Here and Again Page 18

  “You’re lucky Margery is gone,” she said.

  He coughed a laugh.

  As she helped Jack Wolfe by room one, she found Dr. Patterson washing his hands in the sink while Janet ripped the paper sheet off the bed and wadded it up.

  “Janet, we will have another guest coming into acute care.”

  “Would you like your usual bed, Mr. Wolfe, or a room by yourself?” Janet asked with a broad smile. “You have a choice tonight.”

  “Mr. Wolfe?” Dr. Patterson inquired as he gazed from Jack to Janet to Ginger.

  “Dr. Patterson,” Ginger said. “This is Jack Wolfe—sixty-six-year-old white male. He’s COPD, CHP, diabetic, noncompliant. Mr. Wolfe, this is your doctor for about fifteen more minutes.”

  Jack harrumphed.

  “He’s laughing at us,” Ginger said and continued to room two of the ER.

  Dr. Patterson furrowed his brow, and after pulling out a paper towel to dry his hands, he followed Ginger and her patient down the short hall.

  “We need blood work,” the doctor said.

  “I’ll order the usual,” Janet replied as she headed toward acute care.

  “Mr. Wolfe!” a voice loudly declared from behind.

  Startled, Ginger stepped on Jack’s left foot as she was about to lower him onto the bed. “Sorry,” she whispered and gazed over her shoulder.

  There she found a short, dark woman with salt-and-pepper, long braids, maroon lipstick, a white coat, and a stethoscope. Her badge read, “Dr. Demazilliere.” Her smile was so bright, the night shift squinted as they looked at her.

  Jack Wolfe moaned.

  “Come to spend some quality time with us, have you, Jack?” she inquired, reaching her hand out to Dr. Patterson. “Sorry I’m late, Doctor. Problems with the grandbaby. I’m Mavis Demazilliere.”

  “Ernest Patterson.” They shook hands.

  “You must be Nurse Martin.”

  Ginger looked over her shoulder quizzically. “I am.”

  “Call me Dr. D. Name’s hard for some people to say,” the doctor said. “Jack here talked about you when I saw him in town yesterday.”

  “He did?” Ginger asked, helping Mr. Wolfe off with his coat.

  “Yup. Said you wouldn’t give him a candy bar or a dollar.”

  Jack winked at Ginger as she laid him back on the bed.

  “But he did take your advice and looked at the contents of the candy bars he was purchasing. Three Musketeers bars have less salt.”

  Jack smiled and broke into a deep, throaty cough, closing his eyes with a wince.

  “Oh.” Ginger shrugged and found Dr. Patterson looking at her with a smirk.

  “Best advice he’s gotten in a long while. He’s gonna eat ’em anyway. Try to find the least worse one. Good. Good. Well, let’s have a look at this gold-star body of yours, Mr. Wolfe. It just keeps a-goin’ no matter what you do to it.”

  Dr. Patterson chose to stay, helping to stabilize Jack Wolfe as a seventy-two-year-old man with gout came in complaining of chest pain. Ginger and Dr. D. dealt with the newcomer, Barry Bartholomew, who was followed shortly by a screaming ambulance flying out of the driveway across from the ER. The waiting room filled up again and there was no downtime from seven a.m. until Ginger’s shift ended at two p.m. At that time, she handed off her patient load to her relief, grabbed her handbag, and headed for the door.

  Just as she was about to walk out, she stopped. She had meant to discuss chocolate bars and her private medical advice about choosing which ones to eat against doctor’s orders with Mr. Wolfe but had found no time to do so. With a scowl on her face, she about-faced on her heel and headed to acute care. There was no need to ask where he was; she could hear his breathing before she got to his door. Very gently, she opened it and found Jack Wolfe lying in bed with his eyes closed.

  But she was surprised to see in the second bed Jacob Esch, flipping through channels on a silent TV. His eyes met hers and then went wide.

  “Sorry,” she said softly. “I was going to talk with Mr. Wolfe.” She stepped back out.

