Mittman, Stephanie (26 page)

"I've
given Mrs. Whittier permission to initiate a case for your removal from your
present domicile. Do you understand what that means?"

He
thought it meant that the missus was going to try to get a judge to make his
father give him up and that he would come live here, but they were some pretty
big words that the mister was using. Words he was going to own someday, just
like
yes.

"Yes,
s-s-sir."

"And
you have no objections? Now, I'm not asking about reservations, mind you, but
objections. Do you understand the difference?"

Of
course he didn't. "Yes, s-s-sir."

"No,
you don't, but you are quite right that it isn't important. What is important
is that I am about to make you a promise, something I do not take lightly, in
exchange for a promise on your part. I have made such a promise before and I
have kept my word, and now I give that word to you.

"For
your part, you agree to do as I say, everything I say, and when I say it,
without argument."

The
sun would have to shine for a week straight in San Francisco for Davis to agree
to something like that.

"And
if you fulfill your part, I promise to make you the best lawyer in
Oakland."

Davis
wasn't born yesterday. He knew he'd be lucky to wind up with a job cleaning up
spilled beer on the floor at McGinty's or working at the canneries or the
docks. Still, there was something about the way the mister was looking at him,
right on, not sort of sideways the way people did when they lied.

"All
right, perhaps not the best. There is me, after all, and Mrs. Whittier. But you
will read, write, and argue the law, and I won't quit until you do. Unless, of
course, you don't live up to your end of our deal."

It
was the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said to him. Sillier than where
babies came from or that his ma could hear his prayers at night. And still he
stood there, considering, listening, wishing.

"You
think about it," the mister said. "And while you're thinking, you
tell that parrot,
See you soon, sweetheart."

It
wasn't right to promise the bird he'd be back. He struggled to get the words
out that he might not. The mister waited patiently while he tried.

"Oh,
you'll be back. Mrs. Whittier will see to it. And you will practice and work
your tail off for me and make me very proud."

He
opened his mouth to tell the mister he didn't think it was going to work, and
that he wasn't so stupid as to believe he could ever become something so
important as a streetcar conductor, never mind a lawyer, but the mister was
already rolling toward the door.

"See
you soon, sweetheart.
Over and over until one of those
s's
just
slips off that recalcitrant tongue of yours. You know what
recalcitrant
means?"

He
didn't know what half of the mister's words meant.

"Bet
you wish you did," the mister said. "Bet you wish you could look it
up in some book. I'd be willing to bet right now you're wishing you could tell
me how much you hate me, or leave me a note saying as much. Without my help,
though, you can't do a thing. With it you can rule the world.

"Up
to you, of course," he said rolling his chair up the slanted board that
connected the conservatory to the rest of the house.

Davis
pulled the book with the pictures of mouths and tongues off the table and threw
it to the ground. He stamped on it twice and then jumped with both feet up and
down on the cover.

He
didn't deserve the chance. Could never take the mister up on it.

But
it would sure have made his mother happy.

"S-s-see
ya s-s-soon, sa-sa..." he told the parrot, who listened happily and then
told him to shut up.

It
had been the longest week of her life. Of all the years to throw in an extra
day, this one had to be leap year? The last three days of February had been
spent trying to see Judge Mallory, without any success. On the first of March,
Cabot had intervened and a hearing had been set for the following Wednesday.
Then Davis had shown up on Friday night, his old bruises so faded that one
would suppose he'd never been touched. Charlotte should have been relieved, of
course, and the fact that she wasn't weighed heavily on her conscience.

But
without the physical evidence of his father's abuse, coupled with the poor
boy's inability to articulate the situation even if he were willing (which she
rather strongly doubted), her chances of getting the boy removed from his
father's custody were slimmer than a woman getting into a voting booth. In
fact, they were about as good as getting a woman elected to office.

And
while she had certainly made his case her highest priority, the truth was that
Davis Flannigan was not the only thing on her mind—not during the week and not
over this weekend, either, despite a houseful of people, all of whom seemed to
have suddenly decided she needed watching.

Kathryn,
always independent before, had uncharacteristically demanded Charlotte's time
and attention for everything from accompanying her to church to the color of
her new dress. The woman had then abruptly and unilaterally decided that it was
time Charlotte took her rightful place as the lady of the house and promptly
left Sunday dinner in her hands. Unfortunately, this sudden relinquishing of
authority didn't stop Kathryn from inviting Dr. Mollenoff and Selma to join
them once again for dinner on Sunday afternoon.

But
it wasn't just Kathryn. Davis, bless the sweet boy's heart, had spent the
entire weekend delivering at least a hundred messages from Cabot, every one of
them seeming to start with the letter
s.
Starch in his shirts,
the
poor Iamb had tried to tell her. That had taken the better part of half an hour
and in the end had meant rather little. More? Less?
S-s-some st-st-st-starch
in his sh-sh-shirts.
There is? He wants? And on it went, a million
interruptions she suspected were designed to keep Cabot abreast of where she
was and what she was doing.

Though
why he would have any interest was beyond her. Except, of course, that she was
feeling guilty. But even if that had been Cabot's intention (which presupposed
that he was jealous—an utterly ridiculous presumption), how could the boy
manage to tell him what it was she was up to?

Which
naturally was nothing but work, anyway, so the guilt was out of order.

