A White Room (25 page)

“Why?” I asked.

Oliver stood and walked to us.

Lottie gestured dramatically as she explained, circling her arms around and pointing. “He had the whole town talkin’ how dangerous it was havin’ anyone other than a doctor fix ’em, say people been killin’ people, say people been hackin’ people up left and right in the city, and it wouldn’t be long till they start hackin’ on us too.”

“Had they?”

She squeezed her lips into an uncertain pout and turned to Oliver.

Oliver folded his arms and clenched his shirt.

Lottie looked back at me. “We ain’t too sure, but the town was so convinced, damn near forced all them kind folk to stop or leave, except for—one tried to fight ’em, at a courthouse.”

The little shanty swelled with humidity and I shifted my weight.

“Matter a fact,” Oliver said, “Mr. Nelson used to live in the house you in now.”

“The man who lived in my house didn’t charge anything?” I asked. “He went against Mr. Coddington?”

“Was a good man,” Oliver said. “Most of the people who helped others with the little things were friends, family, and the like, but he helped anybody and knew city medicine.”

Lottie waved at a fly buzzing around her head. “He and his wife delivered several of our chillin.” She touched Oliver’s arm with a doleful expression. “His family helped with lots a stuff.”

“He said he wouldn’t bow out to Mr. Coddington,” Oliver said. “He was one of the few who knew some things, knew the law.”

“And…what happened?”

Lottie sighed and her husband lowered his chin.

“He didn’t know enough,” Lottie said in a quiet voice.

“The costs were too much,” Oliver said. “He lost his home to the bank, all the furnishin’s. Everythin’, gone. The whole town turned against him and his family, even people they helped. Mr. Coddington and the Bradbridges led the pack.”

“Just when things couldn’t get any worse, they did,” Lottie said.

“When Mr. Coddington attacked Mr. Nelson, he stopped offerin’ to help so easily,” Oliver said. “Too afraid it would get him in more trouble. One of the people he refused was the brother of a girl that Mr. Nelson’s eldest boy, Daniel, was tryin’ to court.”

Lottie stepped in. “When his father wouldn’t, Daniel tried—didn’t go so well.”

I put my hands to my mouth. “What happened? Did the boy kill him?”

“No, but he got real sick,” Oliver said. “But that wadn’t what everyone heard.”

Lottie continued for him. “Mr. Coddington and the Bradbridges ruined that poor family. We didn’t know what to believe.”

Oliver touched Lottie’s arm. “That detective man, that docta, and that big ol’ lawyer had everyone fooled, so they left.” He sighed.

“Why would the Bradbridges do such a thing?”

“They the only doctors in town now,” Lottie said. “Everyone gotta go to the Bradbridges or die.”

“I can’t believe the younger doctor, Walter Bradbridge, would do such a thing.”

“He does whatever his father want him to. Like a dog,” Lottie shook her head.

“So that’s what John does for a living? He puts people in jail for that?”

“I hear you husband works on sometin’ else.” Oliver scratched the back of his head.

“What?”

He hesitated and looked down with one hand on his chin, clearly pondering how to word it. Lottie and I stood there waiting. The fly buzzed.

“What?” Lottie demanded.

He shook his head and leaned close and whispered into her ear.

She dropped her eyes. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Abortionists.”

I shook my head. “What?”

“He takes people that do that to court.” Lottie pursed her lips.

“Abortionists? Here?”

“Might be more common than you think,” Lottie said, and I remembered what she’d told me. “Plus, some them folk travel.”

Oliver scratched the back of his neck. “I think it takes a lot to find ’em and then take ’em to jail, and by then someone else is doing ’em. There’s always someone, right?” He looked at his wife.

Lottie didn’t respond.

“And my husband handles those cases?” I recalled conversations I’d overheard and felt a sense of relief. He wasn’t a bad person. “Isn’t that good?”