  “Virginia Moon, RN?” Jack rasped.

  “Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Nurse Virginia?” Jacob asked, scooting himself up in the bed. He winced.

  Ginger cocked her head. “Yes?”

  “Come in, come in,” Mr. Wolfe said. “Didn’t get you in trouble, did I?” He breathed in heavily and smiled through weepy eyes.

  “Not at all, Mr. Wolfe,” Ginger replied. “But I did want to talk to you about doing things that are not good for you.”

  “I’m sorry I threw up in your car,” Jacob blurted out.

  She gazed at him and then Jack. “You were sick,” Ginger said.

  “Nurse Margery says it was a real mess. Were you able to clean it up?”

  Jack watched her with a pop eye.

  “I’m nearly there,” was all she could reply. The boy looked stricken.

  “As soon as I am out of here, I’ll clean it,” he said.

  “Thanks, Jacob. But I live far away and I’m not sure I’ll be back.”

  “You’ll be back,” Jack said.

  “Really? And how do you know that?”

  “Because something’s happening.” He closed his pop eye and breathed in as if the sheets weighed two hundred pounds.

  “What’s happening?” The question came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She bit her lip, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  “I am an expert on ERs. I’ve been in them for years—especially this one.” Jack breathed. “I have found that those who choose to administer medical care in an ER do it because we are just a bunch of illnesses walking through a door. If we have vital signs, we’re either admitted or released. If we don’t have vitals, y’all try to get us to have ’em. If you can, we’re admitted. If you can’t, we’re off to the soil to rest. No name. No connection. No nothin’. That’s ER, isn’t it? The ER cares but don’t really care.”

  His eye popped open and his gaze hit her so hard, she leaned back against the door. She had no answer—no answer because it had always been true of her.

  “Now, you know me and Jacob here, and look, you have your purse and you’re off and where are you? Here.” He muffled a laugh as he closed his eyes.

  Ginger gazed at the man, who was so pale and weak. As she rested against the door, she thought how odd it was that she should be there. Mr. Wolfe was very sick—on his way out, really. But he was going on his own terms. It was why she had made the chocolate bar comment in the first place. What did she mean coming in here?

  “When you come back, I’ll clean your car,” Jacob repeated.

  “I most likely won’t be back, Mr. Esch. I’m not going to practice nursing much longer.”

  “Why?” Jack Wolfe inquired.

  “Because I’m going to far—” Ginger broke off. She stared at Jack and then peered over to Jacob Esch.

  “Did you say farm?” Jacob asked.

  “Mr. Wolfe. Joshua Wheldon came in here and said you had a cow for sale.”

  “Not for sale.”

  Ginger paused. She was sure Mr. Wheldon had said the cow was for sale.

  “Josh Wheldon said he met you. Said you were right nice to him.”

  “You don’t have a cow?” Ginger queried.

  “I have a cow. A Guernsey.”

  “Best milkers, Guernseys,” Jacob said. “Great cream.”

  “You’re not selling it?” Ginger pressed.

  “Beautiful ginger-colored girl,” Mr. Wolfe said.

  Ginger stood straight up from the door. “Beg pardon?”

  “My cow. Named her Ginger. She’s a beautiful ginger color.”

  Ginger’s mouth dropped open.

  “You got a farm, Nurse Virginia?” Jacob asked.

  She shook her head. “I’
m making one,” she whispered.

  Jack tilted his head and stared at her with his pop eye. “Need a cow?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I’ve got a cow that needs a good home. But not for sale.”

  “What you need?” Jacob asked, shimmying up straighter in the bed.

  “Need to take the goat with her,” Jack replied.

  “Goat milk is good on a farm, too,” Jacob said with a bright smile.

  “Billy goat,” Jack whispered.

  “Ach.” Jacob’s nose screwed up as if he’d smelled something awful.

  “Ginger needs the goat. They’re family.”

  Ginger shook her head. Which Ginger needed a goat?

  Jacob stared slack-jawed at Jack. “Billy goats are smelly and nasty,” he said. “Not useful at all unless you’re looking to breed goats.”

