It was a slow night in the hospital, and as Linda Shannon carefully folded a series of starchy white sheets, she reflected on the fact that this ought to have been a good thing. Praise God, she thought. Fewer people are sick and hurt.
She knew this was true, but the lack of urgency was beginning to feel like boredom, and boredom was something she could not abide. After all, she knew very well what was said about idle hands. She continued to fold, practicing psalm recitation under her breath, her lips moving quickly and near-silently. "He will cover you with his feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you."
The verse should have comforting, had been comforting in the worst times, and yet it made her shudder. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. When the words left her lips her mind recalled the shrieking of shells and the voices of men crying out for help, help that only the Lord could provide, try as Linda might. A thousand had indeed fallen at her side, and somehow she was still here. For what purpose, the Lord had yet to show her, but she maintained patience. All would reveal itself in time. For in Linda's experience, the Lord was faithful, even when she did not understand.
"Linda." Sarah, the head nurse, poked her head into the linen closet. Her plump, wrinkled face seemed to be drawn into a permanent frown. At times when Linda looked into Sarah's sour face, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was looking into her own future - a woman reaching old age who took care of everyone, but had no one to take care of her. An old maid whose power, while potent in the walls of the hospital, extended no further. But Linda always pushed the thought away. The Lord would provide for her, and as for power, well, to seek power was not her duty here on Earth. Her Kingdom was in Heaven.
"I'm about to go home for the evening and they just brought a patient in. Can you manage?" Sarah continued in her thick and brusque Irish brogue.
"Yes of course," said Linda, putting a final crease in the sheet she was folding and following Sarah dutifully.
"He's been brought in with a head wound that needs to be stitched up. It's not so bad except that he won't sit still long enough for anyone to tend to it. You're always so good with… well, you know."
Linda nodded modestly. Sometimes she wondered if she really had a gift for dealing with difficult patients or if the others just preferred not to and used flattery to pass the buck. Either way, she would attend as instructed.
She could hear the patient's raging all the way at the end of the hallway. None of it was discernible due to his thick Birmingham accent and the width of the door he was behind, but the anger was clear. Linda took a deep breath and prayed for strength as Sarah patted her on the shoulder and disappeared down the hallway.
She opened the door, and the doctor looked at her desperately, needle in hand, the patient letting loose a shocking string of profanities, even to Linda, who had heard more than her share in the battlefield and in the hospital. "I'll be back with a sedative," the doctor said, stepping back from the man in the bed. "He's strapped down, just try to calm him down, will you?"
"Yes sir," said Linda, stepping forward gingerly as not to startle the patient.
"I ought to just let the bastard bleed out," the doctor muttered on his way out the door.
Linda ignored him and stepped forward.
"Sir," she ventured in a gentle voice. "We've got to get you fixed up, here. What seems to be the problem?"
The man looked up at her, and she got her first look at his face. His blue eyes were shining and wild, his face ruddy and strained. He had an actively bleeding wound on his hairline, and the thick, red liquid was starting to drip down his temple. His chest heaved with agitated breaths.
"The problem? That doctor with his bloody paws is going to stitch me up? I'll be scarred for life."
"Dr. Jenkins is a very accomplished physician," Linda said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "It's really a very simple procedure."
"You think I've never had stitches before?" the man roared, wrenching his shoulder from Linda's touch. "I'm not afraid of fucking stitches. I'm afraid of that ape coming at me with a needle!"
It was with this exclamation that Linda was hit with the overwhelming odor of liquor. The man was stinking drunk, which explained the rage. Another reason she hated the stuff: this was what it reduced men to. The man before her was well-dressed, with a fine gold pocket-watch spilling from his suit pocket. He was probably a perfectly respectable gentleman until he walked into a pub. Linda couldn't help but wrinkle her nose with disdain.
"Sir, if you can't calm down, we'll be forced to sedate you and keep you here overnight," she said firmly. "I assure you -"
"Why don't you do it?"
"I'm sorry?" Linda said, confused by his comment and his sudden lucidity.
"The stitches. Everybody knows nurses know more than the doctors anyway."
"Well, I -" Linda knew she could get the stitches done in minutes; she had administered a great many during the war. However, she had made a career out of staying quietly on the side, out of not stepping on any toes. She wouldn't like to incur the anger of Dr. Jenkins by doing his job for him.
"Are you going to tell me you don't know how to do stitches?" The man smirked from under his brown mustache. "Accomplished lady like you?"
"Of course I know how to do stitches," Linda said in a clipped tone. "However -"
"War nurse, right?" he commented, his rage all but forgotten. "I wonder if we ever met in France."
"It's possible," murmured Linda, using his likely temporary calm as an opportunity to dab blood off of his temple with a clean rag. He winced.
"Nah," he said. "I think I'd remember a pretty angel like you."
Linda turned away to clean the rag, her cheeks blooming with red.
"So how about it, then?" the man said behind her. "Stitch me up?"
She stared down into the wash basin as the water changed color from clear to brownish-red. Rather than being angry, it was possible that Dr. Jenkins might appreciate having the procedure taken care of for him. Wasn't her job to make things easier on the doctors?
She turned back to the man in the bed. "All right," she said. "But you must promise you'll sit still."
"I'll be a perfect lamb," he promised solemnly. "Get these things off my arms, will you?"
She glanced at him warily.
