A Timely Concerto (20 page)

Howard swiveled on the piano stool with such speed he must have been dizzy.

“What?”

He stared from Lillian to Shugie, his eyes focused on her wet skirts with a frown.

“My water just broke,” Lillian said. “I think that means I’ll go into labor soon.”

“Dear heart,” Howard said. He looked pale again and swayed as he stood up. “I don’t believe I have the strength to carry you upstairs.”

“Don’t try,” she answered. “And don’t worry, please. I am just having a baby.”

His eyes darkened with emotion and she remembered how many women died doing just that. Maggie entered the room, glanced at Lillian’s sopping skirts, and put a hand to her chest.

“Oh, Lillian, dear, Lillian, your time has come.”

“Maggie, get Jim to take her upstairs,” Howard said, his voice urgent. “I am unable to do so.”

Shugie stood there, untouched tea tray in her hands and shook her head.

“It’s going to be awhile yet, Miss Lillian. Babies don’t get in much of a hurry. If you want to go upstairs, I’ll get rid of the tray and come help you get undressed.”

She responded to the one voice of reason.

“I will; thank you, Shugie.”

Everyone fussed but her pains did not begin until after dark. At first, they were nothing more than a twinge that came and went but over the hours of the night, they increased in severity and frequency. Howard sat beside the bed, as she had done for him, nervous and wan. He would not budge, even thought it was apparently shocking for the father to be present at a birth. in this era.

“All of you don’t need to wait with me,” Lillian said, marveling that the room was almost as full as it was during Howard’s crisis. “It may be awhile.”

Mama Speakman and Maggie vowed to stay; so did Shugie. In the early morning hours, when the pains became harsh and intense, Dr. Lamson returned. By then, Lillian could care less if the entire town was in the room. She had no control over her own body; the contractions were living things that did what they pleased but although they were strong, she did not scream although the occasional moan slipped from between her taut lips.

It was mid-morning when Dr. Lamson peered between her legs and said,

“Push, Mrs. Speakman, push hard.”

Lillian did and felt as if her body was about to be torn apart. She had no thought for Howard or anyone else although she heard her husband calling out,

“He’s coming! By Jove, I see his head!”

Gravity pulled hard and she felt a rush of something leave her body.

“Is the baby here?” she asked but no one answered. Lillian raised her head to see but saw nothing but a wild flurry of activity. She heard a series of slaps, a bare hand on flesh and then the most beautiful, wonderful noise she had ever heard – the strong, angry cry of a baby.

“You have a son,” Dr. Lamson pronounced, beaming.

Adam bawled; making a big, fierce noise for such a tiny infant and she opened her arms.

“Let me have him.”

Maggie paused, blanket wrapped baby in her arms.

“You must wait, Lillian. We will bring him to you later.”

Lillian pushed up onto one elbow and over Howard’s worried warnings, said,

“Now, Maggie.”

Maggie handed the child over, a disapproving smirk marring her face.

With her son in her arms, she looked up to catch Howard’s eye and smiled. He grinned at them both and she looked into the small face of her son, still crying.

“Hello, Adam Speakman,” Lillian cooed.

He stopped crying at the sound of her voice and she held him, her tears of joy pouring down her cheeks, laughing with delight. She kissed him, although he had not yet been cleaned, and Howard bent down to kiss her.

“What time is it?” Lillian asked, wanting to know so the child could mark the time of his birth. “Is it still morning?”

“It is, dear heart,” Howard said, his smile brighter than the sunshine that made the shadows in the room dance. Then he quoted Psalm 30. “Of course it is – joy cometh in the morning.”

Dear Mom, Vin, and Joe,

Howard and I have become parents of a beautiful, strong baby boy named Adam. I gave birth at home and did very well. Howard suffered a serious illness – pneumonia - but he survived it and has almost completely recovered. Thanks again for that Keflex, Joe).

Once again, I wish you could all three be here to share my joy. Little Adam will be the first of our family and we want more, all we can have.

Remember me with love and I hope that you receive my few notes someday.

Lillian Speakman.

Chapter Twenty-Seven (Afterward)

Lillian did not call again; she did not write. When Sylvia tried to call her, she reached voice mail. Lavinia reported the same thing and Sylvia was worried. She could not believe that nonsense that Lillian spouted about marrying Howard Speakman – “The Man” that as a ghost haunted her childhood – or going back in time. It was no more than one of Lillian’s notions, she knew, but after two and a half months of silence, Sylvia had suffered enough.

“Joe, we need to go down to Neosho and see Lillian,” she announced one Saturday morning to her husband.

“Sylvia, you know what Vinnie says,” Joe replied, without looking up from his morning copy of
The Kansas City Star.
“She says she met this Howard and she believes her sister.”

“Well, I don’t. It is a ridiculous story. I don’t know what kind of game Lillian is playing but I need to see her. Can we go down there today?”

He would do it, she knew and in an hour, they were in the car, speeding down the highway headed south. Lavinia, in the back seat, griped but she accepted the invitation to come along. That was good, Sylvia thought, because she had met a man who couldn't be a ghost. He must be a charlatan, she believed, to hold Lillian with such sway.

After lunch in Joplin, they motored into Neosho down the highway Sylvia recalled. They left the four lane new highway and trekked down the business loop toward town. Lavinia, silent since leaving The Outback, sat up and pointed.

“Look! See that sign. That must be Howard’s farm.”

On their right, just before they crossed under a railroad overpass, Sylvia saw a huge sign that read SPEAKMAN AND SONS FRUIT FARM, Apple, Peach, Cherry Orchards, Strawberries, Grapes, Pumpkins, All in Season.

“That’s not right,” Sylvia said. There had been a subdivision there; she remembered it well. Her best friend in high school, Nancy, lived there, on Greenwood Boulevard and back then, there had still been a few gnarled, old apple trees among the ranch style homes. “Did they tear out the neighborhood for the orchard?”