Lottie hesitated. “Sure. Suppose.” She straightened her frame. “But that ain’t no matter. What is, is you like Mr. Nelson.” She gestured toward me. “You know things. You—you could help people who don’t need a doctor but need the little stuff. I know I said I wouldn’t ask after the Whitmays, but there’s so many people needin’ help and can’t afford a Bradbridge for the small stuff. They charge a whole dollar just for showin’ up.”

“Uh…” I thought about it. I could help with minor problems. I knew enough from school, but would that be the right thing? Would that be dangerous? “I—no, no. They should be seen by someone who knows what they’re doing. I can’t.”

“No, you can. Think of Mr. Turner and the Whitmays. You helped them. You helped them when no one else would.”

“No, no.” I lifted my hands. “I couldn’t—I mean—well…I—no, I couldn’t.” I really couldn’t have after what they’d told me about John and Mr. Coddington. “My husband?”

Lottie’s hopeful expression fell.

“Forgive us, Mrs. Dorr.” Oliver squeezed Lottie’s shoulder. “We shouldn’t have asked you. It’s too much.”

“Oliver, hish up.” Lottie shifted her weight toward me. “Listen, these people can’t afford no doctor, and with Mr. Coddington runnin’ the show ’round here. Ain’t no physician seein’ no one without a price, not if they were dyin’.”

I shook my head. “I—I—”

“And they have—people dyin’ without help. Why you think Mrs. Whitmay dead?” Lottie said.

I glanced at Oliver. “I thought the untreated ailments were all minor?”

Lottie’s voice lifted in frustration. “Sometimes the small stuff gets big when you can’t afford to get fixed up.”

“But if I—if I did that—just for people who really needed it—what would happen? What if someone found out? They’d think I’m crazy for sure. I could go to jail. What about my husband? Would he go to jail or send me there?”

They looked at each other, Lottie’s hand to her chin.

“It would only be for emergencies.” Lottie spoke slowly, reassuringly. “Only when people really need it. You already done that.”

I thought for a moment. I wanted to help people. Helping the Whitmays and Mr. Turner had been rewarding. The experience with Lottie had changed my life. “But my husband?” No, I didn’t care what he thought, I reminded myself.

“He ain’t worryin’ about these little things.” She motioned toward the unconscious Mr. Turner. “He worryin’ about the biguns. We’re talkin’ desperate people, and we talkin’ stuff so small, nothin’ like what them big bad abortion doctors doin’.”

I glanced at Mr. Turner and wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t gotten any help because he couldn’t afford it. It would have been wrong not to help him or anyone else. I narrowed my eyes at Lottie. “Only emergencies.”

She nodded.

“Only when there is absolutely no other option, when it’s impossible to get professional help—and no one can know.”

Lottie’s lips curled into a mischievous leer. “We’ll be crafty ’bout it.”

Twenty

1899

Grantville College

Grantville, Missouri

T
he infirmary superintendent, Mr. Schafer, scrutinized me through a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles.

I squirmed in front of his oversize desk as I filled out a volunteer form.

“Are you one of the nursing students?” he asked.

I lifted my gaze and shook my head. “No.” My college courses consisted of etiquette and watercolor, the latter of which proved only a sad reminder of my lack of talent.

Mr. Schafer twitched his wiry mustache. “Usually those are the girls I get.”

I signed the form and pushed it forward.

He slid the paper off his desk and snapped it vertical. “Hmm. Well, maybe we can find some use for you.”

I clenched my hands under his desk.

“Come on then.” He stood and gestured for me to do the same. He guided me to the infirmary, where there were tall windows on one side of the room. There were ten iron rolling beds, five on each side of the room. They had thin mattresses encased in crisp sheets.

“We have two on-call physicians and two nurses.” Mr. Schafer strode down the middle of the room and I followed. The clacking of our shoes on the wood panels echoed a little, and a chemical smell pinched at the inside of my nostrils. “A part-time nurse and a full-time head nurse.”