"Come on, love. My bark's worse than my bite."
She looked down and bit her lip to hide her smirk. How was it that a man who was only moments ago raising hell had turned so charming without warning?
She knew exactly how. It was the drink, but more than that it was the fear. It sometimes hit her, too. She knew what kind of memories a hospital could evoke for someone who'd gone through what he had. Linda had chosen to keep those memories on a controllable leash, to take her fears and show them that she was in charge. Some men, like the one in front of her, seemed to be on the other end of that leash.
She leaned down and unfastened the leather buckles. The man stretched his arms gratefully. "Thank you," he said.
"Now I'll need you to hold still, please," Linda said in lieu of responding to his thanks. "I haven't done this in a while."
"Reassuring," the man snickered.
"You're the one who asked for it," she grumbled, threading the needle without meeting his eyes. Normally she was not so casual with patients, but it had been a slow night, and this was a special case to be sure.
His sharp intake of breath was the only thing that alerted her to his discomfort as she inserted the needle into his scalp. He was perfectly still. For the few minutes she spent sewing the wound closed they were both completely silent, the vague hum of the outside world and the usual noises of the hospital the only sounds. His head was close to her breast, but she hardly noticed, so focused was she on the task at hand. It had been a while since she'd done this herself but it came back easily, the way songs flowed from her fingers no matter how long she spent away from the piano. It was done in a few minutes, and for a moment longer than normal they both continued to be silent, savoring the strangely peaceful moment.
Linda was the first to break the spell. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" she said, pulling away to find a bandage and swallowing hard.
"Barely felt a thing," said the man, sitting up on the edge of the bed. "I was right about you. Good hands."
Linda was blushing again - why? Had it really been so long since someone had complimented her?
When she turned back to him he was looking much less intoxicated; perhaps the pain had brought him some clarity. His greased hair was mussed, sticking up in various directions like a startled hedgehog, and it created a rather comical sight. However, Linda couldn't help noticing that he was rather handsome, with his wiry frame and his strong chin. He appeared to be approaching a well-weathered forty, and in spite of his fine clothing she couldn't help but thinking he appeared hungry: thin, tired, worn.
He looked up at her boyishly as she affixed the bandage to his head.
"Well, that should do it," she said. "Do you mind telling me how this happened?"
"It's better if you don't ask," he grumbled, smoothing his pants and standing, now towering over Linda's petite frame. "Thank you for doing that. I feel like I owe you something now."
"I was only doing my job," said Linda, turning away from the man to clean her hands.
"A bit more, yeah?" he continued. "When's your shift end? Why don't you let me buy you a drink?"
Linda was flustered for a moment. She dried her hands and turned back to study the man curiously, wondering if he was playing a joke on her, or if he had some type of evil intention. But he was just standing there, smiling at her crookedly, straightening his suit jacket.
"I'm afraid I don't imbibe," she replied. "I need no thanks but knowledge of a job well done."
He took a step closer to her and she stiffened. "Come on," he said. "Let me do something to make it worth your while."
She cleared her throat, ready to refuse him again when a snippet of Sunday's sermon flashed through her mind. It is our duty here on Earth to bring others to the comfort of our Lord. Be alert, for God is always providing opportunities to share the good news. Linda's brother was the pastor, and as she sat in the front row listening to his words she closed her eyes, letting the mission wash over her and set her afire. She had always been shy; she knew this command was for her in particular.
"Why don't you attend my church on Sunday," she said, the words spilling from her mouth before her inhibition could stop her. "That's how you could repay me."
She forced herself to look up and meet his eyes. To her surprise, they were sparkling with mirth.
"All right," he said gamely, still smiling. "What's the address?"
"I'll write it down for you," Linda said, hurriedly grabbing a prescription pad from the rolling table on the edge of the room. She scribbled the address on the back of a paper and handed it to the man. As he took it, their fingers brushed, and her whole body warmed in spite of herself. "We meet at 8:00 Sunday."
"Early risers," he commented, chuckling. "And what name should I use when I'm asked who invited me?"
"Linda," Linda said, looking up at him. "Linda Shannon."
"Linda," he repeated, and she liked the way the name sounded in his mouth - warm, affectionate. "I'm Arthur."
She reached out and grasped his hand as briefly as she could manage. Her heart beat was quickening. "Pleasure to meet you, Arthur. I hope I'll see you Sunday."
"I'm not one to back out on my debts, Ms. Shannon," he said. "Even if they're owed at 8:00 on a Sunday morning."
She laughed, and the sound was unexpected and unfamiliar as it seemed to echo through the empty hospital room. He picked up a flat cap from the bin that held his personal belongings, fixed it on his head and tipped it toward her politely.
"Have a nice evening, Ms. Shannon," he said, starting to head for the door.
"Arthur," she called as he reached the precipice, realizing that he had not provided her with his last name so she could address him properly. He turned back to look at her with a wry grin that made her feel altogether sinful. "Don't forget to keep that clean, hmm? And you'll need to come back and have the stitches taken out in a few weeks' time."
"I'll look forward to it," he said with a devilish wink.
Not long after he'd left, the doctor reappeared with a bottle and syringe in his hand.
"Where did he go?" Dr. Jenkins asked, looking around the room as though a man of Arthur's size could somehow be hiding in a corner.
"I took care of it, Doctor," said Linda, feeling rather cavalier. "Not to worry."