The Doctor Digs a Grave (8 page)

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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: The Doctor Digs a Grave
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One by one they filed into the dining room. Fenimore found himself seated on Polly's left, Lydia's right, and directly across from Bernice. As he shook out his linen napkin, he wondered who would be the first to mention Sweet Grass, the only reason he had come. Would it be up to him? He hoped not. The grapefruit course passed in silence. But when the soup arrived, Lydia turned to him and asked, “Are you related to the author?”
It had been a long time since anyone had connected him with James Fenimore Cooper, the prolific author of books about a more youthful America. Had the nation's recent interest in preserving the wilderness and helping Native Americans sparked a renewed interest in his works? “Yes and no,” he said.
“How yes?” She arched a perfect jet brow.
“I'd rather begin with the no. My father claimed absolutely
no connection with the great author. He said all his ancestors were rascals and rogues.”
She smiled. “And the yes?”
“One day my mother became annoyed with this routine and decided to look into the matter. She was from Prague and could trace her origins back over five hundred years, and she always wanted to do the same for my father.”
“Prague?” His dinner partner's eyes shone. “Kafka country!”
“Er …” Fenimore cleared his throat. “I don't think Mother was a big Kafka fan.”
Lydia looked crushed.
“Anyway,” Fenimore went on, “Mother hightailed it to the Historical Society and did a little research. And a few weeks later, at breakfast, she presented my father with a neatly typed genealogy that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was a distant cousin of James Fenimore Cooper.”
“How fascinating. What did he say?”
“Nothing. He wouldn't speak to her for a week.”
When Lydia laughed, she showed two rows of perfect pearly teeth.
“Why such an interest in Cooper? I didn't think anyone read him anymore. Don't the schools these days feel that literature begins and ends with Hemingway?”
“Not my school.”
“Which was?”
“Briggs.”
Fenimore sighed. Of course. The exclusive day school for young ladies, founded before the Civil War, that had not revised its curriculum since. “So you've actually read Cooper?”
“All of him.”
It was Fenimore's turn to raise an eyebrow. Even he hadn't read all of him. “Are you a teacher?”
She shook her head.
“What do you do? Besides read Cooper, I mean?”
She smiled mischievously. “Shop, garden, sleep, eat.” She helped herself to a perfectly browned veal cutlet from a serving dish the maid offered her.
Fenimore felt as if he were in
Alice in Wonderland.
In her own way, this woman was as daring as the kids in the sixties who had refused to go to Vietnam. He would have been less shocked to find himself seated next to a dinosaur. “Forgive me, but how do you justify your existence?”
“You mean, why didn't I become a doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief?”
He nodded.
“Life is theater, doctor. There are the leads, the supporting roles, the minor parts, and the walk-ons. All are necessary to carry off the play.” This rebuttal sounded stale and rehearsed. She must have used it many times in self-defense.
“You forgot the director.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not for me.”
“Or stage manager?”
She brightened. “Now there's a thought. I might fit in backstage.”
“And of course there's the audience.” He remembered the detached way she had observed her mother's performance during the cocktail hour.
Before she could answer, Ned Hardwick interrupted, addressing the party. “You all know why Dr. Fenimore is here tonight. We were just beginning to recover from the shock of a death in the family, when another unpleasant discovery was made.” He paused and looked at his son. “Ted has found Sweet Grass's diary and discovered that she recorded certain feelings she had about all of us. As a result, Ted has jumped to the conclusion that his fiancée committed suicide—and somehow we are to blame. I think this is unlikely, but I've invited Dr. Fenimore
here to serve as a neutral party, someone outside the family to give his opinion on this painful matter. If he's willing.” He turned to Fenimore.
Throughout this announcement, Ted continued to eat, studiously avoiding his father's eye.
“I'd be glad to look at the diary,” Fenimore said neutrally, “if Ted agrees, that is.”
Ted started to rise.
“No,” Polly said. “Let Andrew finish his dinner. After dinner will be time enough.”
Ted sat down. Ned, obeying a signal from his wife, changed the subject to a less emotional topic, the stock market.
“Do you have a busy practice?” Bernice asked Fenimore from across the table.
“Oh, perking along.”
“I wondered if the new interest in home remedies was having any effect.”
“I haven't noticed it. Oh, occasionally someone will want to substitute herb tea for a sedative, but I don't find patients staying away in droves, treating themselves with roots and weeds.”
“I'm attempting an herb garden of my own,” Bernice said, and a discussion of the attributes of herbs carried them through dessert.
After dessert, Polly trundled them back to the living room for coffee. When Fenimore had finished his, he asked to see the diary.
LATER TUESDAY EVENING
T
ed brought Fenimore the diary, and Polly led him to the small study where they had talked when he had first arrived. “Take as long as you like,” she said and closed the door. For a moment he had the sensation that he was a prisoner rather than a guest.
He examined the diary. It was small, about five by seven inches, with no lock or clasp. A simple bound notebook. He opened it. The paper was lined. The first entry was dated July 20. Her handwriting was small but clear. He began to read.
7/20 T. and I drove to Cape May today. Perfect beach weather. After a swim and picnic on the beach, we went to the Marine Museum. Saw horrible examples of what we do to our marine life. A flounder suffocated in a plastic bag, etc. Will we never learn?
 
