by Joan Sargent
"I was twenty-one," he protested, amused at the memory as she was.
A thread of laughter ran along under Mrs. Ward's story. "It was a girls' school, and he was as girl-shy as any man I ever saw. He used to lecture, his eyes fixed on his desk, his right hand doodling away on a piece of paper. I felt sorry for him."
"Sorry!" the old man exploded. "You made my life a hell."
She actually laughed now. "I just liked to see you blush."
"I might have been girl-shy," he pursued his memory, "but I knew what I wanted. I wish you could have seen Maggie then. Her hair was as black as a crow's wing. Her eyes were even bluer than they are now and just as full of mischief. She was a Gibson girl, and could be very grownup on occasion and very much a child on others. She was smart, too."
"Particularly in history," she admitted. "I had seen what I wanted, too, and I couldn't have Bradley thinking I was stupid. But he wouldn't ask me for an engagement—you say date, don't you?— for simply ages. So I asked my people to have all my teachers for dinner."
"It wasn't that I was backward," the professor insisted. "I had had it impressed on me that if I wasn't entirely impersonal with the young ladies I would lose my position. And how was I to support a wife if I was out of work?"
They all laughed, and Mrs. Ward broke the silence that followed with a thoughtful comment. "I didn't realize it, but we were all practically shouting. The noise of the storm is deafening. I hope it won't keep Bradley awake tonight. He doesn't sleep as well as he used to."
"Nonsense, my dear. It's only old people who sleep poorly, and I'm just a boy," her husband protested.
"The storm is loud," Mary said timidly. "It can't be getting louder, but I guess all this long time of listening to it makes it seem so."
"Noises do get on a person's nerves after a while," Hank offered, not very brilliantly.
"Cake, anybody?" Mrs. Ward offered, moving her chair closer to the table. "Or tea?"
They had seconds, the girls insisting on small slices now, and Mrs. Ward giving them fairly large ones. It was only when she turned back to the group that her eyes fell on her husband. His face had grown quite pale and his hands were clutched against his breastbone. "Oh, Bradley," she moaned in fright.
Donna's eyes had turned to the man following his wife's gaze. At her cry, Donna came to her feet. "Where's his medicine, Mrs. Ward?" she asked in a forced calm.
"In his breast pocket," Mrs. Ward answered in a trembling voice. Her face had grown old in that moment.
Cliff rose, too, and went to the pitcher of water on the big table. He had a cup of water at Donna's elbow by the time she had located the tiny vial of orange pills. Dr. Ward had some difficulty in swallowing, but finally got the pill down.
"Let's get you onto one of these couches, Doctor," Cliff suggested, lifting the old man with very little difficulty and placing him on the one nearer the window.
"Get all the pillows and put them under his head," Donna ordered. "He's having some difficulty breathing."
Mrs. Ward had sat immovable for a moment, then moved her chair to his side, near his head where she would be out of the way of those who were ministering to him. Her small hand moved toward his and took it strongly. "You'll be all right, darling," she whispered.
He gasped, but his voice was firm. "All right," he repeated.
Outside, one of the palm fans at last twisted off, turned over and over in the wind and struck the already cracked windowpane with all its force at the stem end, came through and struck Mrs. Ward on the temple. She drew a quick deep breath that was almost a whistle and was silent.
The palm leaf fell slowly to the floor where its swish made a sound in the room, loud enough to hear above the wind.
The other four looked from the doctor to his wife and back again. Donna put her hand inside the old man's coat. She could find no heartbeat. Cliff's hand had sought out Mrs. Ward's pulse. Here, too, there was only stillness.
Donna waited for what seemed an endless minute, then went to her purse that lay in the chair where she had been sitting. She held the mirror from it before the old man's mouth while she counted a hundred and twenty. It did not mist.
Mrs. Ward's neck was strangely twisted. A bruise was already appearing on the left temple.
Donna repeated the experiment with the mirror. Again, there was no clouding.
The girl dropped the mirror. "They're— d-dead. Both of them. They're dead." She was sobbing uncontrollably. "Just a minute ago, they w-were laughing and talking ab-bout when th-they were y-young. And th-they're d-dead."
