Author's Note: May I take a moment for a little self-promotion? Just in time for Valentine's Day, TWS (the reading/writing board I belong to) is offering several Phantom-related items for sale through Zazzle -- including Red Death and Angel of Music mugs. The proceeds go towards the maintenance of the board. Check out my profile for details and links for online shopping. Now that I'm done hawking my wares, here's the next chapter. Enjoy your weekend "fix." HD


The Way to Love
Chapter 9
The Lathrops

Erik forced himself to shake off the malaise that had come over him. He could not fathom why his thoughts kept going back to Persia. He looked around at the park, its verdant greenery and cool, blue ponds reminding him of the palaces in Teheran, his mind drifting back to memories of perfumed gardens and cool night breezes, of...

No! That part of my life was over years ago.

He took a deep breath, trying to clear the pounding in his head. Damn these headaches; they were becoming more troublesome. He leaned back and shut his eyes, trying to block the flood of unwanted memories, wondering why every time he thought something good was about to happen to his life, the opposite came true. First Rahzoul, now Christine.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his left hand, to the bit of gold he now wore on his little finger. This was where he kept Christine's ring these days – on his person. He had given up trying to forget her, and instead placed the ring where he could see it every day. It was a reminder of his vow to be a better man – to control his temper, to be the kind of man with whom she might have chosen to be. He realized that he had, in all probability, squandered his last chance at that kind of happiness, but he was not about to roll over and play dead, either. He would rebuild his life here in New York City, and this ring would remain a reminder of this decision.

Voices of the children playing in the park caught his attention once again, distracting him from annoying thoughts. He looked out across the lawn, taking in the idyllic scene of families enjoying themselves. A woman called out a name, and a little boy broke away from the crowd. There was a huge smile on his face as he ran on chubby little legs to his mother. Arms outstretched, he called, "Mamma! Mamma!" as he ran to her. His mother laughed as she grabbed hold of him and lifted him into the air, showering her son with kisses. Erik watched reflectively, remembering how it felt to be held, wondering for the hundredth time what it would have been like to have a wife, perhaps even a child or two. A faint smile played across his lips as he remembered the Great Lady's gifts.

I could have had this, he reminded himself. I could have taken a wife in Persia. Many had been willing...oh so willing.

Yes, the women had been willing to overlook his hideous face for a night with the powerful court magician, the man rumored to have been the Khanum's favorite. That the rumor had been only that did not matter; it had served its purpose, and the Great Lady had indeed been wise and generous. She had allowed the rumor to circulate, knowing that it had increased Erik's prestige at court and thus gave him the additional leverage needed to perform his true work for her. And the lady had known how to reward a man for a job well done. His body ached with the memories of how it felt to have a woman lying beneath him, her softness and her sighs...and then he remembered how he yearned for Christine and knew that he would never be satisfied with anyone but her.

A tail brushed against Erik's leg, snapping him out of his reverie and forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand. He looked down and saw Wolf stretched out on the grass. The dog looked up at him and yawned.

"Come on, boy," Erik said as he picked up the package of medicines he was to take to the Lathrop house. "You're getting much too comfortable down there. We will walk now, yes?"

-0-0-0-

The streets were crowded; a condition Erik was learning was typical for New York. He easily mixed in with the throng. With his homburg pulled down slightly to one side, and the mask tinted to match his skin tone, no one noticed that half his face was covered. In this way, he could blend in and feel a part of humanity, if only in this distant fashion.

His route took him past a dry goods store and he stopped inside. He remembered that Ambrose was low on some of the supplies he liked to keep on hand at the infirmary – tablets of paper, pencils, magazines, dime novels. The clerk recommended the latest Nick Carter detective stories, saying that they were quite popular these days. He paid for the purchases, and thanked the clerk for his help and gave instructions for the packages to be delivered to the infirmary.

Next, he stopped at a fruit vendor. There, Erik arranged for several bushel baskets of apples to be sent to the infirmary. The fresh fruit was enjoyed by patients and staff alike, and the cook had promised Erik an apple pie all his own the next time she baked them.

At last, he made his way to the 200 block of East Broadway. He checked the paper in his pocket for the address Ambrose had given him – 281 E. Broadway – and found himself standing in front of a modest, two-and-a-half story Federal style row house. There was nothing terribly fancy about the brick building, with its brownstone lintels and sills, and pedimented dormers. The basement obviously served as a place of business, with the words Jaffke and Sons, Shoemakers painted on the window. Erik walked up the seven steps that led to the doorway, instructing Wolf to wait outside.

"Sorry, boy, but I don't think it would be proper for me to bring you inside without a proper introduction."

