Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (15 page)

      
Billy slowly turned his wheelchair around. His face was white and pinched. I knew he'd had a restless night, because I'd had one, too. As I looked at him that Saturday morning, I wished I'd ripped my tongue from my head before I'd said what I'd said.

      
“Is that what you want, Daisy?”

      
My throat was so tight, I couldn't talk, so I shook my head, my hand still pressed over my mouth. I was horrified to have said something so vicious to the only man I'd ever loved, even if our life together hadn't been exactly blissful. It sure bore no resemblance whatever to the average fairy-tale happily-ever-after marriage. But the fact was that even if I'd ever considered divorcing my husband, I couldn't have done it. I'd loved Billy my whole life. I'd sooner die than divorce him and leave him alone in the world.

      
“I'm no kind of husband to you,” he said. “You could do better. You could have a real marriage with another man.”

      
My hand fell away from my face and I swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the huge, painful lump in my throat. I shook my head again and managed to say, “Stop it.”

      
He cocked his head, and an ironic grin twisted his lips. “Stop what, Daisy?”

      
I felt something snap. I guess it was my restraint, because I flung myself at my husband, sobbing. “Stop talking like that! Oh, Billy, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it!”

      
His arms closed around me. My shoulders were heaving so hard, I knew I was probably hurting his legs, but I couldn't let go of him. “I love you so much, Billy! I hate fighting all the time!”

      
“I do too, Daisy.”

      
My nose began to run, and I managed to pull away from him as I dug in a pocket for a handkerchief. I know I looked a fright as I mopped my face and blew my nose. “Then let's not fight, Billy. Let's be nice to each other.”

      
He sighed. It wasn't a big sigh, because his lungs had been ruined by the Kaiser's mustard gas. I felt so guilty, I wrapped my arms around him again. “I'm so sorry, Billy. I don't know why I said that.”

      
“I do,” he said.

      
My heart sank. I knew he thought I wanted out of our marriage, but I didn't. “No, you don't. I love you, Billy. I'd never, ever leave you.”

      
“Huh.”

      
“But I get so angry when you carp at me about my job. It's not fair, Billy. I do what I have to do in order to earn money for us to live. I think you're unfair to me.”

      
Silence.

      
“It's not evil, what I do,” I said, becoming desperate and defensive. “It helps people cope with their problems and losses.”

      
More silence. It was almost like I was back in Mrs. Bissel's basement, trying to lure Marianne Wagner out into the open.

      
“It's the truth, Billy.” I wondered if I was protesting too much. But in spite of all evidence pointing to the fact that he would remain steadfast in his opposition to my spiritualistic career no matter how much good sense I used on him, I persevered. “People need to know that their loved ones are content on the other side of life, and that the ones they left behind aren't forgotten.”

      
“Christ, Daisy, do you know how loony that sounds?”

      
I withdrew from him and wiped away more tears. “I don't want to argue, Billy. I think you're unfair. I'm using the only skill I have to support us, and it's a better living than I could make as a sales clerk or a typist.”

      
He looked at me for a long time, his face expressionless. Only his eyes held a world of pain, and I almost broke down again. “I should be the one supporting us,” he said at last.

      
“But you can't!” I sucked in approximately an acre of cold, cold air. The wind had picked up again, and I knew we were in for a rough day. His legs couldn't support my weight without hurting, so I eased myself from his lap. “I know you hate it, Billy.”

      
I brushed his dark hair from his brow-the brow that used to be tanned and glowing with health and was now sickly white and furrowed with pain. My heart broke every time I thought about the Billy who used to be, the Billy I'd married. Our wedding day seemed like decades ago. I could scarcely remember that Billy.

      
“Yeah,” he said. “I hate it.”

      
“Then why can't you be a little nicer about my work?” I asked. “I know you'd rather be the one supporting us, but I don't mind, Billy. Truly, I don't. If I could heal you, don't you think I would? But I can't. The only thing I can do is try to earn as much money as I can, and I can make much more money as a spiritualist-medium than I ever could if I worked as a clerk at Nash's.”

