Iniquitous Connections :: The Dark

By J.D. Langston

Craig Lewis Lewis has returned from WWII in 1945. He and his wife, Claire settle near Atlanta, Georgia. They already have a daughter, Karen Ann, born in 1942, while he was in training as a medic. Craig was deployed to North Africa, then to Sicily and fi nally to Italy. They soon have another daughter, Susie, born in May, 1947. Claire becomes terminally ill. How Craig handles her illness, eventual death, and their children, is a story repeated all too often even today. If only he would have looked to Providence for his help instead of a bottle, his life and that of  his daughters’, would have turned out differently. It is the lack of inner strength drawn from a loving family, or from God, that throws his and his childrens’ lives into turmoil and violence. His youngest daughter, Susie is catapulted into a life of alter personalities unknown to her until she totally collapses. The dark cloud that has followed her all her life, finally consumes her and wreaks total havoc and insanity in her life and that of her family. Her path through depression and quagmire of multiple personalities is long, disruptive, and harrowing.

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477124109

J.D. Langston

The author lives in the southern United States with her husband. She enjoys a simple life style with her grandchildren, extended family and friends. She has been collecting unusual stories for many years. Among her other past times are sketching the awesome sights of Americana as she and her husband travel and reading history, including stories of ancient and modern warfare.

Book preview

INIQUITOUS

CONNECTIONS:

THE DARK

J.D. Langston

Copyright © 2012 by J.D. Langston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Book I Claire 1947

Book II Horrible Years 1949-1951

Book III Karen Ann and Susie 1951-1952

Book IV Susan and Marty 1965-1991

Book V Susan Enters the Dark 1991-Present

Epilogue

Book I

Claire 1947

Honey, do you think I have a fever? Claire has been feeling so cold lately. It is only early November in the American South; there are still a few warm spells to weather before the chill of winter sets in. She shouldn’t be feeling so cold.

Her husband feels her forehead and shakes his head. Well, you feel normal to me.

I don’t know, Craig. I just can’t seem to get warm enough. I feel so very tired, too.

Maybe you’ve been doing too much. Susie is keeping you up a lot lately, with her teething and all, he suggests.

That’s not so bad; I just sit in the rocker with her and rub her gums. Most of the time she’ll grab hold of my fingers and chew on them.

At this statement they both chuckle.

Claire goes on to say, I usually fall asleep holding her while she gnaws on my fingers. She must get some comfort, because she goes to sleep pretty soon and I fall asleep in the rocker. I’m just so tired! It’s not like after she was born when I had to be up with her so much. At five months old their second child, a second girl, is normal in her teething. When she lies down her gums ache, so Claire has had to hold her quite a bit lately. Anyway, I don’t mind holding her; I like to rock her when she’s ill-tempered. Holding her close to me seems to help her feel better. Maybe I should lie down for a while . . . guess I should take an aspirin, too. Maybe it’ll help.

"Well, if you are getting a fever, an aspirin will reduce it. That, in itself, will help you feel better, Craig replies. Yeah, go lie down, honey, I’ll listen for the baby and keep an eye on Karen Ann." Even though it’s early in November, it is only slightly cool, much like an Indian summer day, so Craig checks on the baby sleeping in her bassinet beside the bed he and Claire share. He looks in on their four-year-old daughter, who is playing in her room with blocks.

What’re you building, Karen Ann?

A princess house, Daddy.

Wow, it looks great!. Hey, you want Daddy to play with you?

Yeah!

"Claire goes to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, takes down the aspirin bottle and says to herself, It seems like I’m always going for an aspirin. Oh, this chill! Yes, I think I will lie down for a few minutes, then I need to finish up dinner.

After a couple of weeks Claire is feeling no better; in fact, she is much worse. Craig has come home from work to find her still in bed. It’s the first time he has seen her in bed late in the day since they have been married.

Claire, do you feel that bad?

Honey . . . I’m sorry, she slurs slightly as she rouses herself. I just can’t seem to stay up but for a few minutes at a time."

How’re the kids?

They’ve been so good for Mommie today. Karen Ann brings Susie to me from the bassinet when she cries. I put her in bed with me and put pillows around her so she won’t roll off. Karen Ann has brought me crackers and drinks of water too, so I can keep up my milk.

Breast feeding babies in the era after the war was not the fashionable thing to do, but Claire’s sisters all breastfed their babies because their momma saw to it! Momma, whose great-grandmother was Choctaw, had always done her child rearing the Choctaw way—which Momma thought was the best way to raise a child. Therefore, she of course saw to it that her own daughters carry on the traditions. With Claire breastfeeding Susie, it has proved to be easier on her while she is ill.

Karen Ann is just big enough to bring her the baby, and Claire can sit up in bed and change her diapers. Karen Ann can also take the used cloth diapers to the diaper pail, except for the soiled ones, and then Claire drags herself to the bathroom to dunk the diaper in the toilet. Invariably, she has to get back in bed right away since her head swims and she feels faint. She has to lie down for fear that she might faint and that would scare Karen Ann to death. She has become so weakened by fever and loss of appetite that this is about all she can do. She won’t let almost five year old Karen Ann rinse the soiled diapers in the toilet. In these days there are no disposable diapers. Craig sits down on the bed beside his wife and with furrowed brow asks her, Do you hurt anywhere?

I hurt all over. I guess it’s the fever. You know how it feels when you have the flu? I guess I do have the flu. Do you think we should call Dr. Hardy?

Yeah, that’s a good idea. He can at least tell us what to do for you.

Okay, sweetheart.

In the hallway, the phone sits in an indented shelf with a lower shelf for the phone book. This is built into the wall where the phone is centrally located so the ring can be heard all over their quaint two-bedroom home. Craig looks up Dr. Hardy’s phone number and dials it.

After a couple of rings, the pleasant receptionist answers, Dr. Hardy’s office.

Yes ma’am, this is Craig Lewis.

