene galleries of the Art Institute. I passed the bronze lions, paid the fee, and wandered aimlessly before folding myself onto a bench in front of one of my favorite paintings, The Song of the Lark.

  I loved it because the girl in the picture—a peasant girl standing in a field—reminded me of the French girl in The Big Parade. Secretly I imagined her waiting for her man to return—from the front, perhaps, or from some distant journey. The painting brought me joy as I saw the radiance of her face. But now my gloomy mood cast it in a different light. What if her man lets her down? What if he turns out not to be the man she thought he was?

  Or worse. What if he simply never comes back, ever? What if she waits and hopes and he never returns?

  With an aching heart, I realized Charlie was right all along. If Jack had come back from the war, I’d never have given Richard a second glance. And I would not be in this mess now. My whole life would be different, if only Jack had come home.

  Grateful for the seclusion of the empty gallery, I groped in my bag for a handkerchief and let my sadness pour out in great, gulping waves, until my heart lightened and the waterfall trickled to a mere sniffle. After a while I sensed someone joining me on the bench. A gentle voice spoke.

  “Young lady, excuse me, but you seem distraught. May I help you?”

  I glanced up through watery eyes to see an older woman, silver-haired and neatly dressed in a rose-colored suit. Her lined face bore a kindly expression.

  “Oh, no, thank you,” I stammered, gathering my thoughts from the dark corners where they’d skittered. “I’ve just received a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, dear. Bad news?”

  “Yes. I suppose it is bad news.” Bad news indeed to discover that one’s future husband can’t be trusted. Bad news to still be mourning, after ten long years, a true love who would never return.

  “Is there something I can do?” the woman asked. “Shall I summon a guard? Perhaps he could call you a taxicab.”

  “Oh, no.” I straightened up and dabbed my eyes with the handkerchief, embarrassed to be making an emotional scene in front of a stranger. “I’ll be fine. I just—I have to make a difficult decision. That’s all.”

  “I see.”

  The woman continued to sit beside me. Although we were strangers, I found her presence comforting, almost motherly. But I didn’t think to introduce myself, nor did she do so. Eventually she said, “You know, I’ve always loved this piece, The Song of the Lark.”

  I glanced at the painting and nodded.

  “Do you know the story behind it?” she asked. “The artist was walking in the field early one morning when he heard the song of a lark singing high overhead. As he looked around, he noticed a peasant girl also listening raptly to the beautiful sound. Thus he felt inspired to paint the scene.”

  “Yes.” I could read the description in the museum guide as easily as she could.

  “But you know, I like to think the girl is listening to more than a lovely birdsong,” the woman continued. “From the expression on her face, I like to think that, working alone in the field in the early morning quiet, she might have prayed to the Father about some concern that lay on her heart. And now, her face turned toward heaven, she is expecting His answer.”

  Oh, swell, I thought. A proselytizer. I braced myself to be called “Sister” and receive a religious tract, but the woman said nothing more. We sat in silence for a long moment, gazing at the painting. I squelched an urge to tell her what I thought about prayer, that it was useful for some people, but that others could pray and pray and pray and still things wound up in ruins. I still believed in God, but he was remote, sitting in His distant heaven, not terribly i
nterested in anything Marjorie Corrigan had to say.

  Eventually I broke the silence. “I could see how you might get that impression, from the way her face looks.”

  But the woman had vanished. I was once again alone in the gallery. I shivered. Who was she?

  As I stood to leave, an object thudded softly to the floor. I picked it up—a small, pocket-sized Bible with a black cover. The friendly stranger must have left it behind. I opened the front cover, hoping to see the owner’s name written there. But there was only a reference, scripted in an elegant hand: 1 Peter 5:6-7. Curious, I flipped through the book until I found it and read, “Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time; casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.”

  I gazed at the face of the girl in the painting. Maybe it was silly to think she was waiting for her lover. More likely she was just listening to a lark’s tuneful song, as the artist described. After all, he was the artist, he should know.

