Ice Carnival Read online

  It was an old joke, but she grinned.

  “True, but I am going to make your breakfast egg.”

  Aunt Ruth stopped midpour. “Excuse me? You?”

  “Yes. And I’m going to make the toast, too.”

  Mother came up behind her and touched her cheek gently. “Dear, I’ve already prepared breakfast. Your father’s egg and his toast are done.”

  “But I wanted to—”

  “Come and sit with us. Your oatmeal is waiting. I made it the way you like it, with brown sugar and cream. Here. Eat it while it’s warm before it gets cold.”

  Her determination crumbled. She did like her oatmeal. Nice and hot, with a sprinkling of sweet brown sugar and a drizzle of cool cream. She started to sit down, but as she did, she remembered her resolution of the night before.

  “I need to learn how to do it,” she said, standing up again.

  Her mother and Aunt Ruth exchanged surprised looks.

  “To what do we owe this sudden burst of interest in cooking?” her aunt asked.

  Christal stood as straight as she could. “The time has come. I’m old enough that I should know these things.”

  “Well,” her mother said, “that’s commendable.”

  “I’m ready to learn.”

  “And we are quite pleased,” her father said, lowering the paper and folding it carefully, “but the fact is, Christal, breakfast is already made. Perhaps you could embark on breakfast tomorrow.”

  “You’d have to get up earlier,” Aunt Ruth added. “Eggs don’t cook themselves.”

  Mother smiled. “A hard-boiled egg, the way your father likes it, does take twenty-two minutes.”

  “Twenty-two minutes,” Christal echoed faintly.

  Her mother smiled. “Oatmeal requires only five minutes to prepare, and putting the toppings on it to make it special doesn’t take long at all.”

  How was it possible that something as delicious as oatmeal took a fraction of the time that a hard-boiled egg did?

  “If you’re truly interested in learning to cook,” her mother said, “you can help me with the noon meal. I’ll be roasting a chicken. That’s not at all difficult, and it would be a good place to start.”

  Roast chicken sounded good. She knew how to simply roast it, but her mother added a rub of herbs that made the chicken incredibly delicious.

  “We’re having the chicken and root vegetables,” Mother continued, “and biscuits with gravy. But today we’ll start with the chicken and carrots and potatoes. We’ll deal with the biscuits another day.”

  “Not another day,” Christal protested. “I want to learn it today.”

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” her father said as he stood up and carried his dishes from the table.

  “I’m not building Rome. I just want to make a meal. All of it.”

  Papa smiled. “I’ll let you womenfolk figure this out. I have a meeting at the church that I’ll be late for if I don’t hurry along. I’ll see you all at noon.”

  After he left, Mother and Aunt Ruth began clearing the table. Christal scraped the last of her oatmeal from her bowl and stood up to help.

  “I’m delighted to see that you’ve developed a desire to learn about meals,” her aunt said as Christal reached for the creamer at the same time the elderly woman did, with the end result that the cream splashed across the linen tablecloth.

  Tears stung Christal’s eyes. She’d wasted the cream, and the tablecloth would have to be washed. She tried to help, but instead she made more work for her mother and aunt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, untying the apron and slipping it over her head. She threw it on the counter in an untidy heap. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mother quickly came to her side and wrapped her in a soothing embrace. “Christal, my dearest Christal, it’s all right.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Her voice was muffled against her mother’s shoulder. “I’ve spilled the cream and soiled the tablecloth, and you all must think I am such a clumsy goose.”

  It was so tempting to let her mother spoil her more, to excuse her deficiencies, but she needed to be strong. She had so much to learn, and at the same time, she had to fight against her own tendency to take the easy way.

  “There, there. The creamer was almost empty, and the tablecloth needed to be washed anyway,” her mother murmured.

  “We all make mistakes,” Aunt Ruth said in her no-nonsense voice. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk—or spilt cream. It doesn’t put it back in the pitcher.”

