Firefly

by Linda Hilton

  “Look, Miss Hollstrom, I—”

  “I thought I heard you waking up out here,” she rudely interrupted. “Do you take anything in your coffee?”

  “No, but I—”

  “And would you prefer strawberry preserves or orange marmalade on your toast?”

  “Strawberry, but you don’t—”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I only fixed you some toast and coffee; I didn’t think you’d be up to much more after the way you felt yesterday.” She walked past him and set the tray on the railing, then pulled one of the wicker chairs closer to him. “Why don’t you sit down while you eat?”

  Well, did you really expect her to invite you into her kitchen for breakfast? he asked himself caustically. It ought to be enough she’s feeding you here on her front porch, instead of calling someone to drag you home and out of her sight.

  So he did as he was told and sat down on the chair that still had its cushion and let Julie set the tray on his lap before she uncovered the plate of lightly buttered toast. The slices had been cut into neat little triangles, and there were two dishes of jam, one red and one yellow to match the color of their contents. Morgan stared, then picked up the knife and began to spread strawberry jam on one slice of toast. He was about to pop the morsel into his mouth when he suddenly realized where he was and what he was doing.

  “Look, Miss Hollstrom—”

  “No, you look, Mr. Morgan.”

  She was a tall girl, as he remembered from last week, and he rather enjoyed looking up at her, even if he was about to receive a lecture.

  “I won’t flatter you by telling you how you miraculously saved my brother’s life. We both know he was in very little real danger.”

  She wore a dress of faded green calico with that ever-present apron tied around her waist. Morgan noticed that it was a small waist, and he turned back to his toast with a mumbled, “He sure thought he was a goner.”

  “Be that as it may, I still want to thank you for the help you gave me. My parents are inordinately fond of Willy, and I confess I would rather have had the blame for any disaster fall on your head than on mine.”

  “So all I was was a scapegoat?”

  “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have told you. No, I wanted to thank you for doing a much better job than I could have done, and certainly better than poor Dr. Opper.”

  “‘Poor’ Dr. Opper? Hell, Horace rakes in more dough than I ever did, and he does less for it, too. I’d hardly call that old quack ‘poor.’”

  He crammed the toast into his mouth and chewed furiously, both because he was hungry and because he was already saying things he had no right to say, to Julie Hollstrom or to anyone else for that matter.

  “Well, you needn’t worry about him any more. Dr. Opper is dead.”

  Morgan choked. If he had had any more in his mouth, he probably would have choked to death.

  “Horace is dead?”

  “As the proverbial doornail. Mr. McCrory found him lying in the alley behind the general store. Apparently he just died.”

  “People don’t ‘just die,’ Miss Hollstrom. Probably his heart gave out, or he had a stroke. He didn’t look too good yesterday afternoon, but I sure didn’t think he’d croak this quick.”

  He sipped the fresh, hot coffee slowly, careful not to burn his mouth, and mused on the passing of Horace Opper, a man he had never liked but never really gave a whole lot of thought to.

  “Shall I pour you some more coffee?” Julie asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  “No, thanks.” Then he looked up at her suspiciously. “Just what is it you want from me? I’m a drunk, Miss Hollstrom, and it was only sheer luck I wasn’t out cold when you came looking for me yesterday. You have Sid Ackerman and his card game to thank for that, not me.”

  “I didn’t go around asking questions about you, so you can rest easy on that,” she began. “But I’ve been around enough doctors to know one when I see him.”

  “All right, I was a doctor,” he snapped right back. “I’m not any more, haven’t been for a long time.”

  “Well, you see, my mother and brother are not exactly in the best of health.”

  “They both looked pretty damned healthy to me.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” she shot at him tartly.

  “Yes, they can. For instance, why do you wear those ridiculous spectacles? Every time I’ve seen you, they’ve been about to fall off the end of your nose, and you’re always looking at people over the top of them.”

