American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Her expression grew more solemn. “But I wonder how she is, really. She never complains, you know. Not a word.”

  Bethany glanced at Andrew before replying. “Maylee is fairly stable for now, Miss Fanny. But…you understand she’ll never be well. Her condition is degenerative.”

  “I know,” said Miss Fanny with a sigh. “And I pray for the poor child daily. She simply breaks my heart. But do you know, the sweet girl would much rather sing me a song about Jesus than talk about herself. How our dear Lord must cherish her!”

  They made light conversation for a few minutes. Then Miss Fanny got to her feet, saying, “Well, Sergeant, Dr. Cole seems to have survived her jaunt in your foul-smelling old wagon well enough, so perhaps I could impose on you to deliver me to my apartment?”

  Frank replaced his hat, tipping it to the back of his head with one finger. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Fanny, but I have to say, I don’t understand why your husband didn’t keep you at home in the first place. Days like this aren’t fit for you to be out.”

  Andrew watched the two of them as the diminutive Miss Fanny took Frank’s arm. “Van is my husband, Sergeant, not my guardian. Besides, he has his work to do, and I have mine. The Lord takes very good care of us.”

  She smiled up at him. “But thank you all the same for your concern. You’re a good man.”

  Frank looked at Andrew and lifted an eyebrow. “We both know better than that, Miss Fanny.”

  “Oh, would you listen to yourself! The trouble with you, Frank Donovan, is that you really don’t know what kind of a man you are. One of these days, when you stop running long enough, the Lord is going to get hold of you, and then you’ll realize what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”

  “Now don’t you start on me, Miss Fanny,” Frank grumbled. “You know I won’t argue with you.”

  Still holding on to his arm as they started for the door, Miss Fanny gave a wave to Andrew and Bethany. “And I expect I must be the only person in New York who can claim that distinction. Well, come along now. It’s time I was getting home.”

  As soon as the door shut behind them, Andrew turned to Bethany. “I have a call to make. I thought you might want to go with me, although I feel I should tell you that I have no idea what it’s all about.”

  Andrew went on to explain then about his strange visitor. “I don’t know what to expect,” he finished, “so if you’re tired and would rather not go—”

  “No, I’m going with you. It sounds intriguing.” She was already collecting her coat and her medical bag. “You said the entire family might need treatment?”

  Andrew nodded, shrugging into his own coat. “It’s possible, although she didn’t seem to know for certain.”

  “And she didn’t tell you anything else? Not even her name?”

  “Nothing more.” He stood thinking a moment, then opened the door and looked out. “I think we’ll take a hack. I don’t know about you, but an open buggy ride in this weather doesn’t hold much appeal for me this evening.”

  “So long as you pay the fare.” She grinned at him.

  “Yes, well I’m feeling extravagant.”

  “Imagine that,” she said, whirling about and starting for the door. “And you a Scot.”

  14

  RESCUE THE PERISHING

  Down in the human heart,

  Crushed by the tempter,

  Feelings lie buried that grace can restore:

  Touched by a loving heart,

  Wakened by kindness,

  Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.

  FANNY CROSBY (FROM “RESCUE THE PERISHING”)

  Bethany had been mired in a slough of despondency ever since her visit to Maylee.

  The encounter with Frank Donovan had only intensified her gloomy feelings. For the most part, she thought she’d managed to conceal her dark mood from Andrew, but the sight that greeted them when they walked into the hovel on Mulberry Street depressed her already low spirits even further.

  A boy of twelve or thirteen opened the door and stood staring at them with bleak eyes. After hearing Andrew’s explanation as to their call, he stepped aside for them to enter, then went to stand in a dim corner of the room, arms crossed over his thin chest.

  Bethany tried to be discreet as she scanned their surroundings. Two small girls huddled close together under a pile of rags on a rude, unpainted bedstead with nothing but straw ticking for a mattress. Directly across the room from the bed, a small, fragile woman lay uncovered and shivering on a sagging divan, muttering and ranting to herself.

