CHAPTER NINETEEN
NARRATTED BY NELL
I make civil small talk with Mrs. Flowers, who is just a little too polite to give her raging curiosity about me full rein. I wish she would go away; then I could pace the floor in impatience. Or, if pacing a hole in her rug was inadequate, I could gnaw frantic holes in the furniture. So, perhaps it is better that she's here, pressing me to take another slice of cake, taking an innocent pride in showing off her best china and asking gently leading questions about me and Hannibal. Of course it did not take her two minutes to realise that he, not Jed Curry, was the object of my – er – search.
My eyes flick constantly to the clock. Every time I hear movement or male voices in the street I twitch like a cat watching a mouse hole. Where is he? Suppose he refuses to see me? If I had written those candid, self-revealing, glaringly truthful – utterly wonderful – letters, asking only for an honest response … If I had written and written and lain myself so open, so vulnerable to hurt… Not just exposing himself to hurt, neither; writing to me literally – well, nearly literally – put his life in my hands…
All he begged in return, was a reply and, from his point of view, I lacked the basic human decency, the common courtesy due to any acquaintance to give it.
Sure, he did not make himself out to be any kind of angel in those letters. He did not claim heady heights of reformation untouched by basic self-preservation. But, because of what he did NOT say, I was able to believe, truly believe, in everything he DID say. He IS the Joshua Smith I fell in love with. It was enough. I have put my trust in him. I have…
No. Enough yapping, even in my head. I am done.
Where IS he? Why is Jed – I suppose I had better call him Thaddeus, even when thinking – taking so long? Why were they not together? They are always together.
I try not to over react to the latest of many footsteps passing the door, but to keep up smiling admiration of a smartly framed photograph of her first grandchild my hostess is showing.
"Nine pound twelve ounces!" I marvel. Ouch! "That IS exceptional. Aw. He looks beautiful!" He does not. He looks like all babies. An expression of baffled outrage on a chubby face. But since the general consensus seems to be that IS beautiful, I am not exactly lying. I sip at my third cup of milky tea.
When, the latest of many footsteps do NOT pass. They grow louder and we hear the sound of the front door. A swallow goes down the wrong way as I leap to my feet.
By the time Mrs. Flowers has said, "That must be the gentlemen now," I am choking.
By the time the parlour door opens I am being patted firmly on the back.
So, the first sight Hannibal gets of me after several months apart, I am not only scarecrow-headed and spotty; I am scarlet in the face with a saliva drool hanging from my lip as I grope for a handkerchief.
"Helen!" He looks – I am not sure – I would guess at horrified, but it is difficult to tell through streaming, still sore eyes.
"Take slow breaths, my dear," Mrs. Flowers is saying, "In out. In out. Why, Mister Smith, is it raining out?"
She's right. His hair is soaking wet.
"Hello – heeek - Joshua," I manage. Honk. Wheeze.
He strides across the room, takes the hand not busy being coughed into. "Helen, what's wrong with you?"
"Tea – honk – went down the wron… Heek!" Splutter.
"No, I mean…" He touches a strand of what's left of my hair. "What's happened? Are you okay?"
"Yes. I haven't been. I am now. Nearly. Oh, Joshua…" Joshua! Joshua! Joshua. I must never slip and call him, Hannibal. I must remember. Which, since I have spent ages coming to terms with the fact he is NOT Joshua, is paradoxical, huh?
"Ma'am," interrupts Jed, speaking to Mrs. Flowers. "…Why don't I give you a hand to carry the tray back to the kitchen an' help you wash up? We could make a fresh pot of tea for Doctor Meredith, brew some coffee for Joshua and me. Maybe you might spoil us all and bring out the oatmeal cookies, huh?"
She takes the hint. Hannibal and I are given a curious, but also motherly, glance and left alone.
As soon as the door shuts, we both speak at once.
"Joshua – I am SO sorry, what must you have thought …It was measles of all the silly diseases…"
"Helen! Are you really okay? What's been happening to…"
We stop at the clash of voices. Then, again.
"To leave you unanswered so long… Forgive me…You see it affected my…"
"I can't believe you're here. I keep thinking I'm gonna wake up!"
We both grin, seeing the funny side together the way we used to.
"Ladies first," he says.
"I am SO sorry. I would not have deliberately left you unsure of my feelings and in suspense for so…"
"Ladies first, but quicker," he interrupts. "Put me outta my misery, Helen. Have you come to say 'It's no, leave me alone forever', or, 'Give me a quiet year to think it over', or…" He stops.
