The Immortelles (18 page)

“It's April the first—April Fool's Day, the Americans call it.” Olga Shultz had entered, and, coming over to stand beside Charissa, she bent and sniffed the food simmering. “That smells gute,” she commented, “but it should be. I haf been teaching you for two years now how to cook!”

Charissa smiled. When she had first come to live with her father two years earlier, she wasn't sure she liked the older woman. Olga had a stern manner, and several months had passed before Charissa learned that she was a kindly, generous woman. Now the two were friends.

“The doctor seems happier these days. I think part of it is your doing.” Olga always referred to the older Whitman as “the doctor.” “And that is gute! You know that man lives for you, I tink. Your coming here vas like a medicine to him.”

“It was for me, too, Olga. I'd never known anything like contentment before I came here.” Charissa chewed her lip thoughtfully and shook her head. “Papa isn't doing as well as I'd like. I'm afraid for him.”

“You just haf to trust the gute Lord, Charissa.”

At that moment, Jeff entered the kitchen and smiled at the two women. “You're fixing me something good to eat, I trust.” He wore his work suit, and his face was rosy from the razor.

“No, this is for Papa.”

“Are you going to be able to come in and help later on? I need you at the hospital.”

“Yes. I'll be there as usual.”

Jeff put his arm around Charissa and squeezed her. “You've become a fine nurse, but a better sister.”

Olga Shultz, standing off to one side, watched the scene with careful scrutiny. She saw that Jeff was careless as always, quick to give Charissa a hug or a pat—but she saw the look in Charissa's eyes, and the thought came to her as it had often.
She cares more for Jeff than he knows. He knows nothing about vimmen!

“You know, it's a good thing to have a baby sister.” He touched her cheek. Then he headed for the door, saying, “I'll see you later at the hospital.”

Olga watched as Charissa stared after Jeff, then heard her mutter between clenched teeth, “I am
not
your sister!” Then Charissa shook her head. Picking up a bowl, she poured it full of broth and put it on a tray along with a napkin and silverware. “I'll take this in to Papa.”

When Charissa entered her father's room, she found him still in bed. His eyes brightened and he said, “I'm lazy this morning.”

“You don't have to get up. I brought breakfast to you. Here, I've come to see that you eat all of this.” She put the tray down so that he could reach it easily and then waited until he said grace, which he always did. Then he took a big bite and almost choked.

“That's hot!” he said.

“Of course it's hot. That's what's good for you.” Charissa busied herself about the room as he ate and then said, “I'm going to shave you this morning. I'll go get the hot water.” When she came back with a basin full of steaming water, she put it down, then pulled the shaving mug from the cabinet and expertly worked up a lather. “Are you through?”

“All through.”

She moved the breakfast tray, then leaned over him. She lathered his face quickly and picked up a clean cloth, put it over her left arm, and picked up a razor. “Now, be still. Don't wiggle.”

Irving Whitman sat quietly, leaning back as the young woman began to move the razor over his face. Her hands were sure, and she shaved him far more efficiently than any male barber ever had. As she worked on him, he studied her face, marveling at how she had changed since she had come to live under his roof. She had been sixteen then, almost seventeen, and now, in a few more days, she would reach her nineteenth birthday. Those two years had brought a miracle, as far he was concerned. She had been an adolescent then, but now she was a woman. Her eyes mirrored a kind of wisdom. And there was a rich store of vitality within Charissa that reminded him of her mother. She had blossomed indeed since coming to live in St. Louis, and not only physically; living without fear, she developed a sweetness and a strong spirit that pleased him greatly.

“There,” she said, wiping off the last of the lather and feeling the smoothness of his cheeks. “If I ever have to make a living, I can become a barber.”

“There are no lady barbers,” Whitman protested.

“There should be. Women are better at it than men.”

Irving laughed softly. “I expect you're right about that. Sit down and talk to me.”