Hi, Craig. Is someone sick in your sweet family?

Well, yes ma’am, it’s Claire.

Oh, is she having problems from childbirth? Well let’s see, that’s been almost six months already, hasn’t it? I don’t suppose that’s her problem, now is it?

No, ma’am. She seems to have a fever. We didn’t take it, but she thinks it’s about 100, and she’s real weak; hasn’t been out of the bed all day. Karen Ann has had to help get the baby out of the bassinet for her.

Well, bless her heart, the receptionist acknowledges Claire’s struggle in true Southern fashion. Okay, Craig. Doctor Hardy’s got a patient right now, but I’ll have ’im call you as soon as he’s through. Be sure she drinks plenty of water, now, you hear?

Yes, ma’am.

What’s your number, Craig?

He gives the nurse the phone number, hangs up, and returns to Claire’s side. Are you hungry, darling?

No, I don’t think I could eat right now, but please feed Karen Ann a good dinner.

Craig has become a good cook, but prefers unusual dishes which one might call gourmet. Therefore, he finds it difficult to cook the more general fare. He wanders into the small kitchen, which reminds one of a doll house. White ruffled curtains cover the window over the sink and the window in the back door. White ceramic tile with black edging are on the counter tops, while a black-and-white checkerboard pattern of tile is arranged neatly on the floor in large squares. Claire has a white cotton table cloth on the table. She had painstakingly embroidered yellow and red flowers on the corners. A dark green vine with tiny leaves extends around the border and an edging crocheted in black accommodates the black tiles. Claire is proud of her first project for their new home, and has planned on adding a similar design to her cloth napkins. She enjoys needlework, but hasn’t been able to play with her threads as she would like to since becoming busy with a second child.

Red canisters with the contents: Flour, Sugar, Coffee, and Tea in yellow lettering are lined up on the counter beside the white Frigidaire. A yellow dish drainer perches beside the white porcelain sink. A tea towel covers the clean dishes in the drainer; its yellow and red stripes travel over the mound.

In the sink sit an assortment of used dishware and a saucepan in which Claire had managed to heat canned soup for Karen Ann’s lunch. It was afterward when she realized that it would be dangerous for her to venture that far away from her bed again. Boxes of saltines, animal crackers, and some partially-eaten oatmeal cookies are scattered on the counter, on the floor, and on the table. The black shellacked chairs, part of the matching table set, are pulled out haphazardly and one sits in front of the open cabinet where the cookies and crackers have been pulled out by Karen Ann.

Craig is taken aback. He has never come home to dishes in the sink, let alone an empty stove with nothing cooking for dinner; no mouth-watering smells wafting their way to the driveway for him to anticipate as he arrives home. For a moment he feels sorry for himself, but quickly realizes just how sick Claire must be to let her kitchen be in such disorder. He gets a lump in his throat; she has never been like this. Even after having the baby, she managed to at least put something on the stove for Craig to finish cooking for dinner. He washed the dishes for only about three days after she came home from the hospital, until she laughingly told him to get out of my kitchen! Craig had then hired a colored girl to come in and watch after Karen Ann, do light housecleaning, and the laundry, but Claire would not let her near baby Susie or her family’s meals. She has always taken her cooking and child-rearing responsibilities very seriously, and would never leave them to hired help.

Craig wonders now if he should take time off from work to stay with Claire or call that colored girl. He decides that he should be at home in case she gets worse. He knows from experience in the Army Medical Corps that the flu—and especially malaria—can kill in a matter of days. He hasn’t heard Claire do any coughing yet, though, and that he considers a good sign.

He opens the cabinet door and looks at the cans stacked neatly according to their contents, pulls out a can of corned beef and a can of green beans, and looks in the pantry for some potatoes and onions. I can make corned-beef hash, he says softly, and then yells to Claire, Does Karen Ann like corned-beef hash?

Yes. From the bedroom, Claire’s reply sounded weak.

I wish Doc would call, he mutters under his breath. He sets about clearing away the scattered crackers and cookies, then takes the table cloth out the back door and shakes it to get rid of the crumbs and spreads it back on the table. After cutting up the potatoes and onions he strikes a match to light the fire on the gas stove that starts them cooking. With heavy man-steps, he gets over to the can opener attached to the wall beside the back door to open the can of green beans, while thinking of his wife’s light and easy manner as she maneuvers around her kitchen. He then puts the beans in a pot and starts them heating. I think I’ll cut up some onion in them, he muses to himself as he gets into the swing of cooking. Dinner is well underway.

While turning the key on the can of corned-beef to open it, he exclaims, I’m starved! Karen Ann come in here and help Daddy.

Okie dokie! A little voice chirps from the girls’ bedroom. Karen Ann skips in and stands, ready to help, right behind her daddy so that when he steps back, he steps on her feet and they both nearly fall down.

Owww! Karen Ann sits crying on the floor as she rocks, squeezing a handful of toes in each hand.

Craig, recovering quickly from his stumble backward, also hears that the baby has started fussing in her bassinet he so thoughtfully rolled into the living room so Claire might doze a little. It seems to him that all hell has broken loose.

Gosh a’mighty, Karen Ann, don’t do that! Instead of comforting her, he reacts as if he has been blindsided by an enemy soldier. Don’t ever creep up on Daddy like that!

I . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry daddy . . . I’m sorry daddy, please don’t be mad, Karen Ann blurts out between sobs, trying her four-year-old best to stop crying.

Just don’t ever do it again, Craig snaps at her, only slightly more kind. Setting down the open can of corned beef, he goes into the living room to check on Susie. She is fussing, but not crying, and when she sees her daddy a smile crosses her face, and in his state of stress, he does his best to return it. He pats her on the tummy and she grabs his finger. Straight to her mouth it goes. You need a bone to gnaw on, little-bit, he decided. Hey, I think I feel a tooth!

The phone rings. That’ll be Doc, Craig exclaims quickly while pulling his finger away from the baby, startling her for a brief moment.

