The Benedict Bastard (A Benedict Hall Novel) (11 page)

“I think your mother must have been glad about that.”

He laughed. “Oh, yes. Mama’s a peach, but she thinks I’m still a kid. Her little boy.”

Bronwyn laughed, too. “Oh, Albert. I know exactly—I know
precisely
—how that feels!”

 

The hours of the voyage passed all too swiftly for Bronwyn, though her captain thought the speed worth bragging about. When the sun had risen nearly to its zenith, he produced the sandwiches and bottles of root beer. Both were delicious, and Bronwyn found herself eating with surprising appetite.

“Sea air,” Captain Albert told her, speaking around a mouthful of thick white bread and sliced ham and cheese. “Best thing for making food taste good.”

Bronwyn swallowed her own generous bite, and said, “Please thank your mother for me. This is one of the best luncheons I’ve enjoyed in—oh, I don’t know, forever!”

He smiled, and offered her another sandwich. They drank the root beer straight from the bottle, and dabbed at their lips with worn, but very clean, cloth napkins.

When the skyline of Seattle came into view, Bronwyn’s good mood began to fade. The thirty-eight stories of the Smith Tower looked enormous from her vantage point in the middle of Elliott Bay. She had seen the city before, but she couldn’t remember taking it all in at once this way, the skyscrapers, the bridges, the wide sweep of the Public Market, and ahead of them, the long, low buildings that marked the dock. A chill of anxiety prickled on Bronwyn’s neck, and while Albert pointed out the sights to her, she had difficulty responding.

She said farewell to him with real regret. “Miss Morgan,” he said, snatching off his cap at the last minute, as if he had almost forgotten. “It’s been an honor to serve you. If you need to go somewhere on the water, you just call me!” He dug in his pocket, where he had just dropped the two dollars she had paid him, and produced an actual business card. It was handwritten, and a little dog-eared, with an address in West Seattle. “We don’t have the telephone yet,” Albert said, “but you can find me at that address. If I’m at sea, my mother will know when I’m gonna be back.”

“Thank you, Albert,” Bronwyn said. “The voyage was marvelous.”

He carried her valise for her, all the way to the street, where she promised him she would find a taxicab. She stood watching as he backed away, twisting his cap in his hands, then turned and strode back down the dock with a jaunty step. Imagine, she thought. He has his own boat. He has a bit of cargo, he has two dollars in his pocket, and the whole world before him.

Resolutely, but with her heart fluttering in her throat, she turned to face the prospect of the bustling city. She had the address of the Ryther Child Home in her handbag. She had a few changes of clothes, and nearly twenty dollars. She had a full stomach for the moment, thanks to Albert’s mother. And she was utterly alone. Free.

She had to admit, freedom was scary. But she had made her choice. She couldn’t turn back now.

She swallowed, picked up her valise, chose a direction more or less at random, and started to walk.

C
HAPTER
11

The smells and sounds of the Ryther Child Home were familiar to Margot now, and probably to Sarah. The two of them walked down a long corridor behind a young woman wearing one of the long aprons the assistants favored. Margot saw Sarah’s nostrils flutter at the odors of wet diapers, Fels-Naptha, and spilled milk gone sour on the carpet. Her own nerves itched at the incessant sounds of children crying, others shouting, and the admonishing voices of adults trying to restore order.

The young woman who had opened the door and was guiding them to the sickroom was someone new to them. Her hair was a light brown, worn in shingled curls, and she had unusual eyes. The word for their color, Margot thought, was
hazel,
but they were distinguished by flecks of gold that caught the light when she glanced back at them. She looked young, but she carried herself with the dignity of a much older woman.

She also spoke in a cultured accent, something Margot hadn’t heard at Mrs. Ryther’s establishment before, the unmistakable sign of an upper-class background. “Mother Ryther told us to isolate him,” she said over her shoulder. “Until we know what’s wrong.”

Olive Ryther had called the Women and Infants Clinic very early this morning, and Sarah, hearing the details of the baby’s illness, had called Margot immediately.

The telephone had rung early, when the sky was just beginning to brighten. Margot had managed to get seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. There would be, of course, no money for this visit unless the Sheppard-Towner funds covered it, but she spared no thought for that now. She was worried. “How long has the baby been ill?” she asked.

The starry hazel eyes turned up to her. The girl’s curls drooped, as if she hadn’t washed her hair in some time. “His fever started yesterday morning,” she said. “I’m new here, so I asked Mother Ryther what to do. She said lots of times babies run fevers, and it doesn’t hurt them, but it kept rising all day, and it seemed to me he had trouble breathing. By midnight he was so hot I was worried.”

Sarah said, “Have you been up with him all night, miss?”

The girl nodded. “I thought he would feel better if I stayed with him.”

“Did you sponge him?”

“Yes,” was the answer. “Vinegar and water, I was told. The water was too cold, though, and it gave him shivers. That didn’t seem right.”

“That’s correct,” Sarah said. “The water should be room temperature, or you can bring on a seizure.”

The girl, who had been composed until that moment, pressed her fingers to her mouth, and her eyes filled with weary tears. “I didn’t know that. No one told me that.”

