The Heart of Elba Catworth

By Homer Charles Hiatt

Born on an Indiana farm at the dawn of the 20th century, Elba Catworth suffers a crippling heart affliction at an early age. Despite his handicap, he faces the challenges of medical school and achieves modest fame as a neurologist while living in the bustling world of a young Chicago. Blessed with an uncanny knack for discipline, and the guidance of an angel, Elba experiences love and loss as his heart slowly fails him. Haunting, yet optimistic, Elba's story is colored with the joy of success, the pain of personal tragedy, and the hope of resurrection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456762520

Homer Charles Hiatt

The author lives in rural Missouri with his companion Kate, two dogs and three pot-bellied pigs. This is his third novel.

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© 2011 Homer Charles Hiatt. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/20/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-6251-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-6250-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-6252-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908032

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Charles Huette and Melissa Preddy

For their fine editing, and to Elizabeth Hiatt

And Melanie Layer for the cover design.

To my grandfather-

Perhaps now

He will find some rest.

To meet a peaceful death,

You need to find your soul.

To end up as an angel,

Your heart must first be whole.

—The verse of Elba Catworth,

had he lived long enough

to compose it.

Contents

Acknowledgements

PART I

1900-1908

PART II

1908

1908-1913

1913 -1918

1918-1920

PART III

1920

1920-1921

1922

1923

PART IV

1924-1926

1927

1928-1930

PART V

1930-1933

1934-1935

1940-1942

PART I

1900-1908

From a distance, an observer with a whimsical streak might have seen the Catworth place as an abandoned fortress strategically placed on a rise of land to ward off enemies of old. But a closer look revealed two carefully tended stone buildings with slate roofs, one a farmhouse with two bedrooms and a main room, and the other a sizable barn. The stones came from the one hundred acres of land now tilled by the Catworths. Another fifty acres served as pasture for their Herefords. A porch adorned the house, a wrap-around affair of hewn oak dressing the south and east sides. The barn sported a copper weather vane.

This citadel nestled in northeastern Indiana farmland. To the north ran the St. Mary River. To the south and west stretched hundreds of square miles of tilled fields and oak forests. A small but industrious town, Wolf Lake, did its business a few miles to the east. All in all, the Catworth cattle farm, a part of the agricultural boom of late-nineteenth century America, made one thing clear: it was here to stay.

Jonathan Catworth started it all. He was an immigrant from Herefordshire, England and a member of a long line of cattlemen. He and his wife had four children, three girls and a boy, Roy. A typhoid epidemic killed the mother and daughters in the space of a year. Jonathan and Roy managed the farm alone until Jonathan succumbed to years of back-breaking labor at the age of 85. The dawn of the twentieth century found a young Roy Catworth running the place with the help of his wife of seven years, Hazel. Roy raised enough grain to maintain a modest herd of Herefords while Hazel tended to everything her husband didn’t have time for. She also bore him two children, Zeb, currently age six, and Pauline who was four. On the afternoon of November 10, 1900 she did her best to give Roy his third child.

Oh, God in heaven help me! cried the laboring woman, a sound that pierced the closed bedroom door and echoed in the main room of the farmhouse.

Is mama ok? asked Pauline of her father. Pig-tailed and thin as a reed, she sat cross-legged at the hearth in the main room. A fire in the cavernous stone fireplace kept her warm.

Doc Phillips is with her, Roy answered. No need to fret. Asides, you seen a cow calf. It’s just like that.

As Pauline turned her worried brow toward the glowing fire, her brother Zeb barged in the room, his wool coat covered with sleet. Without a word, he hung his wet coat near the fire and rubbed his hands together over the coals. The winter hat, an old one of Roy’s, stayed on his head.

You get all them chores done proper? Roy asked.

Yup.

Even the chickens? You tend to slack when it comes to the chickens.

Yup.

Weather turnin’?

Yup.

How bad?

Bad.

God, as I live and breathe, get this child out! The scream said.

