Blessed Assurance (3 page)

“It is truly a modern city—policemen, fire hydrants, gaslights on the street corners.” Lee bowed with mock formality. “But why do some sidewalks here go up and down like hills?”

The old man took a draw on his pipe. “Chicago was built on a swamp. They couldn't do nothing about the land being so low and muddy so they shaved off a hill nearby and used it to fill up the main part of town—to make it level.”

Lee paused with his glass to his lips. “They filled it in? With the buildings already there?”

“Pullman did that,” Pearl broke in while she refilled a glass. “I seen it when I was a girl. He had a thousand men put large wooden screw lifts under the foundations.”

The old man caught Lee's eye. “Like the Hotel Tremont. That Pullman fella, he blew a whistle and they'd all give one turn. Another whistle, another turn.”

“You're kidding me,” Lee said with a grin.

“No, he did it. With people staying in the hotel the whole time,” Pearl cut in, “just like nothing was happening.”

Lee shook his head. Though a row of small tables lined the wall, most of the men mingled around the bar. The conversation around him turned back to baseball and some wagering over the White Stockings' chances. Lee tried to come up with a way to get close to Jessie. In the homey-feeling tavern, a few posters announcing today's ball game were pinned on the back wall.

Lee stared at the posters and suddenly he pictured Jessie talking about her boy's interest in baseball. She'd actually smiled.
The son is the key to the mother. And baseball is the key to the boy.
Lee stood up straighter. “Where's the baseball field from here, Pearl?”

“Down by the lake, near the river,” she answered. “You can't miss it.”

The hour passed and the lunch crowd trickled out on their way to nearby factories. Finally, Lee handed Pearl a dime. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, mister. Come in for another barley water any time.”

Lee tipped his hat and walked out, whistling. At last, he knew what to do.

 

That afternoon at Drexel Park, the breeze off Lake Michigan was brisk. From a block away, Lee sized up the park's wide open view of spring's early green lawn and the lake's white-capped blue waves, dazzling in the sun. Optimism had returned. He looked for the boy.

The first pitch of the baseball game had already taken place when he reached the field. No Linc. But school hours were still on; he saw only a few scruffy-looking truants among the men. While he waited for Linc to arrive, he leaned back against a sturdy elm and surveyed the Chicago White Stockings in their striking white cotton stockings and spanking white knickers, at their first exhibition game.

The crack of the bat uncorked a rush of undiluted nostalgia. How many impromptu baseball games had he played in the army? Days of waiting between battles and campaigns…

A wagon on the nearby street creaked loudly over a bump. A picture flashed from Lee's memory. A rough horse-drawn ambulance
bumping over a rutted road and a steady trickle of scarlet blood spilling from inside the wagon bed onto the dust.

He shuttered his mind against the images.
I am alive and in Chicago. I have eight dollars in my pocket. It won't last very long, but I'll see to that soon.

Lee turned back to the game. The batter had reached first base. Inning followed inning. At last, near the front of a wave of arriving schoolboys, Lee recognized Linc's blond head. Lee lifted his hat and motioned to Linc. The lad left the other boys behind, heading to him, unexpectedly warming Lee's heart.

“Mr. Smith,” Linc exclaimed with a wide smile.

“Linc.” Lee offered his hand and the two shared one quick, handshake. “It's the fourth inning.”

Linc turned to watch. “I saw that hitter last year at a game. He always gets a run.”

“The White Stockings need it. They're down by two.” Standing beside Linc, Lee awaited the pitch, both their attention riveted on the man at bat. It came. The bat caught the ball with a satisfying crack. Lee joined the rising crescendo of shrill enthusiastic voices and bellows urging the runner to first base. The player made it with only a second to spare. A cheer surged through the onlookers. Lee found himself grinning.

In quick succession, two more White Stockings made it off the plate. With three men on base, the contagious excitement lifted Lee's spirits. Then the White Stockings' batter struck out. As though uttered by one voice, a moan went through the crowd.

Disgusted, Linc threw his hat to the ground. “Three men on base. How could he let that pitcher strike him out?” With a rueful nod, Lee retrieved the hat and replaced it on Linc's head.

With his hand on Linc's shoulder, Lee watched the game. In swift order, the White Stockings' pitcher struck out the first two batters, but the third opponent proved to be a challenge. As the pitcher took his time reassessing the batter, Lee idly scanned the crowd and caught sight of Jessie Wagstaff approaching. Why had she come?

A stiff black bonnet, completely without feather or ornament,
covered her warm brown hair. Its black brim paled her rosy complexion. After six years, why did she still dress in deep mourning, totally in black with not even a touch of gray? Mourning clothes and her stiffly upright posture made her look older.

