After the Fog (11 page)

* * *

Rose cringed when they reached the Lipinski’s porch. Leo wasn’t there. His footprints, where his small shoes lifted the soot away, left white tracks instead of black: he’d gone around back. He probably saw the Huston boy and that would occupy him more than a bunch of marbles. Mrs. Sebastian took a drag from the cigarette as though it would allow her to catch her breath.

Rose wanted to tell her about some very important doctors who had done some preliminary research and found cigarettes caused babies to be born small and more helpless than usual. She would wait to offer that bit of information until she was sure she was getting the money. Or not.

Rose explained to Mrs. Sebastian and Theresa that she’d selected two households to demonstrate the role of community nurse and its clinic—one, a home full of people who’d learned from Rose how to create a healthy living environment even though poor, and two—the Lipinski’s—who’d just allowed Rose one visit so far. Rose hoped the contrast of the two households with similar histories, would demonstrate the significant impact a community nurse had on the public.

Rose filled Mrs. Sebastian and Theresa in on the Lipinski situation: a widow who has not recovered from her husband’s sudden death when he slipped and fell into a vat of molten steel incinerating him. With no pension and the amount of his last check in dispute, she had not found the energy to care for her six children. The oldest, a twelve year-old, had stopped attending school, the others never started. Even before Mr. Lipinski’s death, the family did not adhere to strict hygiene practices and the children suffered from lice, scabies, rotten teeth and malnutrition.

“Aren’t some families lost causes?” Mrs. Sebastian said. “Giving money to the theater means it is used constructively right away.” Mrs. Sebastian flicked her cigarette into the hillside off the porch with her thin fingers.

Rose silently admitted she’d often thought the same thing upon entering a rancid home. But her stomach churned hearing Mrs. Sebastian be cavalier about a family whose head died in the very mill that lined her husband’s silk pockets. Rose pushed her shoulders back. She had to be careful not to offend Mrs. Sebastian.

Rose nodded and pushed a smile to her lips. “Pathetic, yes, but lost causes? No. That’s why I’m proud to carry the black bag of public health. There’s always something to teach and someone to learn.” Rose drew back, the corny wording felt phony, as if she were advertising during the Original Amateur Hour.

Mrs. Sebastian took her purse from Rose, stepped up to the pitted wood door and rapped on it. Rose worried the Sebastian women were not ready for this, but it was too late to change her course of action. Rose knocked again, and after no response, pounded on the door.

Rose waited, her ear turned to the door. With no sounds coming from inside she pushed open the door and poked her head inside. A stench of spoiled, cooked onions and greasy meat made Rose’s stomach heave.

Rose heard rustling in the space in front of her. “Mrs. Lipinski?” The rooms were so dark that even coming in from the fog, Rose’s eyes couldn’t make out what was in front of her.

She reached back and waved Mrs. Sebastian in, and heard her sharp intake of air. Rose hoped the woman would maintain an expression of neutrality and not embarrass the family.

“Mrs. Lipinski?” Rose stepped further into the house, turning her ankle on a shoe. Dammit. This may be too good of a “bad” example. She kicked the shoe to the side then felt along the wall to the point where she hit the light switches—one button to push on, the other for off. She pushed one then the other. Neither lit the room.

A gravelly female voice came from inside the room. “Can’t spare no extra to burn lights in daytime. Fog’ll clear soon ‘nough.”

Mrs. Sebastian let out a startled squeal.

Rose shuffled along the wall, remembering a lamp near the unlit fireplace. If she didn’t bring on some light quick, Mrs. Sebastian would leave without the opportunity to see what Rose’s work entailed.

Rose heard the grainy snap of a Zippo. Mrs. Sebastian’s lighter provided just enough light for Rose to reach the fireplace. She twisted the tiny knob on the side of the lamp and weak yellow light lit the room. The light, like a magic wand, revealed five people sitting around their mother, shielding their eyes from the sudden glow. Mrs. Sebastian was backing out toward the door, bumping into a wide-eyed Theresa.