  Julie knew she had blushed red from her collar to the roots of her hair. She had to turn her back to him to push the glasses up to the bridge of her nose, though she knew they wouldn’t stay there very long.

  She stammered, “That…that isn’t what we have to discuss here this morning.”

  “I didn’t know we had anything to discuss.”

  He tried to tell himself that the only reason he listened to this garbage was because he was hungry and this was the best breakfast he’d had in years.

  “What we have to discuss is your resuming of your duties as a physician.”

  “What?”

  “I am prepared to assist with your rehabilitation and—”

  “And what if I’m not prepared to be rehabilitated?” he fired back at her so sharply that she hopped a step away from him. “I happen to like being drunk. It’s a hell of a lot better than being sober when…”

  His anger lost its edge almost immediately, and he turned away from the determined stare she leveled at him over the rims of the sliding spectacles. No matter how good the breakfast, he couldn’t stay here any longer. Controlling his temper only so he didn’t sweep the tray and its contents to the porch, he set it on the railing and got to his feet. Now he was taller than the girl, and though he had intended to use that to his advantage, he discovered he didn’t like the frightened look that came into those eyes of hers.

  “Good day, Miss Hollstrom,” was all he said before he strode down the stairs and out toward the street.

  *

  The cemetery, with its shivering cottonwoods, was a welcome relief after the stifling heat inside the church. Reverend Wintergarden kept the service mercifully short, extolling the late doctor’s virtues in as few words as decently possible, but even with all the windows and the front door open, the church quickly became an oven when packed with townspeople in the middle of the afternoon. The service began at two o’clock, and before half-past, the preacher issued the order to have the casket removed to the cemetery for burial.

  Julie sat with Willy and Katharine in the next to front pew and didn’t notice until they rose to depart that Del Morgan had not attended. She hadn’t really expected him to; he was probably down at the saloon. She shook him out of her thoughts and ushered Willy ahead of her towards the door.

  The grave had been dug in a corner of the churchyard where there was little shade, but Julie herded her mother and brother towards the back of the crowd and thereby found a cooler place under one of the trees. She had been surprised when Katharine expressed a wish to attend the funeral, but she had not argued. And Katharine seemed to be bearing up quite well, considering she had had so much excitement the day before and hadn’t even had a nap all day today. That in itself was unusual.

  With fans and folded pieces of paper fluttering to provide some breeze on this still afternoon, the mourners gathered quietly while the Reverend Wintergarden intoned the familiar service. He was halfway through it when Julie caught something out the corner of her eye, some movement at the edge of the crowd. She dared to chance a peek and saw Del Morgan shoving people out of his way.

  What nerve! He had scolded her and Hans that Sunday evening for disturbing him, so what did he think he was doing now? And she had thought to reform him. He was better off drunk and disreputable.

  Horace Opper was laid to rest with no family but the town of Plato to mourn him, and they dispersed rather quickly when the token spade of dirt had been tossed into the open grave. Julie linked her mot
her’s arm through hers and then clasped her brother’s hand to keep him from running off in his good clothes.

  The rosebush caught her attention though she hadn’t looked for it and had in fact almost forgotten it. And it wasn’t the blaze of red blossoms that she remembered either, for only two or three half-faded blooms still hung on the canes. Julie peered over the rims of her glasses and saw the damage done when rough, greedy hands had pulled the lovely flowers off.

  And while contemplating that destruction, she saw the name cut into the polished granite marker.

  “Amalia Morgan, born April 12, 1851, innocent victim of violence August 3, 1878. Beloved wife of Delbert, mother of their son Jason, who lies with his mother now and for all eternity.”

  Chapter Five

  By Wednesday afternoon, Willy’s stitches were driving him crazy, and Julie, too. And if the boy’s complaints about the injury itself weren’t enough, he continually asked when he was going to get the ice cream Morgan had promised and then failed to deliver.

  “You ought to go find him, Julie, and make him buy me my ice cream,” he told her while he watched her flour the chicken she intended to fry for supper. “He did promise and he oughtn’t to make promises and then not keep them.”

