Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

Dr. Lucas Hamilton

From the dark hall, I hear Dr. Delano ask, "May I come in?"

"Hey. Hi." I still haven't got the hang of getting out of the cot gracefully.

"Do you want to join me for breakfast?"

"I'm not very presentable." I'm dusty and foul and a little bit hungover. Unshaven. Oh god, I haven't even brushed my teeth. Plus, I'm wearing legitimate plaid pajama bottoms that belong to Dr. Delano. In the movies, Doris Day would be wearing the top.

"You're all right." Delano looks me up and down. A shy curl of his lips makes me think he likes what he sees. "We don't stand on ceremony here in the wild frontier."

"Is that what this is?"

"Feels like it, doesn't it? After breakfast you can have a wash. I'll find you toiletries and something to wear."

I follow him to the kitchen. "Tell me more about this clinic of yours."

"The Red Cross is establishing temporary hospitals in central locations throughout the area because so many locals are contracting dust pneumonia, but other health problems hit these people hard. The local doctors moved their practices because there's no money here. I've been given supplies and a few helpers, and I'm to do what I can."

"You're the only doctor in town now?"

"The only one." He shrugs off what—to me—is a huge responsibility. "If farmers can't make a living here, the people they depend on for goods and services can't get along either."

"The Red Cross foots the bill?" Clinics cost money. Americans are forced to rely on assistance to afford healthcare in the future too. You'd think they'd have figured that out over time.

"The Red Cross does have hospitals here, but no." Delano leads me into the kitchen. "I have private donors for this clinic."

"Must be hard getting funding and volunteers for a project like this. It's obvious it's a necessary. How do you find living here?"

As though he's trying to see the clinic through new eyes, he says, "I've lived in worse places."

"What can you tell me about that?" I ask. The kitchen is different in daylight. It's a long, wide room that contains an ice box and stove for cooking as well the table where we played cards. He notices me looking and gives a nervous laugh.

"This is the former stockroom at Keller's Mercantile. Have a seat."

"Okay." The table is under a window, out of which I can see nothing but a haze of dust.

"Do you want coffee?"

He neatly avoids my question about his past. Maybe it's painful for him to talk about.

"Yes, please." I don't press. "I take it black."

"That's a relief. I've only got canned milk, and it's grotesque." In fact, he has a few canned foods and dry goods like coffee, and flour. I know the ice box is empty because I snooped in here before he came down last night.

"Canned milk. Ugh." I want this to be a dream, but the truth is hard to ignore. This building, this room, and this man are so vivid.

He brings me an enamelware cup of coffee. It's strong and fragrant and too hot to drink.

"Breakfast is oatmeal and canned peaches. It's not much, but we've only got the things we brought with us, so far. I have canned soups and stews, flour, sugar, and lard. Don't lose hope, though. The owner of the boarding house has offered us supper on the nights when we aren't otherwise occupied."

"Coffee is the only true essential." I lift my cup to salute him and take a sip that steals my breath. "That's…strong."

He bites his lip. "That's the only way I know to make it."

"It's fine." Between the dry air and the strong coffee, my voice sounds like I've been doing shots. "It'll put hair on my chest."

"Much needed." He shoots me a glance that smirks . "I've noticed you're not very…er… Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"It's the fashion where I live." I can't believe I have to explain this. "We call it manscaping."

Delano makes a noise that's half cough and half snort, and he grabs a tea towel. If I'm not mistaken, he's propelled coffee through his nose. I guess I could have said we don't grow hair in my family, but he'll find out soon enough we do. Or he won't notice, and I don't know which would be worse.

Delano regains his composure and turns back as though nothing happened.

"This coffee is great," I bring my cup to my lips like I'm making a Tik Tok video.

"You're kind to say so." He brings two bowls of oats and one of canned peaches to the table. "I apologize in advance. Delmonico's, it's not."

"Delmonico's?"

"A restaurant in New York." He sits across from me. "My family celebrated birthdays and anniversaries there before the crash. It's déclassé to flaunt wealth now, you understand."

"Was your family affected by the crash?" I'm talking to someone who lived through the stock market crash of 1929 .

"Everyone was affected. My family didn't feel the pain quite as acutely as some."

And Zuckerberg says, I'm comfortable. "So how does a man like you come to be running a clinic in the dust bowl?"

"Dust bowl. Ha. That's a clever turn of phrase." He spoons up some peaches and offers them to me. I push my bowl out to accept. "You say you're a doctor?"

"I don't just say it." I bristle. "I am a doctor. A surgeon, in fact."

"Sorry. Diseases of the lungs relating to inhaled particulate matter is an interest of mine." He stirs some peaches into his oatmeal and pours canned milk over it. He offers the milk to me, but I decline. "I ran a clinic in the coalfields as well."

"In Appalachia?" I ask.

He nods. "Ohio. It seems the lung disease faced by coal miners is only part of the story. Their families face exposure to the same particulate matter and—" He wipes his mouth. "You don't want to hear me go on about this."

