<< Go Back

Until June

By Barbara M. Britton

Order Now!

Juneau, Alaska
September 1918

Josephine Nimetz slipped into a perfect replica of a wool coat, one she had drawn, designed, and patterned on old newspaper. She tucked a rectangular box under her arm and tip-toed across the living room toward her mother who slept in an oversized chair. Laying a gentle hand on her mother’s swollen knuckles, she whispered, “I’m off to the Chambers’ estate.”

Her mother’s eyes fluttered open. “I thought you delivered Mrs. Chambers’ gown yesterday?”

“Yes, but Ann forgot to put the gloves and embroidered handkerchief in the box. I don’t want any complaints from our best customer.”

“Your sister can’t seem to think about anything these days. Anything, that is, except men.”

Josephine stepped toward the door. At seventeen, the last thing she wanted to discuss was her sister’s courtships. There had been too many stories of lonely miners with gold rush dreams.

Her mother coughed and leaned forward.

Josephine halted. “Do you need your medicine?”

“At night dear. Only at night.” Her mom sat back and closed her eyes.

Clenching her teeth, Josephine crossed over the woven rug and rested a hand on her mother’s forehead. No one should suffer in order to save money. “I’ll steep us some tea when I return.” She stroked her mother’s hand.

Using Mrs. Chambers’ package to shield her cheeks from the salty sting of brisk Alaskan air, Josephine scuffed along the walkway bordering tiny, wooden row houses. The homes, nestled on the side of a mountain, were one earth-shattering jolt away from plunging into the Gastineau Channel.

She stopped briefly in town to inspect the fashion ensemble in the department store window. The same dusty, shipped-in gown from the previous month clung to the dressmaker’s dummy. Good. No new arrivals to compete with this week.

Trudging past the stained glass Russian Orthodox Church and up the hill toward Juneau’s elaborate homes, she spied the Chambers’ mansion with its gabled roof and large bay windows. One day, she hoped to own a big home with a formal dining room and a sizeable porch; a place where her mother could survey comings and goings from outside the front door—rain or drizzle. “Someday,” she sighed. Definitely, not now.

As she neared the Chambers’ gardens, a man staggered in her direction. His limbs flailed like a drifter kicked out of the Red Dog Saloon at closing time. A cap shaded his face except for his days-old beard, but she knew that uneven gait. Ivan? Couldn’t be? Her stepfather worked on Douglas Island—at the mine. Lately, on days off, he stayed on the island with his paycheck.

“It’s about time.”

Josephine’s pulse quickened. She recognized her stepfather’s sharp sarcasm.

Ivan’s calloused hand engulfed her shoulder as the stench of Skagg whiskey accosted her nostrils.

“Where’s the money?” His words slurred together.

“What money?” She cradled Mrs. Chambers’ box against her chest, grateful for the distance it put between them.

Seizing her collar, Ivan curled the fabric into his fist. “Mrs. Chambers pays you fourteen dollars for those fancy dresses.” His grip tightened. “You’ll give me the money.”

“It’s gloves.” She fumbled to open the top of the package. “I don’t have any money.”

Scarlet capillaries streaked her stepfather’s bulging eyes. “I need it.”

Words stuck like cotton in Josephine’s throat. “But…, but your pay from the mine? You got paid?”

He lifted her lapel closer to his face. His sour breath tainted the air. “Don’t hold out on me, girl. That pay’s gone.”

What of mother’s medicine? Heat flushed her cheeks. She dropped Mrs. Chambers’ accessories and clawed at his forearm, easing the pressure on her neck.

“Look for yourself. There’s no dress. That money paid off our credit at the store.” She avoided Ivan’s hazel-eyed glare.

“That’s not your place, girl.”

Sing-song laughter sliced through the pine trees.

Mrs. Chambers. Thank God. Josephine strained to see her customer.

Ivan cursed and released her collar. His ragged fingernails gouged her neck. A burn like booted-up campfire embers sizzled along her throat. He bent to pick up the box. The crushed corner revealed embroidered cotton.

“These worth something?”

“No. Not to you.” Her words came out in an almost-shout. She lunged to collect her work.

“Josephine?” Mrs. Chambers’ inquiry held a hint of concern.

Ivan pushed off to flee. His stiff-armed thrust sent Josephine tumbling backward. Her head struck something hard. Searing pain sliced into her scalp while vibrant bursts of light blurred her vision. A glacier-ice chill crept over her flesh. I need to get up and deliver the gloves. Mother needs her tea.

When she opened her eyes, darkness greeted her. Instead of the hard ground, silk sheets caressed her skin and mounds of soft pillows buffered the pounding rhythm in her forehead. Moonlight peeked under tall curtains and revealed the outline of claw-footed furniture. The scent of Mrs. Chambers’ rosebud and lily perfume hung in the air. How did she get inside the Chambers’ house?

A deep undulating moaning crept into the bedroom, followed by a panicked scream.
Josephine sprung upright. Her head spun, the room spun, everything spun. She massaged her throbbing temples. Did her mother know where she was and what Ivan had done?

A man’s cries filled the hallway. The hair on her arms rose to attention like fur on a hissing cat.

She wrapped a pillow around her head to drown out the moaning. Linen grazed her neck. What happened to her long locks? Reaching back, her fingers discovered chopped-off hair and a stitched bump covered with greasy ointment. The mat in her hair was round like a bird’s nest. A cap would be in order to cover this mess.

