Race for the Dying (18 page)

“The offer stands,” Thomas said. “If you would like me to talk with your husband, I will.” After all, what more can be done to me, Thomas thought. “But will you return in two weeks' time?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then let's tend to this young man,” Thomas said, and backed his chair out of the way. In half an hour, Henry Beautard was clean, powdered, and sporting a tiny splint on his left forearm that Thomas fashioned out of two pieces of clean lath stripping that Bertha produced from upstairs.

“And no more Sorrel's,” he admonished. “He must have the breast, and I don't care what your husband says. The more you hold little Henry, the less he will fuss, I'm sure. In between times, show your husband how to hold the child so that no injury occurs. And tend to your own nourishment during the next few months.”

The woman nodded wearily, and Bertha accompanied her to the front door. When the nurse returned, she closed the door of the examining room.

“Opiates,” Thomas said before she asked. “I'm certain of it. Can you imagine?”

“It is a common thing,” Bertha said.

He looked at her in astonishment. “A common thing? How is that possible?”

“She would be rid of the pregnancy,” Bertha said quietly, ignoring his question.

“Rid of it? I think not,” Thomas said vehemently. “I would like the opportunity to talk with Mr. Beautard.”

Bertha shook her head. “No, Doctor. I don't think you would.”

“You know him?”

“Only in passing. But I know that there are limits to what is our business.”

Thomas looked at her quizzically. “Whatever affects the health of our patients is our business, Miss Auerbach.”

She reached out to pick up the empty bottle of Sorrel's, but Thomas held out his hand. “I need that,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Dr. Haines disappeared at lunch, and shortly afterward, Gert James arrived with a picnic basket laden with fresh bread, thinly sliced chicken and beef, carefully wrapped fillets of the ubiquitous smoked salmon, and a potpourri of fruit and vegetables.

A squat Mason jar held fresh buttermilk, a drink that Thomas detested but that Bertha cherished.

Between a fisherman's inflamed throat and a young lad whose mother was sure that his deafness was the result of self-abuse rather than earwax, Thomas managed to sample Gert's food. Jimmy Doyle was not conscious enough to partake, but Thomas could see that, were the ward to fill with patients who needed continuing care, both a nursing staff and a cook—not to mention a kitchen—would be necessary.

The smells lingering from the various patients dulled his appetite, even though he retreated to Haines' office. He managed to relax for ten minutes before five men arrived, four carrying the fifth, and Thomas found himself glad that Dr. Haines had returned promptly.

Thirty-six-year-old Howard Deaton, ashen, sweating, and wide-eyed with shock, had slipped at the wrong instant, and the back wheel of a loaded freight wagon had crushed his lower left leg. After his four companions had been ushered outside and a generous injection of morphine quieted the man, Haines examined Deaton's boot, pointing out the crease from the wheel rim.

“We'll cut it right down the back and the side,” he said. “That way we can slip it off without doing more damage.”

“Them are new boots,” Deaton moaned. He lay back on the table, an arm over his eyes. “You can't be cuttin' 'em.”

“My good man,” Haines said, “trust me on this. A new boot is far less expensive than the alternative. Just lie still and let us do what we have to do.”

Deaton mumbled something incoherent. The scalpel opened the leather as if it were paper, and while supporting the leg with his left hand, Haines slipped the boot off, prompting Deaton to jerk violently, back arching, gasping, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“I think this stocking is welded to the skin.” Haines raised his voice a bit. “Howard, you might consider walking through the surf now and then,” but Deaton didn't respond.

With the stocking peeled off and the trouser leg sliced off at the knee, they could clearly see the displacement of both lower leg bones, three inches above the ankle. “Simple enough,” Haines said, and moved to one side so Thomas could wheel closer. He closed his eyes as he ran his fingers down both sides of Deaton's lower leg. Despite the morphine comforter, Deaton groaned, his upper body still stiff as a pine plank. Bertha wiped his face with a warm towel and murmured motherly things in his ear.

“He's lucky. Had he not been wearing those stout boots, the steel wagon rim would have sliced through his leg,” Haines said. As it was, the bruising was horrendous. “Both bones,” Haines added. “That's what I see. The ankle isn't involved. Bertha, we'll want to wash this grimy limb from knee to toe. How's the morphine holding?”

“He's nodded off,” Bertha replied. Sure enough, Deaton's body had sagged and his jaw hung slack.

“Good. Then let's see what's what.”

