LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Here, let’s make her more comfortable,” Tula said, snatching a floral cushion from a nearby seat and tucking it under Marian’s head.

      “Get this chair out from under her,” Alvin said. “Raise that leg up some.”

      Deuce gently wedged his hands under Marian’s thigh. Her eyelids jerked open like tightly sprung window shades and she yelped in pain. Alvin pulled aside the shattered wood.

      “Hold on there,” Deuce said. “The doctor’s on his way.”

      Mrs. Flynn wrung her hands, all the while shouting, “Where’s that water? We need water here!”

      Grabbing a fan from an onlooker, Helen flapped it erratically above the lecturer’s shiny brow. A panting youth from the crew appeared at the edge of the stage holding aloft a pitcher of water.

      “What’s happened?” Dr. Jack asked, stepping into the circle and fluidly dropping his black satchel.

      Helen spoke: “Her hem caught on something. Then, boom, right off the edge.”

      “Hit her head?” He crouched beside Marian, whose eyes were again tightly shut.

      “I don’t think so,” Helen said, her voice quivering.

      Tula took up the young woman’s hand, whispering, “It’s all right.”

      “It’s my right foot,” Marian said in a loud voice, opening her eyes. “It hurts like hell.”

      “All right,” Dr. Jack replied mildly. “Let’s start there.” Folding the gown back, he gently pressed his fingers down the length of her tibia. “Does this hurt?”

      Deuce modestly looked away during the examination. Dr. Jack reached Marian’s ankle and when he pressed down she howled in pain.

      “Hmm,” he said, nodding slightly.

      Marian, who had raised her head to follow the course of the examination, asked, “What exactly does that mean?”

      “Did that hurt?” he asked.

      “Of course it hurt—I wouldn’t be bellowing if it didn’t,” she said.

      “How about this?” Dr. Jack cupped her heel and slowly rotated the foot.

      Marian clenched her teeth, her eyes moistening. “Yes.”

      “Hmm.” Dr. Jack pushed back a sickle-shaped hank of hair.

      Marian’s tone was panicked. “Is it broken? Do you think it’s broken? It can’t be. It can’t.”

      “Well, I’m not certain it is broken, it might—”

      “I’m booked for Galesburg tomorrow. I have to be there. You’ll just have to wrap it up or splint it or something. I’ll manage.”

      Dr. Jack smoothed her gown and stood.

      “I think it’s broken but it could be just a bad sprain. You’ll have to give it a day or two to see if the swelling goes down. Where are you staying?”

      Darius Calhoun, the platform manager, wormed into the circle. “She can’t stay a day or two. Didn’t you hear the woman? She’s due in Galesburg,” he said, his small body quivering so that, with white pants and tufted eyebrows, he gave the impression of a fox terrier. “Then the day after that it’s Blanchester and then . . .” he pulled a creased schedule from his pocket. “And then Vernon.”

      “At the very least this woman has a bad sprain and possibly a break,” Dr. Jack said. “Can’t one of the other lecturers with your group step in for her?”

      “No. That’s not how it works. Mrs. Elliot Adams is a First Day. She’s always a First Day. The supervisor who is setting up the tent in Galesburg will be mighty upset if his opening act is stuck here.”

      Dr. Jack shook his head. “I’m sorry but I’m prescribing rest tonight. I’ll check it in the morning. If the swelling has—”

      From the ground, Marian shouted up, “I’m booked! This isn’t possible. I’m booked!”

      “She’s staying at the Lamoine,” Tula said. “All the performers stay there.”

      “Yes, yes, but . . .” the platform manager was saying.

      Dr. Jack shook his head. “She’s got to have someone looking after her, keeping her off that foot.”

      “I don’t need anyone—” Marian started, but Tula interrupted.

      “She can stay with me. We have a sleeping porch off the kitchen with a day bed.”

      “Fine,” Dr. Jack said, dusting off his knees. “Thank you.”

      Mrs. Flynn grabbed Tula’s arm. “But what about the welcome reception at the refreshment tent? The ladies are all set up.”

      “You’ll have to tell them there’s been an accident.”

      And so Marian, still protesting, was lifted onto a stretcher by four of the strongest stage hands, shoveled into the back of Mueller Florist’s delivery truck which, fortuitously, was parked nearby, and transported down several bumpy streets, with the little platform manager trotting nervously behind.

      After receiving the bad news from Mrs. Flynn, the members of the Ladies Welcome Committee despondently dumped the galvanized tub of ice and reclaimed their cakes that, in the heat, had slumped to one side like elderly choir members during a long sermon. As the ladies left the grounds, the first coin-sized drops began to fall. The thunderstorm, so long threatening, had arrived.

       CHAPTER TWO

       SIGNS AND SYMBOLS

      THE NEXT MORNING, DEUCE WOKE to the buzzy rattle of the alarm clock. He reached across to turn it off. For the past two years, during sleep, the memory of his wife Winnie’s passing would somehow be erased from his mind, and the empty space beside him was always a shock in the dawn’s light. But this morning, even before he opened his eyes, he knew that she was not there.

      For a few minutes he sat dull-eyed on the edge of the bed, his mind wooled in sleep. Absently, he thumped his feet against the rag rug and rubbed his knees. Below the open window, the floorboards were wet where it had rained in.

      He switched off the rotating fan and shuffled to the bathroom. Even at this hour, the air was stuffy. A wrinkled sash hung from the newel post. In the bathroom, the mat was soggy. A hairpin stuck to the damp skin of his heel. Helen must have been running late for work.

      As he dabbed shaving soap to his cheeks, Deuce thought of Helen’s graduation day. It had been stifling on that day too. Helen had led her class across the lawn, up the aisle between rows of applauding families, and onto the bunting-draped outdoor dais. As valedictorian, she had taken her seat in the first row at the front of the stage, Deuce watching with amusement as her foot jiggled impatiently through Reverend Sieve’s invocation, Miss Thayer’s salutation, and the class history. Then it was her turn at the podium.

      She had begun in the accepted manner, with references to “life’s path,” “beginnings, not endings,” and “realizing our possibilities.” She carried on for a good ten minutes in this fashion before veering abruptly into virgin territory. Deuce had straightened, suddenly alert.

      “But these really are just platitudes, at least for the female members of our graduating class who are still denied full participation as citizens, as workers, even as we step forward to aid our nation in a time of war. Yes, we are fortunate to live in Illinois, a state where women have at least been granted limited voting rights, but none of us can earn a wage equal to a man’s, or enter into marriage on equal footing.”

      A gust tossed the blue and yellow

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