Nan Ryan (20 page)

“No,” she pulled away, “Hunter, I’m tired, I …”

“I have just spent the last five minutes asking if you were tired and you said you felt fine.”

“Well, I am tired! Very! Can’t you just be patient for a while? You don’t know what it’s like to be a new mother. I have to get up and feed him in the middle of the night and I don’t sleep well and I …”

Slowly Hunter rose from the bed and said, “I’m sorry, Kathleen. I know it isn’t easy. But I’ll tell you something, this is not easy on me. I love you and I want to be with you. I know you have to get up every night. I wish I could do it for you. Look, I love Scott as much as you do, but is there never any time for me?”

“Well, yes, Hunter, of course there’ll be time for you, for us. But give me a few more weeks, I …”

“Fine, Kathleen. I won’t bother you again. Just let me know when I am allowed to come back into my own bedroom. But try to think about what it’s like for me being shut out all the time,” and he left the room.

Hunter lay awake in the big bed in his lonely bedroom at the end of the hall. One hand under his head, he smoked in the darkness, unable to sleep, though it was 2
A.M.
He’d read and worked on his research until one, trying to tire himself purposely. He put his books aside finally, rubbing his eyes, hoping he was exhausted enough to fall asleep quickly. He blew out the lamp and closed his eyes. He lay as still as possible, sure this would do the trick. It didn’t work; his eyes came open and his thoughts were once again crowded with his own personal problems. Kathleen had dashed his hopes of moving back into her bedroom when he’d been so hopeful. He was hurt and confused and now realized their relationship was to be no better now that the baby was here than it had been when she was pregnant. He had been so patient while she was carrying the child, understanding her need for privacy, knowing she was young and the experience was new and frightening to her. But he had dared to hope that once the baby came, she would be ready to be his wife again.

“She doesn’t love me,” Hunter thought sadly, “She never did, perhaps she never will. But I love her so much, so very much. Maybe in time she will accept me as her husband. I’ll be patient, she’s young, she’ll grow to love me if I give her time. I must keep hoping.”

Hunter sighed and rose from the bed. Putting the cigar out, he drew on his trousers. He quietly went down the hall toward the nursery. He wanted to look in on the baby, to check the covers, be sure he was still breathing. The tiny boy was still a miracle to him, so perfect and healthy, he loved him more than he ever dreamed possible and never tired of looking at him.

He neared the door making no sound, his feet bare, careful not to put his full weight down, so afraid was he of waking the baby. He promised himself he wouldn’t touch the dear little bundle, he would just stand silently and look down on him, not even touching the crib. He was at door and a smile came to his face even before he looked inside. Hunter stepped in and what he saw was to him the most sacred, beautiful sight he had ever witnessed.

The room was dim with only a small lamp turned low, casting shadows on the tall ceiling. In a rocking chair near the crib, Kathleen sat, her head laid back against the chair, the silky blond hair falling loosely around her shoulders. She held the baby at her breast. The baby, now full, had fallen asleep, as had his mother. Hunter stood quietly looking at them both. The tiny baby, his dark head against the white of her skin, safe, secure. His beautiful wife, the alabaster breast exposed, sleeping, peaceful, serene. Hunter stood, looking at them both, love and pride swelling in his heart so he thought it might burst.

Kathleen had never allowed him to be in the room when she nursed their son, though he had told her he wanted to share the experience with them. She had told him that was the silliest thing she had ever heard of and she was nervous enough each time she fed him without having an audience. He had retorted that he was hardly an audience, he was the father and husband and also a doctor, he could be of help to them. But she was having none of it, refused to feed the baby even if he cried hungrily, as long as he was in the room. Hunter had given up and told her he understood how she felt and he would give her privacy, but he resented it and felt he was being left out.

Hunter leaned against the door frame and secretly enjoyed this beautiful scene for several minutes. It was the sweetest agony he’d ever known and he longed to rush to them and hug them both tightly, expressing just how much he loved them. Slowly, he tiptoed to the chair. He gently took the sleeping baby from Kathleen. He stood with the boy in his arms, feeling the warmth and the rapid infant breath of the tiny boy against his bare chest. He carried him to his crib and gingerly laid him down, pulled the covers up, and bent down and kissed the dark head. He turned back to Kathleen and studied her. Still sleeping peacefully, she hadn’t stirred when he took the baby from her. He picked her up from the chair and she moaned a little, the thick eyelashes fluttering fleetingly. Sleepily, she laid her head against his chest and put her arms around his neck. “What is it? Scott, Scott?” she murmured, her eyes still closed.

