§ § § -- August 24, 1991
Maureen had begun to wonder a bit about St. Anthony, who looked more and more drawn and pale each time she saw him. Theirs was a strange sort of friendship; they never saw each other outside St. Anthony's chateau, and in fact they didn't even leave the dining room. She had the evening off from the caterer, but she wasn't eating at the chateau; she'd meant to have a quiet evening at home watching a couple of favorite TV programs and then call it a night. But in the middle of the second show, her buzzer sounded and she sat up in surprise. No one but her friends came to see her this late in the evening, and they didn't do that very often. So she was amazed to see her visitor. "Russell?" she said.
"Hi, Maureen," he said. "I hope you don't mind my dropping by."
"No…come in," she said, watching him in high curiosity. "What brings you all the way over here? I hope everything's okay."
St. Anthony sighed and scrubbed his drawn features with his hands, shaking his head after a long moment. "No, it's not, I'm sorry to say. Maureen, please, don't be too shocked by this revelation. I just came back from a little chat with Roarke and Miss Hamilton—by the way, I had no idea you two knew each other—and she said something that really made me think. And I decided it's time to come clean with you."
"Don't tell me," Maureen kidded, trying to cover up her sudden nervousness. "You're an escaped ax murderer posing as Russell St. Anthony."
"No, my dear friend, I really am St. Anthony, more's the pity," he remarked wryly. "Uh, is it all right if I sit down?"
"Oh, of course," she blurted hastily, taking his arm. He shot her an impatient look and tugged it away from her, making his way stubbornly on his own to the nearest chair and sinking into it with overt relief.
"No trying to help me," he said with some of his customary prickliness. "I'm going to make it on my own as long as I damn well can."
Maureen settled on the ottoman in front of the chair he had taken. "Russell, quit stalling and just tell me what's wrong."
He regarded her, apparently processing her blunt request, then nodded. "Your friend Miss Hamilton said you could probably take it. Well, then, to be very succinct and direct about it, I'm dying. I have a brain aneurysm that's too deep in my head to be removed, and it's going to kill me somewhere in the next couple of months or so."
She stared at him, absorbing this news in stunned silence; he just watched her while she let it sink in. Then she turned her head aside and blew out a breath. "That explains your pallor and the headaches you keep getting, and how you seem to be having more trouble walking. How long have you had this thing?"
"Long enough," he said shortly. "It's probably hereditary. My mother died for the same reason. In any case, that's most likely the reason I've never gone so far as to start a family. Any child I father would probably die of the same cause, at too young an age. The problem there is that I don't have any siblings and no descendants, so I've been trying to think of the best way to dispose of my assets. Roarke was kind enough to let me spend my last days here, and I had the great good fortune to meet you and gain your friendship; so I feel like I'm redeeming myself just a little for all the misery I've undoubtedly caused countless people in my time. I'm sure my death will be celebrated by quite a large percentage of the theater community in New York City."
"That's being a little harsh," Maureen observed, "even for you."
St. Anthony shrugged, plainly past caring. "Let 'em have their good time. My world's narrowed down to what I still own and what should be done with it…squaring away my affairs while I still can, before I get beyond help and can't even open my eyes without someone there to do it for me." He studied her curiously. "You know any good lawyers?"
"No," she said, eyeing him. "Maybe you should check with Mr. Roarke. He knows everyone—it's his island, after all. Well, since you clearly don't want any help, I won't offer it. But as long as you're up to dinner company, I'll be there."
"That's all I ask of you," St. Anthony said, finally cracking a smile and leaning slowly forward. "You're a good person, Maureen, better than I deserve gracing my dinner table in that Gothic horror I call home now. You know, I never did manage to get rid of that nasty little statue in that fountain out front." They both chuckled ruefully.
"I can see why," she admitted with a grin. "So…I suppose you already thought of asking Mr. Roarke if there's some way he could help you."
"Yes, but he said he can't," St. Anthony said. "I've resigned myself, Maureen, and I think you should too. I just thought it was better you know, so that it won't come as quite such a shock when it happens."
