The Moon by Night (44 page)

Then, ahead of her, outlined in shimmering shades of yellow, she suddenly saw the sign: PAWNBROKER. It was half a block ahead of her, on the other side of the street. Before going on to see him—she couldn't help thinking of his golden teeth flashing—she decided to take just one more small drink of the delicious life-and-sanity-saving absinthe. One thing, at least, that Marcus had done for her, she thought gratefully.

She felt so deliciously carefree, so dreamy and peaceful that she wanted to keep feeling that way. She took another healthy swig of the fiery drink, shuddering with pleasure as it burned all the way down into her empty stomach. In just moments she was so heavily drugged that she could barely put one foot in front of the other. She felt as if she were floating.

She tripped on an uneven board and began to fall. She knew it was happening. She told herself, “I'm falling down.” It seemed to take a comically long time, and she was fairly sure that she had time to laugh before her head slammed into the boardwalk. She didn't feel any pain at all, only pressure on her head, and the edges of her blurred vision grew darker and darker and seeped into the red spots in the middle until it was all black and silent.

“Old Beasley's pawn ticket in her hand. Wonder if she was cashin' out or cashin' in.” The voice grew louder, and Manon felt hands pawing at her.

She sat up. Though she was stone blind, she slapped the hands away because she thought they were trying to get her bottle. A woman's rough-edged voice pierced her head like a knife. “Let her be, Kate. You're nothing but a filthy little thief. Poor little girl had her head busted wide open, and you're going to roll her? For shame, Kate.”

Manon's vision was gradually coming back, as if a lantern were very slowly being turned up in a dark room. She saw three women and one man leaning over her. She was so dazed and confused that she had no idea where she was or why she was sitting on the walk on a strange street with strangers peering down at her. In a purely automatic defensive gesture her hand went to the pocket of her cloak—her bottles of absinthe were still there. Both of them were all right, not broken. She breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Here, honey, you trying to get up? Let Big Betty help you.”

She was big—tall and strong and muscular—and she hauled Manon to her feet so fast her head spun around in sickening circles. She sagged and weaved as Big Betty steadied her. Then Manon, looking blankly up the street, saw the pawnbroker's store again. In her addled brain she was convinced that if she could just get there, everything would be all right. Weakly she pushed Big Betty away and started tottering up the street.

“Hey! You're gonna take another tumble if you—Aw, forget it,” Big Betty said, turning away and grabbing the elderly gent's arm again and hauling him briskly down the street. “She's in a big hurry to get nowhere, ain't she, sugar? But I tell you, and Big Betty knows, that poor little lost lady ain't gonna make it another night on these streets.”

“I gotta pain. Is there a doctor anywhere in this hospital?”

Cheney looked up at her husband, who was leaning on the tall counter at the nurses' station. “Oh! It's you!”

“Yeah, it's just ol' me, hangdoggin' around until you can see me. Maybe I oughta make an appointment,” Shiloh grumbled.

“I'm sorry,” Cheney said, but she didn't sound very penitent. “It's just that I
must
finish writing this prescriptive—Oh. I forgot. We were supposed to have dinner, weren't we?”

“Yes, ma'am. Three hours ago. It is now—” He took out his watch, popped it open, and pronounced, “Eleven minutes after ten. In the evening.”

Aghast, Cheney blurted, “It is? Ten o'clock already? But I haven't done files yet!”

“You haven't done food yet either,” Shiloh said sternly. “And I'm guessing none of the other busy bees around here have.” Dr. White was hurrying by, holding two brown bottles, a pair of scissors, a roll of linen gauze, and three funnels. Shiloh called out, “'Scuse me, Dr. White. When was the last time you ate?”

She stopped, turned, and frowned. “Ate?”

“Yeah. You know, you put things in your mouth and chew them up. Ate. Eat. Food.”

“Oh yes, of course. I-I can't recall, exactly,” she answered, clearly puzzled.

“See?” he said to Cheney.

Rolling her eyes, she said, “It's all right, Dr. White. He sounds like a lunatic, but he's relatively harmless. You can go on about your business.”

Dr. White scurried off, and Cheney turned back to Shiloh. “I truly am sorry, Shiloh, but I can't leave. It's just impossible. In fact, I'm fairly sure I'll be here most, if not all, of the night.”