Walking in long strides, he picks up the receiver just as the second ring begins, cutting it short. Hello?

Craig, this is Doc Hardy. Nurse says Claire’s sick, came the warm voice of a dear friend.

Yeah, Doc, she’s been feeling bad for several days and now she has a fever and is in the bed. I’ve never seen her look so sick. It reminds me of the guys in the war that had malaria. You don’t think she could have that, do you?

Nah, not this time of year, although we’ve had a wetter fall than usual; but the DDT the county sprayed should’ve killed off most of the recently hatched mosquitoes. I think I’d better come have a look at ’er.

Okay Doc. You coming now?

Since she’s got a fever . . . the middle-aged doctor calculates to himself, I’ll be there in about thirty minutes, Craig.

Thanks Doc.

Sure, son, bye.

Bye, Doc. Craig takes the two short steps that bring him to the doorway of the bedroom he shares with his wife. He sees that Claire has drifted off to sleep and looks peaceful. To himself he thinks, I hope I’m doing the right thing, bothering Doc. She looks okay now, it’s probably the flu, then out loud, Gosh-darn-it, the dinner is burning!

Craig rushes into the kitchen, nearly falling over Karen Ann who has some play dishes on the floor, pretending she’s cooking, too.

"What the— I’ve told you not to play in the traffic pathway, Karen Ann! Oh, never mind." He looks over the cooking dinner and decides that because he had everything simmering, he was just being paranoid by being distracted from his cooking; it wasn’t burning at all. Stirring the potatoes and onions, he decides it’s time to pour the water off and mix in the corned beef. This he does, then goes to the cabinet in the tiny dining room and retrieves the plates and glasses. He sets them down in the kitchen and tells Karen Ann to set the table. Then he returns to the cabinet and finds the flatware and napkins (the same napkins Claire had plans to decorate with her delicate stitches) in the drawer, all of which he also transfers to the table.

Okay Daddy, I will. I’m a big girl—I know how to do it like Mommie does. She carefully sets the three plates followed by the knife, fork, and spoon to the right of each. It’s quite nice, but the glasses are all sitting in a row at one end of the table.

Karen Ann why did you put all the glasses in one place?

I can’t reach the place where Mommie puts ’em.

Well, put them beside the plates.

Okie dokie

The doorbell rings. Doc’s here, he sighs with relief. Craig hurries to the door and greets Dr. Hardy. Come in, come in. Can I take your hat, sir?

Thanks. Where’s our little sick lady?

Right in here, Doc. Craig leads the doctor to the bedroom and seeing Claire still sleeping, quietly walks to the bedside and wakes her. Claire . . . Claire, Doc’s here.

Hi Doctor Hardy, she murmurs.

So, you feelin’ poorly, little miss? Seeing how pale and weak she looks, Doctor Hardy looks quickly at Craig and gives him a worried look with his eyebrows. Well now let’s see what’s goin’ on here. Opening his black bag, he first removes a glass thermometer, shakes it down and puts it under Claire’s tongue. The doctor pulls the covers back to examine her. He asks Craig if she’s had a headache, pulls out his stethoscope, puts the rubber ends in his ears, and begins to listen to her heart, lungs and tummy. Her heart sounds fine, cept that it’s beatin’ a little faster than usual; but that’s common with a fever. Her lungs sound clear. He then palpates her abdomen. She doesn’t seem t’ be constipated, so we don’t think there’s anything abnormal here. Let’s see here’s the liver . . . Upon pushing gently on her liver, Claire gives a little moan. Well, that could be caused by gas pushin’ on the liver. Let’s see now what that temperature is. He takes the thermometer from Claire’s mouth and rolls it around until he can see the silver strip of mercury. He tells Craig that she’s got a 99.8 degree temperature. Her temperature is not commensurate with her feelin’s. All her symptoms seem to point to the flu: stomach ache, headache, fatigue, vomitin’, dizziness, an’ general malaise; so I think that’s what she’s got, but her fever might spike some. I want her to eat chicken soup, take aspirin every four hours for her aches, drink plenty o’ water an’ stay in bed for a full week. Craig, you think you can stay with her?

Yes, sir! I can call the colored girl we hired when she had the baby to help out with chores and I will take personal care of my wife, Doc.

Okay Craig, keep little-miss in bed, an’ I mean keep her in bed! You must be chief-cook-and-bottle-washer aroun’ here.

I won’t have to wash any bottles at least, since she’s breastfeeding the baby.

Hmm, that’s even better. But you gotta give her plenty to drink to make milk, ’cause the fever will burn up her fluids. Now, if anything changes, anything a’tall, you call me. You hear, Craig?

Yes, sir.

"Okay then, little lady, you mind the doctor an’ stay in that bed. Keep her warm, Craig, she could get a chill real easy. We don’t want any complications. Well, I’ll be goin’ now. You mind now, Craig, I said keep her in the bed, ’cept to go to the bathroom. Hey there missy, you help your daddy take care of Momma, you hear?"

Yes sir, Doctor Hardy. Can I have a lollipop? Karen Ann has been standing right beside the doctor the whole time, except for once when she heard the baby make some noise. She had returned to tell her daddy, Baby sister’s chewin’ on her fingers an’ actin’ hungry! Can I bring her to Mommie? Craig had answered by telling her to push the bassinet into the bedroom, which she did with the maturity of an adult.

Heh, heh, let’s see if I got one in this big-ole bag. Doctor Hardy returns his large black leather bag to the foot of Claire’s bed and digging around, raises a red lollipop. Well what have we here? (In these days, doctors carry everything for every emergency conceivable, and especially lollipops for the children who are sick, and even for the children of a sick parent or sibling. He thinks that is good medicine for allaying fears for the child who might worry and fret over the sick one in the family and become melancholy.)

A chawberry one! replies Karen Ann happily and reaches up to take it from the doctor as the adults grin at her pronunciation.

