A Thousand Little Blessings

by Claire Sanders

  “You gave him the key?”

  “I told him I wasn’t allowed to give it to anyone, but he just laughed and snatched it out of my hand. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Did he return it?”

  “Yes, but he must have made a copy. I make sure the office door is locked every day before I leave, but Carl goes in and out of there as if it was his own.” She raised her eyebrows and walked away.

  The restlessness in Etta’s stomach multiplied. Ever since Arthur Lewis had been hired, Carl’s only responsibility was to manage the employees. There was nothing in her father’s office that concerned the bank personnel. Etta walked through the door without knocking. “Good morning, Uncle Carl.”

  A stack of ledgers thundered against the highly polished wood floor as Carl whirled in response to Etta’s greeting. “Oh, Etta. You startled me.” He squatted to retrieve the books. “I had no idea you were coming in today. How’s Henry?”

  Several account books lay open on the desk and a stack of receipts were wedged under a marble paperweight.

  “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you.”

  Carl folded the receipts and shoved them into the pocket of his pinstriped trousers. “Nothing.” He closed the ledger books and stacked them. “I was just…uh…just trying to keep on top of things. You know Henry always kept me up-to-date on the bank’s investments.” He hugged the books to his chest and brushed past Etta on his way out the door. “I’ll be by later tonight to pay Henry a visit and to let him know everything’s under control here.”

  Carl’s brown and white wingtip shoes squeaked as he hustled through the outer office and out the door. Etta crossed her arms over her chest and studied the top of her father’s highly polished desk. Her reflection showed a deep groove between her eyebrows.

  In the years she’d worked as her father’s assistant, her uncle had seldom had reason to enter any of the second floor offices. But, surely, Uncle Carl had a good reason for taking ledger books.

  “Miss Davis?”

  Etta glanced up to see a short, wiry man with tanned skin and reddish hair standing by her desk. “Yes?”

  “My name’s Charlie Simpson.” The man nervously fingered a battered hat. “The lady downstairs, a Mrs. Swanson, she told me to come on up.”

  “Oh, Mr. Simpson. I wasn’t expecting you until after lunch.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know, and I’ll go downstairs and wait if you don’t want to see me now.” The man’s words shot from his mouth like bullets. “It’s just that, well, I got a ride from a friend, and he could only bring me this morning. But like I said, I can wait all day if that’s what you want.”

  Etta ducked her head to hide her smile. Did Charlie Simpson always talk so fast or was he just nervous? She walked toward him with her hand outstretched. “I’m glad to talk to you now, Mr. Simpson. Dr. Russell told me you had some experience working with stroke patients.”

  Charlie took her hand and shook it once. “I sure do. See, I was a medic in the Army for a long time, and then I got a job as an orderly at a hospital in Dallas, but when I heard about my old unit going to France, well, I decided they couldn’t go without old Charlie. So I went with ’em. Now the war’s over and I’m back to looking for a job. Doc Russell, he told me about your Pa and how you’re dead set against sending him away, so I’m here to offer my services.”

  “I see.” Etta took a long breath and blew it out. Even if Charlie didn’t need a breather from talking, she needed one from listening. She gestured to a chair next to her desk. “Please sit down, Mr. Simpson.”

  Charlie sat on the edge of the seat like an alley cat on a fence rail. “I can provide references for you, ma’am.” He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “I wrote ’em all down for you. Doc Russell, he knows me from when we were both working in Dallas, and Captain Ross, he’s the surgeon I worked with during my last enlistment, and, if you want, I can give you more names.” Charlie bit his bottom lip and glanced around the office. “I don’t need much in the way of pay, ma’am, but I’d better tell you straight off that I don’t have no place to live. I’ve been staying with an old Army buddy in Austin, but his wife, well, she wouldn’t be sad to see me go. Doc Russell said that maybe you would…well, that you might…”

  “We can provide room and board, Mr. Simpson. If you’re hired, you would sleep in a bedroom near my father, and you’d be welcome to take all of your meals with us.”

  Charlie smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, ma’am. That’d be perfect. Just what old Charlie needs.”