"No, I'm interested. I love lungs. Breathing is awesome."

"Right. I was in Ohio on behalf of the First Lady, who has taken an interest in the living conditions of mine workers."

I know this. I've read about it. "Eleanor Roosevelt?"

He flushes. "Yes. I'm a distant cousin of?—"

"Franklin Delano Roosevelt." I sit back, astounded.

"Exactly. We've known each other, peripherally, all our lives. We're related, and we're both Harvard men."

Of course they are. Christ, I am living in interesting times.

He primly rearranges his napkin. "Pneumoconiosis is suddenly affecting farmers here."

Is that what interests him? "That's a fascinating subject."

"Exactly! Now the topsoil here has been destroyed by poor farming practices, leaving fine dust and grit to the prairie winds, which blow the dirt to kingdom come. The government is working on a solution to the soil situation, but dust pneumonia is rife here."

"So you go generally go where you're needed?"

He see-saws his hand. "I'm part of the wider effort here, but yes. The area of concern is widespread. The Oklahoma panhandle is the bullseye on a much larger target. More coffee?"

He gets up to bring the pot and refills both our cups before I can respond. I can see he has a thirst for knowledge, and he's excited to be in the thick of things. When was the last time I felt like that? What a contradiction. This man from a well-to-do family with connections to the highest government officials is here building a clinic for people in the worst rural poverty.

"Why do you do this?" I eat a spoonful of oatmeal. The canned peaches are growing on me. "You've got friends in high places. You could be the president's physician."

"I'm needed here." He seems irritated by the suggestion. "I'm well suited to this sort of work. I enjoy general practice, and I have no family to drag along with me."

Ridiculously, tears sting my eyes. I rarely meet a physician my age who isn't jaded and frantically climbing the career ladder. It's almost cliché to forget why you worked so hard to be a doctor in the first place.

Is this man Robin Hood or Don Quixote? Where does he fall on the alignment system? Lawful good or chaotic good? Whatever motivates him, it's contagious.

"I could help you." He narrows his eyes as though that might help him see inside me. I've got no proof that I'm a doctor. It wouldn't surprise me if he thinks I'm mentally ill. "If you were to trust me, I could help."

"I trust…that you can help me." This is a concession. He doesn't exactly trust me, but he's willing to try.

I look down at my empty bowl. When did I eat?

"I'll wash up. It's only fair." I collect my dishes and take them to the sink.

"Thank you." He brings me his bowl. "I'll be out front making sense of what needs to be done yet."

"I don't know how much use I'll be but make me a list and I'll try."

"Good man." He dazzles me with a smile before leaving.

Good man. He might as well have pet my hair like he does Calvin's. I want to punch something, not because I'm desperate to assimilate, but because when I have too much time on my hands. I overthink things.

My stomach knots when I think of Sophie. Has she called her mother? Surely she did something when I didn't come home. My colleagues will be concerned. If nothing else, my staff will call to ask where I am.

Why doesn't Delano have me thrown into a mental institution? What can I do about it when I'm ninety years in the past? Doing dishes is a history lesson. Percolator, pan, pot. The honest-to-God icebox has no ice inside to keep things cool. People deliver ice, don't they? The stove needs a match to light it, and the cans above it look like something from a museum.

Outside, a distant bell rings over the sound of wind and scudding debris. When I finish washing up, I look out the front window and watch the street. I'm entranced by what I see. It's Sunday, and this is a small town. There is car traffic. I see people walking past the clinic. Everyone probably attends church services here.

The last time I saw a church up close, I was a tourist. I studied the building the same way I studied the ruins of the Parthenon. Church—God—is an abstract concept that forms no part of my world. Thinking about that, I seek out Delano. He's busy hanging an official portrait of Franklin Roosevelt behind the reception desk.

"Will you be going to church?" I ask.

"Not today, there's too much to do. But Pastor Andersen and his wife have been helpful, so I probably will go at some point. Why? Do you want to attend services? I could make time if it would help you."

I shake my head. "I'm not religious."

I wait to hear some sort of judgement, but he says, "I don't suppose I am anymore, either."

I want to ask him why. I want to tell him my reasons.

I'm in control of my life. I don't depend on some deity to make things happen. I make plans, and I work, and I accomplish what I set out to do. I don't believe there's a benevolent God watching over me, so I can't leave anything to chance.

Delano steps back and tilts the picture until it's level. His eyes are kind when he meets my gaze. "I came home from the war with what they call shell shock."

I brush his sleeve with my hand. "I'm sorry."

"It's a terrible thing when you can't trust your mind." He looks past me. "Sometimes I'm right back in the thick of things. It seems so real."

In his day, those deemed mentally ill—including queer people—were treated with isolation, ice baths, electroshock therapy, and worse. I don't know what they do for PTSD.

"Has time improved things for you?"

"Yes." His lips quirk. "And no. You can't unsee the atrocities of war. Or the influenza epidemic. I still relive that too."

