Unsettled Spirits (32 page)

And she turned in her chair, flung her arms around me, and darned near strangled me to death as she sobbed onto my shoulder.

Merciful heavens. I hadn't expected anything like this from the pretty-ish, forty-ish Betsy Powell. Golly, Mr. Underhill had been even more of a louse than I'd suspected, the cad.

Once I'd delicately maneuvered myself into a more comfy position, from which I could speak without inhaling or spitting on a bunch of hair and a black cloche hat, I said, "Oh, Miss Powell, I'm so sorry. That man was a complete wretch. What he did to you was a crime, and he deserved to die. And you can take comfort from the fact that, while you didn't kill him, someone else who probably had just as much of a reason to hate him as you, did kill him, and he's no longer here to plague the rest of the human race. I know God will forgive you for hating him, because you had good reason." Hmm. That sort of went against the
turn the other cheek
thing Pastor Smith was always spouting at us. Oh, well. In my opinion, you can only turn so many cheeks, and then it's time for stronger measures. Besides, if those words didn't make her feel better, I didn't know my stuff.

She pulled back slightly, thank God, and sniffled at me. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so." I sounded a good deal more positive than I felt.

"Really?"

"Yes." Firmly.

"But... but... but what about Mr. Kingston?"

Hmm. Yet another knotty problem. "I, uh, don't really know the man, but he seems quite fond of you. Do you really think he'd fault you for your one... mistake? I mean, if he's a just and kindhearted man, he'll understand."

She looked totally unconvinced. "I don't know about that. Men aren't like women. They'll do any old thing and know a woman will forgive them, but if a woman steps out of line, the entire countryside turns against her. I read about stuff like that all the time in the
Saturday Evening Post
. A man can be forgiven anything, but let a woman make one mistake, and she's banned forevermore by everyone."

Perhaps she ought to broaden her reading horizons. I didn't tell her that. "Hmm. I truly don't know what to tell you about Mr. Kingston. You know him a lot better than I do. I'm only sorry Mr. Underhill did such a wicked thing to you. I, for one, am glad he's dead." There. I meant it, too.

"Oh, Daisy! Thank you!"

Blast. She recommenced strangling me.

But that didn't last too awfully long, and by the time the two of us walked from the ladies' room to the Fellowship Hall, I'd helped Miss Betsy Powell wash her face, powder her cheeks a tiny bit to remove the major ravages of weeping, and I didn't think either one of us looked precisely like the wrath of God, although I was only guessing about that part.

Chapter 26

Aaaaand, I guessed wrong. As soon as I stepped foot into Fellowship Hall that day, my entire family, Sam, and Dr. Benjamin and his wife ganged up on me. Well, that's only six people, but they felt like a gang.

"You're sick. I can tell," said Sam, always polite and gentlemanly.

I glared at him, but by that time, both Aunt Vi and Ma had a hand to my forehead, each taking opposite sides of me. "You have a fever," declared Aunt Vi and Ma in a duet.

"You're terribly flushed, dear," said Mrs. Benjamin, a worried expression on her face. She turned to her husband. "Dr. Benjamin"—she always called him Dr. Benjamin—"you need to examine Mrs. Majesty. She's clearly ill."

"I am?" I said, feeling stupid.

Dr. Benjamin added his hand to my forehead and said, "Yes."

"We'd better get you home," said Pa.

"Hmm," said I, feeling my own forehead and finding it hotter than your average frying pan over a big flame. "I guess you're right." Naturally, as soon as my illness was confirmed by everyone, I began feeling lousy. "Yes, let's go home. I'm sorry to ruin everyone's fun." And, right on cue, idiotically and typically, I burst into tears. Right there in Fellowship Hall. I
hate
being sick. I also hate crying in front of people, but oh, well.

The Benjamins followed Sam's Hudson, which carried my family and me to our home a little south on Marengo. I was feeling weak and wobbly as I walked to the front porch, even with Sam holding me up by the elbows.

For the first time since I could remember, the delicious aroma of Aunt Vi's waiting dinner didn't make my mouth water. In fact, I almost felt sick to my stomach, which isn't like me at all. Well, except for when Billy died. I couldn't eat for months after that, but this wasn't then.

"I'm going to bed," I told everyone. Then I bent to pet Spike, who was leaping and wagging and loving his family and friends being home, and I fell, plop, on the floor. I don't think I fainted exactly. I think my legs just gave out on me, something they didn't do as a rule, and which I considered mighty rude of them.

"Good Lord!" cried Ma. "Daisy! Sam! Do something!"

So Sam scooped me up from the floor and carried me through the dining room and kitchen and to my bedroom, where he almost gently laid me on the bed. "You'd better get out of those church clothes and into a nightgown or something," said he. "I'll get the doctor."

"I... I don't think I can walk," I whimpered.

"Tell me what you need, and I'll get it for you."

In the meantime, Spike had jumped on the bed and was snuggling up to me. Ordinarily, I loved it when he did that, but I was already afire, and didn't need his warm, furry body near mine to make me even hotter than I was. "Nightgown in the second drawer of the dresser." I lifted my right hand and pointed a shaky finger at the birds-eye maple dresser that used to hold both Billy's and my underthings. And Billy's morphine syrup.

Thinking about Billy and morphine made me cry some more. Boy, was I a mess!

But Sam, undaunted by plowing through ladies' underthings—probably because he'd been married and was used to such activities—did as I'd asked, and brought me a long, white cotton night dress.

"Here. I'll give you five minutes and then send in the doctor."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Huh."

Typical. However, I undressed, threw my dress over the end of the bed since I honestly didn't think I could walk to the closet to hang it up, and hunkered into my nightie. Spike looked on with interest, but his attention kept swerving to the kitchen, where delicious smells emanated. They still made me feel sick.