  With the back of her hand she pushed her glasses up again and dipped another piece of chicken in the egg and milk batter.

  “He promised me ice cream, too, Willy, and you don’t hear me whining about it, do you?”

  “Well, but you don’t count. You’re a grown-up, and it’s all right to break promises to grown-ups.”

  Katharine walked into the room just then, but she did not provide a diversion from this unpleasant topic. Though coming down a different path, she reached the same junction.

  “Julie, dear, I simply cannot get rid of this headache.” She wiped the back of her right hand across her forehead dramatically. “I have taken the last spoonful of that elixir poor Dr. Opper gave me, and now I am in pain again.”

  “As soon as I finish here, Mama, I’ll go ask the marshal to open Dr. Opper’s house and I’ll see if I can find anything,” Julie sighed. This morning it had been a stomach potion, and last night a sleeping powder, neither of which had been located. “Do you know what it looked like or tasted like? Did he give it a name?”

  Katharine turned her eyes toward the ceiling and thought for a long while.

  “It tasted rather like burnt sugar,” she answered slowly. “Or was that the sleeping powder? No, the sleeping powder tasted like lemon, and the stomach potion was very bitter. Yes, the headache elixir tasted like burnt sugar, I’m positive.”

  She smiled triumphantly. Julie sighed again and wiped her floury hands on her apron.

  “I’ll go find the marshal, but I don’t think we’ll have any better luck this time. The doctor never labeled any of his bottles, and I really wonder that he didn’t kill anyone with the wrong mixture. They all look alike.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Katharine sat down at the table beside Willy and her smile melted away.

  “Do you think it might be unsafe, even if you found something that tasted like burnt sugar?”

  “Possibly. I’m not a doctor, Mama, and I don’t know anything about the medicines Dr. Opper gave you.”

  Except that they cost nearly every cent we could spare from Papa’s wages and none of them really did any good, she said to herself.

  Again Katharine sank into thought, this time staring at the checkered tablecloth.

  “Do you suppose that Mr. Morgan could help you?” she suggested. “He did say he was a doctor once, didn’t he? Why don’t you go find him and ask him if he’d help you look for my medicines.”

  Julie groaned. She knew exactly what would come next. Already Willy’s pout had turned to a wide grin.

  “And then you could ask him about my ice cream, too,” the boy reminded her.

  *

  Julie went to McCrory’s first, where Simon and his ever-present companion sat on the porch. Lucas waited until she had climbed the steps before he spat.

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen Del all day, Miss Julie,” Simon answered. “I was busy unloading wagons this morning, though, so I might’ve missed him. Did you try over at the Castle?”

  “I’d prefer to avoid the place if I can.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you. Not exactly the place for a young lady like yourself.”

  “Is there somewhere else I might look for him?”

  Lucas shifted his weight to his other foot and spat again, then drawled, “He might be to home, ya know. He got pretty drunk last night after them folks took all the flowers off’n his Amy’s grave.”

  “I could hardly go looking for him at his house.”

  Simon offered a solution.

  “Winnie Upshaw sort of keeps house for him, and I just seen her go over to the post office. You could ask her if he’s home and then maybe she could go with you if he is.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know Miss Upshaw.”

  Lucas volunteered, “Can’t miss her. ‘Bout as high as my pocket, and ‘bout as big around as Simon’s cracker barrel. Talks all the time, too, and don’t say nothin’.”

  That description was accurate to a fault. Julie heard the cheerful, non-stop voice well before she walked into the post office and found the expected figure standing at the window. Miss Upshaw lacked a good two inches of being five feet tall. There was a slight indentation at her waist, but otherwise she did indeed resemble the cracker barrel in the middle of McCrory’s General Store, especially as she wore a brown calico dress just the color of aged wood.

