The Widow's War

by Mary Mackey

  Around two, she stops working and retires to the dining room to eat a bowl of soup, some stewed chicken, and a plate of sliced fruit. Then she goes back to the parlor. She’s just getting to the bottom of the pile of condolences when the maid comes in bearing a visiting card.

  “A gentleman is here to see you, Senhorita.”

  “Please tell him I’m not at home.” She has no desire to trade banalities with yet another man in hunt of a fortune. Besides there is only one card on the tray, which means her visitor has not followed the usual practice of coming with his mother or some other female relatives. Recently a male caller leaped at her under the mistaken impression that smothering her with unwanted kisses was the path to her heart. He had left humiliated and gasping for breath after she thumped him in the chest with the book of romantic poetry he had brought her. Word must have gotten out, because until this afternoon she has not had any more unchaperoned suitors. Still, the incident has made her wonder if it’s been a mistake not to wear black.

  “The gentleman is an American, Senhorita. He says he will only trouble you for a few moments, but that he brings you important news.”

  “News? Did he say what kind of news?”

  “No, Senhorita.”

  “Please show him in.”

  In the time that elapses before the stranger enters the parlor, Carrie allows herself to hope. Perhaps he’s bringing a message from William explaining his absence. She examines the calling card and discovers her visitor is Deacon Presgrove and that he’s in the import/ export business.

  The parlor door opens and a man enters: tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly familiar. Springing to her feet with a muffled cry of joy, Carrie takes a few steps toward him, then suddenly checks herself. This is not William, only a man who looks something like him. He has the same long, straight nose and high cheekbones, but his hair and moustache are black, not brown; he is a good five years older than William, and there are other things about him—the way he stands, the way he holds himself, the shape of his chin . . . Sick with disappointment, she sits down.

  Mr. Presgrove places his hat on a side table and puts a medium-sized package wrapped in brown paper next to it. She notices he is wearing mourning. At the sight of the black band on his arm, she experiences dread so great it is all she can do to keep herself from ordering him to leave immediately. She doesn’t care what kind of news he has come to deliver. She doesn’t want to hear it.

  I mustn’t jump to conclusions. This has nothing to do with William. One of Mr. Presgrove’s relatives has died, so naturally he’s in mourning. In a moment he’ll state his business, and I’ll find that it has something to do with orchids, or it will be a plea for me to contribute to a charity, or he’ll have just arrived in Rio bearing a letter from Aunt Jo complaining that I never write to her . . .

  She notices that his eyes are green and catlike. Later she will recall a subtle sense of being stalked, but at the time, the sensation passes so quickly she hardly registers it.

  How could I have ever mistaken him for William? William has brown eyes. Yet for a few seconds, seeing this man was like seeing a ghost. She banishes the thought from her mind and forces herself to think of nothing at all. For a few seconds, she succeeds. Then Mr. Presgrove speaks.

  “Miz Carolyn Vinton?” he says in a soft, unmistakably Southern accent.

  “Yes,” Carrie replies, rising to her feet. “I am Miss Vinton. What can I do for you, Mr. Presgrove?”

  He looks at her, and for an instant something close to pity flickers in the depths of his eyes. “I am William Saylor’s stepbrother.”

  Chapter Five

  The news Carrie has dreaded for so many weeks has arrived on her doorstep: William is dead. As Mr. Presgrove gives her the details, she presses her fingernails into the palms of her hands so hard that she later discovers she has cut herself. Every atom of her being fights against accepting this final verdict. Stop! she wants to cry. Stop! But Mr. Presgrove goes on speaking.

  She registers, as if at a great distance, the sound of his voice explaining that he came down from Salvador near the end of the epidemic and forced his way past the quarantine to search for William. “And for you and your father as well, Miz Vinton.”

  He found William somewhere—she does not recognize the name of the place—desperately ill and incoherent with fever, but he discovered no sign of her or her father. Somehow—and it does not occur to her until much later how unusual this is, what force of will it demonstrates—he managed to get the captain of the boat he arrived in to take William on board so William could be transported to São Paulo where he had a better chance of getting medical attention.