The three Catworths fell quiet, the only sounds in the room coming from the crackle of the fire and the pelting of sleet on the slate roof. Roy loaded his pipe, Zeb turned his back to the heat to warm his rear, and Pauline hugged her rag doll. They waited for another cry from the bedroom, but heard nothing for a good while. Finally, the girl spoke.

Tell us a story, Papa, Pauline said.

Roy looked at his daughter and then at his son, who nodded in agreement. Why not, the man said. It’s a might better than this.

Roy, an angular man whose daily garb consisted of roomy trousers held up by suspenders, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, and work boots, lit his pipe with a flaming end of a twig and took a seat on a stool. Ever hear how I met your ma? he asked the young ones. Not getting an answer, he went on.

Time was the best way to meet a woman fit to marry was to go to church. Probably still is. Anyway, I started goin’ to the Congregational Church on the south side of town. Reverend Gray introduced me to his daughter, Hazel, your Ma. I liked her right off. Curly black hair, nice smile. She carried her weight right, too. Next thing you know, we’re courtin’. Only thing kept me from asking her to marry was I didn’t know if she took to farmin’. Far as I knew, she liked books more than work. But one day, an Easter Sunday, we had a freak snow storm. When it blew over, I helped Hazel shovel the walk in front of the church. That’s when I said, ‘Farmers have to put up with all kinds of strange weather.’ Then she said, ‘I would love to farm.’ That did it for me. I asked her to marry me the very next Sunday. Your Grandpa married us in that very same church two months later.

Just then, Dr. Phillips appeared at the bedroom door carrying a ceramic basin. Roy, fill this with hot water, if you please, the doctor said.

Sure thing, Doc. How are things goin’?

As Roy hustled the bowl over to the iron cook stove to fetch some hot water, the white-haired physician leaned against the door jamb. The old man looked worried, and didn’t answer the question until the farmer faced him.

I’ve got to get the baby out now, my friend, Doc whispered. I’ve no doubt Hazel’s blood pressure is dangerously high. She’s starting to talk out of her head, which makes me worry about a stroke or worse.

You ain’t gonna cut…

I’m going to try forceps first. But if that doesn’t work, I’ll need you to deliver the ether.

My lord, Roy uttered as he handed the basin to the doctor.

Dr. Phillips took the water, flipped the door closed with a foot and moved to his patient’s bedside. There, he stared at an overweight, delirious woman in the middle of labor. Hazel? he offered.

Hazel’s black curls stuck to her sweaty, red, round face. The brass bed creaked under her tossing weight. How beautiful you all are, she slurred as she rolled from side to side, her eyes shut. Tell me about this child, this little boy of mine.

Dr. Phillips groaned as he walked to his bag to fetch the needed instruments. There, he paused to look out the window at the driving sleet. He could make out his mare and buggy just inside the barn’s doorway. Nodding, he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, grabbed the forceps and returned to the task at hand.

Out in the main room, the three Catworths remained near the fire. Is Ma hung up? Zeb asked his father.

You might say that, son, Roy murmured. But you didn’t come out none too easy. And Pauline here, why, she came out blue. And now look at the two of you, thanks to Doc.

Just then, a weak but unmistakable cry came from the bedroom. Roy raced to the door and peered in. Is it out? he asked.

Doc didn’t answer. Rather, he hunkered at the foot of the bed snipping this and clamping that, the forceps lying at his feet. Finally, he stood and faced Roy with a bundle in his arms. It’s a boy, my friend, he said. Go show him to your children. I’ve got some work to do.

Hazel okay?

She should be. Now go on. I’ll take care of her.

The father cradled his new son and walked to the fireplace. Boy or girl? Zeb asked. Getting his answer, the older brother pulled back the edge of the blanket and peeked at the newborn. He’s little. And his head’s all beat up.

I expect that’s from Doc havin’ to get him out early. Far as him bein’ little, we’ll feed him up, just like that bull of yours.

