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Chapter Six

I was eager to see where we were to live, but on the first morning after our arrival at Nan, we woke to find several people waiting for the new doctor on the Ruckels's doorstep. Harvey pulled on his clothes and, without eating breakfast, went out on the porch to tend to them. He listened quietly as each person struggled to describe what was wrong. Then he cleaned wounds, applied bandages, and dispensed medicine from the supplies he had carried in his bag from Bangkok.

Soon a steady stream of patients began arriving. Even before we had seen the hospital, his new medical practice began. As was his way, Harvey treated each person with great respect, standing to greet the women and stooping down to speak to children. He could be stern, but the kind smile never left his eyes as he worked all that first day without rest.

I stood at a window in the parlor watching Harvey with his patients when, suddenly, I heard exclamations from the room in which Reverend and Mrs. Ruckel slept. I found Mrs. Ruckel rummaging through a pile of clothing pulled from shelves. “White ants!” she exclaimed, holding up one piece after another against the light from the window. I could see that every piece of clothing was neatly drilled with holes. The ants had invaded during the night, devouring everything in their path from bottom to top.

“Where on earth did they come from?” I asked.

“Our house is built too low to the ground,” she grumbled as she tossed the ruined things into a pile in the middle of the floor. “The local people are much smarter than us about this sort of thing. They protect themselves from the little beasts by building their huts on high poles, then they slick the poles with black oil from the sap of the yang tree.”

I winced as I held a shoe up to the light. “They've bored right through it,” I marveled.

“It's almost impossible to disrupt the file once they burrow through the floors.” The ants were lightning quick and, because they attacked from below, were difficult to spot.

Mrs. Ruckel was a warm, comfortable person. Like an elderly aunt with the privilege of age, she addressed all the mission ladies by our Christian names. But although she was kind and practical, accepting the hardships of her life without complaint, I did not think that she was efficient. Several local people were employed in the Ruckel household to handle domestic chores, but each day I watched her bustle around the house behind them, polishing and cleaning, laundering and cooking, repeating the work of her staff.

“Why does she hire these people if she insists on doing the work herself?” I asked Miss Mamsey.

“It's expected,” she told me. “The wages we pay are nothing by standards at home, but here a day's wage is a small fortune. The jobs are highly prized by the local natives.”

“But it seems such a waste of time — to do everything twice.”

“Yes. But they don't know how we do things, and it's expected.” She studied me. “Anyway, time moves slowly here. Unless you're specially trained, like your husband, you may find that it helps to complicate things.”

Mrs. Ruckel also managed the mission while the old Reverend disappeared for days into the jungle to preach in the villages of the Nan Valley and mountains north, near the border with Laos. She knew the local people well and constantly visited their fragile homes, counseling in her gentle way when problems threatened to overwhelm them. Mrs. Ruckel had a special concern for young women who had lost their husbands and raised children alone. Often she sat with these widows, listening intently as they spoke in murmurs, her hands clasped quietly in her lap, her gaze never wandering.

I worried that I wouldn't fit in and Harvey noticed my discomfort. “Everyone seems to have a purpose here,” I told him. “Miss Mamsey and Miss Best and Mrs. Breeden all teach at the school, and they seem to agree that there's no need for another teacher just yet. Mrs. Ruckel manages the mission's accounts, and you're busy from sunrise to sunset with your patients.”

“Don't worry, Babs. Just watch Mrs. Ruckel. You'll find out what's expected of you soon enough.”

“I'm certain of that,” I said, giving the words a wry twist. But thoughts of the gay life that I had envisioned among the Europeans and diplomats of Bangkok and Chiang Mai slipped through my mind. I veiled my eyes and looked away. “Perhaps I'll preach.”

Harvey laughed, an easy, happy sound.

Mrs. Ruckel had a piano made of wood that felt like fine satin when I ran my hands across the top. It was slightly out of tune, having endured the hardship of a journey upriver from Bangkok some years before on a boat built specially for its transport. At one of the rapids, the boatmen got out to pull and the ropes had broken under the strong current. Only by extraordinary effort had the boatmen prevented the piano from overturning in the water. The special piano boat now rotted on the riverbank at Nan, as the boatmen finally concluded that the spirits were angered by this use of the water and would exercise their wrath on anyone foolish enough to try it again.

I began playing the piano every morning. It was placed in the parlor near a large window and, as I played, I gazed down the river road through the open shutters, singing along and sometimes just making up words when I forgot a song. The words are not important anyway; it's feeling that makes the music. Occasionally, someone walking past on the road would turn and smile, and then I'd shift to something gay like “Alexander's Ragtime Band.” It seemed to me that the unfamiliar western sounds made the local people happy, and once a farmer walking to the market just outside the walls of Nan laughed and broke into a surprising jig. When thoughts of home crept in, I played pensive tunesÑ sonatas and nocturnes, music by Chopin, Beethoven, Liszt. I banished thoughts of the look on Miss McGregor's face when I'd told her of my decision to leave with Harvey, to abandon my chance to sing with the Chicago Opera. But “Liebstraum,” my father's favorite piece, always conjured bittersweet memories as the notes drifted through the window and over the steamy rice fields and jungles of the Nan Valley. Home.

