White Wind Blew (13 page)

“Susannah!”

She looked down over her shoulder. “Something’s happened with Herman.”

“What?”

She continued and Wolfgang chased behind her. “You know, you don’t always have to accompany me up here.”

A dozen kids had gathered near the swing set. Nurse Marlene stood in the middle, calming them. Two of the kids spotted Wolfgang and Susannah and pointed to the bell tower and nurses’ station. A few snowflakes spiraled through the air. Herman was out and standing next to the ledge beside the tower, staring off toward the trees behind the sanatorium. His hair blew back from his head in wild strands. His beard clung to his chest.

“My cake!” Herman screamed.

“What on earth is he doing out?” asked Wolfgang.

Susannah shook her head and slowly approached Herman. He craned his head and stared her down. “My cakes!” Saliva dabbed the corners of his lips. Moisture pooled in his eyes. He faced the bell tower. “Miss Rita. The train finally came for her.”

Susannah took a cautious step toward him. “What about Miss Rita, Herman? Herman?”

“Her feet don’t touch,” Herman said softly.

Wolfgang gripped the large man’s right elbow and led him along. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Herman kept his wild eyes on Susannah. He gnawed the fingernails on his left hand, his fingers lost in the growth that concealed his mouth. “Her feet don’t touch.”

“Did you do something to her?” Wolfgang asked.

Susannah opened the door to the nurses’ station and screamed. Wolfgang, directly behind her, saw the horror over her shoulder. Nurse Rita hung by a rope from the ceiling pipes. Susannah lurched backward, covering her mouth with her hands. She fell into Wolfgang’s arms, knocking him slightly off balance. He braced their weight with his stiff left leg and then walked her inside.

Herman entered behind them. “I told you. Her feet don’t touch the floor.”

Rita’s white shoes dangled a few feet from the floor, swaying slightly under the weight of her body. The chair she’d used lay on its side a few feet away. Her eyes stared straight ahead. As the rope crinkled and twisted, Rita’s gaze met Wolfgang’s for a moment and then passed on. The sound of the rope pulling against the pipes was like an ice shelf preparing to crack. Benson was out of his room, as well, walking in a daze around the station, passing Rita’s body as if nothing had happened. “I let the dog out. He didn’t shit on the carpet. He didn’t. He didn’t. The train won’t come for me. Because I let him out. He didn’t shit on the new carpet.”

Wolfgang covered Susannah’s eyes, and they both hunkered down against the wall. Her tears trickled through his fingers. He wiped her cheeks and hugged her shoulders and told her repeatedly that it was going to be okay. He couldn’t take his eyes off Rita’s body. Such a young girl.

An envelope rested on the floor next to the overturned chair. Susannah reached it with the heel of her right shoe and reeled it closer. Wolfgang rested his chin on her shoulder as she pulled out a note. Susannah started to read but then stopped when Herman approached. She slid the note back into the envelope to read later, in private.

Herman stepped closer to Rita’s swaying body. “Benson, you shut up. Her feet don’t touch! Can’t you see? She’ll never bring me my cakes.”

Maverly Simms stood at the doorway to her room. “Maverly at Waverly,” she said, lacking her typical enthusiasm. “Maverly at Waverly.”

Wolfgang took it all in. “Quiet,” he said. Then when they ignored him, he screamed it: “Be quiet!”

Herman and Benson froze. Maverly looked up, startled. Wolfgang pointed at them, one by one. “Back into your rooms.”

Herman inched his way back into Room 502, and Benson followed, still mumbling. Their door closed. Maverly backed away and slithered into her dark hole.

Wolfgang held Susannah close. He felt Susannah’s warm breath against his neck. “Cut her down, Wolf. Please, cut her down.”

***

Herman, Benson, and Maverly were quiet as mice as Lincoln and Wolfgang worked. The rope was thick, and Lincoln needed a tree saw from the basement. Lincoln held Rita around the waist as Wolfgang stood on Rita’s chair and worked on the rope. Lincoln was silent. Pale. Of course, Wolfgang realized. Lincoln was a young man; giving Rita a hard time about the mental ward had been his way of flirting. And now she was dead.

When the rope snapped, they lowered her body to the floor. Her neck was blue and swollen. Her hands and legs were blue.

Lincoln fingered Rita’s hair.