Cliff, who stood beside her, took her in his arms and let her cry.
"It—was so sudden," Mary whispered.
Finally, Donna drew herself upright. Cliff offered her a handkerchief and she mopped her face. "It— I'm glad. All those years they had together. And even now. Oh, they were so worried about leaving each other. And now they needn't."
Chapter XIV
There was little that could be done for the bodies of the Wards, and that little the four young people did. Mrs. Ward they stretched out on the second couch. With reverent hands, they covered the two with the linen which the old couple had brought with them. Quietly then, they tiptoed out and Hank locked the door.
"I have all their instructions at the office," Cliff said in a hushed voice. "I'll attend to everything as soon as I can safely leave here. Until then, I guess that's it."
"People used to sit up with the dead. Is that what they call a wake? Do you think we ought to do something of the sort?" Donna asked. It seemed that there should be something else that they could do for the Wards.
Cliff looked sad, almost stricken. "They were as near grandparents as I ever had, and I loved them as if they were my own people. Mrs. Ward—" He choked and could not go on for a moment. "Mrs. Ward was—I could always go to her when I couldn't go home. But it's myself I grieve for. Not for them. This was exactly what they would have hoped for."
Donna nodded. She was very near to tears again herself. "I haven't known them long, but I feel as if they belonged to me. They both talked to me about how much each hated to leave the other. And now they won't have to."
Mary was weeping, too, and Hank looked stern and unbending. "Do you think we ought to tell people?" he asked.
They stopped and considered, all of them looking doubtful. Cliff was first to reach a decision. "I vote no," he said. "There's nothing anyone can do and we have enough problems here without somebody having hysterics because a palm leaf might come in and kill him."
"Still," Hank considered the other side, "Mrs. Ward was right when she said people were always coming in and out. Somebody is going to find out that the door is locked; there's either going to have to be a lie told, or the truth."
"Couldn't we just leave it until somebody does ask and then tell whoever it is the truth and ask them not to tell anybody?" Mary suggested.
An unexpected smile tugged at Cliff's mouth.
"Have you ever tried telling anybody something and warning him not to tell anybody? Or her. Men are about as bad as women. Nearly anyone will rush out and tell someone else in confidence. You know?"
"Y-yes. That's true," Mary agreed.
"I still think it might be well to leave it until somebody does ask," Donna said. "I've always believed in leaving sleeping dogs as long as possible. Didn't the Wards go to bed early? It's dark already and seems later than it really is. Aren't most people going to think the Wards are asleep and not bother them?"
"That sounds likely enough. We may have until tomorrow morning—and nothing seems quite so bad by daylight, even such daylight as we have had these last two days," Cliff said. "We can try it, anyway, if the rest of you agree."
Mary and Hank nodded. "I hope nobody will think we are being callous," Mary said.
"People are so critical of teachers," Hank said by way of agreement.
Cliff brushed that aside brusquely. "No matter what you do, somebody is going to think you did the wrong thing."
H
ank sighed. "Yes. I guess that's true. We'll risk it anyhow, unless Mary disagrees."
"I don't," she said doubtfully.
"Anybody feel like eating supper?" Cliff asked. "We could take the groceries up to the second-floor teachers' room and—"
"I don't think I could swallow a bite," Donna said, looking as if once more she might burst into tears.
"I couldn't, either," Mary assured them. "Not anything."
"I'm not exactly hungry myself," Hank added.
But Cliff had had a new idea. "There's that cake in there."
Mary looked at him horrified. "If you mean you can eat more of the cake Mrs. Ward baked, I never heard of anything more ghoulish."
"It isn't that," he assured her. "I couldn't, either. In the first place, I had all I would want in there before Dr. Ward had his heart attack. But it's wonderful cake and unusually large, and a lot of the kids hereabout are sweet-hungry. I was thinking how Mrs. Ward loved to feed children and how she'd hate to have her cake drying up when the kids would enjoy it."
Donna's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sure she'd want them to have it. Sure as anything."
