Ciji Ware (57 page)

The next day, the
Natchez
Democrat
, ever mindful of the tourist trade, declined to categorize the storm as a tornado, describing the funnel cloud as “straight-line winds.” The front-page article quoted Maddy as one of several citizens caught without sufficient insurance coverage.

“I had the check all made out, mind you,” Madeline Clayton Whitaker had disclosed to the reporter who stopped by the house, having spotted the damaged roof, “but with one thing and another, I’d forgotten to mail it and found it on the floor of my kitchen, can you imagine? The envelope was soaked through because a window had blown open in the storm.” In the next paragraph, Mrs. Whitaker noted that she would mail the letter to her insurance company the very next day.

“While you argue with the insurance guy, I’m paying for the repairs so we can get the roof fixed right away,” Daphne announced firmly to her cousin. “You can just consider it raising my rent.”

Maddy shook her head vehemently. “If you pay for the roof then you’re
not
payin’ rent! But, you are a lifesaver, my dear. I get so overwhelmed by payin’ bills and takin’ care of all the things that Marcus used to do, that I’m terribly forgetful sometimes. But this was such a
stupid
mistake.”

“Look, Maddy,” Daphne reassured her gently. “Remember, you’ve had some pretty weighty matters on your mind. We all do stuff like forgetting to mail things. I’m so grateful you weren’t hurt that I’d gladly pay for the whole damn roof to be replaced, if we needed it.”

Just then the phone rang.

“Praise be, the lines must be working again,” Maddy declared jubilantly. She picked up the receiver and immediately her expression grew grave.

“Maddy, what is it?” Daphne whispered.

Her cousin mouthed the word, “Doctor.” Then she murmured, “I see. Yes, of course. Let’s schedule it right away Thursday would be fine. Will I have to stay overnight at the hospital? Oh, good. Right. I’ll call your nurse later today ’bout everything. Thank you, Doctor Gilman.”

Daphne felt her heart contract as Maddy sank onto a nearby kitchen chair.

“What?” she demanded, trying to read the expression on her face.

“The biopsy came back. Doctor Gilman calls it an ‘evolving melanoma.’ He plans to remove it surgically as an outpatient procedure this week.”

“Is it sun-related do you think? People get those all the time.”

“He said the cells were a bit unusual, but it could be caused by sun. He said we’ll know more once they cut it out and get a full report from the pathologist.”

“True.” Daphne leaned down and gave Maddy’s shoulders a squeeze. “We’ll take this a step at a time,” she proposed, privately thinking that even the doctors probably dreaded accepting the possibility of a cancer spike going on in the South. She brushed a stray strand of gray hair off Maddy’s forehead. “Look
…
we’ll deal with this. We’ll get through this together.”

“I know we will,” Madeline replied staunchly, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m just so grateful to have you in my life, you know? If this had happened to me a year ago, I’m not so sure I’d even fight this thing.”

“Oh, we’ll fight it, all right,” Daphne vowed. “Why don’t you call Bailey right now, tell him what Gilman said, and get his opinion about all this?”

She seized the phone and dialed the number, handing the receiver to Maddy before she could decline. Then she ran and picked up another extension.

“‘Evolving melanoma’ sounds like ‘sorta pregnant,’” Bailey scoffed. “It’s kinda a CYA diagnosis
…
‘cover-your-ass.’ Basal cell carcinomas won’t kill you. Squamous cell carcinomas can be tricky but are usually not life-threatening. And melanomas you don’t wish on your worst enemy. Get Gilman to send me the New Orleans pathology report, and I’ll see y’all Thursday in Gilman’s office, Maddy darlin’.”

“Well, that’s mighty kind of you, Bailey, to be there for the surgery.”

“My hands shake a bit, these days, but thank God, my brain still works. I’m keeping an eagle eye on Gilman every second, sweetheart. Don’t you worry one bit ’bout this. I honestly think it’s gonna be fine. Doctors these days get mighty nervous not preparing you for the worst so you won’t sue ’em later for not warning you life can lead to death!”

