A Death-Struck Year (15 page)

“Money.”

“Class.”

“Deodorant.”

“Knock it off,” Sergeant LaBouef said mildly. He looked at me. “The lieutenant’s bunking down in one of the dressing rooms.” He eyed the hamper. “Do you need a hand with that?”

I stepped back and shook my head, careful to keep my eyes trained on the sergeant. I gave him a weak smile. “Thank you. I’m fine.” Spinning on my heels, I left the stage with my dignity in tatters.

The door to the first dressing room stood wide open. Great bearlike snores emerged, loud enough to raise the rafters. I peeked in. Lights blazed around a mirror set above a dressing table. The tabletop suggested someone had left in a hurry. A jar of face powder lay overturned, its contents spilled across the surface. Pots of rouge and lipstick were scattered about, alongside bottles of perfume and at least a dozen cosmetic brushes. A towering white wig, the kind Marie Antoinette would have worn, perched atop a bust.

Across from the dressing table, a snoring figure occupied every inch of cot space and more. His stomach rolled off the sides. Although the top half of his face was hidden behind a black sleeping mask, I had no difficulty recognizing Dr. McAbee.

I crept by the room, frustration turning into annoyance. My shoulder ached. Where was Edmund?

The second dressing room door stood ajar, revealing a shadowed, silent interior. I stuck my head in. A long, lean figure lay on a cot, naked to his waist. Edmund. At my entrance, he flung an arm up to shield his eyes from the light pouring in behind me.

“I’m so sorry!” Grabbing the door, I started to pull it closed.

“Cleo, wait.”

Reluctantly, I waited just outside, listening to the rustling within. Wishing I had left Mr. Lafayette to deliver his own basket. I leaned against the wall, realizing I’d seen more naked male chests in the past five minutes than I had in my lifetime.

The door swung open. Edmund stood there in dark trousers, trying to shove an arm through a white shirt. My breath caught. Before he pulled the edges of the cloth closed, I glimpsed the puckered tissue marring his torso. The wounds were identical to the one on his hand. One disfigured the skin below his left shoulder; another formed an ugly tattoo above his navel. Two more spoiled the flesh just beneath his heart. I was right. He’d been shot. My stomach churned. Four bullet wounds, plus the one on his hand. How was he still standing?

“Hey.”

I blinked, blushing when I realized Edmund was watching me stare at his now-covered chest. His eyes were bleary and unfocused, and his hair stood above his head in wild brown tufts. Despite what I’d just seen, I could not help but smile.

“I’m very sorry,” I repeated, holding out the hamper. “This is for you. I didn’t want it to get cold.”

Edmund took the basket. I shook my arm out, relieved to finally be rid of it.

He peered in, flabbergasted. “Have you brought me dinner?” His voice was deeper than usual and scratchy from sleep.

I shook my head. “Mr. Lafayette was outside. He sends his regards. And your father wants you home for dinner on Sunday.”

Edmund smiled at this. He brought the hamper close to his nose and sniffed. “Ah, God bless Mrs. O’Reilly.” He looked up. “Thanks for this. Have you eaten?”

“I couldn’t eat your dinner.” Just then, my stomach betrayed me and rumbled. In the quiet, it sounded like a building had collapsed. I wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

Edmund studied me, unsmiling. “This morning, I wasn’t very . . . that is . . .” He trailed off, then sighed. “I’m a chump, Cleo.”

“Yes.”

His lips twitched, but his eyes were serious. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I wouldn’t have you upset for anything. I am sorry.”

I scuffed the tip of my boot against the floor. “I’m sorry I poked you.”

This time the smile reached his eyes. “Well, there was no harm done. So . . . truce?”

“Truce.”

Satisfied, he looked at the basket. “Then you’ll have dinner with me? Mrs. O’Reilly is my father’s cook. She always makes enough for an infantry.” He tipped the hamper so I could see it was filled with neatly wrapped packages.

“If you’re sure.”

“Great. I . . .” He ran a hand through his hair and winced, probably realizing what a sight he was. His rueful gaze met mine.

I laughed.

“Shhh!”
The surly command came from the first dressing room. I stared at Edmund, wide-eyed.

Edmund leaned close. “I’ll meet you on the upper balcony. Give me a few minutes?”

I agreed and retraced my steps, careful to tread lightly as I passed Dr. McAbee’s door.

