Faithful Heart (7 page)

Dottie’s face flushed.

“Who did it, Mrs. Harper?” pressed Dr. Olson.

Dottie bit down on her lower lip, closed her eyes, and let the tears spill down her cheeks. She drew a shuddering breath, but when she tried to answer, she couldn’t.

Doctor and nurse exchanged glances, then Olson placed a hand on Dottie’s shoulder and said, “Your husband?”

She nodded in little jerky movements and started to weep. Molly Kate slid off the chair, hurried to her mother, and wrapped her arms around her at the waist. “Don’t cry, Mommy!” she said. “Please don’t cry!”

Nola took Dottie by the hand, squeezed tight, and said, “Here, come sit down.”

Dottie eased down on one of the wooden chairs at the back of the room, and Molly Kate crawled up on the chair beside her. Nola went to the cupboard, picked up a square cloth about the size of a hanky, and gave it to Dottie, saying, “Here, honey. Use this.”

“You stay there and rest, Mrs. Harper,” Dr. Olson said. “Nurse Warren and I will get these stitches in, then you and I can talk.”

The smell of ether was strong in the room while Dr. Olson took stitches in James’s lip, assisted by Nola. When they were finished, the nurse began cleaning up while the doctor turned a chair around and sat on it backwards, facing Dottie.

Dottie didn’t want to talk to the doctor about Jerrod. The whole thing was like a bad dream. She wished she could just wake up and it would all be gone. She would rather run and hide than tell Dr. Olson she was married to a man who was possibly losing his mind.

“Mrs. Harper, I want you to tell me exactly what happened,”
Olson said. “What caused your husband to beat on the boy like he did, and what brought on the battering
you
took?”

Dottie’s chest felt heavy. Her hands were damp and she blotted them on her skirt.

“Mrs. Harper,” Dr. Olson said in a tone he would use with a child, “as a physician in private practice and as a staff member of this hospital, I am bound by the law to report cases of assault and battery to the San Francisco police.”

Dottie’s hands shook. “Even if the assault took place outside the city—in another county?”

Olson scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well—no. The San Francisco police have no jurisdiction beyond the city limits. Where did this happen?”

“On our farm. We live near San Bruno.”

“That’s in San Mateo County?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing to keep me from notifying Sheriff Donner that this child was brutally beaten by his father. It would interest him, I’m sure. Ma’am, another beating like this could mean your son’s life. You dare not allow him to be beaten again. Has your husband done this before?”

“Yes. Several times, but none this severe.”

“And Molly Kate? Does he beat her too?”

“Not like he does James, but the spankings have become beatings.”

“And how about you? Has he done this to you before?” Olson asked, eyeing Dottie’s facial bruises.

Dottie nodded and swallowed hard, eyes suddenly bright with tears.

“Those look recent. You got them today, right—for trying to stop him from beating James?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Tell me about it.”

Dottie sniffed and wiped away more tears. “Well—James spilled his milk at the breakfast table. He was playing around—as boys do—he shouldn’t have been playing at the table, I’ll admit. But when the milk went over, Jerrod lost his temper and backhanded him. Knocked him off his chair. James was stunned, but Jerrod picked him up, yelling at him for spilling the milk, and struck him again and again. I screamed at him to stop, but he kept right on. I jumped on him, and he let go of James and turned on me. He hit me in the face. Twice.”

Dr. Olson shook his head slowly. Dottie noticed that Nola was now standing over James, who was still under from the ether.

“Then what happened?” Olson asked.

“He went after James again. I was able to get to my feet, and I grabbed the cast-iron skillet from the stove and hit him on the head from behind. It knocked him out. Jerrod had already hitched the horses to the wagon before breakfast, and I just put the children on the wagon seat and headed for the hospital.”

“How old is your husband, ma’am?”

“Thirty-two.”

“So he’s what—about four or five years older than you?”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“How long has this behavior been going on?”

