by Joanne Dahme
“I worry that we will entrust these filters to do all the work, no matter how much we dirty the river. Do you understand what I mean?” His gazed locked on to mine almost pleading.
“I believe I do, Mr. Parker,” I assured him. “You believe that if we enforce the sewer laws against industries and properties, we can avoid the need for filtration.We can keep the river pure and clean,” I stated, like a good student.
“Yes,” he said. “I fear that if we take the other tact, that the filters will be grossly overburdened.” He reached out, and for a moment, I thought he might grab me by the hand. Instead he smiled sadly. “Sorry. I do get carried away. My father claims that my condition is worse than a disease, as it never can be cured.”
I looked at him and returned the smile. I admired his devotion, I realized. “This is your work, Mr. Parker.You have every reason to be proud.You must explain your concerns to the City Councils tomorrow, just as you explained them to me.” I felt a sudden twinge of remorse. Is this what I missed in Patrick—a genuine concern for something beyond his own guarded world? I felt really flustered now. I had wanted to say something to hearten him, to encourage him to put up a fight. But I suddenly felt self-conscious. How I wished that Nellie would return.
“Perhaps you can influence Mr. Dugan’s views. If anyone could, it would be you.” He gave me a genuine smile now.
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” I murmured. “But please, call me Rose.” We were really working toward the same thing—the protection of the river. This formality between us was stifling. “Mrs. Dugan is fine when we’re working on park beautification projects, but for circumstances like these ...” I trailed off. “It’s totally unnecessary.”
“Then you must call me Sean under similar conditions.” He reddened slightly as he said it.
“All right. Then it’s agreed,” I laughed. “An agreement forged more easily than most, I must say.” I automatically thrust out my hand. Sean appeared surprised by my gesture. But his hand felt warm and strong in mine.
Suddenly, I heard Nellie call from the direction of the South Garden. “Excuse me ... Sean,” I smiled, quickly tucking my hand into the fold of my skirt. “Mrs. Murphy has returned.”
I turned to see Nellie waving enthusiastically from the garden path, on the far side of the circular fountain. Nellie appeared like an animated version of the Nymph that stood on the fountain’s pedestal. But instead of a heron, Nellie had a collection of sketches tucked beneath her arm.
“Well, I had better be going,” I said with another bout of shyness. I looked up to return Nellie’s wave but was distracted by the sight of a young boy, dressed in a sweater, knickers, and a golf cap, running into the South Garden from Callowhill Street. His gait didn’t seem like a playful sprint, but a chase. As the fountain was in the center of the garden, he angled toward the path that Nellie was using. He was moving fast in Nellie’s direction.
Although I could barely make out his features, I could see the determination pressed into his young face. His shoulders were tight as if he were guarding a ball.
Sean stepped forward, his arm raised. “Slow down! Stop!”
“Nellie,” I warned. “Nellie, step off of the path!”
The next few seconds seemed to physically slow.The air was the quality of taffy. I watched, horrified, as the boy reached his hand out to shove Nellie out of his way. Nellie stumbled but did not fall. Sean grabbed for the boy, but the boy sidestepped him and continued his sprint. I knew now that I was his obvious destination.
I held out both hands to ward him off. I think I may have even shouted at him. His brown eyes met mine as he shoved the envelope into my hand. I tried to hold on to him, but he pushed me away, as he was too agile for me. “Stop!” I pleaded. The boy was now running along the forebay, toward the bridge. He would be away from the Water Works in minutes.
“Nellie!” I cried, grasping the envelope. “Are you all right?”
“The insolence!” Nellie said sternly, clutching her rolled-up sketches like a weapon.Then, quickly, she laughed. “Do you think that was some sort of game?”
Sean had trotted a few paces in the direction of the boy but was walking toward us now. His brows were creased, and his easy smile was gone. “Did he hurt either of you?”
“We’re fine, Sean.Thank you,” I replied as I explored the envelope with my fingertips, not sure if I was ready to look at its contents.
“What is it, Rose? Another note?” All of the nervous laughter had drained from Nellie’s voice.
