Unmentionables. Laurie Loewenstein
the other room, a firm voice asked, “Are they bringing my things? Is that the doctor? Send him in.”
“No, it’s the publisher of the Clarion, Deuce Garland.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “What does he want?”
Deuce called out, “We’ve met already. I helped you up when you fell. I only need a few minutes.”
Another pause. “Could you come back after my bags arrive?”
He put his face to the crack. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back to the office. Deadline’s coming up.”
There was a clink of china accompanied by a heavy sigh. The scent of coffee and perfumed talc drifted past the doorjamb.
“All right, come on in.”
Deuce entered and Tula slipped into the kitchen.
Marian took in the publisher, his wrinkled linen suit of a style fashionable five years ago, his too-eager expression, and, my God, a load of lodge buttons on his lapel! Her fantasies about relaxing in Emporia for a couple of days flew out the window. This is nothing but a hick town. Why on earth would I ever want to spend a holiday in this flyspeck? she thought miserably.
Deuce settled himself into a chair, glancing around the room. “More homey than the Lamoine. I’m sure Tula’s taking good care of you.”
“Yes, certainly. Now why are you here?” she asked, her voice impatient, her eyes narrowed. At every lecture, most men in the audience listened with frowns on their faces, shaking their heads. As if at her words, each woman in the audience would jump up and rip off her shirtwaist, corset cover, and corset. The remaining ten percent openly leered at her bosom, clearly assessing her as a loose woman. Which sort was Deuce?
“My readers will want to know the state of your recovery, Mrs. Elliot Adams, and whether you’ll be staying in Emporia for an extra day or so.”
“You can see my foot for yourself.” She drew the sheet away from her lower limbs.
Deuce’s face darkened in embarrassment. “That’s pretty swollen. What does the doctor say?”
“He hasn’t been here yet. So, there’s nothing to report.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “My Helen will be disappointed. She sent me down here especially to check on your condition. She admires you greatly.”
“That’s kind. Please extend my gratitude.” Marian picked up a book from the bedside table and flipped it open.
Deuce nodded. “I will. She’s the one who was speaking with you just before your accident.”
“Really? That girl?”
“Yep.”
Marian closed the book, a finger marking her place. “Your daughter? Very progressive.”
“Stepdaughter. And yes, she’s full of ideas on the modern woman. I’m very proud.”
“I’m surprised.” Marian slid the book back on the nightstand.
“About?”
“In my experience, Midwestern newsmen are anything but progressive.”
Deuce cocked his head, studying her upraised chin, the firm set of her mouth. “Have you seen my paper?”
He pulled yesterday’s Clarion from under his notebook and handed it to her. She slowly leafed through the pages, pausing to read one or two items. From the kitchen came the sound of a broom whisking across the floor.
Marian returned to the front page, and flicked a column with her thumb and finger. It made a loud popping sound. “This is what I’m talking about.”
Deuce leaned forward. “The locals?”
“This string of idle chit-chat.” She read aloud: “Bill Jones brought in a load of hay today. Thomas Hughes is recovering from a sprained hip. John Smith is putting a new porch on his Sylvan Street property.” The newsprint crumpled into her lap. “This doesn’t belong in a newspaper, and certainly not on the front page.”
Deuce ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe not in a big city. I grant you that. But Emporia is a small town, and it hasn’t been all that long since the pioneer days.”
“All the more reason to raise the bar. Educate, not pander,” Marian said righteously.
“Whoa, Nelly,” Deuce replied, holding up his hand. “I wouldn’t call that pandering. Those little items bring the community together. Not to get philosophical, but I sort of think of them as a mirror that shows us who we are.”
Marian snorted lightly. “I already know who I am. I don’t need a newspaper to do that. I need a paper to bring me the hard facts.” She ruffled the pages again. “I don’t see much in the way of that here.”
Deuce winced. “I’m hoping to change that, but it doesn’t come easy.”
“You can’t let that stop you.”
“True. But, again, this isn’t New York. Not so far back, Macomb County was just a handful of homesteads and Emporia nothing but a crossroads. The only way to grow was to help one another. Neighbors pitching in to put up hay, women spelling one another at sickbeds, those sorts of things. When it grew to the point where the town and county became incorporated, reciprocity was still the name of the game. Our banker befriends the railroad men, and Emporia gets a station. The Clarion boosts the town, and the great state of Illinois plants a college here.”
Marian made a face. “One hand washing the other.”
Deuce shrugged. “There are a lot of throwbacks here that stir up a fuss whenever something changes and—”
He was cut off by Tula, who stuck her head in the door. “Dr. Jack is here.”
The doctor strode in and greeted them both. He set down his bag and began rolling up his sleeves.
“Here you go, doc.” Deuce jumped up. “I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right, and then get the update, Marian?”
She motioned him to stay. “Can’t keep anything from the press anyway.”
“Let’s get down to business,” Dr. Jack said dryly, pulling back the sheet covering Marian’s legs.
The doctor cradled the foot in his hands and prodded gently with his thumbs. She grimaced.
He ran his finger up the calf. “I’d hoped the swelling would have gone down by now, but since it hasn’t I think there’s a good chance the ankle is broken. Keep it elevated and on ice the rest of the day.”
“That’s—” Marian began, but Dr. Jack ignored her.
“I’ll come back after supper for another look. If it’s broken, it’ll need a cast.”
“After supper? Then you’ll have to travel to Galesburg. I’m due there for a lecture tonight and I’m leaving by car today.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “You can’t prevent me.”
“No, I can’t,” Dr. Jack said, gently repositioning her ankle on the pile of pillows. “But if you don’t stay off of it and let it heal, it will only get worse.”
“I can tolerate pain. We Chautauqua performers can endure anything.”
Dr. Jack sat down. “Look. If the ankle is broken and you continue to travel, bumping on rutted roads, tramping in and out of hotels and up and down lecture platforms, you could erode the bone. It may heal crookedly. Then you will be using a cane for the rest of your life. Or you might even get gangrene. And then they’ll have to lop it right off. But I’m not going to argue with you. It’s your decision.”
Marian fell back onto the pillow, her lips hardened in a tight line.
“There is