Angelique pours a glass of milk for Colton while I peruse the instructions accompanying the bottles of medicine. “We’ll continue the antibiotics in the morning, but you should probably take a painkiller now.” I hand him a white tablet half the size of my thumbnail and hope he won’t choke on it. “If you wake up hurting during the night, the doctor said you can have another one.” I slip the bottle into my pants pocket. “I’ll keep my door open so I can hear when you call me.” If he awakes in enough pain, he will have to speak to me.
Colton takes a big swig of the milk, swallows the pill, and turns toward Angelique. She links her right arm through his good left one and says, “Of course, I’ll help you get ready for bed.” They hobble out of the kitchen together, and a short while later the stairs creak. Whether they scale them slowly for his sake or hers, I can’t tell.
“Good night, Colton,” I call after them.
When did Angelique develop radar to answer his unspoken questions? To my knowledge, she had never helped a child of any age get ready for bed. Will she read him a story, too?
I catch my pique before it storms out of control. I should be grateful she came along to keep Colton steady, but it is hard to accept that someone with no parenting experience whatever can so easily replace me. Besides, if she spends her energy comforting Colton, it could be to her own detriment.
After I remember to close the garage door, I trudge across the patio along the back wall of the house until I reach the entrance to my greenhouse. Inside, I fumble in the dark for the light switch. As soon as the light sputters on, bright fluorescence bathes the greenhouse, distorting the pinks and greens of the begonias and geraniums.
There is no point in watering them again, so I occupy myself by rearranging terra cotta pots, short ones in front, taller ones behind. Soon I lose track of time in the rhythm of bending and lifting, enjoying the clatter of the pots, until Angelique’s voice catches me by surprise.
“It’s cold outside. Guess I can’t smoke in here, can I?” She sets her pack of cigarettes and the lighter on the edge of the potting table.
I shake my head. “I’d rather you didn’t smoke at all. Why don’t you quit?”
“Too late now.” She scans the area as she pats her sternum. “I need to sit down. I’m not used to all those stairs.”
I clear off a bench for her. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Gin, if you please.”
“I bet tomorrow the doctor will tell you to quit.” I stand with my hands on my hips and eye her with amusement.
“With tonic and lime.” She waits. “What, no fresh lime in the house? Bottled concentrate is okay.”
“You know, smoking causes a lot more health problems than lung cancer.”
“I’ll settle for bourbon instead, if you have any Maker’s Mark.”
I fill a paper cup with water from the fountain against the wall and hand it to her. “I hope you follow his advice.”
She sets it down on the bench. “Thanks, but I’d prefer to hear what Mr. Maker has to say.”
Angelique picks up her Virginia Slims and lighter and steps outside. I watch to make sure she keeps steady on her feet. As if drawing an ace from a poker deck, she extracts a long cigarette from the pack and lights it. The smoke hovers above her head until a light breeze chases it into the dark sky overhead.
By the time she returns to the bench, I have moved to one side to restack the plastic bags of pine bark mulch against the wall, next to the fertilizer. One of the bags has torn at the corner, releasing the earthy aroma of fresh pine mixed with soil.
“Brrrr!” Angelique rubs her upper arms. “How can Colton change Mike’s mind during their interview tomorrow?”
“I don’t have any idea what Colton will say, because he has refused to discuss it with me.” I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Around nine o’clock that night, Jack called home and spoke with Colton while I worked out here. All I know is, Jack told him he’d be home later and not to wait up for him.”
“But your whole argument hangs on the fact that appointment book shows Jack made plans for later in the week.”
“Mike is reconsidering whether all the mess with Jack’s job, the money he helped himself to, and the blow-up with his father caused him to feel depressed enough to kill himself.”
“Plus Jack was worried you’d divorce him.”
“Maybe I should have. It’d be easier than dealing with his death, suicide or not.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“Not really.”
“What would Colton possibly have to say about Jack’s state of mind?”
