Nightingale

by Susan May Warren

  I am returning this note to the hospital, as you requested. I hope it finds you studying, and well. And although you did not mention it, I hope your efforts to find your friend’s fate resulted in happy news. He is in my prayers daily, as are you.

  With warm regard,

  Peter

  “It’s from him, isn’t it?” Caroline sat at the round pine table, setting a bowl of freshly washed strawberries between them.

  Esther slid the letter into the chapter entitled “Sterilization and Care of Common Supplies” and closed the Textbook of Surgical Nursing.

  “Let me read the letter.”

  “No. Shh, don’t wake Sadie.” She cast a look at her sleeping daughter on Caroline’s bed, her little mouth open, drooling into her rabbit.

  Caroline’s expression softened and she cut her voice to a whisper. “I love her curly hair.” She touched her own, tied into silky brown rag curls around her head.

  “She can already read. I’m telling you, I gave birth to a genius.”

  “Of course you did. Now—let me see the letter.”

  Esther made a face.

  “It’s only fair—I tell you about my dates with Teddy.”

  “I can assure you, your dates are far more exciting. It says nothing, just an encouragement to continue my studies, and a quote from Huckleberry Finn.”

  “A quote from Huckleberry Finn? Are you sure he’s a doctor?”

  “He’s also a farm boy from Iowa. One who seems to have seen the world.”

  Caroline raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay, fine. Here you go.” She slid out the aerogram then got up to pour herself a cup of sludge from the coffeepot on the stove. The afternoon sun pressed through the window, creeping across the wooden floor, the rag rug. The July breeze tickled the eyelet curtains, tangy with the smells of fresh-cut grass and summer roses.

  “Thank you, by the way, for letting me study in your room.” She stood at the window of Caroline’s second-story boardinghouse and bit into a strawberry, captured by the sparkle of the sun on the limey grass, the way the peonies in the front yard exploded in pink and white, the daylilies, tall and sleek, the bleeding heart and its fragile pink blossoms weeping in the front lawn. And right outside her window, a yellow climbing rose, its heady scent meandering into the room. “No more victory gardens?”

  “Are you kidding me? Mrs. Delano spent last week planting a late crop of potatoes. And I weeded the strawberry bed for an hour to earn this paltry basket. She’s downstairs, sweat caught in the cracks in her neck, fanning herself as she stirs up strawberry jam. I fear victory gardens are here to stay.” Caroline began to untie the rags from her hair, the sun sweet on her face. “I hope the curls stay. My hair is taking forever to dry.” The hair fell out, one spiral curl at a time. “Your Peter sounds handsome. Just the way he describes himself.”

  “I simply said that I wanted to picture him as he sat in the dark next to Linus, in my mind, and he assumed I wanted a description. Who knows what he must think of me.”

  “I think he’s grateful for your letters. Why do you write to him?” She ran her fingers through her curls. “Do you like him?”

  Esther shot her a look. “Of course not.” Except, yes, maybe something stirred inside her this morning when she discovered his letter in her box, neat and crisp, like a gift.

  But probably, simply the sense of someone wanting to know more about her dulled the blade of loneliness inside. At least for the few minutes it took for her to read—no, savor his letter.

  Caroline held up her hand. “Calm down, it’s me. He seems smart—like you. And what does he mean by the Elbe? Where is that? Ohio?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a place in the South. Or maybe in Europe. He did say theaterplatz—what’s that? Funny, his quote—I actually remember that passage, ‘We said there warn’t no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don’t. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.’”

  She looked over her shoulder to catch Caroline’s smirk. “I don’t do a Mississippi accent very well.”

  “No, you don’t. But it’s sort of strange that you can both quote the same book.”

  “Maybe it’s because we both grew up in Iowa. The prairie can feel like a river, constantly moving. And maybe, like me, he wanted to see the world.”

  From the bed, Sadie stirred. “You did, didn’t you?”