“Scott’s fine, darling,” Hunter whispered and carried her across the hall to her room. She was fast asleep by the time he got to the bed. He gently laid her down, her limp arms falling away from his neck. Hunter knelt by the bed and looked at her. She was so young and beautiful. Hunter longed to kiss her, to get into bed beside her, and have her sleep in his arms all night long. That would be all he would ever ask for, it would be enough. Just to lie holding her sleeping body against his while he buried his face in her soft blond hair, to feel her soft skin against his body. But she did not want him there and would be upset if she woke and found him. He would not take advantage of her because she was asleep. With his surgeon’s touch, Hunter reached down to the filmy white nightgown and slowly pulled it up over the full breast. His hands shaking now, he touched the long blond hair briefly, blew out the lamp beside her bed, and tiptoed from the room. When he got to the hall, he found he was weak, leaned against the door frame, whispering under his breath, “Kathleen, darling, my darling.” He straightened at last, walked back down the hall to his lonely room, and slipped into bed. It was a long time before sleep came to his tortured body.

Hunter threw himself into his work, turning his personal frustrations to constructive pursuits. He spent more hours at his office, his patient load growing daily. An understanding and caring man, word soon got around Natchez that young Doctor Hunter Alexander would render compassionate aid at any hour of the day or night, not as interested in the fees he collected as he was in caring for and curing his patients.

“Doctor Alexander,” one patient would say, “I think maybe I’ll be able to pay some of my bill next month. I just haven’t the money right now.”

“Now don’t you worry about it, Mrs. Williams, you just take care of that arm. Getting you well is the only thing that counts,” Hunter would answer.

“Doctor Alexander, Johnny fell and broke his leg. Could you come right over? I hate to ask you, I know it’s past 10
P.M.
but we didn’t want to bother your uncle at this hour,” another would say.

“That’s just fine. I’m a doctor, it doesn’t matter what time it is, if you need me, I’m available,” Hunter would smile.

“Doctor Alexander,” a slaveowner would catch Hunter as he left his office, “could you come over and take a look at a couple of my slaves? They’re awfully sick. I don’t know what it is, but I’m afraid it will spread to the others. Then where would I be?”

“Certainly, I’ll come right now.” Doctor Alexander would go to the large plantation, out to the slave quarters, and spend half the night at the bedside of a sick, grateful darkie.

*   *   *

Kathleen chided her husband about being constantly available to the entire population of Natchez. “Hunter, there are other doctors in this town. Surely you don’t have to carry the weight of the entire city on your slim shoulders.”

“Darling, if someone is sick and in need of a doctor, I can hardly refuse to help. I wouldn’t be much of a healer if I failed to give aid.”

“Hunter, you’re too soft-hearted, I’m afraid. The Williams family would have the money to pay you if old man Williams didn’t spend all his money at the joints of Natchez Under. He’s a compulsive gambler and the whole town knows it.”

“That may be true, dear, but it isn’t his wife’s fault, is it? If a woman has a broken arm, I don’t ask her to tell her husband to quit gambling so he can pay me.”

“You’re right, Hunter. I’m sorry I said anything. I just hate to see people taking advantage of your good nature. You’re a fine doctor, Hunter, but you should be paid for your services.”

“Please don’t worry about it, Kathleen. They’ll all pay when they get the money.”

Kathleen didn’t spend too much time worrying about her husband overworking or the fact that he didn’t always get paid for his efforts. She was a new mother and the baby occupied most of her time and thoughts. Scott Alexander was adorable and Kathleen worshiped him. She never tired of holding him, kissing him, looking down into the little olive face with its perfect features and dark hair. Each time she looked at the dear little face, she saw the face of the baby’s father and recalled the tenderness and passion that had produced the beautiful baby. Kathleen knew it had been wrong and sinful, but when she looked at her son, she was glad it had happened. She still loved Dawson and, though he was gone and she would never see him again, a part of him would always belong to her, his son. She jealously watched over Scott, almost reluctant to let anyone share in her joy. When Hunter would sit holding the child, cooing to him, Kathleen felt the strong desire to rush to them and tear the baby from his arms and shout at him, “Let me have him. He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours. He’s mine! Mine and Dawson’s!”