Our seats were so high up, we nearly touched the rafters. Edmund and I unpacked the hamper, setting the packages on a wide ledge that ran across the front of the upper balcony. We took care not to set the food or china too close to the edge, not wanting anything to go tumbling onto the lower balcony. Or, worse, onto the sea of patients sleeping below.

I pulled my mask down. Unbuttoning my coat, I laid it across one of the red leather opera chairs. Then I surveyed the bounty before me in awe. I had expected a few sandwiches. Maybe some cookies. Instead, there was thinly sliced pheasant, generous servings of mashed potatoes and asparagus, and pears that smelled as if they’d been baked in maple syrup and cloves. A feast.

“What does Mrs. O’Reilly cook on special occasions?” I asked.

Edmund smiled. His hair had been ruthlessly tamed by a comb, though he hadn’t bothered with a lab coat. “She knows what they serve in the kitchens here. I think she feels sorry for me.”

He offered me a delicate white plate rimmed in silver, the kind usually reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Then, waiting until I’d filled it, he heaped a small mountain of food onto his own plate and settled beside me.

Mrs. O’Reilly was an artist. Edmund must have thought so too, because we both tucked in, neither of us bothering with conversation. I set my empty plate on the ledge within minutes. Edmund reached for seconds.

When he finally came up for air, Edmund set his plate aside, then fell back into his chair with a sigh. His shirtsleeves were rolled up just beneath his elbows. I studied his wristwatch with interest. Sergeant LaBouef had worn one too, I recalled, but prior to that, the only wristwatches I’d seen had been worn by women. Slim, delicate pieces. Edmund’s watch looked nothing like those. The band was much wider, for one, and the silver looked battered. This watch had undergone some rough use.

“Is that comfortable?” I asked, indicating his watch.

“It’s taken some getting used to,” he said, a little self-conscious. “I still reach for my pocket watch sometimes. But it’s more convenient.” He indicated my plate. “Feel better?”

“Yes. Thank you. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

He frowned. “I heard about what happened at the market,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry for it, Cleo.”

I took my time before responding. “Hannah said he was only twenty-one.”

“I heard, yes.”

“How old are you, Edmund?”

The silence went on for so long I thought he would not answer. “I’m twenty-one . . . Cleo . . .”

I looked away. “Kate won’t be back tomorrow.”

“No? It’s hard to blame her.”

“She said something earlier, about running out of luck. About tempting fate. And I wonder now if that’s true. Like you, for example.”

He glanced over, surprised. “What about me?”

“Well, Kate said you were hurt in France. You haven’t been out of the hospital very long, have you?” I stopped, realizing I was being rude. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that I saw your other bullet wounds backstage, and I—”

“I wasn’t shot, Cleo.”

I looked at his hand, mystified. What else could it be? “What do you mean?”

He glanced at his scar, frowning. “I was on patrol one day. I had an unlucky encounter with a German cat stabber.” He shrugged. “So they sent me home.”

“A cat stabber?”

“A bayonet.”

I was rendered speechless. Sickened, I imagined Edmund curled up on the ground, trying to fend off a long, thin blade. Failing five times. “This is what I’m trying to say!” I sputtered. “You were stabbed by a . . . a bayonet. And now you’re working in a flu hospital. You’re pushing your luck. You shouldn’t be here.”

He smiled then. I bristled. Of course he’d have a laugh at my expense while I tried to have a deep philosophical discussion.

He held up one hand in peace. “I’m not laughing at you. But you’re starting to sound like me.” He gave me a pointed look. “
You
shouldn’t be here.”

I looked away. I did not discuss my parents with anyone. Not with strangers, not with friends. But suddenly, it was very important that he understand. “There’s an old road near Zigzag,” I said. “It runs by a ravine with a giant fir tree growing from it. Do you know it?”

He straightened. Alerted by my tone, or by my question, I didn’t know which. “Yes.”

I focused on the stage curtain. “When I was six, my parents attended a party given by one of my father’s clients. I was usually left at home with our housekeeper, but these clients had small children. I was allowed to dine with Alice and Peter in their nursery. I remember feeling very grown-up.”

I watched as the curtain shifted to and fro, nudged by unseen soldiers. “The rain started soon after we left. It was the kind of rain that came at you sideways and left the roads great big muddy rivers. Our driver, Mr. Logan, lost control of the horses.”