“I knew it. That's why I brought dinner to you. Compliments of Sketes. She rustled up enough food for a regiment, so all of the poor overworked doctors can take ten minutes and grab some grub. But you gotta take at least fifteen, Doc. I figure I can make do with that, but no less. Okay?”

“Actually, now that you've reminded me, I'm starving.” Cheney stood and stretched. “You really did bring food? Sketes's cooking?”

“Sure did. Can you come eat now? 'Cause I'm hungry too.”

“As soon as I find Dev, to let him know, and Nurse Nilsson. Where is this feast?”

“In the doctors' sitting room. And I'm serious, Doc, there's enough for everyone. I know just about the whole staff is working extra shifts, so Sketes and I figured out a pretty good spread.”

“All right. I'll be right back.” Cheney went down the hall toward the men's ward.

Carlie and Miss Nilsson came out of one of the dispensary cubicles into the hallway. Miss Nilsson was talking and gesturing, and Shiloh noticed that Carlie was the one who headed straight for the carbolic acid stand and started scrubbing. Miss Nilsson veered over that way with him, but Shiloh thought that she might have forgotten if it hadn't been for Carlie. He sympathized, for he knew that fatigue could make even the most intelligent and conscientious person forget things. Shiloh thought Miss Nilsson looked strained and tired, but Carlie seemed fine.

As they neared the nurses' station, Shiloh heard Nurse Nilsson saying, “…out of the prepared mustard plasters, so Isaiah and Lulie are going to make up a couple of dozen, but they haven't brought them over yet.” Isaiah and Lulie Underwood were the black couple who lived above the hospital kitchen and laundry. In addition to their normal hospital duties as janitor and laundress, they both helped out with such things as making mustard plasters and mixing cough tonics when the hospital staff were busy.

“We got stores in today,” Carlie told her. “I haven't had time to put everything up yet. Maybe there's mustard plasters in there.”

“There probably are, Carlie, but I need you to help me in emergency tonight more than I need you looking through crates for mustard plasters. Hello, Mr. Irons-Winslow. Are you looking for Dr. Duvall?”

“Always, it seems like,” he sighed. “I saw her, but she got away again. Hello, Carlie. You got lots going on in the emergency clinic tonight?”

“People are getting the 'fluenza,” Carlie told him gravely. “Only two so far tonight, a little boy and a little girl, but their mother is really worried about them. And now a man with a
huge
mustache came in, and he's got a putrid sore throat.”

“Now, Carlie, a doctor is going to have to diagnose that,” Nurse Nilsson said, busily filling out a patient file.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said meekly.

“Betcha you're right, Carlie,” Shiloh said, winking at him over the nurse's head. “I was a nurse for a long time, and I almost always knew more than the doctor I was working for.”

“You did? But you're real smart,” Carlie said.

“Mr. Irons-Winslow, you shouldn't,” Miss Nilsson said without looking up. “Carlie, he was working for Dr. Duvall, so that was a special situation. You shouldn't think that you know more than the doctors.”

“No, I never would,” he said quietly. “I'm retarded, I know.”

“Lotsa people are slow, Carlie,” Shiloh said. “You're really good at your job, so it doesn't really matter. Dr. Duvall told me that.”

Carlie grinned, and his eyes lit up as brightly as a child's on Christmas morning. “She did? You mean it?”

“Sure do. By the way, Carlie, and you too, Miss Nilsson, Dr. Duvall and I bought everyone's dinner tonight. It's in the doctors' sitting room. Whenever you can get away, you're welcome to come.”

Miss Nilsson looked up, her blue eyes wide with surprise. “You did? How extraordinary! I mean, I just never heard of—Pardon me, sir, I don't mean to be chattering along. Thank you, Mr. Irons-Winslow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Irons-Winslow,” Carlie echoed.

“Welcome.”

Cheney, Dev, and Dr. White were coming up the hallway from the men's ward. Cheney was talking earnestly to Dev, who was listening with his usual grave attention, while Dr. White sort of skipped along behind, trying to catch Cheney's words. Cheney looked up and asked, “Shiloh, what did we add to camphorated oil to make the chest rub we used in San Francisco when we had that rash of summer catarrh?”

“Purified spirits of turpentine,” he answered. “Four parts camphorated oil to one part turpentine.”