I’m countin’ on you to help your momma get well now, you hear, missy?

I will; I’m almost five years old. I’m gonna have my birfday!

Well now, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we? At this point, Dr. Hardy makes his leave, chuckling as he retrieves his hat from Craig’s hands. In his concern, Craig had taken the hat, but had failed to put it anywhere. Now the little family is left to follow the doctor’s orders.

How do you feel, hon?

I’m so tired, Craig, but hand me the baby, I know she’s hungry.

Craig feels of baby Susie’s diaper, gives a whistle, and proclaims, Ooh! We’ve got a mess here!

Hand her here and bring me a changing mat and a stack of diapers. I can do that chore to help out. Oh, and bring a warm wash cloth, will you please, Craig?

Craig gets the items, lays the changing pad on the bed beside Claire and hands over the baby. I’ll gladly let you handle this mess!

While Craig had been cooking dinner and while the doctor had been there, baby Susie had been somewhat neglected. She had pooped her diaper, which was soaking wet, making a bad situation worse for Claire. She handily takes care of the baby in short order, since she is Claire’s second girl baby. Craig, honey, I’m sorry, but will you dunk the diaper in the toilet and then put it in the diaper pail? Oh, I think the diapers need to be washed.

At this point, Craig feels torn in two pieces. He wants to help Claire, but the growling in his stomach reminds him they haven’t had dinner and he rushes to the kitchen to check on the corned-beef hash. That’s good, it has simmered and is just perfect. He stirs the hash, turns off the heat from under each pot and goes dutifully back to take the soiled diaper from Claire. Er . . . gag! I can’t stand to do this!

Karen Ann smiles around her lolly-pop at her daddy’s antics.

Craig, it’s your child’s diaper. You have to be a little stronger than that! Claire asks Craig for a clean nightgown and receiving blanket for the baby.

Where are they?

In the bureau in their room, Craig, where they’ve been for almost six—hey, what is today?

The twenty-fourth.

It’s Susie’s six month birthday!

Mmm-hmm. Craig responds from the girls’ bedroom where he is hunting in every drawer for the gown and blanket. I found the blanket, but where’s the gown?

Claire thinks how men are so helpless. I’ll get it. She turns her covers back and steps out of bed, just to collapse on the floor in a faint. She had raised up too quickly and her head swam, dropping her on the floor.

Craig, not hearing a response, enters the bedroom to find her lying on the floor, unresponsive. Oh, my god! Claire!

Craig’s response scares Karen Ann, who screams, then Susie, lying in the middle of the bed, startles and begins crying with Karen Ann’s scream as Craig looks from one to the other, thinking he’s got his hands full. Shut up, Karen Ann, you scared the baby. Climb up there and pat her. He cradles Claire’s head in his arm and pats her cheek until she opens her eyes.

Wh . . . what happened?

You must have tried to get up. Now back in the bed! And stay there! Karen Ann, can you help Daddy find a gown for the baby?

Yep, I can, Daddy. I know where it is. Karen Ann goes to the bureau in her room, opens the third drawer, lifts out a clean nightgown and brings it to her daddy. Here, Daddy. It’s the yellow one with blue and green flowers, I like it. Karen Ann is a bright four-year-old and knows all her colors.

Never mind, just hand it to me. Craig is not used to having to deal with so much chaos in his home. Claire has been an immaculate housekeeper; she has a place for everything and everything in it’s place, as her momma always said. It’s all very orderly and organized. Craig doesn’t know how good he has it. Claire, you feel better lying down now? Karen Ann can you get Mommie a glass of water, please? Craig is depending more and more on Karen Ann and feeling like he’s lost control of everything for his family. I’m such a fool about all this stuff. I’m going to call that colored girl . . . after I eat some dinner! Here, Claire, I’ll put the gown on her and you just rest; you look so peeked after your fainting spell. Just lie there; I’ll wrap the baby and put her beside you. When you feel better you can nurse her.

Baby Susie does not like the roughness with which Craig is dressing her and starts crying. Claire is getting upset with Craig’s rough attitude as well.

Here, honey, I’ll finish her. She takes the baby from Craig, cradles her in her arms, and pulls her own bed covers around Susie, unbuttoning her nightgown to release a breast for the very anxious and hungry baby. The baby comes first, Craig, she admonishes gently.

I know, I know, but it seems like everything happens at the same time and I don’t know which to do first.

Claire just smiles and slips down on her pillows and with the let down of her milk for the baby, feels contentment coming over her and smiles again as Karen Ann carefully carries in her mommie’s glass of water. Thank you, honey. Craig, you and Karen Ann go on and eat dinner, I can manage from here.

Well, okay, if you’re sure.

Yes, honey we’ll be just fine . . . Craig?

Yep? He turns around with his hand on the bedroom door frame, trying to be patient, but wishing nothing more than to get to eat his dinner.

Please be sweet to Karen Ann; she has been so much help to me today. She needs a little daddy comfort.

Sure.

He motions to Karen Ann to follow him and they both go to the kitchen where Craig spoons out the hash on his plate, then the green beans, and a smaller portion of the same on Karen Ann’s plate. He gets the milk bottle out of the Frigidaire and realizes there is not much left. He pours some for Karen Ann and puts the waxed-cardboard lid back on the bottle and sets it back in its chilled home.

Karen Ann do you know what day the milk man comes?

Yeah, uh . . . yessir, he comes in the mornin-time, I think the day Mommie goes to the grosh’ry store.

What day is that?

I dunno. Karen Ann now has a mouth full of hash, and that is one of Craig’s pet-peeves: speaking while eating.

He snaps, Karen Ann, don’t talk with your mouth full!

Swallowing, frowning and confused, she answers her daddy, I’m sorry, Daddy. Jus’ won’t do it again. Okay, Daddy?

