Fleetie's Crossing Read online

  He adored her and expected me and the rest of the world for that matter to take care of her. Somehow or other, he didn’t reckon that parents were the “taking care of” ones and that I was the one who was supposed to be taken care of. Not in our house. I was supposed to “take care of your Mother, hear me?” It was his mantra, and to me, it became as important as holy writ.

  “Rachel, did you know she had been feeling sick since yesterday morning?”

  “That’s what she said last night when she asked me to give Logan his bath.”

  “And you didn’t think that was important enough for you to tell me? You know she never complains. Is this the way you take care of your mother?”

  I was determined not to cry, but I pretty well figured that Mother would be mad if I told Daddy she was sick. I clinched my teeth so no answer would have a chance of coming out of my mouth. I had learned from painful experience that anything I said would be wrong, so I just stood there, waiting.

  “I am going to town and see if I can get Dr. Parks to come out before his office hours. Feed the kids, and get Jane to the bus stop. You’ll have to stay home today and take care of your mother. Watch her close, and let me know everything that goes on with her. And I better not hear of you holding anything else back. Hear me?”

  “Yes, sir, I hear. Do you think Dr. Parks will come this morning?”

  “Probably not, but it can’t hurt to ask.”

  He left the house at least an hour earlier than his usual time. I guessed it was because he was planning to catch the doctor on his way to his office. Daddy’s office and the doctors’ offices were in adjoining buildings, and he might see Dr. Parks in the shared parking lot.

  I fixed breakfast without ham. Bacon, toast, cereal, and orange juice would have to do today. Jane brought her clothes to the kitchen and dressed so I could help her with her back buttons and shoestrings. I hurried her because we had to get started so she could cover the half mile across the valley to catch the public bus. Our school did not have buses. In fact, none of the schools in the whole county had buses. If you didn’t walk, get a ride, or take your horse, you stayed home. Since none of us wanted to stay home, where the work was twice as hard, we walked without complaint.

  Jane was only six, but she had walked it every day since school started, and there was no reason she couldn’t cover the distance on her own. Logan was still in his sleepers, and I wasn’t about to drag him all that way for nothing. Besides that, I needed to go to the back bedroom and see if I could help Mother. Daddy mostly stayed pretty wary of me and my motives, but Mother, on the other hand, always expected me to be her big girl. Daddy was so high and mighty, handing out orders to take care of Mother. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t know there was nothing in the world that I wanted to do more. I didn’t need any reminder.

  Jane didn’t fuss about going alone, which was a surprise, and as she walked out the door with her first reader tucked in her arm, I gave her a hug, but I was careful to pull away, while she was still feeling brave. “Don’t forget, Daddy will bring you home. Here is a dime, and since you get to walk to his office, you can stop at Creech Drug on the way and get ice cream.”

  First, she grinned at the dime, but then her bottom lip looked as though it might quiver, so I closed the door. I watched her through the window as she went down the steps one at a time. Her little fat legs gave her a steady stop on each. I almost ran after her, but I had to take care of Logan too. She would be fine, I knew, and if she was a little shaky today, it was because Mother’s illness didn’t sit well with any of us. Mother was so slender, you just can’t help but know she had something of a light hold on solid ground anyway. On the other hand, Fleetie seemed sound and strong as if it would take more than a passing wind to move her, but not Mother. She did not seem sickly, but when she was ill, it took a long time before she was her old self again.

  I brewed a cup of tea and made some broiler toast. While it was browning, I pulled down Mother’s good tray from the top shelf and spread a cloth napkin in the middle. I added a glass of orange juice to the tea and toast and walked it down the hall to her room.

  Her eyes were closed, but as I turned to go back to the kitchen, she whispered, “Where is Jane?”

  I put the tray down beside her and pulled up a chair so I could sit near the bed. “Jane is on her way to school on the bus, and Logan is still asleep. Daddy has gone to get Dr. Parks. I am sorry you are sick.”