Joe turned to look at her and shook his head. Lavinia whooped with laughter.

“Mom, you just don’t get it, do you? That means she made it back and Howard lived.”

“Don’t be silly,” Sylvia said. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Joe pulled up and parked in front of the big brick house. Sylvia, who had not seen the place since she left it as a pregnant college student, stared with mingled horror and wonder. By now, she had expected it to be in poor repair, falling down into squalor but it looked better than she had ever seen it. The roof was sturdy and new. Every board was in good repair and the trim looked brilliant white, well cared for and neat. The brick shone clean and the lawns were lush. Those flowerbeds that she half-remembered from long ago blossomed with fragrant blooms, old-fashioned flowers like black-eyed Susans and snapdragons.

“Wow,” Vinnie said. “It looks great.”

Sylvia swiveled to look at her younger daughter.

“Didn’t it look like this when you were here?”

“No, it was a lot shabbier,” Vinnie said.

“Oh, well, let’s go to the door. We will surprise her.”

Sylvia pressed the old-fashioned door buzzer with a firm finger and when no one immediately opened the front door, she knocked in a loud, staccato rhythm.

“Lillian! Open this door!” she commanded and the massive front door swung open wide.

“Yes?” A little girl, four feet tall, looked up at her. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can. Please tell Lillian that her mother is here.”

The child’s face clouded and she frowned.

“I think you might have the wrong house. We don’t have anyone named Lillian here. I’m Riley.”

Sylvia fumed. Lillian’s joke was over now. It had never been funny but now it was rude.

“Listen, Riley, you need to tell my daughter Lillian that the joke is over. It isn’t funny anymore.”

“Riley?” A man’s voice echoed from the depths of the house. “Who is at the door?”

“It’s a lady,” the little girl called. “But she won’t listen to me that we don’t have a Lillian here.”

“I’ll handle it. Go play.”

Riley skipped away and a man stepped into the doorway. He was young, early thirties, and he looked familiar but she could not place the resemblance.

“Who are you looking for?”

“My daughter Lillian inherited this house from my father earlier this year,” Sylvia said, ignoring the fact he wasn’t friendly. “I haven’t heard from her in several months and so we came down from Kansas City to see if she’s well.”

He shook his head and started to step back.

“You’re mistaken. This house has been in my family since it was built in 1904.”

There was always someone crazy to deal with and Sylvia sighed.

“That isn’t true. For heaven’s sake, I grew up here myself.”

“Ma’am, it is true. You need to leave now or I will have to call the local police.”

“You can’t do that!” Sylvia wailed. “I have to find my daughter!”

“Mom,” Vinnie said, stepping beside her and putting an arm around her. “Let’s just go, okay?”

“No,” Sylvia said and then she shrieked, her hand outstretched and pointing at a picture that hung in the entryway. “There she is! That’s Lillian.”

She pushed back the man at the door and rushed to stand before the picture, crying. In it, Lillian in an outdated but still lovely wedding gown posed beside a handsome man. Behind them, a bank of white roses bloomed forever. Sylvia touched the glass on the frame, weeping aloud and muttering.

“Ma’am,” the homeowner said, his voice strained. “Please leave my house. Those are my great, great-grandparents, Lillian Dorsey and Howard Speakman on their wedding day, back in June 1904, in this house. It cannot be your daughter.”

He paused then and a strange look flitted across his face before it vanished. Sylvia turned to him, wiping tears away with one hand.

“My daughter is Lillian Dorsey! She called me last spring to tell me that she was going back in time to marry the ghost who haunted this house, Howard Speakman, because he could have another chance to live if she did. He died of pneumonia in early 1905 and he built this house.”

“Wait a minute,” He held up one hand. “Are you saying that my great, great-grandmother is your daughter? And are you telling me that my great, great-grandfather is a ghost who haunted you?”

Sylvia nodded. “Yes, that’s right. That’s her, there in the picture.”

She sank down onto the bottom step, a place she remembered well. She played with her dolls here and sometimes sat here, afraid to go upstairs because she might see The Man. Nothing made sense and the irate man telling her the house had been in his family forever was wrong. It was Lillian in that picture, had to be, because no one else would look that much like her daughter.

“Please leave,” the man said.

“Mom, show him Lil’s picture,” Lavinia said.

“Good idea!” Sylvia said, digging into her large handbag. She had just taken out several snapshots of Lillian when the homeowner glared down at her.

“I have to insist that you leave,” he said, again. “I don’t want to call the police. You seem like a nice but very troubled lady but I will if you won’t leave.”

“Look at these first,” she said and thrust them into his hands.

His stern expression shifted as he stared down at the photographs. There were three and each looked just like the bride.

“Your daughter resembles my great, great-grandmother,” he said, after a long silence. “It’s strange, stranger still because they have the same first name but there is no connection here.”

Sylvia opened her mouth to protest again, her mind swirling in crazy circles trying to take in all the information thrown at her.

“There may be,” Another man said from the top of the stairs. This one was older, a full generation older than the younger man was. “Good morning. I am Adam Speakman and that is my son, Howard. He normally uses his middle name, Brian, because he hates to be called Howie.”

At least someone had some manners, Sylvia thought, rising to her feet.

“I’m Sylvia Dorsey, this is my husband, Joe, and my daughter, Lavinia,” she said, with amazing poise in such an awkward, weird situation. “I am looking for my daughter, Lillian. She inherited this house from my late father, Charles David, earlier this year. She came to take possession of it but she disappeared. She stopped calling two months ago and we haven’t been able to get in touch. Now we drove down from Kansas City and she’s not here. Your son says that no one else but the family has ever lived here but I grew up here.”