  Esther cut her voice low, her words almost for herself. “I was going to Europe. I was just waiting for my official orders when I met Linus.” She blew into her coffee. “Did you know that Linus has the complete collection of Hardy Boys mysteries? And a stack of about a million comic books. But not one copy of Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn or even something bolder, Hemingway, or Fitzgerald.”

  Caroline turned over the letter. “This Peter moves around a lot. This is the third location he’s written you from.”

  “I noticed that too. I wonder if he’s not with one of those army units, you know, the ones with the German prisoners of war?”

  “Prisoners of war? In Wisconsin?”

  “I read an article in the newspaper. I can’t believe you missed it—we had a crew of prisoners pass through here a few weeks ago, on their way to Fort McCoy. They hire the prisoners out to pick peas and work in processing plants.” She helped herself to another strawberry. “He’s probably making sure they all stay healthy—a traveling medic.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about having Nazis in our backyard.”

  “Not all the POWs are Nazis. I read a letter to the editor from a woman who said she heard some of them singing ‘Amazing Grace,’ and that they held regular church services at their camps.”

  “Germans, singing hymns?”

  “Half our town is German, Caroline. You might be Dutch, or whatever, but I would bet that your neighbors still have relatives in Germany. Even Bertha—she hasn’t said anything, but I suspect her family was fighting for the other side.”

  “I don’t know. If I saw a Nazi, I’d spit on him where he stood.” Caroline bit into another strawberry, catching the bloody juice as it ran down her chin. She slurped it up. “I just hope they don’t come to Roosevelt. We might have the Battle of the Bulge right in the middle of the convalescent ward.” Caroline finished off the strawberry then opened Esther’s book. “I’ll quiz you.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Sure you are. You’ve been at this every waking hour. Do the Hahns know?”

  Sadie whimpered in her sleep. Esther got up, settled next to her on the bed, peeled her sweaty hair from her face. “No. I think a part of me is hoping I get this scholarship and then I can leave—be on my own.”

  “What, escape with Sadie in the middle of the night?”

  “Shh!”

  “But you’re going to sneak out of town?”

  “And, I was hoping you might come with me.”

  Caroline blinked, swallowed, her gaze falling to Sadie, then back. Slowly, she nodded.

  Esther took her hand. A smile pulsed between them.

  “What if Linus is alive?” Caroline said quietly.

  “He’s not.”

  “Did you get a telegram?”

  “No. But he must be dead. He has to be. He hasn’t written.” She cut her voice to just above a whisper. “He’s not coming back, and I have to be ready when the Hahns find out.”

  Caroline drew a deep breath. “When is the exam?”

  Sadie drew her thumb up to her mouth. Sighed, her body shuddering before she settled back into slumber.

  “In two weeks. I’ll be ready.” Esther got up, sat down again at the table. Opened the book. “Did you know that Rosemary was in love with Linus? He was supposed to come home during his last furlough—the one he spent with me.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She heard me talking to Charlie—”

  “One of these days, he’s going to wake up and spill your secrets—”

  “And when she found
out that he might be dead—she was nearly hysterical. I—I told her that we weren’t sure he was dead.”

  Caroline stood up, walked over to the fan, its blades whirring in front of the window. She bent down, let it dice her words. “Oh, that’s swell, Esther.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do! I could see her running to the Hahns, telling them Linus is dead.”

  Caroline’s mouth tightened, pursing at the corners. Then, “What if his letter mentions her?” Caroline cut a look at Sadie, back at her, and leaned close. “What if he was writing to tell you that he loved her?”

  “He wouldn’t be that cruel.”

  “Really? He made love to you in the back seat of a borrowed Ford coupe. Those are manners.”

  Esther’s face burned.

  “I’m just saying, you knew you didn’t love him within days of his leaving. Maybe he figured out the same.” Caroline went to her closet. “You need to open his letter.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? You know he didn’t love you, right? So, open it, like ripping off a scab, and then deal with the blood. Eventually time will heal…” She picked out a floral swing dress, white with giant splashes of red flowers. It reminded Esther of one Hedy used to own. Caroline hung the hanger over her neck, the dress flapping like an apron in front of her. “I wore this on my second date with Wayne. I’m trying not to duplicate anything with Teddy.”

