The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

“He needs more ’an help,” Terry called back as he headed up the stairs. Then he laughed and shut his door with a thump.

Emma lifted Linton by his arms and dragged him toward a small bed pushed against the inside wall of the tiny room.

He collapsed on the dilapidated mattress, shivering and moaning as he wrapped a soiled sheet over the blanket.

Emma found another covering under the bed and placed it over him. Kneeling by his side, she put her hand to his forehead feeling the fiery skin, clammy to the touch, yet beaded with sweat.

“I’m burning up,” Linton whispered, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

Emma withdrew her hand, suddenly terrified of the possibility of influenza. “How long have you been like this?”

“Going on the third day, maybe more, I can’t remember,” Linton said, his voice rattling as he gasped for breath.

“I’m taking you out of here.” Emma looked around the room, in the scattered light, seeing only a chair and Linton’s soiled clothes piled in a corner. The apartment smelled of an oily sickness—of sweat and disease that emanated from the lungs and skin. “You’re burning up and freezing to death at the same time. You need to see a doctor.”

“I can’t—I owe Terry rent. I don’t have money for medicine.”

“To hell with Terry. I’ll pay him and get you to the hospital.” She wanted to stroke his clothed leg and kiss his pale cheeks, but as a doctor’s wife she was aware of the infectious diseases that might harm her and the unborn child.

A weak smile formed on his lips. “I’m glad you’re here. I thought I’d die before I could touch your face again.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. You’ll be fine. I’m calling for a cab. Does Terry have a telephone?”

Linton suppressed a laugh, which only caused him to hold his chest and wince in pain. When he could breathe again, he said, “Terry lives as sparsely as I do. A telephone is a luxury.”

Emma opened the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Can you walk?”

“If you help me.”

“You know I will.” She stood by the bed, wishing she could touch him. “You must be calm and wait for me no matter what happens.”

Linton nodded.

As she shut the apartment door, Terry’s rough voice boomed down the stairs. “Had enough, ’ave ya? I said he was no good—not fit for a piece. I ’ear he was a fine specimen once, even though he’s sightless.” His head appeared over the railing.

“How much does he owe you?” Emma said coldly.

“Well, if ya count the twenty ya gave me—which I shouldn’t—as being a fee to enter this fine establishment . . . I suppose I could let him go for another twenty as long as he swabs his room for the next tenant.”

“I’ll be back with forty—lock the door and keep his things as they are.”

“Lock the door?” Terry guffawed in response to Emma’s request. “He ain’t got nothin’ to steal—a few worthless paintings and some grubby old clothes. Who’d want ’em?”

“If you destroy his work, I’ll personally come after you.”

“I’m shakin’,” Terry said, puffing out his eyes. “Come back with the money.” He spat on the floor.

Emma found a cab at the edge of the West End. She instructed the driver to take her home and then return to Linton’s address. Anne helped her gather a nurse’s mask, gloves, a couple of handkerchiefs, and one of Tom’s left-behind winter coats. She washed her hands and returned to Linton’s wearing the mask and gloves. She found him, soaked in sweat, dressed in trousers and a shirt and sitting on the bed. She held out Tom’s coat and guided Linton’s arms into it, led him into the hall, and closed the door. She felt Terry staring at her and, saying nothing, dropped the forty dollars on the mucky wooden floor.

“Boston General,” Emma told the cabdriver, who looked at Linton with suspicion, keeping as far away as he could from the sick man.

A few blocks away, Linton’s head swayed onto Emma’s shoulder.

She placed one of the handkerchiefs under his head and looked at his ashen face.

A thin line of blood trickled from his nose.

* * *

Emma felt it too risky to return to Linton’s apartment that day to get his paintings. She assumed Terry would wait a few more days before ignoring her order to keep the soiled clothes and the artwork, and thought of hiring a workman to retrieve his belongings.

The day after Linton was admitted, Emma walked to Boston General. The admission process the day before had not been easy. Linton had no money or family to support him. The staff, who knew Emma on sight because of Tom, welcomed her, but, overall, seemed more interested in her story in Paris than they were in the patient. After a half hour of getting little accomplished, she finally called for the director, a venerable Boston gentleman with years of experience as a surgeon. Once she talked with him, Linton was admitted to a ward with other influenza patients. The director assured Emma that his new patient would have the finest care and that she could visit any time if she was willing to take proper precautions.

Despite the previous day’s drawbacks, Emma knew that Boston General was opulent compared to the hospital in Toul and that Linton would be well looked after. The corridors were spacious and the floors gleamed white, unlike the cramped facility in France. Here, the doctors and nurses walked in their starched uniforms down well-lit halls.

When she arrived, the front-desk nurse greeted her cheerily and called for an orderly. The young man led Emma to a sparkling white room where she pulled on a smock over her clothes, positioned a fresh cotton mask over her mouth and nose, and put on gloves. He then directed her to the ward.

“How is Mr. Bower?” she asked a nurse who stood outside the door.

The woman smiled and said, “He’s holding his own. So many young men are sick. We’re concerned about the pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia?” Emma asked,