My Name Is Mary Sutter (23 page)

The crickets provided melodic comfort as, for once, time did not reign preeminent. A chance, a rare minute to breathe. Neither was aware of the other in the consoling way that friends are not; only the crickets spoke. Grief as the proof, the revelation. From Bridge Street, laughter drifted in their direction, as alien a sound as if it were descending from the sky.

“Now you must make good on your promise,” Mary said.

“What promise?” Stipp asked. “I never promised you a thing.”

“You knew what I wanted when I came. And now we have help. There is no obstacle.”

“You barely sleep.” Hedging. Appealing to fragility, which she lacked. Even this morning, with her head pressed into his shoulder, weeping, she had asked about the broken hip in room thirty-nine.

“Teach me everything you know. I want to understand what makes the body work. I want to see what you do, how you do it. I want to hear what you think. I want to know which medicine to give for which condition. I want to change dressings, see the wounds, understand why the boys are dying, how to make them well. Not just after a battle, but all the time. Every day. At your side.” Not a request, but a repeated demand.
I want more.
The
more
being extorted skillfully on the basis of grief and the unspoken threat of her remove. It reminded him of someone, an echo from the past, but the past was so far distant that it seemed now to have nothing to do with him.

“But who will run the beds? Who will run Mr. Mack?” he asked.

“That protest is beneath you,” Mary said.

“Forgive me, Mary, but after today? After all this? This is what you are thinking of?” A falling star streaked across the sky, a river of white against the dark. They both saw it. Cassiopeia shedding tears.

“Yes,” Mary said, “this is what I am thinking of,” but Stipp could hardly hear what she said next, because she was whispering. “Because then,” she asked, her voice wavering, “what would all this have been worth?”

Stipp thought now that he ought to say that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she learned, resurrection was only a tale in the Bible to save men from their fear of death, from eternal loneliness, from despair. But to assert now the truth that death was final seemed as cruel as confessing his joy that she was going to stay in spite of her loss.

“It would be worth nothing,” he agreed.

Above, the stars grew pale and reserved, as if in judgment. The queen from her throne, seeing his duplicity. Double the guilt.

He would tell her a portion of the truth.

“I am not a patient teacher,” he said, thinking that if he warned her, he might be able to shed some of his culpability and preserve something of the intimacy they now shared. Innocence, yet.

But Mary knew there was no more innocence.

Not looking at him, she said, “You’ll regret everything that happens between us.”

But she reached out and took his hand, as if he were the one in need of comfort, and they sat together as the night sky fell around them.

Chapter Twenty-seven

After the battle, the war entered a time of suspension. The Army of Northeastern Virginia had failed in its quest for a decisive victory, but the Rebels had similarly failed to seize their advantage. The two armies remained at close but tentative stalemate, thirty miles apart: the Rebels entrenched in Manassas, keeping firm hold on the railroads with cannons fashioned of logs to appear a well-armed multitude, and the well-armed multitude of Federals holding firm in the ring of forts surrounding Washington, having believed the Confederate ruse. The newly recruited Federal troops worshipped the newly appointed and self-consciously dashing Major General George McClellan, because he refused to allow them to engage in battle while still green. This, McClellan decided, had been McDowell’s fatal mistake; it would not be his. Besides, neither time nor attack pressed. He had the men for three years and would take as much time as he needed to fashion the necessary army of regulars. In the distant west—hard to believe in Washington that the war extended so far—the two opposing armies eyed the Mississippi and the Cumberland rivers and planned how best to control them. But to everyone, it seemed that both the North and the South had taken a deep breath and never exhaled.

On an afternoon in early September, Stipp ordered Mary to take the day off.
Eat at a restaurant, find a shop and buy yourself something.
Absurd orders for her, but he had grumbled and roared until she stuffed what money she had into her purse and departed. But standing on Pennsylvania Avenue, she didn’t know what to do with herself. With the exception of that one night, the whole of August had been spent inside. Now the shock of ordinary life startled her. She had imagined the world had been taken up as she had been, but here were people going off to market or work, posting letters, buying food, and tending children. Theater bills papered a brick tavern wall; a grocer roamed with his cart; cavorting children were cuffed by their mothers; a farmer trundled down the avenue on his way to the market.

Find a restaurant. Eat something not made of farina or beef. Drink something refreshing.
Stipp’s prescription.

He was not a patient teacher.

