American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  “You’ve known addicts, but have you ever watched one try to escape from the addiction?”

  Frank hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Can’t say that I have.”

  “I want you to know it all, Frank—every ugly, sickening detail. Maybe then you’ll understand what those journals can do to me. Because it’s all there, in black and white.”

  Frank said nothing, but his lean face went hard, and Andrew saw the mix of anger and pain glinting in his eyes.

  “When an addict goes through withdrawal, he loses his personality, his self-respect, and whatever dignity is left to him, which in most cases is none. Sometimes, he loses his mind as well. He’s nothing but a shell of a human being. The pain eats at your insides until you’re a howling animal. You beg for the opium. You plead. You threaten. You pray to die. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s being stripped bare and set ablaze. Even your brain is pressed and squeezed beyond endurance. The pain—it’s like nothing I can put into words.”

  He stopped. “And the worst of it is, you even lose the…the shame of what you’ve become. You lose everything, and yet you’d give up your soul for just one more time, one more hour, with the very poison that brought you to where you are.”

  “But you beat it, Doc,” Frank said quietly.

  Andrew shook his head. “Oh, no. I didn’t beat it, Frank. An addict is never really cured. Just…rescued. God rescued me—is still rescuing me. Hour by hour, He sees me through a day. That’s how it will always be for me. For the rest of my life.”

  Just as he had explained his deliverance to Bethany the night he asked her to marry him, he went on to relate to Frank how God had worked a miracle of healing through the caring heart and endurance of a friend, Charles Gordon. His roommate at medical college had eventually recognized Andrew’s addiction and virtually forced his unwilling friend to accompany him to his family’s home, where he proceeded to lock them both inside an attic room. For two weeks, Charles had prayed with Andrew, cared for him, and suffered with him through every stage of the torturous and demeaning withdrawal from the drug.

  To this day, Andrew could scarcely bear to think of the abuse he heaped on his friend during that horrendous time. And yet his roommate had refused to give up on him. And because Charles persevered, Andrew had finally emerged from his private hell.

  By the time Andrew reached the end of his account, he was so totally exhausted, so emotionally and physically drained, he could barely force the last few words out of his mouth. In the long silence that followed, he actually fought for his breath as if his heart and his lungs had been crushed.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Everything I’ve told you…and more—it’s all in the journals. It’s all there.”

  So surprised was he to feel Frank’s strong hand on his shoulder that he actually jumped, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look up.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Does Lady Doc know?”

  Andrew nodded. “Yes, Bethany knows.”

  “And I’ll warrant she thinks no less of you for it. Am I right?”

  The memory of Bethany’s quiet reassurance whispered at the edge of Andrew’s mind as he shook his head. “Don’t insult me, Andrew,” she had said. “It would be a poor kind of love indeed that would allow the past to destroy the present and the future. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

  “Nor do I, Doc,” he heard Frank Donovan say in a voice unnaturally soft and laced with an uncommon warmth. “Nor do I.”

  Andrew lifted his head. “What?”

  “I think no less of you, Doc. In truth, though I’m sorry to hear you went through such a terrible time, I might even be a bit relieved to know you’re not without a wart or two of your own, given the fact that I’ve so many.”

  Andrew stared at him, watching the familiar, thoroughly Irish smile spread slowly across Frank’s features.

  “You fuddled me something fierce, don’t you know? It was never all that easy, seeing you as some kind of a blessed saint.”

  “Good heavens, Frank, I never intended you should think of me as any such thing!”

  Frank’s expression sobered. “But still, you’re the best man that’s ever crossed my path, and that’s the truth. I expect that’s why I had somewhat of a hard time with you—at first, that is. I kept looking for you to judge me.”

  Andrew uttered a humorless laugh. “I’d be the last to judge you, Frank—or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Aye, in time I came to see that about you. All the same, Doc, mind what I say: You’re a better man than you think, I expect. And sad to say, ’tis been my experience that there’s no lack of scoundrels out there looking to bring down the really good men. No lack at all.”

  Frank dropped his hand away from Andrew’s shoulder, pulled up a chair nearby, and straddled it, facing Andrew. “Now, then,” he said, swiping a hand through his dark red hair, “I expect you’ve at least an idea or two about who might be behind this nasty business. So tell me what you think, Doc.”

  Andrew felt somewhat dazed—dazed and immensely grateful as it gradually dawned on him that both the woman he loved and his closest friend now knew the ugly truth about his past. They knew—and neither condemned him. Neither had turned away from him.

  Once again, it seemed that God had poured His grace out upon an undeserving sinner’s head.

  The long, ragged breath of relief he pulled in was in itself a fervent prayer of thanks. He began then to tell Frank about Mary Lambert and her children. And about Robert Warburton, the well-known, much revered clergyman who had fathered those children—and threatened Andrew during a heated confrontation at Warburton’s residence.

  As he spoke, he saw Frank’s mouth tighten, his eyes grow cold.

  “But I can’t actually believe Warburton has anything to do with this business,” Andrew cautioned. “The man’s threat was contingent upon my revealing what I know about him and Mary Lambert. But I’ve kept my silence, other than to tell Bethany and now you. I’ve given Warburton no reason to fear me.”