***

Daphne and Sim sat in the waiting room while Maddy had the growth removed from the top of her shoulder as scheduled. Within twenty minutes, Bailey Gibbs appeared in green operating room scrubs.

“The growth
was
slightly atypical, as these things go, but nothing definitive. I made sure we had a pathologist standing by during surgery to confirm that Gilman took enough tissue on all sides out to where the margins were cancer-free. I’m bettin’ he got it all, but she’s committed to regular checkups every three months and you can be sure that I’ll stay on the lady’s case.”

Relieved to hear this news, Daphne threw her arms around Bailey, and Sim pumped his free hand. Choking back tears of relief, Daphne said, “Well, now we’ve
really
got to sell every single ticket for the ‘Birds’ benefit, don’t we? We need money for more than just hiring a few lawyers. People’ve got to know they’re
all
at risk.”

“Getting that kind of a story into the public’s consciousness takes some mighty deep pockets, believe me,” Sim warned.

“True,” Daphne replied tersely, “but I’ve learned from my brother King that people can do the most amazing things if each volunteer
delivers
on what he or she has promised to do. That’s the way to pull off a miracle.”

***

From the day of the storm onwards, Daphne and Sim never again spoke of their first spat. For the rest of the summer they enjoyed each other’s company whenever their complicated schedules allowed for a rendezvous. During the ensuing weeks, Sim was photographing in the field nearly five days out of seven. He spent his time systematically tracking down the remaining birds that Audubon had painted in the 1820s.

For her part, Daphne was busy dawn to dusk. Maddy’s cancer scare had galvanized the younger woman’s commitment to the benefit concert like nothing else could have. She spent every free minute coordinating the myriad production details. Three days a week, she took on the instruction of several of Maddy’s most advanced harp students. Tuesdays through Saturdays, she played during tea service at the Eola Hotel, and she appeared at the Under-the-Hill Saloon on weekends. Twice a week she had her tutorial sessions with Willis. Late Sunday night and Mondays were sacrosanct, however. Maddy didn’t even ask anymore if Daphne would be home for dinner.

“Mmmmm…” Sim whispered sleepily one evening, taking Daphne in his arms as she slipped into his bed in the cottage at Gibbs Hall. It was just after midnight following her Sunday session at the Under-the Hill Saloon. “I think I’ll have
you
for a late supper…” he murmured, nibbling her ear.

A few days after Maddy’s surgery, Daphne had related to Sim the details of her unwelcome exchange with Francesca Hayes in the hotel ladies’ room, though she omitted her theory that Sim’s ex-wife had come to Mississippi with an additional goal besides pounding Bailey Gibbs into submission. In August, she had finally given in to her curiosity.

“Has Francesca ever called you since she’s been here?” Daphne had asked, doing her darnedest to keep her tone casual.

“She left a message on my cell phone,” Sim replied. “She said she has some ‘creative solutions’ to suggest regarding the toxic dumps.”

“And?” Daphne demanded. “I suppose she wanted to get together to talk?”

“I left a voice mail telling her to call Bailey directly when she puts something in writing.”

Daphne had been satisfied to hear this answer and let the subject drop. Since then, she’d made a good-faith effort to banish Francesca Hayes and Jack Ebert from her thoughts. Even so, after each week’s absence from Sim, she had to bite her tongue not to ask if the persistent attorney hadn’t tried to contact her former spouse a second time.

The weeks telescoped, one into the other, as the hot, sultry summer months flew by. Amadora Bendhar rehearsed weekly with the ad hoc “Birds” chamber orchestra, which had been miraculously recruited from musicians on both sides of the Mississippi. Daphne accepted the role of harpist in this group. Meanwhile she, Althea, the McGee sisters, and Sunny, their sax player—with the help of Willis McGee’s new arrangements—began rehearsing jazz and blues numbers with the word “bird” in the title, which they unearthed from lists of songs they downloaded from the Internet.