I sit down next to her and dust my palms together. “Very likely the last person to speak to Jack before he died was Colton. If he can convince Mike that Jack was not depressed, but rather looking forward to working for my father, where he’d have job security and get a raise, then Mike will have to rethink his conclusion.”
“Assume Colton tells Mike exactly what you describe. Then you hope Mike can get the coroner to revise his finding?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“But Sally, my angel, it doesn’t work that way. The coroner’s ruling is official, registered at the courthouse, and listed with the IRS. You can’t expect a small town sheriff to get all those federal records changed just because you know something, which actually amounts to no more than a hunch. Mike doesn’t have that kind of power and influence.”
“But Mike wants to be on our team, and besides he has resources.”
Angelique frowns and squints at me, as if she can’t remember my name. “He’s certainly stepped forward lately with solutions to your problems.” Then her face muscles relax as her mouth forms a small ‘o.’ She points her index finger at me. “You mean Nate, don’t you?”
My head might as well crack in two. The voice on one side screams, “No, never, not possible,” while the other insists Nate can pull any string he wants and asks why not use him to get what I need. It is about time he shows up helpful on my terms for a change. Maybe I have been subconsciously maneuvering in that direction. Yet my heart refuses to let that line of reasoning prevail.
“Not him. Colton.”
“That’s a lot of pressure on one adolescent boy. Are you sure it’s worth it?” She hugs her quilted Oriental waistcoat tighter around her torso. “Hasn’t bringing this up had a negative effect on Colton? Look at all his so-called accidents recently.” Her voiced softens. “Have you considered getting professional help for him?”
“Like my father did for my mother? We know how that ended, don’t we? Colton’s behavior will improve the instant the ruling gets changed from suicide to accident. Then we can get on with our lives and handle our grief in a healthy way.”
“Why do you call it accidental?” Angelique wags her head until her earrings jingle. “Didn’t Jack lower the garage door himself, with the motor still running?”
“But he had gotten so drunk, he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Happy drunk?”
I stretch out my legs in front of me and raise my arms over my head, elbow joints popping. “If Colton confirms it.”
“So now, since Mike doesn’t quite believe you or the appointment book, you expect your son to provide the crucial testimony?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Have you forgotten about the money Big Jack demanded that Jack repay? What about the note Jack left in the front seat?”
I sigh and stare at my shoes. “Every word is burned into my brain. Thing is, it wasn’t like Jack to threaten me. It’s like he was talking to someone else. He was so angry.”
“If it wasn’t meant for you, who–”
I sit up straight and slap my thigh. “Big Jack.”
“What?”
“Now it makes sense. After Big Jack fired him, Jack wrote that awful note to his father, not to me. Big Jack was the one who would have to learn to get along without him and see how well he managed alone.”
“Ho
w can you be sure?”
“Oh, I’m absolutely sure. With that and Colton’s official testimony.”
“Unofficial or otherwise, maybe he’s not up to it.”
Before I can answer, Angelique and I turn our heads in tandem toward the sound coming from the entrance to the greenhouse. Pale and shivering, Colton stands there in his underwear looking up at the rafters as if he has spied an owl. His injured hand falls at his side, while the cotton sling around his neck dangles near his waist. He seems not to realize we are present, as he grunts and sucks in the cold night air.
“No quick moves,” Angelique whispers. “Try not to startle him.” Louder she says, “Colton, you’re chilled.” As I follow her, she walks slowly toward Colton, pulling her arms out of her waistcoat. “Did you have a bad dream? Let me wrap this around you.”
After she covers him, she coaxes him into the house and back up the stairs. I watch from the doorway of his room as she pulls a tee shirt down over his head, tucks him under the sheet, and sits on the edge of his bed. We wait until the twitching stops and his breathing grows steady and shallow. She leans forward to kiss his cheek and pulls the blanket up over his shoulder, and then she tiptoes toward the door and takes me by the hand.
