60

A CHILD WITH THE CROUP

They were blessed. There was no additional typhoid fever in Holden’s Crossing. Two weeks had gone by, yet no rash had appeared on Tilda Snow’s body. Her fever had broken early, without hemorrhage or even sign of bloody flux, and one afternoon Shaman came to the Snow farm and she was out swilling the pigs. “It was a bad grippe, but she’s over it,” he told her husband. If Snow had wanted to pay him for his services then, he’d have accepted money, but instead the farmer gave him a brace of fine geese he had killed, hung, cleaned, and plucked just for Shaman.

“I’ve an old hernia givin me trouble,” Snow said.

“Well, let me take a look at it.”

“Don’t want to start with it while I’m gettin in the first cut of hay.”

“When will you be done? Six weeks?”

“Thereabouts.”

“Come see me then, at the dispensary.”

“What, you’ll still be here?”

“Yes,” he said, and grinned at Snow, and that was how he decided to stay for good, quietly and without anguish, without even knowing he had made up his mind.

He gave his mother the geese and suggested they invite Lillian Geiger and her sons to dinner. But Sarah said it wasn’t a convenient time for Lillian to come to dinner just then, and she thought it would be good if they ate the birds alone, just the two of them and the two hired men.

That night Shaman wrote separate letters to Barney McGowan and Lester Berwyn, expressing appreciation for what they’d done for him at medical school and in the hospital, and explaining that he was resigning his position at the hospital in order to take over his father’s practice in Holden’s Crossing. He also wrote to Tobias Barr in Rock Island, thanking him for contributing his Wednesdays to Holden’s Crossing. Shaman wrote that he would be in Holden’s Crossing full-time from now on, and he asked Dr. Barr to sponsor his application to the Rock Island County Medical Society.

He told his mother as soon as he had written the letters, and he saw her pleasure and relief that she wouldn’t be alone. She went to him quickly and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll tell the women of the church,” she said, and Shaman smiled, knowing there was no practical need for any other kind of announcement.

They sat and talked and planned. He would use the dispensary and the barn shed just as his father had, keeping morning hours in the dispensary and making house calls every afternoon. He would retain the same schedule of fees his father had used, because it wasn’t excessive, yet it always had kept them in comfort.

He had given thought to the problems of the farm, and Sarah listened as he outlined his suggestions to her; then she nodded in agreement.

Next morning, he sat in Alden’s cabin and drank terrible coffee while he explained that they had decided to reduce the size of the farm’s flock.

Alden listened intently, his eyes on Shaman while he sucked at and relit his pipe. “You understand what you’re sayin, do you? You know the price of wool is goin to stay high as long as the war goes on? And that a reduced flock will give you fewer profits than you now enjoy?”

Shaman nodded. “My mother and I understand that our only other choice is to have a larger business requiring more help and more management, and neither of us wants that. My business is doctoring, not sheep farming. But we don’t ever want to see the Cole farm without sheep, either. So we’d like you to go through the flock and separate out the best fleece producers, and we’ll keep those, and breed them. We’ll cull the flock every year to produce better and better wool, and that will ensure that we continue to get good prices. We’ll keep just the number of sheep you and Doug Penfield are able to take care of.”

Alden’s eyes gleamed. “Now, that’s what I call a wonderful decision,” he said, and refilled Shaman’s mug with the vile coffee.

Sometimes it was very hard for Shaman to read the journal, too painful to creep into his father’s brain and emotions. There were times when he pushed it away for as long as a week, but always he returned to it, needing to read the next pages because he knew they would be his last contact with his father. When the journal was completely read, he’d have no new information about Rob J. Cole, only memories.

It was a rainy June and a queer summer, with everything early, crops as well as fruit trees, and plants in the woodlands. The population of rabbits and hares exploded, and the ubiquitous animals nibbled grass close to the house and ate the lettuce and flowers of Sarah Cole’s garden. The wet made haying difficult, with whole fields of fodder rotting on the ground, unable to dry, and it ensured a bountiful crop of insects that bit Shaman and sucked his blood as he rode on his calls. Despite that, he found it wonderful to be the physician of Holden’s Crossing. He had enjoyed being a doctor at the hospital in Cincinnati; if he had needed help or reassurance from an older physician, the entire staff had been right there at his beck and call. Here he was all alone and had no idea from day to day what he was going to confront. It was the essence of the practice of medicine, and he loved it.

Tobias Barr told him the county medical society was defunct because most of its members were off to the war. He suggested that in its absence he and Shaman and Julius Barton should meet one evening a month for dinner and professional talk, and they had the first such evening with mutual enjoyment, the main topic of discussion being measles, which had begun to break out in Rock Island but not in Holden’s Crossing. They agreed that it should be stressed to both young and old patients that the pustules mustn’t be scratched and broken, no matter how irritating, and that treatment should consist of soothing salves, cooling drinks, and Seidlitz powders. The other two men were interested when Shaman told them that at the Cincinnati hospital, treatment had included alum gargles whenever there was respiratory involvement.

