A Basket Brigade Christmas (36 page)

They shook hands. “Dr. Phillips. I’m here.”

“Indeed you are.” His smile still had the power to charm. “But call me Stephen. We’ve known each other too long to be so formal.”

For a moment, Cardiff was taken aback. He was used to “formal.” His life was deeply rooted in order and protocol. The hospital was a serious setting that demanded a level of formality. Not knowing what else to say, he got to the point. “Put me to work.”

Dr. Phillips—Stephen—laughed. “That’s the Cardiff I remember. No dilly-dallying. Straight to the task at hand.”

And what is wrong with that?

Stephen clapped him on the back. “Come. Let me show you where to put your things, and then I’ll tell you what’s what, who’s who, and how things work around here.”

Stephen led him to a small office off the hospital ward, where Cardiff removed his coat and hat and took a seat in front of a small desk.

“Well then.” Stephen sighed and sank into a chair. “Since you are
the
expert on amputations, I—”

Cardiff balked. “Please don’t give me that distinction. During the last war, I did no more than you. We learned on the battlefield. And in my practice, I’ve thankfully had little need for that procedure.”

“But you had a knack for it more than I.”

Cardiff was repulsed by the praise—if that’s what it was.

“Come now, Card. Where I cowered you had courage. You learned very quickly what to do—and what not to do.”

His mind tumbled with successes and failures. Under such horrible conditions, there were more of the latter. “These are not positive memories.”

“Remember how Dr. Niles always emphasized that more can be learned from failures than successes?”

Cardiff couldn’t help but smile. “A philosophy he held on to when I apprenticed under him in St. Louis.”

Stephen’s tone changed from welcoming to work. He nodded toward the ward. “Unfortunately, this war has created a need for new knowledge. In play is a far more deadly weapon than we’ve ever known before. The soldiers are supplied with a new rifled gun with a ridged barrel that can shoot with more accuracy than the smoothbore musket of past wars.” He opened a drawer then handed Cardiff a small iron musket ball.

“I’ve seen too many of these,” Cardiff said. Then Stephen handed him something else. “What’s this?”

“A minié ball, the bullet used in the new rifles.”

Cardiff set it next to the musket ball in his palm. “It’s huge.” It was a good inch tall, with a pointed end.

“It’s a .58 caliber compared to the .69 caliber of the musket ball. So it’s smaller in diameter, but—”

Cardiff turned it over. “It’s hollow.”

“And has ridges that make it spin with more power. It’s also made of softer metal that spreads as soon as it is shot, which means—”

“It makes a larger hole when it hits flesh and bone.”

“It shreds flesh and shatters bone instead of passing through cleanly. And the exit wound is larger than the entry wound.”

Cardiff’s usually strong stomach turned over. “So the boys here at the hospital are the lucky ones.”

“A questionable term. But yes, they are lucky in that they were shot in their extremities. The ones shot in their head, torso, or stomach were left to die, there being no hope to repair those obliterated organs.”

Cardiff let out the breath he’d been saving. “So what do you need me to do?”

“I need you to clean up the quick work of the battlefield hospitals, help me treat the gangrene, and do whatever we can to make our boys heal so they’ll be able to get back to their lives once the war is over.”

Cardiff thought of his sheltered world back in St. Louis where his days were filled with bellyaches, births, fevers, and the occasional sprained ankle. Yes, he had on-the-battlefield experience with amputations, but repairing the extensive damage of the current war might be beyond his abilities.

“Now that I’ve thoroughly horrified you, would you like to go on rounds with me?”

Before they exited the office, Cardiff felt compelled to say, “Stephen, I will do my utmost to help, but you are the expert here, and I am but the pupil.”

A crease formed on Stephen’s brow, but he nodded. “Together we shall learn how to best repair our boys.”

Both Zona and Mary Lou heard something at the kitchen door and simultaneously turned their heads in time to see a folded paper slide beneath it.

Zona retrieved it then swung open the door to see who might have left it, letting in a whoosh of November air. There was no one in sight.

“Close that door!” Mary Lou poked at the fire in the stove and added another log. “It must be an important message to venture out in this weather.”

Zona unfolded the small page and read it aloud. “‘Meet me at Trinity Church at 4. J.’”

“You have a secret admirer?”

Not likely. Zona was a bit confused until she added up the childish printing and the initial. “It must be from Johnny.”

“Why didn’t he just come in and tell you in person?”

She glanced at the clock. “He’s probably on his way to school.”

“What can he want?”

“Maybe he has a question about the music I gave him.”

Mary Lou’s eyebrows rose. “His grandfather will not approve.”

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Even with a knit cap beneath her bonnet and the hood of her cape raised and held shut at her neck, Zona walked to the church with her head bowed to the wind. She hugged the storefronts and took a deep breath at every intersection before braving the full force of the wailing winter wind.

