Under the Wide and Starry Sky (18 page)

Two figures were hovering over Louis when he woke.

“Here he comes,” said one, an old man who leaned in close.

“Can you see me, mister?” said the other, whose face was as pocked as a beach stone.

“You been out for days,” said the first. “We ‘bout took you for dead.”

Louis looked around. It appeared he was in the upper chamber of a rustic cabin. “How did I get here?” he asked.

“English,” the old one declared.

“Scottish,” Louis corrected. He tried feebly to sit up from the makeshift bed where he lay, but merely fell back.

“Oh, you're goin' nowhere for a while, mister,” said the old one. “You gotta eat somethin'. Jesus Lord. Look at you.”

Louis looked down at his naked, ribby chest. “What foul paste have you gilded me with, gentlemen?”

“Man talks like a book,” said the pocked one.

The elder fellow aimed a flinty blue eye toward Louis, daring him to complain further. “You itch, buddy?”

Louis thought about it. “No.”

“Damn stuff works, even when a fella's been flayed as bad as you.” The man laughed, exposing a naked upper gum on one side. “It's bear grease and some other surprises. Tom's own recipe,” he said, nodding toward a fellow in the background who appeared to be an Indian.

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days, and mostly not here,” the old one said. “What the devil is a man like you doin' knocked out under a tree on this ranch?”

“First, sir, what is your name?”

“Cap'n Anson Smith. This here's my partner, Jonathan Wright.”

“I am Louis Stevenson. And I thank you both for saving my life.”

“Oh, that ain't decided yet.”

Tom came forward with a steaming cup. “Tea,” he said. “Drink it.”

“You was cold when we found you,” Smith said. “Now you got yourself a fine fever.” Louis saw a look pass between Smith and Wright. “Did you mean to just go off and die?” The captain's voice was soft and respectful, as if he would understand such an impulse.

“I like to go camping out, take in the air.” Louis smiled at the old man's look of disbelief. “And … I had little funds for an inn.”

“Or grub, looks like.”

“Captain of what, sir?” Louis asked.

“Army. Mexican war. Only thing I shoot now is bears.” He laughed at his own wit.

“Me and him raise goats here,” Wright said. “Angoras. What's your line?”

“Writer chap.”

Wright ran a knobby hand across his mustache. “Is there a woman somewheres in this?”

Louis began to explain about the train trip, but a coughing fit took him for a good five minutes. The two men eyed him warily. “No more talking till tomorrow,” Smith said.

Louis lay on the cot in the upper chamber, coughing between sips of the tea. Inside his head, the Pacific Ocean thundered unceasingly. He remembered, foggily, the state he was in when he hired a horse and wagon in Monterey. His heart felt cracked in half, and his mind was gone to shards from the itching skin. He set out into the countryside bent on relief. At one point in his hill wandering, he reached into his pants to see what he had left. “Pocket-cured nuts,” he said out loud, and shared with the horse what was in his palm. His money was all but gone. When he collapsed under the tree, he wasn't entirely sure. He recalled lying in a stupor, only getting up to water the horse during the time—how long, two days?—that he lay there. Aside from the peanuts, he had consumed only coffee. He lost consciousness at some point and was awakened briefly by a tinkling sound, which turned out to be little bells attached to collars on some goats that had gathered around him to have a look. He could picture himself now as he had been when he was found—the fool on the heath with a horse, a herd of puzzled goats, and Cap'n Smith all staring at him.

Exhausted by the coughing, Louis felt too weak to lift his own head. Tom was watching and approached to prop him up and spoon soup into his mouth. Louis was touched by the kindness of these weathered frontiersmen. As he began to doze, he sent off a mental thank-you into the ether that the terrible itch was truly, truly gone.

The days that followed were marked by other people coming and going around him. Captain Smith and Tom brought infused teas and soups and progressively more solid food, while a pair of little girls visited from time to time to have a look at him. When he was less muddled, he learned that he'd been brought to Wright's house, one of two rustic cabins in a clearing surrounded by a circle of big shade trees and, beyond that, hills dotted with pines and hundreds of goats. Louis could not see the open main room on the first floor from where he lay, but he woke to the snap of kindling in the dawn fire, smelled coffee and frying eggs, and felt the pulse of frontier farm life through the remaining day, until darkness quieted the family and the tinkling of bells outside.

