Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (16 page)

“
Yeah. So do I.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I kept eating. The food was really good, although I discovered I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought I was. I think worry has that effect on a person. Sam remained silent, too, as he consumed his lunch.

After several minutes of chewing and swallowing, he set his fork down on his plate and looked at me from across the table. “Listen, Daisy, what I’m going to say probably isn’t anything you want to hear, but I’m going to say it anyway.”

I lifted my eyebrows but remained silent.

“
Billy will do what he has to do. He always has, and he always will. He didn’t have to volunteer to go fight the Kaiser and his crew, but he did, and he’s still paying for it. He’s a good man, and you’re lucky to have him.”

My eyes began to threaten tears again. Blast!

“
He’s in a lot of physical pain. You know that as well as I do. Probably better. He feels useless. He can’t get out and do things or earn a living for the two of you. But I think the main problem is the pain and the feeling of hopelessness he has. He knows he’ll never get better, as well as you do. If he ever does decide to use that morphine syrup, don’t get angry with him. Try to understand that he just couldn’t take it any longer.”

Numbly, I nodded, unable to speak. To my utter astonishment, Sam reached across the table and took my hand.

“
Billy’s a good man, Daisy. You’re lucky to have each other. Try to understand that whatever he ends up doing, he’ll do it for a reason. A good reason.”

I had to swallow the lump in my throat before I whispered, “Do you really think so?”

“
Yes. I. . . . When my wife died, I blamed myself. I thought she’d passed on because I didn’t get her out of the climate back East soon enough. But after talking to several doctors and other people about tuberculosis, I realized that there really wasn’t much I could have done about her condition. You’re even less at fault for Billy’s problems than I was for Margaret’s.”

Goodness. Sam had never revealed so much of himself to me before. So his wife’s name had been Margaret. I do believe this was the first time I’d felt anything more than slight—or great—resentment toward Sam.

“
As soon as we got Margaret’s diagnosis, I applied for positions across the country in areas that were warm and dry. I had been going to join the US Army, believe it or not, but I scotched that idea when she got sick.”

Goodness. I hadn’t known that before. Sam was one of the men I tended to look at askance because they’d been young and healthy when the United States entered the war and hadn’t served. Shows how much I knew about anything. Now I felt guilty about Sam as well as Billy.

“
The mail was so dratted slow,” Sam said. “It was months before the detective slot in the Pasadena Police Department opened up. I applied for it instantly, but by the time they hired me, it was too late. Margaret died less than a year after we moved out here.”

“
There’s nothing much anyone can do about TB,” I said after an awkward pause. It was probably a stupid thing to say, but it was true. They called tuberculosis the “white plague” for a reason, and Dr. Benjamin had told me how little anyone could do to treat the dreaded disease. The only progress anyone had made so far was to discover it was caused by a bacillus. I said, “As soon as she was diagnosed, it was too late, I reckon.”

“
That’s right,” said Sam. “And there’s even less you can do about the state of Billy’s health than I could do about Margaret’s. Unfortunately, both Margaret and Billy were victims of forces larger than they were.”

He was sure right about that.

Then he squeezed my hand, rose, paid our bill, and we walked back to the police station. I didn’t know what to say, so when we parted at the door to City Hall, I merely said, “Thanks, Sam.”

I felt him watching me as I walked back to the Chevrolet.

Chapter Nine

While I was out, Mrs. Kincaid had left yet another frantic message for me. I guess she didn’t want to wait until Wednesday at ten o’clock. How typical of her. She always demonstrated every evidence of sympathetic understanding about other people’s problems, but
nobody’s
problems overrode her own, and I personally considered her problems minor. The woman was rich and healthy, had two hearty children, and was engaged to a rich man who was not only friendly and kind but who doted on her.

Oh, well. Ours is not to ask why, I guess. At any rate, I returned her call when I got back home. Billy didn’t ask me where I’d been, and I didn’t volunteer any information.

“
Oh, Daisy!” wailed Mrs. Kincaid. I believe I’ve mentioned that she’s a first-class wailer.

