CHAPTER 33
“Ahem. We’re almost out of needles and syringes, Mrs. Marvin.”
Mirielle turned from the window and caught Sister Verena’s stern gaze. “Hmm?”
“Needles and syringes.”
“Oh.” She rattled her head and looked down at the empty supply table. “Right.”
The pan of boiling water they used to disinfect the equipment hissed behind her. Beside it on the counter was a towel where Mirielle placed the sterilized needles and syringes to dry. It was an onerous task, keeping the flow of equipment steady, one that required constant attention and careful timing. If they ran out, Sister Verena would scowl, and the residents in line for their chaulmoogra shots would grumble.
Over the past months, Mirielle had become skilled at managing the tempo, moving the used pieces aside, restocking the supply table once the latest batch had cooled, fishing the slender needles and delicate glass syringes from the water, setting them on the towel to dry, boiling away the sticky chaulmoogra oil and blood from a new set.
But today, she couldn’t seem to corral her thoughts and tame her attention. She hurried to the back of the room and gathered up the supplies on the towel. All were cool to the touch and had likely been dry for several minutes.
“Here you go,” Mirielle said, arranging the sterilized supplies on the table and grabbing the tray of used ones.
She expected Sister Verena to sigh or glower in response. Instead, the woman looked at her with a level expression and said, “My dear, you cannot let Mr. Sanchez’s death sadden you to distraction. You must trust he’s in the arms of the Lord now, free from pain and suffering.”
“Free of this disease, you mean.”
Sister Verena nodded.
“Is death our only hope then?”
“You should not fear death, Mrs. Marvin.”
Mirielle touched her silver bracelet. She didn’t fear death, or hadn’t anyway. But now, she wanted to live.
“But no,” Sister Verena continued. “I do not believe death is the only hope.” She gestured at the room around them—the large bottles of chaulmoogra oil, the X-ray equipment pushed to the side, the privacy screen behind which Doc Jack sat, ready to inject another patient. “It’s why we’re here, after all. God helps those who help themselves.”
“The Bible says that?”
Sister Verena’s lips twitched in what might be a smile. “No. Benjamin Franklin, I believe.”
Mirielle gave an almost-smile in return and got back to work. She didn’t understand why Hector’s death had affected her so deeply. It was as if he’d been a tether to her life before, her life in California, and now that tether was broken. She managed to keep up an ample supply of clean needles and syringes as the morning dragged on, but her almost-smile quickly faded and didn’t return.
With only a dozen patients remaining in line, Frank shuffled forward for his shot. While Sister Verena’s attention was diverted drawing up his dose of oil, he leaned across the supply table and whispered to Mirielle, “Saturday night, hurry up with supper, then meet me under the oaks. Five thirty sharp.”
What the devil? Before she could speak, he put a crooked finger to his lips and disappeared behind the screen.
* * *
Mirielle wondered over Frank’s cryptic words all the next day.
“He knows I’m married, right?” she asked Irene as they sorted pills in the pharmacy. Even if his intentions weren’t romantic, if anyone saw them alone together under the oaks, the Rocking Chair Brigade would be spitting gossip for days.
“Hard to miss that shiny gold ring on your finger.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t meet him.”
“Listen, baby, I’ve known a lot of men in my life. Most of ’em blockheads. But Frank, he’s one of the good ones. Just go. It’ll be worth your while and then some.”
Clearly, Irene knew more than she was letting on.
“Please tell me I won’t need to borrow your galoshes again.”
Irene smiled. “Not this time, baby.”
The next night, despite her misgivings, Mirielle snuck out after supper. The oak tree–studded lawn appeared empty when she arrived. Robins crooned from the branches, and Spanish moss undulated in the evening breeze. She started to turn back when she heard a low whistle.
Mirielle looked in the direction of the sound and saw Frank behind the thick trunk of one of the trees, frantically waving her over. She reached him just as Watchman Doyle strode into view.
“Shh,” he said, pulling her to a crouch beside him. His hair, once again slick and tamed, glinted beneath his hat in the golden sunlight. He smelled of sandalwood and shaving soap. They peered from behind the trunk as Watchman Doyle strode along the fence with his watchclock. When he reached the far corner of the fence and headed westward toward the houses, Frank whispered, “Come on.”
Before Mirielle could ask where they were going, Frank dashed to the fence. Mirielle hesitated a moment, then followed, her heels sinking into the soft ground as she tried to keep up. By the time she reached the fence, Frank had already clipped several strands of wire near the bottom with pliers he’d pulled from his pocket. He peeled back the section of the fencing he’d cut as if it were the lid on a can of sardines and gestured for her to crawl through.
“I can’t run away. Dr. Ross said if I tried again, I’d get another month in jail.”
“It’s just for the night,” Frank said. “We’ll be back before anyone realizes we’re gone.”
After a moment’s indecision, she hunched down and scrambled through. Frank followed, then carefully realigned the fence. Without bending down and inspecting each link, Watchman Doyle would never know the strands had been cut. They crept to the edge of the road and waited in the gully until dust plumed, and a Model T truck stopped a few yards ahead. It honked its horn once.
“Wait here.” Frank approached the driver, keeping his hands in his pockets until the driver nodded. Frank passed him a folded bill. She realized watching him that Frank was dressed more dapper than usual. He wore a smart suit of worsted gray wool and a curve-brimmed derby hat. He looked like a jaunty city fellow, not an escaped leper. But surely the driver knew. He took Frank’s money nevertheless and motioned with his head to the bed of the truck. Frank waved her over and helped her up. A thin layer of straw covered the bed, but the truck rumbled out of idle before she could think twice about sitting down.
The Model T lumbered over ruts and through potholes, jostling Mirielle like ice in a cocktail shaker. Dust choked the air. But she felt a strange lightness, a giddiness almost, at being away from Carville.
“Where are we going?” she yelled above the truck’s rattle.
“New Orleans.”