  He didn’t have gray hair, but the lines around his mouth and eyes suggested Charlie was in his forties.

  “Since we’ll provide room and board, the pay may not be what you were expecting.”

  “Whatever you say is fine, Miss Davis. Doc Russell, he said your family was as square as a soda cracker and that’s good enough for old Charlie.”

  Etta had been praying for someone to help her father. Could this short, thin man be the person God had sent in response? “I’d like to check your references, Mr. Simpson. How can I get in touch with you?”

  Charlie rubbed his jaw. “Well, ma’am, that’s not so easy. See, the buddy I’m staying with, well, he doesn’t have no telephone. But I’m going to be in town all day ’cause he can’t pick me up until about seven o’clock tonight when he heads back to Austin.”

  “My goodness. What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”

  “Don’t you worry about old Charlie. I know how to while away the day. I’ll just find me a nice shady tree and take a rest. If it’s all right with you, ma’am, I’ll check back later this afternoon and see if you’ve made your decision.”

  She’d probably be able to talk to the doctor today, but contacting an Army officer might be difficult. “You understand that if I hire you, you’ll be providing almost everything for my father. You’ll be expected to help him eat, bathe, and dress as well as see to his rehabilitation. That’s a lot for one person to take on.”

  “Maybe. But not for old Charlie.” He leaned forward and tapped her desk with his index finger. “I’ve seen a lot worse than strokes happen to men a lot younger than your Pa. I know how to exercise his legs and arms so that he gets movement back in ’em, and as far as bathing and dressing him…well, that’s what I do all the time for those who can’t do for themselves.”

  Etta’s heart told her that Charlie Simpson was the right man for the job, but her head told her she’d better check his references. She stood and offered her hand again. “Tell you what, Mr. Simpson. You give me time to talk to Dr. Russell and to locate Captain Ross. I usually leave the bank around five o’clock. Stop back in before then, and we’ll talk again.”

  Charlie’s eyes wrinkled with his wide grin. “It’s a deal, ma’am.” He shook her hand vigorously. “You’ll see. Old Charlie’s your man, all right.”

  ****

  Rosa clucked her tongue as she followed Etta up the back stairs. “Your Papa, he didn’t eat nearly enough. I’ll bring your dinner on a tray. See if you can get him to eat something.”

  “What time did the nurse leave?”

  “That woman,” Rosa answered with a disgusted tone. “She spent more time in my kitchen than she did with your Papa.”

  Etta shifted the sewing basket in her arms and knocked softly on his open door. Her father was sitting up in bed, bolstered by pillows. “Good evening, Papa. How are you feeling?”

  “Hmph.” The stroke had robbed him of speech, leaving grunts and groans in place of words.

  Rosa peeked into the room, shook her head, and then hurried down the back stairs.

  Etta fixed a smile on her face and entered her father’s room. “Your face is almost back to normal, Papa. That’s a good sign.”

  He nodded his head slowly, as though that simple action required forethought.

  Etta pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “I went to the bank today. Everything’s fine there. We’re down a little in manuf
acturing, but that’s to be expected now that war production is declining. We’re up quite a bit in agricultural futures.”

  “Hmph.”

  White stubble covered her father’s cheeks and chin. Why hadn’t the nurse shaved him?

  Etta withdrew two quilt squares from the basket and showed them to her father. “I found these in Mom’s sewing room. I’m going to try my hand at finishing the quilt she started.”

  Henry moved his left arm toward the fabric.

  Etta placed the quilt square in his hand. “I don’t know much about sewing, but I can put the squares together. Then I’ll ask Sara to help me quilt them.”

  A tear ran down her father’s bristled cheek.

  Concern and panic tightened Etta’s throat. She’d never seen her father cry. Should she comfort him or give him privacy?

  He choked on a sob as more tears flowed from his reddened eyes.

  Tears sprang to Etta’s eyes as well. Her poor, dear Papa. Always so strong. Always so proper. She stood and removed a handkerchief from her pocket. “It’s OK, Papa,” she whispered as she dried his cheeks. “You’ll get better.”

  He groaned and pushed her away.

