Louisa puffed up in her chair. “No, you didn’t have the right. I certainly expected an apology today and I’m glad you gave one. You can’t imagine how hurt and mortified I was—to go back into Fran’s and make small talk after that scene. She was like a bloodhound on the scent, wanting to sniff out every gory detail. Thanks to me, you’re still in her good graces, but it was an effort—believe me, an effort. It took all I had. My silence was worth its weight in gold for your reputation. Later, when I had time to compose myself and think, I thought too much water had passed under the bridge to give up on us entirely, despite what insane thoughts might fill your head.”
“If what you say about the letters is true, do you have proof?”
“Not yet, but soon. You’ll be the first to know.”
A chilly silence rode between them until Louisa said, “I have other news for you as well. . . .”
Emma stopped fiddling with her pencil in anticipation of Louisa’s revelation.
“I know where Linton Bower lives.”
She stiffened, trying hard not to show her interest. “Oh? Alex didn’t know—or didn’t want to say.”
“I’m sure you still harbor affection for the man,” Louisa said with some distaste in her voice. “A certain Boston art critic we both know tracked him down.”
Emma allowed the depth of her emotion to flow freely, her nerves feeling as if they were being stretched under her skin, her pulse accelerating. “Please, Louisa, I must talk to Linton.”
“I know. Alex told me you had inquired.”
“Alex should keep private conversations to himself.”
“I’m afraid Alex’s propensity for gossip may have caused this muddle in the first place. He was the only one I told about you and Linton.”
“I wish I could say this whole affair was over and done with, but the damage has been significant to all involved.”
Louisa leaned toward her. “I know, and that’s another reason I came. I’m not the heartless soul you think I am. I do bear some responsibility for this . . . misunderstanding.” She stopped and withdrew a paper from her coat pocket. “Linton’s address is on this slip. It’s not far from here—in the West End. But if you go, be prepared for what you might find. I think Linton has had a tough time of it. I’ve not seen him since the Fountain closed. I don’t think he ever got over your leaving.”
Emma rose and offered her hand.
Louisa shook it gently.
“Thank you for coming,” Emma said. “I appreciate your concern . . . and friendship.”
“I will clear my name. Mark my words.” She put on her coat and turned toward the door. “Good luck with Linton.”
When Emma heard Anne latch the door, she picked up her sketch pad once again and opened the cover. There, in another drawing, were the muscular back and legs of Linton Bower, his face, unfinished, turned toward an unknown horizon.
Entry: 29th January, 1919
I’ve resumed this diary because the winter has undone me. I never fancied myself as a writer—always an artist—but I find myself secluded with my thoughts on these cold days, with no one to confide in except Anne and Lazarus. Both must tire of my ramblings. Cold, cold, and more cold, plus an unrelenting parade of gray clouds that hangs on for days, as if the sun were captured and bound, and, like a prisoner, allowed only a brief respite outdoors. I can only hope that spring will come early this year with its promise of change.
I dreamed of Tom last night and the awful explosion at the Front. I woke up screaming because I rushed to him and he had no face. The shell had wiped it clean away leaving only a bloody pulp. The dream has taken other victims, all reduced to ashen, faceless figures. But Kurt and Tom seem to appear most frequently in these nightmares. I haven’t heard from my husband and, at this point, I don’t know if I will. Our forced separation is creeping into divorce.
Also, I have attempted, since Louisa’s visit, to keep my thoughts about Linton to a mild distraction. I did take a walk one day through the snow, to his studio, only to find the door bolted and the second story looking particularly empty—the intuitive feeling one often gets when a building has been deserted.
My only hope of seeing Linton will be to go to the address Louisa gave me. I suppose that’s what I’ll do when I gather up the nerve; my emotions are still raw from Paris. Louisa’s warning about his condition has tempered my enthusiasm; but, since my return, I’ve overlooked the ache in my heart. The memory of Linton’s affections, which pushed me to France, has returned. Suddenly, it’s as though I have that insane choice to make between Tom and Linton. Is the ache in my heart from the possibility of what Linton and I could have had—as he pointed out in our last conversation at the Livingstons’?
The war and France have changed me. How can one do the work I did and not be altered? Life is more precious to me than it has ever been, though I lack the love I desire. If I had to make the choice between Tom and Linton, I fear it would tear me apart.
Lazarus has nosed open my studio door in order to find me. He has been overly affectionate the past few weeks, especially since he’s gotten used to me being here again. But I believe there is another reason for his attentions. He is protective through his own instinct, and knows by his senses—as I do as well—that my body carries another human being. And as the child grows, the haunting dream dissolves. I used Kurt for my own advantage, but I have no remorse. How could I live with this hideous dream for the rest of my days?
CHAPTER 12
BOSTON
February 1919
A brilliant powdery blue sky covered Boston. The air was cold enough for snow, but the sun shone without clouds for company. The morning passed with Emma bent over the toilet bowl; however, the queasy sickness had faded by noon when she managed to eat a bowl of oatmeal for lunch.
