The Storm (15 page)

Molly tiptoed back into the room and gasped when she stopped long enough to really look at Jacqueline's back and arms. She must have fallen down that steep staircase, like she said, but why didn't Eric tend to her?

She carefully cleaned Jacqueline's soft white skin, as smooth as the ivory on her piano keys, though much warmer. How could anyone damage such beauty? She was ashamed to enjoy touching this amazing body so much.

She reluctantly finished then helped Jacqueline into her gown and tried to brush her matted hair. The white cloth Jacqueline held still had some red spots, and she was beginning to worry about the wound on her forehead. She took the rag, peeked under Jacqueline's bangs, and saw a strange gash about two inches long over her right eye. She raised the damp bangs and guided Jacqueline's hand up so she could hold the rinsed-out dishtowel in place. Then she ran her fingers through Jacqueline's hair before she stroked it with the brush. Coarse, and dull with blood, as it smoothed out under her hands, it sent an electric charge through her.

Touching Esther Harris in college had affected her like this, though not so intensely. They had planned to live together and both teach music, like their two favorite instructors. Late one night studying for a difficult history test, Esther'd been tired and discouraged, almost crying. She was afraid she'd fail and not be able to return to school the next year. Molly had put her arm around her and would never forget the spark between them. It had felt like the highest note on the organ sounded when she held it down for a long time.

Though she'd wanted to do more than hug Esther, an inner voice kept repeating,
You and Esther are merely playing at life instead of actually living it. You'll grow up someday.

She'd held out longer than most of her classmates by attending the university for three years, until her financial situation finally caught up with her and she accepted Mr. James's proposal.

As she cleaned Jacqueline's skin and smoothed her hair, her dream flamed briefly, like it had after their first conversation. But the law and, even more important, Patrick bound her to Mr. James.

Shaking her head, she scattered the embers of her illusions and helped Jacqueline settle into bed, still holding the towel in place. But when Jacqueline gazed up at her with soft eyes, her dreams flared again.

She
would
love Jacqueline, for as long as she could. She simply couldn't let anyone know, not even Jacqueline.

*

Mrs. Russell spotted the mules still hitched to the wagon when she drove up. What in the Sam Hill? Molly knew better than to leave the wagon in her way. If she insisted on sashaying around the countryside like she didn't have anything better to do, at least she could unhitch the mules when she finally decided to come home.

Molly should have been at the meeting today. People were whispering that she and Jacqueline were unpatriotic. Hadn't President Wilson himself said that every able-bodied person should rally 'round the boys who were risking life and limb so far away from home?

Even Alice, Clyde's wife, was there, though she didn't have much spare time. She and Hannah were true farm women, not do-nothings like Molly. When their husbands went away to war, just like her own dear one did, they didn't whine. Instead, they ran their farms, raised their young'uns, and managed to scrape by without a man. It'd been hard, especially since the War had taken all the neighboring hired men, either overseas or to the cities.

She pushed through the back door and stopped. Something smelled queer, like perfume and blood. A stranger was here. Molly was in the kitchen instead of the parlor banging on that silly piano, and she'd shut the door to the guest room. Funny. They usually left it open, especially during warm weather, to let a good breeze circulate. It could get stuffy mighty fast, and it was already heating up right smart during the day.

“What's going on, Molly?” she said, because Molly looked like she was about to cry.

“It's Jacqueline. She's bleeding and I can't get it to stop. Eric must have hit her, and I didn't know what to do except bring her home.”

“Bleeding? Where?”

“On her forehead. Can you help her?”

You could bet your bottom dollar Molly couldn't doctor her, so she had to come in all tired from doing her civic duty and find the little slacker in her house worrying about a sick stranger. Lord have mercy.

“Let's go see.”

She and Molly found Jacqueline all cozied into Hannah's old bed, making herself right at home. Then she peeked under the towel on Jacqueline's head.

“Looks like it's almost bled itself out, but go fetch the sewing basket and a jar of honey, Molly. And look in the pantry where I keep all my jars of dried herbs. Bring me the one labeled
calendula
.”

