White Wind Blew by James Markert Page A

doing it.
    Jesse approached Wolfgang and offered a hand. “Hello, Father.”
    Wolfgang grinned, and shook it. “Not quite ‘Father’ yet, I’m afraid.” Wolfgang lowered his arm, flexing his hand and wiggling his fingers to make sure they hadn’t been crushed by the young man’s grip. “Don’t tell me. Jesse Jacobs, fourth floor. You prefer to call the violin a fiddle, if I remember correctly.”
    “That’s right…Doctor.” Jesse reached down toward the seats and grabbed a copper cross about two feet tall and textured with carefully placed dents throughout. “Made this at workshop. It’s for the chapel.”
    “Thank you, Jesse. I’ll find the perfect place for it.” Wolfgang held the cross at arm’s length as if analyzing the artwork. “Haven’t noticed you in the chapel before.” Wolfgang had to lift his gaze upward to meet Jesse’s eyes. “Glad you could join us. You’re welcome any time.”
    “Well, I like how you play music here…for the patients.” Jesse rubbed his hands together, as if nervous. “I was wondering, since I’m starting to feel a lot stronger, if you needed any help in the chapel. I’ve prayed for my recovery and He seems to be listening. I’d like to give back somehow.”
    Wolfgang sized him up. “If nothing else I could use you to intimidate my boss. He doesn’t believe in my musical medicine.”
    Jesse looked downward, perplexed.
    Wolfgang waved it away. “Oh, never mind. Of course, Jesse, I would be happy for any help you could give in the chapel.”
    Jesse nodded, smiled. “Thank you. I once thought about becoming a priest myself. You know, after I’m fixin’ to get out of here.”
    “Great,” said Wolfgang. “I’m not sure I’m the best role model yet for a budding priest, but I’ll do my best.”
    “Okay, then,” said Jesse, but instead of moving to the side, he just stood there.
    “I have an extra Bible.” Wolfgang pointed to the back of the chapel. “Under the altar over there. Feel free to borrow it any time you like. I’ve got theology books back at my cottage as well.”
    “Only I don’t know how to read, though, Doctor.”
    “You don’t know how to read,” said Wolfgang, his voice trailing away while big Jesse stood there with an innocent grin. “So it’s safe to say you don’t know Latin?”
    “Is he a patient here?”
    Wolfgang stared for a moment, and when he realized the young man wasn’t joking, he said, “Let’s meet here tomorrow, Jesse, and I’ll show you around.”
    ***
    In the evening, Wolfgang granted Miss Schultz’s request and stopped on the second-floor solarium for a visit with Mr. Jenkins. He played the harmonica for ten minutes while Mr. Jenkins listened silently with a smile, his spotted hands clutching and releasing his bed sheets, clutching and releasing. His fever was high. His skin was chalky, his eyes dark around the sockets. He was an old man who seemed ready to go.
    “Thank you.” Mr. Jenkins craned his head toward Wolfgang’s chair. He coughed. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth. He wiped it on his shirtsleeve and settled his bald, spotted head on a flat pillow. Behind them the woods were silent. The night was dark, the moon concealed by layers of cloud cover. It was much cooler now. Dozens of patients remained out on the porch, some sleeping and some talking. Plumes of steam escaped from their noses and open mouths.
    “The night has a chill to it.” Wolfgang was lost for words. The patients looked to him for conversation, comfort, even wisdom, but often he felt empty and fake, like an impostor. And then he’d remind himself that he’d assisted on surgeries before he’d officially become a doctor. Was this any different?
    Mr. Jenkins looked up at the ceiling. “When I was a boy, my father used to take us to the Ohio River to fish. I loved to sit and watch the barges.”
    “I was in awe when I first saw the Idlewild dock when I was a boy,” said Wolfgang. “It was so big and it held