The Crooked Path

by Irma Joubert

  Heat flooded her body, accompanied by an unfamiliar tingling sensation.

  He held her a moment longer, then let her go. “Good night, Aletta,” he said and turned away.

  She put the latch on the screen door and gently closed the back door.

  This, she instinctively knew, was the indescribable joy brought about by the love between a man and a woman.

  The following weekend, after Lettie’s father had taken over Marco’s care, Mrs. Roux said to Lettie, “Aunt Gertie from the boardinghouse called to say someone should take a look at Mr. Romanelli. He’s not well.”

  “Is it his stomach? Something he ate?” Lettie asked.

  “No, I reckon it’s the flu. Aunt Gertie says he has a very bad cough.”

  An icy fear grabbed hold of Lettie, threatening to choke her. “I’ll go,” she said. “Thanks, Mrs. Roux.”

  With a heavy heart she drove to the boardinghouse. Marco couldn’t afford to get the flu. He was far from strong.

  She pulled up at the boardinghouse, opened the gate, walked up the cement path, and climbed the three steps to the wide veranda with its shiny red floor. She knocked on the green front door.

  Aunt Gertie led her down the long passage to room 5. From the kitchen came the smell of frying onions. “It’s so strange that you’re a doctor now,” Aunt Gertie said, making small talk. “You were always a smart girl, but to be a doctor?”

  She knocked, opened the door. The smell of friar’s balsam hung in the air. “I’ve steamed him,” Aunt Gertie said.

  Marco was asleep under the duvet. Lettie put her hand on his forehead. It was burning. Lettie closed her eyes for a moment. Dear God, she prayed, please help him.

  Marco opened his eyes and smiled. “Aletta?” he said, gripping her wrist.

  He’s making no effort to hide his love for me, she thought self-consciously. It was clear that Aunt Gertie had noticed. “How do you feel?” Lettie asked, gently withdrawing her hand.

  “On top of the world, now you’re here.”

  He seemed not to care that Aunt Gertie was in the room! Lettie felt her cheeks flush. “Marco! Be serious! You’re burning up. Does your throat hurt?”

  “My throat hurts, my muscles ache, my nose is blocked. You have your work cut out for you,” he teased.

  When he laughed, it brought on a fresh coughing fit. It racked his chest, and he doubled over, then struggled to sit up, gasping for breath.

  “See why I’m worried, Doctor?” Aunt Gertie asked.

  Lettie nodded. “I’m glad you called. I need a few extra pillows,” she said, helping Marco to sit up. “We must try to keep him in an upright position, even when he’s sleeping.”

  When the coughing had subsided, he leaned back, exhausted. “Sorry,” he said, his eyes closed.

  She held a glass of water for him to drink. “Do you have a headache?” she asked.

  “No, but my head feels fuzzy.”

  Aunt Gertie returned with a pile of pillows of different shapes and sizes. “See what you can use, Lettie,” she said.

  “Thanks, we’ll manage now.”

  “Tell me if you need anything, boiling water, whatever.”

  “I will. Thanks, Aunt Gertie.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re a doctor,” Aunt Gertie said on her way out.

  Lettie closed the door and turned back to Marco. “Now please tell me how you really feel,” she said seriously.

  “Terrible,” he answered. “Common-cold terrible.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, smiling as she fluffed up the pillows behind his back. “Let’s take a listen to that chest.”

  “It won’t be good,” he warned her. “And warm up that cold metal thing before you hold it against my skin.”

  She laughed softly and rubbed the stethoscope with her hand. “Okay, lie back so I can listen.”

  She listened, made him lean forward, and pressed the stethoscope against his back. He was still painfully thin, his spinal column clearly visible under the skin. Carefully she pushed him back against the pillows and pulled up the duvet.

  “So?” he asked, serious at last.

  She took his hand from under the bedding and folded her fingers around his wrist. “Your chest hurts, but at this point I’m not too worried about your lungs,” she said. “Just stay in bed and keep warm. Your heart rate is slightly elevated.”

