After the Fog (10 page)

“I can use a tree,” Leo said.

“Not on the
last
day of your life, young man. This isn’t bumpkinville like where your…oh forget it. Let’s get going. You’re young. Your bladder’s good.”

* * *

Rose and Leo headed off the porch and a voice cut through the dense fog. Mrs. Saltz crossed the street and started up the steps. If Rose hadn’t known the voice, she’d recognize the shape of the woman—the cat always sitting on her shoulder made her look deformed.

The stout German neighbor woman spoke broken English and refused to leave her hot-tempered husband despite his actions putting their family in repeated, but varied types of peril. Rose blew out frustrated air. She could not be late for Mrs. Sebastian.

“I have Joey on my list for therapy tomorrow,” Rose said to Mrs. Saltz as she started down the stairs. Rose noted Mrs. Saltz’s red, swollen cheeks. The cat was licking her face. Rose cringed. Could there be a filthier animal? Worse than dogs.

Mrs. Saltz’s eyes were bruised and a small cut had crusted to black blood at the corner of her mouth. Rose hardened against the pity she felt for the woman. She had tried to help her, dozens of times—at least forty documented nursing visits for all manner of things, but the success of a community nurse required the family to be committed to change.

Mrs. Saltz wept into her hands, then balled them up and covered her eyes. Rose wondered if that was the stance she must have taken each time Mr. Saltz hit her.

“There’s a family in Lancaster that would happily take you in. I can’t help you if you don’t let me. You said you had family in Ohio…”

Mrs. Saltz stood, crying, curling up like a dying flower, not saying anything. Rose sighed impatiently and the cat leaped onto her shoulder and clung to her back. Rose whapped at the cat over her shoulder and spun and spun around.

Mrs. Saltz reached up toward Rose and with a sudden burst of energy ripped the cat from Rose’s shoulder and put it back on her own. The cat meowed, showing its teeth then hissed at Rose while Mrs. Saltz continued wailing.

Rose’s heart thumped and crushed her chest. “Keep that damn thing away from me.” Rose was about to say or she wouldn’t come see Joey. But Rose could never hold a crazy mother against a sick boy. Part of her job was to turn the family around, not judge them. But still. That cat was like a deadly weapon as far as Rose was concerned. “Damn cat,” Rose said quietly.

Mrs. Saltz slid her fists under her loose jowls, eyes narrowing, her rectangular face quivering. “My husband, your husband. They the same. Buzzy. They the same. Men all the same. Gambling, women…” her voice cut out like radio static.

Leo reached up and patted Mrs. Saltz on the elbow. The woman stopped wailing, stared down at Leo then made a break across the street. Gone, as though Leo’s touch had wakened her senses.

Leo scrunched his face and shrugged. “Sweetie?”

Rose felt the same confusion that she saw grip Leo’s expression.

He pointed in the direction of the fleeing Mrs. Saltz. “Of course all men are the same. We all have penises, right?” Leo lifted his coat, thrust out his crotch area and looked downward as though checking to be sure he still had one.

Rose sighed at Leo’s innocence. She knew what Mrs. Saltz meant except for her reference to Henry. He was not a gambler. And he certainly did not have women. Not since he married Rose 18 years before.

“Leo my boy. All men are
not
the same. Penis, yes. The same, no. At least I pray that’s the case.” Rose had never distrusted Henry. Well, once or twice, but she’d always investigated and discerned her suspicions of adultery to be unfounded. No, Henry might not be perfect, he may have hid some information regarding Magdalena, but Henry Pavlesic was
not
a cheater.

“Come on, Leo. Take a good lesson from Mrs. Saltz. You sure as shit better be able to take care of yourself because a person with no course of action planned, no education, and no money in his pocket is helpless and that’s no way to be.”

Rose thought of Magdalena loosening the ties on her secure future by saying she might quit school. Perhaps she needed to give Magdalena a refresher in how many ways life can go bad.

“Mrs. Saltz’s housekeeping habits allowed Polio to have a field day with her son,” Rose said. “Everything has its use, every person, too. So you better have some toughness about you or you’ll end up crying all day with a damn cat perched on your shoulder like a crazy.”

