American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Moira stopped, then added in a tone as cold and hard as a gravestone, “And it’s for certain not your choice, Riccardo Emmanuel. You best stop tormenting that girl—and stop interfering in your son’s life!”

  The sound that came rumbling up from Papa Emmanuel’s throat sounded almost dangerous. Susanna decided she’d heard enough. Besides, she fully expected Michael’s father to come charging out of the kitchen like an enraged bull at any moment. With no further delay, she gathered up her skirts and hurried off.

  Halfway down the hall, however, she caught herself smiling. The very idea—Moira Dempsey defending her! She would never have dreamed such a thing could happen.

  Michael’s morning had gone reasonably well so far. There had been few interruptions in his work, and his session with Renny Magee had been pure pleasure.

  The girl was extraordinarily gifted in a number of areas, not the least of which was her perfect pitch and an innate, precise sense of rhythm that was impossible to teach. She had only to hear a tune once, and she could duplicate it almost note for note on that tin whistle of hers. Michael was already planning to try her on a flute and then a piccolo; he wouldn’t be at all surprised if she didn’t take to both like an eagle to flight.

  His one failure with her seemed to be the ability to cheer the girl’s heart. She and Maylee had become so close, such extraordinary friends, that Renny was grieving the other child’s deteriorating condition. He had hoped that the music would in itself work to brighten Renny’s spirits, but although she breezed through the music like a professional and did everything as she was told, Michael sensed that her heart wasn’t altogether in her performance.

  He, too, grew saddened when he thought about Maylee. He had grown quite fond of the girl. He admired her courage, her optimism, her faith, and her indefatigable sense of humor. The child could find at least a touch of lightness in almost anything, including her own condition.

  He was still thinking about Maylee when his father walked into the room. It was almost as easy to identify Papa’s entrance as it was Susanna’s. Riccardo Emmanuel didn’t so much enter a room as sweep into it. Surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size, he never moved slowly. Every step seemed propelled by the man’s enviable energy.

  “Papa,” Michael greeted him.

  “Ah, at least my son concedes the fact I am his father.”

  Michael groaned, but silently. His father’s tone as much as his words pointed to a fit of pique. No doubt he and Moira had been at it again.

  “That—woman,” his father declared, “is una minaccia!”

  A menace. So he had been arguing with Moira.

  “I don’t understand why you put up with her!”

  “If you’re referring to Moira, Papa, you know very well why. She and Liam are family to me. As they were to Grandmama and Grandpapa. I can’t think what I’d do without them.”

  His father uttered a sound of disgust. “I never did understand your grandparents’—and your mother’s—affection for the woman.”

  “You’ve been arguing again?”

  “Ha! There is no arguing with that one. She is always right. I am always wrong. She is—” Michael could almost see him tapping his head. “—the great sage!”

  “Papa—”

  “Never mind, never mind, is not important. I have an idea and would like you to consider it.”

  “Of course. What kind of an idea?”

  “I think we should invite Signor Conti to supper one evening soon. After all, he has paid you high compliments, and it seems we should at least be gracious to acknowledge his interest in you.”

  A sharp pain stabbed at Michael’s right temple. He pressed a hand against it, clenching his other fist. He would not let his father anger him or put him out of sorts—not this morning. But the headache had already begun.

  “I think not, Papa. At least not anytime soon. Things are far too hectic as it is right now.”

  “But I think perhaps you misunderstand me. I know what you’ve said about not returning to the opera, and it is, of course, your decision. I mean only to be courteous to the man. Giocomo Conti is most important in the music world, yes?”

  “Sì, he’s a very important man, Papa. But I must remind you that I have no intention of performing in his Lucia—or in any other opera ever again.”

  “Michael—”

  Michael heard the frustration in his father’s voice and knew he was in for yet another debate about his decision to stop singing. He pulled in a long breath, bracing himself. At the same time, the pain in his head intensified.

  “Mio figlio, why are you being so stubborn about this?”

