by Dianne Day
At this inconvenient juncture, our waiter had arrived with shallow bowls of lovely, fragrantly steaming she-crab soup, and a basket of the freshly made rolls the hotel is famous for. I will admit so much mouthwatering stuff took an edge off my curiosity. Michael must have used the time to consider what he might say, because eventually he tackled the topic again, though in a somewhat backhanded manner.
“Look here, Fremont, I’m beginning to think Cosgrove may have been right. Your father’s privacy should be protected. And respected, as well.”
“Michael, please, you’re talking to me, not some stranger,” I said softly but urgently, giving his knee a nudge with mine beneath the table to emphasize my point. “I’m my father’s daughter and his only child. No one could possibly respect him more than I do. There is certainly no need for you to hold back or to be shy about anything.”
“But the man is your father, Fremont, and men are, well, sensitive about this particular … um, thing.”
I studied his face, which was slightly flushed. I noted as well the presence of a little crease that has recently begun to show between his eyebrows when something troubles him.
“Granted. But still,” I said, matching my low tone of voice to his, “you must agree it’s important I be able to understand everything that has happened to Father in relation to his health. If you think you know what Dr. Cosgrove refuses to tell me, then you must do it. Truly.”
His eyes, darkening as he gazed at me, were like the rings that spread after a pebble has been dropped in the water, going deeper and deeper. I felt as if he wished to see not just into my soul but rather all the way through me. The intensity of that gaze both thrilled and chilled me.
However, I was not going to let him see through me; at least, not this time. I gazed implacably back, and willed my eyes and my soul to become opaque.
I must have succeeded, because finally Michael asked, “Do you know the meaning of the word ‘impotence’?”
“Yes, of course. It means weakness, powerlessness.”
“Have you ever heard the word ‘impotence’ applied to a male’s ability, or lack thereof, to perform the sex act?”
“No,” I replied.
These things might be discussed in some circles, but lately I hadn’t been a member of any circle of females. My good friends Meiling Li and Frances McFadden were both so involved in their own concerns that I seldom saw them. Leaving females aside, there was only Michael with whom I might converse on such a subject.
“No,” I said again, “I confess that is a subject to which I have not given much thought.”
Now I did think about it … and in a few seconds I was glad I had not had these thoughts in the doctor’s office. I mean, considering the mental images that came to mind. I felt my cheeks flush.
“Oh,” I blurted, somewhat too loudly, then reflexively covered my mouth with one hand. I lowered my voice again: “You mean—sometimes it doesn’t work?”
For some reason this struck Michael as funny. A sort of smirky grin spread across his face. “That’s right, Fremont. Sometimes it doesn’t work.”
“Good heavens,” I said. “How distressing.”
Michael’s grin faded. “An understatement.”
“How perfectly awful.” I really had never even considered such a thing. But then I’d never been with anyone but Michael, and he—well—he was just always there.
“Especially for the man,” Michael said gravely.
“And for the woman too, surely,” I said, then quickly lowered my eyes.
Uh-oh. That had made Augusta barge into my mind in the most unpleasant sort of way, and I wished I hadn’t thought of her, or any of this.
“Not necessarily,” Michael said, a statement which rather puzzled me, but as I was preoccupied with erasing Augusta from my thoughts I let it go by. Eyes still modestly lowered, I returned to spooning up my soup, which was now only lukewarm but still delicious.
As uncomfortable as this whole topic had made me—and Michael too, I supposed—I knew it was important, and not just in and of itself. Exactly how or why, I didn’t know; it was what we in the detective business call a hunch. So I filed it away for later reference.
The main course had arrived at about that time, and as we’d finished the meal Michael had gone on to explain in a matter-of-fact way the consequences of impotence for a man of Father’s age, and for a marriage.
Now in Father’s hospital room I watched the two of them talk—Father propped up against pillows in his hospital bed and Michael with his chair pulled close, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. And I wondered if I was really better off knowing those consequences of impotence as Michael had detailed them:
Father, finding difficulty in satisfying himself and Augusta in the bedroom, must have gone to Searles Cosgrove for medical help. But nothing Searles had done or suggested would suffice. Poor Father—for two long years he must have struggled and tried Cosgrove’s nostrums only to meet with frustration.
So eventually Father had gone elsewhere and kept his own counsel about it. What had happened then? Whatever it was, had it any bearing on what ailed Father now? Would we ever know? Was there any way to find out?
I couldn’t ask Father, that much was certain. And I didn’t think Michael would do it, either, because the questions would only embarrass them both. No one wanted to cause Father the least discomfort. We all wanted him to be happy for however many days he had left. Surely we all wanted that.
Even Augusta. Or so one hoped.
Suddenly I realized the conversation over the bed had taken a turn that required my attention.
Father was saying, “You will stay with us at Beacon Street, of course, Michael.”
Michael glanced at me quickly, then replied before I had time to react: “I’d like that very much, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Separate rooms, of course,” Father said.
To my utter astonishment, my father winked!
“Of course.” Michael grinned.
