High Spirits [Spirits 03] (23 page)

      
After the service, we all took a side trip to the new chapel, where the minister prayed over it and blessed it. That was nice, too, and the chapel was quite pretty.

      
And then we were all invited to dine. Ma and Aunt Vi didn’t say anything as the congregation surged toward the place where they were serving the covered-dish lunch. I walked with Flossie since I couldn’t very well desert her to find out what my mother and aunt had thought of the service, but my curiosity ran rampant. I thought it had been swell, and exactly what I’d have liked to hear if I were down and out (which I prayed would never happen).

      
Thank God for Sam Rotondo.

      
Boy, I never thought I’d ever say
those
words. But while the rest of the throng was making a beeline for the food, Sam made a beeline for Billy. He and Pa assisted Billy—they really sort of carried him but tried to make it look as though he was walking on his own between them—to the room where the covered dishes, salads, vegetables, rolls and butter, and cakes and pies had been set out. I guess the Army folks call it a fellowship hall, just like we Methodists do.

      
Except for the threat of a private conversation with Sam, I actually enjoyed the lunch and the company. Those Army folks are mighty friendly, and they can cook, too. Flossie sat with us, and Johnny Buckingham joined us beside her at a long table. I guess he was a big gun at that church because nearly every person there that day came over to talk to him, and he introduced every single one of them to us and Flossie. They all seemed to be particularly gracious to Flossie, who seemed to blossom under the uncritical attention. It occurred to me that now that her bruises had faded and her hair color and dress had been toned down, she probably didn’t feel so alien in that group. They welcomed her with what appeared to be unfeigned joy, which probably helped as well. It’s nice to fit in.

      
Only two sour points marred that morning. The first was Sam, even though I appreciated his assistance with Billy. I couldn’t help dreading our pending conversation, although I knew it had to be done. Not only that, but it might well signal the end of what I’d begun to think of as the Maggiori problem.

      
I was happily munching away on a delicious fried-chicken thigh when Sam bumped my shoulder. Turning my head, I saw him looming at my back. I swallowed my chicken, glanced at Billy who nodded, I sighed deeply and rose from my seat.

      
“Save my seat,” I told Billy.

      
“Of course,” Billy said with a grin and a wink at Sam. “I won’t even eat your potato salad.” Huh. It looked as if they were both against me that day.

      
However, I knew I had to do this, so I followed Sam back into the sanctuary, where we had the place to ourselves. Even the ushers had cleaned up the pews and were probably enjoying the meal
I’d
been enjoying until now.

      
Sam started things on a disagreeable note. “Well?”

      
That’s it. No, “Thanks for doing this for us, Daisy,” or, “Will you please tell me what you’ve discovered.” Nope. Just “Well?” in that bass rumble of his. Phooey.

      
If that’s the way he wanted to play the game, so be it. “The rat is Peter Frye, and according to Flossie, he’s a policeman. So the leak
is
one of your own.” I’d have taken more satisfaction out of delivering this piece of information if I weren’t so troubled about having learned that one couldn’t even trust the police in this day of gang wars and illicit booze. I mean, if you couldn’t trust the cops, whom
could
you trust?

      
And then Sam truly shocked me.

      
He said, “Shit.”

      
And in a
church!
On
Sunday!
Even as forgiving a church as the Salvation Army undoubtedly didn’t want people saying words like that in their sanctuary, for heaven’s sake.

      
“Really!” I said, miffed.

      
At least he had the grace to say, “Sorry.”

      
“Do you know this Frye character?”

      
Sam heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Yeah, I know him. He’s pretty new in the department.”

      
“Evidently he’s a rotten apple.”

      
“Yeah. Evidently.” He squinted at me in what was by that time a very dark room since the sanctuary lights had been turned out. “You sure about this?”

      
“All I know is that I heard Maggiori talking to somebody on the ’phone, and it sounded as if the person he was talking to had connections with law enforcement. Then yesterday, when I was having lunch with Flossie, she said the snitch’s name is Peter Frye, and he’s a policeman.”

      
“Hell.”

      
There he went again.

      
I snapped, “Sam!”

      
He didn’t apologize that time but only grunted again and turned to go back to the covered dishes. I followed him, feeling crabby. Sam could take one of my good moods and turn it on its head faster than any other person I’d ever met. Well, except for Billy, but Billy’s circumstances were exceptional, and I gave him a lot of leeway. At least I tried to.

      
The dear man had not only saved my place at his table but had managed to get someone to refill my plate by the time Sam and I got back to my family. Billy scooted a little farther toward me to make room for Sam, for whom he’d somehow acquired a plate, too. Billy wasn’t able to stand in a line, so he must have talked someone else into doing Sam and me this service. What a guy my husband was. Every time his old sweetness resurfaced, I cursed the Kaiser and his deadly gas another few times. On Sunday. In a church. And I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it, either.

      
I kept a close eye on Flossie during the rest of the festivities. She’d been quite animated at first, but as the meal progressed, she began to withdraw into herself. I considered this a bad sign. Could it be that, while she’d welcomed the congregation’s greetings at first, she was getting tired of them? I gave her a measuring glance. Or could it be that she appreciated everyone’s friendliness but didn’t believe that she deserved to be among these people in the long run? I glanced measuringly some more. It was difficult to tell, although her symptoms pointed to the latter theory.

      
Her head was bowed, her chin quivered slightly and, while she tried to smile when Johnny addressed comments to her, she looked to me as if she were trying not to cry. She was merely toying with her food, which was a shame. Not only did she need proper nutrition, but the meal was really delicious. Poor Flossie. I resolved then and there to find Johnny Buckingham on a street corner tomorrow and have a good long chat with him about Flossie. If anyone could help her, I sensed it was Johnny and his Army of earthly saints.

