"Now tell me this, doctor, and I shall know instantly if you're lying. Am I going to die?" Hyacinth was sitting up, speaking, with her voice completely recovered. It was amazing how she could command such an air of superiority in a hospital gown. And how airily she asked about her mortality!
"Yes," the doctor said nonchalantly, not even looking up from the clipboard in his hand. There was a quiet that took its place in the room was palpable. The only things that kept the room from being in complete silence was the beeping that kept Hyacinth's now-increasing heartbeat audible to doctors and nurses and the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the room.
"Doctor, tell me how long I have to live." Her voice became affrighted.
"You'll be a quick one for another thirty years, God forbid." He was muttering still didn't make any eye-contact.
"I beg your pardon. I know that you may not know who I am, but my name is Hyacinth Bouquet and I a senior socialite in the superb smart set. It would behoove you to behave in a way that befits a person of my most high rank."
"Look, Miss Bucket-" It was funny that he had not bothered to look up from the papers in front of him.
"It is Missus Bouquet." She reminded him, chided him.
"Yes, I'm sure it is."
"You must be the most impertinent man I ever met! You cannot be a doctor with that sort of rudeness."
"I am. I had my residency at Guy's Hospital, London." He still wasn't looking up from his clipboard. Even Elizabeth, who was sitting in the same chair Rose sat in last night, was shocked by how callous the doctor was. It was refreshing to Liz to see someone giving Hyacinth what she gave to those who were blessed (or damned) with her presence.
"Look at me in the eye, when I'm talking to you." Her voice descended a few octaves, which was ironically, the same tone from which she would launch her songs. It was the same tone that made Emmet flee.
"That's nice, Bucket." The doctor spoke again before the woman could speak again. "With the way this industry is in Britain, I have to see a patient every seven minutes to keep up the share."
"I will not stand to be treated like some ordinary person."
"Well, madam, you won't be standing for anything just now. Now, please don't let the fact that you're in a special room cloud your judgment and understanding of the situation. You just happen to be an ordinary person. Good day to you, Miss Bucket." He then, against all logical explanation, seemed to almost skip out of the room.
"With that kind of treatment," Hyacinth said looking over at Elizabeth, facing the window. "I don't know what is happening with. I am appalled and Sheri-"
"Sheridan's not here." Elizabeth's voice was plain. She had only spoken a fact and that was all.
"I know he's not here. He would still be appalled. No one can treat his mummy this way."
Elizabeth swore later that a vein in her forehead popped, "Hyacinth, you cannot pick when he's your son and when he's not. Now, I've held my tongue for too may years. I knew since that child was the way he was since he was ten. I knew that he was different. That doesn't make him a bad child, Hyacinth. It only means that you love him that much more."
"Alright, alright, alright! I do not need anyone lecturing me on how to come to terms with this. I am the only person in this whole situation who has had to cope with the fact…" Her voice was soft by the time she arrived at the word 'that'.
"What Hyacinth? What?" Liz's voice grew softer.
"I wanted grandchildren."
"Hyacinth, this doesn't mean that you won't have any grandchildren."
"Tarquin, I know that you've given me time to think about this, but I rather have my wife step into the twentieth century." Richard was on his end of the telephone. He was in his room while Tarquin was talking on his mobile phone.
"But, Mister Bucket," Tarquin protested as he stepped into a cab, "IS she going to come around? I mean really?"
"You know I think she is," Richard said, sitting up straighter in the bed.
"How," Tarquin asked.
"It's just how she thinks. She'll find some way to make it an opportunity for social advancement. She'll find a way to make this news another rung on her desperate climb to mingle with the aristocracy. Hyacinth is clever."
"But, what about the relationship with her son? She's basically severed it. I don't know how he's ever gonna sit in the same room with his mother again. Do you know what he said to me when he got back to the hotel after he told her? Do you?"
"I haven't the faintest clue." Richard's voice -though very shaky- portrayed only a fraction of the disquietude that was inside. That little rope that always tied itself into a knot in his stomach was now unable to be untwisted by anyone. Whatever word he was about to say, were probably going to entangle his viscera further. At least that's what he felt.
"Sheridan said that he felt like a motherless child. He felt like he had been shot and then hanged, and the executioner was the woman who claimed to love him. The same lady who took him to museums and showed him the most overt and concrete love killed him. And I tell you, he wanted to die. He wanted to die, so I intervened."
"Suicidal? Sheridan? Sheridan suicidal?"
"Yes. He was going to jump from the window. All I told him was that he couldn't do it because I would miss him way too much. I love him so much. I would feel awful if he were to…" Tarquin's voice trailed off into an evil thought of grief. "I want him to live."
"I do too." Those were the only words that Richard could manage.
"Well, if he's been feeling this desperate, where is he? Is he by himself? Who-"
"Onslow's at the hotel, in the room, keeping him company. You can go to the room and make sure he's alright. I'm sure Onslow could go for a beer and a cigarette right about now."
