Cast a Pale Shadow

by Scott, Barbara

  Trissa cleared her throat to get his attention. "Then why are you here, Doctor? "

  "Are these supposed to be relatives of his?"

  "Whose?"

  "Brewer's. I don't see any family resemblance. The line must be wearing thin." He picked up a candlestick from the mantle and turned it over, examining it. "Silver?"

  "What's wearing thin is my patience. Why did you come?"

  Two wing chairs upholstered in striped blue damask flanked the fireplace. Edmonds stood behind one and motioned for her to sit. Trissa folded her arms and frowned, sticking her lower lip out like a pouting child. "Why are you here?"

  "Sit and I'll tell you."

  She hesitated for a moment then flounced across the room, perched on the edge of the seat, and glared at him. He took the chair opposite and settled back, crossing his long legs, ankle over thigh, so that an expanse of sock showed between his scuffed black oxfords and his pants legs. It was white, a rather dingy white at that.

  "It surprises me, this house," he said finally. "Brewer may not be the low-life I assumed him to be." Anger snapped like a spark in her, and she opened her mouth then clamped it shut when he continued. "But every family has its black sheep, I suppose."

  "All the better to make black socks, I'm sure."

  His brow wrinkled for a moment at her answer, but he shook off his puzzlement and went on, "Have you known him long?"

  "Longer than you. Look, Doctor, I am sitting and I am listening. But I will not do either much longer. My husband, who you insult so casually in his own home, and I have plans for the evening. So come to the point of your visit or go--"

  "I went to see your mother."

  "--away. What? My mother?" They were like words from another language to her at first. She shook her head in disbelief until she finally understood what they might mean for her. Then they translated themselves into fury. "Why you arrogant, meddling bastard! How did you even find out where I lived?"

  "I copied your address from your suitcase. And I got this address from hospital records." He gave her a smug smile.

  She lurched out of her seat and flew at him, grabbing him by the shirtsleeves as if to drag him out of his chair. When she couldn't budge him, she kicked his shin. "You've ruined everything, damn you!" She stepped back, straining to keep her tears in check. Anger was all he deserved from her.

  "Easy, easy," he said, rubbing his shin, "I didn't tell her anything. I mean, I meant to, but I saw how she was. You were right to run away from her."

  "I'm so grateful for your approval, Doctor."

  "Trissa, please, I've gone about this all wrong. Could we start over?"

  "Does that mean I have to sit again, sir?"

  "It would help me if you would."

  Something in his voice, a ragged edge completely foreign to his usually imperious tone, made her do what he asked. She could not erase her indignation for both his rudeness and his interference in her life, but she did sense his discomfort in having to admit he needed her help and it softened her a little.

  "I lost a patient last night. A victim of gang violence. She was a bit younger than you and probably a lot tougher. But she fell in with the wrong crowd and she died for it."

  "I'm sorry, but--"

  "Usually, I can scrub up for the next patient and go on. You have to when you work emergency. You may call it arrogance, but that's what it takes sometimes, a certain godlike disdain for death that allows you to face it down and beat it. She wasn't the first patient I've lost, and she won't be the last. I just -- I just don't want you to be one of them. I don't think I could live with that."

  "I don't understand."

  "I don't either. No one is more surprised than I that I am here and confessing this -- this weakness to you. But this patient reminded me of you. And well -- all I can say is that something about you has touched me in a way I've never felt before.

  "And I don't trust Brewer. I wish you would tell me how you came to be with him. Tell me you grew up with him. Tell me anything I can believe and I'll go away and leave you in peace."

  "I trust him. Isn't that enough?"

  "No. It's not."

  "That's just too damn bad." Nicholas scowled in the parlor doorway.

  Edmonds stood to face him, smiling a challenge. "I keep turning up. I warned you that I would, didn't I, Brewer? I'm like a bad penny."

  "Or a bad smell."

  Trissa slipped between them and took Nicholas' hand. "I missed you."

  "It was a long day for me, too."

