by Joan Sargent
She looked about her, surprised that she had not thought of her last night's patients since she had gone to tend Sammy Worth. "Where are they? What did you do with them? I thought they'd be here."
"Mrs. Hartson—Missy—will be a lot more comfortable not in the room with our friend there. We put them in Fincher's office. That way, you'll just have to cross the hall to look after them both." He put down his cup and gazed moodily at it.
"I have another patient, one that scares me more now than either of the others. Do you know the Worths?"
He frowned, then shook his head. "I don't think so. What's their trouble?"
She told him about Sammy. "The thing that bothers me is that I don't know what's the matter with him. He's been playing with all the other children, too, so we may have the beginnings of an epidemic right here."
"That can't be helped," he said. "I only hope it isn't something really serious, shut off from help, the way we are."
She nodded gravely. "I've thought of that. I did manage to deliver a baby, but suppose we have an attack of appendicitis? Or—I thought about meningitis. Thank heaven, Sammy's had his polio shots. I'm going to hole up in a school that has a doctor next time we have a hurricane."
He poured more soup and they sat spooning it up in shallow wooden spoons.
"I stopped by to see the Wards, too," she went on after a while. "They are such darlings."
Cliff's face wore its dark look. "I can't understand why people like that shouldn't have children and people who'd a lot rather not be bothered, do," he said with surprising bitterness.
"It's one of the mysteries," she agreed. "You have somebody special in mind?"
He looked up, startled at her question. The bitterness was still in his voice. "Yeah. My folks. My mother ran off and left my father and me when I can just remember. I suppose I don't really blame her. My father was no prize packet even when he was sober. Are the Wards all right? Do they need anything?"
She told him about their soup and sandwiches and about the coconut that had cracked the windowpane in the teachers' room. And all the time, she was wrung with pity for the boy whose mother had run off and whose father was no prize packet. It was obvious that Cliff didn't want to talk about it further, but she would have liked him to know how sympathetic she felt.
Chapter X
Donna was in the halls again, going from room to room, checking to see how all the school's registered guests fared. Primary-aged children were playing tag, and she found it difficult to make her way through. Mary Hendley, at one far end of the building, had gathered the smaller children on the steps to the second floor and was telling the story of Chicken Little. Donna waved gaily to her and went on without interrupting.
She found one small six-month-old who whimpered continually in his mother's arms. Mrs. Frailey was perhaps thirty-five and looked ten years older. She looked up with an unwelcoming scowl when Donna knocked and, in answer to the other's surly, "Come in," entered.
"You're that nurse that's always sending home notes about the kids having their shots, or needing glasses, or something," she said by way of greeting.
Donna was taken aback by this show of displeasure on the part of one of the school's patrons, but she managed a firm smile and said, "I'm sure you are as anxious to have your children well as I am. You're Mrs. Frailey, aren't you? I remember I registered you and your family yesterday."
The woman ignored the reference to her name and her family. "I had me nine kids, seven of 'em livin', an' I reckon I don't need no snip of a girl tellin' me what to do with my own young'uns," she said sulkily.
"I'm sure you don't. But I heard the baby fretting, and I thought you must be tired. You can't have slept very well on that quilt last night. Can't I take the baby a while and let you rest?"
Mrs. Frailey studied her for a moment as if she were trying to find some ulterior motive for the offer. Then her face softened and she tucked back a fallen lock of hair and held the baby out. "He's wet. Ever notice how a boy wets more'n a girl? Always wet, that one. An' I just changed him." She sighed deeply.
Donna cuddled the little boy to her shoulder, where he dug in sharp knees and went on with his unhappy wail. "If you have a dry diaper, I'll change him," she offered.
Mrs. Frailey shook her unkempt head. "He's wet ever' one. I woulda washed 'em out only, rainin' like it is, they wouldn't adried."
"No, I guess not," Donna admitted. "Maybe I can find a towel in my office that will do. I really do know how to take care of babies, Mrs. Frailey, even if I haven't had any of my own. There were hundreds at the hospital where I trained."