Hunter loved the little boy just as much as his mother did. Shut out by his wife, he transferred his affections to the baby and as soon as he got home from his office, he bounded up the stairs to the nursery to grab the boy from his crib and hold him lovingly. An excellent father, Hunter could quiet Scott when no one else could. If Scott was fussy and refused to sleep, even Kathleen would call on Hunter. His very presence in the baby’s room seemed to be sensed by the crying child. Hunter had only to stoop over his crib for the sobs to subside and when he picked Scott up and held him tenderly to his chest, the baby seemed to stretch happily and relax and was soon fast asleep, safe and happy in his father’s arms.

“I don’t understand it,” Kathleen would look at the sleeping child, held in one arm against Hunter’s chest. “I tried so hard to get him to calm down and you just have to pick him up and he falls asleep.”

“Kathleen, it’s because Scott knows you’re nervous and upset, just as he knows I’m calm. A baby senses his parent’s state of mind, darling.”

“I suppose you’re right, Hunter, but I can’t help it. When he cries, I just can’t stand it. I love him so much his tears just break my heart. I want to cry with him.”

Hunter smiled and reasoned, “Dear, I understand, but you worry about him too much. He’s a happy, healthy little boy. Now go to bed, Kathleen, he’s fine now.”

“Yes, Hunter,” she said and kissed the boy’s head while Hunter held him in his arm. She turned and left the room with no kiss for the man holding the baby.

By Scott’s first birthday, he was the apple of Hunter’s eye. Beautiful and loving, the little boy was walking everywhere, his short legs churning, carrying him from one new adventure to another. He smiled and laughed endlessly and was a constant, unending source of joy to his parents, as well as the rest of the household. Kathleen had a birthday cake for Scott who promptly pulled the one large candle from the cake and tossed it to the floor, then laughed like he had performed an impossible trick. His mother and father sitting on each side of him laughed louder than the baby and thought his antics adorable. Kathleen kissed the little boy and said, “Happy first birthday, Scotty.”

Scott Alexander grabbed a strand of her blond hair and said the only word he had thus far uttered, “Daddy!”

Fifteen

The tempo of the flamenco guitar sped up and the undulating hips of the dancing girl moved faster to stay in time with the music. She laughed, threw her head back defiantly, and raised her hands over her head. Her bare feet making no sound on the dirty floors, she spun round and round, her dark hair falling over her face, her peasant blouse dipping daringly low over one brown shoulder, her faded print skirt rising high around her long, tan legs with each spin. She was enjoying the dance and the appreciative whistles and cat calls from a table of four unkempt Spaniards, drunk from wine, laughing and shouting, watching her eagerly and clapping for more.

Maria looked at them, lowering her eyelids seductively, her mouth open in a provocative smile. She danced nearer and nearer to their table, while they grew louder and louder with their praise. One short, fat man rose from his seat to reach out to her. She laughed and whirled away at the last minute, dancing quickly away from them. She looked at the man alone at a table across the room. He had his head down, not even looking at her. She moved towards him as the guitar tempo slowed and the movements of her body worked to match it. The man raised his head, threw down a glass of Maderia, and poured another. He looked at her for an instant, but the expression on his face didn’t change. His eyes were dark and brooding, his jaw set, his teeth clinched. His black hair fell over his forehead and he was in need of a shave. But he was handsome, very handsome.

Maria was intrigued by the dark stranger, she had never seen him at Manuel’s Cantina before. His clothes looked expensive, though wrinkled. There was a look about him that told her he was no common
vaquero
. He must surely be some well-to-do Spaniard who for some unknown reason chose to drink the afternoon away at Manuel’s. Maria, intent on making him notice her, moved closer and danced only for him. She turned, she whirled, she laughed, she swayed her hips. The stranger did not look up. Exasperated, she snapped her fingers for the guitar players to play faster once again. They obeyed and she danced wildly before his table, certain he had more money than the four men across the room had between them. And she was going to get some of it.