Joshua put a hand to his forehead. “Oh, brother.”
But he didn’t necessarily regret it.
Chapter 12
Joshua sat in his office after what he hoped would be today’s last patient. He had not slept well the night before, waking several times with the fragments of disturbing dreams in his head, and he was ready for a lazy evening in front of the fire with Major at his side and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
He groaned out loud when someone knocked on the door, but then relaxed and sighed in relief to see Dolly and Hope. Or was their visit professional after all? He hurried to the door, opened it, and looked at mother and daughter for any sign of illness. But both were rosy-cheeked, and as they stepped inside, neither of them winced or stumbled or otherwise looked pained.
They did, however, seem stirred up about something. Hope was especially wriggly, and Dolly too distracted to notice and reprove her. He was trying to phrase a question when Hope answered it. “We’re going on a trip! On a train!”
“Indeed?” Joshua turned to Dolly for confirmation and enlightenment.
Dolly nodded, her face going solemn. “When my husband died, he was buried here, near us. But he was his parents’ only son, and they’ve been wishing they could visit his grave regularly. They’ve offered to pay our fare to bring his body home. They also said something about investments in his name. They want me to talk to a banker about it, though I’m sure I won’t be able to make head or tail of it.” She fluttered her eyelashes as if to emphasize her inability to comprehend financial matters. “Of course, I couldn’t leave Hope for so long, and this way she can spend time with both sets of grandparents.”
Joshua was somewhat startled to realize that he would miss the pair of them. He took refuge in practicalities. “Do you have anyone to assist you with . . . the details of disinterring your husband?”
She looked up at him with a tremulous attempt at a smile. “Oh, yes. The undertaker is handling it. And if the —” She swallowed and paused before going on. “If the coffin isn’t in the condition necessary for it to go on the train, Mr. Arden’s parents sent money to have it repaired or a new one made.” She looked down at Hope and sighed, then peeked back up at him. “Such a long way to go! I must admit I quail at the thought of the journey.”
It was too bad her in-laws had sent no one to assist her. It occurred to him that he could volunteer to go with her. But he could hardly leave his practice. And traveling with him, an unmarried man not related to her, might even compromise her reputation. Besides, Dolly was probably level-headed enough to cope with the most likely difficulties, and certainly appealing enough to attract chivalrous assistance.
He contented himself with saying, “I hope you will have an easy journey, and that your time in — where is it you are going?”
“Baltimore.”
“I wish you a fruitful stay in Baltimore. When will you be leaving?”
Hope, apparently feeling left out, stepped in front of her mother and answered, “Not for a long time. Next week.”
Joshua fought back a laugh. “I’m sure the time will pass swiftly, with all the preparations you and your mother will be making. You’ll help her, won’t you?”
Hope stood up at her tiny tallest. “I will!”
Dolly patted Hope’s head and said prettily, “I do hope you won’t mind if I write to you while we’re away. It would make us feel closer to home.”
The notion took Joshua somewhat by surprise, but he gave a small bow and replied, “I would be honored to receive letters from you, and undertake to answer them, though I cannot promise to meet any high standards of composition or penmanship.”
Dolly wagged a playful finger. “Silly man! I’m sure they’ll be lovely. Now we’d better be going. As you mentioned, we have a great deal to do.”
“Safe travels, Mrs. Arden, Miss Hope.”
He watched as they left, and stood in the doorway to watch a little longer as they trotted down the street. Then he grabbed his hat, locked up, and headed for Major and home.
* * * * *
Joshua had managed to persuade Alton to come to town for a few beers. Their talk covered everything from Nebraska politics (inspiring, if only of cynicism), to local squabbles (including Joshua’s ongoing battle with the barber, lately moving toward open warfare), to Alton’s students (who actually included a few likely lads and lasses). And of course, they came around to their mutual friend Freida.
“I’ve tried a shopkeeper, a telegraph operator, a lawyer, and, Lord knows why, a schoolteacher.” Joshua waited for Alton’s snort at that last and then went on. “Should I just give up? Who haven’t I thought of?”
Alton raised an eyebrow. “How about most of the men in these parts?”
Joshua puzzled over that hint and finally got it. “Farmers?”
“Yes, farmers!” Alton wet his whistle and expounded on his theme. “They need wives more than most men, to help with the animals and keep things running, keep the hands fed, raise youngsters. Freida can’t, I assume, produce any more children, but she could do the rest of it and do it well. Just her cooking should get many a widowed farmer fellow interested.”
Well, maybe if he wasn’t too fond of pork chops, or bacon. Or maybe she’d be flexible about cooking such.
The next afternoon, Joshua made a point of helping Freida with her errands, carrying her purchases, listening attentively to her gossip and her inevitable concern about his health, weight, and marital status. Once he escorted her home, he could broach the question of whether she could see herself as a farmer’s wife. In the meantime, to the extent he could spare attention for it, he ran through his patients, comparing the widowers and assessing their suitability. He was not confident of his ability to rate male attractions, but there were several with no obviously repulsive aspects.
