Quick Reads: Little Hattie Sleeps



  Quick Reads:

  Little Hattie Sleeps

  Ed Rehkopf

  Copyright 2012 Ed Rehkopf

  Just when winter's last grip let go, when the grey mood of overcast, cold weather yielded to warm southerly winds and clear skies, when the promise of new beginnings brought a sense of joy and expectation, little Hattie Stanford passed suddenly away.

  George Stanford and his wife, Martha, had no warning of the unusual fever that carried away their only child in less than a day. George had received word of his daughter's illness at the courthouse where he had been researching a matter in the county records. While not unconcerned, he was not overly alarmed by the news. Children are always getting chills and fevers of one sort or another and he knew his wife to be easily alarmed. These ailments tend to pass quickly and the child is restored to health again as if nothing had happened. So it was before and certainly would be again. But just to be sure, he picked up his papers and started for home.

  Martha met him at the door and said that the fever was severe. She had already sent for Dr. Benton. George took the news with as much gravity as the situation demanded. In his heart though, was the irritation of a man inconvenienced by the concerns of domestic life. He reassured his wife, passed his coat to her and started up the stairs.

  Quietly opening the door to Hattie's room, he slipped in. The room was darkened by drawn draperies and he immediately felt an oppressive heat. He waited momentarily for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. From the bed he could hear Hattie's labored breathing. He walked with light step to the bed and peered into his daughter's sleeping face. Even in the near-darkness its obvious distress startled him. He reached to feel her forehead, but felt the heat of her brow even before his hand touched her skin. The blanket which covered her small body rose and fell in rapid, troubled respiration and he sensed that this fever was indeed more severe than others before.

  He withdrew quietly and closed the door. On the stairs he met Martha ascending and inquired as to the circumstances of the illness. He was told that Hattie had complained at lunch and eaten poorly. Toward mid-afternoon Martha, having become aware of an unaccustomed stillness in her daughter's room, looked in to find Hattie asleep and fevered on the floor. She put Hattie to bed and attempted to cool her burning face and chest with a damp cloth. Then she went next door and asked Jamie Farrell to summon the doctor and take a message to Mr. Stanford.

  Shortly before dinner Dr. Benton arrived and examined Hattie. After careful probing and auscultation, he could find no evident cause for the illness. Though he was concerned about the degree of the fever, he reassured the Stanfords that while the situation should be watched closely, the fever would most likely pass during the night. Before he left, he gave Martha the medication he had given Hattie and specified instructions for the night's ministrations. He would be available at home should matters worsen, but he did not expect they would and promised to drop around tomorrow midday.

  At dinner the Stanfords spoke in a subdued and preoccupied way. Both were troubled by their daughter's unusual and unexplained illness. It disturbed them that their sweet, normally vigorous and playful child should be suffering at the grip of some unknown malady. Each would gladly assume the discomfort and aching weakness if it would relieve little Hattie. They discussed the doctor's inability to pinpoint the cause; a fact which heightened their concern. They decided that Mr. Stanford would maintain vigil with Hattie till midnight and then be relieved by his wife. Hopefully, they assured each other, the crisis would pass overnight and their daughter would be restored to her usual, lovable self tomorrow. Shortly thereafter Mrs. Stanford retired.

  George took several books from the library shelf and arranged himself comfortably in a stuffed chair in the corner of Hattie's room. He turned the lamp low, allowing himself enough light to read without disturbing his daughter.

  At ten o'clock he roused Hattie to bare consciousness, gave her some medicine and took her temperature. Then he bathed her body with a damp cloth which seemed to moderate the fever somewhat. She drank some liquids and fell off to sleep again. Mr. Stanford continued his reading encouraged by a slight abatement of the fever.

  Sometime before twelve he dozed off, his book of ancient history lying open against his chest. Mrs. Stanford found him thus a little after midnight when she came in relief. She felt Hattie's sweating forehead and was pleased to find the fever broken. She gently woke her husband and sent him to bed while she assumed the vigil.

  Mr. Stanford woke late the next morning and found his wife already in the kitchen. Hattie had spent a peaceful night after the fever had passed and was still asleep. They both agreed it was the best thing for her. Mr. Stanford left for his office without looking in on Hattie for fear of waking her, but assured nonetheless that his daughter was well along toward recovery. His wife seemed convinced of it and had sent her husband off with the admonition not to worry.

  At the office George threw himself into his work and didn't give the matter another thought until Jamie Farrell burst into his office shortly before noon and between gasps of breath, informed him that he was needed at home again, urgently. This last word and young Jamie's demeanor filled George with foreboding. The messenger could shed no more light on the matter except that his mother was with Mrs. Stanford who was quite upset.

  George strode purposely home, filled with trepidation, yet hoping that this was no more than the hysterical outburst of his high-strung wife. He tried not to think of the worst possibility, but like an evil specter, it haunted his thoughts. As he turned the corner to his street, he recognized Dr. Benton's rig standing before his house. He hastened his step and soon passed across the porch and through the door. Mrs. Farrell met him on the stairs and told him with tear stained eyes that the doctor was with his wife upstairs. She could say no more and turned away sobbing. George suspected the worst.

  As he passed down the hallway toward Martha's bedroom, he hesitated before the door to Hattie's room. He felt duty bound to go first to his wife, but he could not stand the agony of not knowing. He turned the handle and went in. The room was dark as it had been the day before, but he blundered ahead blindly through the gloom to Hattie's bed. There wasn't a sound from the bed though he could see his daughter's dim form. In the oppressive stillness he heard only his own labored breathing and felt the blood pounding at his temples.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark and there, lying on the big bed, covered to the chin with blankets, was the still body of his daughter. He bent down and looked closely. Her face gave no hint of the fevered strain that had racked her body the night before. Though she seemed in a deep and peaceful sleep, he saw even in the dim light, the unnatural pallor that had settled over her face.

  Though all indications had pointed to it, the confirmation of Hattie's death staggered him. A shock passed through him like a bolt of lightning and the vital energy that had animated him heretofore passed immediately away. He had not moved, yet every feature, every aspect of his body was unalterably transformed. A great and profound age had settled over him.

  Hattie was dead, yet the fact was incomprehensible. This child, this sweet, loving being, who had so brightened her father's life, was no more. He slumped onto the bed and reached to touch her face. A hopeless resignation filled him as his hand felt the cool skin. The matter was settled; there was nothing he could do to change it. Yet how could this be? How could this happen? This small and defenseless child was everything to him. As her father and protector, had he somehow failed to prevent this tragedy? Yet how could he?

  He looked into her innocent face and a terrible anger gathered in his heart. How could this deat
h be justified? For whose sins was it necessary? What kind of a God would permit this to happen? A rising fury boiled within him. With clenched fists and a face distorted in a horrible grimace, he slipped off the bed and fell to his knees. He struggled with his blasphemous thoughts trying to drive them away with the prayers he had so often repeated without feeling or conviction. But his uninspired belief in a benevolent savior was no match for the dark and oppressive thoughts that crowded his mind. Slowly, painfully, the blind and consuming anger drained away. But as it diminished, the realization of Hattie's death returned. He opened his eyes. He hoped against hope that it was a bad dream. But he again found himself looking upon Hattie's still face.

  George remembered his wife. Hattie was the sole focus of her life. Since the painful and precarious delivery almost three years ago, the awareness that she could not conceive again and the months of tender nursing at her breast, Hattie was life itself to Martha. She was filled with wonder and motherly pride at every aspect of Hattie's growth and development. She had begun reading to Hattie even before the child knew the meaning of sounds. She rocked