A Death-Struck Year (18 page)

“I drive around all day, and everything looks different,” I said, trying to explain. “The Auditorium looks nothing like it used to. There are circus tents outside County. And everywhere I go, people are wearing masks. But at home . . . nothing’s changed. It’s the only place I recognize.”

Edmund’s silence was followed by a long, frustrated sigh. “Will you let me know if you need anything, at least? Firewood? You won’t try and chop down a tree all by yourself?”

His words, and his disgruntled expression, made me smile. “I promise. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

I drove on. Houses appeared, growing closer together as we reached town. I passed six automobiles, far fewer than normal, even for this time of day.

Edmund peered out the window, then straightened. “Cleo, stop, will you? Right here.” He pointed to the side of the road.

Frowning, I did as he asked. “Why?” I looked around.

We were outside the cemetery. I could see headstones through the iron railing, outlined in the dusk and protected by great weeping willows. And then I saw what had caught Edmund’s attention. A lantern had been set on the grass, just inside the gates, illuminating a small patch of earth. A man thrust his shovel into the ground, tossing the dirt clumps behind him. He stopped to glance over at us, then resumed digging.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“No, but I don’t think he’s a gravedigger. At least not a regular one.”

I leaned forward to get a better look. The man was dressed not in the old work clothing you would expect a person digging dirt to wear, but in trousers and shirtsleeves and a vest.

I scanned the cemetery. Eighty-six people had died so far. As much as I tried not to think about it, I knew there would be more. There should have been men here, preparing the graves. There wasn’t another soul to be found.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Where are the gravediggers?”

Edmund removed his cap and set it on the seat. “Most of them are sick. We have two at the Auditorium. And the others won’t go near the bodies.”

His meaning sank in. “Are people burying their own family?” I asked. “But that’s hideous!”

Edmund nodded. “They don’t really have a choice. There’s a waiting list for burials, and it’s getting longer and longer.” With that bit of horrifying news, he opened his door and climbed out. After a second’s hesitation, I followed. We walked through the cemetery’s ornate arched entrance.

The man had stopped shoveling to watch our approach. He was in his thirties, older than Jack, and slight. His dark hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, but his face was already streaked with dirt and mud. I didn’t know how long he’d been here. I hoped not long, because he’d barely managed to unearth a foot of dirt. I looked from the sad little pit to the stranger, wondering whose grave it was meant to be. A parent? A wife?
Please,
I thought,
not a child.

Edmund and I stopped just shy of the unfinished grave. “Sir. My name is Edmund Parrish. This is Cleo Berry.” His tone, suddenly formal, made me think of Sergeant LaBouef.

The man’s answering nod was stiff, like a puppet on a string, and his voice was uneven. “Tom Nesbitt,” he said.

Edmund gestured toward the extra shovel that lay beneath a nearby tree, alongside the lantern and a silver flask. “I’d be glad to help.”

The light was fading fast, but still I saw the tears that sprang to Mr. Nesbitt’s eyes at Edmund’s offer and his valiant effort to blink them away. I was as startled as Mr. Nesbitt. I looked around the graveyard. The wind had picked up, gathering the leaves and sending them rustling over the stone markers. I moved closer to Edmund and felt his hand rest against the small of my back.

“I’d be obliged,” Mr. Nesbitt said. “My brother would have been here, but . . . he’s feeling poorly.” He looked down at the grave. “It’s for my wife.”

My own eyes welled up in response. “I am very sorry, Mr. Nesbitt,” I said.

He acknowledged my words with another nod. “They told me she couldn’t be buried for two weeks. That’s how long I’d have to wait while my Elizabeth . . .” He stopped. “So I said I’d do it myself.” He walked slowly over to the tree, reaching for the shovel.

“Oh, Edmund,” I said softly.

“Yes” was his quiet response. He looked into my upturned face. “Will you tell Hannah where I am?”

I stared at him. “No. I’m staying here. I’ll wait for you,” I said.

But Edmund was already shaking his head. His hand dropped from my back. “You’re not.” He was adamant. “This is going to take hours.”

The lantern’s glow sent long, twisting shadows across the grass. “Edmund, it’s nearly dark. This is a graveyard.” I kept my voice low, not wanting Mr. Nesbitt to hear. Thankfully, he was taking his time, allowing us some privacy.