  “It would be normal if your father were holding my hand,” he teased again.

  “Marco!” she said. “Don’t talk like that, especially not in front of others. Aunt Gertie’s the unofficial news broadcaster in town.”

  “There’s no one else here at the moment,” he said, giving her a tired smile. “Besides, people will have to get used to the fact that their lovely doctor is no longer available.”

  Despite her anxiety about him, she was flooded with joy. “Open your mouth so I can take your temperature,” she said.

  He lay back against the pillows with the thermometer under his tongue. His face was paler than usual, and his thick dark hair was tousled. Lettie said, “I’m going to prescribe a cough syrup that might make you sleepy. I’ll ask Aunt Gertie to steam you again. It’s good for the chest.”

  “She steams up the whole room. I feel as if I can’t breathe.” He spoke past the thermometer.

  “Don’t talk,” she said. “I’ll tell her not to overdo it. Stay in bed. Don’t go out in the cold air, even if you’re warmly dressed.” She removed the thermometer from his mouth.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  “It’s a bit high—a hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” she said. “You can take Disprin every four hours to bring your temperature down. It will make you feel better as well. But whatever happens, you’re not to get up.”

  He lay watching her with a smile on his lips. “You look ravishing in your white coat, you know?” he said.

  “Marco! How can I do my job if you keep . . . well . . .”

  “Keep doing what?” he teased.

  “Making eyes at me,” she countered.

  He laughed softly. “Just wait till I’m back on my feet,” he said, “then you’ll . . .”

  But the laughter went over into a second coughing fit. She helped him sit up and rubbed his back until the worst was over. “Take the medicine now and lie back,” she said, measuring out a dose of the cough mixture. Then she dissolved two Disprin in a glass of water and held it to his lips. “I’ll send my father to take a look at you tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be good, I promise,” he whispered. “It’s good to have you here.”

  “Okay. Try to sleep now.”

  He lay back, exhausted, his forehead sweating, his hands ice-cold. “Will you stay awhile?” he asked, his eyes closed.

  “I’ll stay until you fall asleep, Marco, and I’ll come back tonight. By next week you’ll be up and about again,” she said, stroking his tousled hair.

  He smiled, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Aletta,” he murmured.

  She stroked his hair until she was certain he was sleeping. Then she closed the door softly, gave instructions to Aunt Gertie, and drove home in her father’s big old Hudson.

  As she drove past the church, fear had a firm grip on her heart.

  Marco improved over the weekend. His cough still rattled but his temperature had come down. But early on Tuesday morning Lettie received a call from a very agitated Aunt Gertie. She spoke so loudly that Lettie had to hold the receiver away from her ear.

  “Marco had such a bad case of the chills in the middle of the night that I nearly called you,” Aunt Gertie shouted.

  “I’m on my way,” Lettie said.

  She put her head around her parents’ door. Her father was still in bed. “Aunt Gertie called,” she said.

  “I heard,” said her father. “Do you want me to come along?”

  “No need, I’ll fetch you later.”

  When she walked into Marco’s room, she could see he was gravely ill.

&n
bsp; “Let’s take your temperature,” she said, slipping the thermometer under his tongue. She placed her hand on his forehead. He was very warm. “Does your chest hurt?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She took the thermometer out and looked at the reading. His temperature had shot up to a hundred and two degrees. A cold realization gripped her.

  She took out her stethoscope. “Do you have trouble breathing at times?” she asked, examining him.

  He nodded again.

  She straightened up and stroked his hair. “Marco, I’m going to admit you to the hospital,” she said.

  “No! Please don’t!” he exclaimed. “I want to stay here, in my bed, where it’s nice and warm. Aunt Gertie can look after me.”

  She shook her head. “You need more care than she can provide, Marco,” she said seriously. “Can I pack a few things? Pajamas? Toiletries?”

  “Pneumonia?” he asked softly.

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so, Marco. But if we treat it without delay, we can stop it in time.”

