Beacon Street Mourning (9 page)

THAT AFTERNOON Michael accompanied me to the hospital and I introduced him to Father. It was a bitter-sweet experience.

Oh how much I wished I had not waited so long to bring together these two men I love most in the world! Now Michael could never know Father as he'd been when he was healthy, vigorous, and full of life. That wasted shell, that pale shadow of a man who lay in this hospital bed—surely that could not be Leonard Pembroke Jones.

Yet within minutes of my having made their introduction, Michael had engaged Father in a conversation on the subject of the monetary situation in Europe—a topic I had never heard Michael mention before, and had had no idea he knew or cared anything about. Of course Michael and I do not discuss money unless in connection with the running of the agency, so how would I have known?

Father being a banker, he warmed immediately and leapt right into a spirited discussion, seemingly unembarrassed by his occasional hesitancy and groping for words. Obviously he'd been hungry for male companionship—especially from someone who knew the world of finance, in which he'd spent most
of his professional life. Now, to see Michael satisfying my father's need flooded me with a kind of warmth I had never felt before. It was really quite extraordinary.

Yet I did wonder once more about William Barrett, for I'd been assuming that he was visiting Father right along. Surely William would have filled this need?

In addition to his profession as a banker, Father was for one or two terms an elected member of the Massachusetts Commonwealth's legislature—which was how he came by the honorific he seldom uses: The Honorable Leonard Pembroke Jones. I had not had cause to remember my father's political career for years, but now I saw it again, however improbably, as from his sickbed Father charmed and manipulated the unmanipulatable Michael Archer Kossoff.

What a curious pleasure it was for me to watch them together! I relaxed and let this new experience warm me, leaning back in my chair, not really part of the conversation, and not minding that a bit. Gradually my attention wandered, and I fell to thinking about what Michael had told me earlier over lunch at our hotel.

While we were waiting for our food, I had asked Michael if he could explain to me the "condition peculiar to males of the human species" that Dr. Cosgrove had thought so unsuitable for my delicate, feminine ears. Naturally enough, I had already surmised this condition must have something to do with either the sexual act or the male genitalia.

Michael initially had difficulty answering me. This came as a surprise since he usually doesn't mind explaining such things to me—in fact, there have been plenty of times when he has positively enjoyed it—but this was, apparently, quite different. He had to ruffle his hair and clear his throat a time or two before he got started:

"I believe, given the doctor's report that your father
consulted
him for this condition soon after marriage, and persisted with the treatments—whatever they may have been—over a period of almost two years . . . Oh, damn!"

At this inconvenient juncture, our waiter had arrived with shallow bowls of lovely, fragrantly steaming she-crab soup, and a basket of the freshly made rolls the hotel is famous for. I will admit so much mouthwatering stuff took an edge off my curiosity. Michael must have used the time to consider what he might say, because eventually he tackled the topic again, though in a somewhat backhanded manner.

"Look here, Fremont, I'm beginning to think Cosgrove may have been right. Your father's privacy should be protected. And respected, as well."

"Michael, please, you're talking to
me,
not some stranger," I said softly but urgently, giving his knee a nudge with mine beneath the table to emphasize my point. "I'm my father's daughter and his only child. No one could possibly respect him more than I do. There is certainly no need for you to hold back or to be shy about anything."

"But the man is your
father,
Fremont, and men are, well, sensitive about this particular . . . um, thing."

I studied his face, which was slightly flushed. I noted as well the presence of a little crease that has recently begun to show between his eyebrows when something troubles him.

"Granted. But still," I said, matching my low tone of voice to his, "you must agree it's important I be able to understand everything that has happened to Father in relation to his health. If you think you know what Dr. Cosgrove refuses to tell me, then you
must
do it. Truly."

His eyes, darkening as he gazed at me, were like the rings that spread after a pebble has been dropped in the water, going deeper and deeper. I felt as if he wished to see not just into my soul but rather all the way through me. The intensity of that gaze both thrilled and chilled me.

However, I was not going to let him see through me; at least, not this time. I gazed implacably back, and willed my eyes and my soul to become opaque.

I must have succeeded, because finally Michael asked, "Do you know the meaning of the word 'impotence'?"

"Yes, of course. It means weakness, powerlessness."

"Have you ever heard the word 'impotence' applied to a male's ability, or lack thereof, to perform the sex act?"

"No," I replied.

These things might be discussed in some circles, but lately I hadn't been a member of any circle of females. My good friends Meiling Li and Frances McFadden were both so involved in their own concerns that I seldom saw them. Leaving females aside, there was only Michael with whom I might converse on such a subject.

"No," I said again, "I confess that is a subject to which I have not given much thought."

Now I
did
think about it. . . and in a few seconds I was glad I had not had these thoughts in the doctor's office. I mean, considering the mental images that came to mind. I felt my cheeks flush.

"Oh," I blurted, somewhat too loudly, then reflexively covered my mouth with one hand. I lowered my voice again: "You mean—sometimes it doesn't
work?"

For some reason this struck Michael as funny. A sort of smirky grin spread across his face. "That's right, Fremont. Sometimes it doesn't work."

"Good heavens," I said. "How distressing."

Michael's grin faded. "An understatement."

"How perfectly awful." I really had never even considered such a thing. But then I'd never been with anyone but Michael, and he—well—he was just always
there.

"Especially for the man," Michael said gravely.

"And for the woman too, surely," I said, then quickly lowered my eyes.

Uh-oh. That had made Augusta barge into my mind in the most unpleasant sort of way, and I wished I hadn't thought of her, or any of this.