"No!" His face falls. "No, NOT no! I mean, no, I haven't come to say either of those! It's yes! You KNOW it's yes!" Does he not know that? A qualm, one that has bothered me all along, shakes me. "If you still want me, that is? If you haven't changed your…? If it's been too long…? Or, if I just look too hideous now…?"
He shuts me up, by the simple expedient of gathering me to him and kissing me…
"I know I look dreadfu…"
And kissing me…
"I don't want you to feel oblige…"
And kissing me…
"Or, if you've decided you prefer to be fre…"
"Will you shuddup for one dang minute, woman?! Sheesh!"
And he is kissing me. And holding me. Murmuring my name into what's left of my curls… "You're beautiful… You always were beautiful…" Kissing my poor lashless eyes …"I love you, Helen… I'll always love you…" And letting my fingers run through – why IS his hair soaking wet? Kissing my forehead… "I don't wanna be free…" Kissing every inch of my face… "I wanna get hog-tied forever by you…" Letting my hands slip under his jacket to run down the hard muscles of his back… "I adore you…" It is the same as before; I am melting; liquefying in his arms, dizzy with desire. I want him so much.
"Oh, Joshua," I sigh, "…I love you. I mean I love YOU," I mouth 'Hannibal', silently.
His eyes light up at that, at his real name. All that anger and hurt feelings and standing on my dignity – what comfort would that have been if…?
"Suppose I'd died and never got the chance to tell the real you…?" I snuggle in, bury my nose in his shirt front. Sniff. Different tone, "What's that smell? Have you been bathing in coffee?" Another sniff. Has he been bathing at all?
This collides with him repeating, "Died? Helen – have you been so ill I mighta…" The colour bleaches out of his face, "I mighta really LOST you? You look terrible, come sit down."
"Hey," I protest, teasingly. "The sweet talk ran out fast. What happened to me being beautiful? And – why are you sopping wet?"
But I let myself be led to a sofa and pulled into his lap; strong arms fold around me.
"I'm wet and I reek of black coffee because…" A deep breath. "This last week, I finally gave up on you, Helen. Kid hadta drag me outta a saloon where I was drowning my sorrows. This," he touches his hair, "is the result of sobering up under a pump."
"Oh. Have you been…?"
"Gambling hard without fussing too much over whether the other fellas' pockets can afford it and drinking real hard. Uh huh. Since Tuesday. Before then – I was keeping to 'I'm not doing nothing I wouldn't do if SHE could see me' rule."
I want to ask if he has been faithful. But, faithful to what? To his written promises? Do they count if I never took them up?
"Everything I said in my letters is true up to last Tuesday. Please, don't let six days flip me from a yes to a no."
"Oh." My voice is very small.
It is going to eat at me. But, what is the point of asking? If he has 'been' with another woman, do I really want to know? Unless it WOULD flip yes to no – and would it? – what is the point?
I am snuggled closer. "If the question you are mulling over, but not spitting out, concerns 'monogamy'. The answer's, yup – I have been. Monogamous, that is."
Hurrah! The institution of marriage may need reform! Monogamy, that I have no issues with!
"Mind you, I'm not saying you haven't shown up in the nick of time. Saturday being kinda a traditional night for blowing a few dollars on…"
"But I did? Show up in time?" Good!
"Unless you count kissing. After Tuesday that is – before that 'my true lip was virgining it'."
"I certainly DO count kissing!"
"Well, punish me later. So long as I never give up on you again – and I never will – it'll be the last time I get beat up for straying even that much, so you might wanna save it for when you've got hours to spare on making me really, really, really suffer. Right now, we've only got so long as Kid can keep a lady talking in a kitchen…"
"Could be our chance to find out if time is infinite," I smile.
He grins back, touches my shorn head again, "Tell me what's been happening to you, Curly-Top."
"You remember we thought there was chicken-pox in the offing for the local children – well, maybe you don't remember because Doctor Cooper visited the first two cases just as all the excitement started. It wasn't chicken-pox, it was measles - which is worse, but still we hoped to get through it without any family losing a child – because, unless they are already weak, the odds are pretty good for a simple week of feeling lousy, followed by rapid recovery…"
"Uh huh." My head is on his shoulder. The thumb of the hand round my waist is stroking me, over and over. His lips nuzzle into my hair, a kiss is dropped on my head. This… This is bliss. I want this evening, in this over-furnished parlour, even with him smelling odd, to go on forever.