“Don’t worry,” Sarah said calmly. “It didn’t happen, did it? Next time you’ll know.”

As they reached a door at the end of the corridor, Margot said, “What’s your name, miss?”

The girl avoided Margot’s eyes as she reached for the doorknob. “Betty. Betty, um, Jones.”

Sarah and Margot glanced at each other, and Margot raised a skeptical eyebrow.

They followed Betty Jones into a small, dim room with a crib at one side and a table holding a basin and ewer at the other. The room smelled of sickness, and the air was stifling. Sarah moved swiftly to the crib. By the time Margot had opened the single window and pushed the curtains aside to admit the fresh summer air, Sarah was already stripping a wet diaper and sweat-sodden singlet from an infant of about ten months. As Margot reached her, she glanced up. “He’s very hot. And this rash . . .”

“I see it.” Margot opened her medical bag and took out her stethoscope and a pair of rubber gloves.

“Is it bad?” Betty whispered. “Should I have done something else?”

Margot answered, “You did everything you could, Miss Jones. Please don’t leave the room, though. If this is diphtheria, we’ll need to administer a Schick test for you, to know whether you need to be vaccinated.”

“D-diphtheria?” The young woman’s voice faltered. “Oh, the poor baby! We should have called you first thing, but Mother Ryther—”

“We’re here now,” Sarah said with her customary calm. “We’ll do all we can.”

Margot and Sarah bent over the child, who lay limply on the cotton sheet of the crib. He was dark-skinned, perhaps Indian, so it was hard to judge the extent of the cyanosis, but the sound of his rasping struggle for air was alarming. When Sarah touched the base of his neck, he gave a slight, small gasp at the touch of her cool fingers, but didn’t open his eyes. “Swollen,” Sarah said shortly.

Margot set the bell of her stethoscope to the hot little chest, and listened for several seconds. She said resignedly, “I don’t think there’s any doubt.”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

The danger, as they both knew, was immediate. “We’ll swab the fauces,” Margot said quietly, “but we won’t wait for the results. I don’t think we dare.”

Margot stepped back while Sarah opened the baby’s mouth with one gentle finger so she could touch the back of his throat with a cotton swab. He gagged briefly, then struggled to cough again. Margot bent over him, stroking his arms, steadying the quivering of his legs while Sarah secured the result of her swab in a glass tube.

“I have antitoxin in my bag, in the upper compartment,” Margot said. “Give him two thousand units.”

While Betty Jones stood to one side, her hands clasped and her eyes glistening, Sarah gave the little boy the intramuscular injection. Even at this, he didn’t cry, though he gave a slight, choking moan.

Margot found the bowl of vinegar water on the table, and carried it to the crib. She tested the temperature with her fingers, and then bathed the child’s chest and belly with a soaked cloth. “We’d better transport this little one to the hospital. I don’t want to try a tracheotomy here, and I’m afraid he’s going to need one. Better we do it in the operating theater, and I don’t think we can wait for an ambulance. Tell Blake, would you? Then if you don’t mind, we’ll leave you here to test Miss Jones and make arrangements for her to be quarantined.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Sarah went to the basin and washed her hands with care before she hurried out. Betty took a hesitant step forward. “Can’t I go with him?”

Margot, her hands busy as she laved the feverish boy with cool vinegar water, looked across the bars of the crib at the young woman. “First, I want you to have the Schick test. Then, a good night’s sleep.”

“I don’t know what a Schick test is.”

“Have you been vaccinated against diphtheria?”

“I don’t think so.”

“The test will tell us whether you’ve been exposed, and are immune, or whether you also need the antitoxin. A few weeks ago we vaccinated everyone in the Child Home, but I haven’t seen you before.”

“No.” The girl closed her eyes, and wavered a little on her feet.

Margot said, “Sit down, now. It won’t help the baby if you faint.” Betty obeyed, sinking onto a straight chair beside the head of the crib. Margot folded a light blanket over the wheezing child, and went to wash her own hands. “Does he have a name?” she asked over her shoulder.

“No,” Betty said faintly. “Someone left him in the yard. Just lifted him over the fence and left him there.”

“Where’s Mrs. Ryther now?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’ve only been here three days, and I don’t know her routine.”

“I hope you don’t object to having the vaccination, if you react to the test,” Margot said. “You’ve been exposed now, and it’s the best way to prevent your developing the illness yourself.”

Betty shrugged. “I suppose it’s safe,” she said, giving Margot the unmistakable impression that she didn’t much care either way.

“As safe as we can make it,” Margot said. She crossed to the crib again, and crouched beside Betty’s chair to look into her eyes and touch her wrist. “There have been a few problems, but most were not as serious as coming down with the disease.” She passed her hand over Betty’s forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever, at least. You feel all right, other than needing some rest?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Do you have a room to yourself?”

“No. I share with two other girls.”

“We’ll need to make some other arrangement about that.”

“Oh!” Betty pressed her palms together, as if in supplication. “Oh, that will be such a bother, and Mother Ryther was so kind to take me in. . . .”

