Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (26 page)

      
A few minutes later, a little boy and his mother exited the doctor's sanctum. The kid looked as if he'd been crying, but heck, he was only five or six years old. I smiled at him and felt bereft and incomplete and sorry for myself. He grinned back and held up his bandaged left hand as if the bandage were a mark of courage.

      
“I busted my wrist,” he said proudly.

      
I said, “Ouch. That must have hurt.”

      
His mother tutted. “It's not broken, Freddie. It's sprained.”

      
“I mean it's spained,” he corrected himself, still holding up his hand.

      
“Poor you. I hope it gets better soon.”

      
The little boy shrugged as his mother fetched his coat and cap from the coat rack in the corner. After she'd helped her boy don his outer garments, she did the same with hers, went to the counter and opened her handbag, and took out a five-dollar bill. “The doctor told us to come back in a week, Mrs. Benjamin.”

      
“That's fine, dear. Here's a lollipop for Freddie. He was a brave little soldier.”

      
A brave little soldier, was he? Darn it, I wished Mrs. Benjamin hadn't used those words. My eyes filled up, and my throat started aching to beat the band. Brother, was I a mess.

      
“Your turn, Mrs. Majesty,” Mrs. Benjamin said cheerfully. “Just go right on in.”

      
“Thank you.” I used the approximately fifteen seconds it took me to open the door and walk to the doctor's office to concentrate on not breaking down. It was no use. I was sobbing by the time I'd finished telling my tale to Dr. Benjamin.

      
He was such a nice man. He got up and closed the door so that we could be private, and he patted me soothingly on the back as he went to his chair behind his big, scarred desk, cluttered with papers, powder packets, medicine jars, and his stethoscope.

      
“I-I'm sorry,” I blubbered, feeling stupid and wretched and generally lousy.

      
“There's no need to apologize, my dear. Neither you nor Bill deserve what's happened to him and, by extension, you and your marriage.”

      
After mopping my eyes and blowing my nose, I thanked him and asked, “Am I worrying for nothing, Dr. Benjamin? Is it safe for him to take so much morphine? I'm so afraid he'll become addicted--or, worse, take an overdose.” I wish the subject of suicide had never been mentioned. It had been paying me visits ever since I'd spoken the word a few days earlier.

      
The sympathy in his kind old eyes almost made me cry again. “I can tell you three things, Daisy.” He held up a fist and illustrated his points with his fingers. “The first is no, you're not worrying for nothing. The second thing is that your poor husband is, without the drug, in constant and severe pain. His legs are ruined, there was nerve damage to both of them from the shrapnel, and his lungs were eaten up with gas. The third thing is, I don't have any solutions for his problems and it breaks my heart. I also suspect he is becoming addicted to the morphine.”

      
I think I gasped. I know I whispered, “Oh, no!” because the doctor held up his other hand to forestall further words from me.

      
“The thing is, my dear, that he-and you-have to choose between two evils: agony or addiction. If it were I, and I must say I'm glad it's not, I'd choose addiction. With the morphine, he'll at least be able to get around, which I'm sure I'd prefer over being bed-ridden and in constant pain.”

      
Squeezing my handkerchief in my hands, I asked, “Isn't there
anything
to give him for his pain other than morphine?”

      
He shook his head. “I'm afraid your husband is in bad shape, Daisy. You know that, but I'm not sure you understand exactly how perilous his condition is.”

      
“I think I do,” I murmured. Actually, it was more like a moan.

      
“Then you know he's more susceptible to pleurisy and pneumonia and many other pulmonary ailments than he was before he was so badly injured.”

      
I nodded.

      
“And you also know that such an illness will probably take him one of these days.”

      
After sniffling and vowing I wouldn't break down again, I nodded once more. “I was just . . . I don't know. Hoping, I guess, that there might be something else we can do for him.”

      
“There's always hope, my dear.”

      
“Do you really think so? For Billy?”

      
The tenderness in his eyes told me the answer to that one. I pressed my lips together so as not to blubber.

