by Carla Kelly
He was thinking about it over breakfast—lumpy oatmeal with everlasting raisins—when he heard a timid knock at his side door, the one that dependents used when they needed his services. It was Emily Reese. He didn’t feel like looking at her, but Hippocrates overruled him as usual, and he ushered her inside.
“Mrs. Reese, what can I do for you?” He couldn’t resist himself then, because he knew his ill-mannered joke would fall on stupid ears. “Did Stanley choke on a bar of soap after too much cussing?”
“Stanley is fine,” Emily said. She clutched Joe’s arm. “I haven’t seen Susanna in five days.”
“What?”
He hadn’t meant to shout. He took a deep breath. Surely he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You share a four-room house. What do you mean?”
She seemed to think he was the idiot. “I haven’t seen her.”
He thought about that before reacting this time, even as he felt a chill down his spine. “You must see her for meals, at least. And everyone has to, well, void, now and then. Surely you’ve seen her.”
Emily shook her head, and he noticed for the first time that her lovely eyes were wide with worry. “I have heard her go downstairs late at night and early in the morning, but she is always behind that blanket, otherwise, and there is never any food missing.”
“She’s your cousin, Emily,” Joe reminded her. “You couldn’t just pull back the blanket?”
Emily’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid of what I will find now.”
Joe didn’t bother to grab his overcoat. He ran out of his quarters, his mind intent on what he would find. He took the steps two at a time, not even breathing heavily as he yanked back the blanket so hard that it fell from its rod.
Her hair a terrible tangle, and her face pale almost to parchment, Susanna looked back at him, startled. Without a word, she turned on her side and faced the wall. Joe took her gently by the shoulders and turned her around again. When she closed her eyes wearily, he pried them open with his fingers, to reassure himself that they hadn’t started to settle back in her eye sockets just yet.
“Go away,” she whispered, her voice a croak.
“Not a chance, Susanna,” he said, his voice full of command. “Put your arms around my neck.”
To her credit, she tried, but she was too weak. He scooped her up anyway, standing still a moment to steady himself. He realized with a pang that she barely weighed anything.
Emily stood at the bottom of the stairs, crying. Joe watched her a moment. She started to twist her hands, as though trying to clean them of something—responsibility, remorse. He didn’t know, and he suddenly didn’t care.
“Mrs. Reese, you’re useless,” he snapped as he carried Susanna out the open door.
Joe stopped on the porch, wondering what to do. He couldn’t take her to the hospital, because his one small ward was occupied with soldiers. He thought about the Rattigans, and knew she would be welcome there, but he didn’t relish carrying her across the parade ground under everyone’s prying eyes. There was only one place for her, and the odd humor of the situation took over.
“Susanna, I’m going to ruin your reputation and take you to my quarters,” he told her as he hurried along the icy sidewalk. “But you have no reputation to ruin, and neither do I. Any objections?”
She had none. In fact, her eyes were closed in exhaustion.
“I thought not.”
He set her in his armchair, the old thing that M’liss had threatened not to take along, on their last journey together. Without a word, he covered Susanna with a blanket, felt her forehead and then hurried to his dependents’ clinic across the hall.
Susanna offered no protest when he unbuttoned her shirtwaist, pulled aside her chemise and pressed his stethoscope at her heart. Her heartbeat was slow and steady, which reassured him. Her pulse was a little too slow to please him, but at least it wasn’t thready. He had felt worse.
“Thirsty or hungry?” he asked, his voice gentle. The last thing Susanna Hopkins needed was one more bully in her life.
“Let me die,” she said finally.
He shook his head. When he spoke, his words were so cheerful that he even surprised himself. “Sorry. You can’t do that on my watch. It’s not allowed.”
“I am tired of being told what to do.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute, but it’s too bad. I’ll get you some milk. When you finish that, I’ll have my warmed-up oatmeal for you.”
“You’re not listening,” she said, clearly irritated.
