Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (32 page)

      
I took Spike out the back door and let him snoop around for awhile as I sat on the back porch steps and shivered. It was no more than I deserved.

      
When I got back indoors, Billy was standing by the dresser, putting a bottle away. I stopped at the door, holding Spike, and bit my lip, telling myself to remember what Dr. Benjamin had said. An addiction to drugs was a small price to pay for freedom from pain. I wanted to know if that was the bottle Dr. Benjamin had given me. I wanted to know if he'd picked up another bottle somewhere. I wanted to know if he was seeing a doctor other than Dr. Benjamin. I'd heard that drug addicts were awfully clever when it came to securing their poison.

      
Instead of asking him any of those questions, I went over and kissed him, hoping my kiss conveyed even half the love I felt for him. Then I threw Spike onto the bed, thrilling him and making Billy chuckle again, changed into my nightgown, and crawled into bed. I think I went to sleep before Spike, who was a championship sleeper.

# # #

      
I spent the entirety of the following morning with my husband. Anxiety gnawed at my insides, and I had to suppress the urge to telephone Grenville's Books approximately seven hundred and fifty times, but Billy deserved a wife, and I was it. He, Pa and I decided to walk to the dry goods store on the corner of Marengo and Bellevue to buy some dried pea beans which, according to Pa, he was going to make into authentic Boston baked beans. In order to do it properly, he claimed, we'd have to make a detour to the butcher's shop for some salt pork. Since I'm game for trying anything at least once, I agreed to this scheme.

      
“What do you know about fixing Boston baked beans, Pa?” Billy wanted to know.

      
So did I. “Yeah, Pa, what's going on with this sudden urge to cook? Do you know something about Aunt Vi that we don't?”

      
He looked so horrified, both Billy and I laughed. “Good gosh, no!” Slapping a hand on his chest, he said, “Don't scare me like that, Daisy. I have a weak heart, remember.”

      
That was supposed to be funny, so I laughed. The truth was that the thought of Pa having another heart attack scared the living daylights out of me.

      
Billy saved the situation. “I didn't know you liked to cook, Pa.”

      
“I don't, but I remember eating my aunt Grace's baked beans when I was a kid, and I found this recipe in one of last year's
Good Housekeeping
magazines.” He flapped a folded periodical at us. “Just thought I'd give 'em a try. They're good with sausages or frankfurters.”

      
I covered Spike's ears. “Don't listen to him, Spike.” The puppy had been frolicking at our feet, trying to persuade us to take him with us. As much as I hated to disappoint the little fellow, I didn't think a trip to the butcher's shop would be a good idea for a piggy little puppy. He licked my hand.

      
Billy grinned at me and said to pa, “Sounds good to me.”

      
“My Massachusetts relatives still eat Boston baked beans every Saturday night. It's tradition.”

      
“I thought they lived in Auburn,” said I, handing Billy his overcoat. It was a struggle for him to get it on, because it was long, but the weather had taken a downturn, and his legs hurt in cold weather even worse than they normally did. I wasn't going to take a chance on him catching a chill, either. Dr. Benjamin's warnings about pneumonia and other lung ailments were clear in my mind.

      
Pa shrugged. “Auburn's close to Boston.”

      
“Ah.”

      
“It might be fun to see the eastern states someday,” said Billy. It was the most optimistic comment to come from that quarter in, literally, months.

      
“Yes, it would,” I agreed. “Isn't Sam from back east?” I knew he was. I was only making conversation.

      
Billy nodded. “New York.”

      
“Massachusetts is better,” said Pa with conviction.

      
Billy and I exchanged a glance and then we both laughed.

      
We used the back-door wheelchair ramp, then I pushed Billy down the long drive to the sidewalk in front of the house. Our across-the-street neighbor, Mrs. Killebrew, waved a bouquet of chrysanthemums at us. “Morning, Daisy! Mr. Majesty. Mr. Gumm. I'll bring you a bouquet when you get back home.”

