They Called Her Mrs. Doc. (13 page)

“Wonderful!” the good woman beamed. “I’m sure that Mrs. Wilma Canterbury would be glad to give you suggestions. She has been teaching a class, but with the new twins …” She let her voice trail off, but Cassie was able to complete the thought on her own.

“I don’t suppose you know how to read music?” the woman went on rather hesitantly.

Cassie nodded her head. “I have had many years of lessons,” she admitted.

At that the lady really beamed. “Oh, my husband will be so pleased,” she enthused. “We don’t have an organist.”

“But I only play the piano,” Cassie was quick to explain.

“Organ. Piano. No difference.” The woman was determined. “They both have keys.”

“But there is a difference.” Cassie was sure. “The organ has pipes and foot pedals and—”

“Not our organ,” the woman said, shaking her head. “It just has pedals and you pump.”

“Oh my,” said Cassie, wondering what she might have gotten herself into. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Well, you can practice as much as you like. The church is always open,” Mrs. Ray said, seeming to feel that the issue had been nicely cared for.

Cassie nodded mutely and was about to take her leave when the older woman added, “Are you coming to the Sewing Circle on Thursday?”

“I—I don’t remember hearing about it,” Cassie responded.

“We have it here—every first Thursday of the month. We meet at one o’clock and we need all the hands we can get.”

Cassie nodded. She felt quite confident of her needle skills, thanks to her mother’s insistence.

“Of course we don’t just sew,” the woman went on. “We have a prayer time and a missions study—and we do a bit of neighborly visitin’ too,” she admitted with a smile.

Cassie’s eyes suddenly brightened. She was so lonely and so bored. A visit with neighborhood ladies sounded like a wonderful idea.

“I’ll be there,” she said, a hint of enthusiasm in her voice.

That night she could hardly wait to tell Samuel about her day’s adventure and of how she would be practicing the little pump organ at the church and teaching the children under the tutorage of Wilma Canterbury and meeting to sew and visit with the missions ladies. But as she waited for him so she could dish the simple supper meal, Bobby Adams ran up her walk to rap loudly on the door.

In his hand he held a bright shiny nickel and he studied it carefully as he spoke to her.

“Doc Smith asked me to run over an’ tell ya he can’t get home yet. He jest got called outta town to doctor somebody thet got his leg caught or somethin’,” said the boy, his eyes constantly on his nickel.

“When will Dr. Smith be home?” asked Cassie, disappointment welling up and showing in her eyes and voice.

“I dunno. He didn’t say. Oh, yeah. He said don’t hold supper, he’ll likely be late. Thet’s all he said.”

The boy looked anxious to be off to spend his nickel, so Cassie thanked him and let him go.

She couldn’t eat the supper. The few bites she took kept sticking in her throat, so she finally gave up, cleared the table, and looked for something to read. There was nothing new, and she had read her treasured books so many times over that she couldn’t keep her mind on them. She wished she could go for a long walk in the cool of the evening, but it was another thing that simply wasn’t done around here. She knew no one to visit. There was no play, no opera, no anything. Cassie went early to bed and cried herself to sleep—again.

She didn’t hear Samuel slip quietly into bed very late. During their hurried breakfast the next morning, Cassie tried to tell him about her new activities, but somehow the glow of it was gone, though Samuel was interested and approving.

After Cassie had finished her household duties, she slipped on a bonnet and hurried off to the little church at the edge of town. At first she felt self-conscious about opening the door and walking across the plain board floor to the little organ.

Carefully and almost stealthily she lifted the lid to expose the keyboard, then let her fingers tentatively press down a key.

Nothing happened.

She extended her hand a little more aggressively and tried another key with a bit more force. Still nothing happened. Suddenly Cassie remembered that she was not dealing with a piano but a pump organ. There would be no sound until she provided some air for the bellows.

She reached down and ran a hand over the worn bench to check it for dust. It wasn’t too bad, though it was dusty. She swished her hand back and forth in hopes of removing most of the problem and then settled herself on the bench, carefully arranging her skirts, and felt for the pedals with her foot.

There were no pedals.

Puzzled, she stood again and began to peer around this way and that. After some time she discovered a little door at the lower front of the organ. But the door had no handle that Cassie could see.

She was about to give up and go home when the church door opened, spilling bright sunshine across the plain wooden floor. It startled Cassie and a little gasp escaped her.