They headed north to where the Lipinski home was located high above the zinc mill. Leo nodded and grasped Rose’s hand. Despite the fact his hand was joined with hers it was clear to Rose that he could feel none of her concern about what had transpired since the moments she was called to the Greshecky home early that morning.

He sensed none of her anxiety, that she was having trouble focusing on what lay ahead, even though she had never been able to leave the pain of what lay scattered behind. And for that, she smiled at Leo, wishing she was more like him.

L
ife was slowly returning to prosperity by 1948. Rationing had ended in 1946, nylon stockings were available again and you could sell your fifteen year-old car for the same price you bought it for new. But, it only took one bad loss—a huge hospital bill, a broken appliance, or a job loss—and your account would be wiped out.

Like many Donora families, the Pavlesics had money for food and clothing and some savings. And, while a budget still ruled the day, if they were careful they could soon build their own home. If they paid off the final chunk of Buzzy’s debt and he paid them back, that is.

Things in the world were looking up, what the war took away from the newly unionized steel workers—pay-raises during the war—it tried to give back in benefit packages that helped people feel as though they were getting ahead. Donora was a boomtown—it had fueled the war and now every ounce of steel it turned out was wired into a bridge, nailed into a house or bolted onto a car driving down an elm-lined street somewhere in America.

The endless stream of smoke was a good thing—a sign that everyone was working in the mills or in a job that supported the mills. Rose and Dr. Bonaroti were determined to make health care a part of that prosperity, and get their funding from all that profit.

They thought they could persuade the Women’s Club and Easter Seals to fund and stock the clinic and thereby push city council to at least partly fund Rose’s position with community chest monies. With new mill benefits packages, Rose and Bonaroti figured approximately fifty-four percent of her visits could be funded by insurance. Some families could partially pay out of pocket and the rest would need assistance. Then there was the need to pay for instruments and materials. Rose couldn’t hand-make sanitary pads forever.

Rose and Leo reached the Lipinski’s address. From where they stood, three tiers of steps led straight upward to the house. From the sidewalk, Rose saw the rickety porch boards and a glimpse of the second floor dormers. She pulled Leo’s hand, yanking him up the first few in a set of twelve. She let him go up another two steps and then turned him toward her. He was high enough to be eye-level.

“Now listen,” she said. “Set up camp on the Lipinski’s porch and, here, take this set of marbles and occupy yourself. Not a peep and there’s a pop and some Klondikes in it for you.”

Leo grinned and raced up the remaining steps, stirring up the soot that had gathered on the wood. Lipinski’s clearly did not keep up with their sweeping. Near the top he disappeared from Rose’s view. She was suddenly aware of the fog, the way it hid her nephew as he moved further away. It would certainly have lifted by the time she was done with this call.

Rose stepped back down to the wooden plank sidewalk. She crossed herself and began ticking off important points one at a time. Parts of Herman Biggs’ famous quote came to Rose, “Investment in public health can regulate illness and death. Investment and education are primary.” Her nerves had suddenly done away with the exact words, but the gist of his sentiments looped over and over in her mind.

The sound of someone’s voice from behind startled Rose. She spun around to see a slender blond woman in a fitted aquamarine suit. The woman wore a delicate hat which Rose knew at a glance was silk velvet, with a taffeta ribbon and the finest netting covering her eyes.

The woman moved closer and Rose realized they were about the same age—late thirties or early forties. Rose’s gaze darted to the woman’s perfect shoes, the exact shade of blue as the suit, with crystal and lace flower appliqués that Rose had only seen on brides and in Hanson’s Finest Women’s Wear storefront.

Rose offered her hand. “I’m Rose Pavlesic, Mrs. Sebastian.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Rose pulled her hand back and hugged her bag into her body. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Rose shook her head and stepped out of the way.

Mrs. Sebastian nodded and smiled with her mouth closed, “It is me.”

Rose’s mouth screwed up at one corner. This interaction threw her off balance.