Molly lit out like the house was on fire, and she cleaned up Jacqueline with the damp cloth so she could inspect the damage. Looked like the gash wasn't new. Somebody that barely knew how to thread a needle had sewed it up with big clumsy stitches a while back, and she must have hit it and broke it open again. No wonder she wore those bangs. It must have made an ugly scar.

“Here's what you asked for.” Molly stared at the jars she was holding like they were full of poison.

“Okay, Molly. Go to my room and look through my lace-making equipment. You'll see it in the very top of my old trunk. Mind you, don't meddle with anything else in there. It's private and none of your business. Find some white silk thread and a number nine needle. You know. The size I give you to embroider fancy stuff on linen handkerchiefs after I edge them with lace. I need a little bowl and a teaspoon too.”

Molly finally found what she needed. She didn't trust Molly to tie a good strong knot, so she did it herself and commenced to take four tiny stitches for each of the four big ones whoever had messed up Jacqueline's face had made. Didn't want to make 'em too small—might weaken the skin. She did a good job, if she had to say so herself. And Jacqueline didn't let out a peep, though it must have hurt like the dickens.

Molly looked like she'd pass out every time she poked a hole through Jacqueline's skin, but she just stood there and squeezed Jacqueline's hand so hard she was afraid she might have to reset the bones.

After she finished, she told Molly, “Untie the twine from around that herb jar.” She took the brown paper off the jar and fished out four or five petals of calendula she'd dried last fall. They were brown now, but back then they were bright as the sun. Most folks called 'em marigolds, but they were the best thing possible to help a body's skin heal.

She crushed them and mixed them with honey then spread them as thick as she could over the place and tied a clean bandage around Jacqueline's head.

When she finished, at least Jacqueline remembered her manners and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Russell.”

She sighed. Now she had to go rustle up some supper to feed the extra mouth Molly had saddled her with.

*

Mr. James arrived from the fields and patted Patrick on the shoulder. “How's my boy? What did you learn in school today?”

“Hi, Pa. I'm learning to read pretty good. Maybe I can read you a story before long. Guess what? A nice lady is visiting us.”

Mr. James looked at Molly with a question in his eyes.

“Mama let me carry the lady some potato soup,” Patrick said. “She woke up and ate a few bites. Then she went right back to sleep.”

Molly tried to explain what was going on, but Patrick was wound up. “Grandma doctored her and said she'll be okay. Mama said she needs to get a good night's sleep and rest here. She can stay, can't she? I'll help take care of her.”

She wanted to hug Patrick. “It's Jacqueline McCade he's going on about. Remember her from Easter Sunday? Looks like Eric hit her. You don't mind that I brought her home to stay with us awhile, do you?”

“Well, now.” Mr. James glanced at his mama, who stood at the stove with her stiff back to him. “I reckon she needs a little help, and it wouldn't be right if we didn't give it to her. Isn't that what you think, Ma? But it's hard for me to believe Eric would do something like that. Why, he's the most upstanding young man I ever knew.”

Mother Russell scowled. “Bunch of nonsense, if you ask me. Folks ought to take care of their own personal problems. Eric won't thank us for getting between him and his so-called wife. I sewed her up, but I didn't invite her in the first place.”

“I appreciate what you did, Mother Russell,” Molly said. “She's asleep right now, but she looks bad. Probably nothing serious, but I don't want to take a chance.”

“Ah, pshaw,” Mrs. Russell said. “Just another mouth to feed and extra work for us all. But I can't have the neighbors saying I'm not a good Christian woman. Have to set an example for those that don't have as much as we do.”

Mr. James looked relieved. He didn't like for his mama and her to quarrel. In spite of his fascination with war, he was a man of peace.

As she thanked her lucky stars for that, a truck pulled up the driveway. She knew exactly who it was.

*

The buzzing in Jaq's ears had faded. Now she felt like the voices in the distance came from actors on a stage and she was standing in the wings.

Eric: “Where's my wife? I've come to take her home.”

