The Immortelles (11 page)

“Just a few pretty flowers. You gonna like 'em when they come up, Dr. Jeff.”

The black man, short and stocky, stood and followed the buggy around to the large hitching area in the back. To the right was a carriage house, and behind was a half-acre field, green with grass.

“Let me unhitch for you, Dr. Jeff.”

“You might as well turn Penny out into the pasture. I won't be going anywhere the rest of the day.”

“Yes, sah. Did you have a good day, Doctor?”

“Very fine. Did my father sit on the porch today?”

“Not today, sah. Mrs. Shultz, she say he's not doin' well. I was hopin' this warm weather would be good for him.”

“So was I.”

Marcus said with a grin, “He's got a good doctor takin' care of him. You give him my best wishes and tell him I'm prayin' for him, and my prayers don't never fail.”

“I'll tell him, Marcus.”

Jeff picked up his medical bag and walked in the back door. He found Olga Shultz, the housekeeper, and Ellie Middleton, the maid, preparing the evening meal. “Hello, ladies,” he said. “Something good for supper tonight?”

“Yah. Vat you expect? I cook something bad?”

Mrs. Shultz was forty-eight and had been in America since she was fifteen, but she still had her German accent. She was a heavy woman, blonde and blue-eyed, with a perfect complexion. A widow, she was totally devoted to Irving Whitman; he had shown kindness to her as an immigrant, unable to speak a word of English and new to the country. Olga nudged the maid at her side and said, “Why you just stand there, Ellie? Take the doctor's bag up to his room.”

“Oh, yes, I'll take it, Dr. Jeff!” Ellie was twenty years old, a thin woman with brown hair and pale blue eyes. She obviously adored Jefferson Whitman, which at first had amused Olga Shultz; now she was impatient with the girl.

“Oh, don't bother. I'll take it myself, Ellie,” Jeff said.

“Oh, no, sir, let me do it!” Ellie reached out, and when his hand touched hers as they passed the bag, she blushed, swallowed hard, and ran out of the room.

“That is a foolish girl. She thinks she's in loff with you.”

“She just can't resist my good looks. No woman can.” Jeff looked down at the housekeeper with fondness. “How's Father been today?”

“Not gute. I couldn't get him to eat his lunch, but he'll eat tonight. I made him a gute German meal.” She reached out and poked the tall man's ribs. “And you, you never put on a pound. You're skinny as a rail.”

“Not because I don't get good cooking. I'll go visit Father, and then I think I'll lie down before supper.”

“Don't you be fooling vid dot Ellie! She's got no sense at all.”

Jefferson grinned broadly. “I can't promise a thing, Olga. I'm a wicked, wicked man.” He laughed and turned down a short hall that opened into a large foyer. He walked to the bedroom that they had provided on the first floor for convenience's sake. He knocked on the door, and hearing his father's voice, he stepped inside. He saw that his father was pale and wan, but he showed no reaction. Smiling, he said, “I hear you've been misbehaving. Olga says you wouldn't eat your lunch.”

“That woman wants to stuff me like a pig. Sit down. Tell me about what's been going on. I'm surprised the hospital is still open without me there to see to it.”

Jeff pulled a chair close to the bed, sat, and began to speak of the activities of the day. Without seeming to, he studied his father carefully. At the age of sixty-four, Irving Whitman had been a strong man up until a year ago. The illness had baffled most of the doctors. Whatever it was had drained his strength and the color from his face. He had always been a handsome man, with silver hair and unusual green eyes, but now he looked frail.

Jeff told him about his various doctoring activities, including the finite details of each one. When he finished speaking of the last surgery, he mentioned, “I saw Dr. Goldman today. He says he's coming out to see you this week.”

“He's too busy for that.”

“I don't think so. I never knew Dr. Goldman to promise a single thing he didn't carry out.” Jeff felt a pang in his heart. Irving was all the family he knew, and his father's illness pained him. He forced a smile and said, “I'll going to go clean up a little bit. Olga tells me she's made a fine meal. Do you feel like going to the table?”

“Certainly.”

Jeff was fairly sure that his father did not feel like it, but it was good that he made the effort. “All right. We'll have a contest and see who can eat the most.”

“This is fine cooking, Olga,” Jeff said. He had eaten a great portion of the meal, which included tender pork chops, carrots and broccoli from the garden, and new potatoes, white and steaming as they burst out of their jackets. The freshly baked éclairs that served as dessert seemed to melt in his mouth.

Mrs. Shultz beamed but saw that Irving had eaten almost nothing. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught Jeff 's eye. He shook his head, and she swallowed her scoldings.

“Let's go sit on the porch and watch the fireflies,” Jeff suggested.

“I think I'd rather lie down.”

Jeff recognized fatigue in his father's face. “Of course,” he said. “I'll tell you what—let me read to you. You always like that.”

“All right, but I don't want any adventure stories tonight.”

“You can choose.”

Fifteen minutes later, Irving Whitman was propped up in his bed, his hands folded, and Jeff was roaming the bookcases. “Nothing here but science and medical books.”

“Read from this.”

Jeff turned and walked over and took the worn, black Bible that his father indicated on the table beside him. “Fine,” he said. “Would you like something from the Gospels?”

“No, I want you to read the Song of Solomon.”

Surprise showed in the younger man's eyes. “The Song of Solomon?”

“Yes.”

Jeff shrugged, sat down, and opened the Bible. The book was ragged, its thin pages creased and yellowed with age. He remarked, “We need to get you a new Bible. This one's worn out.”

“No, I like that one. It's like an old friend.”

“I wish mine were as worn as yours.” Jeff found the book and began to read. “The song of songs which is Solomon's. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.” He looked up and said, “This really is an odd book! I never know what to do with it, Father. Some of the lines in it are embarrassing.”