Obviously missing was the woman of the house. Mrs. Wright was away due to illness, and in her absence, her curious little daughters appeared to have nothing more to do than gape at Louis, like every other creature in this place. When he discovered neither could read, he set out to teach them how to decipher words. Mornings thereafter, with flies buzzing all around, he gave them a lesson, followed by a story.

One day he recited a little poem he'd written not long ago.

“More,” the smaller girl said.

“All right,” Louis replied. “This one is longer, if I can remember it.”

The children tittered at the rhyme. “Another,” the older one chimed.

“Oh, this one keeps going,” Louis said.

Louis paused. “I've forgotten the rest.” he sighed, and looked around. Every face was at attention.

“Ah,” he said. “Let's see.”

When he finished, to the giggles and claps of the girls, he felt as if he had just sent a tiger through a fiery hoop.

“You done good there,” said Smith, who had been watching. “I can tell you, they ain't the easiest audience.”

Louis glowed.

“You always been sick?” Smith asked after he chased the children outside to feed some goats.

“Not always.” Louis waved a hand weakly. “Aye, a lot. Bad in the lungs.”

The captain scratched his cheek. “We're goin' to get you into town soon as you're able. You've run through my kit out here. Maybe next week. There's a doc in Monterey could help you. We'll see.”

“Louis is back in town.” Nellie's face was flushed from running.

Fanny grabbed her sister's arm. “Where is he?”

“Adulfo told me he's over at Doc Heintz's place.”

“Where has he been all this time?”

“Out in the country somewhere. Adulfo wasn't clear on it.”

Fanny's eyes frantically scanned the kitchen. “What do I have that I can take to him?”

“Fanny!” Her sister shook her shoulders. “The man doesn't want food from you.” She paused. “Adulfo says he's been very sick.”

Fanny tore off her apron and ran down the sandy middle of Alvarado Street. At the doctor's house, a maid answered the door.

“Is the doctor here? I need to speak to him right away,” Fanny said. When the woman went to fetch him, Fanny smoothed her skirts and hair, wiped the sweat from her upper lip.

“Mrs. Osbourne.” The doctor's face was momentarily confused. “You are looking healthier since I last saw you.”

Fanny summoned her dignity. “I am here to see Louis Stevenson. He is an old friend of mine.”

“Oh? Well, I'm glad to know he has someone in town. I took him in for a few days until he recovers. “ He looked at her curiously. “Are you aware that he is quite ill?”

“He had a hard journey from England. He's here on a lecture tour.”

“I can't be sure—there's no real test—but I suspect the man has consumption.” He shook his head. “Compounded by pleurisy and malnutrition. Came mighty close to dying out on that ranch. The boat and train travel from England broke what was left of his health.” He shrugged. “Follow me. He's upstairs.”

Louis lay with his hands at his sides, palms down, white sheet pulled up over his chest. His eyes were closed, and his face, in profile, looked remarkably peaceful. No matter how sick he was, his features showed his boyish sweetness; he had in him a soul as pure as Hervey's. He was brilliant, just, and wholesome—the closest thing to a holy man Fanny had ever known. In rooms full of people, she had watched others expand with happiness just to be in his presence. He was the most
alive
person she'd ever met. And he was funny on top of it all. How useful a thing it would be to keep such a man in the world. How extraordinary a life would be hers if she stayed within that circle of light.

Fanny knelt by the bed and put his icy hand into hers. “Don't die on me, Louis,” she murmured. “Yes, I will marry you. Just hang on.”