They had begun her apprenticeship slowly. Each morning, they met for rounds, beginning on the first floor in the ballroom. Her first week was taken up with learning how to wash a wound. Stipp was very specific. She was to remove and discard the old bandage, then dip a sea sponge into a bucket of water and wash away the effluvia, then return the sponge to the bucket. She was then to stuff the wound with lint scraped from old dresses and sheets and sent to them in boxes from across the country. This stuffing kept the wound open. Finally, she was to pour cold water onto the lint, cover the wet dressing with gauze, and then move on to the next patient. She reused the water and the sponge, over and over. She was not to worry about the suppuration. It was part of the healing process; all wounds healed this way. The fever, the chills, the debilitas, everyone suffered from it. Their job was to support the men through the process with good diet and ventilation.

“Like this, or like this?” Mary asked, gently stuffing wounds with fresh lint. She was to feel for the pressure. Too much, and the wound would never heal; too little, and the same outcome would occur.

“Like that. You are too slow.”

“I’m being careful. Should we wet the dressings when we remove them?”

“Yes, for comfort. You see that cherry pink color there? The way it seems to bubble? That is granulating tissue. That is a good sign of healing.”

After that first week, he let her change dressings on her own, and then they moved on to the fractures. Stipp had put plasters on most of the men, and positioned others in open fracture boxes in which their limbs rested, unconfined. Because of the lack of movement, the men were getting bedsores, which required more dressing changes.

“Should we get the men out of bed?” Mary asked.

“When they can use crutches.”

“But we don’t have any crutches.”

“Make out a requisition.”

“We haven’t any forms.”

“Send the steward for both forms and crutches.”

The third week, Mary accompanied him on his medical rounds, which he did separately from the surgical cases. At each bedside she was to observe, examine, question the patient, and then present the symptoms to Stipp.

“This boy can’t—”

“Don’t be shy now.”

“I am never shy. He can’t move his bowels.”

The boy in question blushed to hear his problem stated so baldly by a female.

“Well, that’s a sea change from the rest of the poor fellows in here. Write him up. He must be the only man in the Union army who can’t.”

“But what should we do?”

“Give him blue mass.”

“What is that?”

“Mercury and chalk.”

“Will it work?”

“I have no idea. Give it to him and see.”

The boy opened his mouth in protest, but they moved on.

“This boy’s gums are bleeding. And his bowels. And he bruises. And his knees and elbows ache.”

“He’s got scurvy. Find him a lime.”

“Where do you suggest I do that?”

“At the market.” Said with a laugh, for no one had seen a lime in months.

“Aren’t you going to help at all?”

“Unless you can grow a lemon tree, there is nothing we can do.”

They moved on.

“This one can’t breathe.”

“Give him whiskey.”

“This one can’t walk.”

“Give him whiskey.”

“That one can’t stop itching.”

“Give him whiskey.”

“This one has got diarrhea.”

“Haven’t they all?”

“We’ve run out of quinine.”

“Give oil of turpentine.”

“We’ve run out of turpentine.”

“Then boil some willow bark and put it in whiskey and give it to him.”

“We’ve run out of whiskey.”

She was not to think of any of this.
Get out and breathe the air. Get out and see the sky. Leave that surgery textbook here.
She read it obsessively, even though there was no surgery to be done. He had made her hand it over as she left.
Go out and do something pleasant, if there is anything pleasant left to do in the world at all.

Mary thought,
I should better remember how to do this
. She crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, glanced into restaurants, made a decision.

The waiter slouched unimpressed at her side, surveying her ruined clothes, before clearing his throat. “We do not seat unescorted women.”

“But I am here. And hungry. And alone. And I know no one.”

The waiter shrugged. “Perhaps in your hotel room, alone?”

“I am a nurse at the Union Hotel in Georgetown. I have eaten there far too many times. Please.”

The waiter turned to the owner, who hurried over. “The corner, then,” the owner said, and, sniffing, turned away.

“Oysters,” Mary said. “And a glass of wine.”

It was early for the dinner crowd, early for wine. There were white cloths and tableware and glassware and candles to light when the day darkened. Underfoot, not rotting boards but creamy marble, left over, the waiter said when he brought her wine, from when they had built the Treasury, the embattled, guarded building across the street.

The oysters were slippery, salty. She asked for bread, and he brought five whole slices. And there was butter and jam.

She requested mutton and mashed potatoes and parsnips.

Did she want club sauce or pickles or olives?

Only catsup, please.

Which pastry?

Lemon pie.

Walnuts or almonds?

Both.

Coffee or tea?

Is it real?

The coffee? Of course.

