Poison to Purge Melancholy (16 page)

Sam resigned himself. Performing in the street might still bring recompense, whereas the constable only brought trouble. With a bow, he took Alex’s hand. “Play, fiddler.”

I set bow to string and “Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself” came forth.

As we quit the house, I scanned the lane for Tom, relieved to see his slight, cloaked figure emerge from behind the tall hedgerow of the next house over. So absorbed was I in seeking him out that I failed at first to notice another caller, seated upon the bottom step: John Brennan.

“Please remove yourself, sir,” Sam told him, “for Captain Underwood desires that we should use this space for our stage.”

At that, Brennan embraced his knees and over his shoulder said, “I’ll not go. If you would have the captain’s patronage, so would I.”

Sam turned his musket until the muzzle rested upon Brennan’s shoulder, close to his neck. “Go, sir, or you shall taste powder.”

“Shoot if you mean to. I’ll not move.”

Whether Brennan was so mad that he no longer held life dear, or whether he’d perhaps seen Sam fire his weapon earlier and knew, as we did, that it held no charge, he clearly meant to stand his ground.

“Commence your scene,” Captain Underwood said from his doorstep. “I’ll not stand here in the cold all evening.”

I began the tune “Lady’s Breast Knot,” which was Alex’s cue. He clutched his skirt and ran down the stair. Swinging around to his audience, giving a splendid curtsy, he announced, “In comes I, old Mother Christmas! Welcome or welcome not, I hope old Mother Christmas will never be for—”

“No, no, no,” Underwood cried. “Not this drivel. You promised a fight. Commence the duel.”

“Commence!” Brennan echoed with a scowl, rocking himself.

Sam drew in his breath and I felt sure his temper would not hold. In the lull, though, shots sounded, a block or two distant, from over on the Main Street. Brennan cowered at the din.

“Another troupe of players,” Underwood observed to his guests behind him. “Perhaps we should send these bumpkins packing and await better diversion.”

Sam bowed as if every bone of him were opposed to the motion. “Your duel, Captain.” Turning to Jim, said, “‘Where is the fool . . . ,’ Your Majesty.”

And Jim, taking up his cue, recited: “Where is the fool who dares bid me stand? I’ll cut him down with my royal hand.”

To which Will replied: “In comes I, Gen—er,
Captain
Underwood, who dares to bid thee stand. I come from Virginia, her freedom to demand.”

Sam took up a position at my side during the scene, murmuring, “Oh, how I hate that man.”

“’Tis his appetite for power,” I whispered back. “He wields his authority the way a hungry man wields a fork.”

Sam nodded. “And if we would have his coin, or that of his guests, we have no choice but to lie in his dish and be devoured. He’ll interrupt again ere long, I’ll wager.”

I held back a laugh. “During your next line, you mean?”

“If he does, I’ll shoot him.” The tone of Sam’s voice declared his good humor restored as he set to charging his musket once more.

The captain held his peace, though. ’Twas Brennan who cut in, nearly every other line, with ravings of “Long live the King! Death to Tories!” and other such mad declarations, as he persisted in his rocking motion. Jim and Will did their best to ignore him.

Jim: “Come, thou traitorous American dog—”

“Traitorous dog!” Brennan echoed.

Jim: “Pull out thy purse to pay, for recompense will I have, before I send thee on thy way.”

“Recompense! Yes, I want recompense!” Brennan cried.

Will: “No recompense shall you have, no taxes shall I pay, but thee and I shall fight it out, before I go away.”

Brennan stood at this. Will, diverted, faltered, but Jim provided his cue.

Jim: “Pistols, sir?”

Will: “Er, yes, if you please.” This drew a laugh from our audience, for ’twas evident that we carried no swords. “Twenty paces?”

Jim: “Five, sir. I am rather short-sighted.” Another laugh, punctuated by two loud “Huzzah!”s.

Sam and Alex moved to the far side of the duelers as Jim and Will paced off the distance, Jim taking comical half steps. Tom came to stand by me.

“Long live the King!” Brennan shouted and I thought he meant to run toward Jim, but after two strides, he held his ground and, for once, his tongue.