I felt Edmund’s stillness beside me.

“One moment I was falling asleep against my mother’s side, and the next our carriage had plunged off the road, down the ravine, and into that old tree. My father and Mr. Logan were killed instantly. And the horses. I was unhurt but for a few scratches.”

I had not spoken of the accident in years. And then only to Jack and Lucy. The images were washed-out, like an old sepia photograph, but the sounds refused to dim. I remembered my father’s shout and the frantic neighing of the horses.

I remembered my mother screaming.

“It was very late when we set off. No one saw the accident.”

A silence fell and lingered.

“How long were you in the carriage?” Edmund asked quietly. “Before someone found you?”

I looked at him. “No one found me. I waited all night. Until my mother . . . until she passed on. It was morning, and the rain had finally stopped. I climbed out of the carriage, out of the ravine, and walked until I found help.”

I had walked for miles, keeping Mount Hood in my sight. Numb with grief and shock. Shivering with cold. A farmhouse had appeared around a bend. A giant, grizzled man had answered my knock with a pipe cradled in one hand. He had stared at my bloodstained dress, at the cuts on my face, before turning and yelling,
“Martha!”

My breath hitched at the memory. I didn’t realize how hard I gripped the armrest until Edmund covered my hand with his. Silver glinted off his wrist, and his skin was warm and callused. He said nothing, only laced his fingers through mine, carefully tracing the side of my palm with his thumb. The gentle rhythm of it steadied me, until, gradually, I felt the tightness in my chest ease. I tilted my head back to look at him.

“You wonder why I stay,” I said. “Sometimes I wonder too. But I hate to think of a child, of anyone really, lying somewhere sick and scared, waiting for help that does not come.”

Tuesday, October 15, 1918

The morning dawned damp and gloomy. Green, gray, wet. But as I stopped the car outside the Auditorium, I felt my spirits lift. Like the first hint of sun after a storm.

Kate stood at the top of the steps, dressed for warmth in a blue coat and hat. A black umbrella kept the raindrops at bay. Her Red Cross bag rested against her boots. She spotted me and clambered down the stairs. The passenger door swung open.

“Morning, Cleo.”

“Hi.”

She climbed in and tossed her bag and umbrella onto the rear seat. I eyed the paper sack in her hand.

“Blueberry?” I asked.

“Cinnamon,” she said, apologetic. She tipped the bag so I could see the cinnamon cakes. “It was all they had.” She tugged her gloves free and removed one cake, showering the seat with sugar and crumbs. “I saw Hannah. She wants us to stop off at the library first. One of the librarians is sick. And then we’re to spend the morning in St. John’s. I have the addresses.” She set the paper sack beside me.

“Thank you.” I paused. “Kate, I’m glad you’re here.”

Kate looked rueful. “Well, I’m hardly Florence Nightingale. My mother won’t allow us to sit at home and do nothing. So. I could spend the day with you. I could mind my brothers and sisters all day. Or I could help my father and Ruby with the cows at the dairy. You win, Cleo.”

I laughed.

“This is for you.” Kate tugged something from her coat pocket. She held it up. I thought it was one of our influenza brochures, a little rumpled, but when I looked at the cover, it read:
FAMILY LIMITATION
BY MARGARET SANGER
.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“The lady who wrote about birth control. Remember? I found Waverley’s old copy.”

I snatched the pamphlet and shoved it deep into my coat pocket.

Kate laughed. “Oh, and Hannah wants to see you before you leave today. I’m to tell you that you are absolutely not to go home without checking with her. Once in the morning and once at night.”

I glanced over, perplexed. “Why?”

Kate shrugged. “I guess she found out your family was stuck in San Francisco.” She saw my look. “I didn’t tell her! I didn’t breathe a word.”

“Sorry.”

It bothers me that no one is watching out for you.

I shook my head, exasperation mingling with affection. He was consistent at least. I was glad Kate didn’t notice the color rising to my cheeks. Smiling a little, I looked once over my shoulder and pulled the car into the street.

“Why would the library still be open?” I asked. “Who needs a book that badly?”

“Lots of people, I guess. Look,” Kate said.

We were standing on the sidewalk at the bottom of the public library steps. A trio had just emerged from the three-story Georgian building: two men and a woman, their arms full of books. To the right of the doors, an old man sat on a bench with a book held close to his nose. A small dog slept by his feet.