Questions with direct answers, an interrogation unlike the maddening ones in which she engaged with Stipp. There were people for whom this luxury happened every day; at one time, this had happened every day for her. Silverware clinked against china. More patrons arrived while she ate, the door opening and shutting at such frequent intervals that flies flew in and out unimpeded. A fly buzzed at a window’s edge. When the door opened again, a breeze fluttered over her face.

The newest restaurant patron stood silhouetted against the door. He held his hat to his chest across a blue expanse of brass button and epaulets. His gaze floated lazily across the room. Mary rose and ran her hands over her dress.

James Blevens. Here.

He spied her and crossed the room, towering over her in a protective half bow. He did not seem to notice her disarray.

They each spoke at the same time.

“Mary Sutter—”

“No one knew where you were, Dr. Blevens, or if you were even alive—”

Into the ensuing cavern of silence, she said, “But you’re all right.”

He was still hovering over the table in his posture of safeguard. Other diners looked their way and imagined trysts in the shadow of the president’s house. The new social order.

“Are you well, Mary?” Blevens asked, and could have sworn she swayed, but he rushed on, stumbling over his words, glad to see her, though his elation was a surprise even to him. He’d been lonely in the city; he’d missed saying good-bye to anyone in the 25th, and the loss of that camaraderie, despite his relief at not being at Fort Albany any longer, had made him eager to see anyone from home, but especially Mary. Their good-bye at the quay had haunted him; a ghost of kindness. Perhaps now he hoped for more. “I’ve been looking for you. Back at the fort, Christian told me you were in the city. But I’ve been looking in the hospitals. I should have been looking in restaurants. This is remarkable. I came in, and here you are.” He stepped toward her, took her elbow, because while he’d been talking she had gone completely pale.

“You don’t know,” she said.

“What don’t I know?”

“Christian died. On his way home in the train. He was sick. Did you know he was sick?”

James tried to remember when he had last seen Christian; they’d been at the stream, bending to bathe, his strong body stronger yet. He’d been laughing, teasing someone for trying to wash out his socks.
You’ll never get them clean; don’t even try
. His musculature not in any way diminished like the others’, his eyes clear, no hint of the debilitation of the dysenteric plague. A doctor’s eye, raking the past for clues. No. Nothing.

“I didn’t know,” Blevens said. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”

They were still standing, their eyes locked. Loneliness yoking them, making them grateful for one another.

“Pneumonia, Mother said.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Are you finished, Miss, or are you planning on having yet another meal?” The waiter interrupting. His hands were clasped behind his back in a passive gesture that nonetheless seemed aggressive. Hungry patrons shifted at the door; it was now past noon and the rush was on.

Mary pushed a strand of hair from her face. Blevens waited for her acerbic comment on the waiter’s bad manners, but it did not come.

Blevens said, “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Mary looked at him for a moment, confused, and then said, “It is nothing,” and sat.

Blevens said to the waiter, “I will order as soon as you do your job and clear away the lady’s dishes.”

Sullenly, the waiter flung dishes into his elbow and forearm.

“You forgot one,” Blevens said, and handed him Mary’s wineglass. “Would you like anything else, Mary?”

“More coffee, please.”

“Coffee for the lady. And I’ll have mutton, with squash and turnips and applesauce. Fruit pudding and raisins. And coffee for me as well. And a pudding for my patient guest, who was kept waiting by me for a very long time. I had rather hoped that someone kind would look after her until I arrived.”

The waiter hunched over the dishes and staggered to the kitchen.

“I was never in need of rescue,” Mary said. Her voice was desultory, quiet.

“Of course not,” Blevens said. He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t with Christian. I was called away.”

She searched his face; the memory of disappointment.
Dr. Marsh said he won’t see you. No, I can’t apprentice you.
“Where were you?”

“The 79th needed a surgeon. I was sent off with them, I didn’t get back until after the 25th had left.”

“Mutton. Turnips. Applesauce. Fruit pudding. Raisins. Coffee. And one pudding for you, Miss.” The waiter set down the plates, frowned, and turned away.

“Christian was well liked.” It was important that Mary understood this; important that she understood he would have done anything for Christian. “If I had been there—”

“I tried to see him at the fort.”

“Passes are impossible to obtain.” He would forgive her, for he could see she hadn’t forgiven herself.

“Or when Thomas said he was sick. Thomas came to get me, but I said no. If I’d said yes—the last time I saw Christian was the last time I saw you. At the ferry.” She turned her face to the window and wiped tears from her cheek.

Onlookers thought,
It is a difficult romance
.

“I knew he was sick. Thomas told me he was. He came to see me. I should have gone to Christian.”