by Helen Wells
She looked up as the door behind Cherry opened. “Ah, here’s Dr. Monroe. He’s in charge of sick bay aboard the Julita. He’ll teach you the ropes after you’re aboard ship. Doctor, this is Miss Cherry Ames.”
Cherry jumped up and wheeled to face the young man in the doorway. He was as tall and well-built as Charlie, with gray eyes and thick, wavy, brown hair. Cherry thrilled at the sight of his navy-blue uniform with the gold caducei on his sleeves. The second day out, when the weather turned warm, he would change to whites. With his deep coat of even tan, Cherry decided, he would look very handsome in whites.
With sudden embarrassment she realized that she was one of the two principal actors in a little mutual-admiration scene. Dr. Monroe’s eyes were dark with approval as he grinned down at her flushed, rosy face.
“He likes my looks, anyway,” Cherry thought. She hoped he wouldn’t notice how her pulse was racing when they shook hands. “Now, if he only likes me, we should make a grand team.”
Cherry was glad she had worn her new chocolate-brown suit and the cream-colored blouse that tied in a perky bow under her chin. Melted snow glistened in the dark curls that peeped out from under the brim of her poinsettia-red hat.
Dr. Monroe shook hands warmly. “I’m awfully glad to meet you, Miss Ames.” His voice was deep, sincere, and pleasantly husky. His fingers were the clean, strong, cool fingers of a born surgeon.
“I like him already,” Cherry admitted frankly to herself. “He’s one of those people who are born nice.”
Dr. Monroe took two long steps into the office, handed a portfolio of papers to the secretary. “The report on the pulmonary thrombosis case is in there,” he said, very sober now. “Hate to lose a patient, but, of course, there was nothing anybody could do. Kind of a nice old fellow. Eccentric, but very co-operative.”
Then with a “See you Friday morning” to Cherry he departed.
Cherry, after thanking the secretary for her instructions and advice, left soon afterward. A glance at the nurse’s wrist watch that Charlie had given her when she first started on her career told her she still had an hour more before the stores closed.
Cherry finally finished her Christmas shopping late Thursday afternoon. She had the presents gift-wrapped and mailed from the stores with big “Do Not Open Until Xmas” stickers plastered on the brown outside paper. Then she wandered into a novelty shop. She would buy everyone inexpensive little “stocking” gifts too. Yesterday she had bought “jokes” for every member of the Spencer Club. They were all wrapped and hidden on the top shelf of her closet. Her real present to the club was a check toward the new living-room rug. Cherry’s check would help make that dream come true.
Buying “stocking” presents in the crowded little shop was fun. She bought one of those new syringelike basters for her mother. Cherry squeezed the rubber bulb and decided it was a giant medicine dropper, but would prove useful when the Christmas turkey was roasting in the oven. For Charlie she chose a trick bow tie equipped with an electric battery. He could make it flash on and off by pressing a button in his pocket. A postage-size deck of Old Maid cards for Midge came next. For Dad she decided on a tiny, wooden bottle labeled “Heart’s Desire Perfume.” When uncorked, it revealed a miniature mechanical pencil.
It took a long time to find just the right joke for Dr. Joe. Cherry ended up with an inexpensive fountain pen which the manufacturers claimed could be used for underwater writing. She would enclose a note:
“So you can send me an S O S in case you get sealed up in one of your own test tubes.”
It was late when she finally left the novelty shop with her bundle of little purchases. Even the impersonal New York crowd was bubbling with pre-Christmas spirit. The snow had turned to slush and here and there were frozen patches which made walking difficult. Every now and then some late Christmas shopper slipped and fell. But the atmosphere was so packed with holiday cheer no one seemed to mind these tumbles.
Lighted Christmas trees were on every block. Wreaths of holly decorated the windows of tall apartment buildings. Cherry wedged herself and her packages through the subway doors and swayed helplessly back and forth with the motion of the train, supported by the other passengers. At last she was wearily sloshing up the steps to No. 9.
The minute Cherry opened the blue door she knew that something was wrong; not wrong exactly, but mysterious. Although no sound came from any one of the rooms, she sensed that she was not alone. She frowned, her hand still on the doorknob. All the lurid tales she had heard about Bohemian Greenwich Village came back.
