Poison to Purge Melancholy (17 page)

St. Agatha’s, in contrast, felt too tidy and too quiet, except when an electric keyboard accompanied the standard carols. Don’t get me wrong, I
like
the English carols. But I missed singing “Adeste Fideles” and “Tu Scendi.”

Anyway, through mass I kept giving Hugh sidelong glances. I wasn’t wrong. He knew most of the responses and all the moves—standing, kneeling, genuflecting (which I kept to a minimum myself, to spare my knees). I had friends back home who were High Episcopal, so I realized there were a lot of similarities, but Hugh seemed the model Catholic, except that he didn’t go up for communion. Then again, neither did I, not having seen the inside of a confessional in ages.

As the last note of the recessional, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” rang out, I turned to him. “You’ve been to mass before. You even got the head-lips-heart gesture after the ‘Alleluia,’ and I forget that half the time.”

Hugh grinned, offering me his arm, which I took. “Mind if I stop to light a candle?”

That clinched it. “
Madonne
, you sound like a product of CCD classes. Wait, let me see your knuckles. If a nun’s whacked ’em with a ruler, there should be scars.”

Hugh let go of my arm so he could pull a buck out of his wallet. “No, we didn’t have nuns in Pre-Cana.”

“Pre-Cana? You took classes before you got married? Tanya was Catholic?”

The grin faded a bit, but he nodded. “Pretty devout, too. Used to drag me to church every Sunday. Beth Ann was baptized right here at St. Agatha’s.” Reading the look on my face, he quickly added, “She doesn’t know it. She’s gone to First Baptist in Stoke with Miss Maggie since we moved to Bell Run, and Bruton Parish when we visit Mom.”

We stopped before the votive stand, the electric kind, with a smattering of its candles flickering in predictable patterns. We had electric at home, too. I understood the need—they saved a bundle on insurance, and Aunt Florence no longer had singed cuffs on all her coats. But as a conduit for getting a prayer to heaven, a real flame that wafted heat and smoke upwards still made more sense to me.

Hugh reached up to the top row of candles and switched one on. He didn’t kneel or make the sign of the cross or visibly pray—he just stared into the light—but I knew that candle was for Tanya. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d loved her. And still did.

Feeling like an intruder, I turned to gaze out at the church, but it was fast emptying out. No one hung around to trade “
Come stai?
”s here.

Light a candle for your brother
. That was the voice of my mother in my head, reminding me of protocol and giving me busywork to hide my unease.

I dug out my billfold. No ones.

“Need a dollar?” Hugh reached for his wallet again.

“Can I borrow two? One for my parents and Lou, one for the rest of my dead relatives.”

His grin came back. “Can’t leave anyone out?”

“Not in my family. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to have as many insiders as possible putting in a good word for me with St. Pete.”

“Smart. Here.” Hugh placed two ones in my palm. “That’s from me to your folks for Christmas. And this,” his hand disappeared into his jacket pocket this time, “is for you.” He brought forth a box covered in midnight blue velvet, about two inches cubed.

My jaw went slack and my brain into denial. Earrings, I told myself. Or a necklace with a small pendant. And I didn’t want to open the box and find out I was right.

I didn’t have to. Hugh opened it for me and took out a ring. Not your basic diamond, this one had tiny glitters on either side of a small main stone, all set in closer than usual and flanked by gold scrolling. I’d never seen anything like it.

Hugh went down on one knee, which put us almost at eye-level, me having the slight advantage. Then, the magic words: “Will you marry me?”

At first all I could say was “oh my God, oh my God” over and over. I recalled how in junior high Cella and I used to rehearse how we’d react to that question when the time came, though I couldn’t for the life of me remember what we’d said. I did finally manage to get a “yes” between my lips. I mean, what woman could have refused that proposal? Ultra-romantic and beside an altar to boot. Not that I’d have said “no” to that man if he’d proposed in a garbage dump.

Hugh had a little trouble getting the ring on—first of all, my shaking hands made a moving target, second, my knuckle seemed to swell on contact. At last, though, the ring was in place, and heavier than I expected. “You like it?” he asked, standing up again. “It’s been in my family for four generations.”

Which explained the design and richer hue of gold and the size extension underneath. “I love it,” I whispered, loving more what it represented.