Edmund’s smile was grim. “I’m not afraid of these ghosts, Cleo. I have enough of my own to keep me company.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant. Standing there, with the wind blowing hair into my eyes, I wanted to know everything about him. About his family, his friends. About his dream of becoming a doctor. About the war in France. I wondered why there was always something sad around his eyes even when he smiled. I wanted to ask about all these things, but Mr. Nesbitt was making his way back with the shovel. Now was not the time. And so I asked, instead, “What if it rains?”

Edmund was already shucking off his coat. “Then I’ll stop.” His voice softened. “I won’t do anything foolish. You know I can’t leave him here.”

“I know.” There was nothing else to do but agree. Edmund tossed his coat to the ground and took the shovel. After bidding farewell to Mr. Nesbitt, I walked out of the graveyard, into the night, leaving Edmund to dig a grave for a perfect stranger.

Wednesday, October 16, 1918

For the next few hours, I fed any patient who showed the slightest interest in eating. Up and down the stairs I went, with bowl after bowl of watery chicken soup. Hannah asked if I would help her in the ticket office. I did that too. We sat at the desk across from each other, folding a mountain of linen that had just been sent over from the laundry.

The entire time I watched the clock. The hour struck eight, then nine. With each passing minute, I grew more anxious and fidgety, until Hannah finally said with some exasperation, “Stop worrying, Cleo. He’ll be here.”

“I wasn’t worrying.”

Hannah raised an eyebrow. “No?” But even she glanced at the clock with a frown. “We’ll give him another half-hour, and then I’ll send Sergeant LaBouef to fetch him.”

I looked at her, grateful. “You will?”

“Yes. Now fold.”

I told myself I could put Edmund out of my mind for thirty minutes. We continued folding the bedding and towels, which ranged in color from bright white to worn gray. After a few minutes of companionable silence, I said, “Hannah?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you like being a nurse?”

Hannah looked surprised. “I would wish for a little less excitement than we’ve had. But, yes, I like it most days. Why? Are you thinking of becoming a nurse?”

“Oh, I . . . no. I don’t think I’d be very good at it.”

Hannah lowered a towel, frowning. “Why do you say that?”

I shrugged, wishing now that I had kept silent. “I’ve seen the things that you and the other nurses have to do—”

“What things?”

“Well . . .” I looked toward the ticket window, though the waiting room was closed for the night. “You’ve had to tell people that someone they love is dead, or dying. You’re always calm, even when they start to cry. Even when they start screaming at you. I would fall to pieces if I had to do that.”

“I didn’t start off knowing how to talk to patients or their families. It takes practice. I’ve fallen to pieces many times, I promise you.”

I gave her a skeptical look, then said, “And everywhere you turn, someone is bleeding or vomiting or having a needle poked in their ear . . . It’s awful. I don’t think I have a strong enough stomach to work in a hospital.”

Hannah smiled. “Don’t you?”

“No, and—” I broke off, struck by a sudden, unpleasant thought. Edmund knew he wanted to be a doctor. He’d always known it. It was the same with Kate and her piano. And Jack had always intended to follow the same path that our father and grandfather had taken. Then there was me. And the unsettling realization that perhaps I was not meant to
be
anything at all. “I’m not like you, Hannah. I’m just . . . ordinary.”

Hannah’s eyes were fixed on me. “Cleo, how many of your schoolmates do you see here? Wearing that armband?” She shook her head at my blank look and would have said more, I was sure, but one of the soldiers stuck his head in the door.

“Ma’am?” It was the freckled soldier, the skinny one. He looked agitated.

Hannah was already on her feet. “What’s wrong, Andrew? Where’s your sergeant?”

He acknowledged me with a quick nod. “He’s out back. He wanted me to ask if you’d come? As soon as you could?”

Hannah was nearly out the door when she threw a “Come with me, Cleo” over her shoulder. I dropped the towel onto the desk and rushed to catch up.

“What happened?” Hannah demanded as we bypassed the men’s ward and hurried directly backstage.

“Freddy—I mean Private Nolan—and I were out back unloading supplies. He tripped coming down from the truck. Landed pretty hard,” Andrew said.

“On his head?” Hannah asked.

“No, ma’am. His arm. It doesn’t look right.”