For a fraction of a second he envisioned the face and form of the girl his father had recently chosen for him to marry. She was a confection of creamy white skin, rosy lips, fluffy blond hair, and fluffy ideas. To Jessie's credit, he doubted she would ever have the kind of malleability his father had desired in a daughter-in-law.

Like a well-aimed dart, Jessie's dismayed glance of recognition pierced him. He bowed in her direction. Reading disapproval in the set of her chin, he prepared himself for a thorough jousting.

The bat cracked. Lee's glance darted back to the play. Foul ball. As Jessie reached them, the faint fragrance of lavender wafted from her. Perhaps inside the widow's armor, a soft, feminine woman still breathed.

Jessie stepped between Mr. Smith and her son, keeping her irritation out of her voice. This wasn't Linc's fault. But more exasperating was her own reaction at seeing this stranger again. She couldn't ignore the effect his gaze had on her.

“Lincoln, why didn't he run to base?”

“Hello, Mother. The ball went outside the boundaries of the bases. See?”

“I do.” She glanced at Mr. Smith, but he said nothing. The player hit another ball that popped upward and was caught. Linc cheered as the hand-held score cards were changed. Jessie stepped behind Linc.

Mr. Smith said, “The White Stockings are back at bat now, ma'am.”

She looked sideways at him, out of the seclusion of her severe bonnet. Was it by coincidence or design that this man kept appearing today? Worry pinched her and she prayed silently for wisdom. Why had this man popped up in their lives? And how could she get rid of him? “You're a baseball enthusiast, then?” She made her tone say clearly she wasn't pleased to find him here with her son.

“I am.”

Jessie heard a man shout, “Three strikes!” When Linc groaned with disgust along with the rest of the audience, she asked, “What happened?”

Mr. Smith answered, “You're new to the game? I thought Linc would have instructed you in baseball.”

His voice was meant to charm; she pursed her lips. “One of my neighbor's sons began bringing him to amateur games only at the end of last summer.”

“I see.”

Trying to ignore the man beside her, Jessie watched the game without further comment. Then she bent her head to read the face of her pendant watch. “Linc, I must be getting home.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Jessie smiled to herself at her son's complete concentration on the game, but remembering the stranger she added, “Come straight home, son.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Supper will be at six as usual.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Make sure you come in quietly so Miss Wright won't scold you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Even in the midst of her concern about this stranger, she swallowed her amusement at her son's sanguine personality, so like his father. Nothing spoiled his enjoyment of life. She turned to face Mr. Smith. “I will bid you good day.” She emphasized her words, making “good day” mean “depart forever.”

“Good day to you, Mrs. Wagstaff.” He bowed slightly and rested his hand on Linc's shoulder. The boy looked up with a grin at him. Jessie walked away, fuming.

 

“He was at the game!” Jessie let the kitchen door slam behind her.

“That man?” Standing by the stove, Susan turned to face her.

“Yes,
that man
.” Jessie whipped off her bonnet and jerked it down onto the hook on the wall.

“He with Lincoln?”

“Yes.” Impatiently Jessie tugged open her wrist buttons, folded up her sleeves, then reached for her apron. “I don't like it. He shows up this morning sitting on our porch at a time that no man should be anywhere but in bed.”

“I'm agreeing with you.” Susan turned the potato slices sizzling in the hot fat.

“I mean who is he?”

“And is he really a
Mistah Smith
?”

“Exactly. And why did he pick our door?”

“Xactly.”

Jessie set a large gray stoneware bowl onto the table by the window. She reached into it with both hands and lifted a thick clutch of dandelion greens out of the cleansing salt water and laid them on a fresh white towel beside the bowl. Picking up a paring knife, she began to slice off the tough ends of the greens. How could she have felt a flush of giddiness at the sight of Mr. Smith? That man had flustered her twice in one day.

Susan's words sliced through Jessie's thoughts. “You keep using the knife that way and you gone to cut a finger into the greens.”

Jessie sighed. She stilled her hands and slowly rolled her neck to loosen her muscles. “Seeing him there got my goat. I didn't want to leave Linc with him, but I couldn't bear to make Linc come home before the end of the game.”

“He been counting the days till that game.”

Jessie consciously relaxed her shoulder muscles and began to make the salad. “I suppose Linc will be safe enough in the crowd and he'll be home well before dark.”

“God will take care of him.”

“I know.”

Susan shook her finger as though scolding a child. “But if that man comes 'round here one more time—”

“I will send him off with a bee in his ear!”