Jim and Will turned, took aim, and Jim said, “You may be bold; your blood runs hot, but as King, you see, I claim the first shot.”

Will: “At Lexington, you had your shot,”—more huzzahs—“Now taste the lead of this patriot.”

My only line: “Together on the count of five, gentlemen. Fire on one.”

All six of us slowly counted off. Tom put his hands to his ears on “two” and Jim, as rehearsed, showed the king as coward, cringing and covering his face with his free arm. On “one” there followed a deafening blast as white smoke puffed from all four weapons. Jim clutched his heart and fell to his knees. Before he could issue his ensuing verse, however, Brennan slumped to the ground, blood streaming forth from his chest.

We stood frozen at first—our audience as well. Will held his pistol before him as if afeared of it. Gaining use of his limbs first, Underwood rushed down the steps to Brennan’s still form. “They’ve shot this man! Lynch! Lynch! Sound the bell for the constable!”

Alex cried, “Run, boys!” and, without thought, we did.

“The toiletries case!” I
didn’t remember it until Horse and Foot were gone.

“What are you talking about?” Hugh asked, crossing the kitchen to help Miss Maggie graze on the gingerbread.

“A brown leather case, so big,” I said, showing the dimensions with my hands. “In the bathroom, upstairs in this wing. Dr. Weisel’s shaving kit. Did you search that?”

“His electric razor was still in his suitcase.” Then puzzlement changed to amusement. “You mean Foot’s vanity bag?”

“Foot? It’s his?”

Hugh nodded. “Probably decided to use that bathroom because of the shelf. The front bathroom, with the pedestal sink, doesn’t have any place for him to put his stuff except the window sill. I suppose it’s too cold there.”

“That’s not it,” said Beth Ann, now perched on a bench beside the table. “He doesn’t like sharing a bathroom with you and Uncle Horse. Says you’re slobs.”

“Next to Foot, everyone’s a slob—”

“Of course, there are other possibilities.” That was Rich, talking as he entered the room from the dining room. Glad was on his heels and Evelyn, on hers. “The most likely diagnosis, considering the iridic dilation, is a reaction to an outside agent.”

Glad wiped her hands on the apron of her costume. “Poor Ann Carter. She has such bad luck with men.”

“Bad luck?” Hugh produced a grunt that wasn’t quite a laugh. “More like bad taste. This one’s the worst yet. What does she see in him? Or any of them?”

I’d heard my aunts voice similar thoughts about every girlfriend my cousin Chenzo ever brought home. Cella and I knew what her brother had seen in them—large bra sizes and low IQs. I guess my aunts had seen this, too, but voicing the question was their way of suggesting Chenzo modify his selection criteria. Anyway, I didn’t think Acey had latched onto Dr. Weisel for purely physical reasons. For one thing, I hadn’t seen her ogle him even once.

Rich chuckled. “God knows I’ve gone out of my way to introduce Acey to some of my younger single colleagues. She latches onto losers because she thinks she can redeem them. That one last Easter—what was his name? Bill?—I’d swear he was some drunk she rescued from a gutter the day before. By comparison, Kevin didn’t seem so bad. He’s a physician, at least.”

“A
lousy
physician,” Hugh retorted.

Rich was taken aback, as if he thought no doctor could ever be tagged with that adjective. “Why do you say that?”

I shot Hugh a warning glance. My medical predicament was
not
subject to family discussion. He realized his mistake, blinking an apology at me and mumbling, “Horse thinks so.”

Rich looked even more displeased. “He shouldn’t be saying things like that to you. If he knows of a specific case, we have channels.” Translation: doctors should take care of their own.

* * *

Rich left to join Acey and his brothers, explaining that he was the only one of the family who had practicing privileges at Williamsburg Community Hospital. Sounding as if the place couldn’t function without him.

Miss Maggie plopped herself down at the kitchen table, showing no inclination to return to the parlor or any other portion of the main house. Following her lead, I volunteered to rinse the dishes. Hugh followed my lead, volunteering Beth Ann and himself to clear the table and load the dishwasher.