"You know, you're welcome in my house anytime Sheridan." Onslow said to his nephew. He, Onslow was seated in a chair away from the bed on which Sheridan sat. True to form, Onslow only wore his most comfortable trousers and the vest he loved over his t-shirt. The hat that he usually wore, even indoors was off right now and on the bedside table closer to his seat His, Sheridan's, face was relaxed except for his mouth. It was contorted into a frown, and not the 'cute' pout that Tarquin had grown used to and cherished. Sheridan was sitting straight up in the bed, pajamas still on. His back was erect against the headboard and his legs were crossed underneath him Indian style.
"I know I am. Thank you." His voice, no longer quaky and hurt, but no longer pleasant and soft, reverberated into Onslow's ears. They sounded hollow and Sheridan sounded numb. Onslow was visibly dismayed by the sound of his response. He was trying to remain as easygoing as possible, and tried to dispel any weightiness that may have reared its ugly head in the conversation.
"You're even dressed the part to live in my house. No need for smart clothes in my house. In fact we have a policy that anyone in a suit can only stand on the front step and cannot enter." Onslow forced a laugh. "With the exception of your father."
It was met with only a hint of a titter that sounded more like a pained grunt.
"I'm sure Tarquin'll be back soon. He hasn't got that much to do in town today. Not from what he told me, at least."
Silence
"Do you mind if I had a beer?" Onslow said as rose from his seat to go to the small refrigerator.
Sheridan said nothing; he knew that it was a rhetorical question.
"Why do Americans insist on drinking their beer so cold?" Onslow was muttering to himself. There was a knock at the door. Onslow, since he was already standing, walked over to the door and looked out of the peephole. "Ah, it's Dickey." He unlocked the door and opened it.
"Hello Onslow," Richard said, stepping in.
"Dickey."
"He's not well, is he?" Richard inquired in a hushed voice.
"No, Dickey, he looks depressed. He was such a happy child notwithstanding being raised by Hyacinth." His low voice was almost a low hum.
"Yes, you're right. He's resilient and he'll bounce back from this yet." Dickey, I mean Richard, whispered.
"I can hear you talking about me!" Sheridan yelled from his bed, "At least close the door. I don't need everyone knowing about my business."
Onslow shut the door as instructed.
"Sheridan, you've got to get up and get out. Occupy yourself," Richard said.
"There's no point in going out. There's no reason to do anything. All you have to do in life is die, and I'm ready."
"Sheridan, I know you. I know that you're not the selfish and I don't think that you think that you're that selfish. You have too much to live for. You have a person who loves you for you. Onslow," Richard, who had by now grown red in the face, looked at the person he just mentioned. His brother-in-law nodded in the affirmative, knowing where Richard was going with his thoughts. "Daisy, Rose, Violet, Bruce, are all here and they love you God damn it! If you think that I'm going to allow you to take the easy way out, then don't hold your breath! I love you too much for this. I have been functioning without sleep for weeks now. I have been dealing with my wife shunning our only child. I have to now deal with a wife who sickened herself with her bigotry. Now I'm looking at my son which is like looking myself in the mirror thirty-five years ago. If you do something stupid and throw you're your life away then you might as well take me with you. Get up, Sheridan. I hear self-defenestration is how you want to do it; let's do this together!" Richard was adamant.
Onslow kept an appearance of neutrality. He had just watched a special on the Open University about suicide prevention. He remembered one of the steps that could stop the desperate act was to take away the sense of complete attention. Fundamentally, Richard was trying to subvert all of the positive things that would be said, taking away some of the motivation. Onslow just hoped to himself that the aforementioned theory was correct and that Sheridan had not slipped into the sinister clinical depression. He hoped that Sheridan was just sad, not sick.
"No dad, it's my death. It's about… me." He trailed off when he realized what his thoughts had been.
"No, Sheridan," Richard spoke, "It's not just about you. It's about Tarquin, and me, Onslow, and Daisy, and Rose, and Violet, and Bruce, and all of the lives your going to touch in the future. It's even about your mother."
"HOW-" Sheridan was ready to rip his father's head from his neck.
"She doesn't hate you. She's scared. She's ignorant, profoundly ignorant, and she's afraid of the unknown. Hate crimes and AIDS and just the general persecution that homosexuals receive scare her. Her fear and ignorance wants you to change so that, by her logic, you can be safe and happy. She doesn't know, she doesn't understand that there's nothing wrong with the way you are and the way you live. There's nothing that can be changed. I'm not excusing the words she said to you. The LORD knows that I will never forget that, but understand that she grew up in a different time, in a different Britain. Now that the world is opening up, she's scared. The thing that she thought were constant are dying, and we need to help her to come to terms that her perfect world isn't the real world"