Jessie and Susan chuckled. Then Jessie lost herself in the flurry of preparing supper. When it was time for Jessie to carry the kettle of
warm water to fill the washbasins in the boarders' rooms, she was surprised to find Mrs. Bolt waiting in the foyer.

“I'll take that up, Mrs. Wagstaff,” Mrs. Bolt tittered. With a grin of anticipation on her face, the redhead hurried toward the stairs. Jessie cast a questioning glance at Miss Greenleigh, who had just come in the front door.

Miss Greenleigh, stylishly dressed as always, carefully pulled off tan kid gloves. “I believe she saw someone on our way home and is expecting company for dinner,” the pretty blonde announced cryptically. Loosening the lavender ribbons on her fashionable bonnet, she went to join Miss Wright for their usual after-school chat in the parlor.

Jessie paused, then turned back to the kitchen. She never knew what Mrs. Bolt might do next.

Soon Jessie was crumbling bacon onto her dandelion salad. Linc burst through the back door. “We won! We won!”

Jessie turned to applaud the White Stockings' triumph. Her hands froze in midair.

“Good evening, Mrs. Wagstaff, Susan.”

Jessie stared in disbelief. The last man on earth she wanted in her kitchen stood there with a “cat-in-the-cream” grin on his face.

Mr. Smith removed his hat and bowed to them. Jessie's hands itched to strangle him.

“Mr. Smith!” Mrs. Bolt swished through the curtain. “I thought I heard your voice.”

The redhead deigning to enter the kitchen? Jessie stared at her.

“Mother, I brought Mr. Smith home for supper,” Lincoln said from the washbasin, where he was scrubbing his hands and face.

“Lincoln—”

“How thoughtful,” coy Mrs. Bolt gushed. “Lincoln's such a dear boy. Here, Mrs. Wagstaff, I'll carry that bowl to the table and show Mr. Smith where to hang his hat.” As though helping in the kitchen were an everyday occurrence, the schoolteacher picked up the bowl of pungent salad and led the grinning man through the curtain.

Jessie's mouth formed a perfect O.

“All done, Mother,” Linc announced proudly, holding up his clean hands.

Jessie turned a stern face to her son, whose innocent eyes gazed up at her.

“Lincoln, why did you bring Mr. Smith home?”

“You said I could bring friends home for dinner if their mothers gave permission. Mr. Smith is my newest friend, but he's too old to ask his mother. Mother, he knows
everything
about baseball.”

What could she say to that? Jessie pursed her lips. “We will talk later, Lincoln. Go take your seat.” The boy nodded and happily hurried out. Jessie whipped off her apron, snagged it on a nail, tugged down her sleeves and, with two quick twists, buttoned the cuffs.

Bad enough Mr. Smith had returned, but he'd caught her with her face flushed from the heat of the stove, her clothing disheveled. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her hair and pressed a wet cloth against her flaming cheeks.

Then she whispered to Susan, “He'd better enjoy supper. It'll be his last meal at my table.”

“Amen to that.”

Grimly resolute, Jessie headed to the dining room. Susan followed, carrying a tray with salad, fried potatoes, and pork chops.

Greeting all with a curt nod, Jessie sat down at the head of the table. After grace, Susan moved the steaming dishes from the dark, ornately carved sideboard to the table.

“Oh, dandelions! So early!” Miss Greenleigh smiled.

Grinning stiffly, Jessie eyed the unwelcome man wedged in between Linc and the Widow Bolt.

“Dandelions,” Linc echoed, quiet dismay in his voice.

When the bowl came to Lee, he spooned a modest helping onto his plate, but only a dab onto Linc's. “Be brave,” he murmured. “This too will pass.”

“You're so good with children, Mr. Smith,” Mrs. Bolt cooed.

Jessie frowned at the woman.

“Don't talk twaddle.” Miss Wright glowered at the widow and the man. Mrs. Bolt flushed an alarming red.

Yet for once, Jessie silently agreed with the spinster.

Miss Greenleigh asked, “Were you successful in finding a position today, Mr. Smith?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“I'm sure—” Mrs. Bolt began.

Miss Wright snorted in disgust. “Any fool can find a job in Chicago.”

“I hope to prove you correct,” Mr. Smith said.

The man's smooth flippancy set Jessie's teeth on edge. While Mrs. Bolt scowled at Miss Wright, Jessie observed Miss Greenleigh swallow a chuckle. If it weren't this particular man, she might find this exchange amusing also. Her fatigue was overwhelming her annoyance.

Stifling a yawn, Jessie lay the back of her hand to her forehead. The light from the oil lamp over the dining table hurt her eyes. Just as the long night before, the day had gone on and on—picking dandelions from several yards, doing the marketing.

