Dunaway's Crossing (35 page)

“Let’s take a ride, shall we? You turn the crank, and I’ll set the spark control lever.” After firing the engine, Will settled in the passenger seat, his stomach a bucket of crickets. He eyed the gear shift warily as Mr. Barksdale shifted the gears and moved the car forward. Perhaps the open air helped, but Will found the ride surprisingly more comfortable than he anticipated. Not until the motorcar reached the corner of Jones and Whitaker did Will wonder where he was going.

“What business am I helping you with today, sir?”

“Not a meeting you’ll relish,” Mr. Barksdale said. “I need you to go with me to talk to Ben Ferguson.”

Loathing washed over Will, and he turned the corner of his mouth in disgust.

“I’m not hot in the pants to talk to him myself,” Mr. Barksdale explained. “But for Bea Dot’s sake, I must. I’ll not have him causing her any more trouble—not for her or my family.”

“What do you intend to tell him?”

“I mean to convince him that he should give Bea Dot a quiet divorce.” Mr. Barksdale’s face had turned from a stern countenance to a scowl. Will understood the expression. The thought of Ben Ferguson easily provoked it. “If I must, I’ll tell him that if he resists I’ll charge him with attempted murder. I want you there as a witness.”

“I see.” The crickets in Will’s stomach jumped again as he doubted Ben would take Mr. Barksdale’s suggestion easily.

“This situation between him and Bea Dot might get uglier before it gets better,” Mr. Barksdale said, “but I’ve got to give it a try.”

Will nodded, and the two rode in silence the remaining few minutes as the Chevrolet bumped along the few blocks of Whitaker Street to the Ferguson home. Will eyed the pastel colored porches adorned with gingerbread, and he wondered at Bea Dot’s ability to leave such refinement and feel at home in his country trading post.

The Chevrolet slowed, and Mr. Barksdale pulled it to the side of the street in front of Bea Dot’s house. Will gazed at the wide brick steps loading up to the front porch and heavy oak door. This house was an unfamiliar part of Bea Dot—one he didn’t care to know.

“Let’s go in,” Mr. Barksdale said, holding the passenger door open. Will hadn’t noticed the man getting out of the car.

Slowly Will got out himself, and the two approached the front steps, but a strange sight halted Will, and he grabbed Mr. Barksdale’s arm.

“Why is the front door open?” he asked, the back of his neck buzzing with suspicion.

Mr. Barksdale waved away Will’s question. “Everybody knows Ben likes his whiskey. He probably left it that way.”

“At two in the afternoon?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Mr. Barksdale loped up the walk and ascended the front steps, and Will followed.  After knocking twice on the door, Mr. Barksdale called in. “Ben? David Barksdale here. I need to talk to you.”

After pausing for a response, Mr. Barksdale pushed the door open, and Will followed him into the foyer where he’d recently wrestled Bea Dot’s louse of a husband.

“Ben? Are you here?” He stepped further into the house.

“Maybe he’s not home,” Will suggested.

“Let’s just look and see. I’d rather not come back here again.” He crept through the foyer and into the dining room, with Will following close behind. They peered into the parlor and then the kitchen, but found no one.

“I don’t think he’s here,” Will persisted, the dis-ease swelling within him. What would Ben do if he came home and found him and Mr. Barksdale snooping around?

Mr. Barksdale stepped into the back hall and then stopped short.

“Oh, good God,” he exclaimed as he buried his nose in his elbow.

Will rushed to his side and peered over the man’s shoulder. On the floor next to an overturned telephone stand lay Ben Ferguson, gray in the face and struggling for breath. A pink line of sputum ran from the corner of his mouth and over his pudgy, bluing cheek. He smelled of sweat and urine. The candlestick telephone lay just out of reach, its ear piece disconnected from the receiver. Ben weakly lifted his hand in Will’s direction.

“Get out of here. Now.” Will grabbed Mr. Barksdale by the elbow and pulled him back into the kitchen. “He’s got influenza.”

The two men locked eyes for a beat. Then Mr. Barksdale stammered, “We…we must call a doctor.”

He stepped toward the hallway, but Will stopped him again.

