Free When the Clouds Roll By by Myra Johnson

sleeping comfortably. Even so, better to stay ahead of the pain.
    As she prepared the hypodermic, Lieutenant Ballard shifted. His back arched. His mouth twisted into a tortured frown. Eyes squeezed shut, he rocked his head from side to side, a mumbling stream of words pouring from his throat—something about rain and rifle fire and blood, so much blood.
    He gave a hoarse cry and sat straight up. He flailed his arms as if warding off an unseen enemy.
    “It’s all right, Lieutenant. The war’s over. You’re safe now.” Mary struggled to settle him before he threw himself onto the floor, only to have him turn his attack upon her. With a sharp blow to her jaw, he sent her reeling against the next bed. A thousand flickering fireflies filled her vision. Her cheek throbbed as though she’d plowed into a brick wall.
    “Hey, get some help here!” someone yelled.
    A flurry of bodies and voices surrounded the lieutenant. Mary tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness knocked her to her knees.
    “Mary! Good heavens, child, are you all right?” Mrs. Daley crouched over her.
    Mary rubbed her jaw and tried again to get her bearings. “Lieutenant Ballard—”
    “The orderlies have him restrained. What happened?”
    “Restrained?” Mary forced herself to stand. Leaning upon the chief nurse’s arm, she watched as two orderlies struggled to hold down the lieutenant while another nurse injected him with a hypodermic. “Saints above, don’t hurt him!”
    “They’re only sedating him. He is clearly out of control.” Mrs. Daley seized the lieutenant’s chart and dashed off some notes. To the orderlies she said, “I want this man under restraint until further notice.”
    Mary hovered at the lieutenant’s bedside. “He was only having a bad dream. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
    Mrs. Daley seized Mary’s wrists and forced her to turn away from the man now shivering under blankets in a drugged half-sleep, his torso, right arm, and right leg secured to the bed with strong strips of gauze. “Listen to me, young lady. You’ve no idea what a shell-shocked infantryman is capable of. You’re to stay away from Lieutenant Ballard from now on. I’m ordering him moved to another ward until he can be transferred to a hospital with psychiatric facilities.” Mrs. Daley harrumphed. “That’s where they should have sent him in the first place.”

    “Yes, thank you, Mr. Jones. You have a merry Christmas, too.” Annemarie disconnected the call and jotted a note on the order form. They’d be hard pressed to fulfill the request before the first of the year, what with several employees taking time off for Christmas, but Jones Restaurant Supply was one of their largest accounts, and Annemarie had no doubt her father would find a way. They couldn’t afford for Mr. Jones to take his business to Ouachita Pottery, a much larger operation.
    Which, naturally, meant even less time for Annemarie to spend on her own projects. Thanks to the display Thomas had arranged for her at the Arlington, she’d received several requests for her one-of-a-kind ceramics as Christmas gifts. At least most of the pieces had already been fired and glazed.
    If only Papa could see the merit of artistry in ceramics. Ouachita Pottery already employed talented women to decorate their ceramic ware with artistic glazes and designs. Though the specialty items sold for a higher price, by their very nature they took more time and personnel to produce, and Papa was all about mass production and the bottom line.
    The workroom door banged shut, and moments later Papa ambled into the front office. “Still at your desk, Annie-girl? It’s after six o’clock. Your mother will have supper on the table soon.”
    “Mr. Jones called with a last-minute order.” She handed the sheet to her father. While he looked it over, she tidied up her desk, then bolted the front door and shut off the steam heat.
    “Hmm, looks doable—if Ben and Bryan are willing to put in some