“Well then, that’s settled. Good.” Father pushed back into his pillows, though his head had never really left them. As much as he’d enjoyed it, the conversation had visibly tired him.
Even so, I couldn’t be letting these men decide things without so much as an inquiry into my wishes on the matter. “I seem to have missed something,” I said.
“This is a fine fellow you’ve found yourself here, Fremont. You should marry him,” Father said.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Instead I simply ignored the remark and pushed on with my own agenda. Though I rather doubted I was going to get anywhere, I had to try. I had not the slightest intention of staying in our house with Augusta Simmons in charge. I had never wanted to be under the same roof with her; in some respects I’d gone all the way to California to avoid that very thing. So I said firmly:
“Father, Michael and I are staying at the Parker House.”
“Ridiculous to spend that amount of money when there’s no need. Plenty of rooms at Beacon Street, not to mention it’s your home, girl. No matter whether you call yourself Caroline or Fremont, it’s still your home.”
I refused to show any reaction, although the words “your home” did give me a pang. Any argument with Father has always been a contest of who can stay the course longest, and so I must not let him distract me.
I heard myself say, “If we’re here for an extended time, I thought we might rent a small apartment. For perhaps a month or two,” though I had not thought any such thing until this very moment.
“Oh. So were you planning to get married while you’re here then, just to please your dear old dad?”
I blinked. I hadn’t seen that one coming. I said, “I beg your pardon?”
“You said ‘an apartment,’ ” Father replied. “That means one for the two of you. And of course I could see why a newly married couple wouldn’t want to be in the same house with a sick old fogy like me.”
He winked at Michael again, and Michael wink
ed back, as if there were some kind of silent conspiracy between them.
“Father, really”—I stretched out my hand to him, and he placed his cool, bony fingers in mine—“I hadn’t thought about any of that! And I don’t want to. I only thought that Augusta would not want the extra work of having me and Michael in the house. That is why I made reservations at the hotel.”
Half my statement was a lie, but a kind one.
Michael raised one eyebrow, in a certain quite effective way he has of doing that. “Your father’s point is well taken, Fremont,” he said. “I think we should discuss it further.”
Fortunately for me, at that moment Father had one of his fits of coughing. A Sister, passing in the hallway, came in and administered a glass of water as if it were medicine.
“He coughs because his mouth and throat get too dry,” she said, glancing at me and Michael in turn, “particularly when he’s been talking for a long time. He doesn’t produce much saliva anymore.”
“I’m going home tomorrow,” Father said, looking up at her as she took the glass away. He had dribbled a bit of water down his chin and the nun wiped it away with a clean cloth that she took from a pocket hidden somewhere in her voluminous skirt. “I can talk as much as I want then.”
“You can talk as much as you want here too, Mr. Jones.” She smiled, tucking the cloth back among her folds. She was pretty when she smiled, with cheeks as smooth and clear as porcelain; but how she could stand to do a day’s work in that winged hat and huge skirt was completely beyond me.
The Sister had not quite finished with her patient and went on to say, “But when you become uncomfortable and start coughing, it would probably be best to rest, don’t you think? You can see your daughter and her husband more another time.”
Egad. The nun already had us married.
Michael smirked.
With the way the conversation was going, it was high time we got out of there anyway. I took up my canes and got to my feet.
“You’re right, Sister,” I said. “Father, we’ll finish this discussion later.” Much, much later. If ever.
The nun smiled and gracefully slipped out of the room, the points of her hat just barely clearing the doorframe.
“I’ve already told Augusta to expect you at the house,” Father said to me pointedly. When he spoke in that tone of voice even I could not dissuade him, and I knew it, so I remained silent.
He said further, “I’ll tell her to get that maid of hers to make up another bedroom for Michael. Six bedrooms in the house, no point in a hotel, none whatever. Waste of money.”
Father coughed again, and this time it was Michael who offered the water glass, with a tender care that touched me deeply.
I sighed. Wasting money offended Father’s Yankee sense of thriftiness. Money belonged in banks, in his philosophy; in fact, one should spend as little of it as possible—given the demands of a certain lifestyle.
“Yes, Father,” I agreed.
“That’s my girl,” he said. He reached up and I bent down to kiss his cheek. For a moment, with his hand on the nape of my neck, he held me there with his cheek next to mine. A tear slipped from him to me and made a tiny wet spot on my temple.
“My girl,” he said again, whispering into my ear.
BACK AT THE HOTEL I wrote out a note on Parker House notepaper. It was most fortunate for me that the hotel came better equipped for the niceties of genteel living than I myself did these days.
Dear Augusta, [I wrote] as Father has told you, I am in Boston for an indefinite period of time. I have come primarily to be with him as much as possible while he recovers his health. While I don’t wish to impose on you, I do want Father to be happy, and as you must know he is insisting that my partner, Michael Kossoff, and I stay at the house on Beacon Street.
I would appreciate an opportunity to discuss this privately with you, since I recognize our presence in the house will make extra work. Father’s discharge from the hospital tomorrow morning makes it urgent that we resolve this matter as soon as possible. Therefore, I would like to call on you at home tonight after supper. If you prefer to come here to the Parker House, kindly have the desk clerk phone up for me when you arrive and I will come down. We can talk over tea in the lounge.