  “Now, you promise me that letter’ll go out on tomorrow’s stage to Yuma, right, Mr. Nisely? I don’t want anything to happen to delay it, because my sister in San Francisco always worries if she doesn’t hear from me faithfully every month. She thinks I’m out here in some wilderness with Apaches surrounding me and coyotes howling at my door.” She halted only briefly to turn and see who had come into the post office. “Oh, hello, Miss Hollstrom. How’s your little brother? I saw him come running through the trees there Monday afternoon, and he certainly—”

  “He’s just fine now,” Julie interrupted. She wondered how long the woman would have gone on if she hadn’t broken into the steady stream of chatter.

  “Well, that’s good. Of course, Dr. Morgan always was a one with children. Why, I remember when Dennis McCrory broke his leg falling out of the livery stable loft that Hallowe’en night when him and those horrible Sanderson boys—”

  “Do you happen to know where I might find Dr. Morgan now?” Julie interrupted again. She must assert herself or run the risk of listening to Winnie Upshaw for an hour or more. “I was told he might be at home, but I wanted to make certain first, before I disturbed him.”

  “He’s home, all right!” Winnie laughed. Her voice was bright, almost childish. “I stopped by there on my way here and he was still asleep. Last night, though, well, he was roaring in there until almost dawn, and I can’t say as I blame him. Of course, most of those people who stole the roses were new folks to town, ones who weren’t here when Amy Morgan was killed, but still, it ain’t right to go pickin’ flowers off somebody else’s grave.”

  Julie hesitated despite the break in Winnie’s conversation.

  “If he’s still asleep, then perhaps I’d best wait.”

  “What did you want him for anyway? Somebody else get hurt?”

  Julie wished she hadn’t taken off her apron, for it would have given her something to twist her hands in. She felt awkward here in the post office with Mr. Nisely listening carefully to her every word.

  “It’s about some medication Dr. Opper had given my mother,” she muttered.

  Winnie laughed again.

  “You’d better not call old Horace’s concoctions ‘medication’ in Dr. Morgan’s presence! Come on. You and me’ll go wake him up and see what he has to say. Don’t worry,” she said, turning toward the door and taking Julie’s arm in a firm grasp. �
�He won’t bite, though he barks a lot.”

  Del Morgan’s house was set back from the street down a short lane, just past the Olympia House Hotel and almost directly across Main Street from the late Dr. Opper’s house and office. Unlike nearly all the other buildings in Plato, Morgan’s house was built of adobe, not timber, and the dull brown color blended well with the dusty surroundings. Flourishing vines shaded the west-facing porch; someone obviously watered and tended the plants carefully, for there were no others like them in Plato. Even Julie’s rows of petunias seemed pathetic in comparison, and she wondered, remembering the rosebush in the cemetery, if Morgan himself did all the watering and weeding.

  The house seemed larger than its neighbors, too, but Julie noticed as she and Winnie walked up to it that it had only a partial second floor, with stairs leading up the outside to a rooftop patio.

  “Mr. Morgan lives here?” Julie asked. This was hardly the sort of place she had expected the derelict physician to inhabit.

  “Used to belong to an old Mexican, Don Ricardo de Santañero. When Dr. Morgan came in ‘71 or ‘72, Don Ricardo was his first patient. He musta done something for the old guy, because when Don Ricardo died about a year later, he left everything to Dr. Morgan and Amy. Had a regular will, all legal and proper, signed by lawyers and witnesses and everything.”

  The two women, one tall and slim and hesitant, the other short and round and bold, mounted the single step to the porch and faced a handsomely carved door with a rounded top, quite unlike anything Julie had ever seen before. Winnie didn’t knock; she pounded with her fists, both of them. When no one answered, she simply turned the latch and walked in.

  “Is that you, Winnie?”

  Julie didn’t enter the house, but Winnie had thrown the door open wide. Peering in cautiously, Julie saw a dim foyer from which a railed staircase rose to a small balcony. Del Morgan leaned over the banister, his body a shadow against a whitewashed wall.