  He lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed. “I hoped . . .” He fell silent.

  When she laid her hand on his brow, it felt cold and clammy. “You’ll feel better soon enough,” she tried to comfort him. “I’m taking you in now, then I’ll fetch my dad at home for a second opinion.”

  “Is he back to working a full day?” he asked, his eyes still shut.

  “Half day,” Lettie said as she packed his bag, “but he’s back on his feet. Come, put on your warm coat and we’ll go. Here, take the scarf as well, and wrap it around your nose and mouth to keep out the cold air.”

  It was a typical small-town hospital, built in the years when the Spanish flu had taken its toll among the inhabitants of the bushveld. The rooms were big and cold with wooden sash windows overlooking the water pipes in the courtyard. The walls were painted white, and the polished linoleum flooring went halfway up the walls. The beds were high and hard, the starched sheets had perfect hospital corners, and the gray blanket was covered with a light-blue bedspread.

  Lettie managed to have Marco admitted to a double room. She turned down the bedspread and drew the stiff sheet up to his chin. “Fetch more blankets, please, Nurse,” she said. “He’s warm now, but before you know it he’ll have an attack of the chills.”

  When the nurse had left, Lettie bent down and kissed him gently on his burning forehead. “I’ll be back soon,” she said softly.

  He nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

  With a heavy heart she picked up her father at home. “I’m worried, Daddy. His chest doesn’t sound good,” she said.

  At the hospital, her father listened to Marco’s chest, then looked up at Lettie. She knew from his expression that the news was not good. “Pneumonia,” he said. “In the early stages, fortunately.” He gave her a small smile. “Continue with the current treatment, Doctor,” he said. She could hear the underlying pride in his voice.

  Lettie nodded. “Sister,” she said to the nurse, “let’s begin with antiphlo immediately. Make certain you reheat it every four hours. Keep the patient warm and his body temperature as constant as possible. If his temperature goes up, whatever you do, don’t give him a sponge bath. Have him take two Disprin every four hours. And we’ll start treating him with M&B 693 immediately.”

  The sister made notes. “And for the cough?” she asked.

  “Let’s try Mist Expect Stim,” Lettie said. She turned to her father. “What do you think?”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  When everyone had left the room, Lettie lingered. “You’ll soon feel better,” she tried to encourage him.

  “Please explain in plain English what you’re planning to do to me?” Marco asked, smiling feebly.

  “We’re going to put a hot poultice on your chest, Marco. It’s called Antiphlogistine, antiphlo for short. It’s a sticky paste that’s spread on a piece of linen the size of your chest and covered with a thin layer of gauze to keep the concoction away from your skin.”

  “How do you get it warm?” he asked.

  “The sister heats it in the sterilizer,” Lettie replied. “Don’t worry, she’ll take care not to burn you. The poultice is kept in place with what’s known as a many-tailed bandage tied across your chest.”

  “And the medicine?” he asked.

  “M&B 693? Sulfanilamide, to fight the infection. You might find the big white tablets hard to swallow, especially if your throat hurts. But try your best.”

  “I will.”

  “And the cough mixture is Mist Expect Stim, short for Mixture Expectorant Stimulant. It will help loosen the phlegm when you cough.”

  She noticed he was very tired. “Try to sleep,” she said.

  “Will you stay with me?” he asked, reaching for her hand.

  She took his hand in both her own. “I’ll stay awhile, Marco, but then I must get back to the surgery. You’ll soon start feeling better. Just get some rest.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Marco did not get better. The next morning his temperature was still a hundred and two degrees. “The Disprin lowers the temperature slightly but it simply goes up again,” Lettie said when she came back from the hospital to take her father to the surgery. “He’s getting worse, Daddy.”

  “If only we could get hold of some penicillin,” her father said. “But I don’t know where, or how we’d get it here.”

  “I’ll call Antonio,” Lettie decided. “He told me to let him know if Marco’s condition deteriorates.”