“S’cuse me, my dear,” said a kindly voice Cassie recognized as that of the gentle old pastor. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Mrs. Ray said you had agreed to play the organ for us, and when we saw you coming to the church she sent me on out to make sure you had the hymnbook. We’ve only got one with the music. Rest of the folks just use the words.”

Cassie looked around. She could see no hymnbook.

“It’s there—in the organ bench,” the pastor explained. “Can’t tell you how thankful we are to have someone who can play. You just go ahead and practice all you’ve a mind to. Here’s a list of the hymns we’ll sing on Sunday—unless someone requests a favorite.”

Cassie took the lengthy list with trembling fingers.

“We like to sing,” the pastor told her. “Only bright spot in a difficult week for some of the people.”

Cassie nodded.

“It will make the singing so much more enjoyable for folks. Can’t thank you enough for playing for us. And now I’d best leave you alone and let you do your practicing.” The pastor turned and was almost to the door before Cassie could get up the courage to call after him.

“Pastor Ray!”

He turned.

With some embarrassment Cassie managed to tell him, “I—I’ve never played an organ before.”

“So Mrs. Ray said. But that’s fine. You’ll do just fine if you know the notes for a piano. It’s the same—”

Cassie interrupted with eyes lowered, “Could—could you show me how to find the—the bellow pedals, please.”

With a chuckle the good man came back and showed Cassie how to lift up the little door and drop the foot pedals into position; then he chuckled softly again and left her on her own.

Cassie made a good attempt of accompanying the congregational singing the next Sunday. She flushed a few times over her errors, but the people did not seem to notice. They sang heartily and Cassie wondered if they even heard her mistakes.

Samuel seemed tremendously proud of her, and that made Cassie feel good. He had been pleased to learn that she would be joining the ladies of the Mission Circle and helping with the Sunday school class.

“It seems my little wife is becoming one of the church pillars,” he teased, and in spite of her remonstrance, Cassie had to smile.

But inwardly she answered,
There seems to be no choice. I have no other way to fill my dreary days while you linger on in this little spot at the edge of the world.

Had Cassie felt free to do so, she would have spoken the words aloud to her young husband, but she did not wish to sow discord. Their brief times together were too precious to spoil with quarrels. Besides, she hoped daily that he would soon be suggesting they return to the comforts and possibilities of the city. Didn’t city folk need doctors too?

As the weeks marched slowly by with lumbering steps, Cassie watched and waited for each letter from home or from Abigail. When one did arrive she grasped it as her lifeline, read it over and over, and then spent the next hours crying because of her intense loneliness for those she had left behind.

The letters were no comfort to her. They were a constant pain. Either she was waiting with impatience for one to arrive or else she was grieving because one had. And between yearning and sorrowing, Cassandra allowed herself no peace.

When fall came, the leaves on the few small trees that the little town possessed turned gold and left the shelter of the branches to dance freely on the prairie winds. The hot days slowly cooled to bearable, and then one morning as Cassie crossed to the little church for her daily practice, she could feel a definite sting in the morning wind.

“I do believe we are heading for winter,” she said to herself, raising her eyes to study the mountains on the horizon.

Sure enough, there on the slopes lay the whiteness of winter snow.

“Oh dear,” breathed Cassie. “I had so hoped we would be back East before winter settled in. Perhaps we will get snowbound here until spring.”

She hastened her steps as though that would help Samuel more quickly make the long-awaited decision to return East.

She did not spend as long playing the organ that morning. The little building’s stove was not in operation yet and her fingers soon became numb with the cold. She hurried home and built up her own fire in the kitchen stove. She felt the need to warm her thoughts as well as thaw her bones.

Tears stung her eyes as she stood at the kitchen window looking out across the expanse of dry prairie grasses that bowed and lifted in the wind. “We are stuck here,” she whispered. “I just know we will be stuck here. We won’t be able to go home now until spring.”

She let the tears run down her cheeks and fall heedlessly to the front of her gown. “What ever will I do?” she cried. “How will I ever manage to survive a prairie winter shut away here in this little house with the wind howling around the corners and Samuel always away on call? I will never make it. I just know I won’t. I don’t think that he has any—any idea of how difficult—” And Cassie put her hands over her face and wept for the comfort of her mother and home.