Thomas nodded, his fingers telling him that both bones had snapped sideways, like sticks of firewood propped against a chopping block and stomped in half. “I don't feel any large fragments.” he said.

“Nor I, but there are bound to be chips. Still, if he's lucky, we may see success with the fracture box. That will ease his trip to St. Mary's tomorrow.”

“But for this?” Thomas said. “St. Mary's? Certainly, the fracture box is the place to start, but if there should be surgical intervention needed? He'll be about on crutches in three or four weeks with plaster, barring complications. On the other hand, such a trip now…”

“You believe there may be more internal damage than what we see here?”

“Well, no, I think the fractures are relatively straightforward. There is no joint involved, which puts luck on our side. It seems to me that a full day in a jouncing ambulance makes for a pointless risk at this early stage.”

“Thomas,” Haines said, and gently pushed the young man's wheelchair away from the drugged patient. He lowered his voice to a gruff whisper. “At the moment, we are not staffed to care for patients in the ward. “One night, we can manage, I suppose. But not as a general course of things. If you're thinking that Mr. Doyle should remain for the night as well…”

“Someone needs to tend Mr. Doyle for the night, without a doubt.”

“But whatever for? Your surgical wound is as neat as I've seen. It's near no major arteries or veins, and certainly you've done all you could to assure asepsis.”

Thomas hesitated, thinking the answer obvious. He glanced across at Bertha, who appeared to be entirely preoccupied with Howard Deaton. “A few extra hours tending his surgery will certainly ensure a successful result,” he said. He slumped back in his chair, suddenly exhausted. “John, please. Let me offer a suggestion. I know it's only a quarter-mile back to one-oh-one, but to me, at this moment, that distance seems like a transcontinental venture. I would look on it as a great favor if you would agree to let me remain here tonight…in the ward. Its convenience is a powerful attraction.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Haines protested.

“Please,” Thomas said, and he knew that he sounded like a boy trying to talk his parents into allowing a dangerous trip into foreign lands. “There is food enough for a week just in what Gert sent down for lunch,” he said. “Instead of the struggle up to one-oh-one, I plan to remain here. I shall keep an eye on Mr. Doyle and Mr. Deaton.” He pulled out his watch. “By the time we have this leg sorted out, it will be after three, and I can only imagine that the day is yet young. By the time we're finished, I'll be comatose.”

“You're holding up?”

“Well,” Thomas said. “After a fashion. Collapsing on a bed in the ward would be a luxury for me.”

Haines smiled and looked at Bertha. “Now we're having patients tending patients,” he said. “But if that's what you want, young man, so be it. I'll inform Zachary that you'll be staying here tonight. We don't want him thinking there are intruders. He might shoot the wrong person.” He smoothed the front of his vest over his belly and rolled up his sleeves. “But now, Bertha, let's clean up this broken man and put him back together. The smell of those feet is making me faint.”

In an hour, Deaton lay flat on his back in a ward bed, the Stimson fracture box encasing his leg like a small wooden coffin, supported by a clever rack that included four legs easily adjustable for height. Pillows took weight off the heel, and elevation relaxed the calf muscle. Small pillows were bound in place by the wooden sides of the open-topped box, with the lateral pressure easily adjustable with cotton bandages.

Howard Deaton's leg was not the final case of the afternoon. As the afternoon progressed, a parade of patients passed through the clinic, including a ten-year-old who had managed to scratch a simple case of poison oak into a full-blown infection, a friend of Mrs. Robina Cleary's who had nothing wrong at all other than a deep, abiding curiosity, and a young man with an ugly boil on his neck.

Twice during the afternoon, Thomas wheeled into the ward and marveled at Jimmy Doyle, who continued his sleep with the peaceful countenance of a child. Howard Deaton, despite the morphine, was more restless, his lower leg swollen and discolored. The rest of the faces passed in a blur, and by six o'clock, Thomas was well aware that his decisions and actions were coming out of a fog of pain and fatigue. Haines remained close, never leaving him alone with a patient as he had tended to do earlier in the day.

At five minutes before six, Haines gathered together his medical bag. “I need to make a call,” he said, without explaining what the call might be. “I'm going to lock the front door and pull the curtain. Now you, young man…We've both been adequately foolish today, allowing you to work as hard as you have.”

“Well, I—”

“Well, you what?” Haines said with a laugh. “Look at you. You can't even sit up straight in that damn chair. Your hands are shaking. Your left eye looks worse than an old drunk, and I venture to say that if I asked you to stand up right now, you'd fall flat on your face.”

“Admitted, all.”

