Patchwork christmas, p.14
Patchwork Christmas, page 14
It didn’t make sense for Anna to have to stoop to tend Molly. “I’ll sleep on the trundle,” Jane said, then shoved it back beneath the bed with a grunt. She pulled Molly’s covers down, unbuttoned the borrowed nightshirt, and held it open while Anna spread a gooey concoction across Molly’s pale skin.
Molly made a face. “It stinks.”
Anna nodded. “Ja. Is gut. And soon better you will be.” She laid a double layer of soft flannel over the poultice, then nodded to Jane, who buttoned up the nightshirt. Anna pinned through the nightshirt to hold the flannel in place, and together the two women began to pile on the comforters.
“I’m hot,” Molly protested.
“You have fever,” Anna said. She produced a small bottle from her apron pocket and, pouring what looked like black sludge into a teaspoon, enticed Molly to take it. “This tastes not good,” she said. “But it will help stop the coughing. You can rest while I make soup for our supper.”
Molly shuddered as she swallowed. Her eyes opened wide. “It’s awful,” she croaked, and a tear slid out of the corner of one eye. She glanced over at Jane. “I want Katie.”
Even as Jane searched both their carpetbags, she suspected the truth. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Katie’s still on the train.” Tears threatened to spill down the child’s flushed cheeks. Jane rushed to reassure her. “I’m certain that kind porter, Henry—he has a little girl just about your age. He’ll know how important a special doll is. He’ll take good care of Katie.”
Molly sniffled. “I don’t want to go to Denver. I don’t like Mr. Huggins, and I don’t care about the department store windows and—and I want to go home.” She began to cry. “Why can’t Christmas be like always? Just you and me … and not some… stranger.” She began to cough again.
Anna stepped in with another teaspoonful of the dark sludge, and although Molly protested taking it, once it was down, both the tears and the coughing quickly subsided. She closed her eyes, and when Jane was certain she’d fallen asleep, she followed Anna into the main room. Anna had set the poultice bowl on a battered worktable positioned against one whitewashed wall. A couple of shelves above the table were laden with an assortment of colorful tins, small boxes, and blue-tinted Mason jars with zinc lids. Anna reached for a green tin as she said, “Is gut for her to sleep.” She pulled a chair out from the dining table and motioned for Jane to sit down.
For some reason, Jane felt the need to apologize for Molly’s outburst. “What you must think.”
Anna shrugged. “Is of no importance.” She pointed at Jane’s knee. “Please to show me.”
When Jane hesitated, Anna glanced toward the door. “Peter will not come until he sees in the window the lighted lamp.” Her voice sounded sad. “If he comes at all.” She sighed. “He is … how do you say it… shy.” She took the bottle of cough syrup out of her apron pocket and set it on the lower of the two shelves.
“I saw his face.” Jane blurted it out, then hastened to explain when Anna turned back to her with a concerned frown. “Molly was complaining about the bright light in your room when the sun came out earlier, so I went to pull the curtains closed. The horse—Molly shoved him, and Mr. Gruber stumbled into a snowdrift. The scarf fell away.” She took a deep breath. “It’ll be all right. I won’t let Molly be rude.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine what he’s been through.”
Anna nodded. She glanced toward the barn, and her eyes filled with tears. “The worst wounds you cannot see.” She seemed about to say more, but then she cleared her throat and motioned for Jane to lift her skirt while she retrieved a footstool. When she set it down, she patted the needlepoint surface.
With a grimace Jane lifted her foot onto the footstool and raised her skirt. When Anna touched a bit of the lace edging that had been one leg of Jane’s bloomers, she felt herself blushing. “I … uh … had to make do on the train.”
Anna chuckled. “Ja. That I see. Is gut.” She headed into the room where Molly was resting and returned with a sewing basket in hand. “Fräulein Molly sleeps.” She put one wrinkled hand to her bosom and inhaled deeply. “She breathes like so.” Opening the sewing basket, she handed Jane a pair of scissors and motioned to the makeshift wrapping. “Snip and undo, please. I have many ointments, but I must see to know which is best.”
