Sweet Sanctuary (7 page)

Helplessness washed over Lydia, and she wished Micah were still here. Micah would be able to look at the situation logically rather than emotionally. He would pray with her and remind her God was in control. She closed her eyes and wove her fingers together in her lap, praying inwardly for God's comfort. Another muttered oath from her father forced her eyes open.

Lydia looked at her father's white face. The veins in his temple stood out as darkly as if drawn by the broad stroke of a pen. Under his breath, he vowed, “When he comes, I'll be ready. He'll regret the day he tries to remove Nicky from under my roof.”

Fear roiled in Lydia's stomach, and she broke out in a cold sweat.
Heavenly Father, what does Father mean?
She didn't ask the same question of her earthly father. She was afraid of the answer.

7

N
ic paused on the brick portico fronting the enormous Georgian Classic home situated on six rolling acres of landscaped lawn. The fancy words—
portico, Georgian Classic—
rolled through the back of his mind and created a sour taste on his tongue. The home's mistress had thrown the words around on Nic's last visit as if her personal worth increased by residing in such a stately house. He'd had to work hard to keep derision from his expression and tone when speaking with her.

He raised his hand to make use of the brass lion's-head door-knocker and caught a glimpse of himself in the door's full-length leaded-glass window. Even in his best clothes—tan trousers, cambric shirt, and duck jacket—he looked out of place here. But he had something these people wanted. Wanted desperately. So they'd welcome him the same way they'd welcome a visiting dignitary. He squared his shoulders and raised his chin, a wry grin climbing his freshly shaven cheeks. Then he gave the door-knocker two solid whacks.

Moments later the door swung wide, and a uniformed maid ushered Nic inside without so much as a moment's hesitation. “The missus is in the south parlor. Please follow me.”

Nic plodded across the marble floor through an arched doorway. The moment he entered the parlor, the maid discreetly disappeared. The mistress of the house—Mrs. Darwin Thaddeus Bachman the Third—sat in a velvet tufted chair beside a scrolled round table, a China teacup in her pale, slender hands. But he'd gotten a whiff of the cup's contents on his last visit. Mrs. Bachman wasn't drinking tea.

When she spotted Nic, she set the cup aside and rose, hands outstretched, to greet him. “Mr. Pankin, how lovely to see you.” She clasped his hand between hers. Her lips formed a smile, but her eyes remained cold. Distant. Tipping sideways slightly, she peeked behind him. “You're alone?”

Nic knew what she was asking. He cleared his throat and tugged his hand from her clammy grasp. “Yeah.” He stifled the curse that rose in his throat. The midwife's disappearance had thrown a roadblock into his plans. But he'd find his kid. He had to. Too much rested on it. “Came to tell you there's been a little delay. But don't worry—the kid'll be yours soon.”

The woman sank back into the chair. “Mr. Pankin, please understand, I'm trying to be patient. But Darwin and I have been alone for eleven years.” Her brows puckered. “Eleven . . . years . . .” She swept her hand, indicating the surroundings. “This house is longing for the presence of a child. Every generation of Bachmans before us has provided an heir. It is imperative my husband not be the one who breaks with tradition. I
must
secure a child.”

Nic fidgeted in place. The woman's high-pitched voice grated on his nerves, but he wouldn't bark at her. Deep down it pleased him to hold the upper hand. Hadn't taken him long on his previous visit to understand why she'd turned to him. No judge or decent person would give her a child. Her unnaturally rosy cheeks, slightly slurred speech, and trembling hands betrayed
her weakness. If an uneducated bum like him read the signs, decent people would, too. Which made her dependent on the likes of him. He nearly laughed. She seemed to have everything—a fancy home, servants, nice belongings, money—yet she needed something from
him.
Such power he held. Almost made him want to prolong the sale. But he needed the money now, and he might lose out to somebody else if he didn't produce the kid soon. Worry clawed at him.