“I forgot to show you the engraving. It says ‘Two hearts beating each to each.’ Great-Aunt Priscilla was crazy about Robert Browning’s poetry.”

“‘Two hearts beating each to each,’” I repeated, committing the words to memory. We stood a moment, grinning stupidly at each other.

“Are you going to light those candles?” Hugh asked.

I still had the two ones crushed in my right fist. I smoothed and folded them, then stuffed them into the offering box. Every movement felt different now that I had hardware on my left hand. I was switching on two flames in the front row when my eye stopped on Tanya’s candle.

In his family for four generations
. That was my inner voice, not my mother’s. Suddenly I felt like a bowling ball dropped into my stomach. I had to ask. “Did you give Tanya this ring?”

Hugh turned me to face him. He wore a solemn frown. “Yes. If it bothers you, I’ll buy you a new one.”

A waste of money
. My mother again.

Besides, I didn’t want a new one. I wanted the one that went with that awesome proposal.

Then again, now I couldn’t help but think of it as a dead woman’s ring. Well, Great-Aunt Priscilla was dead, too, I reminded myself. “No, of course not,” I said, with a smile big enough to coax another back to his lips.

“Come on,” Hugh said, smile mutating into leer. “Let’s get outside where I can kiss you the way I want to.”

I begged a half-minute to mentally rattle off a
Hail Mary
for each candle. Then added a third, for me and Hugh.

“Fear does things so like a witch,
‘Tis hard to distinguish which is which.”

—Joseph P. Martin, in his memoirs of Continental Army life

December 24, 1783—On the Streets of Williamsburg

We fled blindly from
Underwood’s house, running across the northeast corner of the square, between houses, through gardens, and into the yard behind Mr. Prentis’s store. ’Tis there we paused, hiding, behind the woodpile.

“What occurred?” Jim wheezed, his croup and our race laboring his breath. “Who had shot in his weapon?”

All denied, yet none could argue that a man lay bleeding and surely dead.

“We have no leisure to think on this now,” Sam hissed. “Ben, Tom, remove your outer garments. You must fetch our clothes for the rest of us.”

“I’ll go alone,” I said, shedding my mask and hunting frock. “Tom, go home, son.”

“No, sir.” He let his cloak fall to the ground. “You’ll need four hands to bring the handbarrow. Moreover, I’ll not go home without my father’s pistols, nor without one of you to divert Mother’s notice while I put them away.”

“Right you are, lad,” Sam said. “The pistols are engraved with the chariot of the Carson crest. Were they found here, they’d lead the constable straight to our lodgings.”

I decided the boy would be safer in my company than left with the others should they be discovered. With reluctance, I left my violin in Sam’s care, for carrying the instrument without its hemp sheath might attract suspicion, as it was never my custom.

The number of revelers before the taverns in the Main Street had increased threefold. I whispered to the boy to walk at his usual pace, to mind his manners, bowing or touching his brow to anyone who gave us the same courtesy. I did the same, wishing I had my tricorn to tip, but that I’d left in the capitol yard.

We were nearly through the crowd, most of them too much in their cups to note our passage, when Mr. Draper, tankard in hand, hailed me from the steps of the Eagle. “Mr. Dunbar, the lads inside would have a dance. Come, where is your fiddle? And where is Jim Parker to play guitar? And Sam, for he knows all the ladies’ steps to ‘Hunt the Squirrel.’”

Breathing an oath, I arranged my lips to a smile and bowed low. “I regret that I am on an errand, sir. I shall return as soon as I may to play whatever your pleasure demands.”

“An errand?” Draper said. “What manner of errand is of more consequence on Christmas Eve than passing a bowl of punch among friends?”

“My mother, sir,” Tom broke in, “would have me fetch some sewing piecework which she is to do for Mrs. Carlos in Waller Street. I cannot carry it all myself, so Mr. Dunbar has come to lend a hand.”

“Ah!” Mr. Draper gave me a knowing wink. “Your errand, then, is to curry favor with the boy’s mother.” He addressed all men within his hearing. “We’ve all taken on such commissions for the ladies at one time or another, haven’t we lads? In seeking a warm bed of a winter’s night?” To which all who’d followed our discourse, and some who had not, gave ready assent. “Good fortune to you, Mr. Dunbar. And if you fail to return here this night”—another wink—“we shall know your errand was profitable.”