Zeb grunted and returned to the warmth of the hearth, and Pauline took his place at the baby’s side. She teased an arm into the air and played with delicate fingers. He’s just like a little mouse, she said with a giggle. The girl looked harder at her new brother. Look at his black hair. Just like Mama. Oh, Papa, his ear is bleeding.

Startled, Roy pulled back the blanket. My lord, he said as he held an edge of material to the torn earlobe. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

Back in the bedroom, Doc delivered the placenta and wrapped it in a rag. Next, he sutured two vaginal lacerations caused by the forceps delivery. And all the while, he talked to his patient. Hazel, are you with me? Hazel, can you say something? Hazel, do you hear me?

The woman’s eyes remained closed, but her face no longer looked ready to burst into flame. Her girth lay drenched in sweat despite the chill in the room. Perhaps prompted by her doctor’s voice, she began speaking from her stupor. The angels live with my boy. They will protect him. He will always know what to do.

Dr. Phillips snickered as he put a Phenobarbital suppository in Hazel’s rectum. My good woman, you need a few hours of solid sleep, he said as he began gathering his equipment. After a final hand washing, he dried off next to the window. Would you look at that, he said to himself. Not only had the sleet stopped, a break of sunlight glistened the icy ground. Beautiful, very beautiful, he said. And what a day.

A half-hour later, the doctor found his patient sleeping peacefully, her pulse slow and steady, and her color good. He donned his black coat, grabbed his bag and left the bedroom to join Roy and his three children.

Help out an old man, my friend. What’s the date?

November 10, 1900, Roy said, still cradling the baby.

All right, that goes on the birth certificate. Now, all I need is a name.

I figure I’ll call him Elba after my uncle in England.

I didn’t know you had an uncle in England.

My Pa’s brother. He visited here once when I was a boy. Even had the black hair like my little one here.

So, Elba Catworth it is. I expect he’ll see some innovations before his time is through.

Roy chuckled as though he had heard such comments from his friend before. What are you drivin’ at now, Doc?

It’s obvious to me inventions like the horseless carriage are going to change the world. And little Elba is going to get to see it happen.

What a dreamer you are. When it comes to farmin’, nothin’ will take the place of a good team of horses. And since Elba is goin’ to farm, it makes sense he won’t see much of anything change.

Would you care to place a wager?

What did you have in mind?

I bet a dollar that I’ll be making house calls in an automobile by the time Elba is ten years old. I’ll bet another dollar your horses will be gone by the time he is fifteen.

That, sir, is a bet, Roy bellowed as he shook the doctor’s hand. What do I owe you for today?

Three dollars, as always. Now, I should get moving while the weather allows. Say goodbye to Hazel for me. And let her sleep for a bit. She’s had a hard go. And one more thing. I left the afterbirth in a rag next to the bed. Best you bury that in your garden while the ground is soft.

Roy watched Dr. Phillips drive his mare from the barn out into slush and down the lane. Zeb joined his father at the front window. Doc Phillips is a wonderful doctor, son, Roy commented. But he’s a dreamer. Best you keep your eyes on your work.

Just an hour later, an infant fussing in his arms, Roy shook his wife awake. Hazel, the baby needs a feed, he urged.

The woman rolled to her side and then pushed herself up in bed as Roy propped pillows for her. What time is it? she asked.

About four in the afternoon. You feelin’ okay?

I’ve got an awful headache. But here, give me my boy. He needs to eat.

How do you know it’s a boy?

What else? Give him to me.

Roy handed Elba to his wife, who wasted no time offering the little one her breast. As their child fed, Roy sat on the edge of the bed and watched. After a time, Hazel spoke.

I had the most bizarre dream, Roy, she started. I saw angels. They told me things about this boy of ours. For the life of me, I can’t remember what they said, but I know I felt good about things.

Well, if you felt good, that’s all that matters to me. By the way, how do you like Elba for a first name?

After your uncle? Yes, I like it. The name has heart.