  But what if the girl was praying? I peered more closely. What if she was casting her cares? What if she was sick and tired of her situation, and was looking expectantly toward God to see if He might have something else in store for her—if He might look down from His mighty perch and observe the mess she’d gotten herself into and decide that something must be done?

  At this point, anything seemed possible. I slid the Bible into my handbag, intending to leave it at the Lost and Found desk on my way out, but before I’d even reached the exit, it had slipped my mind.

  By the time I telephoned Richard that evening, I’d calmed down enough to speak civilly.

  “So what did the doctor say?”

  “You know very well what the doctor said. You called him and discussed my case behind my back.”

  “Well, sure I did, sweetheart,” he said, as if he’d done nothing objectionable. “I wanted to talk to him doctor-to-doctor. It’s my job to look out for you, you know.”

  “Doesn’t your medical code of ethics, or whatever it is, say you’re supposed to keep private things private?”

  “Now darling, don’t be angry. I only wanted to make sure you were getting the best care possible.”

  “The best psychoanalysis, you mean.”

  Silence hung heavy. Clearly Richard had not expected Dr. Cragin to share all the details of their conversation. After a moment he spoke. “Sweetie, it’s obvious you’ve been under a strain. I didn’t think you’d mind if—”

  “That’s right,” I snapped. “You didn’t think.”

  “I’m sorry, Marjorie,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “There’s no need to get all riled up over it.”

  “I’m not riled up. I would simply prefer to handle my own private business from now on.”

  “Fine.”

  Before the conversation escalated into a full-blown argument, we said a cool good-night.

  Early the next morning I packed my bag and dressed in my traveling suit and Darling Yellow Hat. I bid good-bye to Miss Brownlee and Miss Jessop with a heavy heart, not because I would miss them but because leaving their home meant leaving Chicago, the city I’d grown to love in just a few short days. When Miss Brownlee said she was looking forward to the wedding, I felt like a fraud, struggling to maintain the beaming smile of the happy bride.

  Lugging my suitcase on the streetcar was an unappealing prospect, so I splurged on a taxicab to the station. As it crawled through downtown traffic, I lowered the dingy window and watched the stenographers and shop girls rush to work in their stylish hats, knee-length skirts, and modern lace-up brogues, wishing I were among them. They looked so free and unconcerned about other people’s expectations. Once the bell rang at five o’clock, their evenings and weekends would be their own. These energetic single girls were free to do anything they chose.

  I desperately needed some guidance, yet I couldn’t think of anyone I could trust who’d give me reliable advice, untainted by their own expectations. The memory of the lady in the art gallery, what she’d said about prayer, kept popping into my mind. Did I dare to ask God for guidance and trust Him to give it? Prayer hadn’t worked out so well for me in the past. Was I willing to give it another go?

  The cab pulled up at the station. When I reached into my bag to pay the driver, my hand brushed against the Bible I’d forgotten to turn in to the Lost and Found. I’d have to mail it back to the Art Institute from home, in case the owner came back looking for it. The verse written inside floated through my brain: “Cast all your care upon him; for he careth for you.” He careth. Nice to know somebody did.

  I paid the driver and entered the terminal, struggling like a salmon swimming upstream against the tide of commuters pouring out to begin the workday. Above me the waiting-room ceiling arched high above over rows of wooden pew-like benches, giving the cavernous room a churchly quality. I took a seat in the vast waiting room, settled my suitcase at my feet, and bowed my head.

  Then I finally did what I should have been doing all along. I prayed.

  Dear Lord, I began. Then my mind went blank.

  I’d been steering clear of God for so long, my praying mechanism was rusty. As it creaked to life, I pictured Helen and how she talked to God as easily as she talked to me. I used to have that easy sort of trust, long ago. I wanted it again. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the bustling travelers around me, then silently cast my cares in the general direction of heaven.

  Dear Lord, I’m sorry for neglecting You for so long. I grew distant from You, but I was the one who moved. You didn’t move. I drew in a deep breath. I’m sorry for blaming You for everything, because I didn’t trust. Well, I’m trusting You now. Thank You that I’m healthy and strong.