  She kissed him on the cheek wishing she could dare more. "Dr. Edmonds, I'll get your coat. Nicholas will walk you to the door."

  Both men obeyed her instructions and by the time she rescued Edmonds' coat from the cellar steps, he already had one foot out the door.

  *****

  Nicholas took the coat from her and handed it to Edmonds. "I'd ask you to join us for dinner, Edmonds, but we have reservations. For two."

  Bryant shoved his arms through his sleeves and stepped out onto the porch. "Goodbye, Trissa," he said, looking past Nicholas to where she stood in the center of the parlor. "May I visit again?"

  Trissa shrugged and Nicholas blocked her from view as he joined the doctor on the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. "Come anytime you want. We have nothing to hide."

  "Oh? Then tell me one thing, Brewer. Have you consummated the marriage yet?"

  In a blind rage, Nicholas took a swing at his nose, poorly aimed, and too clumsily executed. It grazed Edmonds' chin and he caught his wrist and shoved Nicholas back against the door. Nicholas saw the futility of a struggle against this man who outweighed him by a solid fifty pounds, and Bryant held him there at arm's length.

  "I see." Edmonds' lips curled in a mocking smile. "If you fuck as well as you fight, she's got nothing to worry about." He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and whistled as he strode down the walk.

  "Shit. Shit. Shit." Nicholas pounded his fist against the bricks when Edmonds' car disappeared around the corner. "God damn it, where'd you learn to fight, you little piss ant?" he muttered to himself. "At the loony bin? Shit!" He breathed deeply until he felt the heat drain from his face. When he was calm, he straightened his coat and tie and went back into the house to Trissa.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Of course, I am. Why shouldn't I be?"

  "I don't know. That leaving had the look of 'I'll meet you out back, Buddy'."

  "Didn't lay a glove on me. What's the matter? Do I look like the loser in some street fight?" He held her chin up and kissed her tenderly on her bruised cheek. "You should see the other guy."

  She drew her finger under the lapel of his coat and whispered, "Don't mind him. He wears white socks with black slacks and shoes."

  "No competition, huh?"

  "Outclassed completely."

  "But more than matched by my date for the evening." He twirled her away from him to get a better look. "Where did you get this?"

  "Augusta. Wait until you see what else. And all my shiny shoes, Nicholas. I swear it's magic, like the cobbler and the elves."

  "No, not magic. Just Kiwi polish and a little spit. I do have reservations at the Chase. I know the wine steward there. He's put in a good word with the maitre'd. Where's your coat?"

  "Augusta took it. I'll go find it." She took a few steps toward the kitchen then turned and tried the knob of a door under the steps. "The guest closet. I knew there had to be one here somewhere. I threw Dr. Edmonds' coat down the cellar stairs when I couldn't find the closet."

  "Next time, do me a favor and do that while he's still in it."

  *****

  Trissa could not decide what to order from the overwhelming menu. She had peeked over the top as waiters brought steaming orders to nearby tables and tried to match what she saw with what she was reading on the menu. Finally, she gave up and left the decision to Nicholas. He deferred to Maurice, who told them he knew the menu like the back of his hand. As sommelier, it was his job to know all the varied ele
ments of the entrees so that he might suggest the exact wine that would bring the dining experience to the pinnacle of excellence. He said all this with a tone of hauteur that made Trissa giggle when she remembered his antics with the milk the night before. When, at his suggestion, Nicholas ordered the Coquilles Saint Jacques, stuffed artichokes, and braised celery, Trissa did not miss the saucy wink Maurice cast her way and suddenly wished she could have a plate of Ruth's pork chops and applesauce.

  The meal looked formidable when it lay before her. The artichoke reminded her of a cactus garden she had attempted once with its stuffing looking like desert sand and gravel. Tiny scallops and mushrooms in a pearly sauce were served up in cute little shell dishes that spun around on the plate when she attempted to tackle them with a fork. Glancing enviously at Nicholas' wine that she was not of legal age to order, she sighed and broke a piece off her hard roll and buttered it. At least she knew how to do that. When she reconciled herself to the meager consolation of her water goblet, Nicholas caught her eye and they both started giggling.