  Next to a narrow basin, a dilapidated cupboard leaned against one wall and appeared to hold two or three tin cups, some unmatched plates, and a piece of stone crockery. The only other furniture in the room was a scarred wooden chair. The lone window was merely a hole without glass, stuffed with rags. There was no fire, and the room was cold and damp. Permeating the dreary surroundings was a strong stench of sickness and neglect.

  Bethany looked at Andrew and saw that his mouth was white rimmed, his features drawn tight. He was angry. As angry as she had ever seen him.

  He made a gesture that he would see to the woman on the divan, so Bethany went to the little girls in the corner.

  And all the while, the boy with the sharp features and inscrutable expression stood watching them in silence.

  It took Andrew only seconds to recognize an opium addict in the throes of early withdrawal. The woman’s eyes shot open at his approach, but in spite of the sly, almost calculating furtiveness, he could see that she was disoriented.

  Clad only in a tattered nightdress, she was emaciated, her hair wet with perspiration and matted about her face. The stench that engulfed her person and the entire corner of the room was nearly overwhelming. She was trembling so hard the divan shook beneath her.

  The minute Andrew reached her, she kicked out with both legs and began to flail her arms in front of her. He turned his face away for a moment, drew in a long breath, and willed himself not to condemn her.

  But the woman sprawled before him was a bad dream with which he was all too familiar.

  “Mrs. Lambert?”

  She continued to thrash about and moan.

  Andrew waited, but she showed no sign of quieting. “Mary? Can you hear me?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her hands over her face. Andrew bent over her. “Mary, I’m a doctor. I’ve come to help you.”

  He reached to brush the tangled hair away from her face, but with an unexpected show of strength, she struck out at him, knocking his hand away.

  Andrew persevered, even though the very sight of her made him want to retch. Not with nausea; he’d overcome that hazard of his profession years ago. But Mary Lambert dredged up something much deeper, much darker. Something he would have preferred to keep buried forever.

  Suddenly impatient with himself, he straightened and turned to Bethany. “I’m going to need help with her. See if you can calm her down,” he said as Bethany approached. “Otherwise, we’ll have to restrain her long enough for an examination.”

  Bethany hesitated only a moment before seating herself on the edge of the divan. She grasped one flailing hand and brought it to rest on her lap. At the same time, she began to murmur words of reassurance to the woman.

  Almost instantly, Mary Lambert stopped her thrashing about, obviously distracted by Bethany’s soft voice and firm touch.

  “Now, Mary, we need you to be very quiet so Dr. Carmichael can examine you. We’re here to help you.”

  The woman squirmed but continued to watch Bethany with wary eyes.

  “You’re very ill, Mary. And so are your children. We’re here to help. But we need you to help us as well.”

  “What about the girls?” Andrew asked as he adjusted his stethoscope.

  “They’re both severely malnourished,” Bethany told him. “I suspect the younger of the two may have pneumonia. They’re dehydrated, of course, and feverish. They need to be hospitalized right away.�
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  With her free hand, Mary Lambert reached as if to knock Andrew’s stethoscope away, but Bethany intercepted her move, and she dropped her hand without protest.

  As Bethany continued to soothe the woman, Andrew made a brief but thorough assessment of her condition. He found exactly what he had expected. She was badly jaundiced. Her pulse was racing, her heartbeat fast and erratic. Twice she wrenched herself into a fetal position, gripping her abdomen with one hand as if to squeeze off the cramps he knew she was having. By now she was thoroughly drenched with sweat, and she’d taken to muttering again—something about spiders and rats. She was delusional.

  No surprise there, either.

  He checked both her arms and saw the needle tracks that indicated she was injecting the narcotic instead of smoking it. Like her little girls, she was malnourished and close to dehydration. Her stomach was undoubtedly empty by now, so he went ahead and gave her a minimum dose of strychnine for her heart, then prepared a bromide of soda to help quiet her, although at the moment there was no combativeness about her, no attempt to block his treatment.