With that, Tom and I were able to proceed, though we were hardly to the end of the street when I spoke to the boy. “You should not have lied.”

He was taken aback at my anger. “But I merely explained our direction, and gave reason for us to carry clothing as we pass the taverns on our return. I thought it clever.”

“And what if someone asks Mrs. Carlos of the matter? We shall be caught in your lie, and what then?”

In the darkness, I saw his expression change to fright. “I am sorry, Mr. Dunbar.”

His chastened tone in voicing the name rankled me further.

“You should not have spoken at all. I would have dealt with Mr. Draper’s inquiry.” Deftly, too, I thought, for deceit had been my way of life these last seven years. I saw then that my wrath was for myself, for what I’d become, and that I would not for the world have young Tom follow my example.

I clapped a hand to the lad’s shoulder and spoke kindly. “I know you thought only to save our hides, son, but a good man will court Truth and remain loyal to her always. I want no more lies from you.”

“But if I’m asked about this night, about Mr. Brennan? I’ll not betray you or—”

“No one will question a boy,” I assured him, “except your mother, perhaps, and I shall speak with her myself when I take you home. Carry our secret as close you are able, Tom, until this affair’s resolved, but do not lie. Promise me that.”

“I will, sir.” He squared his shoulders and raised his chin with the air of one who takes on his first trial of manhood.

I prayed that he would fare better than I had.

Hugh offered to show
me his favorite high school drive-up-make-out place. Reluctantly, I declined. It was past one in the morning, the air had grown considerably colder, we were both exhausted, the Miata would cramp (literally) both our styles, and as we left the church, fat wet snowflakes were coming down in earnest. Being a native Pennsylvanian and therefore more acquainted with snow than Hugh, I knew the flakes would have to get much smaller and drier before they’d accumulate, but I could tell Hugh was a little nervous about driving an unfamiliar car in the squall. So I settled for a few great kisses in the church parking lot.

“I guess you’re right,” he said as he cleared the Miata’s back window of slush with his gloves. “We should get back. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

At this point I remembered the haunted house, the symptoms I’d had earlier, and the fact that I was to sit through another dinner in that same room tomorrow, and all while keeping him from noticing any supernatural weirdness. He had no idea just how long a day it would be.

I consoled myself on the drive back by watching the streetlights glint off the stones in my ring—
my
ring, I told myself, not Tanya’s. This meant not wearing my left glove, so my fingers were frozen by the time we reached the house. On the back porch, Hugh warmed me up with another kiss. We would have made it plural, but the snow was blowing straight at us, and his wet gloves were icing up.

The door was unlocked, and we found Horse sitting at the kitchen table, playing with a Gameboy. Without taking his eyes off his game, he said, “Lock it behind you, will ya?”

While Hugh took care of the door, I crossed to the table—removing my right glove, unzipping my coat—and thanked his brother for waiting up to let us in.

“I had to wait up anyway, for two reasons. One was to see that rock on your finger.” Horse looked up then, smiling, ogling my newly adorned hand.

“You knew Hugh was going to propose?”

“Would I have let him borrow my car otherwise?” Leaving the Gameboy on the table, he stood and faced me. “Congrats.” And with that, he planted a warm kiss on my cheek.

Hugh, having deposited his wet gloves on the table, draped a possessive arm around my shoulders. “What was the other reason?”

“To warn you about Acey.”

“What happened?” Hugh asked. “Did Weisel—?”

“He’s alive, though still critical when we left, and they still aren’t sure what’s wrong with him. But, just after we got to the hospital, his wife showed up.”

“Wife!” Hugh and I squawked in unison.

Horse nodded. “The Weasel, as I now think of him, is married, to a hot blonde with the biggest lips I’ve ever seen on a primate. Acey didn’t know—that was obvious from her reaction. If she’d had a scalpel handy, she’d have done some creative surgery on him without the benefit of anesthesia. So, when you see her tomorrow—”

“Hugh, we can’t announce our engagement,” I said. “Not right now. Your sister’ll feel bad enough.” I tried to twist the ring off my finger, but couldn’t get it past the knuckle.