“Don’t use this phone,” he warned. “Go next door and call a doctor from there.”

“What about you?” Mr. Barksdale asked.

“I’ve already had it,” Will said. “If Ralph Coolidge is right, then I can’t get it again.” Will cursed Ben Ferguson for putting him and Mr. Barksdale at risk.

Mr. Barksdale stood motionless, staring at Ben’s deathly face.

“Go,” Will said.
Before I change my mind
.

Mr. Barksdale ran out the back door, and Will turned his attention to Ben, who curled into a ball as a coughing spell turned him into a hacking, choking mess. Will turned his back until the fit subsided. Then, removing his suit jacket, he stepped over Ben and stooped at his feet, covering them with the coat. Then he grabbed Ben’s ankles and tugged, pulling him into the adjoining bedroom.

Littered with whiskey bottles and soiled towels, the room reeked with the same sour odor. Bed linens lay crumpled in a pile on the floor. As Will tugged Ben toward the bed, he knocked the sick man’s head against the door frame. He couldn’t help feeling a touch of satisfaction from the thump.

He stopped to rest once Ben lay on the floor next to the bed. Then he stooped and grabbed him under the arms, lifting Ben’s torso to heave him up to the mattress. But then he stopped himself, remembering the days he lay lingering on Ralph Coolidge’s floor, delirious with fever and clenching with the excruciating pain of each breath. A memory flashed through his mind of Bea Dot, her back against the wall, struggling against Ben’s choking grasp. Will released his grip, and Ben dropped to the floor with a groan.

“I can’t leave you here to die,” he said. “But I’ll be damned before I make you comfortable.”

He stepped over the ailing drunkard and went to the kitchen, where he found a cake of soap in the window over the sink. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly, not so much to protect himself from contagion, but to wash any residue of Ben Ferguson from his body.  Retching coughs sounded from the bedroom, and Will wandered into the front of the house to escape the disgusting noise. Mr. Barksdale and a doctor appeared at the front door just as Will reached it. Flustered, the white-haired, red-eyed doctor skipped any introductions.

“Where is he?”

“Back in the bedroom.” Will pointed his thumb behind him, and the physician rushed around him toward his patient.

“Thought we’d seen the last cases…” The doctor’s voice trailed away as he disappeared into the back of the house.

Mr. Barksdale stood at the threshold, breathing heavily.

“I just ran to his house,” he explained. “He lives just a couple of blocks away.”

Will nodded, then stepped onto the porch with Mr. Barksdale. He sat on the top step and rested his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.

“Call me the devil,” Will said to his feet, “but I hope we were too late to save him.”

Mr. Barksdale sighed and joined Will on the step. He put a hand on Will’s shoulder, but said nothing. After a few minutes of silence, Will turned his gaze to Bea Dot’s uncle.

“Earlier, you said Ben likes his whiskey, as if everyone in town knows he’s a drunk.”

Mr. Barksdale nodded sadly, his forearms resting on his knees. He gazed at Forsyth Park across the street for a few seconds before answering.

“No boy needed a sibling as much as that one,” he said. “His parents made sure he never wanted for anything, never had to work for anything. Officially, he’s employed at his father’s shipping firm, but he spends most of his time at the club paying the tab for anyone who will drink with him. He’s always been an arrogant, spoiled son of a bitch. Not a drop of responsibility.”

Nothing Mr. Barksdale said surprised Will. The few minutes he’d spent with Ben Ferguson gave just the impression Bea Dot’s uncle described. The only thing he couldn’t understand was how Bea Dot ended up as his bride.

“How long has Bea Dot been married to him?”

“Not a year yet,” Mr. Barksdale said sadly, still staring at the park. “About ten months. We never understood it. She’s such a sweet, beautiful girl. Lavinia always said Bea Dot could have any man she wanted.”

“And that’s who she wanted?” Will asked.

“She insisted on marrying Ben. Right away, too. Wouldn’t let her aunt plan a wedding. In fact, she and Netta argued about it, and that’s why Netta didn’t come to the ceremony.”

“Oh.” Will hadn’t realized Bea Dot and Netta had fought. No wonder their time at the crossing was so strained.