  “I won’t start preparing the chicken until midmorning,” her mother said. “Why don’t you go for a walk and get your head cleared, and when you come back, we can discuss what needs to be done to make a nice meal.”

  “We’ll finish up here.” Her aunt refolded the napkins at each chair.

  Perhaps it was for the better, anyway. If she stayed, she would probably drop a plate or stab herself with a fork.

  She fled the dining room and seized her coat from the rack in the front hall. Slipping into it as she left the house, she started up the street, following her usual path toward the library.

  “Christal!” Isaac called to her from the doorway of Dr. Bering’s house.

  She swiped at her nose as surreptitiously as she could. Why was it that the slightest onset of tears made her nose run like a river?

  “Yes?”

  “Are you going by John Lawrence’s house?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it. Why?” Of course he wanted her to stop and talk when her face was swollen and red from crying. She tucked her chin down and studied the ground beneath her feet as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

  “Could you do me a favor?” He stepped away from the door a bit and shivered. “I have another bottle of medicine I wanted to get to him, but I don’t want him to have to come here, not in this cold. I was going to take it to him, but my uncle had two patients show up this morning, and I’m really needed here.”

  “Sure, I can take it to him.”

  “Come on in, then, and I’ll give it to you.”

  He waited until she arrived at the door before going back inside, even though he was in shirtsleeves.

  The bottle was on the table by the door.

  “He knows how much to take, but if you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you could make sure he gets it in him as soon as possible. He told Uncle Alfred two days ago that he was running out, but he didn’t come in to get it.”

  “You’re worried, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

  He tried to look stalwart but failed. “I am,” he said at last. “It’s not like him.”

  “I’ll take it right over.”

  “I appreciate it.” He walked her to the door. “And Christal, thank you. I don’t know how to repay you—”

  “Repay me? For what?”

  “For doing this. For caring.”

  “Here’s how you can repay me. Pray for Mr. Lawrence.”

  “I do,” he said. “I do.”

  She believed that he did.

  He opened the door and said with delight, “It’s snowing!”

  “Just barely,” she said, unable to keep the merriment from her voice. He sounded like the children in the church seeing the first snow of winter. They’d all run outside and stand like turkeys, stock-still, their heads back, with their mouths open to catch the flakes on their tongues.

  “I’ve never seen it snow before,” he said, his voice filled with awe.

  “Oh, you have, too!” Christal rubbed her toe in the snow that had drifted up against the stoop. “See? Snow! You silly!”

  He smiled at her. “I’ve never seen it as it was coming out of the sky. I’ve only seen the icy evidence.”

  “Well,” she said, “you’ll see it falling a lot. Wait until it snows big, fluffy, white flakes at sunset. That is absolutely beautiful.”

  “I can imagine.” He wrapped his arms around his torso. “It’s beautiful but cold. Brrr! You’d better button that c
oat! And don’t you have any gloves?”

  “Aunt Ruth told you to say that, didn’t she?”

  He laughed. “She’s a smart woman.”

  “She is.”

  They stood together, unwilling to part, until at last he shivered wildly. She hadn’t even thought about the fact that he was standing outside with her, and he was still in shirtsleeves.

  She put her hand on his sleeve. It was slightly damp where the snow had fallen on it. “You’re cold,” she said, “and I need to get this to Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  Light snowflakes fell on her eyelashes, and she blinked them away. With a quick nod and smile, she turned and ran down the steps.

  As she scurried toward John Lawrence’s house, she was aware of Isaac’s gaze following her until she was out of his sight.

  The day had greatly improved.

  The more she knew of Isaac, the more she liked him. He was a caring man, and he was showing that he would probably be a doctor like his uncle, treating the human being as well as the disease.

  Her fingers closed tightly over the bottle she was taking to Mr. Lawrence. His cough had punctuated the Sunday service so much that he’d finally had to leave and listen to the sermon from the vestibule. He didn’t seem to be getting better.

