What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  A thought appeared to strike her as he prepared to bid her adieu. She leaned into the wagon and extracted two long sticks of hard candy. Offering him one, she said simply, “You’ve had your chance to even one score. Might I offer you some refreshment?”

  Courtesy and desire went hand in hand for once. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Miss Brook gestured toward a wrought-iron seat in the corner of the town square, saying, “Shall we sit while we indulge ourselves?”

  Joshua would not have presumed to suggest it; and he could not help reflecting that Mrs. Blum might come to hear about them once again spending time together. But then, that might be just as well. She should realize his social life was his own affair, her views and intentions notwithstanding. And if the weather was chilly for sitting, they both had coats on, and he would not be the one to complain so long as Miss Brook found it comfortable. “My tired feet and I thank you, ma’am.”

  They settled on the bench with their candy. Miss Brook made no attempt to hide her enjoyment of the sweet. But from time to time she turned to him as if studying him. He let her scrutinize him. Maybe she would discover something about him that he needed to know.

  When she finally asked him a question, it concerned nothing at all profound. “What is the oddest thing you’ve ever eaten?”

  A peculiar thing to ask, but it made a kind of sense. You could learn a lot about someone’s life from the answer: how far they had traveled, how poor they had been or how wealthy. Or whether they had been to war. Feeling like a cheat, he evaded the question. “I’ll tell you what seemed strangest to me when first I ate it, as a boy. Steamed clams. Or oysters, when I was older. Raw, slimy — I thought I’d choke on it. But it slithered right down. And yourself?”

  “Rattlesnake. I was — in difficulties, at the time, and ready to try anything. I thought it might poison me. But here I am, so obviously it didn’t.”

  She returned her attention to the candy. Joshua did the same, though the memory of that oyster haunted his tongue, combining poorly with the candy and making him queasy.

  Maybe the rattlesnake was sabotaging Miss Brook in the same manner. She stood up rather abruptly and dropped the remains of her candy on the grass. “I’d best be getting home.”

  Joshua pulled out his pocket watch and gulped. He had barely enough time to go see the last of his day’s patients before they would be having supper. “Thank you for the candy.”

  He could think of nothing more to say, so he gave her an awkward bow and hurried off to saddle Nellie-girl. A glance backward showed that Miss Brook had made it to her wagon and was heading out of town. And he had better stop looking after her, and be about his business.

  Chapter 3

  It was a fine morning, unseasonably warm, and no one had summoned Joshua yet. If no one did, it would be one of his office Thursdays; but first, he and Major might have a little time to play. “Get your stick, boy!”

  The dog grabbed the stick lying across the room from the fireplace and bounded over to Joshua, wagging his tail. Joshua grabbed his overcoat, opened the front door, let Major run down the steps, and followed after. When they had both reached the street, Major dropped the stick at Joshua’s feet, backed up a few yards, and assumed his “ready to play” position, front legs flat on the ground and hindquarters in the air. Joshua picked up the stick and hurled it around thirty yards. Major pivoted and scampered after it, soon returning with the stick in his teeth.

  Joshua rubbed Major’s head and took the stick. “What a good dog, what a good boy!” Major thanked him by jumping up, trying to lick his face. Joshua laughed, squatted, and let Major lick him before wiping his face with his sleeve. Standing back up, he threw the stick again, and they repeated the ritual four more times, except for the face-licking, which Joshua did not want to encourage unduly.

  Five throws was plenty for Joshua. The last time, when he took the stick, he shook his head and said, “All done, Major.” Major lowered his head and his tail drooped before he regained his good cheer and trotted under the steps to explore the shadowed corners.

  Still no anxious patients to be seen. Joshua climbed up the stairs and went back inside to retrieve the small leather sack containing his pipe, tobacco, and tamper. Settling himself on the steps, he filled his pipe and tamped the contents of the bowl. He would need to buy more tobacco soon, such as it was. Joshua rarely dwelt on those creature comforts he had left behind in Philadelphia, but he could not deny that his family had been able to afford a better quality of tobacco.