  “This was made easier,” Mr. Presgrove says, “by the fact that my stepbrother did not appear to have the smallpox . . .”

  Carrie forces herself to listen as deep inside her, grief boils up in long, slow waves. “I need to sit down,” she says.

  Perhaps under the impression that she is going to faint, Mr. Presgrove moves swiftly toward her and offers her his arm.

  “Allow me, Miz Vinton.”

  Carrie permits him to help her into a chair. Fainting would be a luxury. Being conscious is far worse.

  “Perhaps I should not go on.”

  “No, please continue.” She wants to tell him that she feels as if a boa constrictor is coiled around her chest crushing the air out of her lungs, but that seems a strange thing to say. No doubt he would look at her blankly. William would have understood.

  Mr. Presgrove sits down across from her and clears his throat. “I hope you will not mind me saying, Miz Vinton, that I feel as if I know you. My stepbrother spoke of you constantly, calling out your name as his fever rose, and then, during that precious day when he regained his senses and we thought the worst was over—”

  “He had a day free of fever?” Carrie finds it comforting to imagine William did not suffer too much at the end.

  “Yes, a bit more than a day, actually. During that time, he told me a great deal about you, Miz Vinton. He was terribly worried about you, because you had fallen sick and wandered off, and in his own sickness he had not been able to find you. He asked me over and over again if you were alive, and I always told him that, yes, you were, although of course at the time I had no way of knowing I was speaking the truth.” Mr. Presgrove pauses and looks at Carrie so kindly she nearly breaks down. “He said often that he loved you.”

  “Loved me.” Carrie clutches at the words. “Loved me,” she repeats.

  “Yes. His affection for you was so strong that he thought more of you than of himself. When he realized he was going to die, he made me promise to take care of you and his mother. His mother’s marriage to my father was recent, you see, and I think in his delirium he had forgotten she had a new husband. I am not sure he even recognized me, but he thought constantly of your welfare.” Mr. Presgrove clears his throat again. “Miz Vinton, he died with your name on his lips.”

  Carrie doesn’t believe this. She’s seen people die and their last words are rarely memorable. But even though it’s a lie, it’s a kind one, and it comforts her almost as much as if it were true.

  “A few hours later he passed away. He was buried at sea wrapped in the flag of his country. There was no minister on board, but the captain read the funeral service. I . . ” He pauses again. “I hope you will not think I overstepped any boundaries, Miz Vinton, but I cut off a lock of his hair before he was sewn into the banner that was to be his shroud. I thought to preserve it as a keepsake because I had grown very fond of my stepbrother in the short time we were acquainted, but now I realize he would want me to give it to you.” He pulls out a small twist of paper and hands it to Carrie. “You might have it worked into a mourning broach.”

  Carrie unfolds the paper. Inside is a lock of silky, chestnut-colored hair—all that is left of the man whose body she knew as well as her own.

  “Thank you,” she manages to say.

  “Did he never mention me?” Mr. Presgrove asks.

  C
arrie closes the paper, puts it on her writing desk, and stares at it for a moment, unable to speak. “Yes,” she says at last. “Yes, he did. He told me he came home to find his father dead and his mother remarried, and that his mother had a stepson who was, by coincidence, already in Brazil. He said you met in Salvador and shared a meal together, and that you had expressed a wish to come to Rio for our wedding. I admit I had forgotten all this until you arrived, and even then when your card was brought to me, I did not recognize your name. In the middle of an epidemic—well, I am sure you understand: confusion, no time to talk about . . . you can imagine . . .” How is she summoning up the strength to speak so calmly?

  She closes her eyes. William gone. Blotted out as if he never existed. Where is he? In heaven? Trapped in darkness? Here in this room, a ghost listening? Nowhere at all? Where are the dead? Where do they go? Can Mae Seja really speak to them? Is there a country of the dead just like this one only separated from it by a veil? She wants to believe that somewhere, in some form, William still exists.