“I never do when my patients talk twaddle,” he assured her. “Susanna, you are going to live and thrive.” He leaned closer until his lips brushed her ear. “I’m surprised someone as bright as you never learned that living well is the best revenge.”
He left her there, angry at him, and spent enough minutes in the kitchen to produce warmed milk, courtesy of Gale Borden, and some thinned oatmeal, well sugared.
“I’m no cook,” he told her when he returned, happy enough to see that she hadn’t bolted from his quarters. But where could she go? He handed her the mug of warm milk, holding his breath. He let it out slowly when she drank it down without a pause.
She took the oatmeal from him with no comment, spooning it down. She handed back the empty bowl and shook her head when he offered more. It took her another moment, but she finally looked him in the eyes.
“After two days, I wasn’t really hungry.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “It was easier not to face anyone.” She put her hand on his arm and he felt her tremor. “All I wanted was to start over.”
“I know,” he said, covering her hand with his own. “You’re not asking for the moon. Shall we try again?”
“Not here.”
“Yes, here.”
He was acutely aware that she was a single woman in a single man’s quarters, even though he was a physician. For all he knew, word of what had just happened had spread all over the gossip-prone garrison, where so little happened that even the smallest deviation would be talked about for weeks. This was no small deviation. But, as he had pointed out earlier, she had no reputation to worry about.
He stood up, ready for action, even if it did embarrass her. “I am going to draw a bath for you in my kitchen. You need one. When the water’s ready, you’ll go in there and bathe. I’ll get a change of clothing from the Reeses and leave it here in the parlor.”
He glanced at her, happy enough to see spots of red in each cheek, where before she had been almost ghostly white. “While you are doing all this, I’m going to talk to Major Townsend.”
“He will not listen,” she said quickly.
“He will,” he replied, sure of himself. “I left him feeling guilty this morning. My dear, great are the uses of guilt!”
Joe glanced at her again, just in time to see a fleeting smile. “I am going to make Major Townsend let you to teach in Private Benedict’s school.”
“I won’t!”
“You will, if I have to drag you there,” he assured her.
“You are as bad as everyone else!” Her voice had some bite to it now.
“I am worse,” he said, relieved to hear some fight in her. “I will not waste a perfectly good human life. What would Hippocrates say?”
Joe concluded it wasn’t going to be much of a bath, but she was smaller than he was and could fold more of herself into his tin tub. While Susanna glowered in the parlor, her arms folded across her chest, he found a clean towel and washcloth, and his last bar of soap. He draped the towel over a chair in the kitchen and set the soap in a saucer.
Susanna’s militant expression had not changed.
“Up you get, madam.”
She ignored him. He jerked the blanket from her with one motion and started on her buttons. With a gasp, she pushed away his hands and went into the kitchen, closing the door louder than he usually closed it. A smile on his face, Joe listened outside the door until he heard her step into the tub. Good.
Emily would probably
have given him her cousin’s entire wardrobe, so great was her own guilt.
“Just a change of clothing,” he said. “Take it to my quarters and leave it in the parlor. I have business with Major Townsend.” He jabbed his finger at her. “Don’t you dare utter one word about this to anyone!”
Terrified, Emily shook her head.
Joe couldn’t overlook the wary expression on Major Townsend’s face when he sat down again in the post commander’s office. Calmly, Joe explained precisely what had happened, starting with what Susanna had told the O’Learys and ending with her sitting in a tub in his kitchen. “Mrs. Hopkins tried to starve herself to death, rather than have to face anyone—anyone!—in this garrison.”
“I can’t change people’s minds,” Townsend protested, but there was no denying the shock on his face.
“I’m not asking you to change anyone’s mind, Ed,” Joe assured him. “What I want you to do is authorize Mrs. Hopkins to teach with Private Benedict in the commissary storehouse.”
“Joe, you know general funds only cover one teacher for the enlisted men’s children, and it’s paltry enough. Government regulations.”
