EMMETSBURG: Seventeen

The hospital was downtown on Broadway, just past the sparkling marquis of the Iowa Theater. The hospital wasn’t much to look at. The hospital was a simple rust-red brick building built after the war to replace the older smaller obsolete clinic. The new building was modest in size, with around 20 beds, and a modern surgical theater.

A hand full of overworked nurses and doctors supported by nuns from St. Mary’s staffed the hospital. They were even more beleaguered for the half dozen men hurt at the mill during the storm the night before. A powerful bolt of lightning struck the grain silo beside the railroad tracks just as the men dodged inside to escape the rain. The lightening ignited grain dust setting off an explosion that blew the men clear across the tracks. But they were alive, and, after such a calamity, the town could take a blessing from that.

John swung the truck onto Broadway, cutting off a wagon, and skidded to a stop in front of the hospital. He slid from the truck still cradling his wounded hand. The loss of blood made him lightheaded, but John failed to realize until he tried to stand. His legs obliged grudgingly. For a moment he swooned and staggered like a drunk before steadying himself against the truck. John slid around to the back of the truck and laid a hand on the man’s chest, relieved to find him still breathing.

Feverish white sunlight fell oblique through glass doors just inside the hospital’s dark lobby. John burst through the door, leaning precariously against it, and startling those inside. He was met instantly by Sister Maribel Dougherty, one of the nuns from Saint Mary’s. John had known her much of their lives. She rushed over to steady him, leaning to find him with fiery Irish brown eyes. the black and white habit pulled tight to her face only served to exaggerate the captive wildness of her eyes.

Sister Dougherty tried to steady him as best she could, though he was better than half again her size. There was a momentarily stab of dread should he suddenly give out and fall on her. John was soaked to the bone and covered from head to toe with mud. The brown stains on John’s face and hands were punctuated by bits of crimson from a dozen scrapes and small gashes. The front of his coveralls and shirt was so covered with blood that she first feared he had been wounded to the chest or belly. It was with only minor relief when he held out his badly injured hand.

“Dear God, John!” she exclaimed in a hushed manner. She cradled his hand, and could feel his silken warm blood flowing over her fingers.

“Bit of an accident, Sister,” he winced. “Got somebody in my truck who’s hurt awfully bad.”

The bleeding had slowed but not stopped. It fell in fat dark-red crops, patting on the speckled marble floor. Sister waved over a young nurse, who had appeared in the hall just at that moment and told her to tend to John right away . John pulled away and led them outside to the truck, where one of the old men was madly rubbing the mystery man's hand as the other looked on.

“Out cold,” said the old man as the nurse came around and peered over the side of the truck. The nurse was pretty and untested, with an innocence that bordered on ignorance; the two being cousins. Her auburn hair was all but modestly hidden beneath the nurses cap of her pristine white uniform. She was new to town, is all John new of her, from somewhere out East, and he didn't know enough to form any sort of opinion just yet.
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Sister Dougherty came up an instant later, struggling to see, short as she was. The nurse peered over the edge of the truck and gasped, backing away frightfully, as if she was surprised by a cobra coiled there.

“He’s a negro!” it was more an outburst of surprise than of bigotry, or anything else. One could almost see the embarrassment in her expression instantly.

Sister Dougherty pursed her lips and scolded, “Get your tail over here!”

By now the spectacle had attracted something of a crowd. They pressed in around the back of John’s truck. Old Doc Gross fought his way through to the truck, hobbling against a bad hip.

“Let me pass!” he shouted, pulling himself through the deepening mass of gawkers. “Give me some room here, Doctor coming through!”

He was big round man of some years, with wispy snow-white hair. His smock was a dingy gray, and opened to reveal a well-worn and wrinkled blue suit that might have seen better days during the Coolidge administration! A pair of wire rimmed bifocals teetered on his forehead. A stethoscope was stuffed haphazardly in the pocket of his smock.

Several of the bigger men from the crowd had already climbed onto the truck and were handing the man down to a couple of stretcher bearers. John followed, throwing his good hand on the shoulder of one of the men. As they passed Doc gross grabbed John’s injured hand and twisted it abruptly skyward. Pulling the eyeglasses down to his nose he leaned for a closer look at John's wound.

“Best come in side where I can look after that hand,” said the Doctor.

“Terrible wreck,” John ignored the doctor, straining to see as the unconscious stranger was carried quickly inside, followed by a curious throng. “Lucky to alive.”