  “Miz Vinton,” Mr. Presgrove says, “are you feeling faint? Should I ring for your maid?”

  Carrie opens her eyes. The afternoon light streaming in from the garden seems as blinding as it did when she first woke up in the Casa de Misericórdia. I am seeing the sun, she thinks, a terra-cotta tiled floor, flowers in a green vase. I am alive and William—

  “I’m fine,” she says to Mr. Presgrove who is staring at her with alarm. “Please go on.”

  “I do not have much more to say, I’m afraid. My stepbrother died so quickly. Before he lapsed back into delirium, he asked me to give you something. I hesitate to do so, knowing how painful receiving it will be for you, Miz Vinton, but I feel I must honor his wish.” Mr. Presgrove rises to his feet, retrieves his package from the side table, and sits down again. Pulling out a pocket knife, he cuts the string. He hands the package to Carrie. “This was to have been your wedding present from him.”

  Carrie accepts the package, folds back the brown wrapping paper, and finds another layer of white tissue paper stamped with tiny golden flowers.

  “Chinese paper,” Mr. Presgrove says. “Fine, isn’t it? William said he bought it from a merchant in Panama.”

  Thrusting her hand into the tissue paper, Carrie pulls out a silk shawl so beautiful it makes her gasp. Thin and light as sea foam, the cream-colored silk is a mass of flowers of every description. There must be hundreds of them, none bigger than the tip of her little finger. Unfurling the shawl, she holds it up to the light and the flowers glow, each surrounded by a tiny halo.

  “It is . . .” Words fail her. She draws the shawl to her face and smells it, hoping William’s scent still lingers, but all the silk gives off is an odor of incense—not gardenia or musk or anything else familiar. Perhaps this is the scent of a flower that grows only in China. Disappointed, she removes her face from the shawl and finds Mr. Presgrove still looking at her anxiously.

  “Thank you,” she says. “This means a great deal to me. I shall treasure it.”

  “I wish I could have done more, Miz Vinton. I wish I could have brought you William alive and well. I did everything in my power to save the dear boy. I should probably not call him that, but he was five years younger than I am, you see, and during the time I was taking care of him, I came to think of him as the younger brother I never had.” He rises to his feet. “Now, with your permission, I’ll take my leave. I imagine you want to be alone.”

  Carrie finds herself reluctant to part with him. He’s the last connection she’s ever likely to have to William, and there’s something he should know, something she hadn’t intended to tell him until the moment he called William “the younger brother I never had.”

  Folding the shawl, she puts it on her writing desk next to the piece of paper that contains William’s hair. “Mr. Presgrove, are you returning to the States any time soon?”

  “Yes. I plan to leave in a few weeks after I have finished my business in Salvador. Frankly, I’ll be glad to go home. There is too much death in the tropics.”

  She is surprised to hear him utter the same thought she had been entertaining only a few hours earlier. “Could you carry a message to your stepmother for me?”

  “It would be my pleasure. Would you like me to wait while you write it?”

  “I do not need to write it, Mr. Presgrove. It’s a very short message, and I doubt you’ll forget it. Please tell her—” She pauses, trying to gauge what his reaction will be, then decides it doesn’t matter because she will probably never see him again. “Please tell Mrs. Presgrove she’s going to be a grandmother.”

  Mr. Presgrove looks at her in bewilderment. Suddenly he smiles. There’s not a hint of censure in his face. “A grandmother! You are carrying William’s child? Miz Vinton, this is the best news I have heard in . . . My stepmother will be overjoyed. Her health is frail, and I have been dreading the moment when I must face her and tell her of her son’s death. Now I can bring her good news as well as bad. I think your announcement may well save her life. You are an angel, Miz Vinton.”

  “I am not . . .” Carrie says, but he waves away her protest.

  “An angel, I say. Do not deny it.” He looks as if he is about to weep with happiness. Carrie is moved by his reaction. For the first time since he arrived, she likes him. It’s not his fault that he was forced to bring her the news of William’s death.