The same lock of hair had fallen across Mrs. Frailey's cheek once more, and once more she tucked it in. "Ain't the same as havin' seven underfoot all the time," she commented.
Donna felt more at ease now. Her smile seemed a normal part of her face. "No, I suppose not. I'll bring— What's his name?"
"Joey," Mrs. Frailey told her.
"I'll bring Joey back after a while. You get a nap, if you can."
The linen supply in her office was almost exhausted, she remembered as she went back there. Mr. Poague was asleep, and she put Joey down on one of the tables, holding him there with a firm hand across his stomach. He still complained weakly. Linen was indeed getting low. Donna took out the last two towels.
When she had taken off the wet diaper, she found that the baby was scarlet with rash. She took off the rest of his sour-smelling clothes, took him to the sink and soaped him all over with the delicate soap she reserved for her hands, then rinsed him in the lukewarm water that fortunately still came from the tap. One of the towels mopped him dry and she took him on her shoulder while she searched for an antiseptic powder that she sometimes used on heat rash of the children. She sprinkled it generously, tore up a perfectly good sheet and folded it into an oblong, using Mrs. Frailey's safety pins to fasten it.
Her fastidious young nose turned up at the thought of putting the same soiled clothes back on the baby and she wished for a clean sweater, or clean petticoat and dress. It was too damp and cool to leave him as he was. Reluctantly, she dressed him again. He was drowsy now, with lolling head and barely slit eyes. More comfortable, he had ceased his continuous whine. Donna put him down on a table against the wall and drew a chair to the other side to prevent his rolling off, then rinsed out his diaper. Maybe it wouldn't dry, but as least it would smell clean.
She was hanging it on a chair back when Hank came to the door and motioned to her. She went to him and he complained, "I've hardly seen you since the storm began, and then not alone."
She laughed. "I don't know about you, but I've been busy. You know about our new baby?"
He grinned somewhat wryly. "I do, indeed. My office is turned into an obstetrics ward and I'm all but forbidden there. Even that parrot is more welcome in there than I. Congratulations on your part in bringing in the new citizen."
"I'm nursing a young Frailey now," she went on. "He's all broken out with rash. His mother started out by telling me she'd had seven children and didn't mean for a young snip like me to tell her how to raise them. Poor thing. She looked so tired."
"I doubt if there is anyone in the building who doesn't look a bit the worse for wear," Hank said. "There wasn't much sleep here last night."
Donna nodded, feeling tired herself, now that she thought of it.
"Look, Donna," Hank began, and seemed to have some difficulty going on. Then, running his words together, he blurted out the thought that was in his mind. "I didn't know you were going with Cliff Warrender."
She looked up, startled. "But I'm not."
"You came here with him yesterday," he accused.
She nodded. "One of my apartment mates is his secretary. He was at the apartment when I got there and was coming here to represent the Red Cross. He had his car and offered to bring me. I've never had a date with him."
She hadn't said a word that wasn't true, yet she realized that the sum of them was misleading: and she felt guilty. She liked Han
k, but she was conscious that he was more interested in her than she in him. She had no right to lead him on, to give him an impression that might be misleading. Yet she could think of nothing else to add. A girl simply couldn't say to a man who hadn't declared himself that she liked him as a friend but wasn't in love with him. And hadn't she thought up to yesterday that, given time, she might fall in love with Hank?
Swiftly, she turned her mind away from the path where these thoughts might be leading.
"Oh," Hank said, brightening. "You've been seeing so much of him since you came out yesterday that I thought—"
Here was her chance. "I do think he's fun, Hank. I'm not in love with anybody. I'm sort of young to be settling down unless I'm absolutely sure, don't you think? Come to think about it, any girl's too young unless she's absolutely sure."
He looked a little taken aback, but he said, cheerfully enough, "Yes, I guess that's right."
Dusty Hosey appeared at the principal's elbow. "Mr. Fincher, we've got a battery radio that's playing some good dance music between announcements about the storm and we want to dance in the hall. There's no other place where there's room enough. Only, the little kids are playing there. They've been there all day."