I stared at the handwriting. It was the same, sloppy, childlike scrawl that was contained in the first letter.
“What is wrong, ladies?” Sean asked. He could detect our fear. At least it felt that palatable to me. But I didn’t want to deal with it now and was ready to slip the note into my pocket—until Nellie gently grasped my wrist.
“I don’t want you to open that alone. If it’s a letter like the other one, I want to be with you when you read it,” she said gently.
“I am sorry.” Sean’s voice had assumed an adamant authority. “If that boy has threatened you in some way, I would be more than happy to track him down.”
I looked from Nellie to Sean. It was then I realized that I would welcome the relief of sharing this burden with them.
“It’s not the boy, Sean. The boy is most likely just the messenger.”
I tore gingerly at the envelope. My heart, already beating fast, increased its tempo. My hands were shaking as I read its contents aloud.
YOU MUST CONVENCE YOUR HUSBAND OF HIS ERROR.
HIS CARE FOR OUR CITY’S HEALTH ONLY GOES AS
FAR AS THE BENIFITS TO HIS POCKET. HE IS PLACING
HIMSELF, AND THOSE HE LOVES, IN DANGER.
I called Patrick at his office as soon as I arrived home, but he was not there.
“Out on a job,” a man whose voice I did not recognize grumbled. “He’s not coming back here either. Going directly home he told me.”
I felt deflated. I wanted to warn Patrick about this new letter—two in a matter of days. And this one was more menacing. I could not imagine Patrick shrugging this one off as he did the first one. Surely he would realize that this one was no hoax.
I waited for him in the foyer, as I wanted to intercept him as soon as he arrived home. I rubbed the pineapple-shaped newel post on the dark oak staircase, the same way I did when I was a child, superstitiously hoping for some magic to make bad things disappear. The light of the chandelier reflected my image in the French doors of the morning room. I had changed into a blue velvet gown, as Patrick always insisted on a formal dinner. I felt absurd, standing there like an anxious bride. But I didn’t know what else to do. It was nearly six o’clock, and Patrick should be home at any moment.
I plucked at my dress’s pleated bodice out of nervousness. I felt uncomfortably warm. I had the letter in one hand and brushed my hair back with the other.This too was a nervous gesture, as I had pulled my hair up in a bun. The soft curls framing my face weren’t enough to cause me annoyance. It was this letter in my hand, and the fact that I was waiting for Patrick.
I flinched remembering my mood when Julius had pulled to our curb this afternoon. The ornamental stone columns that flanked the top landing of our front steps were colored in the same burnt brown of our house. Today, they had reminded me of the columns of our newly constructed mausoleum.They had certainly never given me the impression of death before. Until this week, when Nellie and I had made our trip to Laurel Hill. Or perhaps it was the effect of the letters? Surely this was the case, I prayed.
It was then that I heard Julius pulling the carriage up to the curb, and I flung open the door to quickly descend the steps to meet Patrick. As he pushed open the carriage door with his walking stick, I stopped, surprised at the expression on his face. For a moment, I forgot about the letter I held in my hand.
As he stepped from the carriage, his eyes momentarily flashed a look of peevishness—at me.
“Rose, what are you doi
ng? You’ll catch cold.” His Chesterfield was folded across his arm. His face held that same look it sometimes retained in the early morning, soon after Patrick rose from bed—a face still tired, not yet composed for the world.
“Patrick, I was so worried about you. I tried to call you at the office,” I began. Why would he greet me this way?
He looked at me, only mildly interested, and took my elbow as we climbed the steps to the door. I thought I detected the faint odor of a perfume, although I was not familiar with the scent.
“I received another letter today, Patrick. I was at the Water Works, and some boy came dashing through the park and pushed the letter into my hand.” I felt a fresh anger that I hadn’t the luxury to experience while I was worried about Patrick.
He placed his finger on my lips. “Please, Rose. I’ve had a day full of mishaps. Allow me to change, and we’ll talk over dinner.”
“But Patrick,” I protested.
“What did I say, Rose?” he turned from the closet, his voice severe. “I am going to change. I’ll be at the table within the half-hour,” he said dismissively.