  “Ginger’s free with the goat.”

  “How much without the goat?” Jacob asked.

  “Not for sale,” Jack said.

  Jacob sat on the bed looking at his hands for a minute.

  Ginger just stood there, watching the entire conversation with not a word to say. She was still processing the fact that the cow’s name was Ginger.

  “Good milkers are thousands of dollars, Mrs. Martin,” Jacob said at last. “Guernseys have really good milk.”

  “Ginger has the best and a lot of it,” Jack rasped.

  “You getting a lot of cows for a dairy farm or what?” Jacob asked.

  Ginger shrugged.

  “What kind of farm you got?” Jacob asked.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Jacob’s jaw went slack again. “You don’t know what kind of farm you have?” His lip curled slightly.

  “It was a corn farm but I have to make it keep me and my kids and Grandma Osbee . . . together.”

  “Mrs. Martin lost her husband in the war,” Jack Wolfe explained through a cough.

  Jacob stared at her for a long while.

  She shifted from her right foot to her left.

  “You have a family farm, you need a milker. Cows are never free, and though I think the goat is a waste, if it comes with the cow, you should take it.”

  “I should take it,” Ginger repeated.

  “Done!” Jack Wolfe announced and held out his hand.

  Ginger walked over and took it.

  “Best decision you’ve ever made, Virginia Moon.”

  She shook his hand and gazed up at his drip. It was going too slow. She reached up and adjusted the flow.

  “Mr. Wolfe. Since you and Mr. Esch here are roommates for a bit, maybe you can tell him all about your wild life.”

  “I drank too much. I smoked too much. I had a great time doing both,” he said hoarsely.

  She released his hand.

  “I’d do both now if I could,” he added.

  “I know. Mr. Esch is thinking he might want to do so also.” Ginger flicked her eyes to Jacob, who slid down deeper into his covers. She smiled wryly.

  “I don’t regret any of it,” Mr. Wolfe said.

  “I know,” she replied as she walked to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Esch, for advising me about the cow.”

  He shrugged as he tucked the covers beneath his chin.

  “You two stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll call Josh Wheldon,” Jack said. “He’ll help with the cow. Where you live?”

  “Far from here, in Virginia.”

  “You said that. Where?”

  “A place called Smoot’s farm. Off of 81, north of Woodstock.” She opened the door.

  “Near the covered bridge?” Jacob asked, scooting up a little.

  Ginger spun around to look at him. “Y-yes. H-how do you know that?”

  “I love covered bridges,” Jacob said, grinning. “That’s a pretty one.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I can tell Mr. Wheldon how to get there,” he added and rolled over.

  “Thank you,” Ginger replied, dumbfounded.

  She stepped out of the room and as the door closed behind her she heard Jack Wolfe say, “Something’s happening, Jacob Esch.” And then he laughed.

  May 22, 1862

  Near Front Royal

  Dear Juliette,

  We’ve been marching, if marching is what you could call it. For nine days now, our commander has us marching and then, after a time, we stop and are ordered to lie down. Not sit. Not stand. Lie down. Rest completely. Then, after a time, we stand again and march on. So it has been and though Jackson’s order is strange, we obey. I will say that after marching long and in this fashion, we have become as one body, fast moving and silent when ordered. Some say we are like wolves. We are not a pack of wolves. We are a pack of cats—silent when ordered and fast. As we move, chills race my spine, for we have become a truly dangerous thing to behold.

  Alas, there has been no place where we can demonstrate our nature, exactly. We are simply waiting. The sea of blue before us grows and grows and the great battles are now in the west and on the Atlantic. If those efforts push the battle in our direction before we find a place to pounce, I’m afraid we shall be no more than a tick on the back of the Union, squeezed from both sides until we let go.