Mary nodded, and Hank, without another word, took out his keys, found the one he had last used and unlocked the door. A moment later, he appeared bearing a little more than half of a coconut cake.
"Listen," Mary suggested, "why don't we give the cake to the teenagers? If we can find some sugar, we've got canned milk. I'll make candy for the little ones. Won't that do? There's not enough cake for them all."
Donna turned shining eyes on the other girl. "That's a wonderful idea, if we can get candy made on a sterno. Can we?"
Mary grinned. "I used to when I was in college. We ought to be able to here."
Cliff looked at Hank. "Looks like the little women have it all figured out. Come along, Donna. We'll serve refreshments to the dancers. Only, we are going to have to cut that cake mighty narrow."
She did make little pieces of it, and in no time it was gone. The dancers gathered about, asking questions, saying thank you, wondering if there was more where that came from. It was then that Cliff had his inspiration.
"All of you know Dr. and Mrs. Ward. Today was his birthday and that was his birthday cake. Mrs. Ward made it for the occasion and wanted to share it. They're resting now. It's been a hard day and they were tired. I hope nobody will disturb them."
Dusty pushed forward. "Why don't we put a note on the door so nobody will. Anybody got any paper?"
"I can get some," Donna offered. She almost gave Dusty the knife and plate, and remembered just in time. She'd take it into the office with her. Then, after the storm was over, she could take them back to the Ward cottage and put them with the rest of their possessions. Or Cliff could.
Only a few minutes later, Dusty was calling, "Anybody got some chewing gum? I ain't got no tack and I got to fasten this note on the door somehow."
Left alone with Cliff in the midst of all the excitement of the hall crowded with youngsters as one can only be alone in a crowd interested in something else, Donna felt suddenly shy. "Mrs. Worth was saying something about Sammy when I came out. I guess I'd better get back. Good night, Cliff."
His eyes sought her face as if they were asking a question, and found no answer. "Good night, Donna," he said.
Mrs. Worth was, as she had been most of the day, worried about the boy. His fever was up again. There was no chance of getting it down again by putting him in a bath of cool water. Donna decided to try aspirin again.
Only then did Mrs. Worth remember to give the nurse a message that had been left for her. "You know that Anna Brinkley, her that's no better than she should be and has got a yard child?" she began.
"Yard child?" Donna echoed, not being familiar with the expression.
Mrs. Worth looked contemptuous of ignorance. "Anna Brinkley ain't never been married. Her Johnnie ain't, rightly speaking, got no pa."
"I don't believe I know—Miss Brinkley," Donna said in a tone meant to discourage gossip.
"Well, Johnnie's got a fever and Anna's actin' like she never left the kid to go out with any pair of pants that asked her. I wouldn't tell her where you was, but she said you come to one eighteen when you had time. She don't know what's wrong."
Donna sighed. She ached with tiredness and she feared she could do no more for Anna Brinkley's child than she had been able to do for Mrs. Worth's. For the thousandth time, she wished for a doctor to diagnose and a hospital to fall back on. But since neither of these wishes was likely to come true, she picked up her bag of medical supplies and went down the hall, through the dancers and on to the classroom that was numbered one eighteen.
Anna Brinkley looked up at her and, on recognition of the nurse, the worry on her face faded as a child's might at sight of her mother.
"Johnnie's never had a sick day in her life, Miss Ledbury. Oh, sometimes she's got hold of something to eat she hadn't ought to and her little tummy ached, but not to be sick. Now she's hot as anything and her throat's sore and her nose is running. She's had sniffles, sure, but this don't seem like that. Gosh, I'm glad you've come. I never know what to do with anybody sick. I don't see how anybody can be a nurse."
"It's nice that everybody doesn't want to, or I'd be out of a job," Donna said, to put the other girl at ease.
Anna was young and blonde. Her waist was narrow, her breasts and hips generous. She was an extremely pretty girl, with a blank, unintelligent face. Her clothes were rather too much in the latest mode and she wore the highest heels Donna had ever seen.
