Poison to Purge Melancholy (38 page)

“‘I can cure the
Itch, the Stitch, the Palsy, and Gout,’” Foot announces with all the slickness and bravado of a carnival barker. “‘All pains within, all pains without. If this man has nineteen devils in him, I’ll cast twenty out!’“

“My HMO doesn’t cover that,” says his patient. Miss Maggie, indeed bedeviled, is stretched out on her tartan recliner, eyes shut behind her thick reading glasses. One hand holds a plastic lily upright on her breast, the other clutches the play’s script.

Foot nudges her with his reflex hammer. “I’ll do the ad-libbing here.”

One would presume her wounds are grievous, after fighting and slaying a three-headed dragon (played by Beth Ann and Rich’s two youngest sons), then having a rubber-chicken-meteor fall out of the skies to bop her on the head (it missed—Horse’s trajectory was off). Add Acey as Father Christmas and Rich’s eldest, Bob, as the dress man (Hugh was right, Bob
is
a good actor), and I can see why this play’s St. George needs an EMT.

It might not be the way Hugh and I planned to bring in the New Year, but it feels right. As predicted, he hated the idea at first. I told him I’d always spent December 31 at a family reunion, and since I’d be calling the Lees family soon enough, why not start a new tradition? Hugh said, “They won’t come.” I said, “Let’s ask ’em.” The upshot? Only Rich and Delia are absent tonight—they’re using our hotel reservations. In fact, Rich accepted the offer like a man accepts a lifevest on a leaky ship. Hugh told his brother to leave beeper and cell phone at home. Now if only Delia didn’t pack a laptop.

Anyway, here I stand beneath the archway of the living room in my home in Bell Run—standing in case I need to make a quick escape if I smell anything burning in the kitchen. My pork roast will go on the table not long after midnight, less than ten minutes away. Behind me stands Hugh, his arms circling my waist, his lips planting a smooch atop my head at intervals.

All evening I’d been resisting the urge to stare at the new hardware on my finger. Great-Aunt Mildred must have had Popeye forearms to wear this thing—it weighs a ton. The ring is truly ugly: a square of four tiny diamonds, imbedded in a double stripe of garnets that seem too blood red to be real, surrounded by too many scrolls of silver. Keeping the tarnish at bay will be a full-time job.

How could I say no to a ring with that much character? And it fits perfectly. The quote’s the real clincher, though. No mushy Browning for Great-Aunt Mildred. She got Shakespeare.

“Wooed in haste . . . wed at leisure.”

At my back, I feel Hugh laugh at the antics of his siblings, daughter, and nephews. He doesn’t seem to be having regrets, but I look up at him anyway to be sure. He takes it as an invitation to kiss something besides my hair, which I don’t mind at all.

“Hey, you two,” Foot admonishes, “none of that. You’re missing my best lines. Where was I? . . . ‘Here I have a bottle of drops, made of lizard’s milk and lollipops—’”

Acey: “What’s the prescribing info on that?”

Horse: “Imagine the side effects.”

Foot shakes the oversized brown bottle over Miss Maggie’s prostrate form. “‘A drop on her head,’” confetti pours out, “‘and a drop on her heart,’” more of the same, “‘Rise up, St. George, and play thy part.’”

Miss Maggie sits up, opening her eyes.

“No way!” Horse protests. “The quack doctor isn’t supposed to bring the hero back to life.”

Foot grins. “You write the play next year. In my version, the doctor works miracles.” He cracks his knuckles for punctuation, then waves to his players. “Big finish.”

Helping Miss Maggie off the recliner, they form a line. Noses in scripts, they recite in unison, “‘God bless the master of this house,’” Miss Maggie takes a bow, “‘likewise the mistress, too’” Bob curtseys, giggling daintily, “‘and all the little children that round the table go,’” the kids bow, “We’ve had our fun, our play is done, we hope it brought you cheer,’” the rest of the cast bows, upstaging each other, “‘We wish you all within this hall a joyful, glad New Year!’”

Thunderous applause. Okay, maybe not thunderous. Besides Hugh and myself, only Glad, Evelyn, Sachi, and a school friend of Beth Ann’s make up the audience. But we’re all enthusiastic.

