Benedict Hall

by Cate Campbell

  For the first time, the nurse hesitated to follow her orders. When she didn’t move immediately, Margot scowled at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Dr. Benedict—I don’t know if he’ll come.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  With an air of patience, as if speaking to a child, little Sarah Church said, “Dr. Henderson is white. He might refuse to see a Negro patient.”

  Margot stared at her, thunderstruck. She was right, of course. Margot might think of Blake as a third parent, her protector, her precious friend, but to another doctor—a white doctor—he was just a Negro man. He was only a patient in the colored ward of the hospital. Dr. Henderson might consider that such a patient was neither his responsibility nor his duty.

  A wave of anger replaced her fear. She looked down at Blake again, lying so deathly still beneath his pile of brown blankets, and she said firmly, “Nurse Church, stay with Blake, will you, please? I’ll place the call to Dr. Henderson myself.”

  “Don’t worry, Dr. Benedict. I’ll be right here.”

  Margot glanced back once as she hurried away, and saw Sarah Church chafing Blake’s wrists with her small hands. It was a simple gesture, even an old-fashioned one, but Margot approved. It might be all they could do just now.

  At least, if Blake were to die in this moment, he wouldn’t be alone.

  Margot found Preston sitting up in his bed in the accident room. His head was braced against the iron bed frame, his unbandaged eye closed. His bloodstained shirt was open to the waist, and there were bruises purpling on his chest. The stern-looking nurse hovered near him with a glass and a carafe of water. She gave Margot an indignant glance when she appeared, as if her territory had been invaded.

  Margot approached the bed, ignoring the nurse’s challenging gaze. She eyed the pattern of marks on Preston’s chest and the angle of the wounds on his head. “What happened, Preston?”

  He didn’t open the eye she could see. The nurse murmured, “Mr. Benedict was so heroic. Bleeding, injured—somehow he managed to get to the front door of the hospital, to get someone to come to the car.”

  Margot ignored her. “Preston?”

  Preston said thinly, the eye still closed, “I don’t know. Blake was driving, and . . .”

  “Where were you going?”

  “Jefferson Park.”

  “Why? You don’t play golf.”

  “I wanted to see someone at the links.”

  “Really. But I’m told you weren’t at the golf course.”

  Preston’s lips trembled, and he lifted one hand as if to steady them. “Blake must have taken a wrong turn.”

  The nurse said, “Come now, Mr. Benedict, lie down. Dr. Miles said you mustn’t talk. You need to save your strength.” She sent Margot a warning frown from the opposite side of the bed.

  Margot said impatiently, “What’s your name, Nurse?”

  “Morris.”

  “Well, Nurse Morris. I’m Dr. Benedict.” The nurse’s eyebrows rose, and Margot could see she wasn’t sure whether to believe her. “I want you to go out and find my father. He’s waiting to see Preston.”

  For a moment, Margot thought the woman might refuse. There was a rebellious set to her lips, but in the end she gave in. She said stiffly, “Very well.” She touched Preston’s arm once, possessively, before she bustled away, her apron rustling against her uniform.

  When she was gone, Margot said, “I want the truth, Preston.”

  His eye opened, and fixed on her. “Is Blake dead?” he asked, in a voice as matter-of-fact as if he were asking the time.

  “No.”

  The eye blinked, slowly.

  “I want to know what happened out there.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Margot. There’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “Yes, there is.” She pointed at the round bruises on his chest. “How did you get those?”

  “That sweet Nurse Morris told you all about it,” he said. “Blake crashed the car.”

  “Don’t you be an idiot, Preston. You’re a mess of odd bruises, and Blake is nearly untouched.”

  Preston managed a one-shouldered shrug. “I guess the steering wheel protected him.” He shifted against the pillows, and something showed beneath his unbuttoned shirt, something blue and heavy on a silver chain. He pushed it out of sight with his good hand.

  “What is that?”

  He blinked, slowly, deliberately. “None of your business, doc.”

  “You’re wearing a necklace?”

  He turned his head away from her.