As he brushed past me, I caught a whiff of the faint scent again. A new, tiny fear trickled into my heart as I watched Patrick climb the staircase. I turned to the door to see Julius standing in its threshold, his bowler in his hands. He shook his head back and forth, as if his master’s behavior was a mystery.
“Did you mention anything to him, Julius, about this afternoon?” I asked in a whisper.
“No, miss, I didn’t. I thought it best coming from you. Men usually want to be the first to receive such news from their wives.”
I smiled as I shook my head. At least Julius thinks as I do. “I’m going to tell Martha and Brigid to be ready to serve dinner by seven o’clock.”
I turned to the kitchen and walked slowly down the long hallway, feeling Julius’s sympathetic gaze on my back.
“Rose?” I heard Patrick call. “What is keeping you?”
Patrick was already seated at the dining room table, leaning back in his chair with a sleepy smile. Again, I noticed the aura of a lazy glow about him, the contentment that often relaxed his usually taut features after we shared a bed together. I felt another prick of alarm, unrelated to the letters. Perhaps it is the claret, I told myself. In his tired condition, he may be more susceptible to its warming charms.
He had already changed into his black smoking jacket—his favorite—with its checked silk collar, pocket flaps, and cuffs. His appearance only made me all the more nervous. This was completely out of character for him. He never practiced such informalities at the table. Instead of the smoke from a cigar, he puffed on the glow of some recent victory.
“Patrick,” I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Why didn’t you let me know you were already seated?” Even Martha, who was at my shoulder, was gaping at the sight of him. She looked at me accusingly, as if to say, a half-hour indeed! She rushed past me to get to the kitchen to hurry Brigid with the meal.
Patrick raised his glass of claret and gestured with his other hand for me to sit. I took the seat opposite him, as I always did, on the other end of the long, lace-covered, cherry wood table.
“Don’t worry yourself, Rose. I was just anxious to get the meal started. I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” he said generously. He smiled and took a sip from his glass. The glow from the chandelier cast a strange orange light. The liquid in his glass shone a dark ruby red.
I could hear Martha fussing around Brigid. The sound of dishes clattering against a tray and soup bowls rattling in their saucers inhabited the kitchen. I decided to speak above the din. “Patrick,” I called across the table. “I really must talk to you about this letter.You must take this seriously,” I insisted. I lay the letter over my plate, as if it were our first course.
His smile dissolved. He obviously did not understand the seriousness of the situation.
“Let me read today’s letter to you, Patrick. Then I think you’ll understand why I’ve been so anxious,” I offered.
“Not before dinner, Rose!” He carelessly slammed his hand on the table, rattling the china and silverware. I felt myself gaping at him.
“But Patrick ...” I stammered.
“Rose, this is beyond your silly committee.You do not have the slightest idea about the motivation of these letters. This is my business—a very competitive business. I will not allow a letter to disrupt my evening meal.” His earlier contentment had completely resolved. He glowered at me.
I felt the blood rush into my face.
“Well, I disagree with you, Patrick, about the gravity of this. But I will honor your wishes,” I replied. I know I sounded wounded. I could feel the choke of resentment in my throat.
I picked up my linen napkin and folded it on my lap, hoping that the normal routine would calm my feelings. What was keeping Martha, I wondered? Perhaps Martha was giving the food its usual, thorough inspection, or she may be simply eavesdropping at the kitchen door. Patrick was particular about his food and only trusted Martha or me to inspect its appearance. I assumed that this preoccupation was attached to a fear of catching disease, the same concern he had with the drinking water. He never drank water, only wine.
I tried to gauge the severity of his mood without staring. He was composed again, following his outburst, as he sipped his claret. The early evening shadows were tainted softly by the mute light of the chandelier. The white of the china, shining in the pale darkness from the safety of its shelf in the cabinet, reminded me of bones. Suddenly such a morbid thought, Why am I suddenly preoccupied with death?
“I saw your engineer friend yesterday,” Patrick suddenly announced, leaning back in his chair, patiently probing for a reaction from me.