  “What a gift you are giving us,” he continues. “I love children, Miz Vinton. I have always adored them. I have none of my own, you see, not being married, so to be told that I am about to become an uncle . . . well, I can’t tell you what great joy this brings me. Thank you.”

  “You don’t condemn me then?”

  “Condemn you? How could I? Children are a gift from God, Miz Vinton. Now that we are to be related, I must call you ‘Carolyn’ and you must call me ‘Deacon.’ Would you mind that? I am sorry. I am being too familiar and probably not making sense. But a child! How wonderful! When is the happy event to take place?”

  Again Carrie is touched. Overwhelming joy over the birth of a baby isn’t a trait you often find in a man who isn’t the father. She examines Mr. Presgrove’s face and sees signs of tenderness and sympathy she missed earlier. He’s a good man, she thinks. A decent man.

  Later she will realize that she should have looked at his face more closely, but now in this parlor with her grief newly minted, she only sees a stranger with William’s warm heart who looks something like William.

  “I will have my baby in June,” she says. My baby. The first time she has ever uttered those words aloud. William’s baby, too, she thinks. Suddenly she experiences a passionate hunger to be held and comforted, and an ache so deep all she wants to do is run from it. Unable to meet Mr. Presgrove’s eyes, she looks toward the garden and sees a hummingbird stabbing its beak into a purple and white-petaled flower. Passiflora edulis: maracujá in Portuguese; passionflower in English. The unspoken words fall on her tongue like dust. She chokes on her grief, turns the choking into a cough, masters her emotions, and turns back to Mr. Presgrove.

  “June?” he says. “But Carolyn—Miz Vinton—you can’t possibly stay here. You must come back to the States immediately and let my stepmother take care of you. You cannot go through the dangers that attend childbirth alone.”

  Again he echoes a thought that Carrie has been having. When she wakes at night in a panic, she not only worries about William; she worries about giving birth to their baby in the tropics. Her two brothers and only sister died as infants here. She is probably alive only because her mother returned to Indiana to give birth to her. She was six—well past the age of greatest danger—before her parents took her to Brazil where even in large cities like Rio the lives of babies are so short that sometimes their parents don’t name them until they prove they can thrive. She can imagine nothing worse than bearing William’s child only to have it die or dying herself and leaving their child an orphan. Her own mother succumbed to childbed fever not two miles f
rom where she now sits.

  Time is running out. She must choose between Brazil and the States while she can still travel. For a few more seconds she wavers. Then she comes to a decision. She cannot do less for her child than her mother did for her. She’s been waiting to find out what happened to William. Now that she knows he’s dead, what is there left for her here in Rio where every street reminds her of him? Since she came back to this house, she hasn’t even been able to sleep in her own bed because they once made love in it. That bed is empty now, made up with fresh sheets, neat as a coffin. It would be better to leave it behind. She needs to start over. This is no place for her and no place for her baby.

  She looks up and sees Mr. Presgrove waiting for her to speak. “I plan to return to the States,” she says. “But—” She breaks off in mid-sentence. She intends to tell him she doesn’t want to impose on William’s mother, but the truth is, she’d like to have her baby’s grandmother with her when she gives birth.

  Mr. Presgrove looks relieved. “I’m glad to hear you are leaving,” he says. “The fevers alone, Miz Vinton, not to mention the bad water, filth, heat, venomous snakes . . . well, Brazil is no place for a woman who is with child. If I had a wife, I’d ship her back home as soon as she told me the good news. Have you booked your passage yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then let me do it for you. My family has a sugar exporting business in Salvador. We are doing quite well, and I can easily book you passage to New York on a clean, sturdy vessel.” He smiles kindly.

  Under normal circumstances, Carrie would have smiled back, but grief is bubbling up in her again, threatening to overflow, and she can hardly trust herself to speak. She wants him to go away now and leave her alone to mourn William, but if she’s going to accept the hospitality of the Presgroves, there are arrangements to be made.