CHAPTER 19
Sister Verena kept her busy in the infirmary all the next day. No sooner had Mirielle answered a call bell or jotted down a patient’s temperature than Sister Verena was calling to her to sharpen needles or roll bandages or remake the empty beds. When the bandages weren’t rolled tightly enough, or the corners of the bedclothes weren’t tucked in just so, Sister Verena made her start again. By one o’clock when she was finally dismissed, Mirielle was actually looking forward to the What Cheer Club meeting. At least it would give her a chance to sit down.
When she arrived at the rec hall, the meeting was already underway. The heavy door slammed behind her. Frank, who was seated on a low platform in front of several rows of chairs, stopped talking, and the few dozen people in attendance craned their necks to look at her.
Mirielle smiled and waved that they should continue, but the clap of her heels atop the pinewood floors reverberated through the hall almost as loudly as the door. Frank remained silent as she picked her way past several empty chairs to a seat near the front beside Irene.
“You ready and comfortable now, Mrs. Marvin?” he asked.
“Yes, quite. Thank you.”
Frank resumed reading through last month’s minutes, and Mirielle looked around. The gamblers who usually haunted the far corner of the hall playing cards and shooting dice had cleared out. Few, it seemed, had decided to stay for the meeting. The windows on either side of the hall were open, a light breeze sweeping out the cigarette smoke and peanut smell that lingered after last night’s movie. Even so, the air was hot and sticky, and she wished she’d brought her fan.
Irene leaned over. “Happy surprise to see you.”
“Surprise? Don’t I seem like the do-gooder type?” she whispered back.
“Baby, you seem like a lot of things, but a do-gooder ain’t one of them.”
“I’ll have you know—” A grumble sounded behind them, and Mirielle realized she was no longer whispering. She lowered her voice and continued. “I hand-delivered a check to the Votes for Women Club when I was sixteen.”
“Turnin’ out your velvet-lined pocket and marchin’ in the streets ain’t the same thing.” Irene pulled a palm leaf fan from her bag and waved it in front of her face. “Did Sister Verena force you to come?”
“No. I came of my own accord, thank you very much.” She grabbed Irene’s fan and turned it on herself. “But I do need to do something to get her off my tail.”
“Something y’all wanna share?” Frank said, looking directly at Mirielle and Irene.
Mirielle shook her head. Irene turned to him and smiled. “Why, yes. Polly here was just tellin’ me how anxious she is to help out.”
Mirielle jabbed Irene with her elbow. Irene snatched back her fan and continued to smile.
“Glad you’re eager to contribute, but could ya kindly—”
“You can help out by quitting your yapping,” someone behind them called, cutting Frank off.
“Why don’t Polly help by turnin’ her nose down once and a while,” said another man in the crowd.
Irene swiveled around. “Who said that? I got two fists that can show your nose somethin’ right now.”
“What, Little Miss Uppity can’t stand up for herself? Too afraid she’d chip a nail?”
“Why don’t we have a bake sale. Polly can bring the humble pie.”
Irene started to climb over her chair, flashing those around them a peek of her red girdle straps. Mirielle grabbed her arm. She’d heard far worse things whispered about her in Los Angeles tea rooms and cabaret clubs. “Don’t bother with them. They’re just jealous.”
“I’d sooner be jealous of a pig,” someone said.
“You look like a pig, so no surprise there,” came a voice from the far back.
Mirielle remained forward-facing, refusing to let her chin drop while more insults were flung, some directed at her, some at others. But inside, she felt the sting of the words.
Frank rapped the side of his hand on the small table in front of him. When that didn’t work to quiet the group, he took the Coke he’d been drinking and banged down the bottle. “That’s enough! This club ain’t a place for bullying and name calling. Mais! Don’t we get enough from the rest of the world?”
The shouts and grumbles ceased. Irene turned around with a huff, whipping her fan back and forth in front of her.
“There, that’s better,” Frank said. “Now, I expect there are some apologies to offer up around here.”
“Sorry,” someone said behind her.
“Apologies, Polly,” said another.
Frank’s eyes shifted to her.
“Apologies accepted,” she said. His gaze didn’t lift. If anything, it grew more pointed. She took hold of her necklace and twisted the beads around her finger. The silence of the room was as stifling as the heat. “Oh, all right.” She turned around and faced the rest of the club members. She’d passed them all on the walkways or in the dining hall. Many of them had come for a dressing change or shot of chaulmoogra oil during one of her shifts. But she hadn’t taken the time to ask any of their names or where they were from.
“I’m sorry if I’ve seemed a little . . . aloof.”
“A little?” a man in the back row said. Another bang from Frank, and the man sank down in his seat.
“Well, maybe more than a little. But I’m new here and all this”—her throat tightened—“is a little overwhelming and not at all what I’m used to.”
“I’ll say,” a man seated a few rows back said. “I heard the devil himself stopped by Carville but left the very next day, preferring Hell to this shithole.”