“He seems comfortable now, but I’m still cold,” she says with a shiver. “Can you turn the heat up?” She drapes the silk waistcoat around her shoulders and rubs her upper arms.
“How about some coffee? I can make us some decaf.” I stare at the lump under Colton’s bed covers and wonder how long my son will sleep. “On second thought, maybe regular is better.”
“Regular will keep you up all night.”
“That’s the idea.”
Downstairs again in the kitchen, she suggests I call Mike and cancel Colton’s appointment tomorrow. I agree to postpone it until we can evaluate his state of mind, maybe until the pain medication wears off. No point in asking him questions if he can’t make sense.
“Someone will have to stay with him while I take you to the specialist.” I drain the last of my coffee from Grandmother Mason’s china cup.
“What about Judith?”
“I’ll call her in the morning. Let’s get some rest.”
Poor dear Angelique. Up the stairs for the third time in less than an hour. No wonder she is tired and out of breath. A good night’s sleep will work wonders for all of us.
But sleep is the farthest thing from my mind. Even when we are all in our beds, whispers from the edge of darkness call to me and help me keep my vigil.
Today I was up extra early to get ready for school while the house was still quiet. I should have read over my new spelling list one more time, to help me prepare for the sixth grade spelling bee. Also I wanted to draw a picture for Aunt Mary to cheer her up. The doctor has been coming each morning and again in the evenings to check on her. So far, Aunt Mary has been too weak to get out of bed.
Lately Daddy has looked really tired. It couldn’t be from working too hard, because he hasn’t left the house in three days. Maybe the doctor should give Daddy some of Aunt Mary’s pep pills.
Yesterday I heard Mrs. Gussmann talking in the kitchen. She said she was conversing with the Almighty, but I thought she should wait until Sunday morning when God settles back on His throne and just listens. She also sang church songs like “Shall We Gather at the River” or “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” I hoped Mrs. Gussmann wasn’t planning to go anywhere. Even though I was now eleven and grown very responsible, I didn’t know how we’d get our meals cooked or laundry done without her.
Life has been pretty dull around our house and I missed Clyde. Since Daddy hasn’t taken any trips this week, Clyde has gone to tend to business elsewhere instead of staying around Mason’s Crossing.
Aunt Mary liked the seashore, where she lived when she was a little girl, so I got out my colored pencils in blue and tan, plus green for the palm trees. I sat at the table in my room and sketched the beach, with seashells, sand dunes, and waves crashing on the shore. The seagull in the sky was almost finished when a voice down the hall called, “Mr. Nate, Mr. Nate!”
Now that Mother was moved to the hospital, my bedroom door wasn’t locked any more. I opened it and peeked out. The voice belonged to one of the new upstairs maids, and she raced to the banister and hollered down the stairwell.
I waited in my doorway as my father dashed up the main staircase. He must have spent the night in his office again. Mrs. Gussmann usually found him there in the morning after she made coffee. She always fussed over him about getting proper rest.
When Daddy reached the door to Aunt Mary’s room, he told the maid to summon the doctor and Mrs. Gussmann. The maid headed for the back staircase, but he paused outside the room. I could tell by the way his shoulders moved that he was taking deep breaths. Without waiting for Mrs. Gussmann, he stepped into Aunt Mary’s room and closed the door.
I tiptoed down the hall and put my ear to her door. Daddy and Aunt Mary didn’t make any sounds. She must have been asleep.
I was still leaning against the door when Mrs. Gussmann came up behind me and rapped softly on it. She didn’t often frown, but this morning her eyebrows were knitted together like dark clouds.
Daddy answered, “Come in.”
Mrs. Gussmann turned to me and, with a finger to her lips, shooed me away from the door. She stepped inside, but I didn’t feel like going back to my room to finish my drawing. I decided to give it to Aunt Mary after school.
Within minutes, the house came alive. Servants bustled about, carrying folded stacks of fresh bed linens, cardboard boxes from the storeroom, and even vases full of the daily fresh flowers Daddy insisted on, even though Mother wasn’t here to enjoy them. Most of the maids said good morning as they passed me in the hall, but no one offered to take me to school.