“Nurse Church will speak to her.”

Sarah returned at that moment. “Blake is at the door,” she said.

“Good. I’ll carry the baby. Sarah, would you pack up a few things, those diapers over there, a change of the baby’s clothes? Hand them to Blake. It’s best if he doesn’t come in. Miss Jones, Nurse Church will administer your test. The test only takes a moment, but she’ll need to wait to read your reaction. Sarah, could you speak to Mrs. Ryther afterward? Miss Jones will need to be in a private room for at least two days.”

As she was speaking, Margot was bundling the baby into a light blanket and lifting him to her shoulder. Sarah had found a basket and tossed in the baby’s things. She opened the door for her, and Margot saw Blake waiting in the hall, his back to the doorway.

Sarah said, “Dr. Benedict? Your bag.”

Margot freed one hand to take it. She was halfway through the doorway when she heard an odd sound, one that didn’t come from the infant in her arms. She glanced back, and saw Betty staring at her, one hand gripping the railing of the crib, the other pressed to her mouth. Margot paused midstride. “Are you all right, Miss Jones?”

“D-Dr. Benedict?”

“Yes?”

Sarah had drawn up the Schick serum into a syringe, and put her hand on the girl’s arm to turn it for the injection. Betty hardly seemed to notice. “You’re Dr. Benedict?” she breathed.

“That’s right. Didn’t I say?” The girl didn’t respond, and Margot said, more harshly than she intended, “I’m sorry, but we really need to hurry. If you have questions, put them to Nurse Church.” She walked out, holding the baby close to her chest, to join Blake in the hallway. Blake shut the door to the room, leaving Sarah and Betty Jones alone inside.

 

It wasn’t the first time Blake had served as an ambulance driver. He tended to be stoic in such cases, keeping his eyes on the road, watching for other automobiles or the occasional cart or wagon trundling over the uneven streets. This was, though, the first time the patient had been an infant, and Margot saw the tension in his face.

There was little she could say to reassure him. The child was very ill indeed. She had feared diphtheria because of an outbreak on the Tulalip Reservation. Now, as Blake drove as swiftly as he dared down Stone Way and across the Fremont Bridge, she held the feverish baby close as if she could keep his spirit in his body with the pressure of her hands.

Margot dreaded losing any patient, but children were the hardest. The children’s ward at Seattle General was her favorite place in the hospital as a rule, but it was also the ward that caused her the most anxiety. Infants, in particular, were worrisome, because they couldn’t tell her what was wrong. She had to rely on her ears and her eyes, her nose and her fingers, and, finally, on her instinct.

Her instinct was good. She had come to trust it, that intuition that led her to make diagnoses before she had every fact laid out before her. Matron Cardwell had it, and she was fairly certain Sarah Church had it, too. Dr. Creedy, the Benedict family physician, had it. There were plenty of physicians who didn’t, and no blame accrued to them for the lack, but they were sometimes obstructive when she felt certain of a diagnosis, confident of her conclusions.

With babies, her gift for diagnosis could be lifesaving, but in the case of this little one, she feared there was little she could do.

Blake said, “We’ll be there in ten minutes, Dr. Margot.”

“Thanks.” She let her cheek brush the top of the baby’s head. His breathing had grown even more tortured, and he was so hot she felt as if his skin could burn through the thin blanket. The antitoxin would need twelve hours to take effect, and it would be, she understood, a miracle if this baby survived that long. His fingernails, the palest spot on his body, were already showing blue.

“Are you all right back there?” Blake asked. She could see by the set of his jaw that he understood all too well. His intuition wasn’t bad, either. He knew this was serious, knew because she had hurried, and she almost never hurried.

“Yes,” she said. “So far.”

Blake nodded, a brief acknowledgment.

Straight to the operating theater, she thought. Call for assistance, someone to watch the baby while she scrubbed, prep his tiny throat. A tracheotomy, so the little one could breathe, and then alcohol baths to bring his temperature down. A nurse around the clock, and a consult from the hospital’s pediatric specialist.

She would fight for this baby. She would do everything she knew how to do. But she was terribly afraid it wouldn’t be enough.

 

Frank stepped outside the front doors of the Red Barn in the company of two other engineers, all of them with their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up. The dahlias in the flower beds drooped in the summer heat, and the waters of the bay shimmered like shards of glass under the lowering sun. The Olympic Mountains raised their whitecapped peaks against a sky of a perfect cerulean blue, and Frank paused on the sidewalk to admire them.

“Come out with us, Frank,” one of the other engineers said. “We’re going to stop at the Merchants Café and have a cuppa joe.”

Frank grinned at him. “Cuppa joe, is it?”

Harry smiled back. “Of course! That’s all we’re allowed these days, don’t you know.”

“I’ll have to say no, thanks,” Frank said. He put his Stetson on at a cheerful angle. “My wife’s expecting me for dinner. Looks like I’ll need to catch the streetcar.”

“Oh, ho,” Harry said. “No fancy motorcar tonight? You in the doghouse?”

Frank laughed. “Don’t think so. Just busy, I expect.”