“I know. I’m going to pay her salary. It’ll come out of your office every month, and you won’t say a word about this to anyone,” Joe told him. “Since I cannot resign—something I should have done years ago, by the way—I’ll just have to make things better here.”
“People will talk.”
“Not if you keep this financial arrangement silent,” Joe replied. He couldn’t help himself; he pounded on the major’s desk, feeling the heat of anger on his own face. How many years had he just been existing? “Mrs. Hopkins has lost everything—her dignity as a wife, her child, her home, her respectability. We are going to change that woman’s luck.”
His commanding officer stared at him. “Why do I have the feeling that you would do this even if I did not give my permission?”
There was only one reply. “It’s the right thing to do. That’s all.”
Both men looked at each other. Ed Townsend looked away first.
“Very well. What will you pay her?”
“Twenty dollars a month,” Joe said. “It’s far less than the contract, but she already knows how much an enlisted man gets for teaching at Fort Laramie. Paying her more would make her suspicious. She must think the U.S. Army is paying her salary.”
Joe stood up. Without a word, he turned on his heel and left Major Townsend’s office. Outside, he breathed deep, catching just a whiff of rot from the venerable sinks behind the enlisted men’s barracks. He reckoned it was a sign of spring, when he would have to authorize a general police of the old place to discard the outhouse rubbish of winter. He thought about Paris and studying with Pasteur and realized, as he stalked back to his own quarters, that for the first time since M’Liss died, he was making plans.
Susanna sat in the tin tub, her knees drawn up to her chin, even more angry with Major Randolph than with Mrs. Dunklin.
Rational good sense finally triumphed. She washed herself thoroughly, embarrassed now that a man had seen her in five-day-old dirt, she, the most meticulous of persons. Come to think of it, he had seen her at her worst from Cheyenne on, she reckoned, and scrubbed harder. Then she just sat there, her forehead resting on her drawn-up knees, because she was too tired to move.
After some effort, Susanna stood up, frightened at her own weakness. She wobbled there in the tub a moment, then wrapped the towel around her, shivering even though the small kitchen was warm. It chafed her that she had to lean on the chair to step from the tub, but that was the consequence of thinking she could starve herself to death. She sat there and decided she had done enough foolish things.
She was still sitting in the chair, towel wrapped around her, when she heard the post surgeon open his front door. Even though the kitchen door was closed, she felt a little puff of cold air around her bare ankles. She wanted to stand up and dress herself, but her clothes were still in the parlor, where Emily must have dropped them off.
“Susanna?” he called.
When she didn’t answer promptly, he opened the door to the kitchen and stood there, giving her what looked like a professional appraisal.
“I didn’t have the energy,” she said finally, her face hot with humiliation for him to see her in a towel.
“I’ll help you.”
She shook her head, embarrassed at her weakness. “If you’ll just get my things …”
He went into the parlor and returned with her clothes draped over his arm. He set them on the small kitchen table but did not leave the room. “I’m going to turn my back on you and create the specialty of Chez Randolph—cheese sandwiches made with army cheese and army bread. It is my sole accomplishment in the kitchen. You will eat one sandwich. I will not leave you alone.”
True to his word, he turned his back and started to slice the bread. “If you need help, you only have to ask. I know what women look like,” he said, his voice so noncommittal that he might have been telling her a straight line was the shortest distance between two points.
With a sigh, Susanna dropped her towel and dressed herself. At the same time, Major Randolph, imperturbable, kept up a commentary of Fort Laramie news, spending the most time on Katie O’Leary’s delivery of a daughter. “I believe they are going to name her Mary Rose,” he said. “I suggested Josephine Randolph, but Katie gave a most unladylike snort at my idea. Where is the gratitude, I ask you?”
Susanna laughed softly, surprising herself that she could still laugh. Light-headed, she sat down on the chair, her stocking in her hand. “Major …” she began. “I just can’t bend over to do this. Makes me dizzy.”