“It worked really well to break up the catarrhal congestion, Dev,” Cheney said.

“Excellent idea,” Dev said. “Miss Nilsson, would you compound that mixture, please, and make plasters for all of the influenza patients?”

“Oh, sir, I'll be glad to, but I have to attend to Mr. Mustache first,” she said wearily.

Dev blinked. “His name is Mr. Mustache?”

Miss Nilsson blinked. “Did I say Mr. Mustache?”

“Nurse Nilsson's real tired,” Carlie said soberly. “His
name
is Mr. Haltom. He has a huge
mustache
. I stocked camphorated oil upstairs in the closets and on the dispensary supply carts yesterday. But we only have two bottles of spirits of turpentine—downstairs in storage.”

“Good, Carlie, run down and get a bottle of the turpentine, please,” Dev said, then turned to Miss Nilsson. “I'll get Dr. Varick to make the mixture. Now, about Mr. Mustache, what's his complaint?”

Cheney groaned. “That poor man is never going to be called anything but Mr. Mustache in this hospital, I can tell.”

Dev frowned. “Did I say Mr. Mustache? I meant Mr…. Mr…. oh, whatever it is. What's his complaint, Miss Nilsson?”

“He said he thought it was just a touch of catarrh going into influenza, Doctor, but I think it's another septic sore throat,” she answered. “A doctor should look at him.”

Dev nodded. “All right. When Carlie gets back, send him down to the women's ward to find Dr. Varick, and tell him to come check on the emergency patients. Dr. Duvall, Dr. White, Mr. Irons-Winslow, and I are going to the doctors' sitting room to eat, so unless it's a dire emergency, such as someone coming in who is on fire or who has been hit by a train, please give us half an hour without disturbing us. Then we'll make arrangements for everyone else to take a break and have something to eat. All right?”

“Yes, sir, that would be wonderful. Thank you, Doctor,” Miss Nilsson said fervently. She was a big healthy woman and wasn't accustomed to going without meals.

The four hurried to the physicians' sitting room before anything or anyone else could stop them. Shiloh had brought food, plates, silverware, and napkins and had set everything up on the library table between the two large windows that faced out onto the front lawn. When they came in, exclaiming over the wonderful smell of Sketes's English beefsteak pies, Cheney suddenly groaned, “Oh no, look at that! It's snowing!”

“Yeah, it started about eight o'clock,” Shiloh said. “It's that bad kinda storm too. It started with a wet slushy snow, then the temperature dropped down to below nothing. It froze the ground covering, and now it's a heavy thick dry snow on top. It's pretty, though, isn't it?”

“As long as you're inside looking out at it,” Dev said, lifting the lid to one of the big pies and sniffing appreciatively. “I cannot believe how hungry I am. I hate to be rude, but I'm eating. Now.” He grabbed a plate and started piling food on it. After hanging back shyly for a few moments, Dr. White took a plate too and started helping herself.

Along with the two beefsteak pies, Sketes had sent a whole ham, a wheel of cheddar cheese with pepper crackers, two loaves of fresh-baked bread, two dozen hardboiled eggs, a fruit salad, and a German coffee cake. On impulse, as Shiloh came to the hospital, he had stopped at a confectioner's and bought three pounds of French chocolate creams.

He and Cheney were fixing their plates when Cheney suddenly turned to him to ask anxiously, “Shiloh, did you bring Sean and Shannon?”

“Sure.”

“But they aren't at Roe's, are they? It's so cold! Did you remember their stockings?”

“No, they aren't at Roe's. They're at the office lazing in front of a big fat fire that I built for them, and yes, I remembered their stockings even though I still say they look like some silly jack-puddings with 'em on. Every hackney coach driver laughs like the dickens when they catch sight of 'em.”

“Why, you big fraud, you spoil them more than I do!” Cheney declared.

“I don't either,” he argued. “I'm not the one who makes Sketes cook porridge for their breakfast.” With emphasis he smacked an enormous helping of beefsteak pie on his plate.

“But I'm not the one who bought French chocolate creams for them. No, don't even try to deny it. I see that box, with four of them gone. You don't even like chocolate creams, so I know you didn't eat them. And four—Shiloh, for shame! Those dogs are going to get so fat they'll have to roll along instead of walk!”