At first, Harold wasn't too bothered when he woke up with a sore throat and the sniffles on Saint Patrick's Day. He was even a bit amused by it, as Marian had discovered she was also suffering from the exact same affliction. This was the second cold husband and wife had caught in tandem – given the sheer amount of time they'd spent ensconced in the most intimate of embraces over the past winter, sharing illness along with pleasure was to be expected. They'd had a cold together at the end of February, too, and it had disappeared quickly. Harold expected this one would be just as fleeting.
While it was annoying to have a cold on the day of a planned boys' band parade, it was hardly surprising. The weather was quite variable of late – the snow squall on Saturday had given way to a rapid increase in temperature on Sunday that led to the melting of almost all the snow by Monday. Such capricious climate shifts were awfully hard on a body, providing the perfect atmosphere for incubation of such maladies – and as loath as Harold was to admit it, he wasn't able to rebound from illness and injury as speedily as he had in his twenties and even thirties. Around this chancy time of year, Mrs. Paroo, ever the sage dispenser of folk wisdom, liked to say, "A swing of fifteen degrees brings on the wheeze."
As ever, Harold masterfully ignored the limitations of his body. He rose swiftly and dressed in his dapper emerald green marching band jacket trimmed with gold buttons, braid, and tassel, which he had made special for the Saint Patrick's Day festivities. He had even commissioned a green hat plumed with white feathers, to match his pants. It would not do to wear his usual red marching band jacket, lest he get pinched affectionately by Marian or worse, his bonafide Irish mother-in-law, for lacking the color of the holiday in his sartorial repertoire. A shamrock garland festooning his cap completed his ensemble.
Marian, who was likewise putting the finishing touches on her get-up, regarded him with admiring eyes when his gaze met hers in the mirror she was currently facing. "That's a wonderful color on you, Harold."
Although Harold certainly appreciated the compliment, he was far more arrested by what she was wearing. Though most of the townspeople were likely to don the traditional emerald green, such bold tones were not Marian's most complementary palate. Instead, she had chosen a jade green silk gown with a floral motif. It was also trimmed with ribbon, which perfectly coordinated to form the sash, bodice draping, and delicately scalloped edges of her sleeves and neckline. The librarian looked absolutely stunning in this frock, and she would stand out both tastefully and elegantly from the crowd – just as she ought to, being both his wife and second-in-command of the boys' band.
Harold slinked over, wrapped his arms around Marian's waist, and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. "You look good enough to eat, my dear." He nibbled playfully at her ear and then her neck, eliciting a giggle and a swat, the latter of which he dodged with ease. The giggle, however, sent a pleasant shudder through him and made him twitch below the belt – ever since they'd married, her laughter had grown deliciously throaty and come-hither. Though one minor detail about his wife's outfit nagged at him, a detail which he couldn't in good conscience ignore even in the midst of heated flirtation (such was the downfall of being a devoted husband!): "Your sleeves are summer-short – will you be warm enough?"
Marian nodded. "I have a shawl to wear. In any case, I find that I haven't been as cold as I normally get in the winter." She let out another one of those delectable little laughs of hers. "You've certainly been doing plenty to keep me warm, Mister Hill."
Now thoroughly riled up, Harold seriously considered divesting both her and himself of all the clothing they'd so carefully donned. But to his chagrin, they didn't have time for even the quickest of romps, as they'd both slept too late to indulge in such luxuries. It was one thing to be fashionably late to brunch on the second day of one's honeymoon, but as the leaders of the town-wide festivities, they could not command such leeway on this occasion. Besides, Mrs. Paroo and Winthrop were due to arrive any minute.
Indeed, the doorbell rang not two minutes after Marian's impertinent rejoinder. There was only enough time to give her a few paltry love-bites – Harold took meticulous care to ensure that they were hard enough to make her moan but gentle enough not to leave any incriminating marks. He also did his damnedest not to ruffle either of their ensembles, not only to preserve their reputations, but also because there was a certain eroticism in not being able to go too far. Such restraint would whet his appetite all the keener for tonight – and, he was sure, hers as well.
"To be continued," he promised his blushing but delighted wife in a husky voice. They separated and went downstairs, demure as you please, to welcome their guests.
Naturally, Mrs. Paroo wasn't fooled. "I hope I haven't come at a bad time," she said nonchalantly, though her eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Of course not, Mama." The librarian would have been thoroughly convincing in her delivery – if not for the charming tinge of pink suffusing her cheeks. It was still a mite too cool outside to explain her rosy complexion as due to the weather. Still, she soldiered on with impeccable poise. "Where's Winthrop?"