      
“Take heart, Daisy. Researchers are making great strides in many areas of medical science. The best thing you can do for Bill is to love him.”

      
“I do.” The two words came out squeaky.

      
“I know you do, my dear.” He heaved a huge sigh. “Sometimes, when I see men who fought for this great country in the late war--and especially those who were the recipients of the Kaiser's mustard gas--I wonder if they weren't the unlucky ones, instead of those who died in action.”

      
I knew exactly what he meant. As somebody said, probably Shakespeare because he said almost everything people quote, except for the few choice epigrams rendered by Oscar Wilde, “If wishes were horses, all men would ride.”

      
“So I guess it's the morphine and addiction or bed and pain?” The idea of my Billy, who used to be so healthy and athletic, confined to a bed made my insides scream with fury and impotence. Darn it, this wasn't fair!

      
“I'm afraid that's about it. As I said, if it were I, I'd choose the morphine. And don't forget, too, that pain can wear a man down. I'm sure you view drug addiction as a social evil, as do most of us, and it is, except in certain special cases. The more debilitated by pain your husband becomes, the more liable he is to succumb to diseases. And melancholia. You might want to consider the morphine as preventing his falling victim to some other dire illness.”

      
“That's a good point,” I said, not quite certain I believed it.

      
Dr. Benjamin didn't rush me. I'm sure the compassionate fellow would have let me sit in his office and whine indefinitely, but a Gumm knows how to accept fate, even when she doesn't want to. At that moment, I wanted to gas fate with the same mustard gas that had ruined Billy's lungs and then shoot it, as the Huns had shot Billy. Damned cold-hearted, indifferent fate; I hated it almost as much (and as unproductively) as I hated the Germans.

      
When I finally rose to leave, Dr. Benjamin handed me another bottle of medicine for Billy, opened his office door, and then walked with me down the corridor to where his wife sat, working on the books. It was a special courtesy on his part, and I understood and appreciated it. Dr. and Mrs. Benjamin watched me as I retrieved my coat.

      
“Good luck, dear,” Mrs. Benjamin called as I opened the door.

      
Turning to give the couple a last wave, I said, “Thanks.” I remember thinking it was a shame Marianne's doctor father couldn't have been the Benjamin-esque type. She'd never have run away from home with a father like Dr. Benjamin.

      
After my discouraging meeting with the doctor, I was happy to visit Mrs. Frasier's house and read the Tarot cards for her. I admired her duet of miniature pinschers, mentally comparing them to Billy's Spike. I suppose if I couldn't have a dachshund, I'd settle for a miniature pinscher, although they seemed a bit high-strung for my taste. We didn't need a dog that required more attention than Billy, for Pete's sake.

      
Mrs. Frasier, a tall, lean woman, lived on Orange Grove Boulevard about three mansions down and across the street from Mrs. Kincaid's place. She and her husband entered dog shows all across the country, and they both lived and breathed miniature pinschers. As I've mentioned before, Mrs. Frasier had made it her mission in life to get her dogs recognized by the Westminster Kennel Club. I wished her well, and only hoped she'd not feel bored and aimless if she ever achieved her goal.

      
I always enjoyed driving through that neighborhood because it was so beautiful. Even in December the yards were green, and the whole street practically reeked of wealth and prosperity. Sleek automobiles were parked in drives and on the street, and my rickety old 1909 Model T felt out of place. I patted it on its dashboard and told it not to pout. I didn't mention that I was aiming to trade it in on a new model because I didn't want to make it feel worse.

      
Since I was blue myself, I made sure the Tarot cards predicted nothing but sunny skies and bliss for Mrs. Frasier. She was particularly concerned about how her dogs would place in the upcoming dog shows in which they were entered. I didn't know anything about dog shows, but I gave her an equivocal answer that could be taken any old way she wanted to take it. I was almost as good as a Jesuit when it came to equivocation.

