Blessed Assurance (4 page)

“We will introduce a mild salicin—”

“Salicin?”

“A powder from willow bark in boiled water. To lower the fever.”

“What do you want me to do?”
God, help this doctor do what is right.

“Spoon this solution into his mouth.”

Jessie obeyed, drawing strength from the doctor's firm voice. Minutes crawled by. Spoonfuls of the treated water trickled into the baby. Finally, the small vial was empty. “He hasn't gone into convulsions again.”

“I promise you nothing. I could be doing exactly the thing that is wrong.”

His honest words shocked her. She had never heard a doctor admit to not knowing something. Though he offered her no comfort, she felt an easing of tension. She watched the small chest taking in and letting out tiny breaths.

“Sit. I must make rounds. If you need me, just step into the corridor and call.”

Nodding, Jessie focused again on the infant in her arms. The doctor's footsteps faded down the hallway. The night minutes ticked away, measured by the ponderous clock in the hall. Her vigil stretched on.

 

“Mrs. Wagstaff, feel his brow,” the doctor said.

Jessie roused herself. “I must have been dozing.”

She touched the baby's forehead. “He seems cooler.”

Dr. Gooden stood across from her. “It's after dawn, did you know?”

Little Ben looked up at Jessie. “That isn't important. He is cooler, isn't he?”

“Ja,
he survived the night.”

Her head weighing heavily on her neck, Jessie lifted her eyes. “Will he live?”

“God only knows that.”

Jessie pressed her fingers to her burning eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I did so little.”

“At least you didn't turn me away.” She opened her eyes and gazed at him.

He grinned. “My mother taught me never to contradict a lady.”

Jessie smiled, but shook her head at his modest humor. Ignoring a dull ache behind her eyes, she wrapped the sleeping child into his blanket. “I'll take him to his parents.”

“Tell the mother to give him nothing but the water from boiled rice. If she gives him anything else, he won't survive. Rice is an old remedy for diarrhea. In about two days, she can give him a little of the cooked rice also.”

“I'll tell her. Thank—”

“Wait. May I drive you home?”

“I'll manage I…” Jessie tried to stand and found she couldn't.

“Let me take the child to his parents, then I'll get my gig.”

Jessie felt numb. From that point on, she was aware of voices, fresh air on her face, and that she was being led by the arm, aware of the clip-clop of the horse's hooves on wooden streets.

“Mrs. Wagstaff?” Dr. Gooden's voice penetrated her fog.

She straightened on the gig seat. The sun struggled against the morning mist. “Where am I?” Her mind felt like a roll of cotton batting.

“I hope at your front door.”

Jessie looked around her, surprised to find herself at home.

“Ben told me it is the white house with green shutters on Pine Street near the corner of Ontario.”

She turned to him. “I can't thank you enough, Doctor.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Wagstaff.” He helped her down. “Good day, then.” He bowed over her hand.

Jessie walked around the house to the back door. Just as she reached the corner, she glanced back and found the good doctor, still gazing after her.

“Jessie, I been so worried.” Susan hurried down the back steps.

“Little Ben made it through the night.” Weariness blunted Jessie's emotions; she shivered in the spring-damp air.

Susan pressed her hands to her breast. “I been praying all night.”

Jessie's fatigue dragged her down. Trying to gather her heavy skirts to climb the steps, she half stumbled.

Susan caught her by the arm.

Jessie sagged against Susan. “Will you help me upstairs to bed?”

“I'm helping you right to the kitchen table.”

“Too tired to eat.”

“You are eating, then sleeping. That's final.” Susan tugged her to a hard kitchen chair.

“I'll fall asleep-—“

“Don't take long to scramble up eggs.” Susan pushed a cup of coffee into Jessie's hand. “Drink that. No arguing, hear?”

The cup warmed Jessie's hands and its aroma lifted her spirits slightly. “I'm not very hungry, really.”

“You ain't had a appetite for months now. You're eating.”

“Yes.” Miss Wright stumped into the kitchen. “You didn't take two bites of your meal last night.”

Setting down the cup, Jessie leaned her head into her palm. She couldn't face another tirade.

“The child?” Miss Wright asked with a scowl.

“Ruthie's child made it through the night, ma'am,” Susan said over her shoulder.

“Good,” Miss Wright muttered. “You can't go on like this, Jessie.”

Taking a deep breath, Jessie looked straight into Miss Wright's pointed finger. “You're right.” Jessie glanced up as Susan put a plate of eggs and toast fragrant with butter in front of her. “I need to find a doctor to help your people, Susan.”

“I'm glad you are finally listening to good sense,” Miss Wright grumbled.

Jessie glimpsed Susan's half-grin before she went back to the sink. Jessie began taking small bites. Why did chewing take so much energy?

“The charity hospital took the child in, then?” Miss Wright prompted.

“The matron didn't want to. A doctor came out of the shadows…” Jessie's voice faltered. She forced herself to take another bite. Her eyelids drooped. She batted them open again.

“Susan, does she look pale to you?” the old woman asked.