She saw the eyelids flutter. She didn't know if he could hear her, but she kept talking. “I was afraid, Louis. Do you understand what it is for a woman …? I was protecting myself, and I thought,
How will we live
? But when you left that day on the beach, I knew I had made a
terrible
mistake. Sam has agreed to a divorce. Do you hear me? He's asking for a ‘decent' interval. Don't you enjoy that, darling—decent? Oh, Louis, you are going to be a great writer, I know it in my heart, and a healthy one, and we are going to be happy together, in our own home. I can't promise I can give you a child of your own, but I will try, I promise you I will try, if that's what you want. If you can just hang on … Only a few more months until the divorce can be finalized, and then a little while after that … ”

Louis stirred, turned his head toward her. The radiant hazel eyes took her in. “You look beautiful today, Fanny,” he said. “Forgive me if I am not at my best.” He gestured weakly at his body. “I'm all to whistles. This is hardly the figure I had hoped to cut as a bridegroom.”

Fanny swallowed back tears. “I shall fatten you up before then.” She dipped a cloth in a bowl of water on the table near his bed and wet his dry lips.

“I don't want to misrepresent myself to you, Fanny.” Louis's breathy voice was as tattered as the rest of him. “I am a mere complication of cough and bones. When we met in Grez, I was the healthiest I had been in some time. The truth is, I've been an invalid off and on all my life. It will not be easy for you.”

Looking down at Louis, she remembered the months of caring for Hervey. It had been excruciating, and it had not been enough. How vividly she remembered the day they buried him at Saint-Germain. Watching the little casket go into the ground, she'd felt like the perpetrator of a terrible crime. The child should have been at home in Oakland, nestled safely in his own bed. Perhaps at some deep level she didn't want to look at, she expected she could redeem herself for letting Hervey slip through her fingers: Maybe marrying an invalid would be a prayer, an act of contrition. She didn't know. All she knew for certain was that she loved Louis.

“I shall carry you,” she told him. “And you can carry me.”

He nodded. “You'll pardon me, Mrs. Stevenson,” he whispered, and in a few moments, he was sound asleep.

1880

“A decent interval” was not only Sam Osbourne's request; it was on the lips of every member of Fanny's family. Her parents and sisters had vehemently opposed the divorce. Even Nellie had argued against it. The very mention of an impending divorce was being kept from Fanny's sickly sister Elizabeth for fear the disgraceful news would knock her over the edge.

“I don't mind waiting so much,” Louis told Fanny. “Your family has come further along than my own.”

It was true. His father had used a desperate ploy to get Louis to return to Scotland, and his senses. Through Baxter, Thomas Stevenson had sent word that his son was murdering his parents with anguish and disgrace. The father pretended to be near death to draw Louis home.

Suspecting he was being misled, Louis refused. Slowly recovering his strength under Dr. Heintz's care, he continued to work furiously on what he thought would pay fastest, fables and short tales, knowing that Fanny and Sammy would be under his protective wing soon enough. When that would happen remained uncertain, for the actual divorce date was dangled and withdrawn by Sam. In October, Fanny traveled north to Oakland, taking Nellie with her as a “chaperone.” In December, when the decree was official, the decent interval between divorce and remarriage officially began.

A couple of days before Christmas, Louis moved to San Francisco to a boardinghouse, where he worked and waited. Twice a week during that long winter, Fanny took a ferry over to meet him for dinner. They sat at a modest little restaurant and gentled each other out of their anxieties. “June,” she told him when he asked what would make a respectable wedding date. “That will be six months.”

“If I can finish the work I began in Monterey, we will be all right by then,” Louis said.

“What do you eat during the day?” she asked him over dinner one evening in March. Louis looked terrible, his cheeks hollow and shadowed.

He hesitated.

“Tell me,” she said. “You look as if you are starving.”

He hemmed and hawed. “Enough,” he told her.

“Not enough,” Dora Williams informed Fanny when she saw her friend a week later. “Virgil and I saw him last week at the Pine Street coffee house. He was having his usual breakfast there, he said. A cup of coffee, one little roll, and a pat of butter—a bargain at ten cents. He told us he's mastered the art of having the bread and butter expire at the same moment. We laughed, but then he laid out the rest of the day. He goes back in the evening for another roll and coffee—that's his supper. He's eating only one meal, really, midday, that he gets for fifty cents.”