      
The second sour note (Remember? There were two of them) occurred when I caught sight of the woman I’d thought looked like Stacy Kincaid in the fellowship hall and discovered that she actually, really and truly,
was
Stacy Kincaid. I dropped my fork.

      
Billy looked at me. “What’s the matter, Daisy?”

      
My state of shock was so absolute, I couldn’t speak. I only shook my head for a few seconds before stammering out, “I-I can’t believe it.”

      
Billy seemed puzzled. For good reason. “What can’t you believe?”

      
“That-that ...
person
.” Against etiquette, I pointed a trembling finger.

      
Billy glanced over to see what I was pointing at, but again the mob had swallowed Stacy up. Or, rather, it had swallowed up the woman whom I believed to be Stacy, although, when I thought about it, I realized that was patently impossible. Stacy Kincaid might frequent speakeasies and horrible people and think it was fun to smoke and drink and drive her mother into an early grave, but she’d
never
visit a church. Especially not a Salvation Army church. My mind was playing tricks on me.

      
I shook my head. “I-I ...” I shook my head
again
, hoping to rattle my brain back into place. “I must be wrong.”

      
Still bewildered, Billy asked, “About what?”

      
“Oh, nothing.” Then I laughed, seeing the humor in my wild surmises. “I thought I saw Stacy Kincaid!”

      
The notion was so utterly ridiculous that Billy laughed too. His laugh turned into a coughing spasm that had me wishing I’d kept my fat mouth shut.

      
Anyhow, after lunch we thanked Johnny for inviting us and asked Flossie if we could drive her home. Johnny was gracious and seemed genuinely appreciative that we’d come.

      
“I’ll visit you again, Billy. Take care of yourself.”

      
“I’ll try,” said Billy, with a trace of his customary bleakness.

      
“You can do it.” Johnny patted Billy on the back, but when he looked at me, I knew
he
knew what kind of torment Billy lived with every day. Still, for some reason, when Johnny talked to Billy he never made it sound as though he pitied him. I considered that one of Johnny’s most telling personality points.

      
He also didn’t say what lots of church people say: “I’ll pray for you.” Billy and I both knew—and I could tell Johnny did, too—that prayers, while nice and kindly meant, weren’t going to do Billy any good. His body was all shot up and his lungs were damaged beyond repair. When I realized Johnny knew exactly what I was thinking because he’d been through the hell and aftermath of that miserable war, too, I darned near started blubbering on the spot. Thank God I controlled myself.

      
I did grab his hand, look him in the eyes—mine were full of unshed tears—and say, “Thank you, Johnny.”

      
He squeezed my hand. “It’ll all work out, Daisy. God’s got a plan for Billy and you, too.”

      
I wished I believed that. I could tell Johnny knew what I was thinking because he grinned at me, winked, and bent to kiss my cheek. As he did so, he whispered in my ear, “You know, Daisy, once you’re here on earth, there’s only one way out. Only one person I know about ever cheated the grave—and He didn’t do that either, come to think of it.”

      
Nodding my understanding and closer than ever to tears, I said, “Thanks, Johnny.” He understood. He didn’t sugar coat the benefits of religion or the realities of life, and I honored him for it.

      
Flossie declined our invitation. She said she had transportation but thanked us. Her shoulders were slightly bowed, and she looked the picture of despair when she walked away from our group—and Sam, blast him. I wanted to call her back, but there were too many members of my own family to think about that morning, so I didn’t.

      
The rest of the day was pleasant. We didn’t do much. I think we all took a nap (I know I did), then Aunt Vi fixed us a nice supper of beef stew and biscuits.

      
Billy didn’t eat much. When I asked him if he was all right, he looked at me as if I was crazy and said, “I’m fine.”

      
But he wasn’t.

      
By the time morning came, he had a raging fever and his lungs were so congested, he could scarcely breathe.

      
In a panic, I telephoned Dr. Benjamin at his home. He came to call at our house not long after I’d called him. He was such a wonderful man. He was also the one who’d told me so often that Billy’s undoubted morphine addiction was surely better for him than living with constant pain.

      
He doctored Billy as best he could, bringing with him a jar of Vick’s VapoRub and a couple of mustard plasters. “Don’t use ‘em too much because they’ll burn the hell out of his chest.”

      
I promised I wouldn’t.

      
He also recommended that we keep a steaming pot of water near his bed. He gave us some eucalyptus pods to put in the water, telling us the merits of eucalyptus as an aid to better breathing. He also said that if they ran out, I should dump some VapoRub into the pot. Then he and I propped Billy up with pillows so his lungs would be less likely to fill and smother him.

      
“Keep cool compresses on his forehead when his fever is high and wipe him down,” he advised me as he was leaving. “Give him salicylic powders every four hours, and don’t worry about the morphine. He needs to rest as free from pain as possible.”

      
My chin quivered and my words shook when I said, “Thanks, Dr. Benjamin.”

      
And then he did something that would have shocked me if I hadn’t been so frazzled. He hugged me and whispered, “You know, Daisy, one of these days something like this is going to take him away from you. It might be influenza, or it might be a cold, or it might be pneumonia, but one of these days, one of those traitors will get him. Damned mustard gas.”

      
I broke down and wept on his shoulder. It wasn’t the first time I’d wept in front of Doc Benjamin, but this time I sobbed like a baby. It was
such
a relief to be able to do so that day. My stiff upper lip needed a break every now and then, and Dr. Benjamin provided it.

      
After crying for I don’t know how long, I pulled away, sniffled pathetically, made a futile swipe of my streaming face, and said, “Thanks, Doc.”

      
“You know I’m available to take care of Billy—and you and the rest of your family—any time, Daisy. I’ve been doctoring you all for years now, and I’m not going to quit on you or Billy, either one.”