Jane obeyed, snipping the makeshift wrap with trembling hands. Focusing on the knee seemed to make it hurt more. Or was she nervous about having mentioned Peter Gruber’s scarred face? As Anna poked and prodded the swollen joint, Jane said, “I didn’t mean to be rude. About Mr. Gruber. I only meant to say there’s no reason for him to—” She broke off. “It’s his home, after all. He shouldn’t be out in the cold because of Molly and me.”
Anna grasped Jane’s ankle and, ever so gently, helped her straighten her leg. “He does not stay out because of you.” Gently, she guided Jane to bend her knee. “He hides because of someone else.” When Jane grimaced and let out a little moan, the older woman nodded and let her rest the leg. Rubbing her hands together, Anna cupped Jane’s knee between her palms. The warmth felt wonderful, until Anna began to poke and prod. With each painful intake of breath or “Ouch!” Anna alternately nodded or apologized. Finally she let go and crossed the room to the shelf. Taking down a blue tin, she dipped two fingers in and spread something thick and golden over Jane’s swollen knee. “My Peter is hero,” she said as she worked. “Many men lived because of him. But he did not get away.” Her voice wavered. She shook her head. “What they did to my beautiful boy.”
“It must have been terrible,” Jane said.
Anna nodded. “But worse was to come.” She paused. “People don’t see hero. They see only … what they see.” She continued massaging Jane’s knee. “He was beautiful man, my son. And he was to marry.”
Jane sat quietly, no longer thinking about her sore knee.
“But after,” Anna said, “she could not see that man she loved. She was like everyone else. Everyone who sees only with eyes.”
Jane frowned. “She abandoned him?”
Nodding, Anna finished wrapping Jane’s knee. “I only tell you because—” She lowered her voice. “The child must not be frightened if she sees. He is good man. Only hiding inside. Like in folktale. What is seen hides truth. You understand, ja?”
Jane nodded. As Anna finished wrapping the knee, she said, “That’s what I keep telling Molly about Mr. Huggins. That we mustn’t judge by appearances. That he’s kind.” She paused. “We’ve been corresponding for some weeks now, and he sent tickets so that we could join him for Christmas. But Molly—” She broke off, took a deep breath. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. She’s just—we’ve had a bit of a hard time recently. Once she sees the possibilities—how much better things could be for her …” Jane’s voice trailed off. Did she sound mercenary?
Anna’s eyes shone with kindness. “Mothers do what is best for their kinder. Sometimes the kinder don’t understand. But still, we try to do what is best.”
Jane nodded. “Exactly. I’m only trying to do what’s best for Molly.” With a grimace, she rose to her feet. “My knee feels so much better. Please let me help you with supper.” She smiled. “Working in the cold used to make Molly’s father ravenous. I imagine Mr. Gruber is no different.” While she helped Anna with supper, she spoke of Stephen. His battle scars, his plans, his dreams … and his death.
By the time the lighted lamp appeared in the window, Peter’s stomach had stopped growling and begun to hurt. He’d shoveled the path to the outhouse first, then retreated to the barn, polishing the tack and brushing Molly until her coat shone. He’d combed her mane and tail until they rippled like corn silk, trimmed her hooves, fed the sow in the corner stall, shoveled out the chicken yard, and practically given himself a stiff neck hunkering in the henhouse to repair a couple of broken nesting boxes. He’d just begun to think about attacking the drift obscuring his bedroom window when the lighted lamp appeared. With a final look around the barn to make certain all was in order for the night, he made his way inside.
As quickly as possible, he shuttled into his room, laying coat, hat, scarf, and mittens across the foot of the narrow mattress. Taking a seat on the ladder-back chair by his bed, he pulled off his boots, sighing with relief as he pulled on fur-lined moccasins and wiggled his numb toes to get the circulation going again. That little stove in the barn wasn’t nearly as efficient as he’d claimed it was.
He dipped his hands in the bowl atop the little washstand beside the door, swiping them across his face and shuddering before reaching for a towel to dry off. Reaching for his comb, he glanced in the mirror. Did he always do that? He hadn’t noticed before, but did he always turn his head so that all he saw was what he wanted to forget? Odd that he chose to look at the bad side first.
