Bonds of Earth (15 page)

Seward glared up at him, his chest heaving, and Michael felt his hand grow damp from the sweat he encountered there. Gaze wandering, he studied his own hand, the thin, clinging cloth of Seward’s undershirt, the taut quiver in his stomach. He remembered the nurse’s matter-of-fact notes from her consultation with Seward’s doctors:

Floating rib 12 shattered and removed

Before Michael was aware of his own actions, his fingers slid slowly downward until they were gently tracing the phantom line of the rib that no longer existed.

He is three months at the base hospital, only three months, but it feels like a lifetime. Ambulance drivers deal with smaller numbers, the casualties of a company or two, but orderlies at the base hospital wade through the living and the dead of a whole battalion or more. The worst is after a battle; the screams and moans of the men waiting for attention from the doctors and nurses rising in a hellish chorus, the inescapable stench of blood and shit, the dustbins overflowing with the amputated limbs. Michael helps the men—usually Negroes—whose job it is to bury the pieces, carrying them outside so that they can be hauled away or burned at the incinerator. It gives him an excuse to take a moment to breathe in fresh air, though the stink is on him, in him, and when he tries to smoke, his hands shake too much to hold his cigarette.

I might have thrown away a piece of you
, Michael thought, staring at his fingertips as they stroked back and forth, as if they were trying to conjure the bone back into existence.

A small lost sound from Seward brought him back to the present instantly. He blinked and raised his eyes to Seward’s wide-eyed, startled face. Seward’s skin was sheened with sweat, and his mouth was slightly open, as though he could not draw enough oxygen, as though Michael had been standing on his chest rather than touching it with the lightest pressure.

Jesus Christ
, thought Michael, hands jerking away from Seward’s body as though the contact had burned him. He averted his eyes, but he could feel the heat of Seward’s gaze on his face, branding silent questions into his skin.

“I—I’m sorry,” he murmured, rising swiftly to his feet. “That won’t happen again.”

Seward was silent for a long while before Michael heard him grunt and sit up.

“That’s what I used to tell myself,” he muttered. “I hope that you have more luck.”

E
VERYONE
—including Seward, apparently—was surprised when his aunt decided to pay a surprise visit to the house a few days later. Mary fussed and complained and promptly insisted that Michael accompany her to Hudson, where she purchased fine cuts of meat and fish for their guest.

“The nerve of that woman,” Mary huffed as she selected a salmon for the master’s supper and a pork hock for the rest of them in the new grocery on Warren Street. Even when Seward had taken his meals alone, he had always eaten the same food as the Abbotts. It was out of the question, however, that Rebecca Anderson would eat pork stew and dumplings. “Coming here without a word of warning.”

“She is the owner of the property. I suppose she can do whatever she likes,” Michael answered mildly.

Mary cut her eyes at him. “The thief of the property, you mean,” she sniffed, leaning in. “Johnny should have inherited that house.”

Michael frowned, irked that he was interested in the question he was about to ask. “And why didn’t he?”

Mary shook her head, her expression strangely shadowed. “Johnny and his father often… disagreed.”

“That wouldn’t be cause for disinheritance.”

“There was a terrible argument just before he sailed for Europe,” Mary elaborated as the fishmonger handed the wrapped salmon to Michael. Mary paid him, and they proceeded on to the butcher’s stall. “His father didn’t want him to join up, especially after he refused any… special consideration. In fact, he asked to be sent to the front.”

Michael nodded. In the neighborhood in which he had grown up, everyone knew that rich men’s sons were not drafted, and if they enlisted in the army, they were swiftly given commissions and relegated to safe positions far behind the lines. Learning that Seward had requested active duty was like hearing the moon really was made of green cheese.

“And his mother?”

Mary shook her head. “She died when Johnny was a boy hardly older than Sarah is now.”

Michael was struck dumb at this, his thoughts churning. It was not the first time he’d considered the strange bond between himself, Seward, and the little girl. They were, in their own peculiar ways, intimately acquainted with loss and loneliness. Now it seemed they had one more thing in common.