"So except for when I was needed in court, I was doing the rounds and, it was SO stupid, I caught it…"
"I don't think that's stupid, Helen. I'm not claiming any special medical knowledge – not in present company, huh? – but I think that's how measles works. You spend time near it – you catch it. 'Course you may wanna look it up… Ow! Right, you! For that you deserve…" I am thoroughly, roundly, satisfyingly kissed. Once we have finished mumbling mushy repetitions to each other and I am once again snuggled in the circle of his arms, he carries on, "Now I got you back, I'm not complainin' anyhow, you understand, but did measles really stop you sending a message to Lom all this…?"
"Oh, Han – Josh…"
"Stick with Joshua for the duration, huh?"
"I didn't just have measles! I know they always say doctors are the worst possible patients, but REALLY! I took it to ridiculous lengths! You'd have thought I had studied a list of complications and decided to work down them alphabetically! I suppose maybe I was vulnerable, because I hadn't been eating or sleeping right for a…"
I see his stricken look, shut up. I did NOT mean what he thinks that implies, though – it may be true.
"First I developed encephalitis…"
"Uh huh."
"Yes, exactly! Which is not unknown for adults, since measles is worse for…"
"No. Not, uh huh. Uh huh? Uh huh? As in – I've no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh. Acute inflammation of the brain. So when your first letter arrived I was away with the fairies, rambling about having to study for my examinations because otherwise the train might get held up and there would be no way to get down to the lake and help the bullfrogs get safely across the Alps…"
"Ah."
"Fortunately, I was talking so much nonsense if anything dangerous DID get mentioned, no one was taking a blind bit of notice. THEN, my lungs became inflamed too! Doctor Cooper says I must have the constitution of an ox to pull through so fast as I did! By the time I came round long enough to have a sensible conversation which was neither sheer fantasy, nor cut short by me falling asleep after five minutes, I'd got three letters waiting, BUT no strength to lift an envelope, AND no eyes fit to read with. I'd developed a corneal infection…"
"Uh huh? Question mark."
"In the eyes…"
"Ah – that accounts for the lashes, huh? I know measles CAN do that. Sheesh," he looks at me, "…Poor old crock!"
"It's been dreadful. I was so frightened…"
A comforting murmur into my hair. I am hugged. "If anythin' had happened to you…"
"NO! Not frightened for me. Though, thinking you might die – AND having a colleague think you might die, because, of course I could tell from his treatment – DOES concentrate the mind wonderfully on what one really wants out of any life left!"
"I thought that was knowing you were gonna be hanged in the morning?"
"I am adapting the quotation to suit! I mean, I was frightened for YOU… I was ages having my eyes bathed and covered and living in the dark. Even when I was well on the mend, I still couldn't see more than a fuzz. I couldn't even TRY to read for weeks and weeks and weeks. I was like a convalescent mole, and SO scared. Because, the letters kept coming and I was terrified someone would open them and that you might give yourself away. I had nightmares about you ending in prison and it all being my fault!"
More murmuring. It is hard for me to be snuggled yet closer, but we manage.
"I was careful with the phrasing. Being very keen to save my own skin," he says.
"I didn't KNOW that, though, did I? At least, I couldn't be sure. Everyone – Aunt Miriam, Ann, Charles – all knew they were from you. Ann knows your writing. My aunt kept offering to read them to me. Ann kept offering. Charles kept offering Ann's services – so listening to that pair was like listening to an echo. They all must have thought I was the silliest woman on the surface of the planet – that I could not bear the embarrassment of hearing something sentimental made public. Or maybe they thought I feared the letters were – you know – explicit. Ann tried to tell me it was hardly fair to leave YOU in the dark as to the situation, so SHE must have thought me callous. I made her swear on her baby's life to hide them and not open them. And, I didn't know what you'd said," I babble so fast the words begin to fall over themselves, "...Maybe you'd simply been sounding off about how mean-spirited I was that last morning. When letters kept coming – I thought, it CAN'T be that! And when they didn't come any more, I didn't know why you'd stopped. I thought maybe I'd lost you! But, I had no way of having anyone make contact without opening your letters – and I couldn't risk it! I didn't even have any idea of which town Lom Trevors was sheriff and how could I ask without raising all kinds of suspicion? Or maybe I could. I don't know. I didn't think I could – but…" My voice falters, "I wasn't very well!"
That sounded like a whine and, to my shame, my lip wobbles.
"Hey! You're not well now! I bet you didn't wait as long as you were supposed to before reading 'em, did you?"