  “He could try to get hold of penicillin in Pretoria or Johannesburg, but I doubt he’ll be successful.” Her father shook his head. “It’s very hard to get one’s hands on.”

  “Antonio will find it,” Lettie said firmly. “I know him. I should have asked him last night.”

  That same day Antonio managed to find the penicillin. On Wednesday afternoon he traveled to Johannesburg to fetch it, then he and Klara drove all night with the precious ampoules packed in cotton wool. He dropped Klara and Cornelius at her parents’ farm and came straight to the hospital. “Where is he?” he asked when Lettie met him in the foyer. “Sorry, good morning, Lettie,” he added apologetically.

  She smiled. “Hello, Antonio, I’m glad you’ve arrived safely. Come,” she said, taking the parcel from him. “Thank you. This penicillin’s a miracle cure. It’s going to make all the difference.”

  “How is he this morning?” asked Antonio, his voice raw with anxiety.

  “No worse than yesterday,” she said. “The hot poultices and the medication are helping, but he’s still gravely ill. I’m so thankful for this.”

  Quietly she pushed the door open.

  Marco was lying against a stack of pillows, his eyes closed. At the sound of the door, he opened his eyes. “Aletta,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand.

  Then he noticed Antonio behind her. “Tonio?” he said, surprised.

  Antonio took two steps to the bedside and embraced his brother.

  Lettie closed the door and went to the nurses’ station to prepare the injection.

  Later that morning Lettie joined Antonio and Klara for a cup of tea in the cold waiting room with the upright chairs. Marco was asleep. The first dose of penicillin had been introduced to his bloodstream to fight the disease.

  “He looks very uncomfortable,” Antonio said anxiously.

  “We must keep him in an upright position as much as possible. He must never lie flat on his back, not even at night,” Lettie explained.

  “But why are those things under his legs?” asked Klara.

  “Oh, those are donkeys—to keep him from sliding down in the bed,” Lettie replied. “A donkey is just a pillow rolled in a sheet and inserted behind the patient’s knees. The tails, the two ends of the sheet, are tucked firmly under the mattress to keep the donkey in position.”

  “Heavens, Lettie, I’m sick with worry,” Antonio said, running his hand over his dark hair the way Marco was apt to do.

  “Will you
tell us exactly what’s going on, Lettie?” Klara asked. She kept stirring her tea. Round and round went the spoon. “We know he’s got pneumonia and one can”—she glanced at Antonio—“get very sick, but what exactly does it entail?”

  Lettie nodded. “It’s an infection of the pulmonary alveoli and the surrounding tissue that sometimes affects patients whose immunity has been compromised after a heavy cold or flu. If it’s not treated in time, the alveoli could deteriorate to such a degree that the lung capacity diminishes. It could have serious consequences. Nowadays we can treat it with penicillin. And we diagnosed Marco early, which also helps. I believe he’ll start getting better now.”

  “I saw him reach for you with his hand,” Klara said cautiously, “and you stroked his hair. Is there . . . I don’t know, something between you?”

  Lettie nodded slowly and bit her lower lip. “Yes, there is,” she said softly. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I . . .” She shook her head. “I’m so terribly worried about him.”

  She felt Antonio’s strong arm around her. “You’re doing your best, we know,” he said, “and your best is more than enough.” He held her at arm’s length. “I’m so glad, Lettie. I couldn’t have wished for anyone better for my brother.”

  “It’s not that serious between us,” Lettie protested, blinking and fighting to regain her composure.

  “I know,” Antonio said softly. “It’s never that serious.”

  Lettie spent another night at Marco’s bedside, this time with Antonio sitting opposite her. “We can’t both stay awake all night,” said Lettie.

  “I had a few hours’ sleep this afternoon,” said Antonio. “Why don’t you lie down on the other bed and try to sleep? I’ll wake you if he needs you.”

  “Wake me at one. He must get his next shot at a quarter past,” Lettie said.

  “Can’t the night sister give it to him?”

  “No, I want to do it myself,” she said firmly. “After that, I’ll stay awake and you can sleep.”