A Room of My Own

by Ann Tatlock

  "Fit as a fiddle," Papa cried happily as he finished his examination.

  "Thank the Lord for that," Mrs. Everhart responded.

  "Yes," Papa agreed. "Now, Virginia, would you like to hold her for a moment while I dig a few items out of my bag here?"

  I looked at the child's mother. She smiled gently. "Go ahead," she invited.

  I took the baby from Papa and held her on my lap with her small, wispy-haired head resting in the crook of my arm. Papa was right. She was a beautiful child. Unlike the woman who bore her, Caroline looked healthy, with full and rosy cheeks and chubby little fists. It was almost as though Mrs. Everhart had given all the best of her health to the baby, while leaving only enough life in her own body to go on living. Just the opposite of Mother, who with each baby simply kept getting bigger and seemingly more robust.

  Caroline reminded me of Molly when she was born, and I wished that I could take her home and care for her and spoil her and dress her up in all sorts of frilly baby clothes just as I had done with my sisters. But she would have to stay here, sleeping in her packing crate and wearing whatever clothes her mother could piece together from hand-me-downs and rags. It was a less than fortunate beginning, and as I gazed at the baby's wondrous and innocent little face, I understood the happiness tinged with sadness that Papa had told me about.

  In another moment my attention was turned to Papa who, after rummaging through the larger medical bag and lifting something from it, exclaimed, "Ah-hah! Here it is. A little something for Miss Caroline."

  I recognized the item as a wooden rattle that had occupied a place in my siblings' cradles, as well as my own. Each of us had in turn grasped its wooden handle with our infant hands and gnawed at the bulb with our toothless gums. It had disappeared sometime after Molly became a toddler. Papa must have searched the attic high and low to find it again.

  The mother accepted it with evident joy. "Oh my! Oh, how kind of you, Dr. Eide." She took the rattle and placed it in her daughter's tiny hand. The baby's fingers curled around the handle while the mother looked on with obvious pleasure. "It's Caroline's first gift. Thank you, Doctor."

  "You're most welcome," Papa said. "And this," he continued, holding up a jar of a yellowish powder, "is for the boys."

  The woman frowned in spite of the smile that refused to fade. "Why, what on earth is it?"

  "Brewer's yeast," Papa stated matter-of-factly, as though it were an item found in every mother's cupboard. "Stir two tablespoons into a little water three times a day and have the boys drink it. They won't like it, but they need it. It'll give them strength. See that they drink it all."

  "I'll do my best."

  "After this is gone, I'll bring some more."

  I played with the baby for a few minutes, amusing her with the hissing song of the rattle, while Papa asked the woman about her own health. Then satisfied that all was well--or as well as could be expected--Papa rolled his sleeves down and snapped shut the two medical bags.

  "I trust Tom got over his case of nerves the other day," Papa said, referring to the man's hand-wringing and pacing of the riverbank the day Caroline was born.

  Mrs. Everhart laughed. "Yes, he's fine, thank you. He's much obliged for your help. If he'd known you were coming by today, he'd have stayed home to thank you himself."

  Papa waved a hand. "You tell Tom he's more than welcome, and he can call on me anytime anyone needs a doctor. Well, Ginny, if you'll put Caroline down for her nap, we'll be moving on."

  I reluctantly carried the baby back to the crate and gently laid her down. Carrying both bags, Papa stepped toward the door and I moved to follow him, but the woman stopped us. "Just a moment, please. I have something--" She lifted a small wooden box from a crate that served as a bedside table next to the mattress. From the box she pulled a shiny item that she held in her extended palm for Papa to take. From where I stood I could see it was a silver brooch, shaped like a flower, with an opal at the center of it. Like the Coca-Cola sign featuring the convertible, it seemed jarringly out of place, an odd little nugget of luxury in the midst of squalor. "For your wife," the woman explained quietly.

  Papa looked at the brooch, then lifted his eyes to the woman's face. He put the bags down, cupped the woman's hand in both of his own, and curled her fingers around the piece of jewelry. "The day's going to come," he said gently, "when you or Caroline will have a pretty new dress, and you'll need something to ornament it with. This nice pin will be just the thing. You keep it for that day, Mrs. Everhart."