Wolfgang could still picture Rita’s blank eyes staring him down as he’d held Susannah on the floor. It was as if he could read her final confession in her reddened eyes.

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned…

Lincoln cradled Rita’s head on his lap. “We were…” He looked up. “Rita and I. You know.”

Wolfgang patted Lincoln’s shoulder. “No, I’m sorry, Lincoln. I didn’t know.”

“Will she still go to heaven, Wolf? Even though…”

Wolfgang sighed. Heaven. The question had haunted Wolfgang ever since his childhood, and here he was, a doctor and almost a priest, two professions that faced heaven daily despite the fact that he still couldn’t answer this question. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Lincoln. Rita was a loving person. One of God’s own. She will be forgiven.”

Wolfgang touched Rita’s dark hair and thought of Rose. He’d held her in much the same way when she’d died. He closed Rita’s eyelids and whispered a quick prayer for her soul.

Lincoln was staring at Wolfgang’s right hand. “You still wear your wedding ring.”

Wolfgang moved his hand away. He knew Lincoln had seen it many times before, yet he’d never asked until now. Wolfgang turned the gold band, slowly rotating it. “After I decided I’d return to serving the Lord, I moved it to my right hand. I refused to stuff it in a box or some dusty drawer.” He sat up straight and touched Rita’s hair again. “Let’s get this over with.”

***

Dr. Barker’s office was empty. Surely he’d heard the news. Wolfgang made his way to the chapel, walking slowly, not ready to confront anyone. He grieved for Rita. But he was thinking about Susannah too, the weight of her slender body in his arms, cradled against him. The fresh smell of her hair against his cheek. His fingers interlocked and holding tight against her stomach. How the buttons of her dress had brushed against his palms.

His pace quickened.
What
am
I
doing?
he thought. He hurried into the chapel at the corner of the second floor where the east wing joined the north. Rows of candles rested on every window sill, lit by patients honoring the dead or praying for the living. The flames cast shadows against the white Roman support columns that melted into the white plaster ceiling. Wolfgang leaned against a column, arms folded. He wasn’t alone in the chapel. Dr. Barker stood in the center aisle facing Susannah. He spoke in a hushed voice, placed a supportive hand on her right shoulder, and then gave her a hug. Susannah didn’t return the awkward embrace. Her arms hung at her sides. Dr. Barker left her alone, his footfalls echoing off the tall ceiling. Wolfgang ducked behind the column until Barker was gone.

Inside the chapel, Susannah was on her knees, facing the life-size crucifix on the back wall, her hands folded on top of a pew. Wolfgang gave her a moment alone before limping down the rug that stretched the length of the center aisle. She sobbed. She’d lost a dear friend, a friend who wasn’t even sick with the disease all around them but apparently still touched by it. Susannah didn’t turn around.
Perhaps
she
didn’t hear me,
he thought. She continued to stare ahead while Wolfgang purposely looked everywhere
but
at the cross. He reached out for her shoulder but stopped inches away. His hand hovered. Then he reeled it back to his side. Instead, he knelt beside her. They said nothing for a while. She stared at the cross while he stared at the floor.

Finally he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

Susannah glanced at him and then faced the crucifix again. “Thank you.”

Wolfgang stood and left her alone.

***

Wolfgang and Susannah walked home together as usual just before ten o’clock. They remained silent until they reached the line of trees where they usually parted. Susannah spoke softly. “I don’t think I can sleep alone tonight.”

Wolfgang hesitated just long enough to make it awkward. Susannah turned away, her face red. “You…can sleep on my couch,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Wolfgang peered over his shoulder as they walked deeper into the woods. He convinced himself that he was doing the right thing, comforting a dear friend in a time of need. Wolfgang’s heart fluttered. His palms sweated despite the cold.

“You look nervous, Wolf.”

“Just cold.” He hugged his arms. “Should have worn a heavier jacket.”

As soon as his cottage was within sight, he hurried ahead and unlocked the door. Inside, he lit several candles. He took her coat, hung it up in the closet, lit two more candles, glanced into the kitchen, and closed the bathroom door, stretching out the mundane actions to fill the time.

When he stepped back into his living quarters, she stood inches from his face. She was only an inch or two shorter than Wolfgang, her eyes elevated to find his. She reached up to his collar and unlatched the top button of his cassock. “You seem tense.”

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. He stepped away.

She sat down on the couch. “Maybe some wine would help.”