Hank turned to face the speaker, and found about twenty teenagers grouped about him and looking hopefully at him.
"We can't dance with the little kids dodging in and out, sir." A pretty girl with her dark hair piled high and shaped like a beehive smiled winningly at him.
Hank thought about the problem for a minute. "There ought to be a way to settle that," he decided. "Why don't you young folks take the left end of the hall and we'll get the younger ones to play in the right end? That should give everybody a place to do what he wants to. Okay?"
Dusty nodded. "Only, the kids won't pay attention to us. Will you tell them that that's what we're doing?"
Hank grinned at him. "Sure. Why not?" He smiled back at Donna. "Be seeing you." And he was gone in the wake of the youngsters.
Donna smiled wistfully after him. He is nice, she thought. Just about the nicest man I know. I ought to be kicked for thinking less of him because Cliff is—is— She didn't know exactly how to explain the quality which Cliff Warrender had that made Hank seem unexciting. She didn't approve of Cliff, she reminded herself. He had some funny ideas about the practice of law. He spent most of his time defending criminals. The right sort of lawyer would defend the law, not support those who broke it. She would put Cliff Warrender out of her mind.
Young Joey Frailey woke with a loud, angry howl, as different from his earlier whimper as possible. Donna chuckled. "You sound hungry, my lad. Maybe you'd like some canned milk warmed up for you."
She lighted the sterno stove and opened the can and set a boiler on, testing the milk from time to time with a newly washed forefinger. When she decided she had it warm enough, she began to feed it to the little boy with a spoon. Hunger had been his trouble, and he went after it enthusiastically. Afterward, she opened a can of applesauce and fed him some of that. Finally, he sat smacking his lips, but turned his head away when he was offered more. And he was wet again.
She had torn off another square of the sheet and was powdering him preparatory to pinning it on when Mrs. Frailey came to her office door.
"He ain't been crying so much, has he?" she asked, looking at the baby questioningly.
Donna shook her head. "He's been asleep most of the time."
Mrs. Frailey peered down at the well-powdered thighs. "What's that you're puttin' on him?" she demanded.
"Powder. He had diaper rash," Donna explained. "I think that was what was making him cry. Powder, after careful washing with a gentle soap and keeping his diapers dry, ought to help him be comfortable. You take the rest of this old sheet. It's soft. And the antiseptic powder. And this soap. They'll all help."
Mrs. Frailey studied the young face. "I reckon all this studyin' you done did teach you a thing or two about kids. And you aren't much more'n a kid yourself," she said wonderingly.
Donna was young enough to be affronted by this accusation. "I'm twenty-two," she announced firmly.
Mrs. Frailey shrugged. "Well, you don't look it. I already had me three kids when I was twenty-two. Some folks keep younger'n others. You Cliff Warrender's girl friend?"
Donna flushed. "He's a friend, I suppose. I'm not planning to marry him, if that's what you mean."
Mrs. Frailey's eyes were wise. "Cliff's one gets what he wants. If I ain't forgot how to look for the signs, he wants you."
She picked up her son, lifted him to her shoulder and moved toward the door. "You had ought to be out there dancin' with the rest of them kids. Music sort of makes you want to dance, don't it?" She took several steps of a surprising grace, then made a face and shrugged again. "I'm too old for it, but you ain't. You get out there an' step with the rest, huh?"
For a moment, she stood in the doorway, sniffing audibly. "Say, this kid smells good. His pa ain't goin' to like havin' him smellin' like gals goin' to meetin'. Wouldn't surprise me none if'n he made me take the diaper off'n him an' wash off the stink."
Joey and his mother disappeared down the hall. Now that it had been called to her attention Donna did find the steady beat of the music hypnotically strong. Without intention, she followed it into the hall, then around the corner where the rhythm of it was stronger, louder. She stood with some of the older people on the edge of the group, watching.