Mr. James: “You're not going near her. What happened between you two, Eric? I'm disappointed in you. Boy Jim would never lay a hand on a woman.”

Eric: “You need to get it through your head that I'm nothing like that character you admire so much. I've got a bad eye and have a hard time walking. I'm not worth a plug nickel.”

Mr. James: “Calm down, boy. Just tell me what's going on.”

Eric: “I've been hitting the bottle more than I should, sir. And late last night I had more than I could handle. I was gassed. Jaq asked me something—I don't even remember what—and before I knew it, I popped her one. I don't know what got into me. I've never hit a woman. She fell and I got out of there before I did anything else to her.”

Molly: “She hit her head, hard, and acts like she had a concussion. I don't know what happened, but she was in bed and acting strange when I went to your house this morning. Her forehead wouldn't quit bleeding, so Mother Russell had to sew it up.”

Eric: “Good grief. That's why Pop was looking at me so strange all day. He must have helped her. He fixed breakfast this morning—that was a mess. Even made us a lunch. Said Jaq was feeling poorly, but I had no idea how bad off she was.”

Mr. James: “Son, I don't think you meant to hurt your wife. But you need to stop looking for your manhood in a bottle. We all still believe in you. You need to heal. Our recruiters would love to have an experienced man like you in our own army to help the new men out.”

Eric: “You're right, sir. I'm sorry you had to get mixed up in all this, but I've learned my lesson. No more whiskey for me. Patrick, don't ever do anything bad like I have. And Miss Molly, thank you for tending to my wife. She's a fine woman, and I'd never hurt her on purpose. It's probably better if she stays here for a spell, if you don't mind. You can take care of her better than I can. And she most likely doesn't want to see me. I'll try to straighten myself out, and when she comes back, I swear on my mother's grave I'll never touch her again.”

Mr. James: “All right. Everyone deserves a second chance, but I'll be keeping a close eye on you, son. Putting down that bottle won't be easy, but you've got a lot to gain. Just remember that.”

Eric: “I will, sir. And thank you again, Miss Molly. Tell Jaq I'm really sorry, but when she's ready it'll be good to have her. You can let her know too that I've decided to go back and outfly Eddie Rickenbacker as soon as I get better. I have to prove I'm still the man everybody's always thought I was.”

Jacqueline was glad the play ended happily. How strange to be a character in such a melodrama. Maybe Eric would keep his promises to himself and to her after the way Mr. James had been so firm with him. He wouldn't want to lose face in the community, but she hoped he was just bluffing about going back to war. What would his father do without him? And what about her?

But she couldn't worry about that now. Snuggling into the feather mattress in the next room, she sighed and fell sound asleep for the first time since Eric hit her.

Mrs. Russell stood at the black wash pot in the backyard poking the clothes into the boiling water with her long wooden battling stick. The dirty-looking soap bubbles expanded then burst—kinda like her notions about Jacqueline.

That girl needed to get up out of that bed and start doing for herself. She'd laid around five whole days, and Molly said she just had a touch of fever now. She'd had a powerful thirst, so they gave her lots of water and made her eat as much as she could stomach. She'd cut her stitches out this morning and told her not to frown. Her eye was still purple, but she'd healed fast, probably because she was so young and feisty.

Maybe Eric had straightened himself out enough so she could think about going home
.

She
was
pitiful, hobbling like an old woman when she got up to use the slop jar. At least she'd kept those bangs combed back. Her forehead should look better in a month or so, and then she could start hiding her scar again. She kept offering to help but wasn't up to it just yet. She was hurt pretty bad.

“I'm ready,” Molly said as she poured the last bucketful of water she'd drawn from the well into the big number-three washtub. “I'll rinse the white clothes now, if you want, and you can start the darker ones. We're running a little low on lye soap. We need to make some more before the next washday.”

She wiped the sweat off her forehead and watched Molly fish the steaming clothes out of the boiling water with the battling stick and tote 'em over to the first rinse tub. It took her several trips, and all that time she acted like she ran the place, like she'd grown up washing clothes in the backyard and drawing all the well water they needed for it by hand.