I wasn’t prepared for this change of subject.What did he mean by my engineer friend?
“I assume you are talking about Mr. Parker?” I could feel my resentment blaze again to life and struggled to tamp it down. “Mr. Parker witnessed that boy practically attacking Nellie and me—the boy with the letter,” I reiterated. I felt some satisfaction that I had been able to take advantage of his opening.
Patrick scowled. I knew he disliked Sean, and he confirmed the opinion when he barked a laugh that told me that he thought Sean to be a fool. “The mayor and I were at the Water Works inspecting the site.” Patrick looked at me meaningfully. “The site you and your ladies’ committee deem as one of the best public places in the city.”
Was he mocking me? Why is he acting this way? But I wasn’t willing to go for his bait. “Surely, Patrick, you must have found the site breathtaking,” I said, appealing to his better senses. I worried that the Water Works was the source of his gloating.
Before he could reply, Martha interrupted us, bursting into the dining room with a tray. She placed it respectfully on the serving table and beamed Patrick the lovestruck smile of a doting mother. I found this display nauseating, but Patrick obviously enjoyed it.
“Your favorite today, sir, lamb, potatoes, asparagus, and a nice meat broth,” she crooned proudly. “I inspected it myself too, so you can be sure it’s the finest,” Martha added, stealing a glance at me. Earlier, Martha had nearly knocked me over to get to the kitchen.
“Thank you, Martha,” Patrick smiled warmly, helping himself to generous portions. I could never help but stare at Martha as she fluttered about him. Martha moved to the doorway as Patrick eagerly consumed his meal in silence. I ate without speaking too, monitoring Patrick’s own progress. As soon as his plate was clean and he had wiped his mouth with his napkin, I cleared my throat.
“All right, Patrick. I must talk to you about this letter now. Please listen,” I pleaded angrily. He waved his hand, bored, motioning for me to proceed. I then read it without taking a breath.
I looked up when finished. He stared at me, unmoved. He held the glass of claret to his lips but didn’t take a drink. “Give me the letter, Rose.”
I pulled it close to my chest. “Will you please share it with the police
?” I asked, hating the tinge of hysteria I detected in my voice. Why didn’t he see the danger of ignoring it?
“I said give me the letter,” he commanded, extending his hand. He straightened. His eyes were fiery. His emotions, stoked I knew by my insistence, had burned off the lulling effects of the claret and his earlier contentment. When I opened my mouth to protest, he interrupted. “I don’t need a wife who questions my authority, Rose. Give me the damn letter.”
I was shocked. He had never spoken to me in this manner. I stood, almost jumping up, and pushed my chair back. I walked to Patrick’s place at the table and dropped the letter in front of him.
“Do what you want with it,” I cried, turning to leave the room. My face felt like it was on fire as I caught a glimpse of Martha hovering in the kitchen doorway.
“Wait a minute, Rose.” Patrick stood and grasped me roughly by the arm. “Forgive me, dear. I am tired.” He then pulled me into his arms. Despite my fury, I went willingly and held him tightly as he caressed my back and neck. “I know the letter upsets you, but you must trust that I will handle it properly.”
“Why are you so angry with me?” I cried, not looking at his face, but mumbling into the warm sleeve of his smoking jacket.
“I am not angry with you. I am angry that someone had the audacity to deliver these letters to you. What sort of coward targets the wife of his enemy?” he demanded.Yet his embrace was gentle. I wrapped my arms around his waist and held him.
SEAN
Ishifted my weight in the straight back wooden chair, one of a hundred that were arranged in long rows in the City Councils’ Public Hearing Room at City Hall. Surely they made these chairs unbearable to temper the public’s enthusiasm for civic participation. I searched for Rose and Mrs. Murphy among the faces in the room but couldn’t find them. I thought about that threatening letter that Rose had held in her hand, wounded by its words, and wondered what Dugan had done with it. Is the author here in this room by any chance? I glanced suspiciously at the many bearded faces. It could be anyone. Many men disliked Dugan.Would such a letter keep Rose away from the Water Works? I was ashamed to acknowledge the swell of disappointment I felt with this thought.