When we were done, Glad suggested a game of Goose.

“I’ll play,” Beth Ann said. “So will Dad.”

The six of us settled around the big kitchen table, Hugh in a chair on the end. Goose, I discovered, was an eighteenth-century board game—sort of a gambling version of
Chutes and Ladders
. Instead of a board, it was printed on brown paper. Evelyn unrolled it and we used the sugar bowl, pepper mill, napkin holder, and saltcellar to hold down the corners.

“When this game was played in taverns, each man would bring his own favorite playing piece,” Glad explained as she passed around a small Christmas card box filled with random pieces for us to choose from. “Of course, they used real money for betting, but we’ll use peanuts like they do in the historic area.”

Beth Ann claimed the
Monopoly
dog, and Miss Maggie, the top hat. Hugh took a white chess knight, Evelyn a twenty-sided
Dungeons and Dragons
die, and Glad the
Clue
candlestick. I chose a red convertible from
Life
. I was ready for a midlife crisis.

The evening passed almost pleasantly. No talk of medicine. I didn’t have any more weird symptoms. Glad didn’t mention Elizabeth. Beth Ann didn’t whine. And Hugh
did
play a little footsie under the table.

I say “almost pleasantly” because Evelyn was so jumpy. At first I thought he was keeping a vigilant eye out for the return of the Lee siblings—he glanced at the kitchen door at every little sound outside. Then I realized he was dividing his glances equally between the door, the windows on the opposite wall, and the front of the house through the dining room entry. The sounds outside, as far as I could tell, were nothing more than wind against old wood. They weren’t spooky—I’d heard worse creaks and whistles in the house where I’d grown up. And like I said, the sounds were
outside
. The scary stuff, I knew, was inside.

Miss Maggie’s long day caught up with her around ten o’clock. Fifteen minutes later, when she couldn’t control her yawning any longer, she stood and declared it her bedtime.

Hugh turned to Beth Ann. “You, too, Missy. Off you go.”

“Da-a-ad!” A three-syllable moan, reserved for special occasions.

He stood firm. “You have to get up to go to church with Grandmom tomorrow morning—”

“I’m not going to church,” Beth Ann countered. “Why should I?
You
aren’t going.”

“I’m going tonight with Pat,” Hugh said, stressing the words to show his irritation.

Beth Ann’s jaw gaped. “Why?”

“Because she’s Catholic and wants to go to midnight mass.”

“I’ll come, too.”

“No,” Hugh affirmed. “You’re going to church with your grandmother tomorrow. You need to be up at a decent hour.”

Glad said, “The service at Bruton Parish isn’t until ten. Let her stay up awhile longer, Hugh.”

But Beth Ann held her ground. “I don’t want to go to the Episcopal church. I’ve never been to a Catholic mass.”

I thought the argument was silly. “I don’t
have
to go tonight. You should all go together, as a family, on Christmas.”

“No.” Hugh scowled at me, as if I were conspiring against him. “I said I’d take you and I will. And Beth Ann will go tomorrow with her grandmother.”

“Fine!” the girl shouted, and fled from the kitchen, through the dining room. I expected to hear her slam a door, but if she did, with the odd acoustics in the older part of the house, the bang didn’t make it back to our ears.

* * *

Hugh and I left the house at half past eleven. The treetops were black against an eerie white sky. The wind had crept around the house to the back porch and the chill factor almost made me go back inside for my hat. But Miss Maggie had been sound asleep when I fetched my jacket and I couldn’t bring myself to make more noise rifling through my things. Especially since she’d made up the folding mattress into a bed for me and placed a red-foil-wrapped Hershey’s kiss on the pillow. All this was visible by the glow of a plug-in Santa night-light stuck into the floor lamp’s socket.

Downstairs, Beth Ann hadn’t reappeared and from the porch, I could see that her bedroom was dark. I hoped she was sleeping. She wasn’t having a very joyous holiday and for some of it, I took the blame.

Hugh’s siblings still weren’t back, so I suggested we take my car.