As she accepted the platter of pork chops from Miss Greenleigh, Jessie's hands trembled. She tried to pass the platter on to Susan without taking a helping. Susan crossed her arms over her breast. Only when Jessie slid the smallest remaining chop onto her plate, did Susan accept the platter, then disappear through the muslin curtain. Jessie stared down at the food on her plate. A wave of dizziness made it impossible to eat.

“Mrs. Wagstaff, are you well?” Miss Greenleigh's soft voice roused Jessie.

“I'm just—”

Miss Wright thumped her cane on the floor making Jessie's nerves jump. “She's exhausted from staying up all hours.”

Jessie stood up. “I'll be right back.” Nauseated, she stumbled through the kitchen curtain. Her right temple pounded.

By dim lamplight, Susan sat at the kitchen window having her supper. “You don't look good.” Rising, she hustled into the pantry. “I going to make you a cup of Margaret's chamomile tea.”

While Susan bustled around the stove, Jessie sank into the chair at the table and rested her head on the nest of her folded arms.

She heard Susan pour the hissing water into the teapot and recalled her mother-in-law, showing her the different herbs and explaining each one's healing properties.
Jessie, dear, God has given us the cures for most illness, but never forget the best medicines are love and prayer.
Then she felt Margaret's gentle touch on her cheek.

Muted voices from the other room floated to Jessie as she sipped the heavily honeyed cup of chamomile. Gradually, the muscles in her neck loosened and she sighed. “Thank you. What would I do without you, my friend?”

Susan patted Jessie's hand. “What would I be doing without you?”

Jessie squeezed Susan's hand in response.

“Mother?” Linc peeped into the kitchen between the folds of the muslin curtain. “Are you all right?”

“I'll be in again soon.” Jessie stood up and her son left the doorway. “I must go back, Susan.”

“I'll be in soon with pie. Maybe that'll shut them up.”

Half smiling, Jessie shook her head at Susan's saucy words. She straightened her shoulders. A rapping on the back door halted her.

“I'll get it.” Susan opened the door.

Ruth with her son in a ragged blanket rushed past Susan. “You have to help us, Mrs. Wagstaff!”

Jessie flew to Ruth's side and lifted the baby from her arms. “He's burning up again.” She saw with dread his dull eyes sunken in a tiny, drawn, emotionless face. Dismay squeezed her, nearly making her gasp. “Ruth! Wasn't he able to nurse today?”

Ruth pressed her folded hands to her mouth.

Ben stood beside his wife shaking his head. “Ruth's lost her milk, ma'am.”

Jessie looked up, the terrible truth streaking through her like iced lightning. “Oh, no, I warned you. You promised me. At only nine months, he's not old enough to be given cow's milk.”

Ruth trembled. “We didn't have anything else.”

“I brought it home at lunch.” Ben pulled his wife close and put his arm around her shoulders. “It was fresh and sweet. We warmed it. What else could we do? Let him starve?”

“What is all this?” Miss Wright demanded as she struggled to walk into the kitchen.

Jessie stiffened and gave Susan the baby. “Miss Wright, there's no need for you—”

“You people are going to be the death of this woman.” She gestured toward Jessie. “She can't work all day and take care of you all night.”

Like a mother hen gathering her chicks with her wings, Jessie with open arms crossed the room to intercept the older woman. “There's no need for you to trouble yourself.”

Miss Wright resisted her. “If Margaret were still alive, she would put a stop—”

The mention of Will's late mother intensified Jessie's resistance. How could this Miss Wright twist memories of Margaret to suit her needs? Margaret would never have turned anyone who needed help from her door. But Margaret had loved this woman. Instead of shouting, Jessie gritted her teeth. “Miss Wright, this doesn't concern you.” She placed her hand under the older woman's elbow to urge her out of the room.

Miss Wright pulled away. “I'm not a child. I don't need to be led around like one. I see the toll this nursing is taking on you. What if
you contract an illness and are carried away before your time? Who will be left to raise your son?”

Jessie froze. Her heart stilled.

“Do you want to see your son in an orphanage? Your stepfather would never let your mother take Lincoln in.”

“Mrs. Wagstaff!” Susan called out.

Jessie swung back to the table. The baby began gagging violently. Jessie scooped him up. “Convulsions!”

Ruth moaned and dropped to her knees.

“It's the fever.” Jessie held the baby close and tried to think. The baby was dangerously near death. This thought almost paralyzed her.
God, help me. They're counting on me. But what can I do?

An overwhelming urge to seek aid came over her. “I need help.”