Rose grasped Mrs. Sebastian’s hand and patted it as though she were a child. She wondered if the woman had ever been in a home like this, whether she’d always been wealthy enough that not even the depression had lifted the shade on the ugliness of poverty. Rose coaxed a reluctant Mrs. Sebastian into the room, introducing her to Mrs. Lipinski, and five of her children.

“Marie’s up in ‘er room, n’at,” Mrs. Lipinski said, never lifting her gaze from the floor. “Go on up and check ‘er out. She ain’t been dahn in two days. Not even fer her favorite. Bacon.”

Rose nodded then knelt in front of one of the children and whispered. The child, who Rose quickly realized was a boy dressed in girl’s clothing, nodded and gave Rose his ladder-back chair then nudged his sister and sat with her in the next chair.

Rose pulled the chair one foot away from the wall and laid her coat over the ladder-back. The weight of the coat, snapped off its back.

“I am so sorry,” Rose said to Mrs. Lipinski. “I’ll have my Henry come fix that this very afternoon.” Rose glanced at Mrs. Sebastian. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was moving, in prayer Rose guessed. That could be good or bad.

Mrs. Lipinski stared at the wall of windows so blackened from soot they might let in barely more light than a wall. Rose asked another child to sit with his mother and offered that seat to Mrs. Sebastian.

Rose dragged another broken chair toward Mrs. Lipinski for Theresa to sit on, but the young woman was backed up completely against the door. Rose walked her to the chair beside her mother. She squeezed her hand. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.” Theresa shuffled across the floor and nodded. Mrs. Sebastian sat beside Mrs. Lipinski, as close to the edge of the chair as she could, appearing to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose, to block the odor of the home, Rose guessed.

Mrs. Lipinski shifted her gaze from the windows to Mrs. Sebastian’s profile. “Like yer suit. Ain’t one of them convertible suits, that there’s a real one. Had me one of those once ‘pon time.”

Mrs. Sebastian fingered the collar on her suit jacket. One of the children was creeping across the floor on all fours, lured by the crystal shoe appliqués that reflected every last bit of light in the room. Mrs. Sebastian watched the child inch closer. The woman’s face froze in a grimace. She pulled her body taller, tighter into herself.

Rose worked as efficiently as possible. She might have made more inquiries about the general state of things had this been a typical visit, but she needed to get at the crux of the problem and move onto the other family—the one who’d become a prime example for the benefits of community nursing.

She removed newspapers from her bag, put some of them under her arm, spread a set on the now backless chair seat and lay her bag on it. She folded the remaining newspapers and turned them into bags to carry soiled linens. Another would be used for after-use instruments, and the third for waste to be thrown out.

In the kitchen Rose scrubbed her hands with the green soap she’d left at the Lipinski’s house three days before. She just managed to avoid touching the pile of dirty dishes in the sink while she washed up.

In the front room, Rose opened her bag and removed the sanitary pads she’d sewn. “These are for your monthly cycles, Mrs. Lipinski. The flannel’s good, but like I said last time, you’ll need to soak them and wash them in the hottest water to maintain their usefulness.”

Mrs. Lipinski began to rock in her chair as though she were into another world.

Rose handed the pads to a trembling Mrs. Sebastian to hold. She looked at Rose and held her gaze as if to say, don’t you dare leave me alone with these people. Rose gave her an encouraging nod and she wondered if she should have instructed her on how to interact with a different class of people.

Mrs. Sebastian nodded back, though appeared to be in shock. She ran her hand over the flannel. “Why these,” she cleared her throat, “are fine pads, the stitches…” Her voice shook as she faked a casual tone.

Rose pulled more fabric from the bag, and turned her attention to Mrs. Lipinski. “And I bleached these flour sacks and made underwear for you and the children. Nothing ever lasts as long as good flour-sack underwear. I was raised on them, myself.” Rose hesitated, knowing she needed to follow protocol and ask Mrs. Lipinski to assist her in caring for Marie.

As soon as the question was out of Rose’s mouth, Mrs. Lipinski turned away, unwilling or able to get out of the chair. Rose was not about to wrestle the woman up the stairs and decided she would explain to the Sebastians that working with the Lipinski’s would require a multi-layered approach. It would take time to make the simplest changes with them.