7/22 Dull day. Routine chores. Did wash. Cleaned. Paid bills. Never got around to weaving. Should start with weaving and let the rest wait.
The following entries were more of the same routine. Fenimore flipped through them. The next entry of interest was not until August 1.
8/1 T. drove me out to meet his parents for the first time. Was overwhelmed by the size of their home. T. always played down their wealth. I'm afraid I wasn't dressed for the occasion—jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and sandals. I'd taken my cue from Ted. He was wearing a T-shirt and cutoff jeans. But they were his parents. Not mine. I was embarrassed. I caught his mother looking at me, and her expression was not approving! Dinner was a disaster. They asked politely about my family and when I told them I had only a brother, and we were no longer close, I don't think it went over too well. Family is very important in certain Philadelphia suburbs. Not just your living relatives, but all the ones that came before, and how they got here. It's better to have come over on the
Mayflower
than the
Welcome,
for example, because the
Mayflower
came first. Of course, I could have told them about my peoples' trek across the Bering Strait fifteen thousand years ago!
Fenimore laughed aloud. Sweet Grass was emerging from these pages, unfolding like a flower. Not a shrinking violet, either. More tiger lily. The next entry of interest was in September.
9/10 Had episode of rapid heartbeat. Went to see Dr. Robinson. She took an electrocardiogram and assured me there was nothing to worry about. Told me to take Inderal along with my digoxin. Two a day. And told me to call her if I had any more episodes.
Fenimore laid the diary aside, made a note of the medicines, and decided to see Robinson as soon as possible. Flipping through more routine entries, he paused at September 15.
9/15 Chose my wedding dress today. Mrs. H. insisted on coming with me, and it was a battle royal trying to find something not too expensive. There was one I liked, but it was much too high and she offered to pay half. I declined, not too graciously, I'm afraid. But Ted and I can't start off under any obligation to his family. If we do, it will never work out!
“Cheers,” murmured Fenimore.
9/25 Went to see RW. No good. He still refuses to come to the wedding. Depressed.
 
10/1 Held my first weaving class. Nice group of women. Hope I'm not biting off more than I can chew before the wedding. But I've wanted to do this for such a long time. And the women are so eager. I'm really excited.
 
10/12 T.'s mother steamed in here tonight and started laying down the law—about the wedding, the honeymoon, and how to furnish our new house. She took me completely by surprise. I wasn't expecting an ambush. Her parting shot was, “I only hope you two know what you're doing.” Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? Doris was here, in the next room, and heard the whole thing. She was shocked. When I told T, he just shrugged and said, “Mother likes to run things. She'll cool off after the wedding.” She'd better.
 