Irving smiled. “I heard a pastor say once that this is the hardest book for unspiritual people to read.”

“I guess that's me.”

“Go ahead and just read it.”

Jeff continued through the first chapter to verse thirteen:

A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of campfire in the vineyards of Engedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.

Jeff looked up, a puzzled light in his brown eyes. “I must confess, Father, I don't know what this book is doing in the Bible.”

“It's always been one of my favorites.”

“But why?”

“It's a book about love, Jeff,” the old man said. “Everybody's interested in love, I suppose.”

“But
this is so—
strange
. Listen to this: ‘He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.'” Jeff shook his head. “This is a pretty graphic love scene.”

“Yes, it is. The whole book, on the surface, is about the love of a man and a woman. It's taking a look at the physical side of the marriage relationship.”

“But why is it in the Bible?”

“I think God uses this book as He uses others: to show us His love for man. After all, Jeff, the highest form of love on earth is probably between a husband and a wife. The apostle Paul said that the two become one flesh. I don't know of any other relationship that creates such a complete union. Yes, I think it's a picture of Christ and His church, expressed in terms of a human marriage. You remember that Paul said that the church is the bride of Christ. And in the Old Testament, Israel was the wife of Jehovah.”

“It's so sensual.”

“So is marriage, Jeff. That's part of the love between men and women. There are other parts. When the sensual passes away, there's still love there, but for a time, physical love is part of marriage. And God honors it. Only worldly people and those with impure minds find something shameful about the marriage bed.”

Jeff continued reading, pausing from time to time to let his father speak of what the verses meant to him. He knew his father was a truly devout Christian, but they didn't often read the Bible together. This night, Irving seemed unusually talkative.

When Jeff finished the book, Irving looked tired, but a light still shone in his eyes as he looked at his son. “One day, you'll get married, Jeff, and I hope you find the woman that God's created just for you.”

Jeff smiled. “You're very romantic. You believe that marriages are made in heaven.”

“I believe that God made Isabelle for me, and me for her.”

“You loved her very much.”

“Perhaps too much. Jeff, find a woman and love her as this book sets it out. Let her be the fairest thing in this world to you.”

Jeff saw tears in his father's eyes, and this shocked him. He sat quietly until his father said, “I think I'll sleep now, son. Thanks for reading to me.”

Jeff removed some of his father's pillows, then took his hand. He held it in both of his. It felt as thin and feeble as the bones of a young bird. “I'll remember what you said about finding the right woman. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Jeff.”

Jeff turned the lamp down very low and left the room. In the hall, he met Olga, who asked, “Is he all right?”

“He's not as well as I'd like. He was in an odd mood tonight. He talked about his wife.”

“Vat did he say?”

“He talked about how much he loved her, and how he wants me to find a woman I can love that way.”

“He is such a good man. I pray every night and every morning, too, und all day that Gott vill get him up from dot bed.”

“So do I, Olga.” He put his arm around the woman, hugged her, and said, “Good night.”

Jeff went to his own bedroom then, undressed, and got into bed. He was tired to the bone; he had started his day at five o'clock, and now it was after midnight. Yet he lay unable to sleep, thinking about the evening with his father. Finally he realized,
Something is troubling him. But I don't know what it is
. As he pondered what it could be, sleep overtook him.

For the next two days, Jeff worked hard and rode home as quickly as he could, in case his father wanted to talk some more, but Irving kept conversations short. Jeff grew more and more convinced that something was disturbing his father, but he respected the old man's privacy and would not ask him outright.

On Thursday night, Irving ate very little and went to sleep early in the evening. Jeff was in the library next door to his father's bedroom, reading, when he heard Irving's bell ring. He jumped to his feet and met the housekeeper in the hall, coming from the kitchen. “I'll see to him, Olga.”

He entered Irving's room and saw that the bed was rumpled, as if his father had been thrashing around. Irving looked up at him with desperate eyes.

“What is it, sir? Are you in pain?”

“Not physically.”

Jeff hesitated, then said, “You didn't bring me up to be nosy, but I wish you'd tell me what it is.” For a moment, he thought that he had stepped over the line: His father stared at him almost harshly. He began to apologize, but Irving interrupted him.

“Sit down, Jeff. I must talk to you.”

Jeff pulled a chair close to his father's bed and leaned forward, his hands clasped together.

The words came from the older man slowly. “You're right. I am troubled. I have tried to keep this thing to myself, but I can't do it any longer, son.”

Jeff had no idea what was coming. He said, “Tell me, Father. If it's something I can fix, I'll do it.”

The gaslight burned steadily, throwing shadows on the face of Irving Whitman. His cheeks were thin, his lips pale. He closed his eyes for a time, and when he opened them to meet those of his son, they showed torment. “I have something to confess to you, Jeff. It may be that you will despise me after you've heard what I have to say.”

“That won't happen!”

“Perhaps it should. I committed a terrible sin, Jeff.”

“I can't believe that, sir.”

Irving began to tremble, and he lowered his head. Finally he said, “It was five years after my wife died, Jeff. God knows I loved her more than life, and after I lost her, I nearly lost my mind. I was so lonely, Jeff. I really had no one until I adopted you, and you were only a child.”

Jeff did not move. He had never seen his father in this mood. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe.

“There was a young woman, a slave on the plantation. She was a beautiful quadroon. Her name was Bethany. I . . . I don't know how it happened. I had never had any affairs, but without going into details I had a . . . relationship with her. She had no choice, of course. I think she really cared for me.”

Irving broke off then and found it difficult to speak. “I cared for her, too. I can't explain how I could so turn aside from everything that I knew was right. I wasn't a Christian at the time, but I knew what I did was wrong. Then I found out she was pregnant, and I was scared to death.”