A Basket Brigade Christmas (38 page)

“Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll. You’re very kind.”

“Of course I am.”

Cardiff devoured every bite.

C
ardiff studied the soldier’s amputated leg. It was puffy and colored green and black from gangrene. If soldiers weren’t killed outright by the bullets, such horrible infections gave death another chance.

But hopefully not this time.

He looked at the orderly. “When the time comes, I will need you to hold his leg steady.”

It was clear the private was not meant for such work. His breathing was labored, he made fists at his side, and he gazed at the wound with an expression of disgust.

He had reason to be repelled. Rotting flesh was not a pretty sight and smelled worse than it looked. Yet his reaction was unacceptable, as it was noted by the patient—who looked petrified.

Cardiff needed to remedy his fear as quickly as possible. He offered the patient a smile and said, “We’ll let you sleep. When you awaken, your leg will be better.” He looked to the private. “Give him the chloroform now.”

The private nodded and held a cloth doused in the drug over the patient’s nose and mouth. Soon the man slept.

Cardiff worked quickly, cutting away the putrid flesh then filling the cavity with bromine-soaked lint before reapplying a bandage.

Unfortunately, before the morning was over, Cardiff had to repeat the process on a dozen soldiers. It was nearly one o’clock when he finally took solace in Dr. Phillips’s office. He massaged the back of his neck.

Stephen appeared in the doorway. “You look done in.”

Cardiff sat up straighter. He didn’t want to show his weariness this early in the day. “The gangrene cases are attended to.”

“Nasty stuff, that.” He smiled. “You could have dysentery duty if you’d like.”

“Nasty stuff, that.”

Stephen studied him a moment then retrieved some paper and a pencil from his desk. “Here. For a change of pace, go sit with some of the boys and let them transcribe a letter home.”

“I’m here to help with the medical issues.”

“There are physical needs and emotional ones, Doctor. Both need attention.” He handed Cardiff the supplies. “Go on, now. Corporal Meyers, third bed on the right, is due to send a letter home. It’ll be good for both of you.”

“I want to send a letter to my wife.”

Cardiff held the paper and pencil at the ready. “Go ahead.”

“To my darling Zona.”

Cardiff fumbled the pencil. “Zona?”

“No, sir. I said Rhona.”

Cardiff’s hand transcribed the corporal’s words, but his mind traveled elsewhere.

Was Zona well? Surely she had a husband and a family. She was quite a catch, fifteen years ago. Feisty, smart, and talented. She was a woman who knew her own mind and was happy to share it with whoever would listen—whether they cared to hear or not.

He’d often been a reluctant listener. When they first began courting, he’d been working at her father’s printing company as a typesetter. It was boring work, and when the boss’s daughter had shown interest in him, he’d found her joie de vivre a welcome diversion from the tedium of his day. He’d been surprised when he was invited to the Evanses household for dinner. He’d been so nervous, hoping he wouldn’t do anything to offend the boss and his wife. Up until then, he’d only met Zona in passing, when she’d come to the plant to bring her father lunch each day. How those fleeting moments had turned into a dinner invitation was beyond his understanding.

Until Zona later explained that she’d found the intensity with which he set the type inspiring. At first, he’d thought she was teasing him—for he found his job anything but inspirational—but when her interest continued and the invitations to be with herself and her family came with more frequency, he stopped second-guessing what had sparked her interest in him.

The important thing was that she
was
interested, and
her
interest had sparked his own.

Zona was unlike any woman he’d ever met. Not that he’d met that many. He hadn’t had time to court or flirt. His parents died when he was twelve, and he’d been on his own ever since. A friend of the family had let him sleep in their attic—which was where he was still living when he met Zona. He’d had a variety of odd jobs during the day, but his favorite job was cleaning the classrooms in a schoolhouse. There, after everyone had gone home, he’d grabbed himself an education. He read the lessons on the chalkboard and pored through the schoolbooks left behind. When he’d taken a book on Greco-Roman history home and had been accused of stealing, he’d made a friend of the teacher, who thereafter let him borrow as many books as he wanted.

Reading so much, learning to spell as he read the words on the page, helped gain him the typesetting job. On more than one occasion he’d been commended by Mr. Evans for catching the occasional misspelled word before it went to print.

In hindsight, he realized Zona had pursued him—and caught him. Although such feminine aggression was not often looked upon kindly by society, he welcomed it. For with his lack of experience, he was all too happy to have a wonderful girl like Zona choose him. If only he’d—

“Doctor? Did you get that last line?”