"Not necessarily," Michael said, a statement which rather puzzled me, but as I was preoccupied with erasing Augusta from my thoughts I let it go by. Eyes still modestly lowered, I returned to spooning up my soup, which was now only lukewarm but still delicious.

As uncomfortable as this whole topic had made me—and Michael too, I supposed—I knew it was important, and not just in and of itself. Exactly how or why, I didn't know; it was what we in the detective business call a hunch. So I filed it away for later reference.

The main course had arrived at about that time, and as we'd finished the meal Michael had gone on to explain in a matter-of-fact way the consequences of impotence for a man of Father's age, and for a marriage.

Now in Father's hospital room I watched the two of them talk—Father propped up against pillows in his hospital bed and Michael with his chair pulled close, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. And I wondered if I was really better off knowing those consequences of impotence as Michael had detailed them:

Father, finding difficulty in satisfying himself and Augusta in the bedroom, must have gone to Searles Cosgrove for medical help. But nothing Searles had done or suggested would suffice. Poor Father—for two long years he must have struggled and tried Cosgrove's nostrums only to meet with frustration.

So eventually Father had gone elsewhere and kept his own counsel about it. What had happened then? Whatever it was, had it any bearing on what ailed Father now? Would we ever know? Was there any way to find out?

I couldn't ask Father, that much was certain. And I didn't think Michael would do it, either, because the questions would
only embarrass them both. No one wanted to cause Father the least discomfort. We all wanted him to be happy for however many days he had left. Surely we all wanted that.

Even Augusta. Or so one hoped.

Suddenly I realized the conversation over the bed had taken a turn that required my attention.

Father was saying, "You will stay with us at Beacon Street, of course, Michael."

Michael glanced at me quickly, then replied before I had time to react: "I'd like that very much, sir. Thank you for the invitation."

"Separate rooms, of course," Father said.

To my utter astonishment, my father winked!

"Of course." Michael grinned.

"Well then, that's settled. Good." Father pushed back into his pillows, though his head had never really left them. As much as he'd enjoyed it, the conversation had visibly tired him.

Even so, I couldn't be letting these men decide things without so much as an inquiry into my wishes on the matter. "I seem to have missed something," I said.

"This is a fine fellow you've found yourself here, Fremont. You should marry him," Father said.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Instead I simply ignored the remark and pushed on with my own agenda. Though I rather doubted I was going to get anywhere, I had to try. I had not the slightest intention of staying in our house with Augusta Simmons in charge. I had
never
wanted to be under the same roof with her; in some respects I'd gone all the way to California to avoid that very thing. So I said firmly:

"Father, Michael and I are staying at the Parker House."

"Ridiculous to spend that amount of money when there's no need. Plenty of rooms at Beacon Street, not to mention it's your home, girl. No matter whether you call yourself Caroline or Fremont, it's still your home."

I refused to show any reaction, although the words "your home" did give me a pang. Any argument with Father has always been a contest of who can stay the course longest, and so I must not let him distract me.

I heard myself say, "If we're here for an extended time, I thought we might rent a small apartment. For perhaps a month or two," though I had not thought any such thing until this very moment.

"Oh. So were you planning to get married while you're here then, just to please your dear old dad?"

I blinked. I hadn't seen that one coming. I said, "I beg your pardon?"

"You said 'an apartment,' " Father replied. "That means one for the two of you. And of course I could see why a newly married couple wouldn't want to be in the same house with a sick old fogy like me."

He winked at Michael again, and Michael winked back, as if there were some kind of silent conspiracy between them.

"Father, really"—I stretched out my hand to him, and he placed his cool, bony fingers in mine—"I hadn't thought about any of that! And I don't want to. I only thought that Augusta would not want the extra work of having me and Michael in the house. That is why I made reservations at the hotel."

Half my statement was a lie, but a kind one.

Michael raised one eyebrow, in a certain quite effective way he has of doing that. "Your father's point is well taken, Fremont," he said. "I think we should discuss it further."

Fortunately for me, at that moment Father had one of his fits of coughing. A Sister, passing in the hallway, came in and administered a glass of water as if it were medicine.

"He coughs because his mouth and throat get too dry," she said, glancing at me and Michael in turn, "particularly when he's been talking for a long time. He doesn't produce much saliva anymore."

"I'm going home tomorrow," Father said, looking up at her as she took the glass away. He had dribbled a bit of water down his chin and the nun wiped it away with a clean cloth that she took from a pocket hidden somewhere in her voluminous skirt. "I can talk as much as I want then."

"You can talk as much as you want here too, Mr. Jones." She smiled, tucking the cloth back among her folds. She was pretty when she smiled, with cheeks as smooth and clear as porcelain; but how she could stand to do a day's work in that winged hat and huge skirt was completely beyond me.

The Sister had not quite finished with her patient and went on to say, "But when you become uncomfortable and start coughing, it would probably be best to rest, don't you think? You can see your daughter and her husband more another time."

Egad. The nun already had us married.

Michael smirked.

With the way the conversation was going, it was high time we got out of there anyway. I took up my canes and got to my feet.

"You're right, Sister," I said. "Father, we'll finish this discussion later." Much, much later. If ever.

The nun smiled and gracefully slipped out of the room, the points of her hat just barely clearing the doorframe.

"I've already told Augusta to expect you at the house," Father said to me pointedly. When he spoke in that tone of voice even I could not dissuade him, and I knew it, so I remained silent.

He said further, "I'll tell her to get that maid of hers to make up another bedroom for Michael. Six bedrooms in the house, no point in a hotel, none whatever. Waste of money."

Father coughed again, and this time it was Michael who offered the water glass, with a tender care that touched me deeply.