I will ask the messenger who delivers this note to wait for your reply.
I had signed: Yours most sincerely, a bald-faced lie.
The reply came promptly:
Caroline, I shall be happy to receive you here at eight this evening. Augusta S. Jones.
MEN ARE PERVERSE. I daresay they are all that way, there is simply no getting around it; but there are times when I swear to you Michael Archer Kossoff must be the most perverse of them all. He would not go with me to speak to Augusta that evening.
“Honestly, Michael!” I stamped my foot, which I should not have done because I felt it all the way up past my knee, but I was so exasperated I could not help it and almost welcomed the pain. “I cannot understand why you won’t do this for me. Why you are always insisting on coming along when I’d rather be by myself, but refuse when I want you to come because I don’t want to be by myself, is completely beyond me!”
He calmly stroked the silver streaks in his beard, which run from the corners of his mouth down past his chin in a pleasingly symmetrical manner. “I wish to remain neutral in this matter.”
“You can’t,” I stated unequivocally. “I need you on my side.”
“I am on your side, but in order to be of greatest use to you I must remain objective. Therefore, I will not accompany you this evening. You and Augusta must come to whatever understanding you can reach between you in order to allow a reasonably peaceful sharing of space in the house. You know you must, for your father’s sake. As for me, your father has extended his invitation, I have accepted, and that is sufficient.”
“I hate it when you sound so reasonable about things that are inherently maddening.”
“Fremont, come here. Please.” He held out his hand. He sat on a small sofa in the sitting room of my two-room suite. I had been pacing back and forth because I could not sit still; I told myself it was a useful form of exercise.
I sighed and went to him.
One by one Michael took the canes from me and laid them on the floor. He put his arm around me and drew me close.
“Your body is taut as a bedspring,” he said.
I hunched my shoulders. I could not think of any rejoinder since it was true, my muscles and nerves and everything felt stretched to the breaking point.
He placed his fingers under my chin and turned my face to his. Softly he said, “Forget Augusta for now. It’s two whole hours before you must deal with her. Let us talk about something else, something much more pleasant.”
“Such as?”
He kissed me, a soft and lingering kiss of the sort it is impossible to resist, the sort of kiss that has one’s lips parting, wanting more, no matter what one’s mind says.
“Such as your father’s wish to see us married.”
Before I could react, while the softness of his kiss and the wanting more were still upon me, Michael’s lips came over mine again, this time offering the taste of his tongue … and I was lost in him.
EIGHT
PEMBROKE JONES HOUSE is on Beacon between Charles and Arlington streets, directly across from the Public Garden. The house was built in the previous century, sometime prior to 1850; just as I had not been able to recall the name of the architect, I also couldn’t remember the exact date of its construction. Perhaps it was time I learned both these things. I wondered if they were recorded somewhere for posterity or if I would have to confess my ignorance to Father—more evidence of my shocking lack of concern for things most Bostonians of our ilk are supposed to hold sacred.
The facade of the house is brick and stone and has remained unaltered all its many years, save for a few necessities such as replacement of the outside shutters. Like all the others along the old stretch of Beacon Street from Arlington up past t
he State House (that’s as opposed to the new part of Beacon on down through Back Bay), these houses in our block were built flush to the sidewalk with no front yard or even a strip of grassy verge to call their own. Nor do they have much space in back, though ours has a tiny walled garden where one may sit out in summer. The builders must have assumed that anyone desirous of outdoor activity would go across the street to the Public Garden. Why then waste valuable lot space that could be used to enclose more rooms?
The house does have many rooms, on three full floors plus a top floor of tiny rooms with low ceilings and dormer windows that stick up through the sloping slate roof. There is also a basement scarcely worth mention, as it has never been much more than a stony hole in the ground.
The driver of the hansom cab had assisted me out of his vehicle and I’d paid and tipped him handsomely, with the promise of more to come if he would return for me in an hour. Now I stood on the sidewalk gathering my composure and contemplating this place where I and so many generations of my paternal family had lived the majority of our lives.
I had to admit it was rather imposing. In part this was due to the cumulative effect of so many tall houses taken altogether, their appearance similar yet not identical, each as large and handsome as the ones on either side, and all bathed in the mellow glow of evening’s gas lamps. These old Federal-style houses were plain when compared to the Victorians and Edwardians of San Francisco; yet they seemed somehow both more substantial and more elegant. Beacon Street commanded respect—even from me, though I had never thought or felt this way before.
I slowly climbed the seven steps from the sidewalk to the front door and rang the bell. Lights glowed behind the drapes of the first-floor windows, but the upper floors were all dark. My heart began to beat faster as I stood there waiting to be admitted to the place where in the years of childhood my little feet had once run freely in and out.
The woman in servant’s dress who answered the door was completely unknown to me, and I to her. But apparently I was expected and she was well trained, because she did the little dip that passes for a curtsy these days and said, “Evening, Miss Jones, please come in.”