White Wind Blew (17 page)

“Since this morning.”

“This morning? Mary Sue, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

She moaned as Wolfgang ran her down the hallway. “Wanted to get my visit in before I had him.”

“What if he’s a girl?”

“He’s not.” She screamed again. “He’s a he. Now, hurry.”

Susannah ducked her head out of a room on the other side of the hallway. “Oh, my. I’ll go get Dr. Barker?”

“Not enough time, Susannah.” Wolfgang motioned with his head. “Come on. We’re about to deliver a baby.”

While Wolfgang scrubbed his hands, Susannah gathered as many pillows as she could find and as many clean sheets as she could hold. She made a soft pallet on the floor of the operating room and helped Mary Sue from the wheelchair. They propped several pillows under her head and a couple under her hips. Mary Sue screamed out as another contraction hit her. Susannah gripped Mary Sue’s hand and dabbed her forehead with a wet washcloth.

Mary Sue grimaced. “Father…”

Wolfgang looked up from his spot between her legs. “Mary Sue, at this point could you refer to me as Doctor?”

“Doctor! Why are we on the floor?” Another contraction hit her and she screamed out again.

“The one thing I remember from the baby I delivered in medical school was how slippery he was.” Wolfgang rubbed his hands as if for warmth. “I don’t want to drop your baby, Mary Sue.”

After another twenty minutes of pushing—and much screaming on Mary Sue’s part—Wolfgang’s eyes lit up. “I see something. We’re crowning, Mary Sue.”

“What does that mean?” she screamed. “And what do you mean,
we
?”

“I can see the baby’s head.” But the head wasn’t as visible as it should have been. Wolfgang leaned forward. On closer inspection, the amniotic sac hadn’t broken as it should have. He leaned in and pinched the slimy membrane, releasing a gush of amniotic fluid. Mary Sue moaned and squeezed Susannah’s hand. The baby’s head was more visible now. The uterus contracted again, and Mary Sue pushed on cue. The head came out first, and then the rest of the body came out in waves, very quickly once the shoulders popped free. Mary Sue panted and breathed heavily as Wolfgang guided the baby into his arms.

“Susannah,” said Wolfgang. “Bring the towel.” Susannah did so with a smile on her face, carefully wiping the fluid and membranes away from the baby’s airways. And then she cleaned the rest of the baby’s body. When the baby started wailing, it seemed to Wolfgang the most pleasant sound he had ever heard.

Susannah bundled the baby in several towels to keep him warm. Minutes later the placenta came out, adding to the soaked blankets under Mary Sue’s body. Wolfgang had Susannah cut the umbilical cord while he held the wet baby in his arms. The baby was still wailing, a high-pitched ululation that echoed off the cold, sterile walls of the fourth-floor operating room.

They were all exhausted, but no one more so than Mary Sue. Her face was pale, her breathing coming out in gasps. But she was grinning. Her baby was crying; he was alive. Wolfgang stood with the baby in his arms. He couldn’t help but share glances with Susannah, who stood leaning over the table with a cool compress on Mary Sue’s head. Their eyes met for a few awkward moments before Mary Sue’s voice lured them both away from each other.

“Well, is it a boy?”

Wolfgang walked the baby over toward Mary Sue. “Yes, Mary Sue. He is a he.”

Mary Sue stared at her baby’s head, which was oddly misshapen. At first she held him like he were made of glass, but she soon relaxed and melted with her embrace.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Wolfgang wiped sweat from his forehead. “His head will go back to normal shape in a day or so.”

Susannah wiped Mary Sue’s forehead once more and began to clean up around the operating table. Wolfgang stole another glance at Susannah, who glowed as she worked.

The baby’s cries began to soften as Mary Sue held her close.

A Waverly baby.

The rooftop was crowded with sunbathers. Men with their shirts off played cards and shivered in the cool air, the sunlight an illusion of heat. Women with their sleeves rolled up huddled together and played dice games on the terra cotta. Even Herman had requested an hour outside, which he spent alone, facing the swings, watching the children play. He’d been on his best behavior since Rita’s death. Wolfgang had begun to believe there was a real person inside that confused mind. Every time Wolfgang came near, Herman would watch him with an unreadable gaze, which, had he known better, could have been mistaken for some kind of jealousy.

The patients, especially the two women’s floors, were excited about Mary Sue and Frederick’s baby. The news had spread rapidly. Mary Sue spent most of her time since the delivery resting. After all, she was on the mend but still a tuberculosis patient. The delivery had taken its toll, so Susannah and the rest of the nurses were taking turns watching the baby, which she’d named Fred. They’d set up a makeshift nursery inside the laundry room, where Susannah thought the rumbling of their new electric clothes dryer could act as background noise while the baby slept—something to drown out the sound of sickness all around. Dr. Barker was as thrilled as everyone else that the baby was born healthy, although he had asked Wolfgang and Susannah why the delivery had taken place on the fourth-floor operating room and not the one on Mary Sue’s floor.