“I've said nothing today because I've come to know a little bit about you, Thomas Parks. If left to your own devices, you would continue on until you drop. And then, who does that benefit?” Haines leaned back against the counter, regarding Thomas critically. “Let me tell you how highly I regard you, Thomas.”

The young physician felt the damned flush on his neck. “But really—”

“No. Listen to me. I would rather have you, with your energy, your enthusiasm, your skills, even with your broken thumb and ribs, than half a dozen fit men. But now that you know your limitations, I want you to be patient, take your time, and allow yourself to heal. That's what I want. I want you to give yourself a chance.”

“Thank you, sir,” Thomas managed to say.

“I know that it's pointless to invite you for dinner and conversation,” Haines said. “But I suppose that sleep will do you far more good. Still, I'll have Horace bring a basket of food down for you and your ward guests.” He straightened. “If Mr. Doyle takes nourishment, be aware of the possibility of vomiting. We don't want him choking to death after all your hard work.”

“You must have after-hours patients,” Thomas said.

“Of course. They will come to the house, or pound on the door here until Zachary sends them to one-o-one.”

“He doesn't tend them?”

“On occasion. But a day-to-day medical practice is not Zachary's ambition, as I'm sure you've already observed. That's why you're here.”

“I see,” Thomas said, his head full of questions but his body too tired to pursue them.

Chapter Thirty

Jimmy Doyle's snoring reminded Thomas of his berthmate onboard the
Alice
.

So tired that he couldn't sleep, Thomas lay back on the simple ward cot and listened to Doyle's symphony. Despite morphine, Howard Deaton slept fitfully. Occasionally the building would pop or creak. Earlier, in those first luxurious moments when he had stretched out on the cot in the rear of the ward nearest one of the windows, Thomas had heard footsteps on the floor above, but that, too, soon ceased.

He rested on his back, his shoes propped up on the end of the cot. The whole situation was ludicrous, he thought. He'd given no consideration to something as simple as undressing at the end of the day. He could no more remove his own high-laced shoes than Howard Deaton could run across the room. He had made no provision for a night nurse. The thought that John Haines was allowing him to learn from mistakes was little comfort.

He closed his eyes, letting the events of the day take curtain calls. A loud groan punctuated by a curse jarred him alert, and he realized after a moment of disorientation that he had been deeply asleep. One of the gaslights at the far end of the ward came to life, and for a brief, panicky moment, Thomas thought that either Deaton or Doyle had arisen, headed now toward disaster. A shadow moved about, certainly not one of the injured men. A soft, soothing voice mingled with impatient muttering, and after a moment, Thomas heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a metal bedpan in use.

The figure left the ward. Thomas shifted his legs off the bed, resting for a moment in the sitting position before reaching out for the arm of his wheelchair. With something akin to practiced ease, he swung into the chair.

Pushing up the center aisle, he paused first at Deaton's bedside, unable to see well enough in the shadows to ascertain whether or not the man was awake.

“Hurts like hell,” a voice from the bed remarked, as if commenting on the weather.

“I'm sure it does,” Thomas replied. He pulled out his watch and held it toward the gaslight. He frowned and brought the timepiece closer, astounded. Somehow, evening had faded into night. The watch announced twenty minutes after midnight. He'd slept like a dead man for more than four hours. Both of his patients could have expired, and he would have slept through their passing without a stir.

“We'll get you something,” he said, tucking the watch away.

“I don't want no more of that addict stuff,” Howard Deaton said. “Makes me feel like the walls are cavin' in on me.”

“How are you feeling otherwise?”

“Like shit,” Deaton said succinctly. “I was going to get up to take a piss and found things all bound up. Who the hell are you?”

“I'm Dr. Thomas Parks. Dr. Haines' associate.”

“You're the one the mule tried to kill, ain't you?”

“Yes. That would be me,” Thomas said with a laugh.

“Heard about that. Hell of a stunt.”

“Yes, indeed.” Bertha Auerbach reappeared carrying a small enamel tray. “Ah, the ghost. I've very glad to see you,” Thomas said to her.

“Well,” Bertha replied, and let it go at that. She stopped at Jimmy Doyle's bedside. Jimmy snored blissfully.

“Mr. Deaton doesn't want an injection,” Thomas said.

“It will help you sleep,” Bertha offered, but Deaton shook his head adamantly.

“Nope,” he said. “I'll sleep when I know what's what.”

Bertha reached out and turned up the gaslight, and Thomas examined the position of the pillows in the fracture box.

