A Timely Concerto (16 page)

“Okay,” Lillian sniffed, wondering just how they would send hot beverages. “Can I do something to help? I could make the biscuits.”

“You can if you want,” Shugie said. “But you’d best run upstairs and get dressed first. I don’t know what ladies do when you come from but here; nice ladies don’t run around in their night clothes.”

“Okay, I will,” Lillian said.

When she returned, Papa was in the kitchen with Shugie, enjoying his first cup of coffee. He glanced up with surprise when she entered.

“Good morning, daughter. Whatever are you doing up so early?” he said.

“I was hoping Howard might be home.”

He shook his head. “He is still at the farm.”

He didn’t seem worried but that didn’t ease Lillian’s fears. She knew about events that had taken place that he did not.

“I’m worried about him,” she admitted. “It’s so cold and he has such a cough.”

Papa snorted and then smiled. “Don’t fret about Howard. He will be fine; he never gets sick and he’s strong as a dray horse. He has worked in the cold many times before.”

His calm confidence made her want to cry and she could only imagine how hard Howard’s death had hit his parents. She couldn’t think of anything to say and when he excused himself for his morning constitutional, Lillian was relieved.

“Miss Lillian, did you say you was making the biscuits?” Shugie said.
She nodded; glad to have work for her hands to occupy her thoughts.

“Then come over here and get started,” Shugie said.

Lillian made the biscuits and while they baked, Shugie taught her how to make milk gravy. Shugie fried up fresh sausage, one of the items tucked into the bundles she brought and Lillian, who had been sure she would have no appetite, became very hungry. Just as she pulled the browned biscuits from the oven, hoof beats tattooed up the narrow path behind the house, Howard’s back entrance when he returned from the farm. Lillian glanced out just in time to see Duke, Howard’s favorite bay mare, pass the window and would have run out to meet him if Shugie hadn’t grasped her skirt.

“Don’t you run out in that cold,” Shugie hissed in her ear. “Howard will be in here in a minute. Pour him his coffee; he takes his black with three sugars.”

She knew that but she didn’t fuss; she poured the coffee and sweetened it so that when he came through the back door, shivering with the frigid temperatures, it was ready.

“Good morning, dear heart,” he said, in a voice that sounded hoarse. “Is that coffee? Thank you.”

“Shugie made it.”

“God bless her,” Howard said, sipping from the graniteware cup. “I am freezing.”

He was; she could see the fine trembling that shook his sturdy frame. Lillian took his hand and it was so cold, it could have been made of snow.

“Come sit by the stove, Howard.” The large wood-burning range was huge and filled one end of the big kitchen. With a good fire in the box, it kept the kitchen almost hot, so much that Lillian felt over warm but he nodded and sat in the chair she placed near one end of the stove, out of Shugie’s way.

She watched him drink the coffee and refilled his cup when it was empty. After the third cup, he stopped shivering but he complained he remained cold. Although they seldom took their meals in the kitchen, he ate Lillian’s biscuits and gravy with sausage at the kitchen table, more for work than dining. He did not remove any of his garments, not even the outer layers. Lillian ate with him, staring at him as if she could will him to be warm or to stay well. He suffered several coughing fits but insisted he was fine.

“You must be so tired,” Lillian said, standing behind his chair with one hand resting on his shoulder. “Why don’t you come up and see if you can sleep awhile?”

He shook his head, mouth full of biscuit.

“Darling, I can’t. I need to return to the farm. The sun is shining and the temperatures seem to be rising. The hands need both my direction and help. If I can, I will come home at dinner to stay.”

Howard sounded strong; she hoped that he was. Maybe, she thought, somehow, none of it would happen and their life would go on uninterrupted. She felt as tired as he looked, with the dark circles under both eyes and the fatigue lines etched in his face like embroidery. When he finished breakfast and headed back to the farm, without once removing his coat, Lillian went upstairs, lay down, and slept until noon.

Waiting for the inevitable felt like watching a tornado moving across an open plain, certain that it was come to wreak havoc yet be powerless to stop it. There was the same stillness, the motionless air and the helplessness. Lillian worried too much but Howard would not admit he felt less than hale. When Shugie mixed up a hot toddy that combined whiskey, raw eggs, peppermint, horehound, sugar, and tea, Howard drank it though he would not touch alcohol of any kind in normal circumstances. That alone indicated he did not feel well. Maggie became anxious too but Howard’s parents refused to see that he was poorly. He admitted to still being cold but no more, despite a nagging cough and clogged nose.

Temperatures warmed to above freezing early in the week and Lillian hoped that it might give him a chance to rest but frigid air returned midweek and Howard returned to his grueling defense at the farm. Lillian watched his slow, aching movements, listened to his wheezing chest, and noted how his appetite waned. By the end of the week, he picked at his food and complained of a persistent, pervasive chill. Each time he came home, she checked for fever but his skin remained cool. On Friday, though, he ate almost nothing at breakfast but downed numerous cups of coffee.