  Etta bit her lip as she stumbled back. She should have known better than to embarrass him. She resumed her seat and focused on pinning together two of the quilt squares. A sharp pain pierced her throat as she listened to her father struggle to contain his grief. She wanted to embrace him or hold his hand, but he wasn’t that kind of man. Even if she meant to comfort, the result might be unintended embarrassment. Perhaps she should step into the hall, but wouldn’t that convey the message she found his emotions distasteful? Nothing could be farther from the truth.

  She sewed in silence, carefully whipstitching the two pieces of fabric together and removing the pins as she went along. Please send Papa comfort, she prayed while she sewed. Help him endure this illness. Each stitch was a prayer for her father’s recovery.

  Rosa called to her from the hall. “I have your dinner, mija.”

  Etta laid her sewing in the basket and brought a small table to the chair. “Bring it in, Rosa.”

  The housekeeper entered as though she walked a tightrope. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she set the tray of food on the table and spoke in a low tone. “Let me know if you want something else.”

  Why wouldn’t Rosa look at her father? “Thank you, Rosa. I’ll bring down the tray when I’m finished.”

  Rosa ducked her head and tiptoed out of the room. Etta scrutinized the food. “Papa, Rosa sent up a bowl of your favorite soup, the kind with the little meatballs. Would you like some?”

  Henry moved his head slowly from side-to-side. Whether he had no appetite or simply declined to have his daughter spoon-feed him, Etta decided not to push the matter.

  “I have more news for you,” she said as she ate from her bowl of soup. “Rosa’s nephew, Benito, is coming every morning to clean the stalls and let the horses out. I went to the stable when I got home and everything looks very nice.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Do you remember Sara Benson’s son?” Etta watched her father for a reaction, but his gaze was fixed to a spot on the wall over her head. “His name is Gabriel. He’s volunteered to exercise the horses and to oversee their care.”

  Her father’s gaze didn’t waver, but he slowly nodded his head.

  “Now, the best news of all. I’ve hired a man to help you. His name is Charlie Simpson. Dr. Russell recommended him and so did his former commander. He was an Army medic, and according to Captain Ross, Charlie worked as a reconstruction aide.” Her father’s wooden expression never changed. “I’d never heard that term, but Captain Ross told me it’s a new field of medicine aimed at helping people with brain injuries. Reconstruction aides work with patients to help them regain mobility.” Etta laid her spoon on the tray and fingered the linen napkin in her lap.

  If only her father could tell her what he needed. He’d always told her what to do, not the other way around.

  “Charlie will be here tomorrow morning.”

  Henry’s gaze lowered to Etta’s face, and she held her breath awaiting his response. His left eyebrow slanted down and his mouth twisted like a gasping fish. “Arg..doo…nee…” His left arm and leg flung out, overturning the small table and sending the dinner dishes crashing to the floor.

  Etta sprang to her feet. “All right, Papa. All right.”

  He collapsed onto the pillows, his chest heaving from the exertion.

  Etta went to his side. “I’m sorry.” She wiped his brow with her handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  Henry exhaled loudly and turned his head away from her.

  Rosa’s quick footsteps pounded up the stairs. “Mija! ¿Qué pasó, mija?”

  Etta squatted and began to pick up the dishes. “It’s all right, Rosa. You can come in.”

  As before, the housekeeper sidled into the room, her gaze averted. “What happened?” she asked as she bent to help Etta.

  “Nothing. Just an accident.”

  Rosa clucked her tongue and shook her head but kept her opinions to herself as she reloaded the tray and carried it out of the room.

  Etta straightened, closed her eyes, and sent a prayer heavenward. What had she done to upset her father? Was it the bank, the horses, or her plan for helping him recover? “Lead me, Lord,” she whispered. “Show me the right thing to do.” She took a fortifying breath and turned to face her father.

  His eyes were closed, and his chest moved with steady breaths. Perhaps sleep was the best thing for him now.

  Etta lifted her father’s leg and placed it on the bed. “If a convalescent home is the best place for Papa, Lord, please let me know. It’s hard to see him suffer, but sending him away doesn’t feel right.” She straightened her father’s covers and turned out the bedside lamp.