“My daughter’s on her way, a block behind me or so. She’s a little fragile that one, but she won’t let me help her a bit. Stubborn as the dickens. I don’t take her with me much, because she gets winded, but I insisted she come today. I thought it might help for her to see that there’s no artificial measure big enough to plug the gaping hole that is poverty. Not even with well-meaning people at the helm. Here she is.”

Rose didn’t like what the woman said or the way she said it. She was not accustomed to being in this position—one where she had the information, but not the power. This would require the same precision as neurosurgery in Rose’s estimation. Same result if she screwed up.

Behind Mrs. Sebastian, traipsed a twentyish woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and almond shaped, dark eyes. She wore a cocoa-colored woolen suit, and brushed it nervously with a slim gloved hand. Her chest heaved for breath. Rose reached for her, to support her as she caught her breath.

“You all right?” Rose said, close enough to smell the girl’s fruity perfume. Rose felt her forehead with her palm and then the back of her hand.

“This is Theresa,” Mrs. Sebastian said.

Theresa smiled through gasping breaths and gently pushed Rose’s hand away.

Rose glanced at Mrs. Sebastian who nodded. Rose backed off, turning her attention to Mrs. Sebastian.

“I’ll be frank, Mrs. Pavlesic. I’m accustomed to offering my time, talents and money to the arts,” she said. She cocked her head giving Rose the sense the woman was speaking to a child rather than a skilled nurse with years of experience. “I was a ferocious supporter of the symphony in Pittsburgh. In Gary I was the head of the Women’s League of Arts and Music. But, my husband thought it was important to at least entertain the thought of carrying on the work of the superintendents’ wives who preceded me. Well, I just wanted to let you know what you’re up against. I believe the community chest is better choice for funding a clinic.”

“That won’t cover the whole project.” Jackass. Rose’s jaw tightened. She fought her rising worry. This was going to be harder than she thought. She’d been so distracted by her family problems that she’d miscalculated. She should have known. “Maybe we should begin in the clinic with some hard statistics,” Rose said pointing over Mrs. Sebastian’s shoulder. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable with a set of numbers.”

“We’re here now,” Mrs. Sebastian said. Her eyes hard on Rose’s, her words, icy. Rose hit a nerve. That wasn’t what she had intended. Rose shifted her weight and patted her bag.

You can do this, Rose told herself and turned toward the stairs swinging her hand upward, offering the woman the first step up. It was then, when Mrs. Sebastian turned that Rose realized the woman was pregnant. A slim hipped woman from the front, in profile, her round belly was displayed.

“Oh, well, are you sure, this is quite steep, three flights of steps.” Rose didn’t want to condescend; she wanted to be respectful of the woman’s condition. She was quickly losing confidence that she’d chosen the right set of families to demonstrate the town’s needs, but dismissed her nerves.

Mrs. Sebastian popped open her shantung clutch and dug through it. She produced a thin cigarette and a chunky Zippo lighter. She held her handbag under her arm and lit the cigarette. “Let’s just hope this journey into the clouds via a less than sturdy staircase is worth the risk.” She chucked the hefty lighter back into the purse.

“Perhaps you could hold my bag?” She handed the dainty purse to Rose who rubbed the buttery fabric between her thumb and finger. Rose hoisted her nurse’s bag over her shoulder and offered her empty arm to Mrs. Sebastian to help her up the crumbly steps.

Mrs. Sebastian bent over Rose’s outstretched arm and ran her finger over the shabby spot in the tweed where the bag straps had laid over Rose’s arm each day.

Rose looked away, her cheeks burning. She prided herself in the care she took in preserving all her clothing, her presentation. But as any community nurse knew, hauling a seven-pound bag each and every day of the year wore at one’s coat.

“Evidence of hard work and the need for a nurse in town. Right there on that arm.” Rose nodded.

“Hmm.” Mrs. Sebastian lifted her chin and turned her attention toward the rising stairs.

By the time they reached the top, Rose had diagnosed Theresa as having asthma and had, in her mind, cobbled together several different protocols that might help alleviate the girl’s spasming bronchial tubes. And, maybe that—helping Theresa—would sell her mother on Rose’s skill and the benefit of community nursing care.