“Mary Sue wanted to be closer to Frederick,” Wolfgang told him.

Barker looked a bit suspicious. But the answer made sense and seemed to appease his curiosity. He just nodded.

Wolfgang had spent most of the morning avoiding the fourth floor, but when it was time to add shot to Weaver’s bags, the confrontation with McVain was unavoidable. He’d been so angry at McVain last night that he’d felt his blood pressure rise. Of course, the delivery had worked wonders in distracting him and improving his mood since then.

But as Wolfgang worked on Mr. Weaver, he did his best to avoid looking at McVain, which proved difficult, for he was constantly in Wolfgang’s line of vision. And when McVain rotated on his side, he reached across to his chair and grabbed Wolfgang’s requiem. That McVain was a sly creature. For a brief instant, the two men locked eyes. Then Wolfgang looked away, as if repelled.

McVain flipped through the pages, loudly, methodically. No one had ever seen Wolfgang’s work before, and he was already having second thoughts on whether the bully-gangster should be the first. But the requiem needed to be fixed, and he would take the help even from the likes of McVain.

Mr. Weaver was hot with fever and rather quiet, probably aware that Wolfgang’s attention had been turned elsewhere. Wolfgang finished with him and moved on toward McVain.

“‘The Requiem Rose,’” McVain said obnoxiously loud. He flipped through the pages some more, shaking his head at random parts, quite aware that he had Wolfgang’s full attention now. “It’s choppy. Like here…” He pointed to a page near the beginning. “And here.”

That was it? Choppy?

McVain tapped the front page. “The harmony needs filling out. More notes.”

“I’m happy with everything but the ending,” said Wolfgang.

“Do you want my help or not?” McVain asked. “And what ending? You have no ending. It just rambles on to this…this…”

Wolfgang pursed his lips. “Go on.”

McVain began leafing through the pages again without preamble. “I’ve marked places where it needs more improvement, and there are many. The second movement…I think needs a double bass to give it a darker feel.” McVain sighed, placed the music on his lap, and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll help, but we’ll need to start over.”

“Start over? I’ve spent years on this.” Wolfgang stared at him, but McVain didn’t budge. It was too much for Wolfgang to grasp. He turned away, walked a few paces, and then stopped. “I’ll bring the black box up later.”

“What box?”

“I keep the requiem in a black box,” said Wolfgang. “Only you and I will have a key.”

McVain laughed. “A key, huh?”

“Yes, McVain, a key.” Wolfgang turned his back and moved along.

“And get that damn piano tuned!” shouted McVain. “It sounds like a pig at a slaughterhouse. A tone-deaf pig.”

Wolfgang fumed his way across the solarium, staring down so the patients could not see his frustration. Up ahead it was hard not to notice Nurse Cleary and her considerable bulk calling his name.

“Father Pike.” Nurse Cleary waved both arms, apparently excited about something. Father Pike. Dr. Pike. She was the only one who never stuck to one name, as if terribly confused, and sometimes she’d utter both within a ten-second span. “Dr. Pike. Father Pike. There’s a patient on the second floor who wants to see you. His name is Josef Heinz. Room two-eighteen.”

Wolfgang hurried down the stairwell, clip-clopping to the second-floor solarium. Josef Heinz. The name sounded familiar to him. Wolfgang had met nearly every patient in the building, but with the high turnover, meeting them all was becoming increasingly difficult. Inside Room 218, an old man lay on his bed. Wolfgang knocked on the doorframe. “Josef Heinz?” The old man pointed out toward the solarium. Outside, dozens of beds were clustered together in a bunch. “Josef Heinz?”

A slender man with long arms and yellow hair raised his right hand. He appeared to be about forty years old, possibly younger. Tuberculosis had a way of prematurely aging the skin. Wolfgang maneuvered among the catty-cornered beds and stood at the foot of Mr. Heinz’s, on which a newspaper lay open to the cartoon comic strip
Thimble
Theatre
.

“One of my favorites,” Wolfgang said. “I like that new character, Popeye the Sailor.” Mr. Heinz’s toothy smile was kind and inviting. He held a small chalkboard on his lap and a piece of chalk in his right hand. Wolfgang sat beside him on the bed. “I believe we’ve met before. TB of the throat?”

Josef Heinz nodded. Physically he could still speak, but the doctors and nurses didn’t permit it except for emergencies. They preferred he used his chalkboard to allow his throat to heal.

“You asked to see me?”

Josef wrote one word: PIANO?

“You heard him playing?”

Josef nodded.

“Two floors up,” said Wolfgang. “He’s a patient here. Tad McVain.”

TALENTED.

“You’re one of many fans.”

Josef erased his board and wrote another word: FLUTE.

“You’ve got quite an ear, Mr. Heinz.”

“Josef,” he hissed.

“Use the board. But Josef it is.”

I’M A CONCERT VIOLINIST. DO YOU HAVE ONE?

Wolfgang couldn’t believe what he’d read. “At home. I have several in fact. I could bring one to you. Will you play with us?”