“Gwen? … Josie? … Bertha … Vivi … Mai Lee?”
No answer. For a moment Cherry was almost frightened. Then she shrugged. The inhabitants of Greenwich Village might be informal, but she had always found them very friendly. They were good neighbors, albeit often erratic.
Firmly she closed the door behind her. Then the silence was broken by a giggle. Cherry dropped her packages on the nearest chair. She would know that giggle anywhere. She marched into the living room. Sure enough, crouched behind the sofa was a disheveled-looking Midge Fortune!
Cherry hauled her out and hugged her. “Imp! How in the world did you get here? On a witch’s broomstick?”
Midge was so convulsed with laughter she could only point down the hall. Suddenly all three of the bedroom doors opened simultaneously. First Cherry’s mother’s smiling face popped out; then Dad’s, and, last of all, Charlie’s towhead.
There were hugs and kisses all around. To add to the confusion the Spencer Club came trooping in en masse.
“We were in on the surprise,” Gwen shouted into Cherry’s ear above the uproar. “I left my key with the janitor so they could get in.”
“But how—why?” Cherry felt as though the calendar had been moved ahead. This must be Christmas Eve; not the eve of her sailing.
It was Charlie who finally explained. “Dad suddenly had to come on business with one of the insurance people. We all felt so depressed after you left us in the lurch, ruining our Christmas plans, we decided to come too.”
“We’re going to have sort of a Christmas preview here,” Josie put in. “This very evening.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Cherry said weakly.
Then Bertha came stolidly down the hall bearing a small but perfectly decorated tree. She plunked it in the middle of the living-room table. Miraculously, before Cherry could blink, presents were heaped up around it—presents of all sizes and shapes in colorful wrappings. And on every tag were the words: “To Cherry.”
“We couldn’t bear the thought of you spending Christmas on the high seas without any of us,” Mrs. Ames was saying.
“You’d get all your presents two weeks late,” Mr. Ames added, his eyes twinkling merrily.
Vivian took the floor. “We thought first of mailing them so you’d get them the day after Christmas at Curaçao. But the post office advised us not to. Said anything but air-mail letters would be sure to arrive after your ship had gone on to another port. Then they would have to be forwarded back here again.”
“Open ’em, honey,” Charlie commanded. “And act pleased with mine if it kills you. It can’t be exchanged.”
Cherry finally came out of her daze. “Give me five minutes, please,” she gasped. Scooping up her bundle of “stocking” gifts, she scurried down the hall to her bedroom. She just couldn’t open all those presents under the tree without everyone else opening something too.
It took but a few minutes to wrap Christmasy paper around the little last-minute gifts she had bought for her family and Midge, add them to the Spencer Club jokes, and emerge laden with small packages which she dumped helter-skelter around the tree.
“Now,” she breathed, “everyone has something. Pitch in. I can’t wait.”
Cherry opened her mother’s present first: a luxurious, white terry-cloth beach robe. Cherry stumbled through the wrappings to hug her mother tightly. “You darling.”
Dad’s was a cool, sharkskin spectator sports
ensemble—slacks, jacket, and blouse—for going ashore. Cherry kissed and scolded him. “You shouldn’t have done it. I’ll never change back into uniform.”
Charlie urged her to open his gift next. “I bought it all by myself,” he said. “I’m a nervous wreck for fear it won’t fit or you won’t like it.”
Nestling in folds of white tissue paper was a two-piece American-beauty bathing suit of ruffled taffeta. Just the right size and Cherry’s most becoming color. “Charlie,” she gasped. “You angel! I’d completely forgotten I’d have to have something glamorous to swim in.”
There were ridiculously frivolous but attractive beach clogs from Midge and an enormous, rubber-lined beach bag to match from Dr. Joe. And the Spencer Club had chipped in to buy her the loveliest flowered cotton dancing frock Cherry had ever seen.
It was indeed, as Charlie said, “A very Cherry Christmas!”
They had a festive dinner at one huge table in the exotic Hawaiian Room of the Lexington Hotel. Midge was fascinated when the Honolulu dancers did the hula-hula.