“No, it’s all right.” Horse staid my hand with his own. “Acey knew Hugh was going to propose tonight. We all did, as soon as he said he was taking you to midnight mass.”

“What, you have a family code?” But as the words left my mouth, it hit me what Horse meant. They all knew it because Hugh had done exactly the same thing before, with Tanya.

Hugh squeezed my shoulders affectionately, which helped allay my feeling of being an understudy. “We ought to get some sleep. Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs.”

Horse returned to his Gameboy. “When you say goodnight in the hallway, do it in mime. Rich is next door in the Weasel’s room and you know how grumpy he is when you wake him.”

Hugh turned at the doorway to the stair. “Did he say what’s going on to explain why he’s here instead of with Delia and the kids?”

Horse shook his head. “You want to ask him?”

“Do I look crazy?” Hugh turned and waved me before him up the stairs.

At my bedroom door, I signaled that he should wait, then ducked into the room, thankful for the night-light so I didn’t have to play blindman’s bluff. On my mattress, I’d left the long-sleeve tee and light sweatpants I’d brought to sleep in (I made a mental note to invest in some sexier jammies for married life). Atop the clothes were my teeth-cleaning things and the bottle of aspirin. Scooping up the lot, I returned to the hall and let Hugh walk me as far as the bathroom where, farther away from the bedrooms, we could say goodnight good and proper. Well, maybe not proper, but we were good in every sense of the word.

Anyway, Hugh left me at last. I hurried through my ablutions—because I still wasn’t convinced the ghost wouldn’t bother me in this newer wing—then went to bed. What with the strange mattress, my achy legs, and my imagination dredging up ghosts or, worse yet, fears of my own shortcomings compared to Tanya, I didn’t sleep well. Even when I managed to drift off, every time I moved my left hand and the ring pushed against the finger, I woke up.

When I finally fell into REM—a bizarre dream in which Beth Ann, dressed in colonial garb, was politely doing everything asked of her—I was awakened again by what sounded like gunshots.

I was sitting up and listening intently by the time my brain had shaken the sleep out of all its crannies. I didn’t think the shots were part of my dream—I could still almost hear their echoes. Several nearly simultaneous shots, like last night’s Christmas guns, but this time at varying distances, two being so close that they might have been right outside.

The night-light’s dim light was giving way to a faint dawn glow coming through the window. Miss Maggie’s breathing was loud, regular, and peaceful, her head no doubt staging a whole ballet of sugarplums. No sound of disturbance from Rich’s room, either, and if anyone was stirring in the main house, I had no intention of going to find out.

Instead I wriggled out from under my nice warm blanket—wincing as I bent my achy knees—and crawled across the cold, bare floorboards, over to the window. Frozen condensation—not decorative frost but sheets of ice—covered the inside panes of the bottom sash, so I stood and looked through the slats of the blind. What I could see of the eastern sky was deep red with pink spreading up onto a last strip of clouds. The rest of the sky was deep blue and all the flat surfaces below were white. No more than two inches of snow, though, and it would melt as soon as the sun hit it, but it sure looked pretty.

I heard no more shots. I saw no people who could have produced those shots. Nor did I hear sounds of cars taking those people away. Nor police sirens coming because someone else heard the shots and called 911. Even the silence outside seemed muffled by the snow.

Glad’s explanation of the Christmas guns came back to me. “Now we do it at night instead of dawn,” she’d said.

I stubbornly went into denial. Those were
not
ghost shots. I’d dreamt them as a result of hearing Glad talk about them yesterday. Yeah, sure, that was the explanation.

And too cold to stand there any longer, I went back to bed. My feet took a long time warming up again, but I must have slept eventually, because the next time I opened my eyes, the sun was streaming in through the window. Miss Maggie was gone, and the daybed was neatly made.

What woke me this time was another commotion outside. Voices. Once again curiosity made me abandon the warm blanket, but the room wasn’t as cold this time. The small radiator below the window was warm and the condensation on the panes had melted into little pools of water on the sill.

My corner of the porch roof was sunny and snowless, its wooden shakes glistening as snowmelt trickled down from the roof above. Part of the yard below, however, was still in shadow and covered in white. Hugh was scraping frost off his Escort’s side windows, breath puffing from his mouth as he talked to Foot who was using a broom to push snow from the car’s roof.