I’D BE HONORED.

***

Wolfgang’s first inclination was to march Josef Heinz up to the fourth floor and have him meet McVain as soon as Dr. Barker left for the night, but minutes before his boss left, Wolfgang thought of a better idea. He’d take Josef down the hillside to the colored hospital. Josef was excited about the clandestine trip and greeted Rufus and Smokey as if they were long lost friends.

Smokey sat on the edge of his bed with his Babe Ruth Louisville Slugger propped against his thigh, listening as Josef and Rufus played the violin and flute in beautiful harmony. Wolfgang sat beside Smokey, declining to play the piccolo with them, preferring instead to listen. The violin he’d given Josef was one of his father’s old violins, not the famous
P
, but one of the better ones. It delighted Wolfgang to hear music coming from the instrument again—true music, not Wolfgang’s typical ramblings. As the duo finished a short piece by Brahms, the small crowd that had gathered applauded.

Wolfgang clapped as well. “Bravo.” He pointed up the hill to the main sanatorium. “Now louder. I want McVain to hear. Stick the dagger in and twist it.”

***

January weather in the Ohio Valley was unpredictable. The sun was gone the next morning. Instead the sky was crowded with dark, billowing clouds that appeared confused about whether to rain or snow or sleet. The clouds rolled in so low, the tip of the bell tower pierced them like a knife through a feathered pillow. The temperature hovered near the freezing mark, but with the wind gusts it felt ten degrees colder.

Shortly after lunch the first drops fell as sleet, pounding the rooftop like dice. On all the floors, dozens of patients headed for the solarium porches to watch the heavy precipitation. Wolfgang could hear the tumult from the fourth floor and the chatter from the patients. It was a soporific sound, the rain falling as ice pellets. All across the woods, the boughs and branches cowered and swayed. The grounds became covered with dancing shimmers of silver, and then it all changed into a cold rain. Wolfgang approached McVain’s room on the solarium for the first time that day, determined not to say anything about last night’s party at the colored hospital. But he had to make his rounds, so seeing McVain was inevitable.

McVain was the first to speak. “Hey.” Wolfgang continued to walk along as if he hadn’t heard. “Hey.”

Wolfgang stopped. “I’m busy, McVain. What is it?”

“I heard the flute last night. And a violin.”

Wolfgang clenched his jaws together, squashing a smile. “You refused to play, so I found someone else.”

McVain stared for a few seconds and scratched his chin with the two remaining fingers of his left hand. “Tell the nigger I’ll give him another chance.”

“His name is Rufus.”

“Okay, Rufus, then. But get that piano tuned first.”

***

Wolfgang tuned the piano himself, as his father had taught him years ago, with a beat-up tuning lever and a few rubber wedges to mute the strings he didn’t want to hear. McVain listened as Wolfgang set the temperament and periodically referenced the pitch from a tuning fork he’d found inside a chest of his father’s musical devices. He tested the keys repeatedly, and after an hour of tinkering they both seemed satisfied with how it sounded.

The rain decreased as the night moved in and then gradually transitioned to snow flurries. Shortly after ten o’clock, Barker left through the woods toward his cottage, and the grounds were covered with a dusting of snow. The coast was clear. Susannah escorted Josef up to the fourth floor while Wolfgang retrieved Rufus from down the hillside. Introductions between the men were brief. One wasn’t allowed to speak, one felt out of place, and one put everyone else on edge when he did speak. The most eloquent moment was the wide-eyed expression on Josef’s face when he first saw McVain’s left hand. Luckily McVain hadn’t seen him, or more than likely there would have been a confrontation.

They began playing, and their music became the conversation; they meshed quickly, with McVain as the centerpiece in the three-man ensemble—four-man, if you counted Wolfgang as the conductor.

For half an hour they played different movements from Mozart’s
Requiem
. Although the piece was written for an entire orchestra and chorus, the three of them made it sound full and complete. At some point, each took a solo before the other two would join back in. They spoke with their eyes, their hands, by nodding their heads, never breaking stride. The awed audience grew by the minute, crowding the fourth-floor solarium with what seemed like most of the healthiest patients in the sanatorium, men and women, braving the inclement weather and the sanatorium’s rules to listen.

It all came to a halt when McVain stopped. He flexed his fingers, rolled his bullish neck, and pushed away from the piano. Josef was standing beside the piano, smiling as he lowered the violin from his shoulder. Wolfgang watched McVain’s eyes. Suddenly he was nervous.

“So what kind of a name is Heinz?” asked McVain.

Josef grabbed his chalkboard: GERMAN.

McVain stood abruptly.

Wolfgang grabbed his arm. “What is it now?”

McVain wrestled his arm away from Wolfgang’s grip. “First a nigger. Then a Kraut. Next you gonna send me up a Jew?”

“If I could find one,” said Wolfgang.

Josef cleared his throat. He showed them a new message. I AM A JEW.

Rufus grinned. Susannah chuckled. As much as he tried not to, Wolfgang burst out laughing.

McVain walked off.