Over dessert of fresh pineapple chunks served in their shells, Cherry outlined the cruise. Charlie lightly marked with his fork an accompanying map of the Caribbean and South America on the tablecloth.
“First stop Curaçao,” Cherry told them. “Tuesday morning. And there had better be a big batch of airmail letters waiting for me.”
“There will be.” Midge grinned mysteriously. “You’ll need a truck.”
“Fine.” Cherry hurried on. “Next stopover La Guaira, Venezuela. The next day, Puerto Cabello. Then to Cartagena in Colombia. Ditto about air-mail letters at that port. We go straight back to New York from there.”
Everybody made careful notes. “I’ll check my spelling with an atlas,” Gwen promised. “Otherwise expect no word from me.”
The Ameses and Midge had engaged rooms at the Lexington. They kissed Cherry good night in the lobby. “See you aboard ship tomorrow.”
“I’m going to buy stacks of leis and drape them around your neck the way the Hawaiians do,” Midge threatened. “Aloha,” she finished, proud of the two new words she had added to her vocabulary.
The next minute—or so it seemed to Cherry—it was morning, the morning. Since it was a working day, farewells to the Spencer Club were said over breakfast. Cherry had to repack her suitcase to make room for her Christmas presents. Standing in the icy bedroom it was almost impossible to believe that in a day or so the weather aboard ship would be so balmy she could use every one of her gifts.
Then suddenly, weak-kneed and rather shaky, she was climbing up the Julita’s gangplank. Although the ship would not sail until noon—and it was not yet eleven—several groups of passengers were already aboard. Arm in arm, they trooped along the promenade deck. Others swarmed up the gangplank accompanied by friends who were seeing them off.
Everyone was in a holiday mood. Corsages of exotic orchids were pinned to mink-coated shoulders. Sea gulls circled overhead, mewing catlike. Through the happy shouts and bursts of laughter of the passengers, Cherry heard the intermittent screaming of the winches as the cargo was loaded into the ship’s hold. Bang, roll, clank; bang, roll, clank! Cherry had been told that part of the freight would be unloaded at Curaçao. The island had almost no agriculture and imported millions of cases of American canned goods: tomato juice and paste for the hot Spanish dishes; smoked codfish from New England; celery, onions, green peppers, and all kinds of fruit.
Cherry thrilled all over as she took a deep breath of the salty air. It was heavy with the smell of fresh paint, wet steel, water-soaked wood, and creosote.
Hesitantly, she plunked her suitcase down on the deck. Should she try to work her way through the milling crowds and locate her cabin? Or should she wait until a steward or somebody offered help?
A slightly husky voice behind her settled the matter. “Welcome aboard, Miss Ames.” It was Dr. Monroe, looking as Midge would have said, “out of this world” in his trim uniform. There was a reassuring grin on his lean, tanned face.
“Good morning,” Cherry got out, feeling about as poised as Midge would have felt in similar circumstances. But it was pleasant being on deck with this tall, good-looking man standing protectively beside her.
Then Cherry saw Midge herself galloping up the gangplank with Charlie. Behind them, more sedately, came her father and mother. Cherry proudly introduced her family to Dr. Monroe. Midge was too smitten by the sight of this handsome young man in his glamorous uniform to do anything but stare worshipfully. Time flew. All too soon came the cry “All ashore that’s going ashore!”
Last hugs and kisses. “Bon voyage! Bon voyage!” Big melting snowflakes pelted their upturned faces as they waved to Cherry from the pier. Tears welled up into her eyes. The gangplank was wheeled away, separating her from her family for Christmas. She couldn’t change her mind now.
Someone lightly tapped Cherry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to drag you away, Miss Ames,” she heard Dr. Monroe say. “There’s been an accident. One of the crew slipped in an oily spot on the engine-room floor. Compound fracture of the right arm.”
Dr. Monroe’s manner was completely professional now. Cherry sensed that this serious-faced young physician never mixed business with pleasure. She respected him for it. With one last hasty kiss blown from the tip of her fingers straight to her mother, she turned and trotted along the deck after her new boss.
