BOSTON

(Part 3)

He wished he had. Not that it really would have made any difference - the doctor had said not. But he might have felt better. Where was that line between being an alarmist and being a good guardian? Would he ever find it? Did anyone? He ran a finger down another packet of letters, this one from several years later. He hesitated, then drew one out anyhow. Another thin year for letters - the thinnest yet. He knew what this one said, by heart, almost, but he looked at it anyway.

Dear Grandfather, Well, the citadel has fallen. By now you probably have a letter from Pa saying that, if it is all right with you and you are willing to put me up for the duration, I will be able to come east and attend Harvard next year. I promise that if you are agreeable I will be a good house guest and well behaved. Pa says he doubts it, but I will be. It was very close and for the longest time I didn't think Pa would consent, but once Marie sets her mind to something he really hasn't got much of a chance. Pa is stubborn, but she always seems to find a way around him. She has really been my champion in this, and I don't think I ever really would have won him over without her help. As it is, there will be a lot of things that I have to take care of here first and a lot of promises to Pa I will have to live up to - but it will be worth it. I am looking forward to meeting you in person at last and to seeing where my mother and Pa first met and to having a real opportunity to learn about some of the things I want to know. Pa seems a little sad right now, but I think he will get used to the idea in time. And Marie and I just finished training my new mount, Sport, so I will be a little sad to leave him behind, too, but he would not be very practical in Boston. Too bad - he is something special - even better than Beauty, though he has quite a mind of his own. But Marie promised to look out for him for me.

If you have any concerns and objections, or if there is anything I can do to make this easier, please just let me know. I will await your permission to proceed and very much appreciate all your help in this matter. Your loving grandson, Adam.

He sat looking at this one for a few minutes, remembering, then carefully folded it again and slipped it back into place.

The next morning Adam had been late for breakfast again. This time it did not make Abel smile. Instead, he rose immediately and made for the stairs, calling Adam's name. There was no answer. He entered the bedroom without even knocking.

The room was as neat as ever, except for a few books left open on the desk and yesterday's clothes discarded rather heedlessly on a nearby chair. That sight alone was enough to stop Abel's breath for a moment - in his wildest imaginings he couldn't see Adam carelessly dropping his clothes instead of folding and hanging them and putting them in their proper places.

"Adam?" anxiety made his voice sharp, and after a moment the long mound under the quilt stirred. Abel rested his hand on the shoulder under the coverings and shook it lightly. "Adam. Son, are you all right?"

The mound shifted and rolled and Adam's face came into view as he dropped onto his back. "Grandfather?" his voice sounded blurry. "What's wrong?"

Abel's heart did a skip and flutter at the sight of his face, but he kept his voice level. "It's morning and you've overslept."

It seemed to take Adam a minute to digest this. "Oh." He choked on a short, dry cough. "I'd better get up." But he didn't make any move to.

Abel reached down tentatively to touch his cheek, winced at what he felt there. "I tell you what," he said conversationally, though his heart was hammering suffocatingly against his ribs. "Why don't you lie in for just a couple of more minutes? You can take a cab to school this morning and that will give you a little extra time to sleep."

Adam swallowed slowly, coughed again. "Expensive," he croaked half-heartedly.

Abel forced a smile. "Oh, just this once. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime?"

Adam's eyes were already closed again. "Water?" he rasped after a minute.

Abel reached down to massage Adam's temple lightly with his thumb, trying to retain his smile though the heat there was pushing him to panic. "All right then. I'll be right back." He had all but run down the stairs.

Mrs. Longworth had sent a message around to the doctor and searched through her small chest of medicines while Abel fetched the water. Adam seemed to hardly know that he was there.

The doctor had taken hours to finally arrive. Well, maybe it just felt like hours, but it was a long time. By the time he did arrive, Adam seemed to be barely semiconscious, swallowing water only with Mrs. Longworth's most patient and persistent coaxing.

Abel had paced while the doctor performed his examination.

"How long has he had the fever?"

Abel paused his journey between the window and the bed. "This morning at least - but I think since yesterday." Adam coughed again and Abel winced. "He took a spill in the Charles a few days ago - is it pneumonia?"

The doctor shook his head. "No. Lungs are clear." He frowned, shaking Adam gently to rouse him enough to answer his questions. After a while he rose from his seat at the edge of the bed, pressing a hand to the small of his back and stretching. "We'll have to see how it progresses and treat the symptoms until I can figure out what's wrong. High fever. Headache. You say he has no appetite?"

Abel shook his head helplessly. "I can't tell you how unusual - " he stopped abruptly, swallowed.

"Heart rate is slow, too. Could be an infection of some kind. I'll check back in a couple of days. If there's any change in the meantime, for better or for worse, send someone around to fetch me."

There was no change for the better. Change for the worse was slow but sure. When five days later the fever had shown no sign of abating, the doctor quietly asked Abel where Adam's parents were. Abel told him there was only Ben, and that he was all the way out in Utah Territory.

The doctor sat for a minute, thinking. "Send for him," he said at last.