  Margot folded her arms. “Tell me what happened, Preston. Did you hit the gearshift? Roll over it several times? What made that bruise pattern on your chest?”

  Preston turned his head away from her. “While I appreciate your sympathy over my wounds, Margot, I don’t really want to talk about this now. I’ve just been in a car smash. I would think you’d be more sensitive.”

  An angry retort was on her lips, but her father’s arrival forestalled her. He crossed to Preston, and patted his shoulder, murmuring something about being glad he was going to be all right. Preston, tremulous now, nodded, murmured something. When Dickson was reassured about his son, he turned to Margot and asked to see Blake.

  She held her father’s arm as they took the long walk back to the colored ward. “I’ve just spoken to Dr. Henderson on the telephone,” she said as they moved down the empty corridors. “I used your name, Father, or I don’t think he would have agreed to come.”

  “Blake’s alive?” Dickson’s step faltered, and Margot gripped his arm. “He looked dead.”

  “He’s not dead,” Margot said in a low voice. “But he hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “What’s wrong with him, Margot?”

  “I can’t be certain yet, Father. Let’s wait for Dr. Henderson.”

  She opened the door of the ward, and held it for Dickson to pass through. Dr. Henderson was there ahead of them. He was a gray-haired man in his sixties, still wearing his street clothes, a suit coat and flannel trousers. His fedora and a rolled umbrella lay on a chair nearby. He was bent over Blake, stethoscope pressed to his chest. Sarah Church, true to her word, was at Blake’s side, one hand on his arm. Blake still lay as if lifeless, but Dr. Henderson was frowning, listening with care, moving the bell of the stethoscope here and there.

  Margot held her father back from crossing the ward. He trembled under her hand, and she squeezed his arm as reassuringly as she could. They stood just inside the door, waiting for the cardiologist to finish his exam. Henderson did what Margot had done, palpating Blake’s abdomen, lifting his eyelids. Sarah met Margot’s gaze, nodding slightly. When Dr. Henderson straightened, removing the earpieces of the stethoscope, Sarah murmured something to him.

  He looked up at Dickson and Margot, and came across the room, his hand out. “Dickson. It’s been a good while. Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”

  Dickson shook his hand, saying, “Thanks for coming, Thomas. How is he?”

  Henderson included Margot in his glance as he said, “It’s hard to tell. This is your daughter, isn’t it? You’re the one who called?” He put out his hand to Margot as well.

  She shook it. “Margot Benedict, Dr. Henderson. I’m grateful to you for coming.”

  “Well, you were right, Miss Benedict.”

  Dickson said, half under his breath, “Doctor.”

  Henderson arched an eyebrow. “What’s that, Dickson?”

  “Margot is a doctor. Dr. Benedict.”

  “Ah. Yes, I’ve heard the name, but I didn’t realize—” Henderson’s mouth pursed and he eyed Margot more closely. She had no doubt he had heard about the board and their decision. She hoped he hadn’t already formed his own opinion. His mouth relaxed, and he said, “Well, Dr. Benedict, you were right to call me. Your patient has suffered auricular fibrillation, and as you probably have surmised, a likely cerebral thrombosis.”

  Dickson gave Margot a helpless look. She said, “Blake ha
d a heart attack, Father, and probably a stroke, which would explain why he’s still unconscious.”

  Her father’s ruddy face paled. She saw that he understood the implications all too well. He said in a low voice, “Thomas. Can you do anything for him?”

  “We can try.”

  “He was in a car crash,” Margot said.

  “He was driving?”

  “We believe so.”

  “Did he lose consciousness before or after the impact?”

  “I’ve been trying to find that out,” Margot said. “There is . . . some confusion.”

  “Why?”

  Both men were looking hard at her, her father’s gaze uneasy, Henderson’s sharp.

  “My brother was in the car,” Margot said. “His injuries and Blake’s are inconsistent.”

  “Well,” Henderson said. He pulled at his lower lip with his fingers as he thought. “It might help to know—but there’s no history of heart problems? Nausea, breathlessness . . . ?”