I shrug. But, I reach into my pocket and bring out a case containing deeply tinted spectacles and put them on. "I'm supposed to wear them in any light and not to read. For a while; not forever. I worried…" I stop, looking sheepish.
"You worried 'boys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses'?"
I hang my head. By now I am sure I look positively ovine.
"Sheesh, Helen…" My chin is lifted. "Men are pigs. We'll make passes at anything with a pulse!" A kiss is dropped on the end of my nose. "You looking like a demented bug isn't gonna put me ..."
"Hey!"
"AND, I bet you're not supposed to be travelling – are you?"
"I'm fine!" But as he searches my face, I drop my gaze.
"You're a BAD patient!"
"Guilty, m'lud."
"Does your aunt know where you are?"
"No, I – I slipped away. But I'm sending telegrams telling her I'm safe and sound and not to worry."
"Hmmm. I guess that's something. Listen, we're gonna get you back to Arcadia. You're gonna get strong again. Then, when the amnesty comes through, we'll get married. Then…"
"No we won't!"
"But, you said – yes."
"I'm not waiting for the amnesty! Forget that! We're getting married NOW! Well, not exactly now. Anytime in the next couple of weeks will do. But - with that working definition of terms – we're getting married now! We'll get Sheriff Trevors to arrange a legal…"
"Helen. I don't think that's really feasi.."
"I'm not asking you! I'm dang well telling you! I have just been reminded how fragile life is and how short it can be! I am NOT waiting years, or even A year, or HALF a year! I'm not waiting at all! I am not risking a bullet from a posse, a bounty hunter or a sudden bout of pneumonia meaning we never become man and wife. Period. If I lose you – I lose you. That would hurt anyway. I'd rather be your widow than your nothing. We're getting married. If we can't be together most of the year – so be it. We get married legally under your real name. Lom Trevors can arrange it…"
"Helen, I don't think…"
"Maybe Judge Hanley will officiate? I know he liked me. We know he won't just hand you over. We can put out a very discrete feeler. Then we have another ceremony in Arcadia under the name Joshua Smith, so we can be together without my friends and family imploding…"
"Helen…"
"That is, if Aunt Miriam has not already imploded at my note saying I've gone travelling and will return soon. Whenever you need to leave Arcadia – you go. So far as anyone else is concerned, you travel for your work. Maybe you're on the trail of good articles…"
"Er…"
"We can work on the cover story. You're good at that. When the amnesty comes through, we'll decide where we're going to live. But, I am NOT waiting. Got that?"
"Helen, I think…"
"Yes or no! And you've got a count of ten to make up your mind! I'm not YOU with all the sappy, 'take all the time you need to decide, my love', malarkey!"
"Helen…"
"Tick tock, tick tock!"
"Yes! You know dang well it's yes!"
"Good! Because when I'm fully recovered and my inflamed brain returns entirely to normal, I shall probably realise how foolish this is and go back to being boringly sensible. Then, you'll have missed your chance!"
"Can't have that," he smiles.
Sounds of exaggeratedly loud footsteps and very audible throat clearing out in the hallway. "Let me get the door for you, ma'am," booms Jed, giving us plenty of warning. His boots thud, slowly. Obvious fumbling with the handle.
Hannibal grins, unhooks himself from me and strides over.
"Let me help you with that, Thaddeus. Doors can be tricky objects. There we go, twist and pull. Watch again; twist – and pull."
Jed, carrying a gleaming coffee pot in one hand, scowls at him, then tries not to look eaten up with curiosity. Mrs. Flowers is ushered in with a fresh tea- tray.
"Thaddeus, Mrs. Flowers," says Hannibal, "…Congratulations are in order. Doctor Meredith has just done me the very great honour of accepting a proposal of marriage."
"Oh!" gasps Mrs. Flowers, who – to say she does not know me from Adam (or should that be Eve) – seems surprisingly delighted with the news. "Oh, Mister Smith!" His cheek is kissed. He is hugged. He hugs back. Kisses her on the cheek – and the other. Hmmm? I am going to watch him with older women. "Miss – I mean Doctor Meredith!" I am kissed. And hugged. "How wonderful! Congratulations! Never mind tea! I think this calls for a little of my elderflower wine! I love an engagement!" Off she bustles – presumably in search of elderflower wine. Yum!
Now, an enthusiastic response from a motherly stranger is all very nice, but the reaction I am worried about is the one from Jed.
Let me be clear, I am not interested in the position of Hannibal's SECOND best friend. I am not really open even to joint first. BUT, love is not like cake. No one has to lose any, because someone else gets more. No part of me wants THIS friendship to weaken one jot. And, if it ever sickened and died – we would ALL be losers.