Maureen raked a hand through her fine, pale-blonde hair and then reached out and slipped it into one of his. "I guess it's confession time. When I first met you, I had preconceived notions about you, mostly due to the vats of negative ink that have been spilled about you in the press, as well as Michiko's revelations last month. But there's more to you than meets the eye. I really never thought I'd say this to someone like you, but…well, I'm glad I had the chance to get to know you, and I feel privileged to call you my friend."
"You should," St. Anthony said, raising one eyebrow. "I can't remember ever having had a real friend in my entire life before you. A serious deficiency that's finally being remedied. Thank you for that." He shoved himself to his feet with considerable effort and began to make his way to the door. "I'll leave you to your evening, Maureen, but thanks for letting me interrupt long enough to tell you the truth."
"Try to have a good night, Russell," she said quietly. He raised a hand in farewell and let himself out; she stared at the closed door for a full minute before shutting off the television set and getting ready for bed. To her own surprise, she already missed him.
§ § § -- October 14, 1991
It was an early supper for them; St. Anthony regarded the spread on the dining-room table as he eased himself into a chair. "Why didn't you sell the table too?" Maureen asked him with black humor, referring to the auction that had been held earlier that day selling off a wide assortment of St. Anthony's belongings. Most of them had come from his New York apartment, although quite a bit consisted of things from the chateau. Nearly everything had been sold, and the auction had drawn a large crowd—not only of Roarke's many vacationing guests, but most of his employees when they were able to get away from work to attend, and at least one fantasizer whose dream it had been to meet St. Anthony and have him autograph something for her. She'd gone away with three scripts from his Broadway shows, all of which he had signed (though only after Maureen had talked him into it), and Roarke had quietly thanked him before vanishing into the crowd.
"Now, come on," St. Anthony said, "if I'd sold the table, we'd be eating off the floor."
"Could've been like a picnic," she bantered.
He rolled his eyes. "I always did hate picnics," he snorted. "Damned uncivilized, eating off a blanket on the ground and battling the ants for your meal. I think not. Besides, if I sat down on the floor like that, chances are I'd never make it back up again. Not without a lot of help, at any rate."
Maureen sighed tolerantly. "Yes, and I know how you are about having anyone help you. Well, come on, let's see what we've got this time."
St. Anthony stared across the table at her. "I don't think I have any appetite left. My head's been like a neon sign all day long, flashing pain at me till I can't see. I got sick after lunch. I won't risk that again. It's not a pretty sight."
"On to other things," she suggested delicately, evoking a grin out of him. "It's okay if you don't want anything. What's your head feel like now?"
"Quiet at the moment," he said thoughtfully, running a couple of fingertips along his scalp as if searching for an invisible switch that might be responsible for controlling the onset of his pain attacks. "Frankly, I'm glad that auction's over. Not that I cared all that much about seeing a pile of artifacts being distributed among my few misguided admirers and my many well-informed detractors—" At that moment he sucked in a sharp, hissing breath and clapped his hands to both sides of his head. Maureen's head jerked up and she stared at him with wide, alarmed eyes, waiting to see if the pain would subside as it always had before.
But this time it seemed to expand till it would burst his head apart. St. Anthony fell back in his chair; his initial moan grew into a howl, then an agonized scream toward the ceiling overhead. Frozen with terror, she gaped helplessly while he rocked from side to side in his chair, pleading inarticulately for the pain to stop. Then his eyes popped wide for just one moment before he toppled sideways out of the chair and hit the floor with a jarring thump that finally brought her to her feet.
"Russell," she screamed frantically, kneeling at his side, "say something."
He stared at her without really seeing her, and his last words were an almost dreamy whisper. "Be happy," he murmured, and then fell still.
For a long time Maureen knelt there by the actor's lifeless body, tears cascading unnoticed down her cheeks, unable to summon the wherewithal to call anyone for help. He was beyond saving now, and she somehow felt the same way.