  “Why am I being so stubborn?” To give himself time to cool his irritation, Michael got up from the piano bench and walked to the mantel, keeping his back to his father for the time being.

  “I am suggesting only a friendly meal, Michael. Nothing more.”

  Michael turned around, not speaking until he was sure he could do so without being argumentative. He loved his father too much to wound him or insult him, but lately Papa was trying his patience to the limit.

  “Papa, don’t dissemble with me. I think you’re hoping that if I share a meal and a little friendly conversation with Signor Conti, I’ll agree to perform again.”

  His father tried to interrupt, but Michael warned him off. “No, let me finish, please. If I’m right, if that’s your intention, it would be a complete waste of his time—and ours—to invite him here. Please, Papa, hear what I am saying. There is nothing you can do to change my mind. Nothing.”

  Somehow he must convince his father to accept the fact for once and for all that he was finished—for good—with the world of opera. Papa’s incessant harping on the subject was driving him to the end of his patience, and he knew Susanna was exceedingly tired of it as well.

  “Michael, you are not being reasonable, I think—”

  “Papa!” Michael cringed at his tone—when had he ever raised his voice to his father before today?—but what with the headache and Papa’s obstinacy, he was finding it nearly impossible to curb his impatience. With great effort, he lowered his voice, but he was still rigid with frustration. “Papa, I love you, and I respect you—more than any man I know. But I must demand the same thing from you. I need you to accept the decisions I make regarding my own career—and any other area of my life. You must believe me. If I had any doubt in my heart—any doubt—that I made a mistake by leaving the opera and turning to composition and conducting, I would admit it. And I would carefully consider your opinion. But I have no doubt.”

  He stopped long enough to think. “I am a man, Papa, not a boy. I haven’t been a boy for a very long time. You must begin seeing me as a man—your son, yes—but a man. And as a man, I believe that God has called me to this…place in my music—where I am today. You have no right to interfere with God’s will for me, Papa. And with all respect, I must say to you that you are attempting to do just that.”

  He heard a sharp intake of air from his father, but he could not, he must not, relent. “Papa, don’t you see? I had that other world once. I had it all—the crowds, the celebrity, the money, the…excitement. And I found it worthless. It gave me no peace, no joy—only emptiness. It turned me into a man I didn’t even like, a man I couldn’t respect.”

  Michael paused, struggling to find the words that would pierce his father’s intransigence. “I don’t regret for a moment leaving that world, and you must stop trying to make me want it again. I want you to be proud of me, Papa, to be proud of my music, what I am doing now. But I can’t be what you want. I have to be what I am.”

  The throbbing in his head had built to a crescendo. Again he pressed his hand against his temple, trying to ease the pain. “There’s one more thing, Papa. I need to say this. You have been critical of Susanna, and that, too, must end. This is the woman I love, the woman I have chosen to spend my life with. Susanna is a wonderful person. She has brought peace and love into my world, and I had almost given
up hope I would ever find either. She loves me, and she loves Caterina—and Caterina loves her as well. And she will love you, too, Papa, if you let her. I’m asking you, for my sake, to please…accept Susanna as she is. Stop looking for her failings. Instead, get to know her. If you do, I believe you will find much that you approve of, much to love. But even if you don’t, I cannot allow you to be disrespectful of her—you must see that. It must end.”

  The silence was unnerving, especially since Michael couldn’t see his father’s face or interpret his response. For a moment he thought he might have left the room. But, no. Michael heard a slight movement, then the sound of his father’s voice, uncommonly hoarse and broken.

  “Oh, my Michael…you cannot think I’m not proud of you? Surely not! Mio figlio, but of course I am proud of you! No man ever had such a son—such a fine son! You are my greatest pride, my deepest joy, in all the world! I would be proud of the man you are even if you could not—what do they say in the English?—carry a tune. You are my son!”