He turned his head, almost surprised to see the unscarred side of his face. He remembered Priscilla’s giggle. “Why, Peter Gruber. You know why I had to have that dance. You were the handsomest man there, and I always dance with the handsomest man.” She’d laughed after saying it, and he’d told himself that silly talk was just the way girls were these days. Priscilla loved him. She was just—coy. That’s all it was. Except that wasn’t “all it was.” He hadn’t learned it until she’d come to the hospital. Mutti had been there for weeks. Priscilla, on the other hand … Priscilla had waited. And then … then she’d written the last letter.
Facing himself in the mirror, Peter compared sides and reminded himself to be thankful for Dr. Warren’s skill with reconstruction. He hadn’t been able to rebuild a cheekbone, but he’d done miracles nonetheless. Peter was luckier than a lot of men he’d seen during that long, nightmarish stay in the hospital. Movement in the doorway caught his attention, and Peter stepped back. Away. Dodging the light.
Mutti’s voice was kind, but a note of something sounded beneath the kindness. Care. Wariness, even. “The child still sleeps,” she said. “I have told Jane not to wake her. You come now.” She held out her hand. “Join us.” She turned back toward the main room. “I have put another lamp in the child’s room. I will be able to see better in the night.” She forced a chuckle. “We have only candles for supper. I hope you can see your way.”
Dear Mutti, trying her best to make things easier for everyone. Lowering the light so he could hide. He peered into the room, ever mindful of keeping the wounded side of his face turned away. Mrs. McClure was already seated, her foot propped up on the footstool.
“She wouldn’t let me help her,” she complained, pointing to the footstool. “But she obviously didn’t need help.” She leaned down and inhaled the aroma of the bowl of soup before her. And then she looked up at him and smiled. “If you’re like my Stephen always was, you’re hungry enough to eat a bear.” She paused. “I hope you won’t let the presence of strangers chase you out of your own home, Mr. Gruber.” Her voice wavered as she met his gaze. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how Molly and I will ever repay you.”
Peter sidestepped to hold Mutti’s chair as she sat down between Mrs. McClure and him. Once she was seated, he slid into his own chair, careful to position it so that “the bad half” was at least in the shadows.
Mutti reached out, inviting Mrs. McClure and Peter to take her hands. When they did, she bowed her head, praying in German. Peter wondered if their guest knew what was being said, if she knew that Mutti was invoking God’s healing hand on the sick child in the other room. It worried him a bit to hear how Mutti prayed. As if she was much more concerned about the child than she’d let on. He kept his head bowed, but finally managed a glance toward the other end of the table. Was Mrs. McClure taking the obvious opportunity to inspect his face?
She wasn’t. In fact, Mrs. McClure seemed to be praying, too, moving those lovely full lips— He stopped midthought, scolding himself for noticing. He closed his eyes, waiting for the “Amen.”
Chapter 6
Everything changed in the night. With a strangled cough, Molly began to sputter and cry, and Jane leaped to her feet, staggering momentarily on the trundle. She gazed at Molly, who lay wheezing, her eyes wide with fear as she struggled to breathe. Anna rushed into the room and turned the lamp up while Jane rolled the trundle out of the way. Leaning forward, Anna lifted Molly’s chin so that the girl would look at her. “Calm, mein liebling,” she said gently. “Stay calm for just a moment. Anna will make better soon.”
When Anna patted Jane’s shoulder and directed her to climb up and hold Molly, Jane felt steadied. She pulled Molly into her lap, and together they leaned against the high headboard. Jane stroked Molly’s dark hair, whispering comfort. “Shhh … shhh … it’s all right. Anna knows what to do.” Molly’s chest heaved with the effort to breathe while, out in the next room, Anna rattled about. She was stirring up the stove—Jane heard one of the round covers rattle as Anna slid it out of the way. And then Mr. Gruber’s voice.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Oh no. They’d awakened him. His deep voice sounded closer as he crossed the room to where his mother stood. “Here. Let me.”
Jane didn’t know what Mr. Gruber was doing, but at some point a cold blast of air indicated he’d opened the front door. “Is this enough?”
“Another washtub full,” Anna replied. “Melt it all while I warm up the poultice.” She paused. “A tent over the bed would be good.”