After the bout with her stomach had cleared, feeling well enough for a walk, she’d decided to find Linton, knowing she could no longer put off the inevitable. Time waits for no man—or woman.
She traversed the narrow streets of the West End where the row houses, in their congested and endless line of brick fronts, depressed her. The deeper she descended, the closer she came to the address she sought, the worse the houses became. Many of them stood derelict, their windows broken or shuttered with yellowed newspaper, the wooden steps rotting from the damp. In the dark shadows that covered some of the façades, Emma spotted candles burning through the windows—a piteous source of heat on a frigid day.
She shuddered upon reaching the address Louisa had given her, lifting the note from the shadows into the sunlight to make sure she had arrived at the right building—but there was no mistake. She stared at the house and struggled to contain her revulsion. The third-floor windows were broken, the frames twisted like branches into the air. Pigeons cooed and fluttered in the openings. A filthy sheet covered the second-story windows and behind the makeshift scrim, the figure of a heavyset man moved in shadowy outline. The first-floor windows were sealed against all light, heavy maroon drapes hanging against them like ornamental swags adorning a tomb.
She gathered her courage and forced herself to knock on the door. Curses rose from above, followed by the heavy clomp of feet down the stairs. The door flew open and Emma faced a man larger than John Harvey, balls of yellow spittle clinging to his mustache, the warm odor of beer floating on his breath.
“What do ya want?” he asked in a brogue laced with hostility.
“I’m looking for Mr. Linton Bower,” Emma said, trying to maintain her composure.
“He ain’t ’ere,” the man replied, “and no decent woman would go looking for ’im in this neighborhood.”
“Are you sure he isn’t here? This is the address I was given.”
“Quite,” he replied with mock civility. “Now, go about yer business elsewhere.”
Emma was about to leave when she heard a raspy voice call out from the first-floor apartment, “Terry, who’s there? Is it a visitor for me?”
“Shut up and mind yer business,�
�� the man spit back. “Yer not fit for guests.”
“Is that Mr. Bower?” Emma poked her head past the doorway.
“Did you ’ear me? I said begone.”
“Terry?” the voice asked again, this time with more force.
“Go back to bed,” Terry shouted at the door and then turned on Emma. “This ain’t none of yer concern!”
“If it is Mr. Bower, it is definitely my concern—and his.”
“I knew it,” the man said. “Yer after money, too. Well, the bugger ain’t paid his rent for two months, and he ain’t gettin’ out of here scot free.”
Emma looked past Terry as the inside door inched open. Through the crack, the face of a man appeared, although she wasn’t at all sure the features belonged to Linton. Filmy eyes sank deep into ashen sockets; the man’s black hair lay matted against his scalp. He wore trousers but no shirt, his shoulders and chest wrapped loosely in a gray blanket.
“Linton?” Emma asked, barely containing her horror.
The tenant’s face twisted toward the door; then, his head tilted back in recognition.
“Emma?” His voice barely rose above a whisper.
“It is you!” She ran into Terry, who blocked the doorway with his girth. “Please, let me past.”
Linton lowered his head and said, “You should leave. It isn’t safe—it isn’t right.”
“Are ya deaf?” Terry asked. “He’s told ya to get out.”
“I have money. I’ll give you twenty dollars if you let me pass.”
Terry’s eyes lit up.
Emma withdrew two bills from her coat pocket and pushed them into his outstretched palm.
He bowed slightly and let her pass.
She rushed toward the door.
Linton attempted to close it in front of her, but she pushed back, staring through the gap between them. His legs buckling, his strength failing to sustain the resistance, he clutched the doorknob before collapsing.
“My God,” Emma said. “You need help.”
“He needs more ’an help,” Terry called back as he headed up the stairs. Then he laughed and shut his door with a thump.
Emma lifted Linton by his arms and dragged him toward a small bed pushed against the inside wall of the tiny room.
He collapsed on the dilapidated mattress, shivering and moaning as he wrapped a soiled sheet over the blanket.
Emma found another covering under the bed and placed it over him. Kneeling by his side, she put her hand to his forehead feeling the fiery skin, clammy to the touch, yet beaded with sweat.
“I’m burning up,” Linton whispered, his voice scratchy and hoarse.
Emma withdrew her hand, suddenly terrified of the possibility of influenza. “How long have you been like this?”
“Going on the third day, maybe more, I can’t remember,” Linton said, his voice rattling as he gasped for breath.
“I’m taking you out of here.” Emma looked around the room, in the scattered light, seeing only a chair and Linton’s soiled clothes piled in a corner. The apartment smelled of an oily sickness—of sweat and disease that emanated from the lungs and skin. “You’re burning up and freezing to death at the same time. You need to see a doctor.”
“I can’t—I owe Terry rent. I don’t have money for medicine.”
“To hell with Terry. I’ll pay him and get you to the hospital.” She wanted to stroke his clothed leg and kiss his pale cheeks, but as a doctor’s wife she was aware of the infectious diseases that might harm her and the unborn child.
A weak smile formed on his lips. “I’m glad you’re here. I thought I’d die before I could touch your face again.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You’ll be fine. I’m calling for a cab. Does Terry have a telephone?”