With dinner over, Craig puts Karen Ann in the bathtub to play with her tub toys and some bubbles. He tackles washing the dishes, feeling depressed over his chaotic evening. As he works, he feels clumsy and oafish. He’s making too much noise; clanging dishes and splashing sudsy water onto the windowsill as the slippery dishes dive-bomb the frothy liquid, almost in defiance of his efforts. He marvels once again at Claire’s efficiency and her graceful ways. When she washes dishes, there are comforting little tinks and sounds of gently running water. Craig thinks his movements sound like a bull in a china shop. With water dripping off his elbows, he looks out the window at nothing in particular, saying to himself sourly, I’ll get this done and then I’m gonna finally sit down and read the paper—Aaa! I’ve gotta get that colored girl’s phone number and call her so she can come tomorrow. I’m not gonna spend another evening like this one’s been.

Daddy, my water’s cold!

Oh, hell! Now another chore pops up; he has to get Karen Ann ready for bed. It’s already 8:30 and he hasn’t sat down since he got home. Now he’s really feeling sorry for himself. He leaves the water and remaining dishes in the sink and tends to Karen Ann, and finally gets her in bed. Now young lady, you stay in that bed. If you get up, I’ll spank you!

Yes sir, Daddy. Karen Ann turns her face toward the wall in her junior sized bed, pulls her covers up to her neck and wishes she had her bunny that she always sleeps with. She looks toward the bureau and sees him sitting there looking lonesome and begins to sob into her pillow. She doesn’t dare let her daddy hear her; she’s afraid of him on this strange night.

Craig forgets that Claire has not eaten anything, but sits in his comfortable stuffed easy chair, and picks up the paper that had somehow been put in its proper place. When he reaches his hand over to the side table, he picks it up without a thought as to how it got there from the front porch. He looks over the front page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and reads about a motorcycle accident, then about a shooting in nigger-town, and then about something the mayor wants to do with a piece of land just on the edge of the city. They ought to make another park, he says softly. Then he feels his eyelids begin to close and he nods off to sleep with his chin droping down on his chest.

Meanwhile, Claire has finished feeding Susie, who is nice and dry and has fallen asleep. She whispers softly, This would be a great time for you to start sleeping through the night, my little angel. She thinks, I should try to eat something. I have to make milk.

She calls out weakly, Craig . . . ?

No answer.

Claire slowly sits up, lays baby Susie behind her, moves her feet out onto the floor and sits there a moment. Not feeling dizzy, she stands up, holding onto their night-stand. Hmm, so far so good, she says softly. Then she gingerly takes a step she feels confident she can manage. She makes it to her closet, pulls out her winter house-coat, scoots her feet into her slippers, and slowly shuffles to the bathroom.

Her urine is hot as it flows from her body. Ooh, that’s fever. I really need water. She finishes up and washes her hands in cold water since it takes too long for the hot water to reach the faucet. Slowly she turns around toward the door of the bathroom, but stops when she sees Karen Ann’s dirty clothes on the floor and her towel draped over the edge of the tub, trailing on the green-and-white checkerboard tiled floor. She bends to pick up the clothes and her head swims. She grabs the sink edge to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. Hooey, I’d better not do that again . . . why am I so dizzy? Her headache has also come back, so she remembers it has been over four hours since she had an aspirin. She stands up holding on to the sink and opens the medicine cabinet. Claire takes the bottle of aspirin and while opening the lid, it flips out of her hands and half of the aspirins go down the drain. Oh! she exclaims out loud. She picks up what she can that are not wet and puts them back in the bottle. She puts one in her mouth and when putting the lid back on, sees that only a few remain. We’d better get some more tomorrow.

She takes a glass from the pretty shelf on which she had painted the sides with red roses and large green leaves to match the green floor tiles. As she runs water into her glass, she smiles weakly at the pretty roses she had copied from a seed catalog. On the shelf sit washcloths and hand towels in tidy stacks, alternating green and white. On the top of the four-shelf unit sits a green vase of blown glass she had bought at Rich’s Department Store for $4.00. She didn’t think it extravagant at that time, since it was to be the only piece of finery in the bathroom. It holds an array of red roses, daisies, and pink rose buds. She also put some philodendron leaves among the flowers to accent them. Normally, she doesn’t like plastic flowers, but the bathroom hardly gets enough light to grow a live plant, except in the window over the tub. The sill is wide and Claire is growing two pots of African violets that are flowering in lovely pink and lavender. Over the tub faucets is a shelf which is built in the wall and holds shampoo, bath salts, a double edged razor in a stand, an unopened bar of soap, neatly folded white washcloths, and a bottle of bubble-bath for Karen Ann. On the bottom shelf where the preschooler can reach, is a narrow, rectangular tin with a baby chick motif that holds her bath toys. A small towel bar is built into the tiled wall as well and holds the wet washcloths; however this time no wet washcloths are on it. The one Karen Ann used in her bath is still sitting in the tub in a soapy wet heap . . . as are her bath toys.

Claire always has Karen Ann to pick up after herself, but Craig didn’t coax her tonight; he just wanted to get her to bed and out of his way. Claire looks with bewildering eyes at the things that she would normally take care of, knowing that if she bent over she just might faint and hit her head on one of the bathroom fixtures. She uses her foot while sitting on top of the soft chenille-covered toilet seat and picks up the towel, then takes it with her hand. She folds it so it can dry and hangs it over the side of the tub. She then uses her foot again to pick up Karen Ann’s dirty clothes and reaches the hamper from where she’s sitting. Now, that’s better. She has taken an aspirin, drunk a glass of water, and picked up after Karen Ann, the latter by sitting down. She now rises slowly and feeling the dizziness return, she holds onto the sink, then the door frame, makes it through the door and reaches for a hallway table, but sinks to the floor in a faint. She just melts with no noise, therefore Craig doesn’t wake up from his sleep in his easy chair.