“Ma'am, maybe she just too tired to talk now,” Susan suggested gently.

Nodding, Jessie continued chewing laboriously.

“It's about time you eat.” Like a watchdog making sure Jessie ate every bite, Miss Wright folded her hands on the top of her cane.

Jessie heard a polite tap at the kitchen door, but she was too tired to care. Susan wiped her hands on her red apron and went to answer it. “Mr. Smith be here, Mrs. Wagstaff.”

The man walked in.

Miss Wright sat up straighter. “What are you doing here?”

For once, Jessie was grateful for Miss Wright's outspoken ways. She felt defenseless, unable to deal with his worrying effect on her.

He paused a few steps inside the kitchen. “Just dropped in to pick up my valise and go to Mrs. Crawford's boardinghouse.”

“Mrs. Crawford has my sympathy,” Miss Wright snapped. “I suppose that means you'll be underfoot day and night.”

“Mr. Smith,” Susan said, “I found your valise, but I forgot to give it to you last night. Sorry.”

Caught up in a floating sensation, Jessie felt as though she had taken a step away from the kitchen. What about a valise?

Smith bowed to Susan and then the spinster. “Thank you for being concerned about a lonely newcomer.”

“Humph!” the old woman fumed.

Jessie looked down and watched the fork slide from her fingers as though her hand belonged to someone else.

Lee watched Jessie drop her fork.

“I still don't see why you're here,” Miss Wright demanded. “Didn't Mrs. Crawford feed you enough breakfast?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but Jessie caught his eye.

“Catch her!” Susan exclaimed.

Lee rushed to seize her limp body, slipping from the chair. The elusive fragrance of lavender still clung to her and a curious sensation slid through him.

Miss Wright thumped her cane on the floor. “What's wrong?”

He quickly took Jessie's faint pulse. “Did she get any sleep last night?”

Miss Wright leaned forward anxiously. “She returned home only minutes ago. It's just fatigue, isn't it? She didn't catch some contagion at that hospital.”

Lee scanned Jessie's pale face. “Her heart beat is slow, but that is to be expected with a case of exhaustion.” He swung Jessie up into his arms. The incredible lightness of her body surprised him. With her full skirts and stiff posture, she'd appeared more substantial. But maybe it was only that he was more accustomed to the weight of men on stretchers, not a woman.

“Is she gone be all right?” Susan wrung her hands. “I never see her faint before.”

“Why are you asking him?” Miss Wright blustered. “He's no doctor.”

Lee smiled at the woman's comment. “Even I can tell whether a woman is feverish or not. Mrs. Wagstaff is not.” He turned to Susan. “I'll carry her to bed.”

Susan pointed toward the other end of the kitchen. “Please bring her to my bed. Just through here. Then I kin hear her if she need me.”

Lee let the young woman lead him through the pantry to her tiny room off the kitchen. Glancing at Jessie's face, so relaxed and soft in repose, Lee waited while Susan turned back the blankets, then he lay Jessie down gently and stepped back. Susan stepped around him and began unhooking Jessie's shoe buttons.

Unexpectedly Lee felt himself moved by the stark contrast of Jessie's slight form, dressed all in black against the white sheets. She looked crumpled and frayed like an autumn leaf after the long winter. He had a sudden urge to gather her into his arms again. With his cheek against hers, he would whisper that he would take care of everything, that she wasn't to worry anymore.

A gnarled finger poked him in the back. “Stop gawking, Mr. Smith. Go out and find a job. Mrs. Crawford doesn't need a charity case on her hands.”

He bit back a retort.
This crone could make a preacher swear. And I'm no preacher.
“I'll bid you good day, then.” He turned to leave.

Susan's voice followed him. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“My pleasure, Susan.” Outside, he strode away, valise in hand, letting the cool morning breeze clear his head.
If Jessie Wagstaff wanted to stay up all night nursing sick, probably thankless, people, it was her business, not his.

After leaving his valise at his new home, he walked briskly toward town. A good night's rest in a pleasant, but reasonably priced, room at Mrs. Crawford's plus a delicious breakfast had given him new hope he would find work today. After years of idleness, he didn't really want a job, but he needed one.

Thoughts of Jessie intruded.
Fool woman. Up all night.
He shook his head. Jessie Wagstaff was obviously an inveterate do-gooder. He
blocked these thoughts, turning to his goal.
I'm going to find a job today. I'll stop at the first Help Wanted sign.

That first sign came quicker than he had expected. A warehouse on Lake Street sported a notice in its dusty window—“Bookkeeper Wanted.” Lee stepped inside before he could talk himself out of doing so. He hailed a workman. “Who do I talk to about the bookkeeping position?”

A voice came through an open door. “You talk to me.”

Lee stepped inside the door. “Sir?”

The man motioned him closer. “How long have you worked as a bookkeeper?”

Lee stepped to the desk and held out his hand. “Lee Smith, at your service, sir.”

The man stood up and shook Lee's hand, repeating, “How long have you worked as a bookkeeper?”

This is how they do business in Chicago? So abrupt?
“I have no formal experience, but I am very good with figures.”