  At least the tobacconist, located so conveniently below Joshua’s rooms, carried an inexpensive sweet blend. Joshua was determined not to be ashamed of his fondness for sweets, but he could hardly afford to visit the candy shop or ice cream parlor on a regular basis. And he could not, in conscience, wish illness or injury on their proprietors in the hope of receiving their goods in payment.

  Joshua lit the pipe, let it go out, lit it again, and sat back to smoke. As he attempted without much success to blow a smoke ring, he noticed that Clara Brook, passing by with a basket on her arm, had stopped and was watching him with an appraising eye. He turned away to hide a blush before realizing how rude he must seem and turning back, lifting his hat to her. “I hope you’re enjoying the morning, Miss Brook.”

  She hoisted her basket and replied, “Reasonably well, given the lack of interest I find in daily errands. I see you are enjoying a more entertaining pastime. But given the challenges of your own daily lot, I can hardly begrudge you a moment of relaxation.”

  He had certainly never met a woman with such an inclination toward frankness. It left him somewhat at a loss for words. Whether she recognized that fact or just felt the call of her duties, she said nothing more, but simply nodded to him and went on her way. He waited until she was some distance away before taking another puff.

  Before long, one of his farmer patients approached, carrying a big sack of what must be flour over his shoulder. He was probably on his way back from the grist mill on the edge of town. The farmer spied Joshua sitting on the steps and called out, “Fine morning for a smoke, ain’t it?”

  Joshua lifted his pipe in acknowledgment. “That it is.”

  The gesture drew the man’s attention to the pipe itself. “Say, Doc, why you smoke a clay pipe instead of one of those fancy soldier pipes? Or didn’t you smoke during the war like all the others?”

  “Oh, I smoked. And I made pipes, but I lost the only good one.” Of course he had smoked a pipe back then. The odor of the tobacco masked the many fouler smells of camp and battlefield; and it was easier to forget hunger and fatigue with a pipe in hand.

  And like everyone else, he had carved pipes from ivy root or hickory or whatever he could find. The first few efforts were crude enough, but at least they wouldn’t break from rough treatment, like the clay pipes Joshua smoked now. He never did acquire the artistry of some of his fellows, with their pipe bowls in the likeness of a soldier’s head or a cowboy’s, but he’d felt some pride in his final effort, made the last year of the war: an eagle’s head etched on the bowl and scroll work on the stem. He had meant to bring it home, a reminder that those years had their moments of comfort and even a kind of peace. But somehow, in the mad scramble of one of the last battles, it had disappeared. He could only hope someone had found it, cleaned it, possibly admired it. That man might even be holding Joshua’s pipe, filling it or smoking it, at this very moment.

  The farmer must have given up on further conversation while Joshua was lost in thought. He had walked on and was almost out of sight. Joshua took another puff, blew out the smoke, and hoped that other man somewhere down south had better tobacco.

  * * * * *

  Dovis Hawkins, the barber, had been in business in Cowbird Creek for some years longer than Joshua. He might have been one of the first settlers other than farmers, showing up around the same time as the blacksmith and Madam Mamie’s predecessor. And as barbers did, he’d done his share of what he called doctoring, from bleeding
to lancing abscesses to pulling teeth to setting broken bones. Whether those he bled got weaker from it, or the abscesses refused to heal, or the teeth were maybe the ones that didn’t need pulling, or the bones healed crooked . . . well, Joshua mostly hadn’t been there to witness. From what he’d seen, however, he could with a clear conscience consider himself an improvement.

  Mr. Hawkins disagreed. He never took the matter up with Joshua directly. Instead, he used his status as (according to him) a pillar of the town, and his wide acquaintance, to plant as many doubts about Joshua as possible. Whenever Joshua met a patient in the street who seemed uneasy about seeing him, he had a pretty good guess as to why.

  Should he finally have it out with the barber face to face? He wasn’t especially good at knowing how to handle a quarrel with someone old enough to be his father. And he could easily come out of it looking like a bully. It might be prudent to imagine what others — not those most sympathetic to his feelings, like Robert, but people like Clara Brook, or Freida Blum, or Thaddeus Spencer, or the mayor — would think were they witnesses.