I know pandemics, since I've just been through one. Covid took a hell of a toll on the medical community.

He pats my shoulder. "I'm an old man, and I've been through too much tragedy for one lifetime."

What I think is this man hides behind his silver hair. "I told you I know better. How old were you when your hair started to change?"

"I was this gray by thirty." At this, his eyes sparkle with mischief. "I pulled the first few out, but it was a war of attrition. I didn't want to be bald, so I accepted the inevitable."

"Called it."

"It's a blessing and a curse." He picks up a sheaf of papers. "People take me more seriously as a physician. Women and children trust me because I look harmless."

"I don't know about that." I let my gaze sweep down his body. Gorgeous, yes. Smooth, elegant, and classy I would agree with. Harmless? Has he looked in a mirror? He's a fire hazard.

He clears his throat. "Also, it's useful with the marriage-minded. I tell everyone I'm a confirmed bachelor. Too old to change my ways."

"I'm shocked. You lie to women?" I grab my heart.

"Only by omission." He rakes his hair off his face. "This hair of mine saves me from a lot of uncomfortable conversations."

"I see." I go over confirmed bachelor in my mind. Is he saying… Is it some kind of code?

He bites his lip shyly. "Yes. I rather think you do, Dr. Hamilton."

Well, he certainly sees me. "My friends call me Luke."

He taps his chest. "Call me Sumner. There's no good nickname for that, I'm afraid."

"I don't suppose so." His gaze is so forthright, it's mesmerizing and I realize that—as the kids say—we're having a moment.

I loved playing cards with him, just the two of us in the quiet kitchen. Now I'm full of anticipation and uncertainty and a thousand other feelings, not because I haven't been with beautiful older men before, but because Sumner is my only ally in this world. Yet that's a problem too. What if I ruin things between us? If it weren't for him, I'd have nobody.

I clear my throat and point to the papers he's holding. "Is that some kind of inventory?"

"Ah, yes." The light he exudes dims a bit. "These boxes contain medical supplies. I need to check that everything arrived safely."

"Does the public know you're opening tomorrow?"

"They announced the opening in the local papers, but I don't think that was necessary. As soon as we purchased and started remodeling the building, gossip started flying. Pastor Andersen will remind people this morning."

"Good or bad gossip?"

"Little of both." He jams his hands in his pockets. "People are proud. They might be wary of my government ties. Plus the dust storms might make it difficult to come."

"The air quality is hazardous here." I am certain he knows this but I can't help but point it out. "For you and your nurses too."

"Agreed. And the wind doesn't seem to let up. I have a thousand masks to distribute. The problem will be getting people to wear them."

I know all about that kind of skepticism. "What do you need me to do?"

"Can you start unpacking these boxes, so I know what we have to work with? I need to consider their most efficient placement in the dispensary."

"All right." The first box we open contains an autoclave. Another holds the tools necessary for minor surgical care. We open large boxes of bandages and small boxes containing vials of laudanum, morphine, insulin, tetanus toxoid.

He has antipneumococcic serum Types 1 and 2—a quasi-effective antibody therapy later replaced by antibiotics. There's aspirin and nitroglycerin. Hydrogen peroxide and iodine. Salves for burns, headache powders, creams for poison oak and ivy. It's nearly impossible to keep from gasping as we unveil each item, not because they're museum worthy. I'm so spoiled by modern advances in both medical and electronic technology it's a wonder how they achieve anything.

Plus, I'm used to a world where morphine is a Schedule II narcotic under the controlled substance act. Isn't Sumner vulnerable in a storefront clinic with this amount of morphine? I don't ask. I can't ask. Not without betraying more of my ignorance of what it means to be a doctor in 1935.

I hate being ignorant.

As we continue to work, we set up the clinic according to Sumner's vision. Then Rose, Beryl, and Marie arrive. They bring coffee cake from boarding house owner Mrs. McKenzie, and get to work beside us.

"We'll have more volunteers by the end of the week," says Beryl. "Pastor Andersen announced that we might need drivers to take people to field hospitals."

"Excellent." Sumner's head pops up from behind the counter. "Brace yourself, Luke. Today, you're helping me organize, but I plan to press you into service as an MD if you can be persuaded."

I'm shocked he asks. "Can you really tell I'm a doctor? I could be lying to you. I could be a con man."

"I'd know immediately." He gives me a box of enema kits. "Put those in that lower cabinet there."

"I'm not a GP, Sumner. I'm a surgeon." At my use of his first name, Marie looks our way with a frown.

Sumner lifts a brow. "You went to medical school, didn't you?"

"Of course I did, but?—"

"Then you have the training."

"Yes, but I have the bedside manner of a surgeon. Ask anyone who knows me. They don't allow me near the conscious patients." He's smiling benevolently because he thinks I'm joking. "I'm serious."

"Let's see what happens when tomorrow comes. Perhaps no one will even show up."