      
“Thanks, Mrs. Killebrew. The flowers are gorgeous.” That pleased her. It pleased me, too, since I love to have flowers in the house.

      
It was, all in all, an auspicious beginning to our day. I made Billy put a light-weight rug over his legs, since I didn't want any part of him to get chilled, and we all three strolled along, chatting companionably.

      
“The only thing I didn't like when I was back east,” said Billy after contemplating the weather for a bit, “was clam chowder.”

      
“Where'd you eat it?” Pa demanded. “If you ate it in New York, you didn't eat the real stuff.”

      
“I can't remember. Why? What's the difference between New York clam chowder and everybody else's?”

      
“They put tomatoes in it in New York. Call it Manhattan clam chowder, but it's no kind of clam chowder, if you ask me,” Pa said in a disgusted voice, with a shudder to match.

      
“Oh.” Gee, I liked tomatoes. “Er, tomatoes don't go well with clams?”

      
“No.” Pa was as positive as I'd ever heard him.

      
“As far as I'm concerned,” Billy said, “it's the clams that don't go with the tomatoes. Clams don't go with anything that I care to eat.”

      
“You've never had 'em fried,” said Pa, virtually licking his chops. “Fried clams are ambrosia.”

      
“Ambrosia? Isn't that a little excessive?” I was giggling, though. Couldn't help it. Pa loved his food--too much, according to Dr. Benjamin. He pulled out a cigar, and another admonition of the doctor's made my giggle dry up. “Put that smelly thing away right this minute, Pa! You know what the doctor said.”

      
With the air of a person enacting one of Shakespeare's more tragic scenes, Pa heaved an enormous sigh and complied. “Darned women are always trying to spoil a fellow's fun.”

      
“Nuts to that,” I said, perhaps a trifle sharply. “I want the men in my life to last a while, thanks.”

      
Billy turned to glance back at me. He had a funny smile on his face. “I'm glad to hear it.”

      
I didn't know what he meant by that, but it made a shiver run up my spine.

# # #

      
After we got back from the butcher's and the grocer's, Pa put the salt pork in the ice box, the beans in the cupboard to await Friday night to be put in water to soak overnight (the only way to do it, according to Pa, whose pronouncement was affirmed by Aunt Vi), and I went across the street to get some of Mrs. Killebrew's chrysanthemums. She gave me a huge bunch, orange, yellow, white, purple and tan, and perfect for late fall.

      
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Killebrew.”

      
“You're more than welcome, Daisy. Your aunt Vi brought me over a loaf of her French bread yesterday, and I've never eaten anything so wonderful in my life.”

      
I nodded and smiled warmly. “Aunt Vi's the best cook in California, if not the United States.”

      
“She sure is. She gave me her raisin pie recipe, too.” Mrs. Killebrew's brows furrowed. “I hated to ask Vi because she's such a good cook and I'd feel stupid, but . . . well . . . do you know what a capital T means?”

      
“It means tablespoon,” I told her kindly. I didn't let on to Mrs. Killebrew, but I wanted to turn a handspring in joy at actually knowing the answer to a culinary question. It might be a small question, but
I,
Daisy Gumm Majesty, who couldn't even brew a decent pot of coffee, had answered it!

      
See? There's another example of the benefits of being middle-class. You can take pleasure in the small victories life presents you.

      
After I'd arranged three lovely bouquets of chrysanthemums and put one in the living room, one in the dining room, and one in our bedroom, I made lunch. I could fix sandwiches and open cans of soup without doing much damage to the kitchen or the people dining. Besides, we had Aunt Vi's leftover lamb to put between her fresh, home-made bread, and even I couldn't ruin those two commodities.

      
When we'd finished lunch, Pa went to his and Ma's bedroom to rest. I washed up the lunch dishes. A copy of
National Geographic
had been delivered in the morning's mail (in those days, first-class stamps cost two cents, and mail was delivered twice a day), and Billy settled in to read about Siberia, a place that sounded horrid to me.