"He's already at the emporium with the other boys and Tommy Djilas," the matron explained. "You're looking awfully flushed this morning, darling! Are you well?"
Harold came to the rescue, like any good white knight worth his salt. "That's a charming necklace, Mrs. Paroo," he observed, focusing on the large Celtic cross around her neck. It was a stunning piece, with its intricate knotting and rosette of green silk in the center. "Family heirloom?"
The distraction worked, but not for the reason the music professor had planned. His voice came out in the same hoarse rasp as it had when he had made his last remark to Marian upstairs. But it was not desire that was coarsening his dulcet baritone.
"Why, yes indeed, it was my great grandmother's… good heavens, me boy, did you swallow a whole pond of frogs?" said Mrs. Paroo, going from flattered to alarmed as she fully registered that her charming son-in-law had most decidedly not kissed the Blarney stone.
Harold vigorously cleared his throat, loosening a great deal of congestion as he did so. He quickly gulped it away. "I appear to have caught a slight cold," he said ruefully. His voice was still gruff, but not nearly as gravelly as it had been before. While it was not as smooth as he would have liked, it was smooth enough that the apprehension ebbed from both the ladies' countenances, though his mother-in-law still looked a tad skeptical at his choice of the words "slight cold" to explain the horrible squawk he'd just emitted. Lest Mrs. Paroo turn the full force of her motherly concern on his health, the music professor quickly suggested that the three of them head to the emporium to join the others. To his relief, both wife and mother-in-law agreed without protest.
XXX
However, Harold's hoarseness did not go away. While leading the Saint Patrick's Day parade down Center Street required nothing more than a jaunty manner and a wide grin, he struggled to contribute to Danny Boy when the singing portion of the festivities began on the pavilion in Madison Picnic Park. Fortunately, the music professor wasn't slated to perform any solos, but without his strong, steady voice to underpin the melody, the pitch of the tune wavered a bit more wildly than it would have otherwise.
By the time they reached the final song, Peg o' My Heart, Harold was reduced to silently miming the words. Marian, whose beautiful soprano rang out as clearly as it ever did, ended up carrying the load. Normally, this would not have been an issue, but given that the lyrics of this particular song were from the perspective of a lad addressing his beloved, the absence of the music professor's voice was rather odd.
Fortunately, as the boys sang with everything they had and were heartily joined by the River City-ziens, only Harold's wife seemed to notice his absence from the resulting din. When the concert finally came to its conclusion, Marian regarded the music professor with concern. "Are you all right, darling?"
Refusing to to let a little tickle in his throat ruin the day, Harold nodded vigorously. "Merely a bit of vocal strain," he murmured. "A good lunch should do the trick."
But when the corned beef and cabbage was served, Harold struggled to swallow it. Not because it tasted bad – in all honesty, he could barely taste it, given that his nose was plugged up – but because his throat had apparently decided to stop working properly. Even the cool glass of water that his wife had so helpfully procured for him was a trial to imbibe.
Marian continued to gaze at him with an anxious eye as he tried his damnedest to cram his lunch down his gullet. "Are you sure you're all right, Harold?"
"The corned beef – it's like sandpaper," he rasped – and immediately went into a fit of coughing as a speck of seasoning hit the back of his throat in precisely the wrong way.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Dunlop happened to overhear his pronouncement, and looked thoroughly affronted. She was the one who had spearheaded the preparations of this traditional dish, as she took a great deal of pride in her family's Scotch-Irish heritage. Most of the River City-ziens were of English, French, or Swedish stock.
Appalled by his clumsy faux pas – he was never this off his game – Harold rushed to reassure the chagrined lady that it wasn't her cooking that had caused his esophageal distress. But he couldn't talk. No matter how many times he cleared his throat, his vocal chords refused to recover their timbre. It was extremely disconcerting, to be without his silver tongue the moment he needed it most.
Fortunately, Marian was able to smooth things over. "I'm certain that Harold didn't mean it that way, Mrs. Dunlop. Personally, I think your corned beef is delicious, isn't it, ladies?" They all readily agreed with her – no one would have dared to do otherwise. "But the professor woke up with a sore throat this morning, and I do believe it has gotten much worse."