“Two minutes to midnight!” Horse announces.

“Is not,” Acey argues. “Your watch is fast.”

“We should turn on TV and watch the ball drop,” Bob suggests, pulling his dress over his head to reveal chinos and a long-sleeved tee from a production of
The Music Man
he’d done.

Miss Maggie lays down the law. “This is Virginia, not New York. We’ll go by my watch.” No one challenges her, of course. Four minutes later we’re all wishing each other Happy New Year.

I go around bussing everyone on the cheek, deciding a little Italian-style affection won’t do the Lees a bit of harm. All the teens blush up to their hairlines.

Foot seems horrified as I approach, but gives me a peck and a smile in return. He doesn’t show it, but I know he’s feeling down about Irene. When he arrived, he told us there’s now a solid case against her. The pharmacist who’d sold her the protriptyline made a positive ID. Plus, tests on the remaining contents of the vanity bag showed the drug in a small bottle of mouthwash. Irene’s fingerprints were on everything, but then, she’s the wife, right? Thing was, the mouthwash had been a freebie given to Foot by a drug rep in his office Thursday morning. He’d shoved it into his jacket pocket, then stowed it in his shaving kit when he got to his mom’s. Irene’s prints
shouldn’t
have been on that bottle, but they were. And we could all testify she’d been MIA while Foot was outside with Spade.

Not long after midnight, with Hugh and Beth Ann’s help, dinner’s served in the dining room. Fourteen of us sit down, mind you, which is why I’d had Beth Ann invite her friend. My mom didn’t raise a dope.

Miss Maggie stands at the head of the table. For the occasion, she’d mixed up a family recipe wassail of sweet cider, orange slices, and spices, which will go great with the pork. We fill and pass out punch glasses, and she raises hers. “Each New Year’s Eve when I was a kid, my grandfather would make us each declare a resolution at midnight before he’d propose a toast. My resolution is to be here next year.”

Everyone laughs, but we’re all praying the same thing.

“Anyone else?” Miss Maggie asks.

“I resolve to achieve inner serenity,” Acey says, “and get Rich to acknowledge acupuncture as a viable therapy.”

Evelyn raises his glass. “I’m going to keep up an e-mail correspondence with Spade, keep after him to take his meds. That is, when I’m not busy with my new wife.” He and Glad smile at each other and I go all gooey inside.

Foot clears his throat. “I’m seeing one of my colleagues next week, to discuss therapy options. I’ve decided to wean myself off the damned antidepressants, if only so I can eat everything at dinner next Christmas.”

Horse claps him on the shoulder and Acey applauds, saying, “I also resolve to make sure Foot keeps his resolution.”

I don’t say mine aloud, no doubt out of fear of failure. Besides, the list is too long, involving Hugh, Beth Ann, Miss Maggie, my family in Pennsylvania, Tanya, Elizabeth, Polly, and Bell Run. But I squeeze Hugh’s hand beneath the tablecloth and he squeezes back, doing a Groucho Marx thing with his brows, so I know at least one of his resolutions is the same as mine.

When the room’s quiet again, Miss Maggie lifts her glass a bit higher. “I can’t resist a history lesson—”

We all moan in jest.

“And,” she continues, louder, “since this last weekend put me in an eighteenth-century mood, I’m going to paraphrase Benjamin Franklin:

“‘Be at War with your Vices,

At Peace with your Neighbors,

And let every New Year find you a better Person.’”

To which most of us respond with variations of “Hear, hear” or “I’ll drink to that,” except Acey, who says, “‘God bless us, every one.’ And Buddha bless us, too.”

Then, we eat.

The End

About the Author

ELENA SANTANGELO
is the author of the Pat Montella mystery series, which includes Agatha Award finalist
By Blood Possessed
, published in both the United States and Japan, and
Hang My Head and Cry.
Also an award-winning short story writer, Elena’s mystery and ghost tales have appeared American and Japanese periodicals such as
Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine
, and in the three
Death Knell
anthologies.

When she’s not writing, Elena is an avid musician, singing with the Philadelphia Revels and Colonial Revelers, and composing choral music that has been published and performed throughout the country. She also occasionally helps the Pennsylvania State Museum dig up 4,000-year-old spear points.