“Well, off and on for about eight years. It just never was this bad, nor was it very often. It’s gotten worse in the last five months. He’s been having more and more of these temper fits—that’s
what I call them—since late April, maybe early May. And with each one, he’s become more violent. But …”

“But
what?”

“I need to explain something to you, Doctor.”

“No one’s calling for me,” said Olson. “I have time to listen.”

“Jerrod was in the Civil War, Doctor. Union army. He was made a sergeant early on because he showed a natural instinct for fighting and a knack for leading men. But with each battle, as he saw his men getting killed and maimed, he became increasingly fearful. I assume he began to fear the same thing could happen to him. I didn’t know him then, but this is what I’ve pieced together. He won’t hardly talk about it.”

“I’m beginning to get the picture, Mrs. Harper. This is what we call combat fatigue—shell shock.”

“Yes, so I’ve learned from my sister. She’s a C.M.N. We write to each other periodically. I told her about this in a letter, and she wrote back and explained it to me.”

“Where does she work, Mrs. Harper?” Nola asked.

Dottie sent a glance her way. “Breanna’s a visiting nurse. She works out of Denver, Colorado. Her sponsoring physician is Dr. Lyle Goodwin.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him,” the nurse said.

“So have I,” Olson said. “Dr. Goodwin has quite a reputation in the A.M.A. Excellent man. You say your sister’s name is Breanna?”

“Yes. She’s not married, so she’s still a Baylor. That’s my maiden name, of course. Breanna is two years older than me. Her work takes her all over the Rocky Mountain area—sometimes even farther than that.” Dottie sighed, took a deep breath and said, “Breanna says these fits are called ‘startle reactions’ by you doctors.”

“Yes,” Olson said. “If your husband is a victim of combat fatigue, your sister has called it correctly. Was he treated for this in the army?”

“I don’t know. It’s almost impossible to get him to talk about it. The only other thing I know is that he was in the battle at Wilson’s Creek in Missouri. I think it was in 1861—in August. A cannonball exploded quite close to him. He’s got scars on his body where shrapnel hit him. He was released from the army after spending several weeks in a hospital, but it wasn’t because of the shrapnel wounds. It was because of the shell shock. The army doctors said he would never be fit for combat again. Jerrod told me that much.”

“After one of these temper episodes—startle reactions—is he very repentant, tearful, sorry for his actions?”

“Every one of those. He always begs the children and me to forgive him and promises he’ll never do it again.”

“He’s like two different men, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Mm-hmm. Fits the pattern perfectly. I was an army doctor in the Civil War and dealt with shell shock many times—and with its results. So many times it will develop into what we call
dementia praecox
. A split personality. Two different people living in the same body, but only one appearing at a time.”

Dottie put her face in her hands, took a deep breath, then raised her head and looked at Dr. Olson through fresh tears. “Why has it taken so long for the shell shock to do this to him? It’s been over nine years since his discharge.”

“Dementia praecox
can lie dormant in a man’s mind for a while, Mrs. Harper. But in most cases, it eventually crops up in time, and the more often the fits occur, the more violent the victim becomes. This has been the pattern, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. For a while it was only me he beat on, but in the past three months, his rage has also turned on the children. I’ve always backed Jerrod in his discipline of the children, but when the spankings became beatings, I had to interfere. This just made him even more angry. He—he beat a mule to death a few weeks ago in a fit of rage. Another time he beat one of the draft horses with an ax handle. Poor thing will never get over it.”

“Let me ask you this, Mrs. Harper,” said Olson. “Does Jerrod have nightmares?”

Dottie’s lips trembled. “Yes. He’s had them off and on over the eight years since his problem began to show up, but nothing like in the past five months. He wakes up screaming in the middle of the night three or four times a week.”

“Does he tell you what the nightmares are about?”

“He won’t talk about them. But I think he’s reliving the battles he fought in, especially Wilson’s Creek. One night when he sat up in bed, he used the word
cannonball
. When I told him, he denied it.”