  "Wait 'till I get Maurice alone in some dark hallway," Nicholas said.

  "No, not alone. Let's both gang up on him."

  "I've got a better idea. We'll lock him in the attic with Hattie and have her read Chaucer to him. In Middle English."

  "On bread and water only," Trissa agreed.

  "Uh uh. That's more than he deserves. We'll make it artichokes and ABC fish."

  "ABC fish?"

  "Already Been Chewed."

  They had just managed to quell their giggles when Maurice sidled over to ask how they enjoyed their food. That set Trissa off again and she had to dab the tears away from her eyes with the corner of her napkin.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No, Maurice, just send the waiter with our check," Nicholas choked out.

  "But you've hardly touched your..." He looked over at Trissa whose face was bright red with her effort to suppress her laughter. Shielding his face from her with the wine list, he whispered to Nicholas, "Oh, dear, maybe I was wrong to suggest so potent an aphrodisiac for one as young and newly wed."

  "Aphrodisiac? Scallops and artichokes and celery?"

  "Well, I was only trying to help. You can't get decent fresh oysters around here anymore."

  Nicholas put his hand to his brow and said, "The check, Maurice, the check."

  They wound up at Steak 'n Shake where they ordered fat, juicy patty melts and fries and Dutch chocolate malts.

  "Oooff, I'm more stuffed than an artichoke," Trissa confessed when she drained the thick malt with a loud slurp.

  "Oh, dear, and look what I saved you." Nicholas reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a clean scallop shell. "A souvenir fish dish. I thought we'd sip champagne from it later in our bridal suite."

  "Do you think we dare? There might be some secret, potent powers still clinging to it."

  "Secret, potent...? You heard Maurice?"

  She nodded and took the scallop shell and put it in her purse. "Maybe you'd better tell me what happened at school. How did you manage with Miss Royal?"

  They spent the rest of the evening and their ride home on safe subjects. He told her all about her missed assignments and the arrangements for making up her exams and how he had Miss Royal wound around his little finger. She described her day with Augusta and Beverly and Ruth. He laughed when she recounted her tantrum with Edmonds, admitting she had had more luck landing blows with him than he had.

  They did not discuss the sleeping arrangements until they were confronted with the big empty bed and the extra pillows and blankets at the foot of it. Trissa avoided the issue by sneaking into the bathroom first while Nicholas set up his coffee pot. He took his turn when she emerged wrapped like a mummy in those god awful brown and yellow flannel pajamas.

  When he came out in his own pajamas and a blue terry bathrobe, she was already asleep, curled under the blanket she had drug to the sofa. He picked her up, carried her to the bed, turned out the lights, and then went back to the sofa himself. He wrestled with the pillow and blanket until he found a niche where no springs poked his backside and the sags matched the contour of his shoulder and hip. He heard the rustling of the bed in the darkness and Trissa's bare feet as she padded across the floor.

  "I will not put you out of your bed, Nicholas Brewer. And if you care to dispute that, I will kick you in the shin, too."

  Nicholas sat up and saw her determined stance silhouetted in the dim glow of the bathroom night-light. Her hands were on her hips and she tapped her foot impatiently. "I'm fine," he said. "I just got comfortable."

  "Come here and bring your stuff."

  He put on his robe and gathered up his blanket and pillow and followed her. She fussed with the bed covers, turning down each side but struggling to keep the center of the bed untouched. She attacked the project with the precision of a practiced paper airplane folder, smoothing the sheets to knife-edged angles. "Now give me your blanket." She shook out the blanket and let it settle to the floor. Kneeling beside it, she carefully rolled it into a woolen sausage which she carried to the bed and positioned down the middle. "There," she said, blowing an errant curl out of her eyes with a little puff from her lips . "My side. Your side." She climbed into her side and pulled the covers up to her chin. "Come on. Come to bed."