Over dessert the talk turned to politics. Dr. Barr was one of many Republicans who felt that Lincoln’s approach to the South was too soft. He applauded the Wade-Davis Reconstruction Bill, which called for severe punitive measures against the South when the war ended, and which the House of Representatives had passed despite Lincoln’s objections. Encouraged by Horace Greeley, dissident Republicans had gathered in Cleveland and agreed to nominate their own presidential candidate, General John Charles Fremont.

“Do you think the general could possibly beat Mr. Lincoln?” Shaman asked.

Dr. Barr shook his head gloomily. “Not if there is still a war. There is nothing like a war to get a president reelected.”

In July the rains finally stopped but the sun was like brass, and the prairie steamed and toasted and turned brown. The measles finally reached Holden’s Crossing, and Shaman began to be called out of bed to attend some of its victims, although it wasn’t as violent an outbreak as had occurred in Rock Island. His mother told him that measles had swept through Holden’s Crossing the previous year, killing half a dozen people, including several children. Shaman thought that perhaps a severe onslaught of the disease somehow served to produce partial immunity in subsequent years. He thought of writing to Dr. Harold Meigs, his former professor of medicine in Cincinnati, and asking if there could be value in the theory.

On a still, sultry evening that ended in a thunderstorm, Shaman went to bed feeling the vibrations of an occasional thunderclap of heroic proportions, and opening his eyes whenever the room was transformed by the white illumination of lightning. Finally his weariness transcended the natural disturbances and he slept, so deeply that when his mother shook his shoulder it took him several seconds to realize what was happening.

Sarah held her lamp to her face so he could see her lips. “You must get up.”

“Someone with measles?” he asked, already pulling on his outer clothing.

“No. Lionel Geiger is here to fetch you.”

By that time he had slid into his shoes and was outside. “What is it, Cubby?”

“My sister’s little boy. Choking. Tries to suck up air, makes a bad sound, like a pump can’t send up water.”

It would have taken too long to run over the Long Path through the woods, too long to hitch the buggy or saddle one of his own animals. “I’ll take your horse,” he told Lionel, and did so, galloping the animal down their lane, up the quarter of a mile of road, and then up the Geigers’ lane, clutching the medical bag so he wouldn’t lose it.

Lillian Geiger waited by the front door. “In here.”

Rachel. Seated on the bed in her old room, with a child in her lap. The little boy was very blue. He kept weakly trying to bring in air.

“Do something. He’s going to die.”

In fact, Shaman believed the boy was close to death. He opened the child’s mouth and stuck his first and second fingers into the small throat. The back of the child’s mouth and the opening of his larynx were covered by a nasty mucous membrane, a killing membrane, thick and gray. Shaman stripped it away with his fingers.

At once the child pulled great shuddering breaths into his body.

His mother held him and wept. “Oh, God. Joshua, are you all right?” Her night-breath was strong, her hair was disheveled.

Yet, incredibly, it was Rachel. An older Rachel, more womanly. Who had eyes only for the child.

The little boy already looked better, less blue, his normal color flooding back as oxygen reached his lungs. Shaman placed his hand on the child’s chest and held it there to feel the strength of the heartbeat; then he took the rate of the pulse and for a few moments held a small hand in each of his own large ones. The little boy had started to cough.

Lillian took a step into the room, and it was to her that Shaman spoke.

“What does the cough sound like?”

“Hollow, like a … a barking.”

“Is there a wheeze?”

“Yes, at the end of each cough, almost a whistle.”

Shaman nodded. “He has a catarrhal croup. You must start boiling water and give him warm baths for the rest of the night, to relax the respiratory muscles of his chest. And he has to breathe steam.” He took one of Makwa’s medicines from his bag, a tea of black snakeroot and marigold. “Brew this and let him drink it sweetened and as hot as possible. It will keep his larynx open, and help with the cough.”

“Thank you, Shaman,” Lillian said, pressing his hand. Rachel didn’t appear to see him at all. Her bloodshot eyes looked crazed. Her gown was smeared with the child’s snot.

As he let himself out of the house, his mother and Lionel came walking down the Long Path, Lionel carrying a lantern that had attracted an enormous swarm of mosquitoes and moths. Lionel’s lips were moving, and Shaman could guess what he was asking.

“I think he will be all right,” he said. “Blow out the lantern and make sure the bugs are gone before you go into the house.”

He went up the Long Path himself, a route he had taken so many times the dark wasn’t a problem. Now and then the last of the lightning flickered and the black woods on both sides of the path sprang at him in the brightness.

When he was back in his room, he undressed like a sleepwalker. But when he lay on his bed, he was unable to sleep. Numb and confused, he stared up at the murky ceiling or at the black walls, and wherever he looked, he saw the same face.