In Philadelphia my family's house was filled with books, but instead of the neat embossed rows in the Perkins library, our books at home were worn and scattered, filling shelves, piled on tables, stacked on the floor near favorite chairs. My family fascinated Harvey, I knew. Unlike his own, we were unruly, passionate about ideas and music and art, but careless about practical things that make life run smoothly. The furniture was tattered, but the house had a pleasant musty smell, and Mummy ruled with vague discipline. She was small and plump and smelled of lavender. My throat grew tight as I thought now how far away she was. We had left our families standing together in two small, tight groups on a platform at the Broad Street station in Philadelphia months ago. My father had hugged me to his chest and I rested there one moment, my head snug beneath his chin. I had wanted to hold onto him forever.

“You are marked for something special, Barby,” he whispered as he stroked my hair. “You've always had a special spark, an independent way.” His voice grew tight. “Just remember, now. At night in Siam, look to the stars. We'll be watching the same stars here at home and thinking of you, Mummy and I.” His voice caught. “We'll pick one out for your own while you're gone, so make it shine. Shine out for us!” The warning whistle blew just then and he thrust me away, holding me stiff-armed before him for a moment before turning me toward Mummy. Mummy ran her fingers along the crease of my collar, as if to make it crisp, then smoothed my long hair, pushing it back from my face. Giving me a significant look, she whispered, “Time to drop the schoolgirl dreams. You're a grown woman and a wife now.” She softened the words with a smile, then looked away and fumbled for a handkerchief. My throat was thick, but I nodded to let her know that I understood.

The train station was stark, gray, and cold. The wind channeled down the platform and wrapped around us. We had shivered and lingered with them until the last possible moment, climbing up the steel steps of our car only at the warning of the final whistle. Whether from the chill or because of the knowledge that we would not return for many years, my mother and father huddled against each other as they waved good-bye.

As soon as we boarded, the train gave a sudden jerk forward and began to move, rattling down the tracks, gaining speed.

I hurried to the nearest window and leaned out, waving until Mummy and Dad and all of my brothers and sisters slid away behind us and finally disappeared. For an instant my heart constricted and blood surged to my head, pounding in my ears. I was dizzy, breathless, and consumed with terror at the rupture. Then Harvey folded me into his arms and I let myself rest against him, fighting back the tears.

Gently, from habit, he smoothed my curls. “Marmalade hair,” he had murmured, looking down at me. His green eyes were bright with excitement and as he cupped his sturdy, reliable hand behind my neck, I felt his strength. Slowly the terror had dissolved, to be replaced by a spark of new courage and excitement. For a fleeting moment Miss McGregor's face flashed into my mind, but I stopped the thought.

I lifted my hands from the keyboard and drew back, letting the memories go — as I had resolved to do, as we all must sometimes do when we marry. As my mother had taught.

But it was hard, so difficult. I forced the shadows from my thoughts before they grew too long and dark and fell on Harvey.

“Mrs. Perkins.” The voice startled me. I swiveled to see Mrs. Breeden entering the parlor behind me.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully, glad for the diversion. I swung around on the piano bench to face her — any port in a storm, they say. “Have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you,” she answered, smoothing her dress as she sat. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat that she removed and placed carefully upon her lap. I waited, but she merely gave me a long look.

“Beautiful weather,” I said.

She nodded and agreed, and for a few minutes we talked of the weather, how warm it was, how dry, for now. “But just wait a few months when the rainy season starts,” she said in an ominous tone.

When we'd exhausted the subject of weather, she fell silent again. I waited with the uneasy feeling that she'd come here for some particular purpose. “My husband has asked me to have a word with you,” she finally said.

With sudden trepidation, I swallowed.

She shifted to a more comfortable position in the chair and gave me a deprecating smile. “I'll just come right out with it,” she finally said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “It's about all of this.” Her mouth tightened as she spoke and her eyes darted past me to the piano.

“About what?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder.

“The music,” she said, with a drawn-out sigh. She spoke with sharp little jabs of her chin as she went on in a lecturing tone. “We're here to witness, not sing, Mrs. Perkins. Popular music has no place in this mission. It gives people ideas.” My stomach plummeted as I listened. She folded her hands and rested them on the hat. “We have rules to obey,” she said. “My husband is concerned that proper discipline be maintained at all times, particularly for the children.”

Seconds ticked by as she looked past me, took in the open window, and slowly shook her head. When her eyes turned back to me, her voice rose an octave and she added, “The children are right across the way.” She paused and arched her brows.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, with what I hoped was a cool, deliberate look, “but I don't believe I understand.”

Her expression hardened. She rose, picked up her hat and set it on her head, then adjusted it delicately with the tips of her fingers. “Oh, I think you do,” she said, drawing out her words. “We're not a frivolous group, Mrs. Perkins. We're concerned with souls out here, not votes for women and songs and such.” She wheeled around and stormed toward the door, heels clacking on the wooden floor, while I stared after her. As she reached the door, she halted, bracing her hand on the frame for an instant. With a heaving breath, she turned and choked out her final words: “You know nothing about this country or these people. How dare you wander into this mission and try to change things?”

“Give it time,” Harvey advised when I raged later. “You'll have more freedom when we move to our own home. Were guests right now, and the mission school is right across the field.”

He held me and stroked my hair while I sobbed. “Babs, Babs.” His voice was low and soothing. “Just put it out of your mind and wait until we move. You can sing all day long in our own house.”