  Esther opened the book, didn’t look at her friend. “Sometimes, I try to lie to myself, to go back to that moment on the dance floor when he whispered in my ear, when he made me believe that yes, two fools could fall in love in a month’s time. It would have been nice if the fairytale came true.”

  Caroline pulled the dress from around her head. “I know. I sometimes let myself linger in Wayne’s arms that night that he proposed. I’ll never forget the smell of the water as it lapped the beach, salty and mysterious, the way he got down on one knee, his sailor’s uniform shiny like the stars. I just stop my mind right there, and don’t move until morning.”

  Yes, to pluck life’s happy moments and pocket them next to her stars.

  “My date arrives in one hour.” Caroline picked up her bathrobe, a basket of toiletries. She turned to Esther. “The longer you wait to tell everyone the truth, the more you’re going to bleed when you finally do.” She bent down and kissed Sadie’s cheek. “And, next time you write to Peter, send him your picture.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  June 1945

  Galesville

  Dear Esther,

  I have no doubt that you will pass your test, but you will be in my prayers for that day! Remember the difference between the Pitkin method of spinal anesthesia and the Stout method is that the second dissolves the Novocain crystals in the aspirated spinal fluid. The other injects spinocain right into the canal. I confused these two during my own graduate school exams.

  You guessed correctly. I am with a traveling prisoner of war group. We are a tanned lot, the Wisconsin sun greedy for our winter skin. Every night, I go to bed with the zest of the summer licked upon my skin, the creak of hard work in my bones. Reminds me of when I was eight, mowing hay for my uncle, except I miss the hay chaff in my hair and sprinkling my skin, as well as the lick of a cool pond at the end of the day.

  You asked if my uncle raised pigs. Yes, and corn too. We rented a small plot of land, and my father set up an exam room in our front parlor. I tended my uncle’s hogs, corn, and hay fields. As to the other question, no, I am not married, and never have been, although I was probably sweet on my cousin Dorothy until I was twelve. After that, Mary Jane Allsworth caught my eye, with her blond curls and the way she blushed when I waved to her from the half-court line after making a basket. I mentioned to you my wretched dancing, and unfortunately, she can attest to the truth of it. I asked her to the junior prom then proceeded to park us both at a corner table, drown her in punch, and bring her home early, mortified. We moved away before I had an opportunity to redeem myself.

  But what about you? Have you ever had a great love? Or perhaps just a sweet folly of youth? I know you dream of being a superintendent—why that, and not a home or family, may I ask? I can imagine it must be in your nature to attend to the needs of others, because your letters are a drink of fresh water on a parched day. Thank you for your kindness in writing.

  Fondly,

  Peter

  The patter of the rain woke her. Yet, in the earthy, almost moldy smell of the straw bed, Esther recognized the dream—or perhaps the memory, something from her childhood. No, not awake, even as she opened her eyes, the prickly straw upon her hands, the odor of ammonia and animal waste telling her she’d dreamed herself into the swine barn, again.

  More accurately—yes, she recognized it now—their assigned stall at the Iowa State Fair. Indeed, scattered hay, woodchips, and straw littered the dirt floor, pockets of pungent moisture where hoofs had punctured the mud then collected the debris. A cool mist hung in the air, and she stumbled out of the stall to see water running off the door-post, down the pipe to piddle into a rain barrel.

  Then it came to her—the silence. No cows lowing, no dogs barking, no children crying from the pressing, grainy heat of the past five days. She turned back to the stall. Empty, except for the straw mattress where she’d awoken, only her crumbled cotton blanket evidence that anyone, let alone she and Hedy and their parents—had spent a week showing—and selling—their prize hogs at the fair.

  “Hello?” The immensity of the swine pavilion sucked her feeble voice. She pulled her canvas jacket around her, shuffled down the rows of empty, smelly stalls. “Hedy?”