  For a moment the woman's face appeared fuller, her eyes brighter. I think when we stepped out of the shack that afternoon, Papa left behind not just a rattle and a bottle of brewer's yeast, but also what he knew to be the best medicine--a little bit of hope.

  On the way to our next patient, we ran into Dick Mason, the man who had come to our door and called Papa down to Soo City the first time. He was still living in the camp, evidently thwarted in his plans to move on by the sudden death of his brother-in-law and traveling companion. He looked more like a hobo now than he had two months before. Though he was still clean shaven and still had all his teeth, his clothes were a little more worn, his shoes a little more scuffed, and his face had taken on the characteristic weariness of the men who live hand to mouth.

  Nevertheless, like the others whose fate had brought them to Soo City, he greeted Papa cheerfully. Papa handed me the smaller of the bags, and the two men shook hands.

  "How are you, Dick?" Papa asked.

  "Can't complain," came the reply.

  Papa introduced me and the man shook my hand as well.

  "Pleasure to meet you, Virginia," he said. "I think I might have seen you at the house, but we weren't properly introduced."

  "Yes, sir," I responded.

  "Helping out your father today, young lady?"

  "Yes, sir," I repeated.

  "What do you think of our little community here?" he asked, his eyes scanning the shacks that stretched out in every direction. "More than a hundred homes at last count, and we're expanding all the time. We can be proud--not every community can say they're growing these days."

  I nearly failed to detect the sarcasm in his words, he slipped it in so subtly, and I was left wondering how to respond. But Papa saved me from having to answer by steering the man on to another topic.

  "I've been meaning to ask you something, Dick," he said.

  "Go ahead and shoot," Mr. Mason replied easily.

  Papa put a hand on Dick's shoulder and guided him down Hoover Avenue. As I trailed along behind, I heard Papa say, "I've heard rumors to the effect that there've been men coming around here trying to organize an Unemployed Council. Any truth to the rumors?"

  Dick Mason gave a brief laugh, which I thought a good sign until he said, "Not only have they been coming around, but one of them lives here now. Built himself a shanty and moved in the other day. He tries to pass himself off as just another man out of work. He never comes right out and says he's Red, but everyone knows why he's here."

  "Is he having any luck? I mean, are the men listening to him?"

  "Some are. People are hungry. Men are tired of being out of work. After a while, they'll start to listen to anything that promises a change."

  Papa nodded. "But do you think he's actually going to be able to get the men to form a Council?"

  Mr. Mason ran his fingers through his hair, which badly needed a wash and a trim. "Hard to say," he replied. "I'd guess the majority of us, myself included, don't want anything to do with a Red, even if it means sure starvation. But every time a man goes out looking for work and comes back here no closer to a job than when he left, he gets just a little bit more worn down. You know what I mean, Doc?"

  Papa nodded his understanding.

  Dick Mason continued. "It's pretty easy to swear by capitalism when your stomach's full, but when a man gets desperate, no telling what he might do."

  The two men continued strolling in silence while I followed along on their heels. Walking behi
nd Mr. Mason, I couldn't help but notice the stale odor of sweat and dirt that trailed him like a foul cologne. So this is what we would all be like if we didn't take baths, I thought. Mother was right after all. It was necessary to bathe if one wanted to remain respectable.

  "You told me once that the sheriff's deputies patrol around here," Papa said.

  "Yes, there's two or three that come around on a regular basis. They don't say much, just kind of walk by to make sure we're staying in line--no one's turned bootlegger or anything like that. Not that we never see moonshine around here." Mr. Mason laughed briefly. "Amazing, though, how some men are always able to get their hands on the liquor, even when they haven't got a penny in their pocket for food."

  Papa nodded his agreement but didn't pursue the topic. He asked, "Are the deputies aware of the latest newcomer to the community?"

  "The Red?" Mr. Mason lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "I doubt it. Why?"

  Instead of answering directly, Papa seemed to change the subject. "Dick, are you planning to move on anytime soon?"

  Again the man lifted his shoulders, this time in resignation. "One place is about the same as the next, Doc. I might as well stay here for the time being."

  "Would you mind keeping an eye on this man for me--by the way, do you know his name?"