Johnnie. Donna had expected a small boy, but the sufferer was plainly a girl. She was almost as blonde as her mother, who had lent a hand to nature's natural endowment. Johnnie's dress was artificial silk and, like nearly everybody inside the schoolhouse, she was no longer entirely clean. Still, it was what Donna called "new dirt." Whatever else might be said against the mother, the plump little girl looked well cared for. She was, however, afraid of strangers, and she began to cry when Donna came near her.
"I'm only going to try to make you more comfortable," Donna coaxed. "Couldn't you open your mouth and let me look at your throat?"
"You're going to stick things in me," Johnnie wailed. "I don't want no shots."
Donna put a cool hand on the child's flushed cheek. "I don't even have a needle, Johnnie. And if I had, I couldn't use it unless a doctor told me to. There isn't a doctor in the building, so you're quite safe. Now, may I look at your throat?"
The little girl didn't obey for a long moment while she studied Donna's face. Then, meek as meek, she opened her small mouth and stuck out her tongue. The throat was an angry red, much like Sammy's.
"Now we're going to take your temperature," Donna told her. "You know how to put the thermometer under your tongue and be very quiet and still until I take it away, don't you?"
Johnnie again studied the face so near her own, decided in favor of Donna and opened her mouth. Donna put the slender tube into it and Johnnie closed her mouth again.
Anna was chattering on nervously: "I always give her her shots. I'm going to see she grows up healthy if I can. I can't give her much and a woman has it hard enough anyway at best. But Johnnie's going to have everything as easy as I can make it for her. I don't want nobody sayin' I ain't a good mother. There's those that do say it, but I do the best I can. I see she gets her shots and that she eats her yellow and green vegetables and plays outside every day that it ain't rainin'. I mean right by Johnnie."
Donna listened to the outpouring from the little girl's mother with an absent ear. She was concentrating on the sound of the child's breathing. There was nothing to indicate pneumonia.
The thermometer read 103 degrees. That was high, and just as she had thought in the beginning, Donna knew no better now what the matter was than she had when she first heard that Johnnie was sick. Any more than she had when she had heard about Sammy. It might be one of the children's diseases. It might be anything. And the weather being what it was, and their being shut in the
way they were, it might grow very much worse before it grew better—before she could get help.
Again she gave aspirin and said a small prayer that she was doing the right thing.
"You have any water?" she asked.
Anna got up from her place beside the baby and went to get it, chattering along with nervousness, almost oblivious as to whether she made sense or not. "They said bring stuff to put water in, and I done that. I got water. I got food. I got blankets to wrap her in and keep her warm. I even brought her baby mattress. You see it there under her. I do try to do the best for Johnnie."
She brought an aluminum pitcher of water, still talking for all she was worth. "Do you know what's the matter with her? Got any idea what's the matter with her? I don't let her play with other children because their mothers talk about me and their kids say nasty things to Johnnie. To tell the truth, their mothers don't want my Johnnie playing with their kids. I don't think she could of caught anything, do you? And she's had all her shots."
Donna spoke out of sheer desperation, to hush that flow of words. "I wish I knew, Mi—Mrs. Brinkley. Nurses aren't encouraged to diagnose things, or have opinions about things that doctors decide. And I'm not a doctor."
The girl's eyes had grown big and were filled with anxiety. "You aren't trying to tell me my Johnnie's going to die, Miss Ledbury?" She reached out and caught hold of Donna's sleeve. There was pleading in her voice.
Before Donna could answer, an unshaven man appeared in the doorway. "Anna, honey, I got a bottle. You get somebody to stay with the kid and we can—"
Anna looked at Donna's face, then at the man, then back at Donna. Her expression became sly. "You go on, Mac. My kid's sick. I'm not going anywhere. You go look up somebody else."
"But there ain't anybody else," he complained. "I want you should—"
Anna came to her feet and moved toward him. Her face was twisted with anger. "You get out of here, do you hear? My kid's sick and I don't want you hangin' around. Get out." Her voice rose almost to a scream.
The man looked surprised, then shuffled off, the bottle in his hand.