  When had they left? She stood at the open doors of the pavilion, staring out onto the littered fairground. Ice-cream cups and wooden spoons, corn dog sticks, and the paper tubes for cotton candy, and popcorn—so much popcorn, it embedded the dirt like the pox. She watched a dog, its accordion bones protruding through its skin, dig at a kernel then abandon it for a morsel of hotdog bun marinating in a puddle.

  The sky stopped weeping and Esther pulled up her jacket, ventured out of the barn. “Mama?”

  Behind the concession stands she spied a row of Ferris wheels, giant tractor wheels churning the gray sky, their tinny music twining through the murky air. Beyond that she knew were the campgrounds—she remembered lying in the back of the flatbed Ford, watching the twinkling lights, wondering if Hedy might be riding on one of the metal buggies with a handsome carny. She’d promised to shake Esther awake when she climbed in next to her, to whisper the stories of her night on the midway.

  Someday, Esther might be just as beautiful as Hedy, with her hair—not as golden blond as Hedy’s, no, but a color Hedy said reminded her of wheat in September, pinned into waves, and boys turning to admire her as she walked by, giggling with Marge Parker.

  Maybe, someday too, Mama would let her ride the Ferris wheel.

  Esther took off in a run, past the ice-cream stands, the abandoned mini-donut machines, the sale pavilion where daddy had sold Nancy, their prize hog. She cut through the park, where she’d watched a vaudeville show and real live Indians wearing shaggy headdresses. Hunger pressed into her spine and she slowed, her breath sour in her lungs. How she longed for some of her mother’s honey—on display in the horticulture building, or maybe some of the applesauce that had won a blue ribbon. But Mama would be waiting at camp with some cheese and maybe honey and bread.

  She ran down the deserted midway. The carnys had packed up, taking their stuffed animals, their giant lollipops, their beads and necklaces, posters of Greta Garbo. The silence seemed eerie without the music of the carousel, laughter from the haunted house, the roar from the auto races.

  The Ferris wheel’s melody lured her, but she cut past the “guess your weight” stand and left the midway, jogging now through the entrance to the camp.

  Empty.

  Where once stood a sea of canvas tents and flatbed trucks, now a field, churned to near
mud, nothing but the forgotten remained—an old shoe, a roll of brown toilet paper, an empty laundry line—

  “Mama? Hedy?”

  Daddy?

  She stood in the field, the sky again spitting upon her, and trembled.

  Why would they leave her?

  The Ferris wheel music whined behind her. Perhaps she’d climb aboard, let it take her high—Hedy told her she could see clear through to Chicago from the top. She’d find her family, call to them…

  The Ferris wheel whined in an endless, migrating circle, slow enough for her to dash up the ramp, climb aboard one of the dangling buggy seats.

  No one stepped from the booth to collect a ticket, to stop her.

  She sat in a puddle, the water saturating her jeans. It took her backwards, the world dropping away until she began to crest the top.

  Her breath caught in her chest and she tightened her hold around the slick, cold security bar. She could see—maybe to Chicago, yes. The rows of dilapidated carny stands, the muddy rivers of pathways to the pavilion, the horticulture and dairy buildings, the curved roof of the swine barn. The grassy park of the entertainment pavilion, now a yawning, dark mouth, lay like a glistening carpet in the center of the destruction. Beyond that, the tall fair entrance gates, and in the far-off distance, the shiny dome of the Iowa capitol building, like a castle among the trees.

  For a moment, she hung at the top of the world.

  Then she descended, the world shrinking, back to the mud of the midway, the whine of the machinery, the dark cables snaking through matted grass. Water dropped from the gears and trickled down the back of her jacket. She shivered, and in a moment, the platform passed beside her. She made to move, to get off, but it slipped away too quickly.

  She held on as the wheel slid her up towards the sky again. This time, she searched for Daddy’s Ford pickup, blood red. Maybe Hedy sitting on the back in her white dress, printed with the big orange flowers, holding a new hat to her head.