Rose smiled. “Now, I’ll leave you ladies to get acquainted while I tend to Marie.”

Rose felt her way up the staircase into the bedroom at the top of the landing. She didn’t think it was possible for a set of steps to be skinnier and more treacherous than her own, but in homes like this—where additions were cobbled together with nails the homeowner stole from the mill and wood that was rummaged out of garbage heaps she was reminded self-pity wasn’t allowed.

Rose crossed the threshold into Marie’s room, passing through cobwebs. She batted them away from her face and cleared her throat. In the shoebox-shaped room a narrow bed and a coal stove stood by a closed window; an arthritic table perched at the end of the bed.

Marie lay still as a corpse. Rose bent over her and waited for warm breath to hit her cheek before she began her work. She moved toward the magazine-sized table and checked over the things she’d prepared for the family to care for Marie—everything was exactly as she’d left it. They had ignored her instructions.

Rose readjusted the items: green soap, brush, tea, and spittoon that would ensure Marie had a place to spit her mucus, but not to be promiscuous about it, to keep the spread of disease to a minimum. Rose placed the thermometer and stethoscope on the table.

The girl was too still, prompting Rose to hurry. “Little Marie?” Rose, sandwiched between the mattress and the coal stove, inched toward the two-year-old. She pressed the skirt of her uniform against the back of her legs so it wouldn’t catch fire.

Marie stirred. Rose’s shoulders dropped, releasing tension she didn’t realize she was holding. She lifted Marie’s hand and turned it wrist up. She ran her finger over the pale, soft skin, the one section of the girl that seemed clean. She settled her fingers into the center of the clammy wrist and counted the beats for ten seconds. Eighty beats per minute. Rose liked to see a child’s resting pulse around sixty, but eighty was greatly reduced from the one hundred-five it was the day before.

Rose put the back of her hand on the girl’s cheeks then forehead. Her fever broke as Rose predicted it would. But her face was sticky. Rose touched her again with her fingertips. Sticky. She ran her hands over the scratchy blanket. Sticky. What the hell is this shit?

Rose knelt beside the girl and sniffed. Sweet. Not sugar. “Marie? What
is
this?”

“Juicy Juice.” Rose wondered if the girl’s slurred speech was the mark of the emerging language of a two-year-old, but the lolling of her head made her appear more like a drunk than a two year-old on the mend.

What the hell was juicy juice?

Rose sniffed the girl’s face and blanket again. The wet wool odor masked the scent of the sticky stuff. Rose didn’t want to do it, but decided to since a little girl’s health was at stake. She licked her fingers then looked at them, turned toward the fire and peered closer at her fingers. Purple. What? Rose shook her head. How could a sick girl be sugared in wine?

A drop of liquid hit Rose’s scalp. She looked up at the dark ceiling and squinted. Something was definitely leaking. Rose bent over the bed just above Marie’s face and turned her face upward, waiting for a drip.

Plop.

Wine. Definitely. Rose growled. Marie was drunk from a steady drip of homemade wine. Elderberry, of course, was du rigor in Donora in October. Rose struggled to stand and her skirt licked the stove just enough to catch a flame.

She yelped and Marie giggled at the sight of Rose’s uniform blazing. Rose ripped the wool blanket from the bed and smacked at the flames, putting them out. But, not before the flames had seared the hem of her uniform.

Oh, this was not good, Rose thought. “Okay, little Marie. Out of bed, now.” Marie reached up but didn’t, or couldn’t, move. Rose scooped her up and flung her over her shoulder, taking her downstairs. In the front room Rose settled Marie onto Mrs. Lipinski’s lap and spoke to her about the wine and the neglect, telling her the girl could not go back into that bed.

“That there wine? Holy shit on a brick! I fergot the wine.” Mrs. Lipinski began to rock Marie, finally conscious. “That was Boguslaw’s wine. Fermentin’ he said. Just a bit of time, he said. But, he got swallowed by that there slag and I fergit, I fergit everthing.”

Rose sighed, torn between knowing what her job required and what she wanted to do.

“Must’ve blew out of the barrel n’at?”