by Dianne Day
“How soon do you suppose that will be?” I asked as soon as the coughing spell had passed. Glancing around the room, I did not see a clock. Nor was Father’s pocket watch on the table at his bedside. I supposed he could tell the time as I had done during my own period of invalid’s incarceration, by an internal clock that takes some of its cues from things like the rising and setting of the sun, and certain noises that come regularly from the world outside the doors, and eventually—when one is well enough—from cycles of hunger and sleeping.
Father said nothing for a moment. Then he turned his head on the pillow and said, “Perhaps it would be best if you were to open the door now. She could arrive at any minute. It is positively uncanny how the woman—I mean Augusta—and the Sister with the dinner tray arrive most nights simultaneously.”
I got up, walked across Father’s room using both canes, and opened the door. I could not help being excruciatingly aware of how closely he watched me. Indeed, at Father’s insistence we had talked more about my recent calamities than about his much more serious condition.
Because I was unhappy to hear of Augusta’s imminent arrival and did not want my father to see that on my face, after opening the door I went to the window and tweaked the blinds, so that I could see the river and the scattered lights of Cambridge on the other side. While doing these things I composed myself.
“You won’t need those canes much longer, I think,” said Father.
I turned, forcing a smile. “I hope you’re right. It seems a long time I’ve been unable to walk the way I used to.”
“Raise the blinds all the way, if you’ll be so kind, daughter. And leave the curtains open. I like to look out at the night.”
I did as he asked, then returned to my place in the chair once more. Previously I’d pushed it as close as possible to the bed, so that I could hold Father’s hand as we talked.
“Fremont, who used to be Caroline, my daughter,” Father said. I waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t, only my name. His eyes shone even though the whites were clouded. I took his hand again and he placed his other hand on top of mine. His were cold and bony, but there was warmth in his shining eyes.
It was hard to look directly at him for very long. I think he knew it. He said, “I’m dying, you know.”
I bit my lip and nodded my head. I wanted to protest, to deny, but somehow I could not.
“They’re trying to make me well in this place, but they can’t. It’s too late. Even for Searles Cosgrove, who thinks he knows everything. Always has thought that ever since I’ve known him. Heh.”
Father tried to laugh at his mild gibe, but only succeeded in coughing more. I tried to smile, with not much more success.
“Perhaps you are wrong,” I said, suddenly finding my voice, along with a store of denial—or was it hope?—I had not known I possessed. “You’re stronger now than when you were brought to the hospital, or so I’ve been told. So perhaps you will regain more strength, and then who knows what may happen!”
“I’m not wrong.”
In spite of those discouraging words, Father smiled. His smile brought back so much. For a blessed, fleeting moment I could see in his face the father I’d relied on throughout my childhood, the father I’d loved so much, still loved too much to lose him.
“But you’re too young to die! You’re not yet sixty years old, and many people live to be much older than that.”
“Dearest daughter, I don’t mind. I’m going to be with your mother. But I’m glad I’ll have a little time with you, at least, before I go—now that you’re here. Thank you for coming. Now give me a kiss and be on your way. You’ll be here again tomorrow?”
I supposed he wanted me to go back to the hotel now so as to avoid a confrontation with Augusta. I gave him the kiss and my promise to return soon, and then I left as he’d asked.
SEARLES COSGROVE kept an office in Back Bay, on Commonwealth Avenue. Somewhat in the manner of the house Michael and I shared on Divisadero Street, Dr. Cosgrove had his suite for seeing patients downstairs and his own private quarters upstairs. However, Cosgrove’s house was far larger—a full three stories— and far more impressive than the residence of Jones and Kossoff and the offices of the J&K Agency.
“Commonwealth Avenue,” Michael said as he assisted me up the few stone steps from the sidewalk to the arched front door, “looks more like Paris than any other place I’ve been. Do you suppose they planned it that way?”
“Without doubt.”
“Except perhaps for St. Petersburg”—Michael carried on with his thought as if I had not spoken—“which would look a good deal more like Paris without its canals.”
“Paris has canals? That’s the first I’ve ever heard of it.”
“No, St. Petersburg has canals. I must take you there sometime, Fremont.”
“To St. Petersburg or to Paris?”
I had reached the top of the steps, largely without assistance, because Michael had stopped to give all his attention to the view. I did not mind this in the least, because now I could congratulate myself on having done well alone. I was a little out of breath, that was all.
Flushed by this small victory I added, “I think I should like to see both.”
“Then you shall. It’s hard to believe you’ve never been to Europe. Your education has been sadly neglected, Fremont.”
“If Mother had lived, she would have accompanied me to Europe. Father never had time, and of course I could not go alone.”
Michael waved his arm in continuing appreciation: “Just look at all those mansard roofs. I think a mansard gives a handsome look to a house. But it is the use of stone, really, that gives such a feeling of elegance. We don’t quite achieve this kind of thing in San Francisco.”
“You know the story of Back Bay’s development, I suppose?” I asked, then turned and rang the bell. If we were to be on time for my appointment, then Michael would soon have to place some limits on his enthusiasm.