  Her feet sped toward his house, and soon she was at his front door, knocking. “Mr. Lawrence? Mr. Lawrence? It’s Christal Everett. I have your medicine from Dr. Bering.”

  There was no response from inside, and she pounded on the door. “Mr. Lawrence? Mr. Lawrence? It’s Christal Everett!”

  A faint sound from within beckoned her to open the door a crack and call again. “Mr. Lawrence? Are you all right? Might I come in?”

  A bird’s screech from the living room brought her in to see John Lawrence slumped in his chair, his chest rising and falling violently as he gasped for air. From the top of the floor lamp, Aristotle hopped from one leg to the other nervously as she felt for the man’s pulse. It was rapid and erratic.

  “I’ll be right back,” she promised him.

  She ran out of the house and down the streets until she reached the Bering house. Without knocking, she burst in.

  Dr. Bering and Isaac looked up from a sheaf of papers in surprise. “Christal, child, what on earth is the matter?” Dr. Bering asked.

  She panted, out of breath and unable to form the words. Instead, she pointed in the direction of the Lawrence residence.

  “Your house? Something is wrong at your house?” the doctor guessed.

  Isaac was already reaching for his coat. “It’s John Lawrence, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Bering handed his nephew his bag. “Take this. You may need it. I have an appointment with a woman who is due to give birth soon, so I need to stay here. Do you know what to do, Isaac?”

  Isaac nodded as he wound a muffler around his neck. “Body temperature, clear airway if necessary, start steam, inhalants as needed.” He stared at his gloves. One was brown leather, the other a red and black knit. He shook his head and pulled them on. “I’ll figure it out later.”

  “Have your mother and aunt meet him there,” Dr. Bering said to Christal as Isaac left. “They’ll know what to do.”

  Tears gathered in her eyes. “He’s dying, isn’t he?”

  Dr. Bering patted her shoulder. “He may be. This is why I want your mother and aunt with Isaac.”

  “He’ll know what to do, won’t he?” She tried to keep the worry out of her voice but knew she failed.

  “I have the greatest confidence in his abilities, but remember that this is new for Isaac. He’s just now learning what it’s like to work with real people with real problems, not those in the textbooks he had at school. He needs to have those around him who have experience with the ill.”

  She nodded, numb with the realization of what she had almost done. It was one thing for her to want to find a meaning for her life, to participate as fully as those she loved, but when there was a cost, and such a dear one—she shuddered at the thought.

  “I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll get my mother and Aunt Ruth. I’m sure they’ll know what to do.”

  As she started to leave, he called to her. “Christal, one more thing. Your father is a minister. You’ve been in the faith since the day you were born. You know what sickness is like, and you also know the strength of the human will. It’s a gift from our Lord, this intense love we have for life, the way we cling to it and let go of it so reluctantly. Never underestimate that power.”

  “I know, and I believe in my heart and in my soul that the body does not last, but we do live on in His presence.” She blinked as tears gathered in her eyes. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  He nodded. “I often think, when I see some of the things that befall our bodies, that we are perhaps fortunate to spend eternity without them.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But let’s not send our friend into heaven quite yet.” He smiled at her.

  She hugged him and hurried next door.

  Her mother and Aunt Ruth were just finishing the breakfast dishes. Had all this happened in such a short time? It seemed as if the morning had been going on for quite a long time. She told them what was going on, and the two women quickly whipped off their aprons and walked quickly to the entryway for their wraps.

  “Could you finish up for us, Christal?” her mother asked. “There isn’t much left to do to bring the kitchen to rights. Just wiping off the last pans and putting away the cutlery.”

  “I will.” Christal chewed on her lip. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? Mr. Lawrence, that is?”

  Mother laid her gloves on the table in the hall and took both of Christal’s hands in hers. “I hope so, but he is a very ill man, and he’s a very old man. Those two factors don’t bode well.”