As though she’d been conjured, Sarah flew up to them and showed them a brightly colored handbill. “A man gave me this!” she exclaimed, as near to excitement as Michael had ever seen her. “Can we go?”

Mary took the paper from her and eyed the bold print as Michael peered over her shoulder. It was an advertisement for a Labor Day celebration on the riverfront next week, promoting games, fun, and frolics of all kinds.

Mary frowned pensively. “I will have to consider it, Sarah. With your grandfather still not feeling as fit as he might, and Mister Seward….”

“We can help them,” Sarah said, her eager gaze darting from Michael to Mary and back again. “Can’t we? There are going to be races and prizes and fireworks, and a parade with lots and lots of music.”

Perhaps it was the girl’s uncharacteristic childishness that melted Mary’s heart, but whatever the cause, she smiled and curved a hand over the back of her granddaughter’s head. “We’ll see, sweetling,” she said warmly. “We’ll see.”

Solemnly, Michael tapped the girl on the shoulder. “Hold my fish,” he told her, thrusting the salmon into her hands. When she grasped it, he swung her up onto his shoulder, making her giggle.

“Well,” Mary said briskly, taking the pork hock and the change from the grocer, “at least now we have hope for Johnny. We have you to thank for that.”

“Don’t thank me,” Michael said. “I’m only—”

Mary’s hand gripped his arm, squeezing. “I’ll thank who I please,” she said tartly, though the smile still played about her lips. “And I please to thank you.”

The corners of Michael’s mouth twitched in spite of himself. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, hearing her chuckle as he held the door for her before stepping out into the warm summer day, ducking as he crossed the threshold with Sarah held fast in his arms.

S
INCE
Abbott was still on the mend, Michael was charged with the tasks the old man would have normally carried out at the supper that evening. He picked up all he needed to know about table service from a half hour at Abbott’s knee, and then he was thrust into the dining room to perform his duties.

It was more than odd acting as the butler to a man who had been sharing every meal with him for the last week, not to mention the nearly two months Michael had spent nagging and prodding him incessantly into pushing his body beyond the limits of its endurance. He’d never had much patience with class distinctions and had always chosen jobs where his Bowery Irish upbringing hadn’t been a hindrance to him. Ladling out soup and pouring wine while Seward and his aunt enjoyed their lavish meal was his idea of purgatory.

It soon became evident, however, that Seward was as far from enjoying the experience as Michael was, perhaps more so. Throughout the meal, he watched the tension in Seward’s shoulders increase until his hands ached to ease it.

“I don’t see why you needed the ballroom,” sniffed Mrs. Anderson, picking at her salmon while Michael waited to clear away the dishes. “There are many rooms in the house—”

“Your precious house will eventually be restored to its former glory,” Seward said patiently. “Never fear.”

“Well, of course I’m not fearful, it’s only that—oh, well, never mind,” she said. “I suppose it is an excellent room for the purpose. And it’s certainly yielding results. You look better than I’ve seen you since you came back from overseas.”

“Thank you,” Seward said mildly, though Michael could hear the scorn lying underneath.

Seward’s aunt, apparently, took him at face value, for she smiled patronizingly and said, “You’re welcome.” Looking up at Michael, she inclined her head. “I suppose we have you to thank for John’s new lease on life.”

Surprised at being addressed, Michael blinked, then shook his head. “Your nephew deserves the credit, mum,” he said quietly, earning him a measuring look from Seward. “He’s the one doing all the work.”

The woman frowned slightly. “Hm. Yes, well, humility is a very becoming trait in a young man. But of course John and I know the real truth, don’t we?”

Seward took a sip of his wine. “There are many truths, Aunt Rebecca. We cannot possibly hope to know them all.”

Her frown deepened for a moment before clearing. “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” she said finally, though Michael could tell she hadn’t understood a word Seward had said. The conversation faded for a while as they finished their meals.

“As delightful as it is to have you here,” Seward said after a few minutes, “you haven’t yet mentioned how long you’ll be gracing us with your presence.”

Seward’s aunt looked vastly uncomfortable before gathering herself as for a leap off a cliff. “Well, I had hoped to stay on through tomorrow”—the rest was said in a rush—“and then take you back with me to the city for a visit.”