  Caught completely unaware, Michael suddenly felt himself embraced—vigorously embraced, and held so tightly as to make him lose his breath. His father’s hands were on his head, his face, his shoulders, and when Michael skimmed a hand over the other’s face, he felt the dampness of his father’s tears.

  “Forgive me, Michael! I am a terrible man!” A dramatic explosion of Italian followed these words, along with another hard embrace, and Michael suddenly found himself comforting his father.

  “Papa, no, you are not—”

  Their reconciliation was abruptly interrupted by a growling, barking wolfhound who bounded into the music room and threw himself at Michael’s father. Apparently Gus had heard the commotion and, believing his master to be in danger, had rushed to perform a heroic rescue.

  Now Michael had to turn his efforts to convincing the great hound that he was in no jeopardy. It took both of them, Michael and his father, to calm the dog and assure him the ruckus had been friendly and nonthreatening. Soon the wolfhound was waltzing back and forth on his hind legs between the two of them, and Michael and his father were laughing like two mischievous boys at play.

  Susanna picked that moment to come hurrying into the room to see what all the noise was about. Almost instantly, Michael found himself deserted as the wolfhound and his father went to Susanna.

  Her cry of surprise told Michael that it was her turn to receive the attentions of Gus the wolfhound, along with one of Papa’s bear hugs.

  And her laughter told him she didn’t mind in the least.

  29

  LETTERS

  Two are better than one.

  ECCLESIASTES 4:9 (NIV)

  Frank Donovan took a friend with him when he called on Robert Warburton.

  Well, not his friend exactly—but a friend of Doc Carmichael’s. A friend who wanted to help.

  Doc had been reluctant to mention Edward Fitch’s offer to help. But once he did, Frank had decided the prominent attorney might be just the ticket for getting rid of that snake. Not only could Fitch fill Frank in on the finer points of the law; his reputation was bound to carry weight with a social climber like Warburton.

  So dressed in his best uniform, his badge polished, his gun on full display, and Edward Fitch at his side, Frank paid a visit to the Reverend Warburton.

  A dignified-looking black man opened the door. When he hesitated to announce them, Edward Fitch pulled a calling card from his pocket and put a foot in the door. “Just tell your employer we need to speak with him on a most important police matter. We’ll wait until he’s free.”

  Warburton was a surprise to Frank, to say the least. Though he hadn’t exactly expected the man to have horns and breathe brimstone, he wasn’t looking for him to be as unimpressive in appearance as he was. He was short—a fact Frank appreciated, having found he could intimidate some blokes just by glaring down on them. The man also had a bad complexion and eyes that reminded Frank of a pig.

  Clearly, he meant to keep them standing in the fancy hallway, but Frank thought he might change his mind when he heard the nature of their business. This wasn’t a fella who’d want his wife listening in on what Frank and Fitch had to say.

  “How can I help you…gentlemen?” Warburton asked.

  “You might want to talk with us in private—Reverend.” Frank made absolutely no effort to conceal the contempt in his tone.

  Warburton’s gaze flicked over him, then Fitch. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled. “Goodness, what does a clergyman do to rate a call from a policeman and an attorney?”

  He thought he was slick, Frank decided. Well, they would just see how slick.

  “For starters, he commits fraud and defamation,” Frank replied in a voice just as oily as Warburton’s. “Oh, and then there’s also the matter of breakin’ and enterin’ and vandalism of private property.”

  He stopped, smiling grimly at the other man’s red-faced look of outrage.

  “You want to talk privately now, Reverend?”

  “In here,” Warburton said, his tone sharp. He marched in front of them and opened the doors on a room Frank assumed to be a study, though quite a swanky one for a “preacher.”

  Warburton went to the other side of his mahogany desk and sat down. He offered no indication that Frank and Edward Fitch should do likewise, but when Frank plopped down in one of two chairs across from him, Fitch followed suit. As previously agreed, Edward Fitch took up the conversation by citing the crimes Warburton could be charged with.

