“I do,” the man replied, stopping for a moment as coughing wracked his body. Then he continued, “Isaac, I’m praying you enjoy your time here. Your uncle is a good man and a good doctor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence. From what I’ve seen of the city, I’m impressed. It’s beautiful. And I concur with your assessment of my uncle.”
“You two will make this old doctor blush,” Uncle Alfred said. “Mr. Lawrence, I hope you don’t mind if Isaac joins us today.”
And with those words, Isaac’s journey into medicine took one step forward.
❧
“And wear your jacket!”
Aunt Ruth’s words followed Christal as she left the house. The morning air still retained a bit of the night’s chill, but the sun blasted away, and soon the day would warm up considerably.
She had a jacket with her—not the dreaded plaid one, though. She reminded herself again that she needed to get that horrible garment into the fire as soon as possible. This one was a sedate black short coat, the one she usually wore to church. A bit fancy, perhaps, for her errand, but it was better than the plaid jacket.
The door opened at Dr. Bering’s house, and she watched Isaac steadying John Lawrence on his way down the front walk. Mr. Lawrence was coughing badly, and she immediately prayed for his health. Over the past two or three months, the elderly man had developed a deep congestion that seemed to have grown worse every time she saw him.
“Hello, Mr. Lawrence!” she called, waving at him. “Hello, Isaac!”
Isaac raised his free hand in a salute. “I’m going to go with Mr. Lawrence here to see his bird, Aristotle.”
She smiled. Aristotle was a mangy-looking and terribly ill-tempered bird “of some undetermined heritage, an avian vagabond,” but she suspected that the bird was a common crow.
As far as she’d been able to tell, Aristotle’s sole talent was that he was in love with the image he saw in the mirror that Mr. Lawrence had put behind his cage. Just like some people I know. Aunt Ruth had sniffed after a visit when Aristotle had been particularly rambunctious and bitten the feather off her new hat.
Christal had wondered if perhaps the bird realized the source of the feather—one of its distant and undoubtedly deceased relatives—and had attacked the feather as a way of punishing Aunt Ruth.
The bird’s place in Mr. Lawrence’s heart was well known, but Dr. Bering, she was sure, hadn’t sent Isaac out just to see the bird.
“Would you like to come, too?” Mr. Lawrence asked, covering his mouth as the coughing rose again.
“I’d love to see Aristotle. Let me just pop back in and tell my mother that I’m going with you two first.”
She turned and went back into the house. Her mother was headed up the stairs with an armful of folded linens and stopped. “I thought you were going to the library.”
“I am, but first may I go with Isaac to see Mr. Lawrence’s bird? They’re going now, and Mr. Lawrence invited me.”
Mother shifted the sheets and frowned slightly. “You know, I think that would be a good idea. He sounds so sick lately, and I’m worried about him. Christal, without being obvious about it, will you take a look at his home and see if he might need some help? I can’t think that he’s able to keep up with it, not as ill as he must be.”
“I will.” She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
She rejoined the two men and walked with them to Mr. Lawrence’s house. It was less than two blocks away, but the elderly man walked so slowly that it took them almost half an hour.
His house was small and sunlit. As soon as they walked into the living room, loud squawking and chirping broke the morning calm.
Aristotle hopped from one foot to the other in a kind of wild dance. Up and down the rod that crossed his cage he went, screeching and shrieking until Mr. Lawrence hobbled over to see him.
“Aristotle, are you glad to see me? Say hello to your papa! Say hello!”
Isaac looked at Christal, and they smiled as the aged man fussed over his beloved bird. He opened the door and thrust his hand inside the cage. The bird popped onto it and immediately bit his knuckle.
“Here’s my boy!” Mr. Lawrence announced as he held Aristotle out to Christal and Isaac.
She tried not to smile as Isaac nodded uneasily, as if not sure if he was expected to let the bird get on him or to pet it.