“The wagon wheel broke your lower leg, Mr. Deaton. A nasty fracture of both lower leg bones, just a couple inches above the ankle.” He reached out and indicated the spot with his finger. “Luckily, the joint was not involved. Now, this contraption allows us to both position the bones and keep the injury open for examination for the next several days.”

“Several days? I can't be doin' that.”

“You have no choice, sir. That's the best way to put it. The leg's properly and thoroughly snapped, both bones. Now, we're expecting an uneventful healing, if we can keep you quiet and cooperative. In two or three weeks, a gypsum bandage will allow you to start moving about cautiously in a chair, and then later with crutches.”

“Good God. What do you think I do for a living, mister?”

“That really doesn't matter as far as the leg is concerned, although I'd be interested to know,” Thomas said mildly.

“I'm a goddamn teamster, sir. I can't be ‘moving about cautiously,' as you say, on no goddamn crutches.”

“Well, your choices are fairly limited,” Thomas said.

“Choices, shit. What's Doc Haines say?”

“The same thing I say, Mr. Deaton. If you want alternatives to think about, consider what we'll do if this injury deteriorates. Hemorrhage, abscess, gangrene…not a pretty picture I paint for you. Then we take your leg off right here,” and he drew a line across Deaton's leg at the knee. “That's if we catch it in time. You think about that.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly. That's why it's important that you remain quiet and do as you're told. You have everything to gain by being sensible.”

“I don't want none of that,” Deaton said, eyeing Bertha and the pan that held the hypodermic needle.

Thomas read the man's wide-eyed expression correctly. “Is it the morphine that bothers you, or the needle?”

“That goddamn thing is big enough for a horse,” Deaton said. “You don't let her near me with that. Gimme a goddamn glass of some good whiskey.”

“One of the problems is that alcohol tends to make you restless,” Thomas said. “And we don't want that.”

“Not if I drink enough of it.”

Thomas laughed. “Well, that's true, sir. But there's the waking up, you see. Anyway, I gave an injection to a little girl earlier today, and she didn't mind at all.”

“You're going to give me the needle? You are?” He glanced down at Thomas' bandaged hand.

“No, Miss Auerbach will do that. She's far more deft than I. You won't even feel it.”

“You're a goddamned liar, Doc,” Deaton said, but a trace of good humor crept in. “No offense, ma'am.”

“Yes. She's the last person in this building you want to offend, Mr. Deaton. And a little stab is far better than what you're feeling now, believe me. We want that leg quiet.” He nodded at Bertha. “Give her your right arm, and then look at me, sir,” he said to Deaton. “From now on, we want that leg to rest peacefully. Let it knit without complication, and in six weeks you'll be happily on your way.”

“Jesus, now it's up to six weeks,” Deaton said, and grimaced as the needle slipped home.

“The morphine will give you several hours of rest,” Thomas said. “You'll find that, in a day or two, the most acute pain will subside, and we can dispense with the drug. But the injection will help you until then.”

“My arm's burnin' up,” Deaton said as the hypodermic's plunger pushed the morphine into his vein.

“No doubt,” Thomas said. “Relax and let it work.” He watched Deaton's rugged face. “The more you can sleep, the better.” He took Deaton's left hand in his, gave it a brief squeeze, and then backed away from the bed. Bertha turned down the gaslight to the slightest flicker.

“When did you arrive?” Thomas asked. “I didn't hear you.”

“I came at midnight,” she said. He wheeled after her as she left the ward. The gaslights in the examining room were ablaze.

“And you're sleeping in your clothes?” she said, eyeing Thomas critically.

“It turns out that I slept the evening away.”

“No one can work all day, then sit up all night,” Bertha said stiffly. “There's some sustenance in Dr. Haines' office, by the way. I brought down a meat pie my sister-in-law made. That and a bottle of fresh milk.”

“You're both angels,” Thomas said fervently. “Might we be able to find some coffee?”

“You need nothing that will keep you awake, Doctor,” Bertha replied. “I'll return promptly at six. Gert will send coffee, I'm sure. Along with a substantial breakfast for your two patients and yourself. With the effects of the ether and morphine, neither man should eat heavily just yet.”

“Join me for some dinner?”

“No. I'll leave you to it, Dr. Parks.”

“Don't tell me that you walked here from your home at this hour? How far is it?”

“It's not far, but I most certainly did not walk. My brother waits out in the buckboard.”

“Well, good heavens, why doesn't he come in?”

“He loves his cigars, doctor. And they're best left outside.”