He did allow himself a breather when they reached the dry goods store, where the objectionable proprietor was apparently absent and Freida could work with the assistant to examine every bolt of cloth in painstaking detail. Leaning against the hitching post outside, wondering if he had time enough to fill and smoke his pipe, he failed to notice Clara Brook approaching until she spoke. “Mrs. Blum doesn’t look quite well. Are you concerned about her?”
He jerked his head around to face her, eyebrows shooting up. The barber with his claims to medical know-how was a known nuisance, but Joshua had hardly expected such second-guessing from this quarter. He had of course had his concerns, and had been watching Freida for any significant deterioration in her health. But how would this woman, hardly an intimate of Freida, think she knew enough to comment?
Joshua froze. There was one way. And it fit with everything he had observed about her.
Miss Brook appeared to have taken his silence as a sign he was offended. She stood stiffly, her chin up, her face a little flushed. She started to say what would probably be something sardonic, but he interrupted. “Were you a nurse?”
She looked at him a little warily. “I was.”
He had gone for a soldier at the age of twenty, and Miss Brook was surely several years younger than he. “You must have been very young.”
Her mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Younger than they thought me, at least. Being tall helped.”
She did not seem inclined to say much more. And Joshua could hear the floor of the store creak under Freida’s heavy tread as she made her way outside. He muttered a quick but sincere “Thank you” as he turned to offer Freida his arm.
She looked at Miss Brook’s retreating figure and sniffed. “That one, what did she want?”
Joshua was not fond of fibs, but he could hardly tell the truth. “Just a friendly greeting.”
Freida rolled her eyes. “Friendly! You must be special.” Then her manner softened and she squeezed her hand on his arm. “But of course, so special a man, everyone knows it.”
When they had reached Freida’s rooms and she had put away her purchases, Joshua steeled himself to insist on examining her. Her heartbeat
was not as he would want to hear it, and her calves and ankles were definitely swollen.
He would start with the less intrusive questions. “Are you still having palpitations?”
She smiled a little. “At my age, they should stop?”
“Have they gotten any worse?”
She shrugged. “I have time to count how many times?”
Always a question back at him instead of an answer. “And how has your appetite been lately?”
She shrugged again. “I’ve been busy, I can’t always take the time to cook for just one.”
An answer in form, finally, but an evasive answer that suggested the true one.
“Have you felt dizzy at all?”
She hesitated. “As much weight as I carry, I wobble a little and it makes me feel dizzy, maybe.”
“When you go to bed, when you lie flat, do you have any trouble breathing?”
Another hesitation. “Maybe a little, now and then. I don’t sleep so well, I worry about things, I don’t know about the breathing part.”
Now he must venture into really treacherous territory. “Mrs. Blum, I know this is a personal question, but have you been needing more trips to the necessary lately? Or using the chamber pot more at night?”
She looked away from him. Was that embarrassment because of his intrusive inquiry, or because she knew he had a reason for asking and could guess roughly what it meant?
“Mrs. Blum — Freida — please tell me.”
She tossed her head. “All right, so I have to go more than when I was a young slip of a thing!”
It all added up. Her heart was weakening.
Which meant the last thing she should do was take on the long hours of hard work that were the lot of a farmer’s wife.
“So tell me, doctor, what is it you’re thinking?”
Many doctors found ways not to answer such questions. He was generally more inclined to tell patients what he thought. But it was rarely easy, and certainly not now.
“I believe, based on my examination and your symptoms, that you’re suffering from dropsy. Your heart is not doing its job as well as it should, and that causes fluid to back up in your lungs and elsewhere.”
He saw her take that in, absorbing its seriousness, and then don a mask of unconcern. “So now that you think I have this dropsy, such a name, like a game for children, ‘Dropsy, whoops!’ — what should I do any different?”
“I’ll want you to drink some tea I’ll bring you. It’ll help you get rid of some of the fluid —”
She frowned. “So I should trot back and forth to the necessary even more often?”
“You can drink it in the morning, not at night, so at least you won’t have your sleep disturbed any further. And I have some medicines that may help your heart more directly.” Foxglove, for one. He would consider mercury as well. Some doctors would try bleeding, but as so often, he was dubious about it doing any good.
Freida hoisted herself out of her chair. “All right, Doctor. I’ll drink your tea, I’ll even take your medicines. But now I get you something to eat, you should put some meat on your bones.”
* * * * *
“You’ve got a letter.”
Joshua frowned. Dolly must still be on her way to Baltimore. It could be from his mother, although she had written only the week before. Was something wrong at home?
But the handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar. He stashed the letter and put it out of mind until that evening, when he finally made it back to his rooms. Opening the envelope with his pocket knife, he held the letter close to the oil lamp and tried to decipher the irregular scrawl.
His correspondent proved to be Calvin Grey, one of the childhood friends with whom he had enlisted. Joshua had lost track of him not six months afterward when the man was wounded. Joshua had not been present, and only knew the wound was serious and likely to be mortal. But somehow Calvin had survived, and must have used their common acquaintances to track Joshua down. He appeared desirous of reviving their connection, and to do it by means of filling Joshua in on most everything that had happened to him after taking that musket ball to the chest.