The question was resolved quickly when the bird flew to the top of the bookcase with a great shower of feathers that dropped off him and drifted onto every nearby surface.
“Should I get him?” Isaac asked. The expression on his face clearly showed that he hoped the answer was no.
“He’ll be fine. I let him out to stretch his wings every once in a while.” Mr. Lawrence stopped as a round of coughing took over.
“My uncle has given you a bottle of medicinal syrup for that,” Isaac said, reaching into his pocket. “Let’s get some in you before I leave.”
“I’ll get a spoon,” Christal said. “I know where the kitchen is.”
The dishes were piled on the counter, crusted with dried food. Mr. Lawrence had apparently made some effort to clean a few of them, judging from the ones that were drying on a towel near the sink.
Her mother’s fears were right. The poor man was overwhelmed with housekeeping now that he was sick.
He hadn’t always been like this. Usually the house was spotless. But now dust motes as thick as June stars danced in the sunlit living room, and the bright light through the window showed where he had missed cleaning up after his bird.
Christal blinked as tears burned into her eyes. Was Mr. Lawrence going to get better? He had to! She couldn’t bear seeing him like this, failing so dramatically.
As she found a clean spoon, wiping it off just in case, she remembered when she had been younger and had come to his house to see the bird and to look at his flower garden. Now both he and the bird were old, and the flower garden had gone to weeds.
She ran her fingertips over her cheeks to dry off the last vestiges of tears and practiced a smile. There. She could go back in and see him.
“I’ve got it!” she sang out as she joined the two men. Isaac stood beside Mr. Lawrence, comforting him as yet another set of coughs shook his frail body. The medicine was already in his hand. Even the cork was out.
“Here,” he said, taking the spoon from her and pouring the syrup into it. “This will help control the spasms in your lungs, and it’ll let you sleep.”
Aristotle flapped his wings and shrieked from his perch on the bookcase.
“I wish I could get him back in his cage,” she said to Isaac, “but I’m afraid he’d tear me apart.”
“He’s a good bird,” Mr. Lawrence said from the chair, his voice growing slurred as the medication quickly took effect. The sedation in the syrup, combined with the effort of the walk to and from Dr. Bering’s office and the wearying rounds of deep coughing had clearly exhausted him. “He’ll go back in.”
And with that, he put his head to one side and fell asleep.
“Well,” Isaac said, “I guess that’s that.”
Christal took a throw from the divan and covered the older man. “I’ll tell my mother. She’ll come in and see to him.”
They tiptoed out of the room as Aristotle made another loop around the room, coming to rest this time on the curtain rod.
Isaac shook his head. “I’m not going after that creature.”
“Nor am I. We’ll leave him. There’s food in his cage, I noticed, so I’m sure he’ll head back in there eventually.”
Once they were out on the street, Isaac shook his head. “That poor man.”
“He’s sick, isn’t he, Isaac?” She reached out and grasped the sleeve of his coat, making him stop. “Tell me, please.”
“Yes, he’s sick.”
“Is he going to get better?” Please say yes, she added mentally.
He shrugged and looked away. “That’s God’s decision.”
A sob tore at her throat. That was answer enough.
She dropped her hand from his arm and shoved it into her coat pocket. It wasn’t fair. “People should live forever. They should never get sick.”
He didn’t speak at first. Then, “Well, of course we live forever. Not on earth, but in heaven.” He smiled wryly. “Here I am, telling a pastor’s daughter about eternal life.”
“I do know that, and it is a comfort, but still, that’s for the person dying. They get to go on to eternal life, while we who are left here have to wait for our turn. I don’t like that part.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“I’ve been to a lot of funerals as a minister’s daughter. Sometimes I barely even knew the person, sometimes not at all. But sometimes I did know them well, and it hurts so badly.” She sighed. “I understand it all, but I don’t like seeing people hurting.”
“Nor do I, Christal, nor do I.” They began to walk back toward the Bering house. “That is the reason I became a doctor, to try to ease pain wherever I could.”