      
His shoulders hunched. “I know it.”

      
And he hated it. Because Billy could no longer sigh very well, I heaved a big one for both of us. I contemplated saying something more, but there wasn't anything we hadn't both said a million times before. I figured one more “I love you” wouldn't hurt, so I gave him one.

      
“I know it, Daisy. I love you, too.”

      
If anyone ever asks you if all a couple needs is love, you can tell them from someone who's tried it that the answer is a firm and absolute
No
. Billy and I loved each other, and look at us. We were both as unhappy as we could be. Worse, we hurt each other all the time for no reason.

      
A gust of wind lifted the skirt of my house dress and blew my straw hat right off my head. I ran to fetch it, glad for the diversion, calling back over my shoulder, “We'd better get back indoors, Billy. It's going to be a nasty day.” And I didn't want his lungs to suffer from the cold. Because I didn't want to add anymore insults to his injuries, I refrained from saying so.

      
“Right,” he said. “I'll take the basket indoors.”

      
I caught myself before I could shout out a horrified “No!” The basket was heavy, and if he tried to lift it from his wheelchair, his lungs were going to give out. Scooping up my hat, I raced back to him. “I'll pick it up,” I said, one hand clamped to my hat to hold it on.

      
“I hate being a damned cripple.”

      
It was unusual for him to admit that his physical problems were the cause of his ill tempers. I put the basket in his lap and patted him on the shoulder. “I know, Billy. I know.”

      
I'd just started pushing him, one-handed, trying to keep my hat from blowing away again, when I heard a voice that darned near made me shriek, I was so startled and had been thinking so hard about family problems.

      
“Here, Mrs. Majesty, please allow me.”

      
Sam. I spun around, gasping. “What are
you
doing here?”

      
Okay, I know it was impolite, but gee whiz. The man always seemed to pop up out of nowhere when I least wanted him to.

      
“Just thought I'd drop by to see if you two wanted to go to the Griffith Park Zoo with me today.”

      
He wasn't wearing his copper clothes today, but had on a casual outfit consisting of brown tweed trousers and jacket, a soft-bosomed shirt with an attached collar, and a sporty tie. He stood there, smiling, his hands in his trouser pockets, and I'd never seen him looking so relaxed. Naturally, I figured he was only trying to lull me into revealing something about Marianne Wagner, which just went to show how much
he
knew about anything. I didn't know a single thing about Marianne Wagner, except that she was missing, her father was an ass, and her mother was about as useful as hair on a basketball. The fact that I suspected several things about her wasn't any of Sam's business.

      
“The zoo?” Billy tilted his head back and peered up at me.

      
“What about it, sweetheart?” I guess he'd forgiven me for the divorce remark, although I hadn't forgiven myself.

      
I didn't want to go anywhere with Sam Rotondo. I also knew that Billy wouldn't go without me.

      
“I attached a trailer to my machine to carry your wheelchair,” Sam said, as an added inducement, I guess.

      
It was nice of him to think of Billy's wheelchair. I'd never admit it.

      
Because I knew Billy loved getting out and about, and because I knew it would be grossly selfish of me to object to such an outing, I offered only one flimsy objection. “What about the wind?”

      
Sam shrugged. “What about the wind?”

      
“That's right,” I said, recalling conversations I'd had with him months before, “you haven't lived here very long, have you?”

      
Sam had moved from New York City to Pasadena because his wife was ill with tuberculosis. She'd died shortly after their move west, and Sam had stayed. The latter was unfortunate for me, although I couldn't honestly blame him for preferring the west coast to the east. Pasadena must have been heaven compared to New York City.

      
“Sounds like fun to me,” said Billy.

      
I knew he meant it because Billy seldom expressed a solid opinion about anything (except my work and me). The fact that he had on that blustery Saturday morning meant he definitely wanted to go on the outing.