“No,” he replied, “I can’t say that I do. My first trip to Boston was—hm, let me see—I believe it must have been around fifteen years ago. I must say I never wondered about this part of the city. I suppose I assumed it was always as it is now.”
“No, Back Bay was literally that—the back end of the bay, and none too pleasant. It was a swamp until about fifty years ago. The Fenway is named for the Fens in England.”
I pushed the buzzer again, then tried the door and found it unlocked. I should have thought of that—Cosgrove would no more lock his office than we’d have locked the offices of J&K in the daytime.
I said, “Michael, no one has answered the door but I think we are supposed to go in.” Then I gathered up my skirts, preparing to do exactly that.
“Wait just one minute.” He bounded up the steps and tugged lightly at my elbow, an indication that he wanted me to turn around. “What is that big place across the street there, on the corner?”
The building he indicated was most definitely big—it occupied fully half the block, starting at the corner where Commonwealth meets Dartmouth Street. It was also a strikingly handsome piece of property.
“That is the Hotel Vendome,” I said, “and as you mentioned, it is probably the most French-looking building around these parts. Now come, we really must go inside.”
“A hotel,” Michael muttered. He sounded disappointed.
“It used to be more fashionable in the last century than it is now. I believe the Vendome has become rather run-down. There are apartments within the hotel where people live permanently, in addition to the usual sort of guest rooms. I haven’t been in that hotel more than once or twice in my life. I don’t remember much about it.”
“Perhaps I’ll take a look some afternoon when you’re doing other things.”
Now that was an excellent idea, though I couldn’t imagine why the Vendome had so captured Michael’s fancy. But never mind, if it kept him busy on his own, that could only be to the good.
I made no comment, but pus
hed open the door and proceeded on through, with the assumption that Michael would catch it and follow. Which was exactly what he did.
I had not wanted him to accompany me on this appointment to talk to my father’s doctor, but I hadn’t tried too hard to stop him, either. The truth is, although he bothers me beyond belief sometimes, Michael is an exceptionally good observer and judge of people—better than I am most of the time. We have these qualities in common; in fact you might say they are what binds us together.
I tell myself Michael is only better at these things because I’m twenty years younger than he is, and when I’ve been doing them as long as he has, I will be equally good at them. But alas I cannot know this for a fact, and so for the moment, as well as for the foreseeable future, I was glad enough to have him with me.
Immediately inside the door we encountered a vestibule, and another door, as is often the case in New England dwellings; the double door arrangement serves to keep the heat in and the cold out. The space between the two doors also provided a place to leave one’s boots and umbrellas. Since we had neither, we went on through the second door and into the building proper.
Focused on my goal of talking to the doctor, I did not pay much attention to the marble floor in the hallway, or to the wood paneling on the walls, or the staircase that ascended on our right toward the upper floors—but Michael made up for my neglect by providing running commentary. If I hadn’t known better I might have thought he’d never seen civilization before. Or that—God forbid—San Francisco was not civilized enough for him. I might have to give him a talking- to on this subject at some point, but now was not the moment.
A quick glance up the hall confirmed the likelihood of the main office being on our immediate left, so that was where I went.
Searles Cosgrove had a nurse—not a nun but the regular sort, who looked rather dull, actually, after one had become accustomed to the rather spectacular headgear of the nuns at Priory. Dressed in an unfrilly white pinafore over a dark blue gabardine dress, with a small white cap on her head that looked incongruously as if it had been folded in the manner of a child’s paper boat, she sat at a reception desk with a ledger open in front of her.
“Good morning,” Michael said, stepping around me and taking the lead. He removed his hat politely and continued: “My partner has an appointment with Dr. Cosgrove at ten o’clock.”
Now the nurse looked up, first at Michael—she smiled; then at me—she frowned; then she looked around as if she had been expecting someone else entirely. Finally she settled on Michael, who was apparently more pleasing to her eyes. Women often have that reaction, I have found, sometimes to my amusement and sometimes to my chagrin.
“Your partner has an appointment?” she inquired.
“Miss Jones”—Michael gestured toward me with the hand that held the hat—“is my business partner. My name is Michael Kossoff.”
“Oh. How do you do, I am Nurse Anna Bates. Yes, Caroline Jones, that would be Mr. Leonard Jones’s daughter.”
“Yes indeed,” I said, wanting to contribute something to this fascinating exchange we were having. I did not correct her by saying Caroline Fremont Jones, but as soon as I’d let it go by I wished I had.
The nurse seemed friendlier now that she had a category in which to place me. She popped up. “I’ll tell Doctor you’re here. Just have a seat.”
A fire burned in a fireplace against the outside wall of this rather large wood-paneled room, throwing off so much heat that it felt a bit uncomfortable when one had just come in from the cold. Once again I was in fur from the neck up, and all buttoned down in wool over the rest of me. One forgets how bothersome, not to mention heavy, all these winter accouterments can be.
I settled for sitting in the chair farthest from the fire, and removing my hat. I’d forgotten that I had not put my hair up but rather had simply pulled it back in a clasp and then piled it on top of my head beneath the hat, so I was rather startled when it came tumbling down.