His mind returned to the present. He was surprised to see that he’d transcribed a two-page letter for Corporal Meyers. He cleared his throat and read back the last line. “‘I love you and miss you more than words can say.’ Is that correct?”

“That’s it,” the soldier said. “Sign it, ‘your loving husband, Rolf.’”

The letter finished, Corporal Meyers gave Cardiff the address for Rhona.

Zona.

Where was she now?

“Come now, singers. Please pay attention.” Zona waited until all had quieted down. “I would like the following people to come in early tomorrow afternoon so we can work on the vocal parts for the caroling at the train station.”

“Don’t we all get to sing?” young Seth asked.

“You all get to sing in the musicale, but I only need a small group to sing for the soldiers.”

“How many?” Mrs. Smith asked.

“Four.” She thought of Johnny and covered herself. “Perhaps five.” Before there was more discussion, she gave the assignment. “Mrs. Smith will sing soprano, Mrs. Greer on alto, and of course Mr. Fleming and Mr. Pearson.”
And Johnny.

“What about me?” Seth asked.

Zona was already weary of the boy, whose daily complaints over this and that hounded her. “Not this year.”

“Then when?”

Luckily, Mr. Fleming shushed him. “Quit yer bellyaching, boy. It’s wearing on all of us.”

“But if the rest of us ain’t singing there, why do we need to sing the songs now?”

“Because we will also be singing carols in the musicale on Christmas Eve.”

Seth crossed his arms and began his daily pout. “It ain’t fair. Not at all.”

Life’s not fair.

“Let’s turn to ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’”

“I’m glad we’re not singing this in Latin,” said one of the young ladies.

“Latin is beautiful,” Mr. Pearson said. “You young people don’t know what you’re missing.”

Zona agreed, but disagreed. “What the listeners would be missing is understanding the meaning of the lyrics. Now, come. Let’s begin.”

Since it was a familiar song, the parts were easily conquered. So much so that Zona dropped her arms and closed her eyes, letting the harmonies waft around her.

Then suddenly she was thrust into a memory of another group of singers offering up this very song. Two parts took precedence: her own voice singing the melody, and to her right, their shoulders touching, was Cardiff singing the baritone line with a mellow voice that melded perfectly with her own.
We belong together, our lives melded together.

“‘Come and adore Him, born the King of angels …’”

As suddenly as the memory was born, it died. With a jolt, Zona realized she was singing alone.

She opened her eyes.

Everyone was looking at her.

“Sorry. I was caught up in a moment.”

“A moment far from here,” Mr. Fleming said.

Very far.

Zona was right in the middle of directing when she noticed Mrs. Collins come on stage with two costumes folded over her arms. She ignored her and continued the song to its end. “A little less tenor, Mr. Fleming.”

He gave her a familiar grimace—as he did not like to be told to sing softer. Zona was just about to begin the next song when Mrs. Collins interrupted.

“May I speak with you a moment, Miss Evans?”

“We’re right in the middle of rehearsal. Can it wait?”

“If you want the singers to sing naked, I suppose it can.” She stood her ground amid a flurry of giggles.

“I really would rather you waited until the end of rehearsal for your questions.”

“I’ve tried to wait. But you’re always hurrying off. Where do you go day after day with such speed and determination?”

Seth’s hand shot up. “I know! She’s helping—”

Zona’s stomach flipped. She interrupted before he could finish. “Carry on, singers.” She hurried off with Mrs. Collins. She was dismayed that her quick exits had been noted. Had Seth followed her? She’d cut him off just before he said Johnny’s name. Her secret rehearsals with Johnny had been very productive. But if anyone beyond Pastor Davidson knew—especially Mrs. Collins—then word might get back to Johnny’s grandfather. The caroling for the hospital train was starting tomorrow at five-thirty. Johnny was poised to sing. At that time, word would undoubtedly get out to his grandfather, but after the fact. Mr. Folson would hear praise about how good the boy sang, realize how much his singing pleased the soldiers, and relent.

It was a logical string of events. Yet life was known to break such strings.

“What do you need, Mrs. Collins?” she asked from the side of the stage.

“What was Seth going to say?”

Zona didn’t dare glance back at the boy. “Who knows? Now then, you have a question?”

Mrs. Collins hesitated, as if she was reluctant to leave one conversation for another. Finally, her own concerns took over. “Look at these costumes for the three kings. They are positively pitiful, not even worthy of three peasants.”

“They’ve served their purpose well enough.”

“Served, past tense. They look old and worn. I would like to redo all three of them and add some extra trim.”