The two of them spoke quietly together for twenty minutes. One of the high points of Irving's day was having Charissa
simply spend time with him. “Jeff got a letter from Damita yesterday,” he said. “It's a little strange to me, and I suppose it is to you.”

“It surprises me.”

Indeed, Charissa had watched the development of a relationship of some sort between Jefferson and Damita Madariaga ever since she had been there. She knew it had begun with a simple letter from Jeff telling Damita how well Charissa was doing. Damita had written back, and Jeff had shared the letter, at least the parts that expressed an interest in Charissa. Other letters had followed, and Jeff made two trips to New Orleans, giving for a reason his desire to spend more time with Elmo Debakky.

“What kind of a woman is she, Charissa? Jeff seems more interested in her than he has been in anyone for a long time.”

The question was hard for the young woman to answer. “I can think of her only as a harsh slave owner.”

Whitman saw displeasure written on Charissa's face. “I suppose that's inevitable,” he said. He was silent for a moment, and when she did not speak, he said, “What about you? That young Bradford fellow who called on you for a while doesn't come around anymore.”

“No, he's engaged to Emily Stratton.”

“You let her take him away from you? I'm surprised at you, Charissa.”

Charissa laughed. “I wasn't interested in him. He was one of the most boring men I've ever met.”

“He was kind, though.”

“Yes, but boring.”

For a time the two were silent, and then Whitman reached over and took the young woman's hand. “I'd like to see you marry before I go,” he said quietly.

“Please don't talk like that!” Charissa did not like to hear about the possibility of Irving Whitman's death, although she knew it could come at any moment. She had become so very fond of, and was so very grateful to, this good man that she could not bear to think of losing him.

“Why, I can't think why you feel like that, Charissa. It's a natural thing. I'll hate to leave you, but at least God has enabled me to do something for you.”

“Something?” She leaned forward and took his hand in both of hers. “You've done everything for me.”

“I'm glad you feel that way.” He squeezed her hands and said, “The one thing I'd most like to do for you is to introduce you to the Lord Jesus.” He saw her face change and said quickly, “I know you've got some memories that are very dark, but someday, you're going to find out that Jesus is the best friend you could ever have.”

The two subjects that Charissa could not discuss with Dr. Whitman were his own precarious life and the matter of her feelings toward God. She had watched him, Jeff, and even Olga Shultz, and she saw in them an honest religion, but her early years had hardened her heart. She stood and said, “You need to get up now. I'll lay your clothes out. Maybe we can go for a walk in the garden. It's beautiful today.”

“All right, daughter. I think you're right.”

The young man who lay on the table was not badly injured, but he had suffered a deep gash on his right forearm when he had crashed his buggy. His name, Charissa knew, was Howell Peters, for she had heard one of the doctors speak of him before Jeff had come in to stitch his wound. “Peters is a playboy,” Dr. Simpson had said as Charissa followed him down the hall. “Family's got all the money in the world, but he's a wild sort.”

Charissa had helped to prepare the patient, and he was groggy from the laudanum that she had administered to kill some of the pain. He evidently had a tough constitution: the medication knocked most men out. He was a tall young man, well built, with blue eyes and blond hair.

When Charissa had cleansed the wound, Jeff entered. “This will sting some, Mr. Peters.” He prepared to sew the wound.

“Go ahead, Doc. I'll try not to cry.” He turned then and looked Charissa full in the face. “When a fellow gets hurt, it's nice to have a handsome nurse.” When she did not answer, he said, “Are you married?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Oh, that's good. Then I'd like to ask if I can come calling on you.”

“You'll have to ask my brother.”

Peters winced as the needle bit into his flesh and then grinned. “He must be a sour old fellow, but I'll chance it. Where will I find him?”

“He's putting the stitches in your arm, Mr. Peters.”

Peters's eyes flew open, and he studied Jefferson's face. Jeff met his gaze steadily, which caused the young man to flush.