  Andrew was keenly aware of the boy watching from the corner of the room. “Fetch me a blanket, son. And a cold cloth.”

  The boy didn’t move. “We don’t have no blankets.”

  Andrew and Bethany exchanged glances.

  “Some rags then,” Andrew said. “Your mother needs to be kept warm.”

  Finally the boy pushed himself away from the wall and disappeared behind the curtain separating one room from the other. When he returned, he held a thin coat and a wet gray rag.

  “This is all I could find,” he said, handing Andrew the coat without looking at him.

  Anger shot through Andrew. Money for opium, but not for blankets…

  He covered Mary Lambert as best he could with the coat, then left Bethany to bathe the woman’s face and hands with the dirty cloth.

  Andrew motioned the boy to one side. “What about you, lad?” he said quietly. “Have you been ill, too?”

  The youth shook his head. “I’m okay.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve eaten, son?”

  The youth shrugged but made no reply.

  Andrew sighed at the lack of response. “Does your mother drink liquor, too? With the opium?”

  The boy darted a glance across the room at his mother, then turned back to Andrew. He blinked once, and Andrew recognized his attempt to keep his feelings well under wraps.

  “Sometimes. Not always.”

  “How long has she been like this?” said Andrew.

  “Like she is now?” The youth shrugged. “Three or four days, I guess. Before that she was sick a lot.” He paused. “But she weren’t never—out of her head, not until lately.”

  “Has she been using opium for very long?”

  The boy hesitated. “A year or so. Maybe more.”

  “What about your father?”

  In an instant, the impassive expression disappeared, replaced by a look of such raw hatred Andrew felt as if he’d been struck.

  “We don’t have a father,” the boy bit out.

  Andrew regarded him curiously. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Robert.”

  “Why do you say you have no father, Robert? Are your parents separated? Divorced?”

  A look of loathing swept over the boy’s face. “They weren’t never married. He just comes down here every now and then. When he gets tired of his real missus.”

  Andrew’s chest tightened at the shame and anger in young Robert Lambert’s eyes. “He doesn’t provide for you at all?”

  The boy gave a contemptuous laugh. “There’s what he provides.” He gestured toward his mother. “Not that he ever gave us that much to begin with. She had to work and all, when she still could. But at least she used to spend the money he gave her for food and rent. Lately, though, she’s spent it all on the opium and the drink.” He glanced away. “Landlord is threatening to throw us out now.”

  “Does he still come here—your father?”

  The boy shook his head, a look of contempt darkening his features. “He ain’t been around for months now.”

  Andrew tried to think. He knew what had to be done, but he wondered how the boy would react. “I need to confer with Dr. Cole a moment,” he said, leaving the boy and returning to Bethany and Mary Lambert.

  Bethany looked up at him. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. What’s wrong with her, Andrew?”

  “A lot of things. Liver disease for one, I expect. Anemia. Withdrawal. She’s in a bad way.”

  “Withdrawal?”

  “Opium,” Andrew said shortly. “And alcohol.”

  He caught a glimpse of disgust, but Bethany was too professional to give sway to her feelings for long.

  Andrew turned and gestured to Robert Lambert. “Your mother and your sisters will have to go to the hospital, son. I’m going to make arrangements to have them moved to Bellevue.”

  As the boy approached, his previous stoicism seemed to fall away. A look of panic flickered in his eyes. “All of them?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “But we don’t have money for any hospital!”

  Instinctively, Andrew put a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about the money. They’ll be taken care of; I’ll see to it. There’s really no choice, Robert.”

  He hesitated. “You need a place to stay as well, and I know of one. Whittaker House. It’s run by a pastor named Ted Whittaker and his family, and—”

  “I’ll not stay in any preacher’s house!”

