A Star for Mrs. Blake (22 page)

“Who is that?” Reed asked.

“Dr. Szabo. It’s a Sunday. I could only get a Jew.”

“Why can’t you leave anything alone?”

“You were sick and you’ve
been
sick—”

The maid was announcing the doctor, a balding, middle-aged Hungarian in an immaculate three-piece brown suit and striped blue tie, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a wan smile. They went into the living room, where the draperies had been swept open for better light, flooding the windows with lush views of the garden. The maid came back with tea.

“Beautiful home,” said the doctor, opening his bag.

“Don’t let him tell you that he’s fine,” Florence interjected. “He’s had indigestion for over a week—”

“Thank you, Florence,” Reed said shortly.

“Thank you, madame,” the doctor echoed firmly. “Please wait outside.”

When she was gone he efficiently got down to business, listening to Reed’s chest and examining his ears.

“How often do you have stomach problems?”

“On and off.”

“Too much wine?” asked the doctor with a friendly raise of an eyebrow.

“Could be.”

“Smoke?”

“Not much.”

“Is there still pain from the surgery? What do you take?”

“Laudanum by mouth. Morphine by injection.”

He peered closely at the mask. “Would you mind taking that off?”

“Yes, I would.”

The doctor accepted his refusal without protest. “May I look inside your mouth?”

Reed obliged and got poked with a wooden tongue depressor until he gagged.

“Sorry. How are your feet?”

“My feet?”

“Any numbness or pain?”

“Not that I notice,” Reed lied. His feet were always tingling.

The doctor’s eyes went back to the mask as if he couldn’t look away. Reed bore the scrutiny as long as he could.

“Is there a problem, Doc?”

“What’s that device made of?”

“Some kind of metal. A combination of metals, I think.”

“My concern is that you may have plumbism,” Dr. Szabo said crisply. “Lead poisoning. The symptoms can include gastrointestinal upset and peripheral neuropathy—numbness in the feet. But the main component of a positive diagnosis is based on proximity to a source of lead. We see it in children who have eaten paint that contains lead. It’s possible that you’ve been exposed through the skin. I take it you’ve been wearing the device several hours a day, possibly for years? I’d like to take a blood sample; then we’ll know. Please roll up your sleeve.”

The stinging smell of the alcohol swab brought back terrible memories of gurneys, hallways, intractable pain that even morphine couldn’t touch. Reed’s heart kicked up as the doctor removed a tourniquet and a syringe from the bag.

“Why don’t you lie down?” he suggested.

Reed didn’t argue, stretching out on the tangerine sofa. He felt the rubber hose tighten above his elbow and the doctor’s finger tapping a vein.

“If I do have lead poisoning, then what?”

“Who was your surgeon?”

“Dr. James Blackmore at London General Hospital.”

He felt the needle go in and stay there as the glass tube slowly filled with his blood.

“Go back and see Dr. Blackmore. Facial surgery has changed a lot since the war. At the very least, you should have a new prosthetic made.”

“It took months to get this one right.”

“Mr. Reed, if the test comes back positive, you won’t have a choice.”

“Why is that?”

“This one is going to kill you.”

It was the last day in Paris for Party A. The schedule had given them a free morning. In the afternoon they would join an assembly of French war mothers to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe and then proceed to Restaurant Laurent for tea with dignitaries. First thing tomorrow, Party A, along with other groups in the same rotation, would board private buses for Verdun, which would be their base for several days of visiting the Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery and Memorial.

They were almost at their final destination, which is maybe why Cora had the dream. She saw Sammy in an empty room with wood floors and plain walls, like the farmhouse at Tide’s End. The light in the room is what disturbed her the most. It was solemn and unchanging, and seemed to imply the conclusion of something. Sammy was just standing there, looking strangely patient and shockingly real, exactly as he had when he was sixteen. Outside there was nothing but clattering, nonstop rain.