“Louis only tells me about the stories he's working on,” Fanny said, shaking her head. “He's trying to save what little money he has for when he has to support me. But that has already begun. He gave me fifteen dollars recently to keep the house going.”

“Isn't Sam supporting you until you remarry?”

“Didn't you hear? Sam lost his job a few days ago.”

The constant anxiety, the enforced diet, and the frantic work pace took its toll: Louis fell ill with malaria. Fanny moved him to an Oakland hotel room to be nearer her cottage. It was there that Louis's lungs began to hemorrhage. When she discovered him in his room coughing up blood, Fanny raised a handkerchief to her mouth, vowed to herself she would not faint, and immediately fetched a doctor.

Stroking his goatee, white and stiff as a brush, Dr. Bamford stood over Louis's bony, pain-wracked body and said, “The patient is not to move. He must lie on his back so that his lungs can heal.” Before he left, Bamford handed Fanny a bottle of ergotin and showed her how to measure an exact dosage. “This will make the blood vessels contract during a hemorrhage. He will need to have this medicine by him at all times.”

“So,” Louis said sadly of the latest horrific twist. “He arrives—'Bluidy Jack.”‘

Fanny sat by his bed and held his hand. She knew he was devastated, for the bleeding confirmed his fear that he would probably die of tuberculosis, and soon.

“For the sake of appearances,” another phrase her family liked to use, was now ignored. One idea loomed large: She must get Louis to a safer climate. If they stayed in the San Francisco bay fog, it would probably kill him. She promptly moved him from the hotel into her cottage, consigned him to the sofa where she could nurse him, and set the wedding date for May. Sammy was away at boarding school by then in Sonoma, and Nellie was living with her. What her family, friends, and neighbors thought of the whole arrangement didn't trouble her mind now. If she could nurse Louis to the point where he could travel, she could get him to a better weather.

By day she dosed him with Dover's powder and made soups to spoon-feed to him. By night she sat next to the sofa, watching helplessly as the ruthless cough hammered deeper in his chest. She and Nellie paused in fear to listen when Louis, past coughing, made a sucking noise in his windpipe. She held her own breath at those moments, uncertain if the last punch had been deadly. There would be a little gasp of air as Louis—limp as a dishrag, drenched with cold sweat, unable to speak—opened his eyes to peer at hers intently.
I am not dead yet,
the eyes said.

What astounded her was how close to the gates of death he could be at one moment and how alive he could be the next. After a nightlong assault of coughing, he might awaken unable to speak; or, he might sit up, ask for oatmeal, and announce he'd come up with a new story idea.

It's going to be a wild, rickrack journey with this man.

Within a few days of the hemorrhaging, he was standing on a kitchen chair, reciting Robert Burns. Nellie had spotted a mouse and jumped up on a stool, prompting Louis to rise from the sofa in the parlor and mount another chair.

“‘To a Mouse,'” he announced dramatically, putting hand to breast, “‘On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough.' By
Rrrr
obbie Bu
rrr
ns,” he said, stretching the R's like a Scottish drum roll.

“What are you doing?” Fanny called from the other room. She rushed into the kitchen, put her hands on her hips. “Get down this minute!”

“I'll murder
you
with a paddle,” Fanny cried. “You're supposed to be flat on the sofa.”

Nellie's laughter only encouraged him, and he held forth through two more Burns poems.

“Get
down
,” Fanny said, but by then even she had begun to giggle. He went on to impersonate a clergyman asking questions from the Shorter Catechism of a frightened child, also played by Louis, and all of it in his best broad Scots. When he climbed down, their eyes were wet from laughing.

The morning after his performance, he was on his back on the sofa, with his feet buried under the family dog, Chuchu. Fanny, and sometimes Nellie, worked as his amanuensis, taking down a new book idea or writing out his letters. In his hours of wellness, Louis's joy in life was so acute it amazed Fanny. He loved the chaotic household of two women, an occasional child home from school, a dog, four cats, and two horses, and delighted in making Nellie and Fanny the subjects of his jokes.