  Aunt Ruth cleared her throat. “He’s much older than I am, but I don’t want to be clever about that and pretend that I am still young. I am not. When our bodies age, any sickness takes a greater toll on us than it does when we are young. We don’t have quite the resources someone who is, say, in their twenties might have. We’re weakening, and it’s all part of God’s plan.”

  Christal turned to her aunt, who stood tall and straight, as stately as ever. For the first time, she noticed the beginning of wrinkles on her face and neck, the white strands that sprinkled the upswept dark hair. Had she been so absorbed in herself that she hadn’t noticed the changes in those around her?

  Aunt Ruth settled her scarf and met Christal’s gaze with her eyes still as sharp and shining as bright black buttons. “Don’t worry, Christal. I am in excellent health. When the good Lord decides to take me, I suspect He will do so as quickly as possible, probably to avoid the potential that I might argue with Him otherwise. I do enjoy living, and I have no intention of leaving this earth anytime soon.”

  “We must hurry,” Mother said. “Christal, I don’t know how long we will be gone, so could you please stay? If we’re not back when your father comes home for his noon meal, there is enough beef left that if sliced carefully, can serve both of you. A cold meal won’t hurt either of you. There’s bread in the box, of course. And butter in the—”

  Aunt Ruth tapped her cane on the floor. “Sarah, if you insist upon giving the girl an inventory of what’s in the kitchen, we may never get there. She is smart enough to figure it out herself.”

  “That’s true.” Mother kissed Christal’s forehead. “I’m sorry about the cooking lesson being delayed, but I think you understand.”

  Christal nodded. There were a few things more important than a roast chicken.

  The two women left, and suddenly the house, which Christal had lived in for most of her life, seemed large and empty. There was nothing to do except get busy.

  She returned to the kitchen and picked up the apron she’d discarded earlier. Of course she had dropped it on the counter, but her mother had picked it up and hung it on the hook by the door.

  She pull
ed it over her head and tied it in the back and looked at the task she’d been left.

  There were two pans left to dry and a handful of forks and spoons to be put into the drawer. It would take her moments to finish that.

  Maybe she should address the beef and the carrots that her mother had told her about. There was no use waiting until the very last minute.

  She dug them out of the icebox and examined them. The piece of beef that her mother referred to didn’t seem as if it would feed one person, let alone two. The carrots were fine, but her father couldn’t have a meal of carrots only.

  She took the towel from the rack and dried the remaining two pans, put them away, and sorted the forks and spoons into the appropriate slots in the cutlery drawer.

  Again, she regarded the little bit of food that was available to her. Unless she was to serve her father a carrot sandwich, she’d have to think of something else.

  She peeked in the icebox again. Ah. There it was. The solution.

  ❧

  “Inhale.”

  Isaac placed his hand on John Lawrence’s chest. There was almost no muscle tone, and he could easily feel each rib as the man tried to breathe.

  His uncle should have come. He wasn’t prepared to see a patient on his own, especially one this ill. This was a doctor’s realm, and he was a mere student.

  From the kitchen came the subdued sounds of Mrs. Everett and Aunt Ruth as they tidied up the kitchen and boiled water to make steaming vats to place around the patient.

  “Don’t fight it. Go ahead,” Isaac urged. “Breathe in, as deeply as you can.”

  “I’ll cough,” Mr. Lawrence said in a weak voice.

  “Then cough. You need to. It’s the way your body clears out the infection that’s clogging your lungs. Take a deep breath, as full as you can. Go past the urge to cough.”

  “Can’t.” The older man bent over as a series of spasms jerked his torso.

  He was clearly fighting the cough, and Isaac didn’t blame him. Mr. Lawrence’s throat was raw from it, and his entire being was simply tired of it.

  Isaac knelt. “I want to make sure you’re getting enough oxygen. The problem with what you have is that inhaling triggers the cough reflex, so you’re breathing very shallowly. Let’s try it two different ways. First, breathe in slowly.”