  "He says it's John Jones, but there's no telling. He's got good reason to go by an alias. And if you ask me, a name like John Jones has a bit of a fishy smell to it."

  "Well, keep an eye on Mr. Jones for me, will you, Dick, and keep me posted on his activities around here?"

  "Sure, Doc."

  "Appreciate it, Dick. Listen, my wife's been canning again, and she's just about got us buried under a mountain of Mason jars. I'm trying to clear her some shelf space by getting rid of some of last year's goods." Papa placed the medical bag he was carrying on the ground and opened the latch. He reached inside and, sure enough, pulled out a couple of Mason jars. "Could you use some tomatoes, Dick? And how about some peaches? They're last year's crop but they're still good."

  Mr. Mason knew--and I knew he knew--that Papa wasn't trying to help Mother with her shelf space. It was a lame story, but Mr. Mason appeared grateful anyway.

  "Well, now, Doc, I think I can help you out by taking a couple of those jars off your hands," he said, accepting the goods from Papa.

  Papa closed up the bag. "Let me know if you need anything, Dick."

  "I'll do that. And in the meantime I'll keep a close watch on our friend Mr. Jones."

  We left Dick Mason with a jar in each hand and moved on to the shack of a man called Mr. Lucky. Papa said that wasn't his real name, but everyone called him Mr. Lucky because he was always telling people that their luck would soon be changing for the better. The man was one of the original hobos of the camp and hadn't worked since long before the Depression, so no one knew what kept him so upbeat. But his belief in better days ahead was unassailable.

  Before Papa knocked on the door, he cupped his hands and instructed me to find the rubbing alcohol in his bag and pour some over his palms. I did as I was told. Little drops of alcohol seeped through Papa's fingers and formed muddy pearls on the otherwise dry ground. Papa rubbed his hands together vigorously, then laced his fingers and kept on rubbing as though he were rinsing his hands under water. Just as suddenly as he started, he stopped. "Towel, please," he requested. I looked again in the bag and pulled out a small white towel. Papa took it and patted his hands dry. "Thank you, nurse." He smiled as he returned the towel to me, while I just about burst with a sense of importance.

  Then we were ready to turn our attention to the next patient. Mr. Lucky, who to me seemed not so lucky at all, had burned his hands trying to put out a fire. He had kindled a small flame inside his shack so he could heat up a can of beans, but somehow the flames had gone wild and threatened to burn down his home. He put it out before all was lost, but evidence of the recent fire remained in the form of scorch marks on the walls and the odor of burnt wood in the air.

  He invited us into his slightly charred shack with great enthusiasm, saying he would gladly shake both our hands if his own weren't quite so sore. Papa said he had come to check on the burns and to change the bandages.

  "Do as you like, Doc," the man said cheerfully. "If you say it's time to change the bandages, then it's time to change the bandages."

  It was past time to change the bandages, and Papa and I both knew it. Normally, Papa would change a patient's bandages daily to keep the wounds from becoming septic, but since he couldn't get to Soo City every day, things like this just had to wait. Mr. Lucky may not have been shaking people's hands, but he certainly had been doing everything else, because his bandages were soiled and in a sorry condition.

  In fact, everything about Mr. Lucky seemed to be in a rather sorry condition. His white hair was a mat of knots, his beard a burial ground for the remnants of his last meal. His clothes were nearly rags, and he smelled alarmingly worse even than Mr. Mason. Yet the smile never left his face, revealing browns stumps that had once been, I assumed, two neat rows of choppers. While Papa removed the bandages and washed Mr. Lucky's palms with an antiseptic, the man talked merrily about President Hoover's predictions of prosperity around the corner. Papa and I let him chatter away. I resisted the temptation to repeat Uncle Jim's remarks about just how long a hike it was from here to the corner.

  Just as Papa was twining clean gauze around the man's right hand, a dog pushed open the door of the shack with his nose and sauntered in. I didn't know whether to be afraid or amused, though the mutt--a big long-haired creature that must have been part collie--seemed harmless enough.