Frank banged his bottle again, though Mirielle heard him chuckle with the rest of the group. The tension in the room, thick as molasses only moments before, was gone. Mirielle faced forward. Irene grabbed her hand. Mirielle didn’t realize she’d been shaking until she felt the steadiness of Irene’s palm against her own.
The meeting continued with a report on the canteen’s income and expenses. She hadn’t known the store was patient run or that proceeds funded club activities—like the upcoming July Fourth celebration—as well as a small stipend for the blind patients.
When Frank explained the plans for the celebration—a special flag-raising ceremony in front of the administration building that the patients could watch from beyond the hedgerow and a picnic supper under the oaks—Mirielle raised her hand.
“That’s all?” she asked. “Where does the celebration come in?”
Frank drank the final swill of his Coke and looked at her with a bemused expression. “If ya got other ideas, by all means, share ’em.”
“You’ll need decorations, for starters. Linens, centerpieces, perhaps some sort of streamers. And music. And if there’s going to be music there ought to be dancing too. Fireworks, if we can get them. Games for the children. Ooh, and what about a punch fountain in the center of the yard.”
“Ya volunteering to arrange all that?” he asked between chuckles.
“Well, no. I’m more of an ideas woman. But I’m happy to weigh in on color choice and fabric.”
“That sounds right lovely, Mrs. Marvin, but I’m afraid the club don’t have the money or the manpower for that kind of a party.”
“What about asking the Hot Rocks to play?” a woman two seats over from Mirielle said.
“Yeah,” echoed another.
Frank leaned forward. “Ya know, that ain’t a bad idea. Summer’s a busy time for the canteen. I bet we could even throw a little scratch their way for their trouble.”
“Who are the Hot Rocks?” Mirielle whispered to Irene, imagining some newly famous jazz band from New Orleans or Baton Rouge.
“A couple of fellows from the colony who got instruments and get together to play sometimes. They’re good.”
Mirielle doubted that. But even bad music was better than nothing.
“We could ask the materials office if they’ve got any old sheets that we could dye and use for decoration,” another woman said.
“Great idea, Norma. I’m gonna put ya in charge of that,” Frank said, then with a glance at Mirielle, “I’m sure some of the other club ladies would be happy to help.”
“I don’t sew. One of those things I just never could set my mind to. Better to ring a tailor.” She looked around and, seeing no one else in agreement, added, “Or stop by the department store . . . or just tighten your belt.”
“Stop talking, baby,” Irene whispered.
Mirielle nodded.
“How about ya plan a couple of games for the youngsters then,” Frank said to her. “Maybe a treasure hunt or frog race.”
“Why that’s perfect,” Irene said, just as Mirielle began to shake her head. “You got two girls. Must’a been to dozens of kiddie parties with them.”
A stab of panic seized her. The breeze had died down and the hall was hotter than ever, but her hands and feet went cold. She hadn’t gone to such a party in months. Not even Evie’s seventh birthday. The thought of balloons and laughter and children running about made her stomach sour. Where was the nanny, that’s what everyone had asked. But Mirielle should have been watching too. Should have heard the splash. Should have seen him fall.
She blinked, and the balloons were gone. The laughter. The sunlight glinting off the pool.
Frank took up his pen. It was specially constructed with an extra-wide grip so he could hold it in his crippled hands. “Mrs. Marvin in charge of children’s games.”
Before Mirielle could find her voice, the meeting was adjourned and people were standing to leave. She wiped the sweat from her hairline with a clammy hand and approached Frank. “Put me in charge of something else,” she managed after a deep breath. “I’ll write to my husband and have him send us an entire crate of fireworks.”
Several of the remaining club members looked over with interest.
“That’d sure be swell,” one of them said.
“I ain’t seen a firework in fifteen years,” said another.
“See,” Mirielle said, “that’d be more help than some silly kiddie games.”
“Unless your husband’s Mr. Coolidge himself, fireworks may be a tall order. And, as I recall, the kiddie games was your idea.” Frank stacked his papers into a tidy pile and stood. When he looked at her again, his gaze softened. “Tell ya what, why don’t ya ask your husband to send us some treats for the kids’ treasure hunt. Lollipops. Baseball cards. Maybe a few seashells. I’ll help ya with the rest.”
“And fireworks!” one of the club members called as he was leaving.
“And fireworks,” Mirielle muttered, turning to leave herself. Charlie had to know someone who could get them fireworks. All the best parties in the Hills had them these days. But the games. She shouldn’t have even mentioned it. She hadn’t been thinking of Felix at the time but Jean, and how some simple, old-fashioned fun might do her good. Her heart banged as loud as her shoes as she crossed the room. Loud as the door when it again slammed shut behind her. Were she at home, she’d be on her second drink by now. Maybe her third. That always seemed to quiet the pounding. Here, her only hope was to wait it out.