Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (14 page)

This woman had access to most of the money in the world, and she wanted the Salvation Army to help her? I still didn’t understand. Instead of saying that, I said, “How did you know about my dealings with the Salvation Army?”

“
Harold Kincaid told me you were teaching a cooking class there. He also told me a little bit about the program you’re helping with.”

Hmm. It made sense that Harold and Emmaline Castleton knew each other, both being in the very wealthy segment of Pasadena society. However, I still didn’t know why she was interested in the Salvation Army. “Um . . . are you interested in volunteering at the Salvation Army?”

“
Yes.” Then she shook her head again. “No.” She lifted her hands and let them fall in a classical gesture of frustration. “Oh, it’s all so complicated!”

Because I was tired, and because I felt her pain, and because I was nosy, I said, “Perhaps we should get together somewhere else at another time. Somewhere we can talk in private, I mean, and not have to worry about being interrupted.”

She leaped at that suggestion. “Yes! Oh, yes, Mrs. Majesty. Thank you so much. Won’t you come to my house for luncheon? Um . . . the day after tomorrow? Or Tuesday? Tuesday would be better, although I’m terribly anxious about this whole thing.”

“
Tuesday would be fine with me,” I said in a low, caressing tone. “When you say your house, do you mean . . . ?”

“
I mean my father’s palace.” She sounded sarcastic. Then she brushed her hand over her eyes, and said, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Father is a wonderful man. He just doesn’t . . . understand some things. I desperately need advice, Mrs. Majesty. Please come on Tuesday.”

“
I’ll be happy to, Miss Castleton.” And that was no fib. I’d been fascinated by that gigantic estate on South Allen Avenue and Oxford Road for years. I’d love to be able to see it in person.

“
Thank you, Mrs. Majesty. I’ll tell Stickley to admit you at the gate.”

From that, I assumed Stickley was the gatekeeper, as Jackson was Mrs. Kincaid’s gatekeeper. “I’ll see you then.”

We shook hands on it, and I drove home, mulling over my conversations with Miss Castleton and Hilda. I didn’t know enough about Miss Castleton to mull much of anything at that point, so I figured our conversation was over.

After our little chat, I was pretty sure Hilda came from Germany and not Switzerland. Should I do anything about that? It was altogether possible that she was in the country legally, after all. I suppose I could ask Johnny Buckingham to dig a little deeper into her background. Or I could talk to Sam about her. If anyone discovered she was here illegally, the authorities would deport her.

I expected my heart to leap at that thought, but it didn’t, surprising me. It then dawned upon me that I liked Hilda. Even though she was probably a German. I liked her a good deal more than I liked Gertrude Minneke, in fact, and I was willing to keep Gertrude’s secret.

Oh, bother. I hated having secrets. Shoot, I generally didn’t have any secrets at all, and now I had
two
of the darned things to bedevil me!

Chapter Eight

The next day was horrible. We all went to church in the morning, and that part was all right. So was lunch, which was pork ribs and liberty cabbage. Oh, very well, it was sauerkraut, but that was German, and I still called it liberty cabbage, even though the war had been over for several years. Anyhow, pork ribs, which Aunt Vi cooked in the oven with liberty cabbage, apples, and potatoes was one of my favorite meals.

But after lunch, when I was planning which spiritualistic outfit to wear the following day when I visited clients, I discovered by accident that Billy had managed to secrete several bottles of morphine syrup in the back of our closet. If I hadn’t been searching for a shoe I needed, I never would have found his stash.

Ma and Pa had settled in the living room and were reading the Sunday edition of the
Pasadena Star News,
and Aunt Vi had gone upstairs to her quarters to take a well-deserved afternoon nap. Billy and Spike had gone out in the backyard, where we’d planted two orange trees: a Valencia and a navel. Having both trees was great, because it meant we had lovely fresh oranges all year long, or just about. Besides, the blossoms smelled heavenly when they were blooming. Sometimes I’d go out back just to breathe in their scent.