  No, he would refrain from direct confrontation. Better to try Hawkins’s tactics.

  He felt up and down his farmer patient’s arm, shaking his head and frowning. “It feels as if you broke this some time back and didn’t have it set properly. Funny, I don’t remember being out of town when this must have happened. Even if I was seeing to a patient, someone could have fetched me without too much delay. Well, I’m sorry I managed to miss you. This break could give you trouble off and on.”

  The big man hunched his shoulders and shuffled his feet on the floor. “I guess I might have stopped in to see Mr. Hawkins about it.”

  Joshua shook his head, aiming for a “more in sorrow than anger” demeanor. “There’s not a lot I can do about it now — short of rebreaking it and setting it. If it gets to where you can’t use the arm, we might have to try that. In the meantime, you can try willow bark tea for when it pains you.” He sent the man off with a packet of the tea leaves, hoping he would gossip or complain enough to spread the word. And that Hawkins would do no serious mischief in the meantime.

  He had barely had time to sit down at his desk before new footsteps approached. Joshua rolled the kinks out of his neck and arose to welcome the new patient. But when the door opened, Clara Brook stepped in looking the picture of health, her cheeks pink from fresh air and her bonnet slightly askew as if the spring breezes had been tugging at it.

  He realized he was staring at her and made haste to adopt a more professional manner. “Miss Brook, how may I assist you?”

  “In fact I need no assistance. I was passing and in less of a hurry than usual, and decided to satisfy my curiosity. I haven’t had occasion to see the interior of a practice such as yours.” She looked around his office with every appearance of interest. “I hope you’ll pardon my indulging such an impulse.”

  “Of course.” He waved her in. “Your visit is a welcome distraction.”

  She looked more closely at him. “I hope the concerns from which I’m to distract you are not too troubling. Is one of your patients in serious condition?”

  Joshua shook his head and snorted simultaneously. “Only from his own poor judgment and the — the ignorant overconfidence of another.”

  Miss Brook laughed. He had not seen her laugh before. It brightened her face to a remarkable extent. “You cannot possibly say so much without saying more.”

  The prospect of sharing his frustration was certainly tempting. He asked her with some hesitation, “May I count on your discretion?”

  The laughter fell away from her face. “You may, in fact. I have some practice at keeping confidences.”

  He was both sorry to have asked and intrigued by her response, but he went on without exploring the tangent. “There is a longtime resident of Cowbird Creek who considers himself well versed in medical matters, an opinion unfortunately shared with some of the people here.”

  To Joshua’s dismay, Miss Brook nodded as at familiar knowledge, saying, “I would venture to guess that you refer to Mr. Hawkins.”

  Joshua grimaced. As he was about to confirm her statement, it suddenly occurred to him that she might be a source of new information. “If you would not consider it inappropriate, I would very much like to know what you have heard about Mr. Hawkins’s attempts at providing medical treatment, and their results.”

  Miss Brook didn’t actually laugh this time, but her face brightened again, and he felt a momentary absurd pride in having cheered her. She lifted a hand and ticked off items on her fingers as she said, “I’ve heard that he cured a farmer’s rheumatic gout by bloodletting. And conversely, that he bled a young woman with female complaints to the point where her life was despaired of, though she recovered — a recovery for which he claimed credit. And there was one more, I believe . . . ah, yes. That he will willingly set a broken bone for no more payment than a bottle of whiskey.”

  Joshua found he was clenching his fists and forced himself to relax them. “I hope you believed only that he bled the farmer and the young woman, for whatever good or ill it did, and that he set a bone, if not competently.”

  Miss Brook pursed her lips and stroked her chin in an obvious mockery of deep thought. “After giving the matter prolonged consideration . . . .” She broke into a broad smile. “I did tentatively conclude that in case of any injury or illness, visiting the good Doctor Gibbs would be a better idea.”

  It was his turn to laugh, as much in relief as to share the joke. “If you or yours ever need such assistance, which I hope will not be any time soon, I’ll humbly stand ready to provide it.”