Neither one said anything until at last Christal said, “You know, Mr. Lawrence could have walked home by himself. He’s weak and he proceeds slowly, but he walks everywhere he goes. I wonder why your uncle sent you with him.”
Isaac stared thoughtfully at the road ahead. “Uncle Alfred cares about his patients as people. Each one is an individual human being, and their needs extend beyond what they might tell him in the consulting room. I suspect he wanted me to see Mr. Lawrence’s home and to see his relationship with that silly bird.”
She looked at him curiously. “Why?”
“Because that’s all part of who John Lawrence is. He’s a person. Right now he’s a person who has a terrible cough.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think, except that Uncle Alfred’s success as a physician is due, in part, to his ability to treat the person, not the disease.”
That made sense to her. Dr. Bering had an astonishing talent to understand his patients and their needs.
They were at the foot of the walk to her house. “I’m going to go in and talk to my mother about Mr. Lawrence. I’m sure she will make sure his house is put in order—and don’t worry, she’ll do it in a way that he probably won’t even realize it.”
“Not realize it?” Isaac asked. “Be realistic, Christal. You saw it. If she cleans even a little corner of the house, it’ll be noticeable.”
Christal smiled. “Many years of being a good minister’s wife have given her plenty of experience in being tactful with those in the congregation who are in need but don’t admit it. She’ll find a way to take care of it so he won’t be hurt. By the way, I’m going to the library in a while. That’s where I was headed originally. Would you like to join me?”
She held her breath as she awaited his answer. It was silly, wanting him to join her there, but the fact was that if she could create a perfect friend for herself, it would be someone who would love the trips to the library as much as she did.
“I can’t. My uncle has patients all day long, and I need to be back there, learning at his side.”
Her disappointment must have shown on her face, for he touched her hand. “I will go another time, Christal. It’s important to you, so it’s important to me.”
It was the perfect answer. He smiled at her, his golden brown eyes meeting hers directly. The sun had risen to its midmorning glory, and his hair caught the light.
She was so glad he was here.
At last she shook herself out of her reverie. It could only have lasted a second or two, but it seemed longer. “I’ll see you another time then.”
He reached out and touched her arm. “Yes, indeed.”
As he walked over to his uncle’s house, she headed up the walkway to her own front door and marveled at how much happier he made her. Even in the midst of pending sorrow, he brought something very special into her life.
Her mother met her in the entryway as Christal was taking off her jacket. “Christal, what did you see?”
“There are dishes that need to be washed, the furniture is dusty, and the bird is loose. That’s all I saw, but it’s quite a lot.”
Mother reached for her coat. Her ragbag was at her feet, ready for service.
“I’m going over now, then. Can you please let Aunt Ruth know? She’s in the parlor with her knitting.”
“I’ll go with you.” The library could wait. This was more important. “Let me—”
“We’ll all go.” Aunt Ruth’s tone brooked no discussion. Christal hadn’t even heard her come into the hall. “The three of us should be able to put the house to rights quickly. We need to be careful not to disturb him while we’re there, so the sooner we can get done, the better.”
“I think he’s asleep,” Christal offered. “He must have been tired anyway, and then Isaac gave him some syrup that Dr. Bering had sent. There must be some powerful medicine in it. He fell asleep almost immediately.”
Her mother and aunt looked at each other and nodded. “For the cough,” Mother said. “He has to sleep in order to build up his strength to battle the cough.”
“Put on your jackets, both of you,” Aunt Ruth ordered as they were leaving. Christal and her mother grinned at each other—and put on their jackets.
The three women trekked the short distance to Mr. Lawrence’s home, as Mother and Aunt Ruth mapped out a strategy for dealing with the situation there. Her mother listed the contents of her bag. “Rags, of course. A bar of good strong soap. That scrub brush we use on the stairs in the back. Vinegar. Ammonia.”