Claire doesn’t know how long she has lain in the floor of the hallway, but thankfully has not hit her head on anything. She uses the legs of the sturdy table to pull herself to a sitting position. She feels too weak to raise herself any more. She calls for Craig who sits no more that twenty feet from her down the hall and through the opening into the living room. She can see him in his chair asleep. She calls again, but her voice is too weak and Craig is too tired to be roused. Claire feels trapped. She knows now why Doc had told her to stay in bed. Dear God please help me. Suddenly, she feels a small surge of energy and is able to cautiously stand up. She looks up and thinks, Thank you! Holding onto the table, she reaches for the wall of the hallway and leans against it. She timidly takes a step to get to the other side and with her arm outstretched, is able to cross the hall without fainting again. She leans on that wall and scoots herself away from Craig toward their bedroom and the sleeping baby. I have to get to Susie; she might wake up and roll off the bed, or did I put a pillow behind her? The urgency of protecting her child gives her enough adrenalin to make it to the doorway. While hanging onto the door frame, she eases herself around it and then carefully along the bedroom wall to the corner where the night stand sits. She holds onto the night stand and turns herself around slowly so she can sit on the bed. She sits, then blacks out again.

She wakes sometime later and eases herself onto the pillows, and pulls her feet under the covers then falls into a deep trance-like sleep. The baby is beside her, and with the pillow Claire had put beside the baby earlier, she’s safe from falling off.

What the hell time is it? Craig is jolted awake with a start and realizes he’s been sleeping in his chair for a long time. He looks at his wrist watch that he had received as issue in the Army; it reads 12:18. What the . . . I must have dozed off. I guess I am pretty tired. We had a hard day at the lab today. Damn sterilizer is giving me hell.

He goes to his jacket hanging on the hall-tree by the living room, feels in the pocket and retrieves a package, takes it to the kitchen and puts it in the cupboard. He picks up a similar one that sits on the shelf, opens it, and inspects the syringes and needles that were wrapped in brown paper. Craig has been taking syringes and needles from the lab to give Claire shots of amphetamine which causes appetite suppression. He has a fetish about women being overweight. Especially his women. Claire had gained some thirty pounds when she was pregnant with Susie, and Craig wants her to be rid of all of it. She has lost over twenty-five pounds so far, but Craig thinks she should lose about ten more. The style for women post-war is to be very thin, with clothes that show off their figure. Craig has bought her four beautiful dresses from Rich’s Department Store for when she loses the other ten pounds.

He thinks now while looking at the syringes, These need to go back for sterilization. While Claire’s sick I won’t give her any injections. Maybe her loss of appetite will help her lose another five pounds or more. Craig even objects to Karen Ann’s baby-fat legs and chubby arms. He is constantly hounding her not to eat so much. He hasn’t put any thought to the reason for his obsession with weight.

When he was oversees in North Africa and then in Italy, he lost weight down to a mere shadow of himself. Being a medic in the heat of battle with men screaming in agony and desperation calling Medic! Medic!; their voices competing with the constant thunder of artillery, and the chatter of machine gun fire, and then his own vulnerability of being wounded or even killed; he thought of nothing else, much less of food.

The war was pure hell on medics. They were given orders to treat only the soldiers’ wounds who could live to fight another day. If a soldier had arms or legs blown off, or a gaping hole gushing blood and torn organs, and being already at death’s door, the only thing Craig could do for him was to give an injection of morphine to ease the searing pain and tell him, You’re gonna be just fine, buddy. The choosing of whom should be treated and bandaged, and whom should be left to die, took a heavy toll on the medics of World War II. Craig has not mentioned much to Claire about his ordeals oversees. He closed that chapter the minute he stepped off the ship that brought him home to the states. Now though, just two years later, he is having nightmares and symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But of course, in 1947 it is not known as that. Battle fatigue. That’s what it’s called. Once the soldier got home, everything is supposed to be normal.

What is normal? Getting back into family life after having gone to hell and back, is that normal? Working in a research laboratory at a major university in Atlanta, and studying the same hepatitis that attacked over 200,000 military personnel from 1942 until 1945; is that normal? Studying the very illness that many of Craig’s patients battled as an unseen enemy while at the same time battling the evil Third Reich and Mussolini; is that normal? Jumping out of his skin when someone walks up behind him; is that normal? Having nightmares of men screaming, is that normal? Voices calling Medic out of the blue, and turning around to find no one there; is that normal? So what is a man to do with all this normalcy? Obsess about trifling things, like his wife and child’s weight? No, that’s not normal. But for Craig it seems very normal to want his wife to be like his dream of her all the time he was in the midst of chaos.

Tonight, this evening, with Claire ill, and Craig pulled from one thing to another brought on the feelings (if not the thoughts) of how he felt when being pulled in too many directions at the same time on the fields of first North Africa, then Sicily and finally Italy. There, where some of the fiercest battles in Europe took place, he was supposed to answer all those calls. Tonight, he fell into a moment that he has begun to fall into all too often. In the pantry, in the kitchen, behind the bottle of maple syrup, is another bottle. His bottle of whiskey; it had been his medication of choice during the war. Now at home, he will take a quick drink when the going gets rough. Or sometimes, when he’s had a particularly hard day at the lab, he’ll have a mixed drink before dinner, and then another one after dinner. Claire hasn’t said anything to him. She thinks it’s his way of relaxing, although he had not been a drinker before the war. In fact, he had preached from the pulpit against the evils of alcohol. But now, it’s normal . . . or is it?

