Willie felt much worse when he awakened that night and stumbled around the room looking for the bathroom. He peered dizzily out the door to the room to find the hallway darkened and empty. He managed by the light of his fire, which apparently had been maintained by someone, though he scarcely noticed it now, to find a pair of pants in the chest. With these on, he went out into the hall, searching for a door that might lead to a toilet.
He was rescued by Helen who heard him stomping about. She guided him back to his room and pulled a chamber pot out from beneath the bed. She left him and went to make him a fever relief remedy, some special concoction passed down from her mother's family. It would at least help to make him more comfortable.
She returned to find him back in bed on top of the covers awake and panting. With a small, soft cloth, she bathed his face and neck, using the water in the pitcher by the bed to dampen it. She talked softly to him, reassuring and comforting him but saying nothing that would require an answer or tax him in any way.
Willie hated feeling so sick, the weakness, the fact he was helpless and needed someone. But Helen was good. She got him back under the covers, making him lie on his back so that she could apply a hot, aromatic poultice to his chest.
By dawn his malaise had turned into delirium. He tossed about, drenching the sheets in sweat. A tired Helen neglected her duties, relegating them to the paid help so she could take care of him. His fever broke by noon. She bathed him, changed the bed sheets as he slept, then went to her own room to rest.
Willie rolled weakly out of the bed in the evening. He felt much better than he had, the splitting headache and body aches were gone, leaving him with sore muscles, a tender back, and no strength. After an unsuccessful search for his pants, he remembered about the pot under the bed. Primitive, but better than having to go outside.
Helen found him back in bed, sitting up to drink a glass of water—his third.
He looked at her and smiled. "Hi."
"You're feelin' better?" she asked, returning the smile.
"Yeah. You're a regular Florence Nightingale, you know that?"
She blushed, recognizing a compliment by his tone of voice. "I don't know what that is."
"She was this great lady who dedicated her life to helpin' sick people." He still smiled, right into her china-blue eyes. Her round face was very appealing in an innocent way. Her smile lit up her face. "She was supposed to be very beautiful."
Helen blushed again and looked away. "You should lie back and rest." She placed the bundle she carried in the chest. "Your clothes have all been washed and dried."
"Thanks, I was wonderin' where they were." He slid back down to the pillow, lying on one side. "Yeah, you're pretty enough to be Florence Nightingale," he told her, affection and gratitude in his heart.
"Well, now I don't believe that," she said, looking at him, her eyes cold for the first time since he'd seen her. "I know I'm plain, so does anyone who sees me. Your talk is cruel, and I don't like it."
Willie was stung. He felt her pain as if it were his own. He thought she was charming and very kind. "Helen, anybody who says you're plain has never seen you. Where I come from, a girl like you would have to fight the guys off. They'd be bustin' down your door to marry ya." An exaggeration, he knew, in fact she would be considered by some in the early nineteen seventies to be fat, but with those blue eyes. . . He was quite charmed by her.
She looked at him to see if he really meant what he said. Tired blue-grey eyes admired her with compassion. "You're just sayin' that because I took care of you," she said, softening.
"Well, ah, thanks for that," he was still uncomfortable with it, "but I mean it when I say I think you're pretty." He held out a hand. "Come here."
She hesitated before stepping up to the bed.
He took one of her work-callused, scrubbed-clean hands and kissed it gently. "Thank you." He didn't stop her from pulling her hand back.
"I'm a married woman, Mr. Loomis," she said, stepping back and turning away. "I'll bring you some supper." She went to the door and out.
Willie realized she'd misinterpreted his gesture. But he was too tired to try to stop her. If only he'd had someone like her in the past—in his past—especially at Wyndecliffe. What a lonely life she must have, he thought. At least she had a home and family who cared about her.
He waited for her to return, keeping himself from dozing by trying to think of a way to restore the sense of trust he had felt and thought she had felt also.
She came into the room, carrying a tray. "It's just soup," she warned him.
"Smells good." He wasn't really hungry. Hot soup might be just what he needed. He watched her push the water-pitcher to one side and put the tray on the night table. He rose up on one elbow, tucking the cover under his other arm. "Helen, I'm sorry if I offended you." He looked and sounded as wounded as he felt.
"Never mind that. Have your soup." She looked at him looking up from the bed at her, his eyes anxious. She pressed her lips together as her heart went out to him. "Oh, don't let me bother you, Willie. I'm sorry. You didn't offend me."
"I meant what I said. I wasn't tryin' to hurt your feelings." He felt a lump in his throat, and he wasn't sure why. He knew the hurt he felt was showing and looked down.
She moved to sit on the bed by him and stroked his hair once. "I know. It was nice of you."
He looked back up at her, surprised she would sit next to him while he was in bed with nothing on under the covers. It shouldn't bother her after taking care of him in his delirium, he realized, but now he was awake. He sat up in the bed.
"All right, now eat your soup." She put the tray in his lap and stuck the spoon in his hand and smiled at him.
He grinned back, feeling better. Then he noticed her eyes take on a wistful look, and he turned his attention to the soup. He was suddenly uncomfortable, knowing what might get started between them. Willie didn't know if he could, and he was afraid to try.
He had half of the soup before feeling too tired to continue sitting up. Helen noticed his fatigue and took the tray from him. "You may have the rest of it later if you're still hungry." She put it on the night stand.
"Thanks, Helen." He slid back down on his side. "You wouldn't happen to have a tooth brush, would you?" He rubbed the growth of whiskers on his jaw. "An' a razor?"
"Now don't you worry about shavin' now. I'll bring you by a razor in the morning. There's a couple of tooth picks here on the tray. I haven't any brush for that." She handed him one.
It might be inconvenient, he thought, but apparently it worked for her. She had nearly all straight, white teeth. "Thank you. You've been too kind."
"Nonsense. You needed someone. I enjoyed taking care of you."
Willie had to admit to himself that she had made it bearable and less undignifying than it had been before. "Well, since I couldn't avoid it, I'm glad you made it so easy on me." Another corny line, he thought, but he honestly meant it, no matter how it sounded. This personal talk was hard for him, but her quiet and gentle manner eased it from him.
"You're a kind man." Her eyes didn't leave his. "The way you look at me almost makes me believe I am pretty." Her fair face blushed, and she looked away.
Willie wanted very much to make her feel good about herself. "You are, and you wanna know somethin'?"
She looked down at him. "What?"
"I wouldn't want anyone else to—to care for me the way you have. I'm glad Barnabas left when he did."
She just smiled and turned away in embarrassment. "I'll come in to see if you need anything before I go to bed."
"Thanks." He shut his eyes and relaxed. He liked Helen a lot, maybe too much.
* * *