Free Earth Angels by Bobby Hutchinson Page B

She’d get through this, get over him, and somehow go on with her life. The trouble was, she thought as she went to bed, that she couldn’t quite see how.
    She cried herself to sleep.
    The next morning, she forced herself to go to church. Joseph wasn’t there, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Perversely, she longed to see him and at the same time she dreaded it.
    After the service, Belinda invited her over to see the fashion plates in her latest issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book, and Emma went, grateful for Belinda’s empty headed chatter. It was a distraction from her agony and it filled the long, dismal afternoon.
     
    Monday she began a major stocktaking. With frantic energy, she moved goods, rearranged shelves and counted everything in the store. It took an entire week and exhausted her so that at least she could sleep.
    With the warmer weather and longer days, she opened the store earlier and closed it later, and slowly the anguish inside of her dulled a little, enough so that she could once again smile at her customers. It seemed, however, that her natural, inborn gaiety, her joy in life, was probably gone forever.
    May arrived, a wet and dismal May, that seemed to mirror the lingering pain in Emma’s heart. She and Joseph gave each other a wide berth, though it was impossible to avoid each other in the small town. Joseph stopped coming to the store, sending a young boy for supplies when he needed them. Emma would fill his order and then have the boy deliver the satchel. At church, she make certain to sit as far away from Joseph as she could get. In the street, she ducked into a shop if she saw him coming. It seemed childish, but she simply couldn’t face him. Her hurt was too deep.
     
    Joseph tried to bury himself in his work, but for the first time ever, medicine failed to either occupy his mind or bring him satisfaction. Worse still, he couldn’t summon up the patience and forbearance that had been an integral part of his nature.
    When Lazarus Weatherby finally took one drink too many and went quite mad one night in the tavern, Joseph heard himself lecturing the other patrons on the evils of drink, sounding like some puritanical fanatic, even though he knew quite well most of them were honest, hard working farmers and loggers enjoying a rare and well deserved pint.
    In his office, he was curt and preoccupied. He no longer had the tolerance to sit and listen to long, involved stories from his elderly patients. He cut them off and hurried them out.
    He told Lewis, one of the barbershop quartet, that his piles would be much improved if he found something more worthwhile to do than sit on his backside ten hours a day.
    “Yer gitten’ a mite big fer yer britches, ain’t ya?” Vernon grabbed his decrepit old hat and plunked it on his head, glaring at Joseph. “I knew yer daddy well, young Gillespie, and he’d be mortified if’n he heard ye talking to yer elders that way.” He stomped out of the office. “Young whippersnapper. Call yerself a doctor, humph!”
    The mention of his father brought a rush of agonizing memories. Emma had asked him once about his parents, but he’d told her only about the happy days of his childhood. He still couldn’t speak of the agony their loss had brought. And he’d never told her about Ruth.
    Damn Emma, for worming her way into his heart. Damn himself, for allowing it to happen.
    The day after Lewis’s visit, Joseph was surprised that his first patient of the day was Granny.
    “Well, Granny, good morning.” He tried to inject enthusiasm into his voice and muster up a smile for his old friend, but he knew his efforts were futile. “What brings you here?” Granny had always prided herself on her own remedies.
    She peered around with open curiosity, examining the rows of bottles and jars on his shelves, poking a wary finger at his stethoscope.
    “Newfangled frippery,” she snorted, then turned and peered at him from under her black bonnet. Her shoe button