It was not the same giddiness he used to show, though. She remembered his displays of uncontrollable laughter and the hand-bending it took to stop it. The last time it happened, when she'd bitten him hard and opened a cut, Louis had looked at her with such injured shock that she'd been flooded with shame. She had seen such a look once before, on the face of her son Sammy. Long ago when he was a baby, Sammy developed a habit of kicking furiously whenever she tried to diaper him. He was just under a year old and playing with her, really, but she'd been tired at the time and slapped his leg—pretty gently, yet hard enough to surprise him. The child had stopped moving and gazed in disbelief at his mother. It was as if the world changed in that moment for him, and for her. Had she knocked the wildness out of the little fellow with one slap? Made him cautious? For that was what Sammy was now. Or was he going to be a careful type from the moment he came out of her womb? He never kicked again; she never slapped him again. As it turned out, Louis never lost himself to hilarity after Fanny's angry bite.

Louis was a far more sober man now than he was three years ago, and his joy less frenetic. Having seen his suffering up close in the last few weeks, she understood better why he would have wanted to abandon himself to untamed gaiety. She could see why he hated the ugly realism of Zola. No wonder he wanted to write adventure stories.

When he was feeling stronger, Fanny walked him slowly through her cottage's garden. It was not only for the sunshine that she led him along the twisting stone paths on the Oakland hillside, where each turn revealed a distant view or an arrangement of plants that pleased the eye. She wanted him to see what she had made with her own hands, for it was a record of herself. She had laid every stone of the path, planted every fragrant delight, built the arbors and log benches, dug the beds for six great patches in which pumpkins and onions and tomatoes had grown large on the hillside. She could remember herself when she first laid out the garden—young and industrious, so pleased to be grafting roses and pickling her own cantaloupe. She took Louis to the photography studio she'd built in an old shack, where cobwebs covered the glass plate negatives now—pictures of trees and flowers that she'd left behind when she went to Europe with the children. She took him to the shooting range she had set up so he could see that she had been someone before she knew him. A woman of parts.

She and Louis stood quietly near a patch of orange lilies. “Do you know what my mother called me as a child? Tiger Lily.”

He smiled. “How appropriate.”

“Ma always grew them in her garden.”

“Are you saying goodbye to yours?”

“Yes,” she said. “But there will be another garden to make, and a better one. “

On a sunny spring day, Fanny and Louis, dressed in his ulster against any possible chill, took the ferry from Oakland to San Francisco to be married. It wasn't anything like a wedding, mostly paperwork and a few words spoken by an old Presbyterian minister in his parlor. When she filled out the marriage certificate, she had to pause to think of the date: May 29, 1880. Below it, she admitted to being forty but wrote
widowed
rather than
divorced.
Whose business was it other than her own?

The minister read from Corinthians about love being patient and keeping no record of wrongs. They exchanged slender silver rings while her friend Dora Williams stood by as a witness. Afterward, the three of them went out for dinner. Louis raised his glass of wine and said, “I don't think many wives will be loved as much as mine.” That was the extent of the festivities. Even their simple meal might have been out of the question a few weeks earlier, before Louis's father finally came around.

Apparently, Thomas Stevenson got wind through Baxter that his only child was broke and lying sick in America. Shamed and remorseful, the old man promised Louis 250 pounds a year as an allowance. Before the conciliatory letter from Louis's father, Fanny's throat would constrict when she thought of money. Sam's monthly support payments for Sammy had ended when he lost his court stenographer job. Thomas Stevenson's promised allowance eased her anxiety.

The moment the first check arrived, she took Louis to an Oakland dentist to have his rotten teeth pulled and replaced. When the swelling disappeared, they went together to a photographer to have wedding portraits done. Louis looked thin but groomed, while Fanny wore her best hat cocked at a flattering angle, and a string of beads around her neck with a wooden cross attached, an effect she hoped would garner the Stevensons' approval.

When Fanny saw the portraits, she was pleased. Soon she would send the pictures along with a warm letter to Louis's parents, preparing them for the fact that, when his health permitted, they would be meeting their new daughter-in-law.