  "It's not exactly the Great Wall of China."

  "That didn't keep out invaders either. It's honor that will keep us to our own sides. The divider is just there to mark the border."

  "No man's land," he muttered. He untied his robe but decided to keep it on. Climbing in, he turned away from her to face the wall.

  "Good night, husband."

  "I think it best you don't call me that when we're sleeping in the same bed," he said, his voice oddly muffled. By the sleeve of his robe, she guessed.

  "Sorry. Good night, Nicholas."

  "Good night."

  Silence sifted down on them. It was so still that he thought he could hear their hearts beating.

  "Nicholas?"

  "Yes."

  "About my apprenticeship. Don't you think I'm due for another lesson?"

  "Your apprenticeship?"

  "You know. The kissing."

  "Go to sleep, Trissa."

  Chapter Eleven

  Nicholas measured the corner for the second time and came up with different figures. Gritting his pencil so tightly between his teeth the paint flecked off onto his tongue, he frowned and measured again. The new numbers matched the first set, so he jotted them down on a scrap of paper. Tomorrow while Trissa took her makeup exams, he would meet Jack Sanders down at a Wharf Street warehouse and find a chest of drawers to fit this corner among Jack's cache of secondhand treasures.

  Trissa would be surprised with the new chest. It and her record player, secretly rehabilitated by Roger, would be her reward for all her long hours of study to prepare for her exams. They needed the space, too. Augusta seemed to sense the moment when Nicholas emptied another drawer of his belongings to make more space for Trissa's rapidly expanding trousseau and she redoubled her efforts to fill that one as well.

  "It's like playing paper dolls," Trissa had said. "'Here, try this one on,' she says. 'Now this would go with that.' And 'won't this be perfect with your eyes and hair?'." Nicholas took the hangers with the altered garments from her one by one as she told him this. "And if I say 'no, I can't possibly take more from you, Augusta' she gets this wounded look in her eyes and I have to give in."

  She wasn't really complaining. In the three days since her arrival, Nicholas had not once seen the wistful look on her face that had haunted her daily at the bus stop. And though her bruises had reached that awful black and green stage, the sparkle in her eyes more than stole the attention away from them.

  She had made herself a space in this makeshift family. Roger had spent two afternoons coaching her in geometry, drawing little diagrams with arrows and boxes to help her understand the flow of her proofs. Beverly had quizzed her on her world history u
ntil she could rattle off dates, places, and people without a slip. Even Hattie had contributed to the effort by expounding on the relative merits of the poetry of Walt Whitman, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and helping Trissa develop an outline for an essay question she expected to have on her American Literature exam.

  Each day, Trissa's anxiety about her postponed tests diminished. To ease her tension further, Augusta had called a halt to the studies after dinner to stage a ceremony to bestow upon Trissa the official title of chambermaid, presenting her with a feather duster with a gold-painted handle as a symbol of her honorary duties. Now, with a designated role on Augusta's house staff and the neighborhood covenants followed to the letter if not the spirit, she could legitimately call it her home.

  Tonight, when Nicholas left her to come upstairs to measure, Trissa was once again bent over her books, this time with Augusta drilling her on the periodic table. Each day it became easier to forget that this had not always been her home and this odd assortment of people had not always been her family.

  The only thing that was not becoming easier was sleeping with her, or rather trying to sleep in the same bed with her. He wondered if he should be measuring the alcove for a set of twin beds. A physical chasm between them might do more for his peace of mind than the gopher mound she erected with that silly rolled blanket each night.

  Trissa was too close and the woolen wall was too flimsy. Nicholas would get more restful sleep on the lumpy, sagging sofa. It was not that she violated his territory in any way. On the contrary, she seemed able to crunch herself into a ball as tiny as a hedgehog to sleep. She didn't snore, or toss and turn and jiggle the bed, or steal away all the blankets. She didn't eat crackers in bed, or talk in her sleep, or get up several times in the night to go to the bathroom. In short, Trissa had the most courteous habits a bed partner could have.