The youngsters were doing the twist, rolling hips, lithe waists and shoulders, feet for the most part stationary, although several couples had intricately stamping feet as well. She had danced like that only a few months ago. Somehow, it hadn't seemed proper now that she was officially connected with a school. She and Hank had gone to more conventional places and when they danced had waltzed or two-stepped. It wasn't the same, and she knew now that she had missed it.
She had just reached that conclusion when Dusty appeared at her elbow. "Dance?" he inquired in his husky voice.
She turned toward him in amazement, and he hurried to add to his original invitation. "I ain't bein' fresh, like yesterday. Honest I ain't. But you—you was keepin' time to the music. I bet you're a good dancer an'— I'd sorta like to dance with you if you don't think I'm too much of a kid."
There was an almost childish eagerness in his face. She was sure that his ego would be hurt i£ she refused. Besides, she had never wanted so much to dance. She raised her arms and followed him onto the floor.
For a moment, they tried out each other's ability, steps. And then they were dancing. Dusty was good, there was no denying that. She had meant to remember who she was and where, but in a few minutes she was pouring her whole soul into the dance, enjoying it as she always had, being a kid again herself. She found her shoes hampered her and kicked them off. Dusty was trying steps she had never known before and she was following him easily. This was wonderful.
One by one, the other dancers dropped out. Clapping their hands to the beat of the music, they encouraged Dusty and Donna to wilder and wilder rhythms. The girl's face was damp and flushed. She was lifted out of herself. The music stepped up its speed, but still she found only exhilaration in following it.
At last it was done. She and Dusty stood alone in the middle of the floor, laughing and panting. The younger crowd was clapping and calling out to them. Donna would have danced again, but just then she saw the disapproving face of one of the parents. Her eyes moved to other faces on the periphery of the crowd. Here, too, she saw disapproval in hard adult faces, among them the shocked face of Hank Fincher.
"Golly, you can dance, Miss Ledbury," Dusty said with evident sincerity.
"I've scandalized the natives," she told him, "but it's been fun. I mustn't do it again. I'm a teacher, sort of." She bent, picked up her shoes and straightened.
It was then that she saw Cliff and Mary Hendley. Something in the way they stood assured her that they had been dancing when she had joined the group, dancing in a dignified, conventional fashion, she w
as sure.
She moved out of the crowd and back toward her office. No one spoke to her, and she would have hardly noticed if they had. She had discovered something about herself. She was Cliff Warrender's girl, if her unruly emotions had anything to say about it. She had probably been feeling like this ever since yesterday, only the dance had lifted the lid off her control and let her emotions boil over. And Cliff was no fool. He had known even when she didn't.
Mrs. Frailey had said that he got what he wanted. Men like that—wasn't that the type that didn't want what came easy? He had left her alone in her office a long time ago, left her feeling tender and moved by the tragedy of his youth. And he had not come back. He had sought out Mary Hendley and chosen her to dance with.
Chapter XI
Donna was angry enough with herself and practically everybody else in the schoolhouse, to slam the door of her office after her once she was inside. That waked Poague, whom she had entirely forgotten. He sat up, stretched and yawned noisily. Donna looked at him with all the displeasure that she felt at the world just then.
He was not at all embarrassed under her stern eye. "Say, I ain't in no bad condition," he decided, moving the muscles in one part of his body and then another. "Matter of fact, I feel pretty good. If I had a drink, I'd be good as ever I was." His bloodshot eyes turned on Donna with an impertinent question in them.
Donna ignored him, crossed the room and washed her hands at the sink.
"Ain't you got any liquor, lady?" Poague spoke aloud the question that had been in his eyes.
Donna took her time about answering, finished washing her hands and turned to dry them on a paper towel. "I don't have any. And nurses don't give whiskey to patients except on order from a doctor." She disposed with the whole matter in a crisp tone.
Gingerly, Poague came to his feet, stood a moment in uncertainty, wavering a little. Then he seemed to find assurance. "Looks like things is likely to be pretty dull in here. I might's well go back to the boys and get in on a game. Seems like you ain't the friendly type."