“Don’t you feel well, Howard?” Lillian asked, forming the words with ice forming around her heart that expanded until it filled both throat and mouth.

He looked at her across the table with eyes that seemed too bright.

“How many times must I tell you that I am perfectly fine?” His tone was sharper than any he had ever used with her. “Your condition must cause you to be maudlin, Lillian.”

Stung by his harsh voice, she said nothing but watched as he tossed down his napkin and stalked out of the dining room. His footfalls echoed in dread rhythms as he tromped through the kitchen and through the back door, the twang of the screen door’s heavy spring reverberating through her soul like a tolling bell.

“I suppose he is off to the farm,” Maggie said, her voice high with false cheer.

“I am sure that he is,” Mama Speakman said, with placid calm. “Lillian, you mustn’t nag him so.”

Lillian stared at them all, and then burst into tears, sobbing into her hands as she covered her face. She heard their murmurs, their concerned chatter, their questions as if from far away and it was dear, kind Shugie was led her away from the table and walked her upstairs.

“They don’t understand,” Lillian wailed in the privacy of her bedroom. “Why aren’t they worried too, Shugie?”

“They don’t want to see what’s plain,” Shugie said. “He can’t go on much longer, though. Then we’ll tend to him, me and you, and this will all be over.”

Lillian knew Shugie meant to comfort her but her words had such a final sound that she wept again, sobbing until Shugie grasped her shoulders.

“You stop that, Miss Lillian. It ain’t good for the baby and Mister Howard’s going to need you so you got to be strong.”

That dried her tears but it did not ease the weight she carried because she knew it was true – Howard would need her.

He failed to come home at noon and he was late for supper. They held the meal for as long as possible but at last, they sat down to eat, without him. He did not come until almost bedtime, exhausted and wan-faced. Wary of his tongue, Lillian said nothing about his health but greeted him. He had little to say to anyone before retiring for the night. During those long hours when she should have been sleeping, Lillian touched him often, finding him warm. When she did sleep, it was near morning and she woke to the sound of his voice, urgent and raspy.

“Lillian, dear heart, wake up,” Howard croaked.

She cast off the thickness of sleep in seconds.

“What’s the matter?” Something was, she had no doubt.

“I don’t feel well at all,” Howard said, pausing to cough with such force that the heavy bed trembled. “I don’t believe I can go to the farm today.”

Fear ignited within her like a bottle rocket falling into drought dry leaves but she tried to keep her voice steady.

“Tell me how you feel, what’s wrong, Howard.”

He coughed again and spat into a handkerchief he grabbed from the bedside table.

“I feel very weak, darling, and I feel as if it is difficult to breathe. When I cough, it hurts my chest and I am spitting up some very nasty stuff. I have been so cold but sometimes, like now, I am so hot I feel like my skin is on fire.”

Those were the symptoms of pneumonia and it was obvious he was sick. She was afraid to touch him, frightened that the fever heat would confirm it but she had to and so she put her hand to his forehead. Beneath her cool fingers, he burned.

“I think you have pneumonia after all,” Lillian told him, her voice level and calm despite the inner storms that raged. “Was it like this before?”

A coughing spell racked him and left him breathless for several minutes afterward.

“I think so. Darling, it has been hard to remember these last few days. I have felt so very ill that thought took great effort.”

“Why didn’t you say so? You kept telling me you were fine.” She was either angry or on the verge of a weeping spell but she couldn’t decide which.

Howard sighed and shut his eyes as if the effort was just too great.

“I wanted to be fine, dearest. I am sorry that I am not. I believed that I could overcome it.”

A thousand ifs ran through her mind. If he had stayed home, if he had rested, if he had not pushed himself to such limits in the extreme cold, if he admitted how he felt, then maybe this illness might have been preventable. However, he had not and she had to deal with this reality.

“You will, Howard,” she said. “Let me help you get comfortable and we’ll get you back to feeling better.”

The covers were in knots around him where he had struggled with chills and coughing so she straightened the bedclothes, smoothed them around him. Lillian took all the pillows and put them behind his head and shoulders, propping him up higher so that maybe he could breathe easier. Her nursing knowledge was very limited but she thought she should wipe his face with a cool, wet cloth and then refresh it before placing it across his forehead. She tried that.

“Thank you, darling. That helps.”

Lillian sat on the edge of the bed and faced him. He looked terrible, so pale and sick. Although he tried to smile at her, she could see it took effort and when he shut his eyes, she thought it was because he lacked the strength to keep them open.

“Lillian.”

“Yes, my love?”

“You know that I love you,” Howard said. “If I should die, again, then I will leave this life a happy man because of you, secure in the knowledge that I leave a child behind.”

Tears burst out from her eyes, sobs ripped from her throat but she swallowed them, hard.

“You won’t die.” Her voice was not calm any longer. “You won’t. I have the medicine.”

He nodded or she thought he did but he began coughing, harsh, racking paroxysms that shook his sturdy body like a spring flower in thunderstorm winds. He reached out and grasped her hand in his fever hot one.