The dog looked as if to shrug his shoulders, then took his place by the side of the steps, intently watching the pedestrians who walked by.

-0-0-0-

Erik knocked on the door.

"Yes?" It was a woman who answered, dressed in a neat if out-of-date dress, her auburn hair shot with gray. Erik noticed her emerald-green eyes, and thought that she must have been exquisitely gorgeous in her younger years. Even now, in spite of her careworn expression, she exuded grace and regal beauty.

"My name is Erik Duquesne. I am looking for the Lathrop residence. Ambrose Rice sent me."

The woman smiled at the mention of Ambrose's name, and for a moment, her face shed many years. "I'm Miranda Lathrop. Please, won't you come in?"

Erik followed her inside the house, noting that there had not been the least look of surprise at his masked face. Of course, there wouldn't be, he chided himself, recalling what Ambrose had told him about her husband.

She's already seen something as bad...probably even worse.

Inside the house, Erik noticed that the furnishings were old but well cared for. It was a household that has seen better days and displayed an air of genteel poverty. There was something else in the air, too – the odor of sickroom. Erik recognized the smell immediately. He'd encountered it in the infirmary, and years earlier when he had studied medicines and potions under one of the court physicians at Teheran. It was stale, almost funereal, with an underlying medicinal odor. There was also an air of sadness.

"Thank you for bringing this, Mr. Duquesne," Miranda said. "We used the last of our supply yesterday, and my husband is having a bad day."

Erik handed the package to Miranda. She untied the string holding the brown paper wrapping in place and opened the small box, removing one of two vials of morphia sulphate.

"Will you be administering the injection?" Erik asked.

Miranda nodded. "I do this for Joshua all the time. If you will excuse me, I need to give this to him right away."

Erik noticed that her hands were trembling and suspected that she was exhausted. No doubt, her husband had had a bad night, too, and she had been at his side, caring for him throughout the long hours.

"May I help? I've cared for ailing and wounded before," Erik explained, "and am accustomed to the sick room." Miranda smiled wanly at him, absently-mindedly tucking back a lock of hair that had escaped from its pins. Erik could see the fatigue in her face, noticing how tired and vulnerable she looked at that moment. He fought back the urge to offer comforting words to her, knowing how trite they would sound.

"Let me go in and speak to my husband first. He's not accustomed to visitors." She handed the vial to Erik and went inside the bedroom, returning shortly. "Please, come in," she said as she held the door open.

Inside the bedroom, the curtains were drawn, leaving the room dark. Like the rest of the house, the furnishings in here were sparse and well used, with most of the room taken up by the bed. Vases of flowers were scattered about, partly to cheer, and partly to cover the odor of the sickroom. But no amount of flowers could completely cover the smell.

Miranda walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. She took her husband's hand and spoke to him. "Joshua, this is Mr. Duquesne. Ambrose sent him. He's brought your medicine." She turned to Erik. "Mr. Duquesne, this is my husband, Joshua Lathrop."

His eyes now accustomed to the dark, Erik saw what he had not noticed before – a man, very frail, very pale, laying on the bed, propped up with many pillows. Erik saw that Joshua must have once been very handsome, but illness and injury had taken their toll. Joshua's dark eyes were weary and sad, his cheeks – what could be seen of them – gaunt and sunken. His left arm, the one Erik had been told was crippled, rested uselessly at his side. But what struck Erik the most was the kerchief the invalid wore over the lower half of his face.

Erik remembered Ambrose telling of Joshua's terrible wound, of how a bullet had struck him in the face, taking away part of his lower jaw and tongue before striking him in the shoulder, shattering bones. The shoulder had healed, leaving the left the arm permanently disabled. The facial wound, however, had not. For almost twenty years, Joshua Lathrop had lived with chronic pain and a suppurating wound. Erik glanced over at the bedside table and saw an emesis basin discreetly covered with a towel. Next to that was a slate and chalk.

"He can speak," Miranda said, "but only with great difficulty. It is usually easier for my husband to write what he wants to say."

"Of course." Erik walked over to the invalid and held out his hand. "How do you do?" he said, realizing how absurd the common greeted sounded under the circumstances. Joshua accepted the proffered hand, and Erik was surprised at how firm a grip he had. Joshua made a few strangled sounds. Erik could not be sure what the other man was saying, but his wife interpreted easily.

"He says it's a pleasure to meet you."

Erik smiled at Joshua, and even though he could not see the lower half of his face, could tell by the glimmer in his eyes that Joshua was smiling back.

"Mr. Duquesne is going to administer your injection," Miranda explained as Erik prepared the hypodermic needle. "He has experience nursing the injured. Ambrose would not have sent him if he couldn't help out."