10/13 Another episode of rapid heartbeat. Robinson took an electrocardiogram and upped the Inderal to three tablets a day. I asked if she thought it could have been caused by the excitement of getting married. She smiled and said, “Could be.”
Fenimore harrumphed and turned the page.
10/14 Tragic news. Doris had a routine physical today and was told she needed surgery. A hysterectomy! I can't believe it. So young and no children? God, it's unfair. God damn. She's my maid of honor. I think we should postpone the wedding.
 
10/15 T. won't hear of a postponement. Neither will Doris. Her doctor assures her she will be well enough by November 15 to take part in the ceremony. The operation is 10/25.
As Fenimore read deeper into October, he began to grow apprehensive.
10/16 T.'s mother again. She called to check on the wording of the service. I told her we want to drop the “obey” and conclude the ceremony by reading an ancient Lenape prayer. She asked again if my brother was going to “give me away.” (I haven't told her yet that he may not even come.) I explained that I didn't want to be “given away,” like a package, from one man to another. Even if Roaring Wings comes, I don't want him to take part in the ceremony. I told her, “I want to walk down the aisle to Ted as free as a bird in the sky, a deer in the wood, a fish in the sea.” She hung up on me.
Fenimore smiled. Maybe, at last, Polly had met her match. He frowned, remembering that the diarist had met hers.
10/17 T.'s sister called. The dark one. Lydia. She hinted that she would like to be part of the ceremony. Damn. I only want one attendant. Doris. I hardly know this woman. She seems nice enough, but if I have
her
, then I may have to have the other two!
Sensing hysteria building, Fenimore quickly turned the page.
10/18 Had blood tests today, for sexually transmitted diseases. What a joke. The only one they don't test for is AIDS.
 
10/19 A disturbing call from Kitty, the youngest sister. She said she was upset about being left out of the wedding. (What did I tell you?) I explained as reasonably as possible that Ted and I wanted a small wedding and we really couldn't add any more people at this late date. There was a long pause, and I thought I heard sniffling. Then she said, “You'll regret this,” and hung up. I'm afraid to tell Ted. He'll be so upset. Maybe I better let her be in it. What's the difference? I just want it to be over.
 
10/20 Ted and I went to City Hall for the license. Shabby little office, full of lots of happy couples. One couple was making out on the bench in front of us. We thought they were going to have sex then and there. When you're getting married, you tend to think you're special. You're the only ones having this experience. This visit helped to put things in perspective. Still upset about Kitty. I think she may be a little unbalanced.
 
10/21 A call from Bernice, the eldest. She wanted us to come for dinner at her apartment. We went, even though there's so much to do! She's my favorite of the lot. Her apartment has a terrific view of the river and Boathouse Row. The boathouses, outlined in white lights, are cartoonlike. You almost expect Bugs Bunny or Donald Duck to pop out and go rowing up the Schuylkill, or over the waterfall. Inside, the apartment was a cross between a herbarium and a jungle. Plants everywhere—dried and living. Not common houseplants, either. Strange, exotic ones that require an expert's care and knowledge. Pots on the windowsills, baskets swinging from the ceilings and doorways, tucked into every nook and cranny. When Bernice disappeared into the kitchen, T. whispered, “Whenever I come here, I expect a headhunter to jump out at me.” Dinner was delicious. She went to a lot of trouble. Indian curried chicken (Asian Indian, that is), rice, salad, and a fruit compote for dessert. A special wine too. She made only one reference to my “background.” Asked if I ever cooked any native dishes. I told her I made
sapan.
Fenimore grimaced. A kind of mush made from cooked corn, as he recalled.
Bernice made a face. But when I mentioned huckleberry bread, she asked me for the recipe. I promised to make her some. We talked about the diet of the Lenapes, when they lived off the land long ago in south Jersey. She was entranced by our word for strawberry—
w'tihim,
meaning “heart berry.” She said, “How lovely. Of course it is shaped like a heart. But we cold-blooded Anglo-Saxons overlooked that
entirely.” I don't mind when people show a genuine interest in our people and their ways.
 