His fingers skipped ahead through the packet of letters. He set aside a collection of fat ones at the front, filled, he knew, with plans and details, and went to the last one of the pack and eased it out of the group. There had been another long passage of no letters before receiving this one. It crackled a little as he unfolded it. A short, terse note this time:

Dear Grandfather, I regret to tell you that I have had to change my plans and will not be coming east to college this fall after all. Marie was killed in an accident, and I am needed here. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you. Perhaps next year will be different. I probably will not be able to write for a while either, as there is a great deal to take care of here for the time being. Please do not worry, and I will write to you again when I can. You will be in my thoughts. As always, your loving grandson, Adam.

Abel frowned at the letter. Inconvenience indeed. Drat the boy. As if his own inconvenience would be what he would be thinking of.

He had sent off immediate letters to both Adam and Benjamin - had gotten another short note back from Adam, thanking him for his sympathy and explaining that Ben also appreciated it, but was not really up to replying for himself right now. Abel had understood, of course - he had been widowed himself. Inside, he had cursed being a continent away, wondered if there was anything at all he could do to help. The next letter he received was a long time in coming, dated a full eight months later. It had talked about trying again for college in a year or so. Brisk. Polite. Not a word again about Marie or her death - the subject seemed to be permanently closed. He never had been able to get him to open it.

Oh, he had tried - they had danced around it, Adam deftly evading all his advances. He wouldn't speak of it, though Abel felt he wore his grief like a banner, worked around it like a man adapting to a permanent limp until he didn't even realize he was compensating for it any more. Well, a man was entitled to his privacy of course - he just couldn't help thinking he would feel better if he could bring himself to talk about it.

He leafed briefly through the next set of letters - very sparse, very short, all saying more or less the same thing…all is well, all is well, all is well…all showing very clearly that all was nothing of the kind. He didn't pull them out to look - even today, after three years, something about them hurt his heart. He let his palm lie quiet on top of the neat rows of yellowing correspondence.

He had sent word to Ben - had couched it as carefully and as tactfully as he could, though he knew there would be no hiding what he was really saying. Ben's answer had crept back to him through the circuitous mails, telling him he had made arrangements and he was on his way, detailing his route so that they could maintain some sort of communication by telegraph. He had felt a little better somehow once they were in consistent touch - as if the burden were no longer his alone. A few days later, the doctor had looked up from his examination - they took place twice a week now, one tediously like another, bringing no relief or respite - and asked him to take a look.

Abel had looked down reluctantly. The doctor had peeled back Adam's nightshirt to reveal his abdomen and lower chest. The first thing Abel noticed with a pang was that Adam's ribs were beginning to arc in a pattern through his skin. Then he saw that the doctor was fingering a series of flat, rose colored spots scattered across Adam's stomach and peeping through the black hair curling over his chest. Abel squinted at them. "What does it mean?"

"It means we finally know what we're dealing with. Looks like typhoid."

Abel felt his heart lift hopefully. "Does that help?"

The doctor hesitated. "Well - not really - we'll just keep treating the symptoms like we've been doing. But it rules some things out anyway."

"How did he get it?"

The doctor hesitated again. "We don't really know. There's a lot we don't know about it."

Abel pressed his lips together to prevent a sarcastic rejoinder. That wouldn't help. "The survival rate?"

This time the doctor avoided his eyes, busying himself with closing Adam's nightshirt and pulling the quilt up over his chest. "Mixed. Many people do survive it. It's most severe in - "

Abel crossed his arms over his chest when the doctor seemed reluctant to continue. "In - ?" And when the doctor remained silent. "In people like Adam?"

"In adults," the doctor finished reluctantly. "Children get milder cases. Your grandson seems like a strong young man."

He is, thought Abel. But strong people die all the time. "I see," he said crisply. "Contagious? Something else we should do? Or don't you know that either?"

The doctor gave him a sympathetic glance. "We're not sure how it spreads, but you probably want to keep visitors to a minimum and to watch who you and Mrs. Longworth traffic with, too. Have your food delivered rather than marketing - that sort of thing. You're not under quarantine, but I am asking you to be circumspect. Can someone run the Chandlery for you for a while?"

As though he wanted to be traipsing off to the damn Chandlery anyhow while his grandson lay at death's door. "Yes. My manager is very competent."

"Good. Good. I'll be contacting some other doctors for information about typhoid, and I'll check back in two days. In the meantime - "

"Let you know if there's any change."

The doctor smiled and nodded.

Footsteps sounded overhead again, and he snapped to attention. This time the voices sounded automatic, cordial, growing louder as they made their way toward the landing. Abel froze as they hit the first stair, his impatience leaving him. Suddenly he didn't want to hear what the doctor had to say - suddenly he wanted to stall - he wanted more time. But stalling would buy him nothing. Sooner or later, he would have to know.

Slowly, carefully, he rose from the bed and walked delicately to the door. He hesitated with his hand resting on it, hearing the voices now just outside in the entryway, trying to gather clues from them. They gave nothing away. Just let Benjamin get here first, he prayed to himself. I won't ask anything more, if only…

The voices were quiet now and there was a soft rap on the door, almost right under his hand. He bowed his head.

Don't be a coward, Abel, he scolded himself. You have a responsibility - see to it.

He wanted to pray again, but his mind was a blank. He looked back at the rows of letters neatly arranged in the drawers. Dear Grandfather, how are you…?

I am not fine, son - not fine at all.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out to meet the doctor.

TBC