Thomas laughed. “Well, I'm in his debt. And yours. I obviously hadn't thought this night through very carefully.”

“Well, you're tired, Doctor.”

“It's a good tired.”

“Yes.” She nodded curtly. “If there's nothing else?”

“A complete kit is in the clave?”

“Of course, Doctor. As you requested.”

“You're irreplaceable,” Thomas said. He held out his hand, and Bertha Auerbach hesitated for just a moment before taking it. Once again, Thomas was surprised by how small her hands were.

“Thank you,” he said. “This is an awkward time. And I'm afraid it's of my making.”

“You're welcome,” the young woman replied. “One day at a time.” She paused at the door. He had rolled his chair after her, out into the waiting room. “Good night, then, Doctor.”

“Good night. And thank your brother for me. I look forward to meeting him.”

She turned the knob. “I'll lock this as I go out,” she said. “Dr. Haines showed you the key? In case someone comes in the middle of the night with an emergency?”

“It is the middle of the night, Bertha, and no…he didn't show me.”

Bertha reached up along the doorjamb where a skeleton key hung on a small nail well out of Thomas' reach. She handed him the key. “All the locks are the same,” she said.

“Thank you again.” He slipped the key in his vest pocket. Bertha opened the door and the air was wet, the night too dark to see beyond the front step. Thomas thought that he saw the glow of a cigar, but then the front door closed.

The clinic settled once more into silence, and Thomas sighed. He found himself wishing that Bertha Auerbach had remained for a bit. If pressed, she would speak her mind, and Thomas wanted to hear her opinion on several matters.

He wheeled into the office, and groaned at the aroma from under the towel. There was enough meat pie for two meals. He eyed the bottle of milk and weighed the benefits of that against the brandy that he knew was in the cabinet beside the desk. Despite the wretched taste, he drank the milk as he ate what must have been a full pound of meat pie.

The struggle to use the small lavatory awoke the demons. By the time he finished pumping the toilet reservoir full from the cistern, his forehead was beaded with sweat.

He wheeled out of the office, leaving the light a tiny sputter and then turned all four gaslights on in the examining room, feeling more comfortable with that room at the ready.

The wheelchair was silent on the carpet, and he glided across the waiting room, feeling the cool draft that managed to find its way around the locked front door. He paused there again, his chair against the wall, his head leaning back against the wainscoting, letting his mind roam. The building creaked again, and he looked down the long, dark tunnel of hallway that led past the stairs.

Curiosity powerful, he considered a strategy. Retrieving his crutches, he parked his chair at the bottom of the dark stairs and calculated the venture. With the chair once again wedged against the wall, he rose, balancing on the crutches. A single gaslight decorated the dark wall near the foot of the stairs, and he took one of the friction matches from the sconce and lit the gas, stuffing a dozen matches in his shirt pocket as well.

The gaslight illuminated sixteen stair treads that led upward to a closed doorway. The banister was stout and he leaned his rump against it, putting just enough weight on the crutches that he could hop his right foot onto the first tread. The soft thump of his boot on the carpeted tread marked nine inches of vertical progress.

“Fifteen,” he whispered aloud, and hopped again. Standing on the ground floor, the adventure had seemed tame enough. But as he made his way laboriously upward, to a point where the stairwell passed through the first-floor ceiling, he saw that a misstep now would cost him a devastating tumble.

With a flush of apprehension, he realized that returning to the blissful, restful haven of his ward cot required descending whatever he ascended. Six treads lay ahead. And suppose the doorway was locked? Bertha had said the front door key fitted all the locks, but did she mean interior doors as well?

His ribs told him loudly to do something, rather than hanging from his crutches half up or half down.

Clenching his teeth, he heaved himself up three more, stopped, and regarded the doorway ahead. The knob was one tread out of reach, and he hunched up that step. Back pressed against the wall, he reached out and tried the knob. It turned, but the door remained secure.

Thomas retrieved the key from his vest. It turned the lock effortlessly, and his pulse quickened. The door opened inward, revealing only darkness. The air itself told him that the room was large. This was no closet he had opened.

He navigated the final step and leaned against the wall, ribs shrieking, hip throbbing. After a moment he fumbled a match from his pocket, closed his eyes, and snapped it with his thumbnail. The head broke off and sailed away. The second match he raked across what felt like a plaster wall, and then flinched at the flare of light. Logically placed, a gaslight was mounted just to one side of the stairwell, and he lit it, turning it up full.

“My God,” he breathed as he turned to face the room.