  Mother smiled, but it hurt her to talk. We were quiet as she drank the juice first and then her tea. She nibbled at the toast at first, but she pointed to her throat and shook her head. When she finished her tea, I moved the tray and left it on the chair while I straightened the covers and plumped the pillow. Before I finished, her eyes closed again, and soon, her regular breathing told me she was asleep. I pulled the cover up to her chin and felt to see if she felt hot, and she did. Someone in our family always measured how sick we were by how hot we felt, and from the heat I felt in my hand, I knew Mother was going to be sick a long time.

  It was a long day of waiting. The hands on the yellow kitchen clock seemed stuck. Mother slept most of the day, and I fed Logan his lunch of noodle soup and played endless games of ninny-byes with him. He had, several months ago, called his little cars ninny-byes, and the name stuck. Both of us had tiptoed to the bedroom door almost every hour to see about Mother. I even fixed a lunch tray with more toast and tea, but she couldn’t wake up long enough to eat it. Fever does that. She didn’t say anything about bad dreams, but I could hear her softly moaning as if she was in pain.

  The doctor didn’t get to our house until almost suppertime. I was in the kitchen, making cornbread, when his jeep finally bounced up our long rutted driveway. Daddy was already on the front porch by the time I put the spoon down and got to the front door. The two of us stood there as we watched him climb the front steps, carrying his black bag. His stethoscope poked itself out of his jacket pocket, the silver earpieces ready to listen for trouble.

  Doctors only came to our house when things were miserable, and they brought the black bag that had even more trouble tucked inside. In times past, I had seen things pulled out of that bag the doctor used to probe, cut, and stick. There were green bottles with liquids that tasted like poison and very well could have been as far as I knew. Standing behind Daddy seemed somehow safer than facing the doctor alone. Although I knew if the doctor said shots were needed, it wouldn’t matter if I was standing behind the preacher or even God. The doctor would find me.

  “Evening, Doc. Glad you could get to us. Katie’s hot as fire and pale as the sheets.”

  “How about you let me see her, Ed? Unless you’ve got it all figured out yourself, and then I can just get on back to town.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or if he was irritated because Daddy tried to tell him about Mother’s condition. Dr. Parks was short with most people all the time. I thought it was because he was mad at them for getting sick and making him drive out to take care of them.

  Daddy held the door, and Dr. Parks stepped across the threshold and walked through the living room and the kitchen and down the long hall to the bedroom. He closed the door firmly, blocking both Daddy and me from going in with him. It was one of the few times I ever saw my Daddy bossed around by anybody. Everyone I knew acted like Daddy was some kind of king or something, and no one would ever think to tell him what to or not to do. Dr. Parks was pretty briggedy if you ask me, but of course, no one was about to ask me anything.

  Daddy’s good manners guaranteed that he would do exactly what Dr. Parks said to do. He might be grumpy, but when a doctor walked in your door, he carried with them the hope that his patient would get well. Whether they were cross or jolly, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the magic they carried in their fingers and their scary black bag.

  It was not long before he called, “Ed, I need to talk to you.”

  Daddy
stepped into the bedroom and took two steps toward the bed.

  “Don’t get too close. There it is, diphtheria, and I thought I had about seen the last of this damn scourge. Where the hell did she pick this up?”

  Daddy almost growled, “That cursed flood. There was no way to keep her out of that muck. She was constantly hauling food and clean clothes down there and finding ways to help. That has to be where she was exposed.”

  “Not likely, Ed. Nobody at the foot of the hill is down with diphtheria. They’re all immune. Hardscrabble living does that. Homegrown DPT. We don’t have to be concerned that Kathleen is in terrible danger. She has been vaccinated, so this should be a fairly light case, but she’s thirty-three, and it won’t seem light. Just to be safe, I’ve got to slap a quarantine sign on this house before I leave. No outside help. No one in, no one out.”