“You ain't looking elsewhere, are you? Thinking of buying a baby?”

Mrs. Bachman cringed. “A squalling infant? Oh, mercy, no. Diapers and nighttime feedings hold no appeal to me.” She lifted her shoulder in a lazy shrug. “A child of three, already fully trained, able to speak and understand directions yet young enough to be molded into Darwin's expectations—that is precisely what I desire.”

Leaning forward, she fixed him with a steady look. “And it's precisely what I expect from you. But I need to know, Mr. Pankin, if you're able to deliver. You made a promise to me nearly a month ago and I've yet to receive anything more than excuses. Do you or do you not intend to allow us to adopt your child?”

Her words—
be molded into our expectations
—echoed in Nic's mind. For one brief second something at the center of Nic's being caused a stir of apprehension. Would this woman love the kid and treat him right, or would she just hound him to become someone like herself—uppity and spoiled? He pushed the odd feeling aside. Why did he care what she did as long as he got what he wanted most?

Narrowing his gaze, he ground out, “'Course I do. And the age'll be just right for what you're wanting. Just gimme another week. I'll be back, and you won't be disappointed.”

Lifting her teacup, she drank until she'd emptied it. Then she
clattered the cup onto its saucer and fixed Nic with a haughty glare. “I hope not, Mr. Pankin. Because yours isn't the only available child in the city.”

Nic puffed his chest and glowered at the woman. “Maybe not. But I reckon I'm the only one willing to deal with . . .” He allowed his gaze to flick to the discarded cup then back to her flushed face. “The likes o' you.”

She blanched. Shifting her face sharply away, she set her chin at an arrogant angle. “Just bring me the child, Mr. Pankin, without any further delays. I'll have your money ready.”

Micah gave a big smile to the little boy slumped on the edge of the examination table. The boy, flushed with fever, managed a wavering smile in return, then lowered his head. Micah tapped the youngster on the shoulder. When the child looked at him, he pointed to his own mouth, then opened it as wide as he could. His mouth still gaping, he touched the boy's chin and nodded, trying to give the message to open up. Micah had played this game of pantomime many times before. He had it down to an art.

The boy dropped his jaw, and his dark eyes widened when Micah placed a wooden depressor on his tongue and pressed gently. But, bravely, he didn't try to pull away. A peek at the child's throat gave Micah all the proof he needed—tonsillitis. He removed the depressor and offered it to the boy, who took it with a weak smile of thanks.

Micah would have liked to treat the infection with a dose of penicillin and then schedule the child for a tonsillectomy once the illness had cleared. But neither were an option. He had no penicillin on hand in the clinic, and no hospital would take this child without advance payment, which Micah already knew was
an impossibility. So the best he could do was give the child's mother a gargle for the boy to use to ease the pain, show her how to keep his temperature down, and let the infection run its course. It was frustrating to know what to do but be unable to carry it out.

With a sigh, he turned to the boy's mother, who perched on a chair in the corner, her brow furrowed with worry. In her arms, she held another, smaller child. Micah suddenly envisioned the ill child playing “doctor” with the younger one and infecting the little one with germs from the tongue depressor. He reached into his pocket, found a penny, and offered it in trade for the stick. The child made an immediate swap.

Micah winked, then turned his attention to the mother again. He showed her the directions of how to mix the gargle, then demonstrated rinsing a rag in cold water and placing it on the boy's sweaty head. The mother nodded as if she understood. She took the items and replayed Micah's actions.

Micah smiled broadly and patted the woman's shoulder. “Good.” He nodded exuberantly. “Yes, that's right.”

The woman nodded, too, patting Micah back. “Thanks you. Good man. Thanks you.”