  “None that he ever complained of.”

  Dickson said, “Can I see him?”

  “Yes, of course.” Henderson led the way back to Blake’s bed.

  Margot stood with Dr. Henderson at the foot of Blake’s bed. Dickson went to his side, and leaned over him. He said, in a tender voice that made Margot’s throat constrict, “Blake. Blake, it’s Mr. Dickson. I don’t know if you can hear me. You’ve been in an accident, but Dr. Margot is here to watch over you. We just want you to rest. You’re not to worry about a thing.”

  Margot watched for any indication that Blake heard. There was nothing. Not even when her father added, “Preston is going to be all right. You’ll want to know that,” did Blake show, by a flicker of his eyelids, that he heard.

  Margot prepared to spend the night at the hospital. Sarah Church brought her a bit of casserole from the canteen before her shift was over. Margot bid the young nurse a grateful good night just as another nurse, a heavy woman with graying hair and worn features, came on shift. She had two patients in other wards to look after, and Margot assured her she would stay with Blake until Sarah could return. She still hadn’t seen any other physician, and she began to wonder if any of the Negro doctors made regular rounds.

  She turned off the ceiling light, leaving a small lamp illuminated at one side of the room, and returned to the chair Sarah had set up for her, one with wide wooden armrests, cushioned now by pillows taken from empty hospital beds. For a long time she simply sat, gazing into the darkness, her ears straining for the whisper of Blake’s shallow breathing.

  It was ironic that although she had lost her hospital privileges, no one on that board of white male physicians would care—or even be aware—that she was spending the night in the colored wards, watching over a single patient.

  She rose after a while to place her hand on Blake’s wrist, on his chest. She could perceive no change in him. His stillness was eerie.

  It seemed to her, indeed, that this entire side of the hospital was eerie. She was often in the hospital at night, and was accustomed to the clanking of bedpans and the click of heels on the tiled floors, of patients calling out in their sleep, of the hushed voices of consulting physicians or gossiping nurses. This part of the hospital was as silent as a tomb.

  The thought made her shiver.

  She stood beside Blake in the darkness, her hand on the nest of blankets in which she and Sarah Church had cocooned him. She felt more alone than she ever had in her life. The impending death of this kind, courageous man was more than she could take in. Where would she find the strength to bear it? Who could comfort her in such a loss, or even begin to understand what it really meant to her? She thought of Frank Parrish and wished, no doubt inappropriately, that he were here beside her.

  After a time, she propped herself in the chair as best she could with a pillow beneath her head and another behind her back. She rested there through the night, dozing fretfully, waking often. Even when she managed to nod off, dreams of death and dying and smashed automobiles made her twist in the chair, and wake unrefreshed.

  When the early summer dawn brightened the single window of the ward, she gave up trying to sleep, and went to wash her face and hands. She smoothed her rumpled hair with her fingers, but her pleated dress was beyond help. She borrowed a white coat from a closet and pulled it on, striving for a semblance of professional decorum.

  Dr. Henderson came back before his morning rounds. “No change?”

  “None,” Margot said. “He hasn’t moved at all, the whole night.”

  Henderson gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “You stayed here? Why?”

  “This side of the hospital is short on staff, Doctor.”

  He glanced around, as if surprised at the empty ward. “Dr. Peretti told me you’ve lost your privileges at Seattle General,” he said. “For performing abortions.”

  “I haven’t performed abortions,” Margot responded tiredly. “But it’s true that my privileges were revoked. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Well. I appreciate your devotion to your—to your family retainer.” He gazed at her quizzically for a moment. “He is fortunate to have you.”

  Margot couldn’t think how to answer that.

  “Well,” Henderson said. “At the moment, all we can do for him is hydration.”

  “Yes. I did that during the night,” Margot said, pointing to the intravenous equipment coiled on a metal tray nearby. “I administered a liter of Ringer’s formula.”

  “Very good.”

  “When Nurse Church comes back, I’ll instruct her to give him another.”