The parents fell quiet for a spell and listened to the cooing of their son. Eventually, Roy reached for his pipe, but Hazel would have none of that near her baby. So, the father excused himself and returned to the fireplace where Zeb whittled on a stick and Pauline talked to her doll.

Hazel, alone with her child for the first time, noticeably shivered as she looked at her son. She took a few deep breaths and set her jaw. Elba Catworth, my little angel, she cried. Mommy will keep you out of harm’s way. You’ll be safe as long as you’re with me.

* * *

In no time, routine settled the Catworths. Roy attended to his team of workhorses, two giant Percherons, mended the tangle of steel and leather that passed for farm equipment, and, when weather allowed, spent hours behind his steeds in his grain fields. After school, Zeb headed straight for the barn where he lugged load after load of hay and grain to the Herefords. Pauline helped her mother with the sewing, washing, cooking and cleaning. Above all, she obeyed the overriding rule of the house: don’t be a pest. Hazel carried Elba in a wicker basket until he was old enough to sit up. She quickly weaned him from her breast and replaced the milk with the rich creation of their Jersey milk cow. By age one, Elba’s layer of baby fat led his grandfather Gray to nickname him The Cherub.

Now, Hazel carried a stoic, even calloused demeanor she acquired from just seven years of grueling farm life. But she had lighter side, a soft nurturing beam she turned on her family when, and only when, a situation called for it. Roy got an occasional shoulder rub after a long work day. Zeb found her at least sympathetic when he voiced a rare complaint about his labors in the barn. Pauline could get her mother to smile by telling her a story about fairies in the garden or a family of fireflies. But as far as her dear Elba was concerned, Hazel’s affection was ceaseless and intense. The mother relentlessly cooed and fussed and fretted over the child almost to the point of ignoring her chores. Her father warned her to be careful with the boy, lest she spoil him. But the minister’s words had little impact. It was as though Hazel believed Elba would fly away if she took her eyes off him. The boy was three years old before she allowed him to leave his little cot at her bedside to share a room with Zeb.

If Roy or Zeb had opinions about Hazel’s uncharacteristic behavior toward Elba, they didn’t voice them. But Pauline noticed her mother’s fixation. Perhaps in an effort to copy her mother, the little girl focused much of her energy on Elba, doting on him whenever Hazel’s attentions were drawn away from her little one. The girl vied for her brother’s attention, and easily won out over the hovering, but unimaginative, farm woman. So, by age three, Elba came to prefer the company of his sister.

Mama, can I take Elba to the tree? Pauline asked one summer afternoon.

Hazel paused at the butter churn and gazed at her lithe blond seven-year-old daughter and her chubby three-year old. You hold his hand when you cross the plowed field, the woman warned, her cotton dress soaked through with sweat. And don’t let him climb too high.

The children set out for the lone live oak that Jonathan Catworth, years before, spared in the fields as shade for his mules. They left the dusty ground between the house and barn, fought their way through a stand of weeds, and reached the edge of plowed earth. Pauline took her brother’s hand and they began the trek across the expanse of jagged dirt clods, often slipping and falling to their knees. But they persevered until they reached the massive tree some fifty yards out. Once under its branches, the young ones brushed the dirt from their clothes and looked up at the leafed ceiling of their cathedral.

I go up, Elba said.

Pauline let out a playful sigh. You’ve got a few minutes to play before your lesson. Just don’t climb too high.

In no time, Elba found himself sitting on a thick branch and nestled against the trunk. He felt as high as the clouds, but in fact sat about twelve feet off the ground. He stared through an opening in the canopy at the miles of farmland before him. His father and his horses crossed in front of him and then disappeared behind a rise of land. Crows called nearby and a hawk soared in the distance. Cicadas sang in his ear. A centipede crawled across his lap. And when he closed his eyes, he saw his white shapes fly. From the time he could see, the shapes had kept him company. They were as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his body, so natural he gave them as little study as the breaths he took.

