Chapter 13 #2
“Wait outside, miss,” the woman said, gently taking Fern’s arm and leading her out into the hallway.
She landed on a cushioned bench across from the doctor’s office.
The woman stepped back into the room, grabbed the edges of the pocket doors and rolled them shut, snapping off Fern’s view of Cal lying flat on the table.
She stared at the glossy, dark cherry wood of the doors and sucked in shallow breaths.
The house smelled of pipe tobacco and baking fruit.
Had the woman been in the middle of making a pie?
Fern closed her eyes but that only made the sounds from the closed-off room seem louder.
The doctor speaking to Cal, to the woman—his wife?
—the clang and scrape of steel instruments, and the tearing of cloth.
There had been so much blood. Someone couldn’t possibly survive after losing that much blood. Could they?
What if Cal died?
Fern stood up from the bench on legs that didn’t feel attached to her. There was nothing for her to do but pace. The doctor certainly didn’t need her. But Cal…a lump formed in her throat.
“Miss?”
Fern flinched. A young woman stood at her side; Fern hadn’t noticed her approach.
“You’re bleeding,” she said as she leaned her head to the side. She was a younger version of the woman in the housecoat, her vibrant red hair pulled into a loose bun.
“It’s not my blood,” Fern whispered.
Cal.
“Some of it isn’t, but your elbow is abraded. Your forehead too.”
Pain suddenly flared along her left arm. She blinked and looked down to see her dress sleeve torn, blood darkening the navy fabric. Heat throbbed just above her left eyebrow too.
“Come into the kitchen,” the young woman said. “Let’s clean you up.”
On the way to the kitchen at the back of the house, she explained that she was Hannah Levy, Dr. Levy’s daughter, and that while she wasn’t a nurse, she had learned enough from her father over the years to patch up some scrapes.
She was clearly trying to put Fern at ease.
But as she sat in a spindle-back chair at the kitchen table, the sweet, berry scent stronger in here, Fern began to shiver.
“You’ve been through a dreadful shock,” Hannah said. “I’ll make you some tea. You need something warm.”
An enamel tea mug painted with pink flower buds appeared before Fern a moment later, or maybe it had been a few minutes. She hadn’t been able to keep track of time. As she sipped her tea without tasting it, Hannah cleaned the blood from Fern’s forehead and then went to work on her elbow.
“Thank you,” Fern finally managed to say.
“Friends of the Rosetti brothers are friends of ours.” The line sounded practiced and flat, as though it was something she had to say, rather than something she meant.
Fern looked at her as she blotted blood from her elbow. “I’m not sure I’m a friend of theirs.”
Hannah peered at her curiously. “Well, you can’t be an enemy, or else you wouldn’t have bothered to bring Cal here.”
“No, I don’t suppose I’m an enemy either.”
What was she, exactly? One big fucking mess, Cal had called her. She’d spent time with him, though most of it had been forced upon her. Not that time at the Pier, though. Despite the danger, it had even been a little bit fun.
“Are the Rosettis really your friends?” Fern asked quietly.
Hannah used two small metal hooks to clip the gauze dressing around Fern’s elbow in place.
“My pop’s known them for a long time. Since they were boys.” She stood up. “They were different back then. At least, that’s what my mother says.”
A telephone rang clamorously in the front hall, startling Fern out of her chair.
“Sit, it’s okay.” Hannah gently put her hands on Fern’s shoulders and eased her back down into the chair. Then she dashed from the kitchen.
“Hello?” came her voice a moment later. “He’s here…Shot, though I don’t know details… He’s trying to—oh? All right.”
The receiver slammed back onto the hook. The pocket doors rolled open. Hushed murmuring. Fern leaned forward but couldn’t make out the words. Hannah reappeared in the kitchen, though her calm was visibly shaken.
“I think you should leave,” she said abruptly.
Fern stood. “What’s happening?”
Hannah guided her toward the back door. “That was Rod on the telephone. He heard about the chopper squad. He’s on his way.”
He was coming, and somehow, Hannah knew Fern didn’t want to be here when he arrived. Trepidation jittered through her as Hannah opened the back door. It led to a small, closed-in backyard about the size of Fern’s turret room.
“Is there a cabstand nearby?” she asked. But then, she realized with dismay that her hands were empty. She groaned and gritted her teeth in frustration. “My purse. I must have dropped it when…the shooting happened.”