“
Yes, Mrs. Kincaid?” I said in my soothing spiritualist voice. I wanted to shriek at her to shut up and be still, and tell her that I had more problems than she’d ever see in her entire life, and that I considered her a vain, silly woman who was totally ridiculous. Naturally, I didn’t.

“
Can you please come over here now, dear? I know you had to visit the doctor about your poor husband and we’d scheduled an appointment for Wednesday, but I’m just so upset!”

“
Yes, I can tell.” I fear my voice wasn’t as soft and gentle as it should have been.

“
I feel
such
a need to have Rolly communicate via the Ouija board!”

Suppressing my sigh, I said, “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes, Mrs. Kincaid. Will that be all right with you?”

“
Yes, dear, that would be wonderful. Thank you
so
much!”

“
You’re quite welcome.”

Oh, brother.

But when I turned from the telephone, I saw Billy grinning at me and I felt a trifle better about working for idiotic people who actually believed the guff I fed them.

“
I guess you figured out that was Mrs. Kincaid,” I said, trying to sound lively. I wanted to lie down and sleep for a month or two, just to get away from Billy’s problems and my own fears. Dream on, Daisy Majesty.

“
Yeah. In a tizzy again, is she?”

“
Oh my, yes.” I gazed at my husband for a moment or two, wishing for all sorts of things that couldn’t be. “I just talked to her this morning, too. God knows what happened between then and now. She seemed fine when I talked to her earlier. Well, as fine as she ever is. I’ll change clothes and go over there. It’s easy money, anyhow.”

“
I don’t know how you keep getting away with it,” said Billy. But he was still smiling, so I didn’t get angry.

I merely said, “I don’t either,” and went into our bedroom. There I selected a nice, refined Ouija-board-manipulating outfit of soft wool jersey in a dark brown that went well with the season, my hair, and my wintery mood, and did my best to forget about the box full of morphine syrup residing just underneath Billy’s clothes in the same closet.

Dealing with Mrs. Kincaid was both frustrating and as simple as it always was. I never did find out what had set her off, but when I left her, she’d calmed down considerably. She also gave me a most generous gratuity for responding so promptly to her sudden request and begged me to keep the appointment we had for Wednesday. She really was a kindhearted person. She just didn’t have anything substantive to worry about, especially since her daughter had joined the Salvation Army, so she worried about nothing. But I shouldn’t complain. Heck, she darned near supported my whole family.

I thought about going to the kitchen to visit with Vi, but I was in too gloomy a mood for conversation with my aunt. Anyhow, I’d see Vi at home soon. So I just left.

As I drove away through the heavy wrought-iron gate, guarded as ever by Mrs. Kincaid’s gatekeeper, Jackson—who’d taught me many interesting aspects of spiritualism, particularly those dealing with Voodoo, since he’d originally come from Louisiana—I decided there might be one other person to whom I should speak about Billy and my worries: a clergyman. I briefly considered our own pastor at the First Methodist-Episcopal Church, the Reverend Merle Smith, but decided against it. The fellow was a good preacher and had, I’m sure, a willing and helpful spirit, but I didn’t know him well enough to discuss my present personal problems. Fortunately, I had an alternative pastor in mind.

Johnny Buckingham was not only a Salvation Army captain, but he was a friend of ours, had gone through school with Billy, and he’d been through hell after the war ended, too. So I tootled our Chevrolet down Fair Oaks and pulled to a stop in front of 51 West Colorado Boulevard, the Salvation Army Headquarters. They called it a headquarters instead of church, I guess to continue the military theme.

Johnny was in his office, and he smiled at me when I tapped on the door. Rising from his chair behind his desk, he said, “How nice to see you, Daisy. And it’s not even Saturday.” He chuckled. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much we appreciate the good job you’re doing with your cooking class, by the way.”

“
It’s a miracle,” I said, only half joking.

He laughed outright at that. “It must be. God works in mysterious ways.”

“
He must, if He’s got me cooking and not burning down the house.”