  Miss Brook’s smile died away, and she reached into her pocket for a rather plain-looking watch, one he suspected had previously belonged to some man in her family. “I see I’ve idled away quite enough time, and must be about my errands. A good day to you, Doctor.” She looked around the office one more time, started to move toward the door, and then turned back around. “I’m glad I stopped in. After all, one knows a person better after seeing him on his own ground.” And with that, she turned again and walked out his office door.

  * * * * *

  When some errand required Joshua to pass by the barber shop, he generally made a point of not looking inside. But as Joshua dragged himself home from a fruitless call on a consumptive farmer, he saw a familiar silhouette in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw Clara Brook, standing close to Hawkins and chatting with every appearance of animation.

  His first reaction, little as he could justify it, was a feeling of betrayal. Miss Brook knew how he felt about Hawkins and Hawkins’s presumptuous and unsound practices. Was she a friend of the barber? Had she been drawing Joshua out, gathering intelligence on the man’s behalf? Amusing herself by witnessing Joshua’s frustration?

  He pulled out his pipe as an excuse to lurk nearby, fiddling with tobacco and tamper, until Miss Brook emerged with a cheery wave back to Hawkins as she stepped out into the street. Joshua hurriedly stowed away pipe and all, moving to intercept. She greeted him with a frank and guileless face, almost immediately shadowed with concern. “You look weary, Doctor.”

  Joshua at once felt a fool. How could he confront her with his suspicions, in the face of this sympathetic interest? And yet he saw no way to converse easily without clearing the air. He strove to appear neither hurt nor hostile as he asked, “Are you well acquainted with Mr. Hawkins, then? You did not mention the fact when we last discussed him.”

  Miss Brook’s eyes widened for a moment before lighting with what could only be amusement. “No, the gentleman and I are not such good friends that I saw need to mention it. But when I have occasion to pass by, and both he and I have sufficient leisure, I will sometimes pay a short visit.”

  She paused, as if awaiting an impertinent demand for explanations, and then went on to provide one. “As much as he gives the appearance of having a wide acquaintance, and as much as he enjoys — may I say, the sound of his own voice? — he strikes
me as after all being somewhat lonely. And I have found that he seems to take pleasure in the company of those considerably younger than he. I believe he and Mrs. Hawkins have no children.”

  The notion of Hawkins in need of compassion left Joshua momentarily speechless. Miss Brook stood patient for a minute or so before gesturing down the street. “My way is homeward. Do we walk in the same direction? Or are you bound for your rooms, and a well-deserved rest?”

  Joshua cleared his throat and managed to say, “The latter. I wish you a pleasant evening.” Too embarrassed to linger, he tipped his hat, turned tail, and strode away, her footfalls receding behind him.

  Chapter 4

  “You know they won’t use ‘em. And what whores won’t use, they won’t buy.” Robert, the town pharmacist, held the box of French letters in his hand and shook it like a warning rattle.

  “May as well keep trying. I could talk them into it sooner or later. And ‘til then, I’ll need some for my own use.”

  Robert put down the box and wagged a finger. “Joshua, Joshua. What would the church ladies say? Or your new friend the widow?”

  Joshua groaned. “My new self-appointed guardian angel would tell me to get married yesterday and make lots of babies. Fat ones.”

  Robert rummaged in his stores and pulled out several bottles of the mercuric chloride Joshua would need for his visit. “At least you’ve talked them into using this.”

  “I didn’t have to. Soon as I got to town, my first time stopping by, they were on me asking about it.”

  Joshua counted out the coins for his purchases; Robert scooped them up, dropped them in the till, gave Joshua his change. “I think I’ll go with you and get me a drink — at least. I always get first-class treatment in your company.”

  Madam Mamie’s parlor house stood on the far corner of the square from the church, though local humor varied as to which one was supposed to be trying to pull away from the other. The second story balcony had scalloped trim in bright red paint, always kept fresh, and red lanterns hung in the windows facing the street. Downstairs in the saloon, a piano player entertained guests who hadn’t yet made it upstairs or, having come back down, were in no hurry to leave.