That afternoon, I stared into the box containing the morphine syrup, confounded. I was well aware of Billy’s morphine use, but I generally picked up his supply from Dr. Benjamin. At least I thought I did. Where had he come by all this stuff? More importantly, why had he come by it? He didn’t need to stash morphine syrup away, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t mind visiting the doctor for him. An awful thought came to me then, and my knees almost gave out. I managed to get myself to the bed, and I stayed there for several more minutes, brooding and feeling a great, sick weight on my heart.

Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I went out back to talk to Billy. He sat in his chair under the navel-orange tree, flipping through the latest edition of
National Geographic,
one of his favorite magazines. I think he liked it because before we were married, we talked about traveling the world someday. He didn’t look up when I shut the back door. Pa had built a ramp both in the front and back so Billy could maneuver his wheelchair, which was one of those modern ones with the big wheels that enabled the person in it to move about by himself. Or herself, if that was the case. Spike had rolled himself up in a little doggy ball and resided lazily on the grass beside the wheelchair. He was so relaxed, he only wagged his tail when I showed up. I’ve never, ever regretted getting Spike for Billy. They were constant companions, and Billy never treated Spike rudely, as he did me.

“
Billy?”

He lifted his head, but he didn’t smile. “Hey, Daisy.”

I walked over and crouched down next to his chair. “Billy, I found all that morphine syrup you had stored in the closet.”

His lips pinched, and his eyebrows lowered. Then he said, “Dammit, Daisy, what were you doing snooping around in my things? Can’t I have
any
privacy? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m a damned cripple? Do I have to give up all my freedom, too?”

I told myself to hold on to my temper. “I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for a shoe. I found the box by accident. What I want to know is why, Billy. Why do you have so much morphine syrup?”

“
That’s my business.”

“
Where did you get all that stuff, Billy?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

“
But—”

“
And I’ll tell you right now that if you get rid of those bottles, I know where to get more.”

I was flummoxed. “But I can get plenty of morphine from Dr. Benjamin.”

He stuck his nose in his magazine again. “Not plenty enough.” His voice had turned into a surly growl.

My voice cracked a little. “What do you mean, Billy? I know you’re in a lot of pain, but—”

He slammed his magazine down onto his lap. “Dammit, Daisy, don’t you understand? I hate this life of mine! I hate the body I can’t use any longer. I hate that I can’t do anything. I hate that I can’t walk, can’t work, can’t breathe half the time, and I . . . I just hate it. I hate that I can’t be a proper husband to you. Can’t you understand that?”

I felt my chin tremble and tried not to break down. “I do understand that, Billy, but I don’t want anything to happen to you. You can take too much of that stuff, you know, and it’d kill me if that happened. I know you’re in pain, and I—”

He interrupted me again. “I love you, too, Daisy, but you need a whole man. You don’t need a wreck like me. For God’s sake, do you think I
like
being this way?”

My voice broke, and I had to speak through tears. “I don’t
want
anybody else! I know you hate being the way you are now, Billy, but I’d die if anything happened to you.”

“
For God’s sake, Daisy, something
has
already happened to me.”

“
I know it, and it’s horrible. But I’ve loved you my whole life, Billy. I don’t care if you’re confined to a wheelchair.”

He slammed his hand over his chest. “
I
care, dammit! And I hate it. This life is more painful than I can stand, and one of these days, when it gets too bad, I want to know that I have an option. One of these days, when I can’t stand it any longer, I’m going to use that syrup, and nobody’s going to stop me.”

I stared at him, horrified, for several seconds. “You’d . . . you’d really kill yourself? On purpose?”

He hesitated for a second, his lips a thin, flat white line. Then he said simply, “Yes.”

“
Oh, Billy!” And I buried my head in his lap and cried, right on top of the
National Geographic.

To give him credit, he didn’t want to hurt me. He stroked my head and murmured, “I’ve loved you for almost as long as you’ve loved me, Daisy. But my life is hardly a life at all anymore. I’m not a husband to you. I’m a burden to your whole family. Do you think I enjoy knowing that?”