  He paused. “Besides, the man is a pastor. Even if he thought I’d spoken out about his affair, surely he wouldn’t stoop to something so—sordid.”

  Frank’s dark eyebrows shot up, then he scowled. “Doc, you’ll pardon my saying so, but you can be terrible green sometimes. Didn’t you just tell me this Warburton fella sired three illegitimate children?”

  Andrew looked at him and nodded, feeling the heat begin to rise from his neck to his face as he realized what Frank was getting at.

  “And didn’t you say he treated this woman disgraceful and then abandoned her and their children?”

  Again Andrew nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

  “And you don’t think a man like that would stoop to something sordid?”

  Frank shook his head, and Andrew felt thoroughly embarrassed now to realize how naïve he must seem to his friend.

  “I take your point,” he said before Frank could chastise him again. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “It’s not only possible; I’d just about bet my badge on it, Doc,” Frank said, getting to his feet and scooting the chair back to its original place. “A blighter like himself might not dirty his own hands in such a way, but there are those who wouldn’t mind doin’ it for him.”

  Andrew also stood. “Frank? What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll have to study on it for a bit,” Frank said. His gaze flicked over Andrew. “You go upstairs now and get some rest, Doc. I’ll bring a couple of the boyos over first thing in the morning, and we’ll help you clean up.”

  Frank started for the door, then turned back to retrieve his hat. “Oh, and Doc? Watch your back, mind? Something tells me this isn’t over.”

  He was almost out the door before Andrew stopped him.

  “Frank—”

  The other man waited.

  “Thank you.”

  Frank gave a wave of his hat and closed the door behind him, leaving Andrew to marvel, not for the f
irst time, that the Lord had chosen to bless his life with such friends as Charles Gordon and Frank Donovan. He hated to think where he would be without them.

  The first article appeared three days later in the Herald. Andrew had finally settled himself at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a piece of buttered bread for breakfast. He was thumbing through the pages of the newspaper when a letter to the editor caught his attention. After taking in the first few words, he set his cup of tea to the table with a trembling hand and read on.

  Gentlemen,

  It is with no small measure of distress that I feel it necessary to write this letter, in order to bring a matter of scandalous proportions to the attention of our unsuspecting populace. Were this not an issue that could endanger countless numbers of innocent people, I would choose to keep my silence rather than bring to light a situation that might better remain in the dark, where other unspeakable acts of like nature commonly dwell.

  In this case, however, my great concern is to send a warning to those who might unknowingly fall victim to the unconscionable behavior of a practicing physician in our midst, a person of some reputation and distinction. The individual to whom I refer has under his care a significantly large and varied patient list, ranging from the shadowy and questionable inhabitants of the more squalid tenement sections of the city to the more respectable elements of our society.

  This physician, who shall for the present remain nameless, while maintaining the appearance and pretense of being a qualified and conscientious medical doctor with only the good of his patients at heart, is in reality an addicted user of opium—a shameful, abominable narcotic.

  Who can tell how many may have already fallen victim to the less-than-proficient skills and questionable morality of this individual?

  Competent medical care is not only the right of every upstanding citizen; it is also a necessity. When one’s physician, however, masquerades as an equal to those esteemed men of the healing arts while indulging himself in a degrading, despicable habit known to have enslaved its users by the hundreds—nay, by the thousands—a habit which causes erosion of all morals and the eventual devastation of the mind and body, it calls into question the trustworthiness of other members of his profession.

  There is no telling what harm this particular “physician” could possibly inflict upon his innocent patients or the damage he might bring upon his noble profession. Just as shocking, if not more so, is the fact that he has recently associated himself with one of the disturbing number of female practitioners bent on carving out a place for themselves among the serious, conscientious members of the medical community.

  I write with the genuine concern of a resident of our city who cannot in good conscience stand by in silence, for to do so is to encourage an insidious and potentially disastrous situation.

  A concerned citizen

  Andrew forgot his bread and tea. He sat motionless, staring at the newspaper page in front of him, his breath coming labored and shallow.

  Deep inside him, something dark and cold and ugly began to tear and open, like a once-healed wound newly stabbed and savaged by the same knife with a different blade.

  Clearly, the vandalism in his office had merely been the forerunner of an even more devastating attack. Now the real evil had been unleashed.

  14

  DINNER FOR TWO

  She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

  But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

  W. B. YEATS

  Susanna stopped the moment she stepped into the dining room and found no one there. The room was aglow with candlelight, the table set with the best china, sparkling crystal, and snowy white linen. At each end, blue violets spilled from white china bowls.

  But only two places had been set.

  Puzzled, she walked the rest of the way in and looked around. “What in the world…”

  Her question died on her lips as Michael came into the room. Susanna took a second look at him, suddenly glad she’d changed into her blue silk instead of relying on one of her everyday ginghams. He had obviously gone to some trouble with his own appearance. His gray jacket was informal but, as always, perfectly tailored for his tall form, and he’d donned a pearl-hued cravat that lent a touch of elegance. His dark hair, which lately seemed to be taking on more and more silver, had been brushed into as much control as was possible, given its natural unruliness.