“Call me Joe,” he said as he turned around and pulled her stocking up one leg, and then the other one. He did it with some expertise, which made her smile. “You can do the garters, Susanna,” he said, handing them to her and turning back to the bread. “I had some butter for these sandwiches, but I think it has gone rancid.”
“This is a strange conversation,” she said as she finished dressing.
“No stranger than any conversation I have ever had with Nick Martin,” he told her, setting the sandwiches on tin plates. “Incidentally, he asked me quite seriously if he could set fire to the Dunklins’ quarters.”
Susanna gasped. “I hope you discouraged him!”
“I did. Told him you would be very disappointed in him. He agreed finally, but I could tell his heart was not in it.” Joe indicated the sandwiches. “This, Susanna Hopkins, is what passes for luncheon in my quarters. Bon appétit.” He smiled then, his eyes kind. “I plan to brush up on my French. Perhaps you can help. How is your French? I will resign my commission when this latest Indian war is over.” He struck a pose that made her smile again. “I intend to travel to Paris and study with Pasteur! You have inspired me to blow the dust of gossipy, hypocritical army forts off my boots. I am in your debt.” He bowed then, and sat down, handing her a sandwich. “Army cheese, Susanna. Let’s see … fromage?”
Amazed at him, she accepted the sandwich. “This is wretched,” she said after several bites. “How can you mess up a cheese sandwich so completely?”
“It’s a mystery.” He chewed and swallowed. “I only eat to stay alive. I hear there are excellent restaurants in Paris.”
Susanna stared at him. “You are the strangest man,” she murmured.
“Standard issue, that’s all,” he replied. He leaned his elbows on the table, and there was no mistaking how tired his eyes looked.
“Do you ever sleep?”
“Not much.” He finished half his sandwich. When he looked at her, his expression was serious. “I went to Major Townsend this morning, and told him to hire you to work with Private Benedict.”
“I’m too ashamed to walk across the parade ground, let alone teach,” she said.
“You will. All I ask is that you be brave a little longer. Please. Private Benedict needs your help, and company funds will cover the cost. Maeve Rattig
an has rounded up three other women who would like to learn to read. Perhaps you can teach them two evenings a week. I doubt you will make more than a dollar a week with the evening classes. Private Benedict’s school is scheduled to run until the end of May, the same as yours was.”
He returned his attention to his sandwich.
“Didn’t you just hear me say I wouldn’t do it?” she asked.
“I ignored it. This would be better with butter.” He finished his sandwich as she fumed. “By May you will have a hundred dollars, plus whatever you earn from evening classes. That will give you enough to get to Cheyenne, and maybe beyond.”
“To go where?” she asked, setting down her half-finished sandwich.
He put it back in her hand. “That will depend upon you.”
Joe felt like a bully as he sat there, making sure she finished the miserable sandwich. He bullied her into another bowl of breakfast oatmeal and warm canned milk with cinnamon. By the time fatigue call sounded and the fort began afternoon duties, she had finished eating, and brushed her hair. He hadn’t thought to ask Emily for a hairbrush, but it cost him not a single pang to get Melissa’s hairbrush from the chest where he kept those articles of her life he could not part with.
Susanna took the hairbrush and just looked at it for a long moment, her eyes troubled. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She brushed her hair, and he felt his own heart lift, as though that simple, womanly gesture had brushed aside years of cobwebs.
“What was her name?” was all she asked.
“Melissa Rhoades. She was from Ohio and very pretty.”
Susanna smiled, her eyes not so troubled. “Would you … would Melissa have any hairpins?”
She did. He took them from the cedar chest and returned to the kitchen, as Susanna finished braiding her blond hair and coiling it into the black hairnet that Emily had thought to include. With Melissa’s hairpins, Susanna Hopkins was tidy again, but still unwilling to leave his quarters.
Joe helped her to her feet anyway, steadying her. He had second thoughts about hauling her across the parade ground. Maybe she was still too weak. He appraised her as a physician. Her color was good, her eyes lively. She trembled a little, but she stood erect.