We entered a small room with filing cabinets, books, and papers stacked everywhere. The blinds on the slender window were closed. Note cards, an inkwell, and a cup of pencils cluttered the windowsill. Amid the mess, a pristine woman worked at her desk, tiny in comparison with Mr. Schafer’s.

“This is our head nurse,” Mr. Shafer said. “Miss Mary McKenzie, this is Miss Emeline Evans.”

The nurse stood and circled the desk. “Good morning, Miss Evans. How lovely of you to volunteer.” She wore a stiff white shirtwaist with billowy sleeves, a caramel-colored skirt, a full-length apron, and a little white cap. “What year are you?”

“She’s not a nursing student,” Mr. Schafer peered over the rim of his glasses.

I lowered my eyes and fought the urge to sprint out of the room.

“Is there anything she can do, or should I send her back?”

Miss McKenzie shifted. “I’m sure I could find something.” Her voice sounded buoyant.

Mr. Schafer shrugged, turned on his heel, and left.

I relaxed a little.

Ms. McKenzie went to a filing cabinet across from her desk and slid open the top drawer. “Here’s where you will find new-patient forms.” She drove her hand in and removed a single sheet of paper and pointed to the top line. “And fill these out. Simple.”

I nodded.

“And…” She looked around and jumped at the sight of a stack of papers on a table to the right of the filing cabinet. “Right now you can help me by folding these fliers and sticking them in some envelopes.” She started removing books from the table, along with a stack of jostled newspapers with headlines that screamed “GERMS.” She scooped them up and piled them on the corner of her desk. She grasped a chair and scraped it across the floor to a position in front of the table.

I seated myself, picked up a flier from the table, and skimmed it. “Grantville physicians will be at Merchants Hall on September 17th,” it read. “One Day Only. All persons should be seen by a physician once a year.”

Ms. McKenzie returned to her seat and scooted the chair close to her desk.

I watched her while I creased and pressed the fliers. I observed her ring finger—bare. My Aunt Cheryl once told me that the only well-off women who weren’t married and worked were ugly, dumb, or otherwise defective. However, Miss McKenzie had a heart-shaped face with bright brown eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and pink lips.

Her eyes popped up, and I plunged back into my task.

“Are you interested in nursing?”

I fumbled with the envelope. “Uh—my dormitory chaperone suggested I volunteer somewhere.” I shook my head and raised my shoulders. “I thought this seemed interesting.”

“Hmm.” She made a check in an open file in front of her. “Usually girls choose to do something for the spring festivities, or at least that’s how it was when I was a student.”

I shrugged. “I just wanted to do something different.” The truth was I had thought college would be an escape from the expectation to dedicate my life to the pursuit of a husband. As it turned out, though, for girls college served as another opportunity to seek out suitors. My mother had constantly prodded me about it in her letters, and all my classes were just fancy training for future wives. I had come no closer to finding a suitor at Grantville College than I had at home, and I was agitated by the mere thought of it. I had wanted to escape and instead found myself surrounded by girls fluttering and tittering over social engagements and hairstyles, but the nursing students were different. They did not flutter or titter. They carried books and walked across campus quickly to be on time for classes that actually mattered.

“Do you like science?”

I shrugged. “I have not had the opportunity to form an opinion.”

“Now is the time.”

“What’s it like being a nurse?”

“It’s wonderful. It’s not like it used to be when people despised women in medicine.” She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. “People respect women nurses now…as much as anyone can respect a working woman. Nursing schools want unmarried middle-class women, not men.”

“Really?”

“And the pay is much higher than a secretary or telephone operator, enough to live.”

“Do you live on your own?”

“I rent a room.”

“Is it hard?”

“I have to be frugal. I don’t get to enjoy every meal, but my landlady bakes me treats out of pity. I have enough entertainment with books from the library, and several of my friends from school live nearby. We meet for tea and card games, and we try to save enough money to attend the theater sometimes.”

I smiled, dreamy at the thought of living so modestly, so independently.