Beth Ann was also helping with snow removal by taking glovefuls off the trunk, one snowball at a time, hurling each missile across the yard at the back gate—not in sheer youthful exhilaration, either. No, she was taking out her frustrations. Had Hugh told her about last night’s proposal? Or had she, like the rest of the family, deduced it when Hugh said he was taking me to midnight mass? That would explain her reaction.

I fiddled with the ring. It was looser this morning. So was my confidence. Marriage would come with a teenage daughter. Not only couldn’t I picture myself as a mother, at that moment the notion scared the bejeebers out of me. Especially on seeing how much Beth Ann’s aim had improved since I first met her.

I heard more voices and the kitchen door slammed. Three more persons appeared from under the porch. Glad was in her Marie Antoinette getup and Evelyn was in an eighteenth century suit of stunning black brocade, both of them wearing gray capes over their costumes. The third figure was Miss Maggie, who I almost didn’t recognize. Oh, the ski jacket was hers, and the stocking cap, pulled far down over her ears, but her nose, mouth, and neck were swaddled in a huge green-and-red scarf. Only her eyes showed. If I’d had any doubt, though, she proved her identity when she scooped snow off my car, patted it firm with her red mittens, and launched the finished product at Hugh. She missed, no doubt cursing her arthritis.

Glad and Foot got in the Escort. A slight disagreement followed about whether Evelyn or Miss Maggie would take the remaining seat, each deferring to the other. If I understood all their gestures, Miss Maggie and Beth Ann won out by declaring their intention of leaving together by the back gate. Which was when it hit me that they were all going to church. Hugh had apparently changed his mind.

Were Hugh’s other siblings going too? Would I be left in this house by myself? I decided to grab a quick shower and dress, then hole up in the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later (my shower was quicker than planned due to lukewarm water), dressed in jeans and a bulky pullover, I descended the spiral stairs to the kitchen.

The light over the stove was on. I realized that even a sunny day couldn’t brighten this room, at least not in winter—the wing pointed north, the east windows shadowed by the main house, the west windows by the high yard fence.

Acey was sitting at the table. She was dressed in a gorgeous copper-colored caftan covered with African tribal motifs. On her feet were baby blue bear claw slippers with painted toenails. A magazine was open in front of her and beside it, a spoon rested on a folded paper napkin. One hand caressed a coffee mug, the other cradled a cell phone against her ear.

As I came through the door, her voice was soft but insistent. “... No, I told you, he’s stable, just not conscious. I called the hospital this morn—hold on a sec.” Acey faced the phone away from her mouth and her eyes met mine. Hers had dark circles under them. “Coffee’s on the stove,” she said, “and hot water in the teapot. Help yourself.”

Real coffee was a treat. Miss Maggie wasn’t supposed to have caffeine, so we only brewed decaf (remembering the chocolate kiss on my pillow, I made a mental note to find her stash so I could regulate her intake). When I felt the need for a morning catalyst, I usually had a can of Diet Pepsi.

On the long table next to the stove were mugs, spoons, tea bags, sugar, napkins, and a glass-covered plate of leftover cornbread. As I fixed my coffee, Acey continued her conversation, but her tone had become resigned. “Listen, I have to go . . . yeah, I wish that, too . . . um-hum . . .” She repeated the affirmative murmur twice more. “Merry Christmas yourself . . .”

It
was
Christmas. Without the tree, stockings, and other visual clues, I’d almost forgotten.

Acey’s holiday wish had been tinted with a hint of sarcasm, but her gentle voice returned. “. . . Me, too . . . Bye.” Then to me she said, “Bring that cornbread over. I’ll get the blackberry preserves.” She crossed to the fridge. “Milk in your coffee?”

“No, thanks.” On the way to the table—mug in one hand, plate of cornbread and a few napkins in the other—I glanced out the window. The Escort was parked in its spot. “I thought Hugh went to church with his mother.”

“He did.” Acey set a jar of preserves and two butter knives between us and sat down again, elbows resting on the table, forearms spread in welcoming body language. “There’s no parking near Bruton Parish so he brought his car back here after dropping them off, then walked. It’s only a half block. Ma just didn’t want to get her dress wet.”