After peering at me more closely for a bit, Johnny said more soberly, “But you didn’t come here to talk about your class, did you?”

Sighing, I sat on a chair in front of his desk. “No. I . . . I’m really worried, Johnny.”

He sat, too, and didn’t speak for a minute. When he did, he got right to the point. “Billy?”

I nodded. Then I blurted out the whole of my story, from finding the morphine, to confronting Billy, to talking to Dr. Benjamin and Sam. I ended with “Oh, Johnny, I don’t know what to do,” giving a fair imitation of Mrs. Kincaid in a wail.

Johnny thought about it for a little bit. Then he said, “I don’t know if there’s anything you really can do, Daisy. You’re already doing it.”

“
But, Johnny! He said he might kill himself!”

“
I know. I heard you.” Johnny gave me a patient smile. “Of course, I always recommend prayer when people are at their wits’ end.”

I hate to admit it, but I hadn’t even thought about prayer before Johnny mentioned it. I said, “Of course,” because I figured I should, although that wasn’t the kind of advice I’d gone there for.

Johnny’s grin told me he knew exactly how much praying I did on a daily basis. “You know, Daisy, God answers prayers in His own way and in His own time. Our time and His time don’t necessarily correspond.”

I thought about arguing: If that is the case, then what good is prayer? But I didn’t.

“
Don’t look so skeptical,” he told me, laughing a little. Then he got serious. “Daisy, I’ve known Billy for even longer than you have.”

I nodded. It was true. Johnny and Billy used to play baseball when they were barely old enough to wear long pants and hold bats.

“
Ever since that stinking war, your Billy has been in constant pain, both physical and spiritual. I understand all about spiritual pain. Well, you know what I went through before the Salvation Army rescued me. But I was luckier than Billy. I wasn’t grievously wounded, as he was, and I didn’t get gassed. It might transpire that Billy will take that morphine syrup one day. If he does, then you’ll never need to worry about him being in pain again.”

His words horrified me. “Johnny! How can you say that? What about the people who love him? What about
our
pain if he kills himself?”

“
I should think that the people who love him would want him to have some measure of peace,” Johnny said, serious again. “God really does work in mysterious ways, Daisy.”

I heaved a gigantic sigh. “But Johnny. . . .” Then I swallowed and blurted out, “I thought committing suicide was a mortal sin.”

“
Good Lord, Daisy, do you really think God wants Billy to keep suffering if he doesn’t have to? Mortal sins are an invention of mankind. God is kinder than we are. Heck, back in the bad old days, clergymen didn’t even allow folks in their congregations to go to doctors. They thought pain and suffering were ‘from God,’ whatever that means.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Then I asked in a slightly unsteady, very weak voice, “Do you really believe that?”

“
Yes, I do,” he said firmly.

“
But . . . but do you really think suicide is the answer?”

Johnny heaved a huge, heartfelt sigh. “
I
don’t think so, no. But we’re not talking about me. There were years when I thought my only hope was suicide, Daisy. I don’t think you ever saw me when I was at my lowest ebb. And I was nowhere near as bad off as Billy.”

“
I . . . don’t think I did.” I’d been too consumed with worry about my husband to think about other folks’ problems.

“
Well, believe me, I was a hard case. God saved me, but my only problem was the bottle and a brain full of blood and memories.” He actually shuddered. “At least I didn’t have to contend with the physical pain Billy has to suffer. My only demons were mental.”

I said, “Johnny, I. . . .” But I didn’t know what to say. That damned war.

Johnny seemed to know what I was feeling. He smiled gently and said, “But I’d like to pray with you, Daisy, if you wouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”

How kind people were. Even Sam, much to my surprise. I’d always known Johnny possessed a good and generous soul. I nodded, although I felt mighty uncomfortable with Johnny’s suggestion. I wasn’t accustomed to people praying with me. I probably wouldn’t have felt as ill at ease if a stranger, rather than a friend, had asked me to pray with him, oddly enough. But there weren’t any strangers present and Johnny was, so when he held out his hand, I took it and bowed my head.