Time for school, Pauline called.

Elba swiveled in his seat and peered down at his sister. Just looking at her blond curls and sweet smile made him happy. She, like his mother, looked after him. But Pauline meant fun and adventure. She shared with him what she knew of the world. She was his friend.

Today we do subtraction, the girl said as she prepared a space on the ground. Come, Elba. No time to waste.

Catch me, Elba yelled.

What?

Catch me. I fly.

"No, Elba…:

The boy slid off the branch just as his sister moved under him, her arms waving in an attempt to stop the jump. His arms wrapped around her as she broke his fall, but she buckled under his weight and she fell backwards. The chubby three-year-old slammed into Pauline’s thin chest just as her back hit the ground.

Elba giggled as he scrambled to his feet. Before him lay a crumpled girl, her eyes closed, her chest still.

Elba knew in an instant something was wrong. He closed his eyes and watched his white shapes, and in a few seconds knew what to do. He straightened Pauline’s legs, straddled her, and pulled her by her arms until she sat upright. As he did this, the girl took a breath and opened her eyes.

Coughing and crying, Pauline covered her face with her hands. Then, soberly, she looked at her brother. I couldn’t breathe, Elba. But I wasn’t scared.

Elba didn’t understand much of what his sister said, but he knew things were just fine.

From now on, no jumping, Pauline shouted, as she stood. Do you understand, young man?

No jumping, young man, Elba repeated.

Pauline walked in a small circle as she straightened her dress and ran her hands through her hair, ending up at the head of her make-believe classroom. Have a seat, Elba Catworth, she said. First comes subtraction. Then we’ll share a show-and-tell.

Elba smiled as he took his seat on the ground. He liked show-and-tell with Pauline. The game made sense out of things around them, and made secrets between them. He had the feeling they were inside looking out. And inside was special. Very special.

* * *

Besides watching out for the children, Hazel naturally did the housework and cooking. But she managed so much more. The four hogs they kept for special eating needed daily food and water. The chickens required the same, and the eggs had to be gathered. Home repair landed in her lap, and more than once she found herself on the roof replacing slate torn loose by the wind. The garden, her pride and joy, demanded weeding and pruning. And pity the poor varmint who tried to steal from her yield, the critter a likely victim of Hazel’s shotgun.

Hazel buggied to Wolf Lake every Tuesday and Friday for supplies, often with Elba in tow. As a daughter of a local minister, she wore her black dress to town and gussied her son in his Sunday shirt. Anything less would have reflected poorly on her father and his congregational church. One September morning, her older children in school and her husband busy with a second cutting of hay, Hazel pulled up in front of the post office and asked five-year-old Elba to run in and fetch the mail. The boy returned with a Sears-Roebuck catalog and lifted the load to his mother.

Well bless us, Hazel exclaimed when she saw the volume. It’s about time it got here.

What is that? Elba asked as he climbed in the buggy.

This is what I use to order furniture. If your Pa ever gets around to building that parlor, I’m going to get us a player piano and some nice padded chairs with a matching sofa.

Elba just nodded and took a seat next to her, a spot of white next to an expanse of black. Hazel drove the gelding to the general store where she lumbered out of the buggy and stomped up the wooden steps and through the front door. Elba followed.

Good day, Mrs. Catworth, the clerk called.

Good day, sir. I’ll be needing some things.

Of course. How about a stick of peppermint for the little one?

No thank you. I’ll take a pound of sugar, five pounds of flour, and a tin of coffee. I’ll ask you to do the loading, if you please.

Yes, ma’am. Anything else?

Hazel moved to the rolls of fabric and ran her hand over a length of sateen. Old Grand Dad, she mumbled.

Pardon me?

The woman wheeled and faced the clerk. I want a bottle of bourbon, she mouthed. A bottle of that Old Grand Dad behind you will do just fine.

Oh, yes, I remember, the clerk said. It must be your husband’s birthday. My, how time flies.

Hazel didn’t