      
Mrs. Frasier chose to take my predictions in a positive light, which I considered sensible of her. I mean, face it, life is life. It's going to do whatever it wants with all of us, and there's no sense in worrying about things before they happen. I'd learned over the years, as I consorted with rich people, that they had problems, too. Besides, people liked to hear good news. Mrs. Frasier was pleased.

      
When I told her that I'd just given my husband a dachshund puppy, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Majesty! You should have asked me! I'd have given you one of my min pins. They're the best dogs in the world, you know.”

      
Since one of her min pins had taken it into its head to disembowel my handbag, I thanked her and said I was sure we'd be happy with Spike. “But your dogs are wonderful, Mrs. Frasier,” I added as I tried to grab the one who'd snatched my handkerchief. Every time I got close to him, he darted the other way. He was the quickest little dickens I've ever seen.

      
“Percy, stop that!” Mrs. Frasier said in a stern voice. She was about as much a disciplinarian as my aunt Vi and Ma, which means she wasn't one.

      
I swear to goodness, the dog grinned at her. Then he ignored her as effectively as he'd ignored me, and dashed off (with my handkerchief) to another room. Since there didn't seem anything else to do, I laughed.

      
“Oh, dear. He's such a tease. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
“That's all right, Mrs. Frasier. I've got other hankies.”

      
“I'll get it back for you, dear.”

      
So, for ten minutes or thereabouts, Mrs. Frasier and I chased a little red dog around her house. It was an interesting way to get a tour of a grand mansion, and I almost appreciated the creature for it, although I was doubly glad I'd given Billy a dachshund after we'd finally cornered Percy in the laundry room and forced him to release my handkerchief. It turned out to be a waste of time, since the silly dog had pretty much shredded it by then.

      
After I left Mrs. Frasier's mansion, I tootled down to Grenville's Books to check on Marianne. I was accustomed to visit the bookstore even before I took to aiding and abetting runaway rich girls, so I had no qualms about parking the Model T on Colorado in front of the bookstore and walking in as if I had every right to do so.

Chapter Thirteen
 

      
I found George perusing the small cooking section of his store and grinned. “Hey George. Hard at work on our project, I see.”

      
He turned and smiled. He looked mighty happy for a man who was in almost as much trouble as I was-or would be if anyone ever found us out. “Good day to you, Daisy. Yes, indeed, I'm learning the rudiments of the cookery arts. I should take lessons from your aunt, I guess. According to Harold, she's the best cook in the world.”

      
I joined George in the cook-book section. “He's right. Aunt Vi's a genius in the kitchen.”

      
“I'm afraid our guest isn't.”

      
From the expression on George's face, I deduced he didn't find this a flaw in Marianne's make-up, but rather an endearing character trait. I hoped he'd continue to consider her ignorance darling rather than infuriating if he had to put up with her for a while.

      
“I'm sure anyone can learn,” I said, keeping my voice down. I also wasn't sure about the “anyone” part. I was a dismal failure in the kitchen. Then again, as I've said before, why should I cook? I had Aunt Vi.

      
“Our project is interested in sewing, too.” George's face took on an expression of bright inquiry. “Harold tells me you're a champion seamstress, Daisy. I don't suppose you'd be willing . . .”

      
“Not right now, George.” I don't know why it is, but I hate teaching anybody anything. I'm really bad at it, too. I couldn't teach a duck to quack. Also, I was disinclined to teach Marianne Wagner how to sew. Not that I didn't like the girl, sort of, but teaching her any skill at all sounded like more work than I wanted to tackle. I'd have been willing to bet she didn't even know how to thread a needle. “Maybe later. I've got too many jobs at the moment.” That was also true, and it felt good not to have to lie.

      
“I have a feeling cooking's easier to learn than sewing,” George said musingly, as he took a book about how to prepare and cook casserole dishes off the shelf.

      
“Not for me, it wasn't.” That was the truth, too. Gee, my score was improving. That made two entire truths I'd told in less than twenty-four hours. I wasn't counting the ones I'd told in Dr. Benjamin's office.