“I’ll get the old wagon cover.”
The moments crawled by. Was it her imagination, or was Molly’s breathing easing up a bit? Please, God … please.
“Mama …” Molly pulled her arm free. “Don’t hold so tight. It hurts.” The words came out clearly, but then another attack of sputtering and coughing wracked Molly’s thin frame, and she began to cry. “It hurts … it hurts.” She put her hand to her throat.
Jane began to rock back and forth in a vain attempt to comfort herself as much as Molly. “Show Mama where it hurts.” Molly lifted her chin and touched a spot just beneath her jawline. Terror rising, Jane felt beneath Molly’s chin and was nearly swallowed by dread. Swollen glands. Sore throat. Croupy cough. Fever. It might be nothing, she told herself. Just a cold. Admittedly a bad one, but not—that. She wouldn’t let herself think the word. If she allowed the word into her conscious mind, she’d be of no use to Molly, because she’d be too terrified to think clearly. “Shhh … shhh … it won’t be long now, and Anna will be here with more medicine. Remember how much better it made you feel?”
Molly nodded.
And Jane held on.
Peter scaled the ladder leading up to the barn loft and dragged the old wagon cover out of the corner, hoping that once he got it down where he could take a look, it wouldn’t be so covered with bird or mouse droppings that they didn’t dare use it. Back down below, his hands trembled as he unfolded and spread it out in the darkened walkway before lighting a lamp so that he could look it over. Once he’d lit the lamp, he bent low to inspect the canvas, relieved that a good brushing was all it would take to make it usable.
When his Molly thrust her great head over her stall door, Peter patted her soft muzzle on his way to the tack room to retrieve a broom. He swept the canvas cover briskly, then turned it over and cleaned the other side. Finally, back outside, he did his best to shake the dust off, mimicking Mutti when she hung sheets on the clothesline between the house and the barn—the clothesline now buried in a pile of snow.
While he worked, Peter was surprised to find himself thinking about God. Surely You didn’t bring them to Mutti to have the child d— No. He wouldn’t even think it. He would string the wagon canvas from the rafters and create a tent. Steam would relieve the child’s breathing, and she would get better. There was no need to be morbid. He would not think the word that had come to mind. He would not. And yet, as he remembered the sound of that cough, as he carried the wagon cover back inside, another word forced its way into his conscious mind. A word that represented a scourge to parents and, sometimes, to entire families. A word that had populated Buffalo County cemeteries with far too many children.
Diphtheria.
When Jane moved to settle Molly in the bed so she could help put up the tent, Mr. Gruber shook his head. “You’re doing what’s best. No one comforts like a mother. Mutti and I will take care of this. You stay with the child.”
So Jane remained beneath the covers, holding Molly, rocking her, humming, as Mr. Gruber positioned chairs around the bed. Anna helped him by standing on a chair and holding the canvas up while he rigged rope to the rafters above, and in moments Jane and Molly were surrounded by a stained canvas tent.
Anna ducked beneath it and into view, and while she directed him, Mr. Gruber positioned a small table on either side of the bed. “We will put pans of hot water here,” Anna said. She made circling motions with both hands. “We need steam, but you must be very careful so that no one is burned, ja?”
Jane nodded, and Anna disappeared. When she returned with more of the poultice, Jane unbuttoned Molly’s nightshirt while Anna applied more of the stinking concoction. This time Molly didn’t complain about the smell. In fact, she struggled to inhale the aroma, coughing and sputtering but fighting less. Anna had her take two teaspoons of the stuff in the brown bottle and left again.
“I have the hot water.” Mr. Gruber’s voice sounded from the other side of the canvas.
“We’re settled in,” Jane said, wrapping her arms around Molly, thankful for the shadows in the darkened room. Even if Molly opened her eyes, she wouldn’t notice the poor man’s scars.
In moments, Mr. Gruber had positioned two pots of steaming water beneath the tent. And finally Molly took a deep breath without coughing—without that horrible, terrifying, strangling sound.
Molly stirred and croaked, “I want Katie.”
“I know you do, sweetheart, but remember—”
“Who’s Katie?”