She reached the church and hurried up the steps. She was just about to open the door when Johnny emerged from a crouched position nearby, hunkered down against the cold. “Miss Evans.” His cheeks were bright red, though she was glad to see he wore a hat and mittens. “You should have waited inside.”

He didn’t answer but held the door open for her. When the door closed behind them, Zona’s body relaxed enough to shiver. “I suppose we should seek out Pastor Davidson. Have you ever met—?”

“Johnny!” The pastor entered the narthex from the nave of the church. “So good to see you again.”

Zona was surprised they knew each other. She’d never seen Johnny in church.

“And Miss Evans. May I help you?”

Before she could speak, Johnny did it for her. “Would it be all right for Miss Evans and I to sit in here and talk?”

“As I’ve told you before, you are always welcome in God’s house. Any time, any day.” With a bow, he said, “I’ll leave the two of you to your discussion.”

Johnny removed his cap then led Zona into the sanctuary to the first row, just to the right of the center aisle. “This is my place.”

Now Zona was really confused, for this spot was usually taken by the Dormish family on Sunday morning. Although there wasn’t assigned seating, most of the congregation had their favorite spots. “I’ve never seen you here.”

He set his cap and mittens on the pew. “I come other times. Pastor says he don’t mind a bit. Grandpa and Pa don’t abide by God since He saw fit to let Mama and my sister die.”

“But you do—abide by God?”

He hesitated a moment then set a hand on the pew between them. “Mama used to sit here every Sunday, and I sat beside her.” He looked to the stained-glass window above the altar that depicted Jesus with His hands extended. “She’d sing every hymn by heart, looking at Jesus’ face, smiling like she was singing just for Him.” He stared at the window, caught in the memory.

Zona felt it would be disrespectful to disturb the moment. She felt privileged to learn more about this boy.

Finally, Johnny turned toward her. “I been singing the music you gave me when I make deliveries and can find some time alone. I know most of the carols by memory now.”

“Already?”

“They ain’t that hard. And I remember some of ’em from Mama.” He looked at Zona, his eyes bright. “I heard you’re going to sing at the train station for the soldiers?”

“We’re starting soon.”

Johnny nodded once. “I want to do that. I can’t do the other, the big musicale with all its rehearsals, but I want to do the caroling for the soldiers. It’ll make me think of Pa.”

“I’m so glad, but … will your grandpa let you go? The train comes through at half past five every day. Aren’t you working then?”

He squirmed in the pew, pushing himself back so his feet dangled. “I wasn’t going to tell him. The depot’s close by the livery. And I told Miss McHenry that I would come help her set up the tables for the basket ladies, so I’ll already be down there. I’ll be back before Grandpa misses me too much.”

Actually, that did sound like the best alternative. But Zona’s conscience and the memory of Mary Lou’s words that morning dogged her. She was the adult here. Shouldn’t she set a good example and teach the boy the virtue of honesty? Shouldn’t she insist they not go behind his grandfather’s back?

But he’ll forbid it.

Zona weighed what was right against her own needs. Wasn’t it her responsibility to bring joy to the wounded soldiers as they passed through Decatur? Didn’t that need override the illogical directives of one man? She thought of the biblical defense she’d originally used to get Johnny to sing for her: God didn’t want people to hide their gifts under a basket but to share them for all the world to see.

Accompanied by a small but ignorable twinge, she made her decision. “If you think you can be there, we’d love to have you.”

He agreed with a nod then said, “Would you like to hear ‘O Holy Night’? I been working hard on that one—practicing in the church here.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

Johnny stood and moved to the center aisle, but instead of facing Zona, he faced the window depicting Jesus. As he began the song, his face rose in a rapturous communion with its subject, as if the music was the boy’s offering. Zona felt a stitch in her heart and her throat tightened. She saw Pastor Davidson standing at the back of the nave, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, a look of pure pleasure on his face. He nodded at Zona.

She nodded back. This boy was meant to sing. He was born to sing this song.

When Johnny finished, he paused a moment, letting the last notes hang in the air. Then he blinked and lowered his gaze back to earth, to Zona. “Was that all right?”

She stood and put a hand upon his shoulder. “Your mama would be so proud.”

Johnny beamed and nodded toward the window. “Him, too?”

“Him, too.”

After dinner, Zona retreated to her room, foregoing the usual reading aloud with Mary Lou in front of the fire. She used the excuse that she felt a headache coming on, but it was only partially true.

The memories of Johnny’s gorgeous voice soaring through the sanctuary collided with their collusion at keeping their meetings secret and having Johnny sing at the depot. She knew if she spent much time with Mary Lou, the older woman would ask questions, and Zona simply wasn’t in the mood—or ready—to discuss anything.

In an attempt to calm her mood, Zona shucked off her shoes and sat on the window seat, tucking her feet into the warmth of her skirt and petticoat. She pulled the curtain aside, but the darkness prevented a view. She hated the short days of winter, when darkness took the day captive far too soon.

She scraped a fingernail on the frost. Only after the fact did she realize she’d written CARDIFF.