  "Ah, T-Bone!" Mr. Lucky cried happily. "Back from scavenging, I see. Any luck, my friend?" The dog gave one miserable bark and, after pawing at the dirt and circling a couple of times, curled himself up in a corner of the shack. Mr. Lucky sighed. "Well, these are bitter times for man and beast alike, I'm afraid. You know things are bad when there's not enough out there even for a dog. But we keep our hopes up, don't we, T-Bone?"

  The dog lifted his head and again responded with a crisp bark, then laid his long muzzle on his front paws. The poor thing panted and drooled in the heat, creating slimy puddles on the shanty's dirt floor.

  "Why do you call him T-Bone?" I asked.

  "Ah, you see," the man's bright eyes widened as he looked at me, "that's because he's always dreaming about steak, though he's blessed to get so much as a bone. But one day"--he turned to the dog--"one day you'll be eating steak. Isn't that right, T-Bone?"

  The dog didn't bother to lift his head again. He merely wagged his tail once, then shut his eyes. He seemed to lack the optimism of his master.

  Papa, who had just finished wrapping the man's hands, said cryptically, "Speaking of bones--" Again he reached for the medical bag out of which had already come a rattle, a container of brewer's yeast, and two Mason jars of canned food. I wondered what on earth he was going to pull out this time. This making the rounds with Papa was turning into a regular magic show.

  Whatever it was he pulled out, it was wrapped in a piece of newspaper. As he folded back the wrapping, Papa explained to Mr. Lucky, "The butcher's daughter has ringworm. This soup bone was part of my payment."

  He tossed the bone toward the dog, who jumped up and yelped in delight. He took the gift in his mouth, carried it back to his corner, curled himself up again, and began to gnaw hungrily at the bits of fat and grizzle still clinging to the bone. His tail thumped wildly on the hard-packed dirt as he chewed.

  "Well, now, Doc, that's right good of you to think of T-Bone like that," Mr. Lucky exclaimed. "I'm obliged to you, I'm sure."

  I was busy wondering what Mother would have thought had she known Papa had just thrown part of his pay to a shantytown dog. She could have made a nice pot of soup with that bone. But Papa gave me a look to tell me that this was to be our secret. He then went into his brief spiel about how Mother was busy canning and could Mr. Lucky help us out by taking a couple of Mason jars off o
ur hands? He placed two jars on a lopsided table that was the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the chair Mr. Lucky was sitting in. "Now, this one's peaches," Papa said, tapping one of the lids, "and the other is pears. You don't need to heat them up, so you won't have any reason to start a fire."

  Mr. Lucky laughed heartily. "I swear, Doc!" he cried. "You do think of everything!"

  Papa snapped shut the latches on both the bags and rolled down his sleeves, saying he'd return again in a couple of days.

  "I expect I'll still be here, Doc, a couple of days from now, but I can't promise anything after that. Soon as prosperity comes, I'm gonna grab my share of it."

  "Of course you are, Mr. Lucky," Papa agreed amiably. "A castle for you and a doghouse for T-Bone."

  Mr. Lucky laughed again, a deep rich laugh filled with eternal optimism. Then he lifted one bandaged hand in a farewell gesture and said, "God bless you, Doc. And God bless you, little girl."

  We moved on then, going from shack to shack while Papa tended to heat rash and coughs, toothache and poison ivy. Nothing serious or contagious, just as Papa had said. We did visit a few people, including a couple of children, who showed early signs of pellagra--the Red Death. But that wasn't catching, I knew, since it resulted from malnutrition. Mother didn't have to worry about that in our family. Papa left jars of brewer's yeast for those who had the red splotches on their skin. Elsewhere he dispensed jars of canned goods, small bags of rice, a piece of candy or two for the children, and always a little bit of hope.

  Sometime during our trek through this haphazard city, we came across Sherman Browne. He sat barefoot and cross-legged on the ground, his shoes on top of a piece of cardboard. He was tracing the soles with a lump of coal--no doubt picked up along the railroad tracks that bordered the north edge of Soo City. When he finished he took a pocketknife out of his back pocket and began to cut along the lines, his tongue sticking out one side of his mouth in concentration. That he had so frightened me when he came running into our yard a few days before was unthinkable now. He was just a harmless little man who'd been reduced to stuffing cardboard in his shoes.