  “Damn it, Doc, I’ve got cases to try, and with this strike on, I can’t be holed up here like a scared rabbit. Too much hangs in the balance for the men, and I have to get to the office. Everybody can just keep their distance if they are nervous.”

  “There’s provision for hardship—I’ll stop by the Health Department and tell Dr. Craft to put a department stamp on it tomorrow. But no one else. Rachel’s almost grown, and she can pitch in. I’m going to inject the kids with a DPT booster. How old is that baby boy now?”

  “He’s two and talking up a storm. He’s something else.” You could hear the pride in Daddy’s voice as he smiled the first time that day. Logan was almost three, but Daddy couldn’t keep up with our ages. Logan was indeed the family’s pride and joy, a boy after two girls. He was an instant hit with Mother and Daddy. Even Janey liked him at first. I guess that would change when he gets older, but for now, he was a big favorite.

  The black bag slapped shut, and I shuddered as I watched Dr. Parks measure three doses of DPT into hypodermic needles. “I need to give the kids a round of this. It might be late, but it can’t hurt.” He winked at Daddy and raised his voice. “Rachel, I’ll take you first, while your Daddy chases the other two in here. We can’t have you getting sick with this stuff. You have to step in and take care of your mother and the little kids.”

  In spite of how much I dreaded a needle and shots, all of a sudden, I knew if I was old enough to take care of the family, I had to take my shot with my mouth shut.

  To distract me, Dr. Parks started talking. “I’ve got to get on and see about one of the Sargeant children before dark. I’m afraid it will be another round of pneumonia. If I don’t miss my guess, Burl is drinking again, trying to drown his sorrows over the flood and the strike. Fleetie and the kids are getting the worst of his blasted temper. He’ll be paying for a funeral if he isn’t careful.”

  Dr. Parks kept mumbling about Burl’s mean spirit as he stood up and reached for my arm. I felt as though every cell in my body had condensed as I tried to think myself invisible. The very sound of his voice mixed with the smell of alcohol and his cigar smoke screamed danger. He plunged the needle into my arm, and somehow, I managed not to yell. It wasn’t going to help if I started the two little kids crying. My brave attempt to save them didn’t matter because Jane started crying just as soon as she saw the doctor, and Logan howled just in case something bad was about to happen.

  A muffled rasp from beneath the piles of sick bed coverings pled our case. “Dr. Parks, don’t! Logan just had his DPT three months ago.”

  But there was no saving us. Dr. Big Chief Medicine did not take chances on a disease that did its worst in the wicked black hours before dawn.

  “Ed, see that she drinks pitchers of water. I am leaving some pills that will make her groggy for a few days. She should take them and some aspirin for the fever. Kathleen, try to eat something three times a day. Stay in the bed and out of drafts. This one can weaken adult heart muscle. Don’t cheat. Rachel can take care of the the kids.”

  I could feel myself getting taller. It would not be long before I discovered that the rush of pride I felt at this tantalizing new responsibility was the only ego trip I would get out of this. Trouble was brewing.

  With that, Dr. Parks slammed out the side door, stomped down the flagstone path, crowded into the battered jeep, and bumped down the mountain. The house felt suddenly empty as if all the light and comfort had been drained away in a heavy rain. No one was allowed to set foot in the house because of the quarantine. Our little family had to make it alone. As Dr. Parks drove down the hill, school went with him. Quarantined kids don’t get to go to school, so there was no escape from what was going on at home.

  Baby Logan was no longer just an artifact of family life whose needs made no impression on either of his two siblings. Now it was up to me to see that he was bathed and safe and had enough good food to eat. His care and safety sat squarely on my shoulders. The red quarantine sign hanging on the front door did more than eliminate school for Jane and me. In its place were long days of lessons in real life. I had always helped Mother. It was a requirement of being alive as far as I knew. I had chores at home, and all the kids I knew had plenty of work to do, but I was about to find out how little I actually did. The job was far larger than I had ever imagined. I yearned to run down the hill and tuck myself into the middle of the Sargeant kids. Leatha wasn’t the eldest, and we had a lot more freedom down there than I could find up here on the hill.