The ship was not yet under way, but she had already started in her new role as Cherry Ames, Cruise Nurse!
CHAPTER III
Sick Bay
AS CHERRY HURRIED TO KEEP UP WITH DR. MONROE’S LONG strides she could feel the pulsating of the ship’s engines as the Julita got underway. She was glad when the young surgeon stopped long enough to hail a passing steward.
“Waidler,” Dr. Monroe said, “this is Miss Ames, the new nurse.” He gave the steward Cherry’s suitcase. “Take her to her cabin and then show her how to get to sick bay. We have an emergency operation coming up.” He turned to Cherry. “I’ve already ordered the purser, who is also pharmacist’s mate, to give the patient one-quarter morphine. I’m on my way to look at the X-ray plates which should be dry by now. As soon as you’ve changed into uniform go to the operating room and get the emergency tray prepared. Ziegler, the purser, will issue you cap and mask and sterile gown and gloves.”
Cherry nodded. His sentences were little clipped commands:
“As soon as you and Ziegler have scrubbed up I want you to prepare the wound. Six washings. Two soapings, two saline, two alcohol, and two Betadine. And of course,” he finished with a flicker of a smile on his sober face, “you will chart the patient’s T.P.R.”
“Yes, doctor.” Cherry suddenly felt like a student nurse again for a minute. Would operating aboard ship be so very different that she would forget the routine and be clumsy when she lifted the sterile operating instruments onto the sterile tray? Horrors! She might use the wrong forceps or drop something.
Dr. Monroe strode away with a reassuring nod, and Cherry’s courage came back.
The steward, a heavy-browed, stoop-shouldered man, was grumbling: “Come on, miss! I’m a busy man, can’t stand here all day while you daydream. I declare, you women’s crew are more trouble than the passengers. Seems to me you could carry your own bag. Look healthy enough.”
Cherry’s red cheeks flamed. “Of course I can carry my own bag, Waidler,” she said rather curtly. Then controlling her temper flare-up, she said meekly, “I hate to bother you, but I’m afraid I’d get lost trying to find the way to my cabin and sick bay. And Dr. Monroe wants me there in a hurry.”
“Okay, okay,” Waidler growled, starting off at a fast trot.
Cherry stumbled after him, depressed by his rudeness. If only she had had an hour or so to get adjusted before being called to assist at an operation! Why did the steward have to be so disagreeable?
She followed him down the long corridor on B deck and noticed that the ship had nothing but outside staterooms. The wide co
rridor dwindled into a narrow passageway with small cabins on either side. “Women’s crew quarters,” Waidler said brusquely. He produced a bunch of keys and opened a door leading into a windowless, nine-by-twelve room.
“Why, there’s not even a porthole,” Cherry thought, momentarily disappointed. “I’ll suffocate.” Then she remembered that the Julita was air-conditioned. The cabin, though tiny, was attractively furnished. There was a bright-flowered chintz spread on the comfortable-looking maple bed, with a matching slip cover on the big easy chair. On one side of the room was a small maple desk with a straight-back chair; on the other, she saw a dressing table and a mirrored door opening into a small but compact closet.
Cherry had time for only a brief glimpse of her cabin. Waidler set down her suitcase just inside the door, handed her a key, and started off again.
“First I’ll show you Doc’s suite,” he muttered gruffly. “Bedroom, office, and the dispensary. Your office opens into it. On the starboard side, after section of B deck. Sick bay is right below. Starboard side, after section, C deck,” he finished in the supercilious tone of one speaking to a very stupid child. “Do you think you can find your way around now?”
Cherry’s mind reeled, but she said with forced cheerfulness, “Oh, yes, thank you very much, Waidler.”
“Don’t thank me,” Waidler retorted sourly. “That’s what I get paid for. Although some people think they cause me enough trouble so it’s worth a dime tip anyway.”
Cherry went icy cold with embarrassment and inner confusion. She had taken it for granted that since they were both employees he would have been insulted if she had offered a tip. After all, that type of thing worked both ways. If he became ill, she would nurse him faithfully without expecting a gratuity. That was her job, just as the few begrudged minutes he had spent with her were his.