When she woke up she felt so drained that she scarcely had the will to get dressed. Soon there was knocking and an insistent voice.

“Cora? It’s Bobbie!”

The moment she opened the door, Bobbie saw Cora’s distress and said, “What’s wrong, dear?”

Cora turned away. She didn’t know how to voice these things.

“I had a bad sleep.”

Bobbie followed into the room. “Are you ill?”

“Just tired.”

Cora became aware of her own selfishness. How could she forget what happened the day before?

“Are
you
all right, Bobbie?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“That terrible man at Notre-Dame.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” the older woman replied emphatically. “Full of piss and vinegar,” she added, to emphasize the point.

Cora smiled. “You look nice.”

Bobbie was already dressed for the afternoon’s event at the Arc de Triomphe in a brown-and-white checkered jacket that nipped the waist, white scarf and pearls, a tiny green hat like an inverted teacup.

“It’s lovely to have a morning off, isn’t it?” she said. “If I have to listen to those harpies in our group screeching at each other one more minute, I’ll slit my throat. Let’s get out of here. It’s our last day in Paris and I promised an old friend I’d stop by before we go. She’s invited us to lunch. Come on, now or never!”

Bobbie’s tireless energy snapped things back to normal. The disheveled pillows no longer seemed a nest of sorrow. Cora fluffed them up and pulled at the heavy gold damask bedspread.

“I just have to make the bed.”

“The hotel will do that for you.”

“My mother used to say, ‘A person who doesn’t make their bed in the morning doesn’t respect herself.’ ”

“And
my
mother used to say, ‘Let the maid do it!’ ”

A black limousine was waiting at the side entrance of the hotel. A uniformed driver opened the door for Madame Olsen, then came around the other side and opened the door for Madame Blake. The backseat was made of soft leather and big enough for each of them to lie down and take a nap. Each had her own oval window with a little pleated curtain, through which to view the fancy shops slipping by.

Cora was taken by a spasm of giggles.

“What’s the joke?”

“The last time I was on a car ride, we were going to the train station in Bangor. My fiancé took me in his truck along with a pig. The pig was in back.”

“And was there hay?” Bobbie wondered archly.

“No hay,” said Cora, mimicking her superior tone. “But plenty of blood, that’s for sure. It was really
half
a pig, on the way to market.”

“Well,” said Bobbie, “I’m sorry not to offer you such fascinating company, but if you feel homesick, we can stop by a butcher shop.”

Cora laughed until she had to blow her nose.

“You never mentioned a fiancé. What’s his name, and how long have you known him?”

“Linwood Moody. He’s not really a fiancé, as we’re not really engaged, although he’s asked me.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a soil scientist.”

“Then he’s certainly got his feet on the ground.” Bobbie smiled at her own wit.

“That’s true about Linwood,” Cora acknowledged. “Sometimes I think if I’d married a proper husband, and not tried to raise a boy myself, Sammy would still be here.”

“Why do you say that?” Bobbie wondered.

“If he’d had a father to stop him, he wouldn’t have gone. He would have stayed another year under our roof and by that time the war would have been over.”

“First of all, a
man
wouldn’t have stopped him, a
man
would have
urged
his son to go and fight. My husband would have thought it was a splendid idea for Henry to join the army, even though we had to rush the engagement. He had a large ego—he built apartment buildings and the like—and I think Henry inherited that sense of immunity from life’s blows. I suppose as a surgeon you need to feel a godlike power,” she mused. “Henry was always a confident young man, sometimes to the point of arrogance. He was quite certain he alone could change the world.”

“He did,” Cora said. “For the men he saved.”

Bobbie briskly steered away from sentiment. “Now, what about this Linwood?” she said. “Is he the one?”

Cora thought about it. She’d sent him a postcard—as promised, the Eiffel Tower. But she hadn’t said anything more encouraging than
“Everything is going well.”

“I think I’m ready,” Cora said.

Bobbie shook her head. “ ‘I think I’m ready’ entirely sidesteps the question.”