Micah sighed as the trio left the clinic. He needed to learn Russian, German, Italian, Polish, Yiddish, and Dutch just to communicate clearly with the people in his neighborhood. And, he thought with a self-deprecating chuckle, according to Nicky, he had difficulty just spitting out English. What a disadvantage these people had, living in a country where they couldn't speak the language. Yet they were safer here than in their homelands, what with the Nazis marching across Europe, wreaking their havoc. Micah was grateful for each “foreigner” who came in—it meant one less to be mowed down in Hitler's quest for power.

He washed the table where the child had sat, using a disinfectant
solution so potent the vapors stung his eyes. Yet it wouldn't do to spread germs. Some people were uneasy enough, blaming the immigrants for all types of illnesses. He would do whatever he could to keep diseases from spreading. As close as these people lived to one another, a simple illness could turn into an epidemic.

The task finished, he walked to the dirt-streaked window and looked out onto the street. Things here were so different from his own small hometown. The sky nearly blocked by towering buildings, grass only growing in parks, people constantly teeming . . . There were times Micah longed for the open spaces and blue skies of Texas. Yet he knew he was exactly where God wanted him to be, and he would stay until God uprooted him.

Micah had never planned to live in a big city, but when he'd volunteered for service in Schofield, everything had changed. The attack at Pearl Harbor, specifically, had brought the change. One of the injured men had said, in gratefulness for Micah's care, “Boy, we could sure use you back in Queens, Doc. You're a great doctor.” The simple statement had refused to leave his mind. When he'd read about the immigrant population and how many of them were without medical care, his heart had ached over their plight. As soon as he'd finished his duty at Schofield, he'd packed his bags and come directly to New York to work at this medical clinic established by a missions group. The elderly doctor running the Queens Free Clinic had willingly handed the reins of service to Micah. The mission paid him a small but decent salary, and he'd been right where he needed to be to assist Jeremiah in his work. God had known what He was doing when He planted Micah in Queens.

Local doctors who believed in the work of the clinic—those with flourishing practices and homes in Brooklyn, away from the industry and noise—offered supplies, medicines, and occasional
monetary donations to keep the clinic running. Micah suspected a few of them supported him to prevent the immigrants from coming to them for help. Whatever their motivation, Micah was grateful for their offerings, as they allowed him to treat the people who needed him most.

He was also grateful for the three volunteers who rotated through each week to help with cleaning and to give rudimentary first aid. He frowned, checking his watch. In fact, Stan should have arrived an hour ago. He sighed. Stan was notorious for being late. He'd show up eventually.

A young boy paced outside the open window. He held a stack of newspapers under one arm, and with his free hand he waved a paper above his head. “Island of Saipan falls to U.S. forces! Another victory for our brave fighting men! Island of Saipan falls! Read all about it!” Two men traded coins for papers, and the boy moved on, continuing to shout his message. Micah watched him go, wishing for the hundredth time for a headline that didn't bring immediate images of death and destruction.

Lord, keep Your hand of protection on Jeremiah.

As much as Micah abhorred the war and all its evils, it had brought about one positive: jobs. Ten years ago, he'd heard, grown men haunted New York's street corners, shining shoes for a nickel a pair just to get by. But factories had sprung up across the country and manufactured everything from rubber to airplane parts. If a body was willing to work, there was something waiting to be done.

Women, whose men had left to fight, were even taking up tools and working in factories. Micah couldn't help wondering what would happen when the war was over and the men came back. Would the women be reluctant to relinquish their positions? What kind of domestic battles might be waged when this ugly war was finished?

His attention turned to a cluster of boys who dashed from an alleyway to the street. They quickly organized a ball game, using a rock and a wooden slat in place of real equipment. He shook his head. So many of New York's children went unattended during the day while their mothers worked and their fathers fought overseas. It broke his heart to see them using a dirty street or sometimes the roofs of their apartment buildings as their playground. What kind of place was that for a child to play, with no grass to rumble through, no wildflowers to pick, or no trees to climb? When he was a boy growing up outside of Arlington, he and his brothers had the run of acres of ground. The fun they'd had . . . He sighed. Again, the children suffered. When would it end?