  It didn’t take long for the man on the other side of the desk to jump to his feet, his face livid. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! It’s ludicrous! Why would you even think of accusing me of such—atrocities? Don’t you know who I am?”

  Edward Fitch rubbed a finger across his upper lip, staring at Warburton. “We know exactly who you are, and you’re no more clergyman than I am. You’re a two-bit salesman with a clever tongue and a fast pitch. You learned whatever you might know about religion in a traveling tent show.”

  He paused, and Warburton tried to jump in, but Fitch stopped him with a snap of his fingers.

  “We also know about Mary Lambert and your illegitimate children,” Fitch went on. “Oh, and I’d rather not go into detail about this, but we’ve come up with a fairly clear idea of your sexual perversions. You really are a disgusting man.”

  Frank thought he might have enjoyed this if he didn’t have to look at Warburton. But he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about that snake touching Mary Lambert, putting his hands on her. The idea that a loathsome piece of rubbish like Warburton had humiliated her—and hurt her—made him itch to get the man’s throat between his hands.

  He gave himself a mental shake. Fitch was the best one to handle this. He knew the finer points of the law, and he could outtalk Warburton without batting an eye.

  In fact, he had him squirming like a worm on a hook already, although the man was doing his best to wiggle free.

  “I won’t hear another word of this,” Warburton sputtered. “I don’t know this… Mary Lambert person. And all this nonsense about vandalism and such—I don’t know what you’re talking about! You simply cannot come in here and insult me with this corruption.”

  Frank could no longer hold his tongue. “Ah, but we are here, and if it’s corruption you want to talk about, let’s us have a talk about what you did to Mary Lambert.”

  Fitch reached over and put a hand to Frank’s arm. Frank straightened a bit and closed his mouth.

  “Sergeant Donovan here is prepared to take you with us as we leave,” Fitch said, his tone casual. “You’ll be charged and held, you understand, until you can hire yourself an attorney.”

  Then he stopped and locked eyes with Warburton. “But whoever you hire won’t be able to help you very much if we produce a witness who can substantiate most of the charges brought against you. The breaking and entering might be a bit shaky, although I imagine it won’t be all that difficult to locate the thugs you hired for
the job.”

  Warburton twisted his mouth into an ugly scowl. “If you’re so sure of yourselves, why haven’t you arrested me already?”

  Again Fitch smiled. “Is that what you really want? We’ll be glad to oblige if you do.”

  Now it was Frank’s turn. He got to his feet and pulled himself up to his full height. “A couple of things you need to know—Reverend. Doc Carmichael is a good friend of mine—my closest friend, as a matter of fact. And Doc is a real good man. I mean a good man, not that you’d know much about the breed.”

  Frank shook his head. “But me—I’m not a good man at all. In fact, I can be a very nasty fella altogether, and I’d just as soon make mutton out of your face as anything I can think of right about now. I just plain don’t like you. And if I thought you were going to be locked up, out of my reach for any length of time, I’m afraid I’d have to at least settle my differences with you before they threw you in the cell. But Mr. Fitch here, he thinks there’s a better way to maybe save your skin and work things out for all concerned. If you’re interested, you might want to hear him out.”

  Warburton settled a killing glare on Frank. “Why should I be interested?”

  Frank lowered himself back to the chair as Edward Fitch took over. “It might keep you out of jail, for one thing. Oh, by the way, I don’t think I’ve explained that, like Sergeant Donovan, I’m also a good friend of Dr. Carmichael. He once saved my life. So you can imagine that I’m grateful. That’s why I’m here.”

  Fitch dusted a speck of lint off his suit coat before going on. “Here’s what I think might help your situation. You’ll make a complete, detailed statement of your involvement in the vandalism of the doctor’s office. You’ll confess to the outrageous letters that have been appearing in the newspaper defaming Dr. Carmichael—you’ll send a copy of that admission to those same newspapers, by the way.”

  “I didn’t write those letters!” Warburton burst out.