  The longer I prayed, the easier the words seemed to flow. And now, Lord, about this tangled mess. I don’t know what to do. I miss Jack so much. Am I still in love with his memory? What about Richard? Under the circumstances, should I break our engagement, or will that make a bad situation worse? Should I stay in Chicago or go home to Kerryville? Either way, I’m scared of what the future holds. If it is Your will for me to marry Richard, then Your will be done. But if You have another plan for me, then please make it clear to me. I’m turning this whole situation over to You. Please, dear Jesus, show me the way.

  That was as good a prayer as I could muster up. But I recalled what the Bible said about the Holy Spirit doing our groaning for us when we can’t find the words, and felt a tingling warmth inside.

  A strange peace settled over me. Nothing about my situation had changed, but there was something comforting and right about handing the reins over to God. My heart expanded as I turned to Him after so many years of running the other way.

  When it was time to board the train, I trudged along the platform and up the steps on leaden legs. As the conductor bellowed, “All aboard,” I settled into a seat and stared out the window at the bustling platform.

  Suddenly all the breath whooshed out of my body in a single breathless cry.

  “Jack!”

  There on the platform, looking very much alive, stood Jack Lund.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I bolted down the aisle. Passengers glared as my suitcase banged against their seats. “Sorry, sorry,” I murmured, desperate to reach the sliding doors.

  The conductor blocked my exit. “Miss, please take a seat. The train is leaving.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I pleaded. “I made a huge mistake. Please open the doors and let me off. Please!”

  “Crazy dame,” the conductor muttered. He pushed a button and the doors slid open. I lurched off the train, shaking with anxiety. Where is he? Where’s Jack? I’d lost sight of him in the swirling mass of humanity.

  The train slowly puffed and clanged out of the station, toward Kerryville, without me. I never looked back.

  Panic seized my throat. Which way did he go? Was my mind playing tricks? But there was no mistaking that face.

  Suddenly there he was, trudging up the broad marble staircase. I lumbered aft
er him, my heavy suitcase beating against my legs.

  “Jack! Jack Lund!”

  The man didn’t respond. Clearly he couldn’t hear me over the echoing din. Outside the station, he paused to buy a newspaper. I caught up to him, wheezing from the frantic climb up the stairs. Then I saw the scar—a thick, jagged line that ran like a lightning bolt up the left side of his face. I gulped.

  “Jack Lund?” I could barely wheeze out the words. “Is . . . that . . . you?”

  The man stared at me, a quizzical look on his face. At least I think it was quizzical. I couldn’t see clearly through watery eyes.

  “Jack?” I breathed, voice quavering. “Jack? It’s me. Marjorie.”

  His face blanched, but otherwise his expression did not change. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

  His voice. Was it Jack’s voice? It seemed deeper than I remembered. But of course, he’d be older now. My brain tumbled frantically to remember details.

  He turned to go. “Wait.” Part of me—the miniscule part that remained clear-minded—suspected he was telling the truth. Jack Lund was dead, his broken body lying somewhere in France. But other, wilder thoughts kept swirling around in my head and heart. What if the army had made a mistake? What if they’d lost Jack, or gotten him confused with someone else? What if he was really alive, and had somehow made his way back and was now standing right in front of me on a busy Chicago sidewalk?

  I couldn’t think. In a sharply tailored suit, crisp shirt, and silver cufflinks, the man looked like he’d just stepped out of a newspaper ad, one of those sketches of an impeccably groomed fellow leaning against a shiny Pierce-Arrow. Jack had been more the flannel-shirt-and-work-boots type. I didn’t think he even owned cufflinks. A discreet nametag on the man’s lapel bearing the name “P. A. Bachmann” seemed to confirm this was, indeed, not Jack.

  But his face sparked an electric shock straight through my body. Even with the rugged scar, he had the same close-cropped brown wavy hair, the same hazel eyes. He looked incredibly like Jack, if Jack were a few years older and a few thousand dollars richer. Who wouldn’t look older after all these years, especially after enduring a war? Charlie certainly didn’t look the same after months of trench warfare.