Erik glanced over at the two of them, caught the squeezing of hands and the loving looks that passed between them. Stepping back over to the bed, Erik rolled up the sleeve on Joshua's right arm and inserted the needle, pushing down on the plunger that released the drug into the stricken man's body.

"You should be feeling some relief quite soon," Erik said.

Joshua nodded slightly, then closed his eyes as he let his head sink into the pillows. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

Miranda adjusted the covers and bent over to kiss her husband's forehead. "Sleep well, my love," she whispered to him. Then to Erik she said, "Let's talk in the parlor."

-0-0-0-

Erik returned to the infirmary that afternoon, troubled by what he had seen. He could not stop thinking about the Lathrops. Joshua and Miranda should have been enjoying the best years of their lives. Their house should have been filled with children and maybe even grandchildren by now. Instead, Joshua was living a shell of a life, with his wife as his constant nurse.

During their conversation in the parlor, he had learned from Miranda that she and her husband were living on Joshua's pension of $8.00 a month. That meager amount was supplemented by whatever money she brought in by doing sewing at home. There were many times, however, when it was hardly enough to cover their daily living expenses. She told Erik that she used to work in a neighborhood store, but as her husband's condition deteriorated, she had to quit. Joshua needed nearly around-the-clock care these days.

Erik paced his room, mulling over different ideas. Something needed to be done. There was no way those two could go living as they were. Finally, a plan formulated in his mind, and he hunted down Ambrose, finding him sitting in his office, inspecting invoices.

"I need to speak to you," Erik said, pulling up a chair. "Is there anything we can do for these people?"

"The Lathrops? What did you have in mind?" asked Ambrose, setting his papers aside.

"I'd like to have groceries delivered to their house on a weekly basis, as well as coal or wood or whatever they use for heating. Oh, and medical supplies."

Ambrose already knew the answer to his next question, but asked it anyway. "And where is the money going to come from?"

"I'll pay for it," said Erik.

"May I remind you that you're already helping subsidize the infirmary?"

"I've made some profitable investments," Erik explained, thinking of the large sums of money that were in his New York and Paris accounts. "I think I can afford this."

"This is quite laudable of you, Erik, but these are proud people. The idea of taking charity may be difficult for them to swallow."

"They know you, know your work. Might we tell them that you've found a supplier who will give them what they need at a discounted price?"

Ambrose rubbed his upper lip as he pondered the proposal. "They might believe that." His brow furled as he thought further on the matter. Then his expression brightened. "I think I know how we can pull this off. I have a few favors I can call in. Between your money, and my friends' good will, I think we can see to it that Joshua and Miranda get what they need. In fact, I'll call upon them tomorrow. Now, then, is there anything else?"

"Yes," said Erik. "Why did you send me there today?"

"I sent you there because I couldn't make it myself. I had that appointment, or have you forgotten?"

Erik's lips curled into a grin. "I suspect you had an ulterior motive, but if you wish to keep it to yourself, so be it."

The older man raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said innocently.

"Then, it wasn't that you wanted me to see for myself that no matter how bad a person thinks his situation is, there's always somebody worse off?"

Ambrose chuckled. "If that's what you want to believe," he said with a shrug. "But where are you off to now?"

Erik rose from his chair. "I've an errand to run. Thank you for your help."

-0-0-0-

Now that he had decided to do something positive with his life, Erik was eager was eager to visit the merchants tomorrow and set everything into motion. In the meantime, there was something he could do this afternoon.

During his stay in Persia, he had picked up various remedies and cures from learned men. He remembered the recipes for some herbal sleeping draughts and thought that these might help Joshua be less dependent upon narcotics to get him through the night. Grabbing his coat, he walked down to the apothecary shop down the street and picked up valerian, belladonna, chamomile, St. John's wort, and other ingredients he needed.

When he returned to his room, he prepared the mixture. Tomorrow, he would call upon the Lathrops once again.



Historical Note:
As some of you who have read my other stories know, I am an avid amature historian. One period of history I have have studied a lot is the American Civil War, and have for a number of years been very active with other Civil War "buffs" in my community, including being president of our local Civil War Roundtable.

And so it shouldn't come as much of a surprise to learn that the character of Joshua Lathrop was inspired by a real person by that name, a hometown boy whose grave I've visited on a number of occasions. Joshua was a private in the 14th Ohio Volunteer Infantry and was severely wounded at Jonesboro, Georgia, today a suburb of Atlanta. There really was a Miranda, too, but she was his mother, not his wife. The real Joshua never married. There were two other brothers who served in the war as well -- Walter and Elisha. This family, like many others during the war, suffered through a number of tragedies.

As for the real Joshua's wound? It was similar to what I've written, but I've downplayed its severity.

HDK