LITMIR.BIZ

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but somehow worn-out. He looked as if he needed a juicy steak, a stiff drink.

      “Yes. Washed my face in the river. Teaches me.”

      “Well, you don’t need to go all the way to Panama to catch yellow fever,” said Gina. “Mother Jones’s husband and four of her children died of it somewhere in Tennessee.”

      “It was touch and go for me, too, for a while. Though now I’m immune for life.”

      “Really? From malaria, too?”

      “No, but do I carry a small bottle of quinine with me everywhere I go.”

      “I don’t think there’s much risk of malaria in Concord, Ben.”

      “One can never be too careful against that wretched blight.”

      “That’s true.” Her elbows were on the table, her head resting between her hands. “So they didn’t need you in Panama anymore?”

      “I don’t know. All I know is that in August we finally had our first ship navigate through. I stayed until mid-September to make sure there were no irrecoverable disasters, and at first sign of trouble, when one of the levees failed to open, I sailed home.” He laughed. “I told them I was testing the time of travel through the canal instead of around Cape Horn.”

      “How did you get here?”

      “The liner took me to Key West where a railroad met me.”

      “A railroad in Key West? Isn’t it an island?”

      “So you would think. Little did I know that in the last ten years, some man named Henry Flagler was bringing a railroad over one hundred and fifty miles of sea to Key West, precisely because of our canal. He thought the United States could use a southernmost port connected by rail to the mainland.”

      “Oh, that is amazing! So many amazing things everywhere. People working, making things.” She shook off her words, coughed. Why were the simplest things so hard to talk about? “Are you home for good?”

      “We’ll see.” He smiled, slightly rueful. “I’m afraid I still miss it terribly, against all reason. Why in the world would I miss the sandflies and what they do to my body? What if I discover I can’t make a life anywhere else but in the infested malarian tropics?”

      “Hmm. You look like you adjusted well.” She appraised his tailored suit, his crisp white shirt. “Are you working here?”

      “As opposed to what? Of course I’m working. Still and ever with the Army Corps. Headquartered in Boston, but constantly out on civil engineering projects.”

      “Oh, Ben.” She sighed, remembering the past, gazing at him fondly. “So how was it? Where did you live? What did you eat? Did you work long days? Did you get hurt? Was there any fun?”

      He smiled, with amusement, with pleasure. “That’s a mouthful of questions.”

      “I know. I’m sorry!”

      He got a look in his eyes as if he were recalling a lost lover. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever imagined.”

      “Aren’t most things?”

      “I don’t know,” said Ben. “Depends on the things.” Without a blink, he continued. “Panama is more mountainous than I expected. More dramatically landscaped. Rocky. It’s nearly completely covered by impenetrable forest. Dissected with rivers, streams, deep gorges. It’s tropically hot, it pours rain like you’ve never seen, and then is dry like the desert. The fish is good.” He smiled broadly. “The women are very friendly.”

      “Well, who wouldn’t be friendly to a handsome American man like you,” Gina said, just as Rose stuck her head in, reminding her that the patients were still not fed, and it was well past six. But there was still so much to talk about! Gina jumped up with regret and hurried to the stove, organizing the tray with the stacked soup bowls and bread.

      “Here,” Ben said. “Let me help.” He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his vest, rolled up his white sleeves, and carried the soup tureen into the annex.

      It was after seven and dark when they were finished with the feeding and the cleaning up.

      “Sorry you spent such a long time helping me,” said Gina. “I thought we might have time to go for a walk. Concord is lovely in the fall.”

      He chuckled.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. I’m trying to remember what Louisa May Alcott wrote about Concord. As I recall, it wasn’t very complimentary.”

      “It couldn’t have been that bad,” Gina said. “She lived and died in Orchard House, just down the road. But …”

      “Another time perhaps.”

      “Yes.” She mulled things over quickly, chewing her lip. “Could you maybe take me back to Lawrence? I don’t like to travel alone. You could keep me company, we could finish our catch-up and I’ll make you dinner for your trouble.” She smiled. “What do you say? I have a recipe for mustard chicken.”

      He nodded. “I’d be happy to take you home. You shouldn’t travel alone this late. But let’s not wait until Lawrence. How about dinner first? You must be hungry after a full day’s work. Let’s go to Wright’s Tavern.”

      “Go where?” She glanced at her skirt. “I can’t … I’m not dressed for dinner. I can’t show myself in a nice restaurant.”

      “Who said anything about nice? Wright’s Tavern, I told you. You’ll be the best dressed woman in the place. Possibly the only woman.”

      She laughed. “Ben, what could you possibly know about taverns in Concord?”

      “It’s the only thing I know about Concord. Except what Louisa May Alcott wrote.”

      She chewed her lip, curious, ambivalent, hungry.

      Ben must have been reading her thoughts. He leaned closer to her. “You’re worried about propriety?”

      She nodded.

      “Manners do dictate that a woman cannot be seen out and about with a man alone unless she is married.”

      “That’s what I feared, I mean, um, thought.”

      “But Gina, do I need to remind you that you are married?” Ben straightened up. “In every way, even this one, we can be proper Bostonians.”

      She laughed happily, she couldn’t help herself. “Please, another time?” She really wasn’t dressed to go out. Ladies didn’t go out in stained clothing in public. She pulled out a train schedule from her purse.

      “I tell you what,” Ben said, taking the booklet out of her hands. “How about we take my car.” He led her outside.

      “You have a car?”

      “Why are you surprised? Everybody has one.”

      “We don’t,” Gina said. “We can’t afford it. Harry says only rich people have cars.”

      “That may have been true in 1905 when Bill Haywood was yelling that only oppressors like Harry had cars. But now, thanks to Mr. Ford and his assembly line, there are two million cars on the road. He has transformed the United States. A nation of toilers is fast becoming a nation of consumers.”

      “Not me,” Gina said. “I’m still a toiler. You must make a good living if you can afford a car.” She said this with a feeling approaching envy.

      “Not really. I just make a living. But I will say that in Panama”—he smiled—“they paid us engineers as if we were kings. They paid us more than they paid the doctors! Can you imagine? And they paid the chief engineers most of all. I saved all my money. I had nothing to spend it on. All I did was

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