The doctor assigned to tend me considered me a lost cause, and went on to patch up those who’d been wounded in more dispensable places, such as could be sawn off and thrown away. But there was an angel of a nurse that watched over me like a very guardian angel, fetching another doctor from somewheres and pushing him to try whatever he could. She fended off the chaplain that kept wanting to get me ready for dying and write down my last words. And then she kept me in clean bandages, and washed me head to foot when I couldn’t move, making nothing of it; and she read the letters that came for me, and wrote my answers; and even laughed at my jokes, or told me more when I was inclined to brood over my chances or over all those good men who’d gone where I expected to go, if not necessarily the same direction. And on that score, she fetched me a Bible when I wanted it, and read it to me when I couldn’t, and told me she was sure our heavenly father would be welcoming, and that the blood I’d shed would join with our Savior’s in washing away my multitude of sins.
Joshua found the paper shaking in his hand and had to lay it down. Too many memories were rushing in upon him. And even the bold courage of his fellow soldiers, and the fortitude of those left suffering long after the heat of battle, could not make those memories welcome.
As for nurses, they were more often found in hospitals of some kind, rather than at the front lines. He had had little experience with them. How many of them would merit such gratitude and praise? Many, no doubt, but this one above most.
He leaned over the table to read the rest.
I’ve thought of angels different since that time. As a boy, I always pictured them golden-haired and blue-eyed, and lovely beyond mortal ken. But now, I reckon they’re just as likely to be plainer-looking, with straight hair and long limbs, and with eyes as green as the spring prairie.
Joshua shoved his chair back from the table.
Could it be? Had the nurse beyond compare, the nurse who had saved his friend, been the same woman who had made bold to ask him about Freida’s health, and whom Freida regarded with so little favor?
He needed to see Miss Brook again, to study her with new eyes. He would have liked to ask her whether she remembered a patient with a chest wound, whose life had been despaired of, and who had yet survived. But he remembered her face as she acknowledged having been a nurse. Her memories might be as painful as his own, even if she had helped more men in that field of slaughter than ever he had done.
* * * * *
The foursome were almost done reading The School for Scandal. They could have pushed on to finish today, but none of them was feeling especially ambitious. Next time would do. Instead, they relaxed and devoured the crullers Freida had recently learned how to make. (“I liff out vest, I chould learn how to make somethink fried.”)
They passed around the news of the day: the sheriff’s plan to challenge the mayor in the next election; the growth of Alton’s social library, flourishing somewhat more than the one Freida and the local schoolmarm were trying to nurture. Robert contributed a bit of gossip. “Saw that tall woman from Brook’s farm the other day, sending a telegram. She and Thaddeus seemed to have a lot to talk about.”
Joshua tried to imagine the intense Clara Brook finding subjects of conversation with the awkward telegraph operator. He supposed they had a few things in common, besides simply being thin. Neither was much for telling jokes, for example. Although — if his friend had been writing about Miss Brook, and not some other green-eyed Army nurse, she had once been able not only to laugh at the rough humor of soldiers, but to join in.
Robert went on, “She’s an odd woman. I wouldn’t normally have thought to say Thaddeus was a braver man than I, but if he’s sparking that one, I have to tip my hat to him.”
Freida nodded agreement. “He could do better.”
Joshua coughed. “I seem to remember a time you didn’t add him up quite
so kindly.”
Alton looked curious; Freida made a pushing-away gesture. “So I didn’t see him as the answer to an old woman’s prayers, I should wish him with that crosspatch?”
“Mrs. Blum! That seems quite unfair. We none of us know her that well, well enough to condemn her character. And I can’t say I’ve ever seen her be cross with anyone.”
Freida and Alton joined in staring at him, while Robert sat back and smirked. Joshua sputtered, “She might be quite pleasant, when you get to know her!”
He did not care to say, in the face of this variable scrutiny, that he had found her — most of the time — an enjoyable companion. And he was certainly not ready to share his speculations about what she might have been like before the prolonged calvary of war.
Freida broke the awkward silence that followed, getting up and fetching the teapot. “Here, we could all use some more tea. And I have three crullers left, just enough for the three of you, they shouldn’t go to waste.”
* * * * *
Grasshoppers were hardly unknown in Nebraska, either before or since it achieved statehood, but rumor suggested that some counties to the south, or west, or both had been invaded by hordes far greater and more destructive than before. Travelers passing through town most often came with nothing more than stories; and some of the storytellers so obviously relished describing calamity that the truth of their tales could reasonably be questioned. Even the occasional newspapers brought in by a salesman or lawyer or coach failed to settle the question, as their accounts varied to a bewildering extent.
Joshua said as much to Robert over supper one evening. “Where one paper suggests that practically the whole state has been eaten down to the ground, another scolds rival papers it claims are grossly exaggerating. Some say false doomsday claims are deterring settlers, others say the crisis is being downplayed to lure settlers hither. What should we expect the next month, or the next wind, to bring?”
What Heals the Heart Page 11