When Mrs. Gussmann came out of Aunt Mary’s room, she stopped one of the maids to give her instructions for breakfast and answer questions. She shook her head slowly. “Yes, poor thing passed in her sleep.”
Now I understood why Daddy didn’t go to bed. He must have been worried about her dying during the night. I wondered if Aunt Mary had felt any pain. She was always grabbing her side and hissing. I thought maybe I should light a candle or something.
Mrs. Gussmann blew her nose. “The doctor told Mr. Nate on Tuesday she wouldn’t last much longer. Her heart was too damaged from the scarlet fever she suffered as a baby.”
After the maid headed downstairs to the kitchen, Mrs. Gussmann noticed me across the hall. “Oh, Sally, I guess you overheard.”
I nodded, while Mrs. Gussmann gathered me up in her arms. I was tall enough not to get smothered by her huge bosom, but I didn’t mind it when she hugged me. She smelled like cinnamon. “What’s it like to die in your sleep?” I couldn’t quite picture someone just stopping breathing without a struggle.
Mrs. Gussmann explained that God took Aunt Mary to heaven to be with her mother and her little sister, who both died of the Spanish flu a long time ago. “Your father is the only one left now.”
“Why did God take her away?”
“He needed her more than we did.”
I never thought about God needing someone, as if He was human like us. If she asked me who I needed, I would know just what to say. Angelique for certain, and definitely Clyde, too.
Daddy opened the door. “Mrs. Gussmann?”
We both turned at the sound of his voice.
“Please call the funeral home and tell them to send the hearse. Is the doctor here yet?”
Releasing me, she answered my father and said how terribly sorry she was for his loss. “Miss Mary will need clothes for the burial.”
“Oh, yes. Select something appropriate from her closet.”
Aunt Mary was the first person I knew who died. How were they going to get her out the door and down the stairs? I kept waiting for my tears to start. Someone should cry because she was dead.
Before lunch, I stood in my closet and wondered what Mrs. Gussmann would s
elect for me if I died. Maybe my blue sweater and matching plaid skirt, a new uniform for the school I’d attend soon. She should probably choose a different outfit so people wouldn’t get me mixed up with all those other girls.
Daddy stayed in his office until lunch. Reverend Atherton from Hillside Methodist joined us in the informal dining room and he told us how sorrowful he was for us. “I know you’ll miss her every day.”
I squirmed in my chair and wondered what to answer. It would have been impolite for me to say he’s mistaken. How could Daddy miss his sister when he didn’t spend much time with her? He didn’t miss my mother either. I could tell because he never mentioned her name, except on the days before we flew to Baltimore for a visit.
If something like this ever happened to Angelique, I’d scream and cry and beg God to bring her back. But I never felt very close to Aunt Mary. In the years before she got too sick, she often accused my father of spoiling me. She complained he wasted too much money on me, like she didn’t want me to have so many things. I guessed all that time she spent in an orphanage made her stingy. Had sickly Aunt Mary treated me the way Angelique did, then I’d miss her. I felt bad because I was supposed to feel sad.
Reverend Atherton patted my shoulder. “Your aunt was very special to you, I know.”
I couldn’t smile, but instead nodded at the minister, which amounted to the same thing as saying “yes” right out loud, and hoped I didn’t go to hell for being a liar.
My father checked the time on his watch. “Is it possible to hold the service tomorrow?”
“That soon?” As Reverend Atherton swallowed, his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. “What about your other relatives? Won’t they need time to get here?” He expected our family to be like everyone else’s.
“There is no one.” Daddy wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I have to go to Cairo on Friday.”
The minister looked puzzled. “Illinois or Georgia?”
“Egypt.” My father’s expression said business-as-usual. He wasn’t worried if Reverend Atherton figured out he didn’t care about anyone.
Mason's Daughter Page 14