10/22 Another call from Kitty. This time she tried to disguise her voice. “Stay away from Ted, or else,” she whispered. I really should tell T. She may need psychiatric help.
“Definitely.” Fenimore read on.
10/23 T.'s father was here.
God, can't they leave her alone? Fenimore groaned.
His excuse for dropping by was the wedding present. He and Mrs. H. are giving us an oriental rug, and he wanted the dimensions of our living room in the new house. T. and I would rather have throw rugs and leave the floor exposed. We sanded and stained and polished it and it's very beautiful. But I gave him the dimensions to keep the peace. I was hoping he would leave, but instead he began to inquire, not too subtly, about my health. I told him about the tetralogy of Fallot and that I'm on digoxin. But I didn't bother to tell him about the episodes of rapid heartbeat. It's none of his business. He nodded, taking it all in. I hope I convinced him that his son isn't marrying an invalid. He also asked the name of my doctor.
What next? Are they going to ask to look at her teeth? Fenimore ground his own, as he turned the page.
10/24 Polly called. She asked me to call her that. It will be hard, but I'll try, for T.'s sake. She's planning
a party for us, to introduce me to the rest of the family and some old friends.
To look her over, Fenimore grunted.
She said, “Nothing formal. Just a little barbecue with family and dear friends.” I guess she's afraid to have a dinner party. After the way I was attired last time, I might show up in a tank top and jeans. God, will this never end? All I want is to be alone with T. The thought of our honeymoon is the only thing that keeps me going. T.'s parents think we're going to Bermuda and will stay at a luxury hotel. Actually, we've rented a shack in south Jersey, in the middle of a field. Nothing but field and sky and the scent of the bay. No one around but hawks and herons and an occasional deer. And nothing to do but walk the fields, sit by the fire and—oh, yes—make love. I hope I can last.
 
10/25 Doris had her operation today. They say it was a success. Some success. Last night she broke down. It took me three hours to calm her. It was the thought of no kids. At one point she was so distraught, she said she hated me because I could have kids. I know she didn't mean it. God, life can be hell!
A tap on the study door. Fenimore dragged himself up from the diary. “Yes?”
“How're you coming?” Polly's voice sounded hollow behind the door.
“Almost done.” He glanced at his watch: after ten. “I'll be out in a minute.” He could understand her curiosity. This document must never fall into her hands.
Her footsteps faded away.
10/26 Had fitting for dress. It is lovely, despite the expense. Very simple. Polly explained to me, “Simplicity has its price.” I suppose she's right. I've always preferred plain things—like Shaker furniture. That's expensive too. Even their famous boxes. The smallest ones cost about fifty dollars. And why not? Each one takes days to make. I should know from my weaving. Sometimes the simplest patterns are the most difficult.
 
10/27 Gave quizzes to two freshman sections. Shopped. Early to bed for a change.
 
10/28 A.M. Marked quizzes. Paid bills. Worked at loom for two hours. Eureka! When I'm at the loom I forget everything, except the pattern I'm working on. I wonder if this was true of the Egyptian women, and my Lenape ancestors—my grandmother? If T. hadn't called, I might have worked through the night.
 
10/29 Went to see RW yesterday and stayed overnight. Tried to persuade him once more to come. Of course, he refused. “If I disapprove of the marriage,” he said, “why should I come to the wedding?” Always so logical. He was like that even as a child. I guess that's why he's a good engineer, but not such a good brother. He gave me a wedding present, though. My grandmother's weaving shuttle. She carved it herself from very light pine. I know it will fly like a bird. I can't wait to try it. I would try it right now, but there's this damn party. I wish I
could stay home. I wish RW would change his mind. I wish the wedding were over. I wish I were dead.
Nice thoughts for a bride-to-be. Fenimore's eye traveled down the page.
10/30

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