“Sorry, I need an experienced bookkeeper. This is the beginning of our shipping season.” The man sat back down and immediately began leafing through papers.

Out of ingrained courtesy, Lee bowed and left.

Outside the morning was still very young, but Lee felt his confidence slip a notch.
Well, that's strike one, but I'm not out yet.
By the end of the morning, he had been turned down for three more jobs. He had more than struck out.

He headed for some place familiar, soothing. Soon inhaling the scent of ale, he pushed through the swinging doors at Pearl's.

“Hey, the suit's back!” a familiar-looking workman shouted.

Within minutes Pearl had poured Lee his barley water and he was spinning an action-packed account of the previous day's baseball game for the workmen crowding around. Two men tried to buy him beers, which he waved away with his glass of barley water. All too soon the workmen went back to their jobs and left Lee alone at the bar with Pearl.

“Why the long face?” She swabbed the bar with a large white washcloth.

The edge of genuine concern in her voice loosened his tongue. “I'm new in town and looking for a job.”

She looked him over for a long minute. “Ever tend bar?”

Lee shook his head.

“Want to?”

“You mean work here?”

“Yes, here.” She stared at him as though daring him to insult her offer.

Caught between competing tides of relief, caution, and shame, Lee's thoughts raced. Wouldn't a saloon be the worst place for him to work? “I don't know…what to say. I've never worked as a bartender.”

Her tone softened. “It ain't hard.”

Lee clenched his jaw. He was surprised at the depth of his embarrassment.
Bartender
. Of all the jobs he had pictured himself taking up, the trade of bartending had never occurred to him.

“It pays only four dollars a week for six days work. Eight a.m. to seven p.m. Not much to raise a family on.”

“I'm single.”

She nodded. “Too good to tend bar?”

“No, I just—”

“I noticed you stuck to barley water. I can't have a souse working behind the bar, especially during the day. That's when I need to be taking care of things at home. If you've got a problem with drink, tell me now.”

He imagined the Widow Wagstaff's reaction to his telling her that he was a bartender. Everyone knew Chicago was prominent in the budding temperance movement. If she found out, it would raise another wall between them. But since he would not be living under her roof, she need never know where he worked.

“Well?”

He recalled the rejections this morning. If he turned down Pearl,
he would be forced out onto those lonely streets to begin again. “We could try it and see how it works out for both of us.”

“Can't say fairer than that. Remember, I don't allow my barkeeps to drink while working their shift. If someone wants to buy you a drink, just toss the nickel in your mug and tell them you'll drink it later. Can you abide by that?”

A silent sigh of relief vibrated through Lee. “Yes, ma'am.”

“All right, then.” She held out her hand to him. Her handshake was firm and direct. “Come back and I'll show you the layout.”

 

Jessie slowly came awake. For a moment, she was lost in time. Then she remembered the night before and this morning. She yawned and stretched languidly. Her body still felt leaden. She gazed around the room, noting the little touches that made it Susan's room, a palm from Palm Sunday service, a string of red beads on the beside table.

Years ago waking in the bed in the little room off the kitchen had been an everyday occurrence for her. In her memory, Jessie saw herself at the age of twelve, leaving home with one small valise in hand; her stepfather marching her brusquely up to Margaret's back door, then leaving her there without a backward look. Just the week before, she'd overheard him telling her mother no girl needed more than a sixth-grade education, and it was time to put Jessie out to earn her own living. He'd supported another man's child for nine years. He had done his duty.

So on that cold, dreary November day, he'd abandoned her on Margaret's back step. Feeling a sinking sensation in her stomach, Jessie had sneaked a look up at Margaret's plump and smiling face. With a gentle touch, Margaret had drawn her in and shown her to the little room. The room's new pink gingham curtains had looked so pretty.

Margaret had commented, “I thought you might be partial to pink.” Tongue-tied, Jessie only nodded. After her few possessions and clothing were arranged on the small bedside table and the pegs on the wall, Margaret escorted her back to the kitchen where they spent the morning baking ginger cookies. Those sweet, spicy ginger
cookies had tasted like manna from heaven, and those few hours of gentle welcome had made all the difference to Jessie. She had loved Margaret, Will's mother, from that day.

Three years later on November 7, 1860, Jessie had married Will, Margaret's only son. Will, ten years older than Jessie, enlisted a year after their marriage and left his wife and his widowed mother and, after a furlough home, his only son.

Now lying on the once-familiar bed, Jessie breathed a sigh that quivered through her.
Margaret and Will made all the difference in my life. Thank you, God, again and again. I never knew laughter. I never knew freedom until I came into this house.
Will's smiling face came to her memory, sweet and teasing as always. His teasing voice said,
“Still in bed, princess?”

Susan intruded on Jessie's daydream. “You awake, then?”

Jessie looked over at her in the doorway. “I need to freshen up. What time is it?” Looking at Susan brought the frightening incidents of the night before back to mind. She'd been terrified Little Ben would die. She didn't want to face that again.

“You can get up, but you ain't doing much today. I got my eye on you.”