Linton suppressed a laugh, which only caused him to hold his chest and wince in pain. When he could breathe again, he said, “Terry lives as sparsely as I do. A telephone is a luxury.”
Emma opened the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Can you walk?”
“If you help me.”
“You know I will.” She stood by the bed, wishing she could touch him. “You must be calm and wait for me no matter what happens.”
Linton nodded.
As she shut the apartment door, Terry’s rough voice boomed down the stairs. “Had enough, ’ave ya? I said he was no good—not fit for a piece. I ’ear he was a fine specimen once, even though he’s sightless.” His head appeared over the railing.
“How much does he owe you?” Emma said coldly.
“Well, if ya count the twenty ya gave me—which I shouldn’t—as being a fee to enter this fine establishment . . . I suppose I could let him go for another twenty as long as he swabs his room for the next tenant.”
“I’ll be back with forty—lock the door and keep his things as they are.”
“Lock the door?” Terry guffawed in response to Emma’s request. “He ain’t got nothin’ to steal—a few worthless paintings and some grubby old clothes. Who’d want ’em?”
“If you destroy his work, I’ll personally come after you.”
“I’m shakin’,” Terry said, puffing out his eyes. “Come back with the money.” He spat on the floor.
Emma found a cab at the edge of the West End. She instructed the driver to take her home and then return to Linton’s address. Anne helped her gather a nurse’s mask, gloves, a couple of handkerchiefs, and one of Tom’s left-behind winter coats. She washed her hands and returned to Linton’s wearing the mask and gloves. She found him, soaked in sweat, dressed in trousers and a shirt and sitting on the bed. She held out Tom’s coat and guided Linton’s arms into it, led him into the hall, and closed the door. She felt Terry staring at her and, saying nothing, dropped the forty dollars on the mucky wooden floor.
“Boston General,” Emma told the cabdriver, who looked at Linton with suspicion, keeping as far away as he could from the sick man.
A few blocks away, Linton’s head swayed onto Emma’s shoulder.
She placed one of the handkerchiefs under his head and looked at his ashen face.
A thin line of blood trickled from his nose.
* * *
Emma felt it too risky to return to Linton’s apartment that day to get his paintings. She assumed Terry would wait a few more days before ignoring her order to keep the soiled clothes and the artwork, and thought of hiring a workman to retrieve his belongings.
The day after Linton was admitted, Emma walked to Boston General. The admission process the day before had not been easy. Linton had no money or family to support him. The staff, who knew Emma on sight because of Tom, welcomed her, but, overall, seemed more interested in her story in Paris than they were in the patient. After a half hour of getting little accomplished, she finally called for the director, a venerable Boston gentleman with years of experience as a surgeon. Once she talked with him, Linton was admitted to a ward with other influenza patients. The director assured Emma that his new patient would have the finest care and that she could visit any time if she was willing to take proper precautions.
Despite the previous day’s drawbacks, Emma knew that Boston General was opulent compared to the hospital in Toul and that Linton would be well looked after. The corridors were spacious and the floors gleamed white, unlike the cramped facility in France. Here, the doctors and nurses walked in their starched uniforms down well-lit halls.
When she arrived, the front-desk nurse greeted her cheerily and called for an orderly. The young man led Emma to a sparkling white room where she pulled on a smock over her clothes, positioned a fresh cotton mask over her mouth and nose, and put on gloves. He then directed her to the ward.
“How is Mr. Bower?” she asked a nurse who stood outside the door.
The woman smiled and said, “He’s holding his own. So many young men are sick. We’re concerned about the pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia?” Emma asked, shocked by the diagnosis. “He has it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
�
��May I see him?”
“The director has asked me to make an exception for you, but please don’t touch him and don’t take too much time. He’s very weak. He’s in bed ten, near the window.”
Emma thanked the nurse and walked into the rectangular room full of patients, mostly men, some wearing masks. She spotted Linton near a corner, enveloped in a pool of sun from a window behind his head. As she approached, he lifted his head from the pillow. The pallid face showed slightly more color than the day before; still, his overall complexion remained ghastly. Emma started to touch his shoulder but relented, and instead stood close to the bed.
“I knew you would come,” Linton said.
“Of course.”
Linton studied her with watery eyes. “Another time, another place,” he said in a strained voice and managed a smile.
She backed into the sunlight so he could see her better.
“I recognized you today, just as I did when you came to my studio. That day, you smelled of oatmeal soap and I ran my hands over your stockings.”
“I remember,” Emma said. “But don’t talk—you must save your energy.”
“The doctor says I have pneumonia.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been so blind, I would have whisked you away.”
Emma held a finger to her lips, before drawing up a chair and sitting beside his bed. “Let me talk, Linton.”
He turned his head toward her.
“I have something to tell you . . . I want to thank you for your letters. They meant so much to me, I saved them in Paris and brought them back to Boston. They’ve traveled thousands of miles and now they’re home. I was worried when your letters stopped, but now I understand what happened.”
The Sculptress Page 36