      
I went to our bedroom to change into something more appropriate for afternoon visiting. I was only going to be visiting Grenville's Books, but Billy didn't have to know that. Maybe if he thought I was going about my spiritualist business, I wouldn't have to lie about my destination or the reason for my leaving home.

      
As I settled a sober brown hat over my dark red hair and tugged the jacket of my brown-and-white, cotton-and-wool-blend, ankle-length, shepherd-checked suit into place, I contemplated what a despicable woman I must be to consider a sin of omission preferable to a sin of commission.

      
Oh, well. I grabbed my small brown handbag, transferred the contents of that morning's bag into it, and braced myself to tell Billy I was leaving him, trying to console myself with the knowledge that we'd had a pleasant morning. That didn't work, so I gave it up.

      
Billy glanced up from his magazine. His face didn't change expression when he asked, “Going out?”

      
I went over and kissed him on the cheek. “Not for long.” I prayed it was the truth. “I'll be back soon.”

      
“Reading the cards and boards?”

      
He would have to ask. I sucked in air and lied yet again. “Yup. Both of those things.” What the heck. With luck, this situation would soon be resolved.

      
I wished I believed in luck.

      
“You look beautiful, Daisy.”

      
“Thanks, Billy. I made this suit with a bolt end I got at Hertel's Dry Goods. I'm glad you like it.” I gave a little twirl to show off the total ensemble. “It's got a new ankle-length skirt.”

      
His grin was a trifle lopsided. “I kind of liked the shorter skirts on you. You have pretty ankles.”

      
What in the name of gracious was the matter with the man? He
never
complimented me several times in less than six or seven months. “Thanks.” I kissed him again. “Need anything while I'm out?”

      
“No, thanks.”

      
So I left him there, reading about Siberia. According to the cover of the magazine, there was also an article about Haiti in December's issue. I'd rather have read about a tropical island than a frozen Bolshevist country with bread lines two blocks long. Standing in a bread line was inconceivable to me then, and I devoutly hoped I'd never have to find out what it was like.

Chapter Sixteen
 

      
I parked the old Ford at the curb in front of Grenville's Books. Then I walked in the door as if I had every right to be there, which I did, although I didn't feel like it.

      
Because it's what I usually did, I browsed through the new books George had put on display. I noticed Booth Tarkington's latest contribution to American literature and decided I didn't need to read it. If I wanted to be depressed, all I had to do was wake up in the morning.
The Magnificent Ambersons
had just about done me in. If Mr. Tarkington ever got himself analyzed and cheered up, I might tackle another one of his books.

      
There weren't any new books by Mary Roberts Rinehart, darn it. A lady named Agatha Christie had written a terrific mystery story a couple of years earlier, featuring a dapper Belgian detective named Hercule Poirot, but George didn't have any of her new books on his shelves, if she had any. She was British, and I guess it takes a while for books to travel from there to here.

      
People were still buying
This Side of Paradise
, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I presumed, since George had three copies of it. There's another book that had left me cold, since it was filled with bored young people who didn't have enough real work to do and who passed their time by being blasé, drinking too much, thinking life wasn't worth living, and getting into trouble. Nuts to them. I didn't care for people like that.

      
Fitzgerald had a new book out, as well, a compilation of short stories called
Flappers and Philosophers
, neither one of which excited me a whole lot. I didn't have time to fuss with philosophy, and had too many responsibilities to be a flapper. It seemed to me that Mr. Fitzgerald and I were destined to differ, which I'm sure was okay by him. And, since he was rich and I wasn't, maybe he had the right idea. I've never claimed to be brilliant.

      
Shoot, how'd I get on that subject? Oh, yes, the bookstore. There were a couple of Arthur Crabb's detective stories, which featured a guy named Samuel Lyle. I liked them pretty well, but I'd read the ones George had.

      
Then I noticed a book called
The Strange Case of Mortimer Finley
, by someone named Louis Tracy, which sounded interesting. I'd just picked it up to scan when I heard a murmur from George's back room. I froze for a second and my blood ran cold. Then I slammed the book down on the shelf and raced to the counter.