He quickly disappeared into the kitchen, moving as if he’d prayed for such a request. He leaned against the counter and took a deep breath. He pulled a bottle of unmarked wine from a rack beside the sink and pulled the cork. He poured two glasses, spilling a few drops on the counter. He wiped them up with a towel. He lifted the glasses and turned away from the kitchen. In the other room, his piano stood against the wall, and beyond that was his bed. He eyed the neat half of the bed—Rose’s side. Was this why he’d craved the priesthood again after Rose’s death? So that moments like these could be reconciled with a single statement and oath? So that he could not be tormented by his promises to her?

No, he was not so shallow. His faith was the only thing that could have kept him afloat.

“Wolf?”

Susannah was just around the threshold, on the couch. He wondered how she was positioned. Both feet on the floor? Legs crossed? Had she taken off her shoes? He entered the room. She sat barefoot, her legs tucked delicately beneath her.

“Can we light a fire?”

Wolfgang handed her a glass of wine. “Of course.” Then he dove into another distracting chore, adding logs to the fireplace, stuffing newspaper under them, igniting the paper and logs with a candle from the mantel. Within minutes the wood, slivers of which had already begun to glow a shade of amber, began to snap and pop. The warmth was immediate.

Susannah took off her cap, rested her head on the arm of the couch, took a sip of her wine, and then closed her eyes. She opened them again and swirled the wine in her glass. Her technique was good, Wolfgang noticed, wondering how often she drank. He knew that Lincoln’s bootlegged alcohol also made it to the nurses’ dormitory on a regular basis. Susannah smiled at him. “Lincoln winked at you when we spoke of bootlegging.”

Wolfgang laughed, still standing in the middle of the room. “Sacramental wine is exempt under the Volstead Act.”

Susannah sipped her wine. “Is this sacramental wine?”

If it were, he thought, would it sanctify the moment for her or make him seem a piker? “Let’s call it leftover and leave it at that.” Wolfgang turned away and poked at the logs.

“How’s your requiem coming?”

Wolfgang squatted near the fire and continued to prod the logs. He looked to his left. Her lips touched the rim of the glass. Red wine wet them. In the seminary, fellow priests discussed past friendships with females. Women were often open and rather forward with priests, in fact, because they weren’t threatened by them. In a way, it made Wolfgang feel used. Was Susannah using him now? Was she testing him, as Rose had?

“Wolf—your requiem?”

He stood. “I’m afraid I’ll never finish.”

“Would Rose have expected perfection?” Susannah sat up on the couch, both of her feet flat on the floor. Wolfgang didn’t answer her. Susannah sipped her wine and surveyed the bare walls. She spotted his Edison phonograph beside the fireplace. “They have newer ones now, much larger.”

“And they play longer too. But this works fine. It was my father’s.”

“As were all your instruments,” she said. “What was he like?”

Wolfgang sat on the piano bench and scratched his forehead. “It’s complicated. He was a tough man to love. He wasn’t a bad person. I do think he loved me.”

“And you?”

“I fear that I love him more now that he’s gone.” Wolfgang chuckled. “He wanted me to be a famous musician.”

“And you think you let him down?”

“No. I’m putting my music to good use. I let my mother down by running off with Rose.”

“She didn’t approve?”

Wolfgang was beginning to feel the warm, familiar rush from the alcohol. His tongue loosened. “Rose was a modern woman. Short dresses, bobbed hair.”

“Ah! A flapper,” she said. “Why did your mother disapprove?”

Wolfgang stared down into his wine. “She disapproved of my becoming a doctor. She knew I became a doctor to spite my father. He detested science. He believed only the Lord could heal.”

“Why
did
you become a doctor? Out of spite?”

Wolfgang pointed to his right foot. “For answers. To help cure disease. Out of spite, I guess. Not because of my father, but my mother. She was Protestant. I was raised Protestant. Not just Protestant but anti-Catholic. My parents were true ‘Natives,’ descendants of Know-Nothing Party members. Equated the pope with the devil. She wanted me to become a Protestant preacher.”

Susannah’s left hand touched her mouth in shock.

“I was determined to torture my mother.” Wolfgang finished off his glass of wine and noticed that Susannah had managed to down only half of hers. “Rose was Catholic. She deepened my love of the Catholic Church. We met at the Cathedral of the Assumption.”