  If only her mother were here.

  Her mother had always known the right thing to do.

  ****

  The gray clouds blanketing the sky matched Etta’s mood the next day. The nurse had departed before dawn, leaving Etta to coax her father into eating breakfast. But he’d refused her assistance, pushing her arm away and flinging oatmeal onto the bedroom wall. She’d been near tears when Charlie Simpson arrived, a battered suitcase in one hand and a brown herringbone cap in the other.

  Charlie’s smile had never faltered. “Looks like old Charlie’s arrived just in time,” he said with a wink. “You go on now, Miss Davis. Your papa and me will figure things out.”

  After introducing Charlie to her father, Etta had driven her father’s car to town. She hadn’t managed to pin down Uncle Carl yesterday, but discovering which accounts he was overseeing was on top of her list today.

  The enticing aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls from nearby Hoffmann’s Bakery greeted her as she exited the car. Perhaps Papa could be cajoled into eating if she brought his favorite treat. She hurried into the nearby store.

  “Oh, Miss Henrietta,” Mr. Hoffmann greeted her. “So nice to see you back in town. I heard you returned to work yesterday. How is Mr. Davis? Better?”

  “Yes, thank you for asking.” Over Mr. Hoffmann’s shoulder, Etta saw Carl seated at a small metal table. A woman wearing an emerald green toque and matching dress sat with her back to Etta.

  Mr. Hoffmann walked around the counter and patted Etta’s shoulder. “Good, good. So glad to hear it. What can I get for you today? Have you had breakfast? We have lebkuchen. I know how partial you are to those.”

  Etta glanced at the honey cakes she’d favored since her girlhood. “I’ll take a few, Mr. Hoffmann, and six cinnamon rolls.”

  “Your uncle’s here having coffee with a lady friend. Shall I pour a cup for you?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just say good morning to Carl and then take my pastries with me.”

  “Fine, fine.” Mr. Hoffmann returned to the counter where he began putting the treats into a white box.

  Etta approached the table. Who was the stylish woman with her unc
le? “Good morning, Uncle Carl.”

  Carl’s cup rattled loudly as he dropped it into the saucer and jumped to his feet. “Oh, Etta. Sorry, didn’t see you come in.” Her uncle wasn’t dressed for work. Instead of his usual three-piece suit, he wore a lightweight linen jacket with matching knickerbockers.

  “Sorry to interrupt you,” Etta said, “but I wanted to ask if we could meet sometime today.”

  “Of course.” Carl patted his pomaded sandy-blonde hair. “Allow me to introduce my companion. Miss Florence Edwards, my niece Henrietta Davis.”

  The pretty young blonde turned blue eyes toward Etta. “How do you do?”

  Carl was at least fifteen years older than this girl. Was he meeting with her on bank business or was this a social occasion?

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Etta replied. “Have you recently moved to Burnet?”

  “Goodness, no,” the young woman answered with wide eyes. “Carl and I are spending the day in the country. Isn’t his new automobile simply a peach?”

  Etta shifted her gaze to her uncle. “I didn’t know you bought a new one.”

  “A yellow Hudson Super Six,” Carl answered.

  “Carl got it up to forty miles an hour on the way from Austin,” Florence gushed. “It was so exciting.” She smiled at Carl. “What a daring, brave man you are to drive so fearlessly.”

  Carl glanced at Etta, cleared his throat, and then returned Florence’s smile.

  This definitely wasn’t bank business. Etta was as out of place as a prohibitionist at a tavern. “I don’t want to disturb the two of you any longer, so I’ll be on my way. It was nice to meet you, Miss Edwards.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

  “I look forward to it,” Etta replied. “I’ll see you later, Uncle Carl.”

  “If not today, then definitely tomorrow,” Carl answered.

  With a nod, Etta turned and headed toward the door. Carl was a bachelor, free to entertain whomever he chose, and it was not her place to judge his choice. Her mother had often spoken about Carl’s natural charm and easy-going spirit, and if Florence didn’t mind the age difference, who was Etta to object?