Craig’s thoughts turn from the syringes to Claire in the bed, sick. I hope Doc is right, and it’s just the flu. Something about her illness nags him; he just can’t put his finger on it. He feels a sinking feeling and wonders why. He closes the pantry door and goes to the bedroom to look in on Claire. She seems to be sleeping peacefully. Just then he remembers he has not given her any dinner. Oh well, she wasn’t hungry anyway. He takes off his shirt and drops it on the floor, slips out of his trousers and neatly hangs them up so he can wear them tomorrow. He hangs his belt on the hook beside his tie rack on the inside of the closet door. Sleepily, he walks to the bathroom and sees some aspirin on the back of the sink, Karen Ann’s towel folded neatly on the side of the tub, and no dirty clothes on the floor where she had left them. He had meant to go back to the bathroom to straighten it up, but had fallen asleep. Darn it, Claire must have been in here; she didn’t need to be doing that. Unaware of his wife’s fainting episodes and her very weak state, he washes his face and brushes his teeth, then goes to get in bed. Seeing that the baby and Claire take up most of the bed, he decides he’ll just sleep on the sofa. He grabs a quilt off the closet shelf and looks around for a pillow. Seeing none he can use, he goes to the sofa, wraps the quilt around him and lies down using the arm for his head rest. It’s an overstuffed arm so it is adequate. After lying down and getting comfortable, his thoughts turn again to his evening, Hmm, what a hell of a night. Damn, I didn’t call that colored girl! His thoughts return to his time overseas.

The War. That evil, insensate war. Hitler’s insane obsession to regain ancient Germanic lands; lands that had been inhabited by many other peoples, many other tribes and cultures for centuries. Room for the people! A cleansed race of people unadulterated by any other race or culture. A purely bred Aryan race. One has to go back hundreds of generations even to find a pure blonde, blue-eyed, fair skinned race of people; a remnant who remain in the Germanic peoples. Why? Was it because he feared impurity? Was he obsessed with purity? He erased his own biological heritage which was infiltrated with Jewry. He certainly wasn’t a pure breed. Where in the Third Reich of pure Aryan people were he and his cohorts going to fit in? What if he had been able to perfect a race of Aryans? Would they not then turn on him because of his biologically adulterated heritage? Did he think a pure race of people would accept him as their Father? Mon Dieu, how nihilist!

It is that insanity that fired the first shot in Poland and in the South Pacific. Room for the people! The blasting of the cannons. The explosions of rifles and machine guns. The roar of tanks. The pounding of horses hooves. The sounds of boots goose-stepping on the pavement or dirt paths to overtake the innocents and tear generations of families from their homes; the moaning of mutilated men, women and children. What shall we say to the burned out synagogues or temples or ancient cathedrals, You were not pure?

As Craig floats along toward slumber, he too, has questions. Why did all those soldiers have to die? How was I able to stay alive while my buddy was killed bandaging a wounded soldier right beside me? Why were men on one side of an embankment shooting at the men on the other side of the embankment? If I turned it around and the ones on this side fired first on the ones on the other side, or if the ones on the other side fired first on the ones on this side, did it make any better sense? Even as he dreams it is stupefying. He would as well have bandaged and doped a German or Italian as well as a Brit or American soldier. In his sleep, both sides are equally mangled. He goes from one soldier to another, while three more are screaming, Mediiiic!! The roaring of tanks on fire, the raining of shrapnel on already wounded soldiers, burning holes through their uniforms into their skin, and the high-pitched whine of bullets passing inches from his ear are invading his psyche. He is trying to assess the wounds of one soldier at a time. They are dying in his arms and under his knees. As he kneels by the side of one and is injecting morphine, another rolls against his arms. Another falls off a tank onto his back, then another soldier that was dead and had no legs suddenly grows legs and kicks him in the chest for letting him die. Screams are raging in his ears, cannons are blasting and men are running back and forth; some with enemy uniforms, some with Allied uniforms. The screams of anguish and panic and the ground-rocking blasts are deafening, and suddenly there is Claire giving birth right in the middle of it all. She screams, medic!! and with a great shudder, she dies. Craig is left holding a bloody baby whose head has been blown off.

Gasping deeply, he sits straight up, as if a spike had stuck him in the back. He jumps to his feet and looks around for the enemy, then falls on the floor in a heap and bawls like a baby. His body is drenched with sweat; his heart is pounding, threatening to jump out of his chest. He’s had a terrible nightmare. He feels carpet underneath him, but in the darkness, he’s not quite sure of what is reality. He rushes to the bedroom to check on Claire and the baby. Are they dead? Or are they alive? He reaches the bedroom door to see the lamp on and Claire nursing baby Susie while lying on her side facing the door.

"Craig? What’s wrong honey? She sees the wild look in his eyes and his sweat-soaked undershirt and shorts, his legs shiny with sweat. He’s hanging onto the door frame like a caged animal. Are you sick, honey? What’s going on?" This is the first really bad nightmare he’s had since coming home from Europe.

I’ve got to get a drink, I need a drink.

There’s some cold water in the Frigidaire, honey. I need some, too.

No, she can’t be asking me for something, not now. I can’t do it, I just can’t do it. He reaches the kitchen, flips on the light switch, and while squinting in the bright light, opens the pantry door. He grabs the bottle of whiskey from behind the maple syrup and a glass from the dish drainer, then pours it half full. He downs the caramel colored liquid in two gulps. He hits the counter with his fist, and begins sobbing again, silently, shaking almost as if in laughter, running completely out of breath and is forced to inhale suddenly and deeply. He collapses in a chair at the table, puts his head in his hands and runs his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Trying to keep Claire from hearing him after banging on the counter, he practically squeals under his breath, My God, what has happened? I don’t know what is real. Craig sits at the table trying to make sense of his nightmare. He has not come out of the dream completely. Claire’s illness and the confusing evening acted as a trigger to his most violent fears. If the truth were to be known, he was scared to death while he was tending to wounds on the battlefields.