Fern could still feel it: the breath driven from her lungs as Cal tackled her to the sidewalk, shielding her with his body. And she could still hear the sound of bullets striking metal and shattering glass.
“There’s a stand up the road, first left,” Hannah said, then opened a kitchen drawer and drew out a few dollar bills. “Here, take this.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. It’s nothing. Just…leave before Rod gets here. He’s in a mood, and if, as you say, you’re not his friend, it’s better that you go.”
Fern understood her perfectly. She accepted the dollar bills from Hannah and started down the back steps into the fenced-in yard. But then, she stopped and turned back.
“Cal…”
Hannah nodded and pulled on a reassuring grin. “My father will take care of him. I can promise you that.”
Fern wanted to believe her. She didn’t want Cal to die.
The gate between the backyard and the front lawn creaked open on hinges in need of oil.
Halfway down the street, Fern realized that she must look a fright from the blood on her dress and hands, and without her cloche, she had nothing to help conceal her face.
She worried Rodney would see her if he drove by and recognize her.
Heart pounding, she hurried along the streets, following the instructions Hannah had given her, and reached the cabstand where a pair of Checker taxis were waiting for customers.
The two drivers were standing outside their cars, talking.
She slowed, remembering her last taxi driver, and her stomach rolled.
Whether it was her banged-up face, the blood on her dress, or her scars, these two drivers went silent as she approached.
Fern gave her address on South Woodlawn to the closest one and then quickly got into the back of the cab.
She stared at the dark red stains on her sleeves.
This was his blood. Closing her eyes, she saw again the inside of Cal’s office.
The diploma. The chair behind his desk, spinning from when he’d realized Fern was there, waiting to see him, and launched himself toward the door.
Who had shot at them and why had yet to settle into her mind, but as the taxi rolled up to her house, turning into the drive, she wondered why they’d chosen to launch their attack on Harris Looms, right then, at that moment.
Had they only planned to shoot up the front of the building?
How had they known Cal was standing outside?
Had they been waiting for him to show himself?
“This is it, I said.” The driver had twisted around in the front seat to look at her, annoyed. Like he’d already said it once. She hadn’t heard him.
Fern shoved the few dollars at him over the front seat. He caught the bills as she opened the door.
“You want your change, lady?” he called.
She kept walking toward the front door, knowing she wouldn’t go unnoticed inside at this time of evening. Margie appeared, her heels clicking against the parquet floor as she came into the foyer.
“Tate said he saw a Checker in the—” Her voice cut off, garbled by a gasp. Her hand flew to her lips. “Miss Fern! Are you injured? Should I call for a doctor?”
“No, no, I’m…” Her voice cracked in her dry throat. “Where is my mother?”
Margie seemed to understand that Fern wished to avoid her mother. She spun around, looking toward the corridor that led to Mrs. Adair’s study.
“If you go quickly, she won’t see you,” Margie said, voice hushed.
With a swell of gratitude, Fern darted to the staircase.
By the third floor, her legs felt ready to fold at the knees.
Finally, in her room, door closed and locked behind her, she let them fold.
She collapsed onto the floor. Minutes passed.
Maybe a quarter hour. Every time she resolved to get up from the floor and get changed, a stronger resolve to keep lying on her side on the carpet won out.
It was dark, the shadows lengthening across the floor, when a knock landed on her door.
“Miss Fern?”
Margie.
She turned her face toward the ceiling. “What is it?”
“Dinner is ready. I wanted to see if you need any assistance…before I leave for the night?”
Dear, sweet Margie. She really was a kind person. If her mother hadn’t originally hired her to be her friend, Fern might actually have wanted to be friends with her.
“I’ll be down in a few minutes. And I’m fine. Thank you, Margie,” she tacked on.
There was no avoiding her parents any longer. Fern got up, pulled off her ruined dress, and scrubbed her hands and face in her attached bathroom. The water had turned brownish pink by the time she was through.
Arms shaking, she pulled on a long-sleeved, dark green dress, which helped cover her scraped elbow. The neckline was too low to hide the bruised love bite on her neck, but a silk scarf, worked into a thick bow, took care of that.
So much to hide. So much to cover up. All because of Cal.
Her stomach twisted, and a flare of tension in her shoulders made her long for the carpet again. Cal wouldn’t curl up and hide from the world. He’d get up, go down to dinner, and drink his glass of milk. A small laugh escaped her lips.