In approximately the five minutes Sam had promised me, Dr. Benjamin knocked on my door and entered without awaiting my answer.

"You poor thing," said he. "You don't get sick very often, but when you do, it's always bad. But I've noticed that a lot with people of your coloring." I had dark red hair and blue eyes, for whatever you want to make of that. "You'll get really sick really fast and then get really well really fast, too."

"I hope you're right about that last part," I kind of croaked.

He smiled and opened his black bag, which I knew he kept in his automobile for emergencies. This was the first time I could recall me being an emergency. Reaching in, he pulled out a thermometer case, which he opened and from which he removed a thermometer. As he shook it to get the mercury down, he said, "All right. Open up."

So I did, he thrust the thermometer under my tongue, and let it stay there for a minute or so. When he removed it, he nodded and said, "Just as I figured. You, young lady, have a fever of a hundred and two degrees. That's not good. You probably infected the whole church congregation."

"Oh, no! Did I really? But I didn't know I was sick." Tears trickled down my cheeks again.

"Don't be silly," he said bracingly. "I'm going to give you three aspirin tablets, dose you with quinine, and I'll be back tomorrow to see how you're doing. Be sure to drink lots of water. Otherwise, the fever will dehydrate you, and you might become even more ill."

"Water? Really?"

"Water. Really."

"Thank you."

"Thank
you
. If you hadn't come down with whatever it is you have, Mrs. Benjamin and I wouldn't be partaking of one of your aunt's wonderful meals." He gave me a wink.

I loved Dr. Benjamin. He was one of the kindest men I knew.

So he gave me the three aspirin tablets, which I washed down with a cup of sweetened, milk-laden tea brought to me by my darling aunt, gave me a dose of quinine, and tucked me into bed. Ma and Pa and Sam came in to make sure I was still alive and fit to be left on my own. By that time, my eyelids felt as though they were made of lead, so I told them I'd just go to sleep now, thank you, and they all left. They took Spike with them. I missed Spike.

After the door to my room shut, I dozed off and on, listening to desultory chatter slipping into my room from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. I do believe Vi served up one of her delectable stews that day, which she always served with her flaky dinner rolls. I think, although I'm not perfectly sure, that she'd prepared a floating island for dessert. In our household floating island is a baked meringue floating in a boat of custard sauce. As a rule, I'd kill to be able to partake of a meal like that, but I was sick. Too sick to eat. Boy, what an un-Daisy-like thing to happen.

Damnation! I
hate
being sick!

Didn't matter how much animosity I held toward illness. I was sick in bed for five days. Dr. Benjamin visited every single one of those days, and so did Sam. Naturally, Pa kept an eye on me during the day, and Ma and Vi ministered to me as much as they could before and after their working hours. Vi made beef broth for me (she called it beef tea), which didn't hurt my throat too much when it went down. Sam said a Jewish lady in his New York City neighborhood claimed chicken soup could cure anything, so Vi made that, too. No matter how awful things got for me, I was blessed in my family and friends. And Sam. Sam was a true blessing, and at that time I was too weak to deny the truth.

People came bearing flowers and other goodies, which was nice. Mrs. Longnecker, our sour-dispositioned neighbor from down the street a couple of houses, even brought me some homemade ice cream, telling Ma that if I was sick, I might be able to eat ice cream if I couldn't eat anything else. That was nice of her, although I didn't feel like eating ice cream any more than I felt like eating anything else. I only drank soup because Vi and Ma made me. I followed Dr. Benjamin's advice and drank lots of water, even though I didn't want to.

Miss Betsy Powell and Mr. Gerald Kingston came by one day with a box of chocolates. Pa brought it and them in to me, and I tried to be polite and kind about them and the chocolates, but I wasn't about to eat anything Betsy gave me. She'd already tried to poison one person and had told me about it. I hadn't told Sam about her confession to me, mainly because I was so sick I forgot all about it. Then, after she came to visit, I wasn't sure what to do. She hadn't, after all, actually
killed
anyone. Besides which, I didn't blame her for wanting to do away with Mr. Underhill, the ghastly man. But now that she'd told me she'd actually tried to kill him, she might want to eliminate me, as someone who knew her worst secret.

Nuts. Life is too complicated even when one is well. When one isn't well, it's just not worth thinking about.

Still, although walking to the bathroom nearly did me in, I flushed the chocolates down the toilet. I threw them in a couple at a time and had to wait until the tank filled again before I could toss in another couple and pull the chain, but I emptied the box. I'd thought about burying them in the yard, but I wasn't equal to that task. Besides, Spike was a champion digger. Heck, dachshunds were bred to hunt badgers, according to Mrs. Bissel, and even went so far as to dig them out of their burrows. Badgers were tough customers and not known for their sweet dispositions. An ordinary chocolate was no match for a badger. A poisoned one, however... Well, the mere thought of my dog succumbing to poison made me cry. On the other hand, just about everything made me cry when I was sick. Phooey.

When Pa visited me after walking Spike and asked about them, I said I'd eaten them all. I could tell he didn't believe me, but I couldn't think of a more plausible lie. Again, that was unlike me. I know it sounds bad, but I'm generally able to lie with ease and facility.

Dr. Benjamin finally diagnosed a severe case of influenza, and kept dosing me with aspirin, quinine and sleep. The mere word "influenza" frightened people in those days, and I was no exception. Right after the Great War, a pandemic of influenza swept the world, carrying off almost a quarter of its population, so I knew it was nothing to sneeze at. So to speak. Look at Robert Browning's lost fiancée, Elizabeth Winslow, who'd died of the influenza years after the pandemic had passed.