  “Susanna?” he said. He invariably sensed her presence in a room—a fact which never failed to please her.

  “Michael, what’s going on? Where are Caterina and your father? And Paul?”

  “Papa and Caterina dined early, while you were at the MacGoverns’. Papa is seeing to Cati’s bedtime. And Pauli is attending the birthday party for his friend Enzo this evening, remember?”

  He touched her shoulder and, with the accuracy of one who was perfectly sighted, pulled her chair out and waited for her to be seated.

  “So, we’re dining alone?” she said.

  He nodded and took the place to her right, at the head of the table. “Si, it is only the two of us tonight. And since that makes it a special occasion, I planned a special meal for us—a traditional Italian supper.”

  Susanna looked at him. “Moira cooked a traditional Italian supper?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “No. Papa and I did most of it. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You and your papa? Well—I am surprised. But your father should be eating with us if he helped to prepare the meal.” It occurred to Susanna that Michael’s father had been puttering about Moira Dempsey’s kitchen quite a lot since he’d arrived at Bantry Hill. Or at least it seemed that way. With Michael being one of the few exceptions, anyone who dared invade Moira’s domain could count on being bullied off the premises. Either Riccardo Emmanuel had managed to ingratiate himself with the Irish housekeeper, or else he had somehow employed a few bullying techniques of his own.

  “We prepared more than enough for Papa and Cati to indulge themselves earlier,” Michael said. “They seemed pleased, so I hope you will be, too.”

  He found her hand and covered it with his. “I wanted us to have an evening alone for a change. It seems as though we’re always hurrying to do something, you in one place, I in another. And always there are others with us. Especially over the past weeks.”

  “I know. But there’s been nothing to do for it except—manage. What with Maylee needing more attention lately…and Vangie’s illness…and looking after Caterina, and then with your father here—of course, he’s wonderful with Caterina—”

  “I’m not complaining, Susanna,” he interrupted. “It’s just that I’ve missed you. I need to have you to myself now and then.”

  Susanna’s heart turned over as she studied the dark, handsome face she’d come to love. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said softly. “And this is nice, Michael. I’m glad you thought of it.”

  Now that the surprise was wearing off, in fact, Susanna found herself exceedingly pleased. It was a rare occasion indeed these days when she and Michael found any time alone to just sit and talk for a few minutes, much less to enjoy a leisurely meal together. They worked together on the music, of course, but with Michael, work meant work, with little time spent on conversation. Besides, they were usually a trio, not a duet, for Paul almost always worked with them.

  Just then young Rebecca MacBride, a local girl who sometimes helped Moira in the kitchen, appeared, balancing a tray with a soup tureen and bowls. Susanna discreetly slipped her hand away from Michael’s and spoke to the girl before she left the room.

  One taste of the smooth, clear broth and Susanna looked up. “Michael! This is delicious. What is it?”

  “Stracciatella,” he said, tasting his own. “Papa used to make this when I was a little boy. It’s really just eggs and broth and cheese. A little parsley, some semolina. I’m glad you like it.”

  He took another spoonful of soup, then said, “So, how is Mrs. MacGovern getting alon
g now?”

  Susanna delayed her reply. These days, it seemed that any discussion involving Vangie MacGovern and her family was one marked not only by sadness and concern, but also by unanswered questions. It was difficult to gauge Vangie’s condition, other than to observe that it wasn’t good.

  “Vangie is still—I don’t know how to describe her, Michael. She’s so awfully sad, of course. And physically, what with the difficult time she had—”

  “With the birth,” he put in.

  “Yes.” Susanna didn’t like to think about that part of things, much less speak of it with Michael. She feared he might sense the apprehension that had taken root in her since the night she’d witnessed Vangie’s ordeal.

  Michael was keenly sensitive; he missed little, especially where she was concerned. Susanna would hate for him to learn that she was such a coward as to be frightened at the idea of bearing a child.

  She wanted Michael’s child—she truly did—and she knew she ought to be willing to give him as many children as he wanted. He was a wonderful father to Caterina. The thing with Michael was that he genuinely enjoyed being a father and treated the role not so much as a responsibility, but more as a joy, a delight.

  If only she hadn’t seen what Vangie went through…

  “Where have you gone, cara?”

  “What?” Susanna looked up to see him frowning, obviously waiting for her to go on. “I’m sorry. I’m really worried about Vangie, Michael. She doesn’t seem to be regaining her strength as she should. But it’s more than that—it’s as if she’s dead inside. She doesn’t talk unless she absolutely has to, even to Mr. MacGovern. And the baby—she seems almost…indifferent to him. He’s not thriving a bit, the poor wee thing.”

  She stopped. “Moira says a baby can sense when he doesn’t have the mother’s full attention or affection. It’s a terrible situation, and there doesn’t seem to be any help for it.”

  Again Michael found her hand—and again the MacBride girl interrupted them, this time to exchange their soup bowls for two small plates holding a variety of cheeses.