Oh
no,
her
conscience shouted—
overruled.
That guilt was well founded and earned
anew every time she looked at Ash Whittier. Each time she called up the memory
of his breath on her cheek, every time she imagined his hand stroking her
throat, and all the while she ached for the scent that clung to his hair. It
was a wonder to her that after all these weeks at shore, he continued to smell
to her of the sea and faraway places. Eau de Freedom.

And
if all those thoughts weren't distraction enough from his case, she was
expected to make the dining arrangements for Sunday dinner with the Mollenoffs
and Davis and Cabot and any other strays that Kathryn could manage to drag off
the street and place around the table to keep her farther from Ash than she
wanted to be.

And
since when didn't Cook know what to make and where the serving pieces were
kept? And who had ever decided to place at the top of the breakfront that
silver platter with the animals around the edge that might amuse Davis?

"Let
me help you with that."

And
what had ever possessed her to try to get it down herself? Oh, really,
Charlotte,
what indeed,
she chastised herself as she allowed Ash to
reach up along with her and hand the silver tray into her waiting arms,
brushing now against his.
What indeed,
as his hands encircled her waist
and lifted her from the step stool to set her on the floor only inches from
him.

"I
thought Davis might like it," she explained, setting it down on the table
and tripping over her feet as she backed away from the man whose nearness made
her ears burn and her fingers freeze.

"He's
talking to Liberty," Ash said, steadying her with his hand and leaving it
under her elbow years longer than it needed to be, then taking it away eons
before she was ready. "I'm not sure which of them is more tortured, but
the boy won't take a break."

"Do
you think Cabot could be right?" Charlotte asked.

Ash
was standing much too close to her, studying her shirtwaist with more than idle
curiosity.
All the women were doing it,
the seamstress had told her.
Just two rows of ruffles on the underlayer and even the least endowed woman
became instantly shapelier. When she'd resisted, the seamstress had tempted her
with promises that her suit jackets would fit all the better for the bit of
fullness the hidden ruffles produced.

"New
blouse?" he asked, dousing any hope she had that he hadn't noticed that
overnight there were two oranges where her pair of grapes had formerly been.

"Yes,"
she said as brightly as she could. "It's the latest style. All the
rage."

"It's
very nice," he said. He tilted his head and looked at her from first one
angle and then the other. "Flattering."

"Thank
you." She studied the silver platter, unable to look him in the eye.

"Be
even more lovely with the lace on the outside," he said with just the
slightest smirk, as if he couldn't resist teasing her.

"Cabot
doesn't care for lace," she said, putting the platter down and crossing
her arms over her chest as if that would end the discussion.

"So
you had to put it somewhere." His smile was wide now, broad enough to
include her in its shelter. "Well, you picked a good place to hide
it."

She
had allowed Hedda to talk her into the blouse for Ash's sake, to show him that
she really was a woman, but the plan had plainly backfired. "Is it that
obvious?"

"Only
to someone whose eyes are roaming where they don't belong." He pulled them
from her chest and met her gaze. "But everywhere I look at you does funny
things to my insides. Your earlobe, for instance, drives me—"

***

He
stopped midsentence and stepped back a foot. Just over Charlotte's right
shoulder he could see Davis, standing in the doorway, waiting and watching. And
very obviously disapproving. The boy was Cabot's if he was anyone's, and Ash
took an extra step back and another to the side as if to show that his hands
were off Cabot's wife. Well off.

"Hi,
there, Davis. Miss Charlotte was just getting down a special platter she
thought you'd like."

"I'm
going home, now," the boy said with several interruptions before the
sentence was fully uttered. He added something about not wanting Charlotte to
go to court.

"Mr.
Whittier tell you not to go ahead with this?" he asked.

The
boy shook his head.

"So
then you just like being a human punching bag? You know there's not much future
in it—those bags don't last all that long."

"I'll
be okay," the boy answered in only two tries.

"You
ever get a good look at old Moss Johnson's face?" Ash asked.

Davis's
eyes widened, but he didn't flinch.

"Your
father wear gloves when he works out his liquor on you? Those bare knuckles are
the ones that leave the worst scars. Why, I once saw a man with only one eye.
Lost the other when a man's finger—"

Beside
him Charlotte swayed and reached for the wall to steady herself but found it
too far away. He caught her just as she lost her balance. Without being told
Davis pulled out a chair and pushed it up against the back of her knees until
Ash let her go softly and she all but fell into the seat.

"Don't
get no worse than I deserve," Davis said after getting stuck on almost
every word.

"For
what?" Charlotte asked, her heart breaking her words in two. "What
could you do that would justify anyone raising his fists to you?" She
reached out and traced a thin scar by the boy's eyebrow before he backed away.

"'Nough."
The word rang clear as a bell. "Sh-sh-shoulda b-b-been hung."

Ash
nodded gravely and pulled out a chair for himself and one for Davis, gesturing
for him to sit. "You know, you've got to do something very serious to be
hung." He thought about the charges that he faced and how very lucky he
was that at least he wasn't contemplating the noose. "And you've got to
have meant to do it."

Davis
looked at Charlotte for verification. She was as white as her starched shirt
with the augmented bodice. It was utterly ridiculous how happy it made him that
she wanted to look more womanly. Stupid even, because he enjoyed the thought
that maybe it was for him that she'd bought the blouse. As if her dimensions
mattered to him. If the circumstances were different, he believed his brother
would actually be proud that he'd risen above such shallow standards for
assessing a woman's value.

He
doubted it would be politic to point it out to Cabot now.