They arrived at the Lawrence home. Mother knocked. When there was no response, she opened the door and called out softly, “John Lawrence? Mr. Lawrence? It’s Sarah Everett, the minister’s wife. Ruth and Christal are with me. Might we come in?”
She motioned to Aunt Ruth and Christal to follow her.
Mr. Lawrence was just as Christal and Isaac had left him only moments before, asleep in his chair. Aristotle screeched, but Aunt Ruth reached into her pocket and pulled out something that she held toward the bird.
Aristotle flapped over to her, snatched it out of her hand, and carried his prize again to the top of the bookcase.
“What on earth was that?” Christal asked, amazed.
“A slice of apple. I was knitting, and you know how much I enjoy a cut apple while I knit. It’s much easier and less sticky to have it in pieces. Well, waste not, want not. I brought it with me when we came here. I know that Aristotle likes apples.”
“How?” Christal couldn’t keep the astonishment from her voice. “How did you know that?”
“Christal Maria Everett,” her aunt admonished, “just because a woman might be old doesn’t mean she’s lost all her faculties. Or that she doesn’t know someone. John Lawrence and I have known each other for many years, even before Aristotle came into his life. And do you know why Aristotle has such a spot in John’s heart?”
Christal looked at the bird perched on the bookcase. His feathers were a splotchy mixture of brown and black, and in places they appeared to be thinner than others. His beak was chipped slightly, and one eye had a film over it.
Why the creature had a spot in anyone’s heart was beyond her.
“Come into the kitchen with me, child, and you and I can tackle it while your mother attends to the living room. Sarah, you might want to consider cleaning the birdcage first and putting in some fresh seed. I think Aristotle might actually fly into it by himself if it’s not so messy.”
Mother smiled at Christal as Aunt Ruth marched into the kitchen. “Guess I’ll start with the birdcage then!”
They moved quietly so as not to awaken Mr. Lawrence or startle the bird. Aunt Ruth began the process of heating water for washing the dishes as they both worked on the general disorder of the room.
“It looks like he would get started and then quit,” Aunt Ruth said. “Of course he’s so sick he probably has the energy of a footstool.”
“A footstool?” Christa
l asked with a grin.
“Don’t be impertinent,” Aunt Ruth said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “By the way, do you want to hear about Aristotle?” She picked up a stack of newspapers. “We can take care of these right now. It’s only called ‘news’ when it’s new. These probably date back to the Lincoln administration.”
She handed the papers to Christal who stacked them by the door. They’d leave a few for cleaning the birdcage, but most of them would be thrown out.
Aunt Ruth ran her hand over the counter. “This needs a good cleaning, too. But about the bird. John was married to a beautiful woman, and he adored her. He was older than she was, maybe fifteen years, possibly twenty. I don’t remember exactly. She got sick, though, very early in the marriage, and she didn’t live.”
“How sad!” Christal exclaimed.
“It was. For the longest time, an aura of melancholy surrounded him. He was there, but he wasn’t, if you know what I mean. His heart wasn’t in anything he did.”
“He must have missed her terribly.”
“Oh, he did. He was a good man, but the joy left him when she died. I’m not saying that he never laughed or smiled—he did indeed—but I could tell that he seemed to have buried himself with her.”
Christal sighed.
“But then one day he found Aristotle in the yard. The bird was a tiny broken thing, and most of us who knew John thought it was a bad idea for him to get attached to it. It’s quite hard to raise a bird anyway, but a wild bird that’s just a baby and injured, too—well, we didn’t see how the thing could survive. So we discouraged John.”
“Wouldn’t it be a good thing?” Christal asked, starting to mop the floor. “I’d think it might take his mind off his wife’s death.”
“Honey, nothing can take your mind off a spouse’s death. It comes and sits in you and it never, ever leaves. It’s been twenty-seven years since my Theo went to his reward, and there isn’t a day I don’t think of him. Anyway, we thought John had put all his hope in this little bird, and we knew he’d be devastated if it died, too, but the thing survived and has lived with him ever since.”
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