Rolling to the side of the bed, she slowly stood. up. Pain ricocheted through her face. She braced herself with a hand on the nightstand and fumbled her way to the door, trying not to trip on the length of her borrowed night dress. Someone had changed her. She stiffened. She needed to find out whom. She needed to find out what had happened. She needed to find out if Ivan had bothered her mother.

As she opened the door, light from engraved sconces in the hallway illuminated her room. Crystal glasses glimmered on the nightstand. A small R, larger C, and a small J were embossed on the matching pitcher. She ran her fingertips over the grooved letters. Reynold James Chambers. He owned land, lumber mills, and gold mines, and his wife paid top dollar for one-of-a-kind gowns. Even the bows on Josephine’s night dress were a special order.

“Water,” a voice pleaded. “Some water.”

She held her breath and listened.

The pitiful sobbing from down the hallway made her injury seem insignificant.

Was Mr. Chambers ill? His son had recently returned from the war. Perhaps he or a servant suffered. Certainly, someone would comfort the man.

The crying stopped. Raspy shouting for a drink took its place.

Curious about what was going on, Josephine peeked down the hallway. A woman paced, head down, hands folded, outside a door at the other end of the hall. Her measured steps were precise as a wind-up toy. It looked like Mrs. Prescott, the Chambers’ housekeeper. After a couple of laps, Mrs. Prescott scurried off. The maid’s footsteps clamored on the stairs.

Josephine turned and stared at the pitcher of water by her bed. The Chambers had taken care of her injury. Returning a favor was customary. After all, Father Demetriev had preached, ‘do unto others’ at mass.

She poured a glass of water and swerved down the hallway, steadying herself with a hand to the wall, and careful not to spill on the plush rug. She stood in front of the door. Muffled sobs came from inside. Her heart plummeted to her belly. Her mother cried like this when her joints flared with pain. Sucking in a deep breath, she knocked softly, and ducked into the unknown.

An eerie lemon-yellow glow came from a lamp on a nightstand. A man, younger than Mr. Chambers, lay in bed with a blanket covering the bottom half of his body. His nightshirt clung to his chest, wet with perspiration. A faint odor of rubbing alcohol and urine filled her nostrils as she entered the bedroom. She breathed through her mouth to calm her stomach.

The man turned his head to gawk at her as if she had materialized from a puff of magician’s smoke. He stared with sunken gray eyes, underscored by purple half-moons. Brown hair hung over his ears, sticking to the side of his face, framing the stubble of a beard. Josephine steadied the glass in her hand. The man looked her sister’s age—not more than twenty—but frail for his youth. If this was Mr. Chambers son, he didn’t resemble the young man she had seen driving a Model-T around town. With all the deliveries, she had made to the Chambers’ estate, she had only glimpsed Geoff Chambers once. Even then he was scurrying out the door to some urgent event.

She held out the glass and moved closer to the bed, ready to run at the slightest hint of danger.

The man studied her approach. He lifted his hand to take the water glass, but never shifted his focus from her face. He drank the water in one gulp.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered.

“Only that everyone seems to have gone deaf.” He handed her the glass. “What’s wrong with your hair?”

“I injured my head.” She fingered her scalp. “I guess I’m lucky it didn’t kill me.”

“You’re not dead,” he said, straightening the bed sheet. “I should be.”

Her mouth gaped as if she was eating a fork full of greens. Was he serious?

He sank back onto his pillow. “Refill that for me. I’m awfully dry.”

Josephine nodded. Once.

Slipping back to her room, she filled the glass and glanced down the hall for Mrs. Prescott. Thankfully, the floor didn’t buckle in her vision and cause her to swoon.

She headed toward the sick man’s room and opened the door without a knock. Why wake her hosts? The man knew she was coming. Hurrying toward the bed, she reached out her hand.

He went to seize the glass. Stepping forward, her foot caught the edge of a throw rug. She catapulted forward. Before she could steady herself, water cascaded over the man’s chest.

Gasping, he shot up into a sitting position. Liquid soaked into his shirt, dripping onto the sheet below.

He cursed.

Josephine blinked her eyes rapidly like she was watching a black and white Flicker Film. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” He held the shirt away from his skin. “I’ve had worse.”

“Let me help.” Grabbing a cloth from the table, she blotted his nightshirt. Her fingers slid down over his thigh and then bent sideways over a ledge of flesh. Her hand descended like an anchor toward the mattress. No muscle or bone buoyed her weight. In steadying herself, she pressed on his other thigh.

His chest heaved. Profanity spewed from his mouth.

She dropped the washcloth and sprang off the bed. Her heart fluttered as if she had run a race. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

Tremors wracked the man’s body. “Get out.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She backed toward the door. “What do you need?”

“Sleep. Now, leave.”

When her fingers touched the door frame, she turned and sprinted back down the hall, ignoring the painful boomerang in her head.

Jumping into bed, she pulled the sheet over her body and wrapped herself into a ball. The feeling of the man’s thigh tingled on her hand. She opened and closed her fist, but the sensation would not disappear. It was etched into her nerves and etched into her memory.

Her hand had touched his thigh, and then, nothing.

The rest of his legs didn’t exist. They were gone.

What had happened to cause such a deformity? Her arms closed in tight around her knees.

I want to go home.
 

Order Now!

<< Go Back