“Very fetching,” said Michael, smiling, as he removed his gloves one finger at a time.
“Shush,” I said affectionately, smoothing the hair over my ears and refastening the clasp, which was the best I could do; it would have to suffice. By the time I’d done that, Nurse Bates had returned and indicated we were to follow her.
Back we went into the hall with the slippery marble floor, to the farthest door, which she opened without knocking. “Here’s Miss Jones and Mr. Kossoff,” she said, and stood back to let us enter.
“Miss Jones,” said Searles Cosgrove, indicating the chairs in front of his desk with an open hand. “And Mr.—uh, again, please?”
“Kossoff, Michael Archer Kossoff.” Michael offered his hand, which Cosgrove shook briefly, and then both men sat. I had already done so and was removing the fur muffler.
Cosgrove’s eyes lingered speculatively on Michael, but then he turned his attention to me.
“It’s nice to see you again after so many years, Caroline. I trust you don’t mind my use of your given name?”
“I prefer my middle name, Fremont, Dr. Cosgrove,” I said quickly. I wanted to establish my adult identity and encourage a different attitude in him from the start.
Searles Cosgrove had known me too long and too well to give me the respect I desired—or so I feared. He had dosed me with cough syrup and other vile-tasting concoctions, had looked in my ears, up my nose, and down my throat, perhaps had even examined my little private parts back in the days when they’d been hairless—thankfully I did not remember the last, whether he had or not. But now I wanted him to forget all that.
And so for emphasis I added, “Since I left Boston four years ago, I’ve been known as Fremont Jones.”
“I see.” He frowned slightly, then turned his attention to Michael. “And you are the business partner of Miss Jones, is that correct?”
Michael had unbuttoned his long overcoat and now crossed his legs at the knee, giving a smart, sharp tug to the crease of his trousers. “That is correct.”
“What sort of business, may I inquire?”
“An agency of private inquiry,” Michael said, with a faint smile, “a detective agency.”
Cosgrove’s eyebrows went up. He said, “How extraordinary.”
Ignoring all that, in an attempt to steer this encounter the way I wished it to go, I moved immediately to the matters uppermost in my mind. “I saw my father briefly yesterday afternoon.”
“So I was told by the nurses when I went by to check on him this morning.” He leaned back in his high-backed leather chair and commenced tapping his fists together at the knuckles in a rhythm, as if itching for a fight. A curious habit, I thought. But then as I recalled more about him, I thought perhaps not.
Searles Cosgrove had not changed much in my time away, only acquired a bit of gray at his temples. He is a small, dark, neat man, almost a miniature male—my guess would be that he is not more than five and a half feet tall. I had topped him in height by the time I was twelve. Perhaps to compensate for his stature he can be overly aggressive, sometimes to the point of obnoxiousness. Yet he is, at least by reputation, a good doctor. For as far back as I could remember, most of the people we knew in Back Bay and on Beacon Hill had been his patients.
“And how was Father this morning?” I inquired, determined to keep this discussion going my way.
“He seemed a bit improved over yesterday. His color is better. Augusta told me he ate almost half his dinner last night, and a bit of breakfast this morning. That is an improvement, certainly.”
“Augusta was there?” I felt my heart thump, but I was determined to appear cool.
“Yes. After the first few days, when I kept your father isolated until I felt I understood his condition, she has been there most mornings and evenings.”
“I see.” I did not voice any objection to her presence.
I had reasoned all this out the night before: Since Dr. Cosgrove had already given permission for Augusta to visit, there was no point in my
insisting he change his ruling. To insist would suggest that I questioned his judgment, which could only alienate him. If eventually I did have good cause to question his judgment—as I suspected might happen—by that time I would have engaged another doctor. Until then, I preferred to have Cosgrove on my side for as long as possible.
I went on: “Doctor, if you would please tell me exactly what my father’s condition is, and what we can expect for the future, I’d be most grateful.”
He left off bumping his fists together and opened a folder on his desk, which I gathered contained Father’s medical chart. With only an occasional reference to its pages he recapitulated what I had already heard from William Barrett. I had not expected anything different, but I’d had to hear it from the doctor himself.
Then at the end, Searles Cosgrove surprised me. “Your father wants to return to Beacon Street, and I have approved his discharge. He will be released from the hospital tomorrow morning.”
SIX
AFTER A STUNNED silence I asked, “Dr. Cosgrove, are you sure it’s wise for Father to return home?”
“It’s what your father wants. He wants to die at home, and I don’t believe he’s going to improve any further by being kept in the hospital.”
I couldn’t meet the doctor’s eyes, or Michael’s. This was a completely unexpected development, another one; just as Augusta’s having been told—and by my own father!—that I was in Boston had been unexpected. All my plans were going awry. I felt as if some prankster god were throwing rocks in my path.
Michael, although surely he knew the gesture was unconventional between one business partner and another, reached into my lap, where my hands were tightly clasped, and closed his hand over mine. I appreciated his gesture, but could not allow his hand to remain there so intimately. I moved my fingers restlessly under his; he understood, and the awkwardly revealing moment was over.
Dr. Cosgrove cleared his throat.