Hannah looked relieved. I couldn’t blame her. An injured arm didn’t sound so bad. Not after everything I’d already conjured up in my imagination. We held our silence as we walked by the dressing rooms, knowing some were resting up before they started late shifts.

We pushed through a set of doors and found ourselves in a narrow alley. A truck was parked at the bottom of the staircase. The lighting wasn’t as bright as in the front of the building, but it was still enough to see the man sitting at the very back, legs hanging off the sides. Sergeant LaBouef was with him. A trio of soldiers hovered a few feet away, looking queasy. As I followed Hannah around the sergeant’s massive form, I saw why.

Despite the bitter night air, Private Freddy Nolan’s shirt uniform had been removed. He was stripped down to a sleeveless white undershirt. I winced when I spotted the large bump protruding from his shoulder, beside his collarbone. I had to agree with Andrew. This arm did not look right. I backed away to stand with the other soldiers.

Sergeant LaBouef looked more annoyed than worried. “Fool was monkeying around and fell out of the truck,” he said to Hannah. “Looks like it’s dislocated.”

“It certainly does.” Hannah studied the arm. “How are you feeling, Freddy?”

He unclenched his jaw long enough to say, “Like hell, ma’am.”

Sergeant LaBouef gave him a look but must have felt some pity in his heart, because he held his peace.

“I imagine you do. Andrew?” Hannah said.

He stepped forward. “Yes, ma’am?”

“There’s a sling in my office. To the right of the door, bottom shelf. Please bring it here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He trotted up the steps and into the building.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder and beckoned someone forward. I turned to the three soldiers, to see which one she was calling. They were all looking at me. Uncertain, I turned to Hannah.

“Me?” I asked.

“Cleo” was Hannah’s impatient response. She moved aside so that I could stand directly in front of Private Nolan. Sympathy stirred within me. I was close enough now to see the sweat beading on his forehead and the pain clouding his eyes. The bump at his shoulder looked red and angry. I would have liked to pat his good arm, to offer some comfort, but I was afraid to touch him. Sergeant LaBouef looked on quietly.

“Hey, Freddy,” I whispered.

“Hey,” he said, grimacing.

Hannah clasped both hands behind her back. “Private Nolan’s shoulder needs to be put back in its rightful place.” Her calm, measured tone made me think of Miss Abernathy during our morning lectures.

“Yes?” I wondered what any of this had to do with me.

“His arm is unbent, as it should be,” Hannah continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “The first step is to take hold of his elbow.” She looked at me expectantly.

Horrified, I stepped back, understanding too late her intentions. “You . . . you’re not serious!”

“I am perfectly serious. Stop dawdling. He’s hurting.”

She was right. Freddy’s head had dropped forward. He sat there, breathing heavily through his nose, like a bull. I looked behind me. The soldiers blocked the alley. Running would be fruitless. I sent a last desperate glance toward Sergeant LaBouef, but he only lifted his shoulders, his expression clearly asking,
What can I do?

Enough. I was wasting time. I reached for Freddy’s elbow, snatching my hand away when he gasped.

“No, it’s all right,” he said, sounding shaky. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

I gripped it again, gently, and looked at Hannah. I’m certain I must have looked as terrified as I felt, but she didn’t appear to notice. She said, “I want you to bend his arm at the elbow, slowly. His upper arm must be kept perfectly still.”

I did as she instructed, listening to his ragged breathing, feeling my own sweat trickle down my neck. “Like this?”

“Yes. Now, rotate his lower arm inward, toward his chest. Slowly. Good. Now outward. There will be resistance, Cleo. It will not feel natural but do not stop. Do it slowly.”

My heart thundered in my chest as I pushed Freddy’s arm in a direction it was not meant to go. He moaned. Time crawled. I forced the arm outward, outward, until, mercifully, I heard the dull, unmistakable
pop
of a bone settling back into place.

“Gah!”
Freddy and I cried at the same time. I dropped his arm and stumbled back.

A cheer erupted behind me. Even Sergeant LaBouef cracked a smile. “That will do,” I heard Hannah say. “Oh, good, Edmund, you’re back. Andrew, the sling, please.”

I spun around. Edmund stood there, dirt streaking his face, his shirtfront soaked with mud and grime, his hair stiff with sweat. “We’ll make a doctor out of you yet,” he said, smiling. “That was good work.”