Seward shook his head. “Oh, Auntie, you’re so predictable.”

Mrs. Anderson’s expression grew hard. “Surely you’re not going to insist on living as a hermit for the rest of your life. You have obligations—”

“Obligations to whom?” Seward said, voice soft and dangerous. “Obligations to a house that’s no longer mine? To a man who disowned me?”

Hell
, thought Michael. There was no way he could make an escape now without appearing conspicuous. He wished fervently for the floor to open up and swallow him.

The woman regarded Seward speculatively, as though she were a general searching for weaknesses in the enemy lines. “Myra’s been asking after you,” she said, her tone wheedling. “You haven’t been in touch with her since you’ve returned.”

“Myra is only keeping up appearances,” Seward said shortly. “We reached a very clear understanding before I left. If she hasn’t hunted up fresh game for herself by now, she’s a fool.”

His aunt continued undaunted. “Everyone has been very concerned about you. Now that I’ve told them you’re on the mend, they’re—”

“Less inclined to think me a raving lunatic taking potshots at visitors?” Seward finished for her.

The woman’s pale, cool eyes glittered, all pretense of jocularity vanishing in an instant. “One might hope that you would at least think of your mother—”

“I have told you before”—Seward’s tone was knife-sharp—“to never speak of my mother in front of me.”

“George used to complain about your unreasonable devotion to her,” she sneered. “I believe he once characterized it as pathological.”

Michael tensed, waiting for the explosion, but Seward only sat back in his chair and laughed. “That’s hardly a surprise,” he said, voice so low that Michael could barely hear him. “To Doctor Seward, my very existence was pathological.”

Before his aunt could do anything but gape at this, Seward had risen smoothly from his seat. Draining the last of his wine, he bowed slightly to his aunt and said, “Please forgive me, but I find myself suddenly exhausted by the day’s events. It’s a hazard of my condition. Feel free to stay and allow Mister McCready to serve you dessert and coffee. I understand Mary has prepared her specialty—floating island.” And with a final smirk at Michael, he turned and left them alone.

Michael moved forward and silently picked up Seward’s plate and glass, then escaped into the kitchen with them. By the time he returned, Mrs. Anderson was nowhere to be seen.

“More floating island for me,” Michael said softly, smirking a little himself as he cleared away the rest of the dishes.

L
ATE
that night, after another vivid dream left him restless and shaken, Michael descended the stairs and let himself out into the clear, warm night. As he rounded the corner, the scent of pungent cigarette smoke assaulted his nostrils. Following his nose, he walked to the terrace, where a dim shape leaned over the railing.

It took him a minute for his eyes to adjust, the moon being only half-full, but by the time he reached the stairs, he could see Seward quite clearly. He had his hand cupped protectively over the glowing end of his cigarette, a habit from the front he obviously hadn’t lost.

Michael turned and leaned back against the railing, arms folded. “I see you had a secret hoard.”

Seward blew smoke into the air. “No lectures,” he warned.

Michael raised his hands. “I was only wondering if you might be able to spare one.”

Seward turned to look at him for a long moment, then reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a silver case. He handed it to Michael, who removed one and tapped it on the smooth metal before handing it back. Michael felt the warm brush of Seward’s fingers against his own, and his breath hitched at the unexpected heat that arrowed straight into his bones at the contact.

Seward gave no overt indication that he’d experienced the same strange effect, but he did make three fumbling attempts to light Michael’s cigarette before succeeding. Not long after the first rush of smoke hit his lungs, Michael found his equilibrium returning.

And then he started coughing.

“God, these are awful,” he wheezed.

Seward chuckled dryly and released another stream of smoke. “You haven’t smoked in a while?”

“I’m trying to quit,” Michael managed, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under his heel.

“So am I. Therapist’s orders.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at him. “Too bad you’re remarkably bad at following orders.”

Seward stared at him, then started laughing. It was the first genuine laugh Michael had heard from him. “Point taken.”

They stood together in almost amiable silence for a while before Michael heard himself say, “Perhaps you should go to New York.”