“I thought she might be worried about money,” Mr. Barksdale continued. “My brother—her father—had just recently passed.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “But I told her I’d always take care of her.” His brow creased as he spoke, and Will nodded, now realizing the enormous sorrow the Barksdale family had endured over the last year. “We knew about his drinking. If we’d known how…brutal…he was, we’d never have stood for it.”

Mr. Barksdale buried his face in his hands, and Will put a consoling hand on the man’s back, fully understanding the heaviness of feeling responsible for another’s tragedy.

“Aunt Lavinia? Where are you?”

“In here, dear.”

Bea Dot followed the voice to the parlor, where she found her aunt seated at the divan reading a magazine.

“This article says that we should substitute the word parlor for living room,” she said with a puzzled look on her face. “I think that sounds right odd, don’t you?”

“How do I look?”

Aunt Lavinia raised her face, and Bea Dot turned, allowing her aunt a full view of her borrowed clothes. Aunt Lavinia clasped her hands over her chest and smiled warmly. “I think those will do just fine for now. They’re a little outdated, and I was afraid they’d be long. But I’m sure they’re warmer than the frock you had on yesterday.”

Bea Dot ran her hand down the front of Netta’s old wool skirt. Aunt Lavinia had found it and the long-sleeved muslin Gibson girl shirt in Netta’s former armoire. The outfit looked more fitting with Aunt Lavinia’s 1899 hair style, but Bea Dot valued the clothes for sentimental reasons.

“If you’d like, I’ll ask Penny to hem them for you,” Aunt Lavinia offered. “They might be more comfortable until you get some clothes of your own.”

Bea Dot doubted she would have new clothes any time soon. All the money she had was the small pack of bills she took from Ben’s pocket. Even that wouldn’t last long.

“Where’s Will?” Bea Dot asked, noticing the quiet in the house.

“He went with your Uncle David,” Aunt Lavinia answered, marking her place in the magazine, then laying it on the table. “Some errands they had to attend to. They should be back soon.” She patted the divan seat. “Come sit with me. We still haven’t had a chance to visit.”

As much as Bea Dot appreciated her aunt’s love and help, she dreaded this tête-a-tête. She’d let Aunt Lavinia down, but she had to face the music. “Aunt Lavinia…”

“Darling I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,” her aunt interrupted. “Thank you for all you did for Netta. I’m sure you were a great comfort to her, especially at the end.” Lavinia’s voice quaked on her last to words, and Bea Dot’s throat constricted as well.

“How can you be so gracious?” Bea Dot asked. “I’ve failed you and Ralph. Netta would probably still be here today if I’d insisted on a doctor’s care.”

Aunt Lavinia clutched Bea Dot’s hand and leaned toward her niece. “What doctor’s care?” she asked. “There was no way Ralph could have delivered the baby. You were all in an impossible situation. Of course, my heart is broken at the loss of my child, and a grandchild to boot, but it’s a comfort to know that you were with Netta at her last moments. She loved you so much.”

The tears pooling in Aunt Lavinia’s eyes heightened the blue of her irises. Bea Dot’s heart swelled with relief and gratitude, but then she registered Aunt Lavinia’s last sentence and frowned. “What did you mean, ‘and a grandchild to boot’?”

This time Aunt Lavnia wrinkled her forehead. “Why, just that, dear. I’ll never know my grandbaby, and I’ll never have another. Maybe one day you’ll have a little one for me to dote on.”

“But Aunt Lavinia, the baby didn’t die,” Bea Dot said, shaking her head. “Netta had a little girl. She’s named after her mother.”

“Really?” Aunt Lavinia drew her hand to her mouth, and the tears—of joy this time—spilled onto her cheeks. “I have a granddaughter?”

“I’m so sorry for the confusion,” Bea Dot said. “I thought Ralph had explained.”

Aunt Lavinia shook her head, then pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. “We haven’t spoken,” she said. “We got a short letter from him. He was so distraught, and so overwhelmed with the influenza.” She inhaled deeply and stared out the window as she recalled the horrible day of Netta’s death. “Reading it broke my heart to bits. I was crushed to learn of my baby’s death, but also terribly worried for Ralph and for you. We tried to phone, but we couldn’t get through.”