Lillian did not hear the bedroom door open but Maggie appeared at her side, a vision in black, like some death angel, beside her.

“Is Howard all right?” Maggie asked although the answer must be obvious.

“No,” Lillian spat out the word. “He’s very sick. Will you go get Shugie, please?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Shugie will be busy in the kitchen. I am well versed in nursing and I can help you. You should get dressed, though, Lillian, before anyone else comes into the room.”

The proprieties did not matter but she nodded, then snatched up clothing and carried it into the bathroom to dress in private. She didn’t bother with her hair and when she emerged, Maggie glanced up from the chair she had pulled up beside Howard’s side of the bed.

“I think he might be sleeping,” Maggie said. “Your hair is a mess, Lillian. Let me braid it for you.”

She rose to give Lillian the seat and found the comb, running it through Lillian’s thick hair until it was smooth. With nimble fingers, she braided it into one single tail. It took just minutes to accomplish and as she finished, Howard opened his eyes.

“I’m not asleep,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Maggie, would you tell my parents that I am ill?”

“Yes, I will do that,” Maggie said, bustling out of the room with her ill tidings.

Lillian touched Howard’s cheek and it was still fevered, maybe even hotter than before. She refreshed the cloth and replaced it on his forehead.

“Are you thirsty, Howard?” She asked.

He nodded, coughing. The rough bark sounded like it hurt.

“I will go down and bring you something to drink. Do you want something cold or would you prefer something hot?”

“Don’t go,” Howard said, opening his eyes to look at her. “Someone else can bring me something, dearest. I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Then I’ll stay, Howard. As soon as you have something to drink, I’ll get the pills out and give you one to get started. The Keflex will knock out that pneumonia and you will get better soon.”

“That sounds capital.” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear but he grasped her hand, holding it tightly. “Just stay with me, dear heart.”

“I will, honey,” Lillian used endearments with a frugal hand. Although Howard used them often to her and she adored hearing them, she kept hers for special moments. Every time she said his name, Howard, her voice caressed it so that it too sounded like a loving word.

Maggie pushed open the bedroom door with force, followed by Howard’s parents who gathered around the bed.

“Howard, Maggie tells us that you are ill,” Papa Speakman said from the foot of the bed.

“Father, I am,” Howard croaked.

“Oh, dear, what shall we do?” Anna said, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “What ails you, Howard?”

He began coughing and tried to rise up on one elbow. Lillian put a clean handkerchief in his hand and put her arms around him so that he could sit up.

“He has pneumonia,” she said, her voice quavering as the force of his coughing shook her body.

Mama began to cry with audible sobs that made Howard stir, restless and uneasy.

“Mother, don’t cry,” he said.

“Hush, Howard,” Lillian told him. “Don’t get upset. Lie back down and try to rest.”

She settled him back, plumping up pillows behind him, and straightening the covers over him.

“No crying, Mama,” Papa Speakman said. “Our son will be fine. He’s strong and hale. He will be better in a day or so.”

Mama shook her head.

“I have seen strong men carried off by the pneumonia in hours,” she wept. “Our poor, dear Howard may be one of them.”

Even though she had anticipated it with dread, this experience felt like a nightmare. Lillian squelched an urge to scream but found her voice to speak calm reason.

“Please don’t say such things, Mama,” she said. “And don’t cry. It’s upsetting Howard and he needs to be calm so he can focus on getting well again.”

“Pneumonia is one of the top five causes of death in the United States today,” Maggie added. “I believe it is second only to consumption. I read about it in the
Illustrated American
a few months ago. Should I send for Dr. Lamson, Aunt Anna?”

Howard’s mother wrung her hands together as she stared at her son and if she heard Maggie’s question, she did not answer. Papa Speakman turned to his niece, however, and frowned.

“There is no need to call in a doctor, Maggie. There is little a doctor could do that we cannot and it is not needed, not at this time.”

“Well!” Maggie said, sounding offended. “I never heard such a thing. Why, if a doctor could help Howard, I would think that you would want one but if not, then I will roll up my sleeves and do whatever we must.”

“We must prepare the sickroom,” Mama said, with her emotions under control. “I don’t know if we should move out all the furniture or not but we must clear out anything unnecessary. What do you think, Lillian dear?”

She had no idea. No one had a sick room at home in her time; either you were sick and lay on the couch watching television or you went to the hospital where a sterile, professional environment was the norm. Even though her field had been history, her notions about what a proper sick room included were vague. Lillian tried to remember any snippet of information and came up with a few stray remembered facts.

“I don’t think we need to remove most of the furniture,” she said, picking her words with care. “That’s the old-fashioned way, isn’t it? I think we just need to keep the room comfortable and warm. It might help to have a basin of water beside the bed and he could really use something to drink.”

“Yes, I believe you are right,” Mama said. “We will be on hand to share the nursing duties, my dear. Maggie is quite experienced and some of the ladies that we know will be here to help as well.”

“I will excuse myself now, ladies, and leave Howard’s care in your capable hands,” Papa Speakman said, looking relieved as he hurried away.