  Logan was, for the most part, still in diapers, and it took at least two changes of clothes a day to keep him presentable. So with baby things, the bed clothes, Daddy’s shirts and socks, and all the other garments, the laundry was soon stacked high in the wicker basket. It had to be emptied into the Speed Queen every day. It doesn’t sound all that difficult, and I have to admit, it was harder back when it had to be done on the wringer washer, but keeping clothes clean for all of us kept the washer running every day. We did not have a dryer, and all that was washed had to be piled up in the big basket and carried outside to the long wire clothesline that ran from the back corner of the house, across the side yard, and to a tough old winesap. The hanging work could not start until the wire line was wiped down. For this job, I placed a thick wet rag over the line, and squeezing hard, I walked to the end of the line and back. When I looked at my rag, there was always a black line embedded in the fibers, and if I didn’t use enough pressure, the line would still leave black smudges on the clothes.

  With the line clean, each garment had to be given a hard shake to remove wrinkles. The cold bit into my fingers as I snapped a garment and pinned it on the line with a wooden clothespin. I left it dangling while I bent to pick up the next cold, wet garment, snap it out, and pin it slightly overlapping the first. The proper procedure was to shake out the wet piece and pin it with two clothespins and then shake out the next piece, overlap it a bit with the first piece, and use the same clothespin with another one at the other end. The cold garments stiffened your fingers as you hurried to get them hung on the line. On bad days, the wet clothes would freeze stiff. You just had to hope they would dry enough before they froze so when you took them down, you could just roll them up for ironing.

  Oh yes, let us not forget the ironing. Each garment had to have the hot iron run over every inch of it to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles. With the sick room sheets, the baby things, and the rest of the clothes, the laundry basket was never empty. It loomed there in the corner of the kitchen, constantly reminding me over and over of the work that lay just ahead. There would be no time to read a book or take a nap or go outside and sit in the swing. None of the jobs facing me were all that hard. The problem was the never-ending repetition—diapers to change, clothes to wash, sick trays to assemble, meals to prepare, and medicine to dispense. There were white pills, pink pills, and a brown noxious-smelling liquid. The relentless clock with its forever circular creep seemed to command my every move. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, bath, pills, water, clean sheets, bed tray—hurry, hurry, almost time for what comes next!

  The meals w
ere dreadful, and meal planning was nearly impossible. The only vegetable Daddy thought to carry home was canned peas. We didn’t like them much anyway, which made them impossible as a staple. My biggest cooking challenge was getting each of the dishes finished at approximately the same time. Through mistakes and indigestible disasters, I learned to congeal a salad the night before and make pudding in the afternoon. At five o’clock, I knew it was time to peel potatoes, mix cornbread, flour the meat, heat the two skillets, and warm the inevitable peas. Even my hard-won organization was crowded with problems.

  From her bed, Mother fretted that I would burn myself, the food, or the house. She warned me over and over to keep Logan away from the oven and, for heaven’s sake, not to drop the dishrag. Awful things might follow a dropped dishrag. As far as I could see, we were just about as awful right now as I could stand. I guess I wasn’t considering starvation, blindness, beggars, and the end of the world. Time after time, when Mother would call, I would leave the stove to check on her, and something in my absence would scorch if not outright burn to a crisp.

  The Health Department officer refused to remove the quarantine sign for three weeks. It was blessedly ignored by a few neighbors who ventured up the hill. Fleetie and Geneva carried in a black pot of soup beans, cornbread, and applesauce. Susanna had sent over a can of sauerkraut and two cans of homemade vegetable soup. Two feasts without a pea in sight, but the company was as much a treat as the food. We had almost forgotten how good it was to see someone else. The visits were a great tonic for Mother. She always perked up for their visit and for several hours afterward.