Harold nodded in eager agreement… until Marian further stated, "If you will excuse us, we must find Dr. Pyne immediately."
As the ladies clucked in concern and cooed well wishes for a speedy recovery, Harold tried to protest the course of action the librarian had decreed. But he literally could not, as his feeble whispers were easily drowned out in the cacophony surrounding them. In any case, Marian had him firmly by the arm and was tugging him to his feet. Of course, he was stronger than her and could have refused to rise, but to hunker down like a naughty toddler who refused to go anywhere would have been very poor form. He wasn't about to embarrass himself a second time.
XXX
"It's laryngitis," Dr. Pyne pronounced. "An acute complication of the common cold."
Unable to vocally express his displeasure, Harold scowled. He didn't have time for laryngitis! The Easter Parade was less than a week away, and there was still so much to do. This parade was even more important than today's, as it would be the second official demonstration of his Think System. The eagle-eyed and quick-witted reporter Fred Gallup would once again be travelling all the way from the capital to cover the event for the Des Moines Register and Leader. Harold could not afford to be mute for the occasion.
"Oh dear," said Marian, sounding just as worried as he felt. "Will he recover in time for the Easter Parade?"
Dr. Pyne shrugged. "That's entirely up to the professor. Laryngitis normally runs its course in three to five days, but it can be prolonged if the voice is put under great strain to perform." He turned to face Harold with a stern look. "That means no talking, singing, whistling, or engaging in any kind of vocal exercises for three days. Don't even attempt to whisper. All communication should be through writing or gesturing. If you don't follow these instructions to the letter," he said ominously, "you may not recover your voice in time for the Easter Parade."
Harold gulped, winced at the pain of it, and nodded his assent.
"Does he need to remain in bed?" Marian asked. Harold was presently there, as the librarian had insisted he lie down the moment they got home with the doctor. She was so determinedly no-nonsense that he'd thought it best to humor her wishes, even though he felt fine… besides the inflamed throat and the distinct lack of a booming baritone, of course.
To Harold's relief, Dr. Pyne shook his head. "He may go about his normal schedule as long as he feels up to it – and as long as he doesn't develop a fever. But he mustn't strain himself with overwork, so I would recommend staying home the rest of today and tomorrow, in order to rest. He should also drink tea with honey two to three times a day. No rich, coarse, or highly seasoned foods, as they will further irritate his throat and vocal chords. I will drop by on Friday morning to assess his progress. In the meantime," he turned to Harold with another stern look, "don't speak a single word!"
The doctor turned back to Marian. "Any other questions?" he said pleasantly.
"Yes, actually," she said, sounding hesitant, as if she feared she was wandering a bit too far into intimate territory. "Harold and I appear to have caught the exact same cold, as I also woke up with a sore throat this morning – why don't I have laryngitis, as well?"
Harold nodded, both to bolster his wife's confidence and because he'd been wondering this, himself.
The unruffled Dr. Pyne, who'd answered far more delicate questions over the course of his long medical career, merely shrugged. "People's bodies react differently, even when they contract the same disease. One person may suffer complications, while another doesn't." He looked closely at the librarian, as if he was examining her. "It may be a blessing in disguise that you have the same cold, Mrs. Hill, as you won't be likely to develop laryngitis if you haven't already manifested it."
Marian looked relieved, but Harold was still irked. Even if she had the same cold, he would not allow himself to so much as kiss the librarian until he was fully recovered. Because if she was in the delicate condition he suspected, he refused to put her or their child at unnecessary risk.
When the doctor left, Marian went down to the kitchen to make Harold's tea. She thoughtfully brought up a pad and a pencil along with the cup and, out of habit, nearly dropped a kiss on his lips – until he furiously gestured for her to aim for a less dangerous place. Looking disappointed but understanding, she gave him a kiss on the forehead, and left him to his convalescence.
Marian was still wearing her jade green gown with the fetchingly low scalloped neckline, and she still looked good enough to eat. But all he could do was look as she walked out of the room. So much for early-morning promises, he thought sullenly, frustrated by a keen sense of unfulfillable longing he hadn't experienced since they were courting. While his appetite for food had all but disappeared, his appetite for pleasure remained as strong as ever. Now that he knew what he was missing, such privation would be doubly difficult to endure.
Harold repressed a sigh, lest it further damage his vocal chords. Instead, he took a sip of tea – and shuddered as his throat once again flared up indignantly at the intrusion of a foreign substance.
It was going to be a long three days.