“There’s croup at the O’Donnell’s,” Mary reported.
“But, Mother,” I said.
Mary sighed. “It’s bad, Maggie.”
As we headed toward our closest neighbors I formed a new plan. Because I was versatile. Once we hit the split in the road between our house and the O’Donnell’s, I’d ask Mary’s permission to turn for home to start the potatoes for dinner. Mary would grant it, given that I wasn’t often excited about cooking. All was not lost.
But then it was.
Right before we hit the fork in the road, Mary asked Nan to head home and begin the potatoes. I wanted to argue but didn’t. I was the future doctor, so I should be tending the sick. Not Nan. Nan was the writer. And she always said she did her best writing while she mended and peeled. I watched my sister head for home, my heart warm with self-sacrifice for allowing her to go without argument. Although within ten paces, I was freezing again and my heart was as cold as the rest of me.
When we turned onto the rutted track that led to the O’Donnell’s, Mary made another awful announcement. “Father said to bring any healthy children home with us.”
“But there are a hundred of them,” I blurted.
“There are eleven, Maggie,” Mary said.
I knew very well how many O’Donnells there were. This wasn’t the point. But the point didn’t matter. Now all my cold heart could muster was not wishing illness on a herd of O’Donnell children while trying even harder not to envision my dinner plate with a solitary spoonful of Nan’s boiled cabbage and potatoes.
My stomach rumbled.
Our dinners were spread pretty thin across Father’s marble-topped table, even if you weren’t rounding up a dozen O’Donnells to squeeze around it, and tomorrow’s breakfast was a long way off.
“Are they staying the night?” I asked, not hiding my gloom.
“Children need to be looked after and fed, and we can’t expect Mrs. O’Donnell to do it when she’s tending to her sick ones, can we, Margaret Louise?”
It’s what my mother called me. Mary used it to remind me of my duty, but all it did was vex me. If it were Ethel, I’d tell her to shut her saucebox, but you didn’t say that kind of thing to Mary. Instead I asked as sweetly as I could, “What about expecting ugly Mr. O’Donnell to do it?”
Mary didn’t answer. Instead, she walked faster, leaving me to think about my words. I sped up and kept pace, leaving my words to think about themselves.
* * *
The O’Donnell’s yard was littered with wash buckets, laundry baskets, garbage, pigs, and little O’Donnells, who dashed about between the pigs while the laundry laid wrinkled and wet in its baskets.
“Laundry’s not hung,” I said before I could stop myself, and then cringed in the moment of silence that followed, hoping upon hope Mary didn’t suggest I hang it.
“I’ll hang it,” Ethel said, turning toward the laundry without even throwing me a sour look for not offering to help, which really peeved me. What a lickfinger. Mother wasn’t even here to see her doing the right thing. And Mary seeing it didn’t count. Although Mary did throw me a puckered look, which I pretended I didn’t see. It was bad enough I was forced to pin Thomas’s underwear to the line every day of my life; not even the croup would get me pinning up O’Donnell underwear. And when Mary headed for the house, I was right on her boots.
It was dark inside, as the late afternoon sun seemed unable to cram itself through the only window next to the cookstove. Mr. O’Donnell rocked a toddler in his lap inside the door. His red-rimmed, glassy eyes landed on us like a nervous fly. At first it looked like he might be corned, but I realized he was sick. Real sick. His neck was thick and his breath a rasp. Now my words caught up to me, and though it was truthful he was ugly, I felt terrible about him being so ill.
Mary reached out and eased the sleeping heap of rags from his lap. He allowed her to take the little one, dropping his empty arms with a sigh.
Like our own house, there was only one other room besides the kitchen. This door was open, and Mrs. O’Donnell shuffled out. Although I could tell right away she didn’t have the croup, she looked worse than Mr. O’Donnell. Exhausted and pregnant.
“I won’t hug you, Mary,” she said, her arms hanging limply at her side. “But know I’d like to.”
“No need, Mrs. O’Donnell,” my sister responded. “Go lie down and rest. We’ll get things in order here before we take the little ones.” This was a hint for me to get to work.
I knew exactly where to begin, as croup was as common as fleas in fall. I searched out a water bucket and headed out to the well. The hoarse barking of croup dried out the throat. Cool water soothed it. This, and a wet cloth to the forehead, would bring down the fever. I’d let Mary comfort. She was an expert at it. Like my father, I was better at treatment. Although my curative measures left out whiskey, but only because I wasn’t allowed to carry a flask around with me as he did.
Once I’d watered the sick and helped Mary set up and light the croup kettles, the only things left were the dirty dishes and the diaper bucket brimming with a dark mess of diapers. I chose the dishes, even though I knew I’d eventually have to plunge my hands into that diaper bucket. I picked my way back to the sink with fresh water, stepping over rags, boots, coats, shoes, and whatnot. Peering down into the pile of dishes, I didn’t bother to wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Best to just start scrubbing. Which I did, for a very long time, while I listened to Mary continue to stem the misery that was croup. Lastly, I tackled the diapers. But even if my heart had finally found its way to the right place, nothing could stop the smell of those diapers from tossing my stomach around.
I was out pinning the clean diapers to the line when Mary and Ethel stumbled onto the front porch. Mary began the collection of healthy O’Donnells. She and Ethel would then start for home. Not only was I being left to finish hanging laundry, but I’d also be the very last to enter our house tonight, breaking my vow to be the first to my mother’s bedside. Served me and my slow-moving cold heart right.
“Edwin,” I heard Mary say to the O’Donnell’s oldest. “Why don’t you stay back to help your mother.”
Edwin was almost fourteen, and he gave Mary a sour frown for instructing him. If it had been Thomas, I’d have knocked him one for that look. Mary didn’t seem to notice.
My sisters headed down the dusky road with their charges. I tried not to stare too longingly after them. Although a few steps later, Mary called back over her shoulder. “Maggie, come along. Edwin can finish the hanging.”
I quickly caught up to the crowd in the growing dark. Happy. Even if my heart was mostly cold as ice and the only thing waiting at home was a herd of dirty little O’Donnell feet to wash before bed.