By early September, Daphne had enlisted a quintet of Maddy’s youngest harp students to form the Angel Choir. Next, she signed up a barbershop quartet from the paddle steamer
Delta
Queen
, along with twenty-two members of Mary Jo McGee’s kindergarten class to sing “The Tweety Bird Song,” which Daphne knew had all the makings of a show stopper.

All Natchez was abuzz about the coming benefit concert. Sim assembled a collection of his most representative works and sent them to New York to have prints made at his own expense. They would be sold at the charity auction to be held in the foyer of the Margaret Martin Auditorium before the show, along with some prized antiques that Maddy and her committee had recruited from the attics of friends all over Natchez. Bailey and his “Birders” visited the social and fraternal organizations throughout the region selling theater tickets and chances on prizes that ranged from a complimentary weekend at Monmouth Plantation to a free lunch at Mammy’s.

When, at last, the entire coterie of performers assembled for their final rehearsal on Saturday, the afternoon of the evening’s benefit, an exhausted Daphne sat in the middle of the leased hall with Bailey Gibbs and cousin Maddy, watching their handiwork take form and substance on stage. Due to the whirlwind of preparations for the one-and-only performance of “For the Birds,” scheduled to begin at eight o’clock, she hadn’t seen Sim all week. Finally she had a moment to wonder where he was.

When the afternoon run-through came to a close, Bailey rose from his seat, and said, “You are somethin’ else, Daphne Duvallon. It’s gonna be terrific!”

The temperature outside was still warm, but the “crushin’ heat,” as Maddy described the dog days of summer, was nearing its end. The nights had been cool enough this third week in September to require a jacket or sweater when the sun went down over the Mississippi, offering a welcome early taste of fall.

“Thanks, Bailey,” Daphne replied to the physician’s compliment with a tired grimace. “Your kind praise is a balm to my tattered soul. The Angel Choir is cute, but the kids need to work on getting on and offstage.” She glanced up the auditorium’s empty center aisle. “Where’s Sim? I thought he was coming back to Gibbs Hall last night. Didn’t he drive in with you? He was supposed to be here hours ago to mount his photographs for the lobby display.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you earlier, but there was so much goin’ on when I got here,” Bailey apologized. “Sim said he’ll be front row, center by curtain time. He called me from Jackson. He’s sending the last of his photos down with somebody else today and hopes one of your volunteers can set them up in the lobby.”

Daphne’s jaw dropped slightly. Sim had been in
Jackson
during this last week of rehearsals? When they’d spoken on his cell phone a few days earlier, Daphne had assumed he’d been deep in the woods, somewhere northwest of Natchez—not in the state capital. Suddenly she wanted to ask Bailey a dozen questions.

“Did you actually see him up there?”

And
where
—
exactly
—
was
his
ex-wife all that time?

“Just on Wednesday,” the doctor replied. “I asked him to help me button-hole as many senators and representatives as possible, now that the legislature’s headin’ back in session. I want to persuade those folks to vote no if the toxic dump proposal comes out of committee—which it’s expected to real soon.”

“Was the opposition also prowling the corridors of power?” Daphne inquired, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm out of her voice.

“You betcha,” Bailey said with disgust. “The Able Petroleum people and our group were practically playin’ tag team goin’ in and out of the legislators’ offices.”

On stage, Maddy had called her students together to run through their number another time. The covey of Angels still bumped into their harps and each other like a bunch of pint-sized Keystone Cops. Rehearsal was nearly at an end and time was short, but all Daphne could think about was that Sim was a no-show, and worse—he hadn’t disclosed he’d been in Jackson all week. The co-chair of the benefit wasn’t even going to be here to set up his own photographic exhibit, she fumed.

Just then, two figures appeared at the back of the hall and proceeded to make their way toward the foot of the stage where Maddy and Daphne had gathered to confer about altering stage directions for the young harpists.

“Hello, y’all,” Jack Ebert said in a loud voice from halfway up the aisle. “You remember Francesca Hayes?”