Peters could not speak for a moment, but then he grinned. He looked back at Charissa and saw that her eyes were dancing. “Dr. Whitman, I'd like permission to call on your sister.”

Jeff continued sewing but said, “Are you a drinking man?”

“Sir?”

“I asked if you drink.”

Peters swallowed and said, “Yes, of course, in moderation.”

“How are your morals where women are concerned?”

Charissa began to mildly feel sorry for the young man. Jeff peppered him with questions about his behavior and attitudes, and it amused her to see young Peters squirming under the interrogation.

“What's your pastor's name? I'll have to have a word with him before I can give you permission to see my sister.”

Peters stared at him and shook his head. “I don't have a pastor.”

“Why not?”

“It's just not in my line.”

Jeff put the last stitch in, clipped it with the scissors, and said, “You can put a dressing on this now, Nurse.” Then he turned and said, “Until you have more stability, I would not feel inclined to grant you permission to call on my sister. Be careful with this arm. Come in and get the stitches out when the nurse tells you.” He left the office, and Peters stared after him.

“Do you think you'd still like to come calling on me?” Charissa smiled as she began to dress the wound.

Peters laughed. He was a good-humored fellow. “I know you are trying to put me off, and you have a rather stern brother, but I
will
be calling.”

Charissa shook her head. “You'll feel differently when you recover from that laudanum you've taken.” She finished the dressing, gave instructions about changing it and when he should return to have the stitches out. As she left the room and turned down the hall, she ignored Peters, who called out, “You'll be hearing from me, Nurse.”

She did not have a chance to talk to Jeff privately until later in the afternoon, when they had finished their work and were in the buggy, headed for home. Jeff was silent for a time, and then he asked, “You didn't want that insolent puppy calling on you, did you, Charissa?”

“Why not? He's very handsome.”

“I don't like him.”

Charissa studied Jeff 's profile. She did not know at what point she had begun to feel herself drawn to him. When she had first come to live with the Whitmans, she had been cautious and lifted a high wall between herself and the young doctor. He had been unfailingly kind and cheerful; he had been instrumental in making her into a different kind of woman. He had hired tutors for her, taught her the social graces, and asked her if she would care to study something about nursing and find a career there. She had eagerly accepted, and the two had worked together closely.

“Why don't you like him?”

“He's
just not good enough for you.”

Charissa stared at him. “Which of the young men who have asked to call on me have you liked?” She well knew the answer.

Jeff cleared his throat and said, “I just want the very best for you, Charissa. You mean more to me than you can imagine.”

His words were bittersweet. She knew that she loved him, but he had no such idea about her. He was protective of her, always gentle and courteous, and there was a streak of humor in him that popped out at odd moments. He was not handsome, but that didn't matter.

“You don't really want him to call, do you?”

“Not really.”

Jeff nodded and heaved a sigh of relief. “That's good. He's not the kind of man I'd like to see you with.”

Charissa suddenly asked, “What about you?”

“What do you mean, what about me?”

“Why haven't you ever married, Jeff? You could have married a dozen times. You'd better take what you can get—you're not handsome, you know.” This was a familiar course of conversation for the two.

“I never thought I was.”

“No, I give you that, but you're young, and you have a promising career. You have money. You have your moments, too.” She teased, “Even if you are a homely brute, women like you.”

“I think you're wrong about that.”

Charissa took a deep breath and said, “I was talking with Papa this morning. He thinks you might care for Damita Madariaga.”

Jeff blushed. “We've been writing some.”

“And you went to New Orleans to see her twice.”

“Really I went to see Debakky.”

“Jeff, don't lie to me. You went to see Damita, didn't you?”

“I suppose in a way I did. She's such a beautiful woman, but she could never care for me.”

“No, she couldn't. She'll never care for anyone but herself.”

“I wish you could stop feeling bitter toward her. It's the only harsh thing I see in you, Charissa.”

“You don't know her the way I do, Jeff. She's selfish to the bone. She always will be.”