“He’s a good man.”

“But?”

They glided over a bridge to the Left Bank, down wide avenues with crowded café terraces, twisting along elegant residential streets of elm trees and private courtyards.

Cora said regretfully, “Linwood would hate it here. New York and Paris would be much too fast for him, while all I can think about is, What’s next? What’s that building? What do they eat for breakfast? And look at their beautiful parks—”

“You’re an explorer and he’s a homebody,” Bobbie said. “And home is a million miles away.”

“You’re right. We’re different that way. I wonder if we’ll ever see eye to eye?” she asked tremulously.

Bobbie patted her hand. “Don’t worry dear. You’ll be back soon and then you’ll see.”

Cora nodded and forced herself to smile. She could no longer tell one sadness from another.

They stopped at a tall white wall topped by a perfectly clipped hedge. The limousine driver accompanied them as far as the gateway and said he would wait. From there they entered a green oasis, quiet except for the sound of bubbling water and the mossy scent of wet stone, as they passed a fountain of two brass cupids apparently having a peeing contest.

“They have a funny sense of humor over here,” Cora said.

“My friend, the one you are about to meet, did that sculpture,” Bobbie said. “She’s American and her name is Florence Dean Powell. I’m very close with her mother. We were sorority sisters at Radcliffe and serve together on the board of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Her mother is Abigail Powell, daughter of Eugene Randolf, the former senator from Massachusetts. I’ve known Florence all her life, and she’s never changed from the little girl who wouldn’t let you tie her shoe—she had to do everything herself. I suppose you can say she’s succeeded! She’s quite publicly refused to get married in order to devote herself to sculpting. Her mother was devastated when Florence moved to Paris after the war. She heard the call—Paris is the
place to be! You have to admire her guts, but she seems to have fit right in with the Parisian way of life.”

As they crossed the courtyard, a dark-haired man wearing a lustrous smoking jacket and slippers emerged from a back doorway. He had a pipe between his teeth and carried a pile of books under one arm, a bowl of coffee in the other hand, and there was a tortoiseshell cat riding on his shoulder. Without acknowledging the visitors, he disappeared into an opening in a hedge beyond which there appeared to be a small cottage.

“Are you sure she’s not married?” Cora asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Is
that
the way of life you’re talking about?” Cora said with amusement. She understood what it was like for your relationship with a male to be the object of moral speculation.

“I wouldn’t know,” Bobbie said disapprovingly. “And I certainly won’t ask her mother.”

The maid answered the door. They entered to the scent of onions simmering in red wine.

“Bless her heart, she’s making beef stew the real French way. Although of course she has a cook,” Bobbie added tartly, still upset by the unknown male. “Thanks to her parents, who cater to her every whim—”

Florence Dean Powell was coming down from her studio upstairs.

“Hello, Bobbie!” she called. “Welcome! I’m so happy to see you!”

She wore a white blouse tied at the neck in a big soft bow, with a painter’s smock over it. The maid carefully helped her off with the smock, which was covered with fine white dust. Underneath was a slim skirt to the knee and black pumps. Evidently Florence sculpted in high heels. Her black hair was up in a bun, which accentuated a long face with large limpid eyes.

“I’d embrace you, but all this dust—”

“No matter,” Bobbie replied, as they delicately kissed on both cheeks. “Your mother sends her deepest love.”

“Thank you. I miss her so!”

Bobbie introduced Cora and the two women shook hands.

“Are you on the pilgrimage also?”

Cora nodded. “My son, Sammy, was killed in 1918, the same year as Bobbie’s son. They both served in the same division. But they didn’t know each other,” she felt compelled to add.

“It’s just god-awful, isn’t it? I knew Henry growing up. He was the handsome older cousin—not really a cousin, but we thought of him that way—all the girls had crushes on. He was very patient and remembered the names of my dolls. He was serious, almost Victorian in the way he liked to explain things, right, Bobbie?”