“Just tell us what to do.” Susan took hold of Jessie's arm.

“This baby needs a doctor,” Miss Wright snapped.

Ben shouted in an agonized tone, “No doctor I know will take colored folk.”

“Take the child to the charity hospital on Kinzie,” Miss Wright urged. “It's less than a mile away.”

“Yes,” Jessie said. “Ruth, get my hat and cape.” Without waiting, Jessie hurried out the back door, carrying the still quivering child.

Miss Wright called after her, “You can't keep on doing this!”

Through the deep twilight, Jessie rushed out to the wooden sidewalk, Ben and Ruth behind her.

Heart pounding, Jessie didn't stop until she burst through the double doors at the old hospital. The child in her arms went limp. “Help me—please!”

A matron rose near an old, scarred table with a feeble lamp. “Your servants will have to leave, ma'am.”

“What?” Jessie gasped, catching her breath. “I need a doctor. This baby's had convulsions—”

The matron peered into the blanket. “This baby's colored!”

“I need a doctor.” Jessie pushed past the woman.

“Ma'am! Stop!” The matron seized Jessie's arm.

Still trembling, Jessie wrenched away. “I don't know who you are, but I'm not leaving until I see a doctor.”

The matron swelled with indignation. “If these colored people don't leave now, I will summon the police.”

Jessie stood taller. “Call the police. If you send this sick child away and he dies, you'll be liable for murder.”

The matron turned an ugly red.

“What is the problem?” a cool voice asked. An imposing man in a long black frock coat stepped out of the shadows.

Jessie hurried toward him. “Are you a doctor? Help me. This baby's dying!” She thrust the child toward him.

The man briefly stared into her face, then bowed. “Dr. Gooden.”

At Jessie's elbow, the matron burst out, “Coloreds aren't allowed in this hospital.”

The doctor spoke to Jessie alone, “The parents may wait outside. No one could object to the infant, but…”

Jessie pivoted. “Ruth and Ben, I'll see that everything possible is done.”

Ben tugged Ruth toward the door obviously against her will. The sight nearly broke Jessie's heart, but the baby's life was all that mattered now.

The doctor touched Jessie's sleeve. “Come.”

Jessie hurried beside the doctor down the dimly lit passage.

“What is your name, please?”

“Mrs. Wagstaff.” She trotted after him, keeping up with his longer stride.

“The child has been sick, how long?” he said in a voice that held the barest hint of an accent.

“He began to be feverish at night over a week ago.”

“Diarrhea?”

“Yes.” Jessie turned the corner.

“The mother stopped nursing, isn't that it?”

“Yes, I warned them not to use cow's milk with a baby this young—”

“It is most likely milk fever, that you know. A mother loses her
milk in the warmer part of the year before a child is a year old or more, so she gives the child cow's milk…” He lifted his hands in a gesture that said, “What can be done?”

“I know,” she said desperately.

The baby jerked in her arms and began gagging again. “He's started again!”
Oh, God, I don't know what to do!

The doctor sprinted the last few feet into a small examining room. Jessie ran to keep up with him. He paused, just long enough to turn up the gas lamp on the wall. “Lay the child on the table.” He hurried to a bowl and ewer in the corner and washed his hands.

Within seconds, he was turning the child to its side. He probed the quivering child with deft fingers, checking for pulse and temperature, and listening to the heart with his stethoscope.

“Isn't there anything we can do?” Jessie twisted her hands together.

“You will you act as my nurse?”

“I'll do whatever you tell me to.”
Father God, bless this doctor. How could I face telling Ruth her baby's gone?

“We start with an alcohol bath.”

Soon Jessie was sponging down the naked baby with the cool, pungent alcohol. The child went limp again, but his appearance terrified her even more. His little jaw hung slack and under his dark skin, an ashen undertone. “I feel so helpless,” Jessie whispered.

“I know.”

The empathy in his voice made Jessie study the man who stood across from her in the stark room. He was tall like Will. He was blond with blue eyes like Will only much darker blue.
If only Will had been spared.
She sucked in the familiar vacant feeling.

The doctor leaned over the table, studying the child. “I ask myself over and over—what is the cause? The cure?”

In spite of the dire situation, for just a moment, Jessie was thrilled to have him speak to her as though she were an equal.

He went on, speaking forcefully as though he thought his words could subdue the child's disease. “What is in cow's milk that is not
in mother's milk? Older children drink cow's milk without bad effect—why? I need to know the answers.”

She looked at him wonder-struck. “I've felt that way myself.”

“I thought so.” His gaze connected with hers, then dropped back to the baby.

“What are you going to try?”