“Are you kidding?” he said as he jumped down from the porch in front of his brother’s car. “I’m not passing up a chance to drive a Miata. Come on.”

The car felt small, even to me. Hugh practically needed a shoe horn to get in. I wondered why the Lee men, big as they were, liked small cars. Well, not
all
the Lee men. The newest addition to the backyard lot was Rich’s grey Volvo wagon.

After Hugh was finished fumbling with the stick shift and got us out of the drive, I said, “Tell me about your dad.”

He didn’t say a thing for a full half block, then, “What do you want to know?”

“I’m assuming, since your mom’s small, you’ve got his looks.”

“Rich takes after him most, except he had black hair like Foot. The red comes down on Mom’s side.”

“And he was a doctor?”

“Still is. Rich sees him at conventions twice a year.” Hugh made a big thing of switching gears to cross the Henry Street intersection, but I got the impression it was a diversionary tactic.

“When do
you
see him?” I asked.

Again, we were almost through the next block before he replied. “I haven’t seen him since high school, when he and Mom split and she moved us to Williamsburg.”

“You never hear from him?”

Hugh hung a right where Francis Street ended, then a quick left. “He sends Christmas and birthday cards, and an annual check for Beth Ann’s college fund. That’s William and Mary on your right. Behind the brick wall.”

I craned my neck to humor him, not that I could see much in the dark, but I stuck to the subject. “So Beth Ann’s never seen her grandfather?”

“Sure she has. They send photos to each other over e-mail.”

“But she’s never met him?”

“He lives in the Southwest. Not exactly a jaunt. What’d you think of Mom?” Brilliant ploy. If I insisted on talking family, he’d steer the conversation to safer ground. “I hope she didn’t talk your ear off too much about Elizabeth Carson today.”

How much was too much? “It’s her pet subject,” I said, feeling seasonably charitable. “And I learned a lot about colonial cooking. I had fun helping her.”

“You’re the first person she’s let into her kitchen on Christmas Eve. She must like you.” Hugh took his hand off the shift just long enough to give mine a squeeze. We both had gloves on, so the effect was muted, but the sentiment reached my heart.

But that didn’t mean I was letting him off easy. “You should have told me she prefers to be called Glad. And that she goes by Carson-Lee. One of her co-workers told me—”

“Carson-Lee?” Puzzled, he took his hand back so he could downshift as St. Agatha’s Catholic Church came up on our left. He turned into the lot.

“You mean this is something new? Well, good for her. Lots of women keep their maiden names. I’d do the same—”

“Her maiden name’s Hawkins.” He pulled into a parking space and cut the engine. What with the scowl he was sporting, I decided not to comment, but as he pried himself from the car, I heard him mumble, “This Elizabeth Carson thing’s gone too far.”

* * *

“You’ve done this before!”

I’d said it sotto voce, but Hugh put a finger to his lips to shush me, justifiably, since the priest was starting the gospel. So I waited, my impatience mounting, until the end of mass, watching him more than the priest, or I should say, more than the backs of the couple in front of us. Somewhere a law is written that says if you’re short, tall people with big hair will always seek you out and block your view. Tonight was no exception.

The church was a new one, with modern, padded pews forming a semicircle around a raised platform that seemed more like a theatrical stage than an altar. Behind it was a tall stained-glass window, backlit at night so the congregation could still see the abstract pattern. To one side of it, a cross, too small in proportion to the room, hung high on the wall, seeming almost an afterthought. The floor was carpeted in red plush soft enough to sleep on.

I pictured my hometown church this night, with its various shades of pastel marble. The floor would be slippery as people tracked in mud or slush. Full-sized Christmas trees would stand on each side of the main and side altars, and in front of the Sacred Heart altar would be a crèche with foot-high figures dressed in the height of Italian Renaissance style. The statues of Saints Calogero and Emidio and the crucifix above the altar would be blurry from the haze of incense, the smell reeking havoc with everyone’s sinuses along with the blend of perfumes, menthol lozenges, and mothballs in the congregation. Kids would make impatient squirmy noises and at least one baby would wail through the readings.