  I know this valley, and as we march I watch our progress etched on the horizon by the passing mountains. Winchester is again in Yankee hands, and if I know anything, we will take it back. Jackson has sent men out this day—scattered them to tear at railroad tracks and cut telegraph lines. But the rest of us will not war on machines this time. Tonight is rest for us and will be much needed for what must be ahead of us on the morrow. But we are tense like a great cat with eyes closed, body tight, poised and camouflaged, waiting to show off our nature.

  And we shall—tomorrow, if I am not much mistaken. I am not mistaken. I hear the bird and as I lie here, stealing a secret letter to you by firelight, I answer the call. I whistle just as it does. Uncertain am I to its purpose, but I know it is a friendly spirit. It sings in me courage and will. I want to fight now. I want to fight so the war will end. There will be nothing of my future with you until it does. Your peace fills me so completely now and I know I cannot find you until the war is done.

  So I say, let it come. Let screams and smoke and keening beasts fill my ears and eyes. Let my hands grow black and burnt from musket fire as blood pours upon the Earth. The Valley of Death must be crossed to reach the other side, where now I know you wait. Only in its crossing shall spring weep its gentle tears and wash all away.

  I sing the bird. I am crossing now to you. And I shall see you on the other side. Pray for me, Juliette.

  Your devoted,

  Samuel

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Rogers to the Rescue

  The wind was cuttin’ a shine in a clear blue sky when Ginger left work and her drive home seemed to take thirty minutes less time than usual. She wasn’t sure if it was a tailwind pushing her truck or if the mountains had blown Smoot’s farm closer to Highway 81, but as she drove down the lane on this blustery Sunday afternoon, she found people and cars blocking her drive. They were seeking the bridge and in so doing they filled her drive like so many leaves swept by the wind into a pile, impeded from further progress by a great mound of dirt. She slid by a station wagon that was leaving, as it had found nothing much to look at, which was always the case when coming to Smoot’s farm. Then she pulled up into her drive behind a red Dodge pickup and disengaged the engine.

  As she opened her door a large bang sounded from the direction of the barn and quickly she hopped from her truck, slammed the door, and trotted up the gravel incline. A rolling crash from the direction of the bridge made her jump and she froze in place, unsure which direction she should go.

  “Good afternoon, Virginia Moon.” Samuel was at her back. She didn’t even need to turn around.
<
br />   “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “Well, Mr. Rogers is here with his wife fixing the tractor. Grandma has taken Henry and Oliver to ride the horses in the corral to keep them from getting underfoot in the barn. The horses seemed relieved also. Bea is watching Mr. Rogers fight with Henry’s Child with great concern, but she will not talk about it and I did try to talk with her. And five men with a strange vehicle have maneuvered around your orchard and bridge toward where I came across the river.”

  “Holy cow!” Ginger declared and, dropping her purse and lunch bag on the gravel drive, took off at a run toward Jesse’s tree. She had forgotten about the park ranger and she seethed with anger at herself because she hadn’t discussed it further with Osbee.

  Deep ruts in the streambed next to the bridge made her hiss and her feet beat like a drum across its wooden floor. Loud sounds of a chain saw poured through the walnut and ash and she flew like the crows above her head in that direction. She skidded to a halt as she emerged from the trees and screamed, “Stop!”

  Three men worked the trees. One was atop the pine with a chain saw rattling away at branches while two others were securing a heavy chain to Jesse’s fallen ash. A large ATV was attached to a winch, around which the other end of the chain was secured. Two men stood next to the winch supervising the entire operation and none of them made any indication that they had heard her.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” she yelled, waving her arms as she trotted over to the ATV.

  The man with the chain saw was the only person facing in her direction, and when he saw her he cut the machine off.

  “Stop,” she said, holding her chest from her run. Silence echoed and in the sudden quiet the trees creaked above her head as if irritated by the windy gusts that blew down the Shenandoah.

  “Ma’am?” the man nearest her inquired. His green uniform made it clear that he was a park official from the other side of the river.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “Uh, wind’s expected to pick up and we’re already working in unsafe conditions,” he said, walking closer to her.

  She nodded as a small branch from a walnut tree to the right tumbled from above, punctuating the man’s sentence.