Bullets were whizzing by him, shrapnel flying all around him and even one pretty big piece finding its way through his hip. The searing pain knocked him down while he was administering an injection of morphine. The soldier screaming from the jab of the needle when Craig was hit made his pain seem all the more severe. He crawled to the soldier, took the needle out and saw that the morphine was gone from the syringe and the soldier was calm, then Craig passed out. A couple of soldiers were able to pull him to safety and with water from their canteens were able to rouse him. He had one of the soldiers grab his bag and he gave himself a shot of morphine to dull the pain. He told the soldier who stayed with him that he had to pull the piece of shrapnel out of his hip. The soldier was nervous, but with tweezers from Craig’s bag was able to pull it out. Then Craig put a gauze pad on his wound to stop the bleeding, asking the soldier with him to put pressure on it, and after several minutes he applied some burn-salve and bandaged it himself. The soldier with him tried to get Craig to get out of the battle and go to the ambulance, but Craig crawled to another soldier whose leg had a gaping bullet wound. The screams of the soldier matched the flow of blood from his leg. Craig got the bullet out with shaking hands and used compression to stop the bleeding, then put salve on his wound and pulled it closed with tape. He bandaged the poor guy after administering morphine, and then Craig collapsed. Another Medic came and carried him to the ambulance a hundred yards away from the heat of the battle and put him on a stretcher, which made the ambulance full. The driver, a pretty, dark haired young woman, got the hell out of there and drove to the makeshift hospital five miles away.

Craig was stitched up and stayed two days in the hospital. He received a Purple Heart for his wound and a Bronze Star for his bravery under fire. He was trying to help his fellow soldiers even though he was hurting and wounded himself. One thing Craig had not been, was a coward. One thing he had been, was scared to death. Finally wounded, the fear was subsiding because he had experienced what he dreaded most.

Now alone in the kitchen and with a drink of whiskey to calm his nerves, he thinks back on the incident of being wounded. His hip hurts him even now as he thinks of the brave soldiers who acted in time to keep him from bleeding to death. He’s realizing that he could have died like so many hundreds he tended on the battlefields in Europe. His own mortality had fled past him like a speeding bullet. Remembering how he felt when Pearl Harbor was bombed, he understands that his feelings of obligation to his country and fellow man lead him to the Army recruiter. His life-long dream of becoming a doctor instead of a preacher was the impetus that pushed him to join the Medical Corps. But why the nightmares? Why is he so jumpy? Is he still afraid? He doesn’t think so. He’s proud of his service and thankful that he got the training that eventually would put him in the lab.

Her name was Dora . . . the ambulance driver. She had stayed with him in the hospital while the ambulance was being made ready to go back out to the battlefield to pick up more wounded soldiers. It seemed, during that heavy conflict in Italy, that the ambulance was constantly coming and going to retrieve the men who otherwise might have died where they laid in spite of medics attempts at saving their lives. They needed more care than what medics could give them while dodging bullets and shrapnel themselves.

Dora. She was young. She was pretty. She was attentive to Craig. Every time she came back to the hospital, she would look in on him. The hospital had been in a small village, in the large home of the town administrator. It was sufficient for the purpose for which it was intended; to give the wounded soldiers a place where surgeries could be performed, and to give them time to recuperate. While in the hospital, Craig and Dora had many conversations about home and about the war, about medicine and about Georgia. Dora’s home was in Georgia and she gave Craig glowing reports about her home state. She described the slow pace of that deep south state and the beauty of her home place. Her family had inherited an antebellum mansion and farm, where they grew cotton and tobacco. The estate had been in her father’s family since 1834. She was a true southern belle: soft spoken, gentle and calm. She made Craig forget his pain and worries about his own wife and child back in the states. Craig told her all about Claire and his little girl, Karen Ann. When Craig was released from the hospital and sent back to the front, they exchanged information about how to reach each other when they got back to the States after the war.

Craig still carries the piece of paper Dora wrote her address on in his wallet. He had written Claire about her, but since being home, he had not thought about her or mentioned her. Having been taken back to that time and place in his nightmare, he thinks now about Dora. He wonders if she went back to her home and if she had gotten married. He realizes just now that it was her admiration of the state of Georgia and especially the University of Georgia in Athens, that had made him glad to be sent to the Army base near Atlanta.

He had been sent to work in a laboratory for the Army. He was to help study the cause of hepatitis and possibly help find a cure. He had worked in the Army lab until his discharge, when he then found a job in the research lab at Emory University. They also were studying hepatitis and it was a perfect fit for him.

He had sent for Claire and Karen Ann when he had gotten settled. He was living in the Army barracks, so Claire made the rounds of visiting her brothers and sisters before leaving for Georgia and reuniting with her husband. Craig had been home for two months before Claire arrived. They had communicated through the mail and telephone calls. They both were anxious to be together. Craig had found a tiny apartment in Atlanta for Claire and Karen Ann and visited them on the weekends. It was just like it had been before he was sent oversees, while he was training in Waco, Texas and Claire was living with her sister in a small town near Fort Worth. They had had a long-distance marriage for over a year then. Craig had enlisted in January, 1942, when so many men were joining up after the Pearl Harbor attack. He was caught up in the frenzy of wanting to do something to get back at the Japs. Instead, he was sent to North Africa.

Now at his kitchen table, his mind has jumped from one memory to another.

Craig? Are you feeling any better? Claire had finished nursing baby Susie, and had gotten out of bed to go to the bathroom, and seeing the kitchen light on, had made her way there to see about him. After sleeping for a few hours, she feels a little stronger.

Yeah, I’m much better, thanks, hon. He wished that she had not interrupted his thoughts, but remembering how sick she was the night before, turns to look at her. She still looks pale and weak, but she was able to get to the kitchen. Here, sit down. He pulls a chair out for her. I was gonna make some coffee. You want some?

Uh, no thanks, but if you could get the water out of the Frigidaire, I’d be so thankful. I’ve been drinking bathroom water.

Feeling ashamed that he had not been attentive to his sick wife, he gets a glass out of the dish drainer and then sees the dishwater and dirty dishes still in the sink where he left them, and realizes he’d better get his act together and take care of his family.

Uh, yeah . . . I was just thinking; later this morning I’ll call the colored girl to come over and help with the housework, and I can tend to you.

Honey, her name is Sharletta.

Yeah, I remember. Do you have her phone number?

Yes, it’s in my address book in my purse.

Good.

"Honey, could you