  Andrew glanced at Bethany, then at the youth. “What do you have against preachers, Robert?”

  “He’s a preacher!”

  The boy’s words didn’t register right away. “Who’s a preacher?”

  “Him!” Robert’s face was splotched, his eyes blazing. “Our father!”

  The room seemed to grow very still. “Your…father is a pastor?” Andrew said softly, struggling to take in the lad’s meaning. “Who—what’s his name?”

  “Warburton. Robert Warburton.” The boy spit the words from his mouth as if they were laced with poison. “She named me for him!”

  Andrew stared at him in numb astonishment. It must be coincidence. Another Robert Warburton.

  “You’re quite certain—he’s a pastor?”

  “He talked about it often enough. Bragging on his big church and all the traveling he has to do and the speeches he’s asked to make and the books he writes. Oh, he’s a preacher all right!”

  A big church. Speeches. Books. It couldn’t be—but it had to be. Robert Warburton. Pastor of one of the largest, most influential congregations in the city—in the state. A man looked up to by hundreds, perhaps even thousands, as if he were a saint.

  Robert Warburton…

  Bethany touched Andrew’s arm and he saw the recognition in her eyes. Most likely, just about everyone knew who Robert Warburton was.

  A thought struck him, and he turned to the boy. “Robert, do you have family in the city? A grandmother, perhaps?”

  The boy frowned. “Mama’s not from here. Her folks are back in Ohio.” He paused. “She told us she wanted to be an actress. That’s why she moved here. Only she couldn’t get a job and was down on her luck. I guess that’s when she took up with him.”

  Andrew’s mind groped for answers. With no family in the city, who was the woman who had sent him here? And why had she sent him, if she and the Lambert family weren’t even related?

  “I’ll be all right just stayin’ here,” the boy said.

  “You can’t possibly stay here,” Bethany said firmly before Andrew could make a reply. “You’ve no food. No heat. And you said yourself the landlord was threatening eviction. No, Robert, Dr. Carmichael is right. Besides, I promise you, you’ll like Whittaker House. Ted Whittaker is a young man himself, with a wonderful family. All the boys who live there seem to like it. It’s a good place.” She paused. “That’s where you need to go, Robert. At least for now.”r />
  Andrew looked at Robert and saw him gazing at Bethany with something akin to awe. What sort of effect might Bethany have on a youth like Robert Lambert—a boy trapped in the midst of squalor and despair, with a mother who had become something less than human to him? Bethany, with her impeccable dress, her exquisite, delicate features, her loveliness—not to mention the almost maternal tone she was taking with him.

  And where had that maternal tone come from? He hadn’t heard it before, not even with Maylee.

  “You’ll need to stay with your mother and your sisters,” Bethany went on, “until we can arrange for an ambulance. I’ll wait here with you while Dr. Carmichael takes care of all the arrangements. Then he and I will take you to Whittaker House.”

  Robert looked from one to the other. “You’ll both go with me?”

  “Of course we will.”

  Robert studied her as if he were searching for some additional reassurance. Finally, he thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded. “All right, then.”

  “Good.” Bethany smiled at him, and Andrew—not for the first time—counted himself blessed to have her at his side. Bethany could usually persuade just about any patient of anything.

  He thought that might be particularly true if the patient happened to be male.

  15

  TO STEP ASIDE IS HUMAN

  Then gently scan your brother man,

  Still gentler sister woman;

  Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang

  To step aside is human…

  One point must still be greatly dark,

  The moving why they do it;

  And just as lamely can ye mark

  How far perhaps they rue it.

  ROBERT BURNS

  The hack was nearing Bethany’s apartment, and she had yet to utter more than a few words since leaving Whittaker House. The experience with Mary Lambert and her children had proven difficult for both of them, Andrew sensed, but even more of an ordeal for Bethany than for himself. He was having serious doubts about whether he should have asked her to accompany him, and he voiced those regrets.