      
“Well, then . . .” I frowned at Sam, who lifted his eyebrows, innocent as a baby. Ha. I knew better. “I'll have to change clothes.”

      
“Great.” Sam rubbed his hands together. “I'll push Billy's chair into the house while you get ready, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
I gave up. There was no good reason for me to resent Sam Rotondo for offering Billy a day out--after giving the whole family an evening out. Billy enjoyed the animals at the zoo, and I did, too, if it came to that. It was just that I dreaded a day spent dodging Sam Rotondo's doubting glances and ironic comments. It's petty and shameful, but I also disliked the fact that Sam could make Billy happy when I couldn't.

      
After that “divorce” crack, however, I owed Billy, so I acquiesced with fair grace, and we spent the day being blown to bits at the Griffith Park Zoo. I'd made the mistake of wearing a day dress with a fuller skirt than was usual for me, and it was all I could do to remain modest in front of the lions and bears and elephants. Sam bought us lunch, and he helped push Billy's chair over the largest bumps in our way.

      
That day I discovered that the wind is bad for headaches and that I dislike monkeys and love elephants. I don't know what the psychologists would make of that.

      
When we got home, I took a powder and a nap while Billy and Sam played gin rummy in the living room with Pa, who'd finally become fed up with Brownie's bad mood and returned the horse to his stable in the back yard. Aunt Vi hadn't come home from Los Angeles yet. She was really making a day of it-unless the red cars had blown off their tracks and left Vi stranded somewhere between the Broadway Department Store on Fourth Street in downtown L.A. and our house. Ma fixed a simple supper (the only kind she knew how to fix. I think I inherited Ma's cooking ability).

      
After eating a meal of sandwiches and Campbell's tomato soup, I declined Sam's disingenuous offer of a ride to Mrs. Bissel's house, ignored Billy's sullen stare, kissed Ma and Pa good-bye, assured everyone that I'd be home in time for church on the morrow, and drove the Ford to Foothill Boulevard and Maiden Lane.

      
The Model T creaked and groaned and protested, but if the night progressed as I hoped it would, I was going to need the automobile. And if the machine rebelled and wouldn't start once it got to Mrs. Bissel's house, I was pretty sure I could coast it down Lake Avenue if I had to, in order to carry Marianne Wagner back home.

      
The notion of money and dachshund puppies kept my spirits from spiraling into my shoes as I drove to Altadena.

Chapter Eight
 

      
My head had almost stopped aching when I rang the back doorbell, having parked the Model T in the circular driveway. It looked out of place there next to Mrs. Bissel's Daimler; sort of like a poor relation.

      
The wind hadn't let up. It whipped the skirt of my sober black dress against my legs, and I nearly lost my black, small-brimmed hat a couple of times as I stood there, waiting for somebody to open the door. It also hurled a spiky limb from Mrs. Bissel's monkey puzzle tree at me. The branch stabbed me in the calf as if I'd been the wind's target in the first place. The poor daphne bush looked like it had been thrashed to within an inch of its life. I found myself longing for summer, even though I often longed for autumn when the weather soared into the upper nineties during the summer months.

      
Eventually Ginger opened the back door and let me in. She looked down at my stocking, which had been badly vandalized by the monkey-puzzle branch. “Gee, Daisy, those monkey-puzzle things are dangerous. Do you need a bandage?”

      
“Maybe some iodine,” I said. “And maybe a needle and thread.”

      
So, as I didn't care to face Mrs. Bissel with a snagged stocking, Ginger led me up three flights of stairs to her room where I darned my black stocking and applied iodine to my leg. It seemed an inauspicious start to my evening's work. I told myself not to borrow trouble.

      
When I'd finally doctored my wounds and showed myself downstairs, Mrs. Bissel and her dogs welcomed me with open arms (on the part of Mrs. Bissel) and wagging tails and deafening barks (on the part of the dachshunds). “I'm so glad you've come, Daisy. I can't wait to get rid of that thing.”