“
You’re not a burden, Billy. And I know you think you are and don’t enjoy it,” I burbled. “But I try to make your life better, Billy. Truly I do.”

He sighed shallowly, the only way he could sigh. “I know you do, sweetheart. And I know I’m rough on you a lot of the time. I don’t like the way you support me. I don’t like that you
have
to support me. God, I hate being helpless.”

Sniffling pathetically, I said, “Spike would be awfully lonely if you left us, Billy. And I’d be devastated.”

He said, “Ha,” bitterly.

“
Oh, Billy.”

We sat there for several more minutes, until my tears dried. Then I sat on the grass beside the chair and drew Spike into my lap, feeling hopeless and helpless and wishing I could wave a magic wand or something and cure my husband’s many ills. Damned Germans and their damned mustard gas.

Then I thought about Hilda Schwartz and gave a huge sigh. Darn it. I couldn’t even hate the entire German race any longer. Was nothing sacred? Recalling that box full of morphine syrup, I bleakly acknowledged that, no. Nothing was sacred. Not even life, for my darling Billy.

The next day, when breakfast was over and Billy and Spike were cozy in the living room with Pa, I canceled the appointment I’d had with Mrs. Kincaid. I didn’t want Billy to overhear.

“
Are you sure you can’t come, dear?” She sounded shaky, but that was nothing unusual.

“
I’m very sorry, Mrs. Kincaid. I need to visit the doctor. It’s . . . it’s important.” I didn’t want to confess that my visit was about my husband. Mrs. Kincaid knew about Billy’s problems, but not the extent of them, or of the despair those problems caused him. Not to mention me. “Perhaps we can reschedule our appointment.”

She hesitated a second or two, then said slowly, “Yes. I suppose we can do that. Are you unwell, Mrs. Majesty? I certainly hope you aren’t.”

“
Oh, no. It’s not about me.” Drat. I hadn’t even wanted her to know that much. She wouldn’t have minded, of course, but Billy didn’t like his problems broadcast to the world, and I felt honor-bound to keep his confidence. Besides, I aimed to keep this particular doctor visit a secret even from Billy.

“
Is it about your poor husband?” Mrs. Kincaid’s voice fairly throbbed with sympathy.

I sighed, then said, “Yes. It is.”

“
That poor, poor man.”

He was that, all right. I didn’t say anything.

“
Very well, dear. Do take care, and ring me when you’re able to come over.”

“
I will, Mrs. Kincaid. Thank you. Perhaps. . . .” I was going to mention the morrow, but recalled my appointment with Miss Castleton just in time. “Perhaps I can come on Wednesday. Would that be all right with you?”

“
Wednesday would be fine, dear. Is ten o’clock all right with you?”

“
Yes. Ten o’clock on Wednesday. See you then.” I hesitated for a second, then blurted out, “Thank you for your understanding, Mrs. Kincaid.”

“
Of course, dear.”

So I went to see Dr. Benjamin. I’d talked to him many, many times about my poor beleaguered husband, but Billy had never threatened to commit suicide before. I’d always just sort of assumed he’d keep on trying to survive until pneumonia or bronchitis or some other vicious disease attacked his ruined lungs and took him away from me.

The worst part for me was that I could see his point. I wouldn’t want to live the way my Billy lived, either.

Dr. Benjamin kept morning office hours, and he visited patients in the afternoon. He regularly called on Billy, but this wasn’t his day for doing so. His wife acted as his nurse and receptionist. I was fortunate to be the first one in the office that morning, so I didn’t have to wait. Mrs. Benjamin ushered me right into the doctor’s office.

“
Good morning, Daisy,” he said, smiling. He was a genial man and one who took a genuine interest in his patients and their families.

“
Good morning, Dr. Benjamin.” That was as far as I got before I began leaking tears again. Darn my sentimental nature! I’d hoped to get through this appointment without bawling, although God knew I’d cried in front of Doc Benjamin plenty of times before this.