The doctor sat for a long moment, then looked Dottie in the eye and said, “Mrs. Harper, I want you to do two things. First, you should report this to Sheriff Donner—especially this most recent incident. Something must be done to prevent Jerrod from further harming you or the children. Like I said, another beating like James took today could kill him.”

Dottie’s face paled and her voice cracked with emotion as she said, “Doctor, I want to protect my children, but if the sheriff puts Jerrod in jail, it’ll destroy him. Not only that, but our farm will dwindle to nothing. It’s already suffering because of Jerrod’s problem. If the sheriff locks him up, the children and I will have no money—no income.”

“The second thing I was going to tell you to do is get help for Jerrod,” he said softly,

“You mean
medical
help?”

“Yes. The sheriff needs to know about Jerrod’s problem and what he’s done to you and the children. He can work with you on this—but instead of simply locking him up, he needs to be institutionalized under the care of a psychiatrist. I’m in sympathy about your financial well-being, Mrs. Harper, but I’m more concerned for your safety. Let me recommend Dr. Matthew Carroll. He’s the best psychiatrist on the West Coast. Dr. Carroll is a staff physician here at City Hospital, but he’s also head of staff at City Mental Asylum. His office is near the asylum on Dupont Street, a half block from Portsmouth Square Plaza.”

Dottie looked sick and afraid. “Doctor, if I—if I suggest to Jerrod that he see Dr. Carroll, he’ll fly into a rage. I know it. He’ll never submit to it.”

“This is why the San Mateo County sheriff must be involved. He can tell Jerrod he has a choice. He can be jailed for what he did to James, or he can agree to get help for himself under the care of Dr. Carroll.”

“You mean there’s something that can be done to cure him?”

“A total cure, I doubt. But I believe he can be helped. Dr. Carroll is the one to tell you about that. The main thing is to do something about it immediately.”

Dottie’s mind was in a spin. She could not bear the thought of her husband locked up in the asylum. She loved Jerrod with all her heart. In the quiet reaches of her mind, she told herself that with extra love and care, she could help Jerrod.

“Will you go to Sheriff Donner today and tell him the situation?” Olson asked.

“I—I’ll consider it.”

“Mrs. Harper, don’t put it off,” Olson said, rising to his feet. “You get to the sheriff today and have him help you get Jerrod under Dr. Carroll’s care.”

Dottie licked her lips but did not reply.

Olson sighed and said, “I’ll be glad to contact Dr. Carroll for you, if you’d like.”

Dottie rose from the chair, took her daughter by the hand, and said, “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll let you know. Right now I need to take James and head for home.”

The doctor sighed again and said, “Bring him back in four days. If the lip is healing properly, I’ll remove the stitches.”

Dottie told him she would and thanked him for his kindness and concern.

James was now awake and listening quietly. His lip was swollen where the stitches had been taken, and there was cotton in his left ear. The doctor handed Dottie a jar of salve and urged her once more to take action right away.

Dottie took James in her arms, and with Molly Kate walking beside her, headed down the corridor, past the reception desk, and toward the double doors. When they moved out into the sunlight, Dottie’s heart almost stopped, and Molly Kate ejected a tiny fearful whimper.

Standing beside the family wagon was Jerrod Harper, holding the reins of his saddle horse.

T
HE SIGHT OF HER HUSBAND
and the somber shadow in his eyes struck terror in Dottie Harper’s very soul. She stood there in frozen indecision. Should she run back into the hospital? Or should she stand her ground and hope passers-by would help if Jerrod became violent?

Oh, Lord
, she prayed.
Help us! Don’t let Jerrod—

Suddenly Jerrod’s countenance twisted in agony and tears filled his eyes. He let go of the reins and started toward his family, sobbing. His huge frame shook with emotion as he stepped onto the boardwalk. Tears spilled down his cheeks and into his neatly-trimmed beard.