  They stood together, watching the infinitesimal movement of Blake’s chest. His color, Margot thought, was a bit less ashen this morning, but that could be her imagination. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Her eyes burned with fatigue, and she pressed the tips of her fingers to them.

  “You’re exhausted, Doctor,” Henderson said. “That won’t help Mr. Blake.”

  Margot dropped her hands. “I know. I wish I knew what would help him.”

  “Sometimes,” Henderson said, “time and patience are all the medicines we have.”

  She nodded. If only there were some way to look inside Blake, to know for certain what had happened, to know what was wrong and be able to fix it—but there was nothing more they could do. Electrocardiography was still experimental, and even if it were available in Seattle, she doubted anyone would be willing to use it on a Negro patient.

  Henderson said, not unkindly, “Do you need me to remind you, Dr. Benedict, that our patient may very well never regain consciousness?”

  “No, Dr. Henderson.” Margot drew a steady breath. She had tried not to think of that, all night long. She had kept the thought at bay during the hours of darkness, but now, in the full light of day, she could no longer pretend. Sorrow choked her, and she had to swallow before she finished. “I’m aware he may die. I’m going to Benedict Hall now, to warn my family.”

  As Margot stepped out of the hospital, she blinked. It hardly seemed possible the sky was blue and clear above the city, that sunshine glittered on the waters of the bay, and flowers and grass and trees all glowed with color. She would not have been surprised to find that winter had come overnight, to turn the sky and the Sound as leaden and dark as she felt. Her feet were heavy as she turned toward Madison to catch the trolley. When a taxicab pulled up to discharge a passenger, she hailed it on an impulse.

  She regretted it at once. When she slid onto the backseat, her skirt caught on something sticky. The windows of the taxicab were cloudy with fingerprints and soot. The driver barely looked at her as he asked, in bored fashion, “Where to?” She gave him the address on Fourteenth Avenue, which made him turn to look at her more closely. “Benedict Hall?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He sniffed. “Why dincha just say that?”

  Margot thought of Blake’s dignified courtesy, of the sparkling windows and spotless upholstery of the Essex, and she felt an irrational urge to slap the back of t
he cabbie’s head. She settled for a curt, “Do you want the fare or not?”

  “Sure I do. No need to get—”

  “Drive, please,” she commanded.

  “On my way,” he said, shoving the gearshift into position. The gears ground unpleasantly before they engaged, and he pulled out into the sparse traffic. Margot folded her arms around herself, and stared blindly through the dirty windows.

  At least when he reached the house, the man got out of the car and opened her door for her. She found a dollar tucked into the top of her medical bag and gave it to him, waving off the change. He smiled at this, showing missing and broken teeth, and tipped his greasy cap as she went up the walk.

  The door opened at her approach. Hattie waited, her hands twisted in her apron, until Margot had stepped inside, and dropped her medical bag beneath the coatrack. “Miss Margot,” she said, as Margot took off her hat and began peeling off her gloves. “Is Blake—Blake didn’t—” Her voice broke on a sob, and Margot could see she had been crying for some time already.

  “Blake’s still alive,” Margot said wearily.

  “Oh, thank the good Lord!”

  “He’s very ill, though, Hattie. I don’t want you to misunderstand.”

  “Oh, no, Miss Margot. I understand.” Hattie began to weep again, tears running freely down her full cheeks and dripping from her chin.

  “Where’s Mother?” Margot asked. “And Father? The rest?”

  “They’re all in the dining room,” Hattie said, swiping at her face with the hem of her apron. “They’re having breakfast. I made ham steak and fried eggs, but it doesn’t seem nobody’s eating much. Poor Mr. Preston, he’s looking so poorly, it’s just like to break my heart. Now, you go on in—” Her voice broke as she sobbed again. “Go on in, Miss Margot, and I’ll send Leona with your coffee.”

  “Thank you, Hattie,” Margot said tiredly. “Now, try not to cry. You’ll wear yourself out.”

  “Yes, Miss Margot,” Hattie said, but she sniffled freely as she padded down the hall toward the kitchen.