I watched him as Hannibal spoke and… I think that sigh and slump was relief. It looked like relief. But…
"Congratulations, Heyes. I'm real glad it's worked out," Jed grunts.
"You helped it work out. I owe you, Kid."
A handshake. They realise how inadequate that is. An awkward man hug, which turns into a real hug for just a second. Brothers in spirit, if not in fact. Embarrassed clearing of throats. Backslapping. Hooking of thumbs into belts. Blue eyes avoiding brown, and vice versa.
"That's great, Doc," Jed nods at me. "For this jackass, I mean. Not for you. Can't imagine what YOU'RE thinking."
"Oh, there will be compensations. If he ever steps out of line for a single second, I trade him in for the money. Perfect control for me; the life of a serf for him. Just as it should be! And, by the way, don't I get a hug?"
I get a hug. "Hey, Jed," I smile. "Don't worry. I'll still let him out to play cowboys. I sure won't be wanting him under MY feet all the time."
"Sheesh," he tries to smile back. "You mean I still hafta put up with him?"
"Sure do, Kid," says Hannibal, his voice gruff. "I'm afraid nothing'll ever change that."
---oooOOOooo---
EPILOGUE – NARRATTED BY KID CURRY
I'm out on the porch smoking a celebratory cigar, blowing smoke rings and watching them drift up. Every so often, I glance in the direction of South Street. Heyes is walking Nell to these lodgings run by Mrs. Flowers' cousin. She hasta be there before half past nine. Which gave them nearly an hour to cover about five hundred yards, but I can't see 'em hurrying – can you? Something tells me they might be getting another glass of elderflower wine, delighted talk about weddings and reminiscences of 'when I was a bride' when they DO finally arrive.
Then maybe Heyes and me'll go for a quiet beer – if we can find somewhere quiet. NOT the Broken Arrow. He won't wanna stay out late though. I know he's booked for a gentle stroll – Nell is supposed to be taking things easy - to Holme Hill in the morning. They're gonna do some plotting and scheming about this dumb double wedding.
I sigh. I know earlier I was talking 'bout not minding quieter nights and wasn't exactly rushing to go join in any hurrahing going on. But… I dunno.
If he… I mean WHEN he – y'know – marries Nell, what'll it mean?
I know everything she wants outta life. A fella can't live in the same house as Nell the way I did back in the spring and NOT know all her plans for putting the world to rights and seeing her name in the medical history books. Not unless he wears earplugs anyhow!
As for Heyes, I guess I can see he's realised he's nearly as good spinning words on paper as he is using the silver tongue. AND, it gives him a bigger audience. Once the amnesty comes through, I can picture him lapping up appreciation for driving up circulation figures. I can picture him working away on his – y'know. You DO know! I just can't think of the word. One of them books which is all about some fella's life – but instead of someone else writing it, the fella writes it himself. I can see Heyes making everything we ever did into cliffhangers and tearjerkers and planning to crack the bestseller list the way he planned to crack the Pierce and Hamilton '78!
I can see him joining in Nell's setting the world to rights one piece a time too. He'll do it for sheer beating the odds. 'We'll never see that change in our lifetime!' 'We can never persuade people to vote for this!' Heyes'll get that wanna-wager-on-that? look in his eyes and set about proving folk wrong.
I can see her swelling with pride when he gets published in some fancy journal.
I can see him strutting like a peacock when she gets some classy hospital post.
What I can't see…
Nah. It sounds mean.
Okay, I'll spit it out. What I can't see, is where the Sam Hill I fit in.
Or rather I can see all too well. I fit in nowhere.
Sure, I'll be made welcome, given dinner, the guest room'll be spruced up for me, Nell'll be real sweet and take an interest in whatever I'm doing, Heyes'll come out for a drink with me…
It IS mean for even a tiny part of me to wish he'd never even…
She did save my life.
And, I do like her.
I guess, I kinda thought if either of us ended up settling down, it'd be me. Not SOON! Sheesh, no. But maybe sometime. A nice home-loving girl. A place with some land. Maybe horses. I always pictured Heyes as the one who'd be the guest.
A phrase keeps coming to me as I lounge here, blowing smoke at the moon: The end of an era. I musta heard it from Heyes sometime, huh? Seems to fit though.
Y'know what? If this were a book – and if it WEREN'T the story of Heyes and Nell – if it were really the story of me and him being partners and living all fancy-free, this'd be about the time the writer'd hafta put…
THE END