Wickett's Remedy (38 page)

I don’t think we ought to do it.

And I’m tellin’ you you’re wrong.

It’s a sin, is what it is. It’s deserating the dead.

It ain’t deseration; the body don’t know the difference. It’s the livin’ you gotta worry about. How’d you like bein’ told there ain’t no coffins fer your loved one, he’ll have to go straight into the ground?

But ain’t that exactly what we’re doin’?

Sure, but only after his people already saw him. It won’t hurt nobody to take him out now. Don’t you want to let another family get their loved one buried proper?

But ain’t this coffin paid for?

That ain’t none of our business. Doncha want to earn a little extra?

Sure, but—

And don’t it say in the Bible “dust to dust”?

Yeah, but—

Well, we’re just helpin’ that along, see?

But we can’t just—

It’s a unique situation. If we do it like Mr. K wants then everyone’s happy: me, you, Mr. K, the families, everybody.

What about Jesus?

What’s he gotta do with anything?

If it’s a sin I gotta know so I can confess it.

Jesus wasn’t even buried in a box. He was wrapped up in a sheet!

Gee, I never thought about that.

Well don’t feel like you gotta start now.

But I think I ought to confess it anyway, just to be sure.

I don’t care what you tell the priest so long as right now you give me a hand.

Aw, jeez—

Look, you’re so bothered by it, turn your head. … Good. Now, wait—just—a minute. … All right, now help me put the dirt back in.

But—

Just shovel, all right? We got another one waiting.

My Beautiful Darling—

Our house is much smaller than it used to be and I do not recognize anything. Today I opened our front door and some rascal had switched our front lawn,
our driveway, and even our Packard for an ugly brown hallway lined with ugly brown doors. Where are you? I have looked everywhere. Are you at your mother’s?

Darling, I have a confession to make—I never wrote to the widow. Perhaps you guessed as much. I wish there had been someone like you to give me advice at the very beginning, before I had a family to consider! Please believe me when I tell you that I did not act out of cruelty. I am a coward, not a villain. But I guess you already knew that as well.

What do you hate most, my cowardice or my weakness? I know I was a terrible old goat, but I have been faithful to you for so many years that when I see another woman the thought does not even cross my mind. It is true that I have been dreaming of the widow—You see? I tell you everything now!—but Darling, the dreams are so unpleasant—it is as if she is whispering the saddest parts of her life into my ear. I should have made a clean break of this business long, long ago, but perhaps she can still forgive me. Perhaps you can too.

Always,

Your Loving Husband

T
hat night was strangely quiet, the breeze and ocean still. Lydia occupied a different room—one with pale wallpaper adorned with cornflowers, a Queen Anne dresser made of dark wood, and a tall wardrobe with brass fittings. The sickness inside her was an undulating creature with arms that clamped across her chest and up her spine and into her skull. Her insubstantial body was covered by a sheet from which one skinny leg protruded, sheathed in striped pajamas. When she heard movement she turned to see herself enter the bedroom carrying a bowl of chicken broth. She watched her image claim a chair beside the bed and lift a spoon to the lips of the invalid she had become. The broth was almost impossible to choke down, but she managed to swallow. She was overcome with gratitude for the broth and especially for the steady, patient hand holding the spoon. She wished to speak. She could feel love welling up within her, a physical presence antipodal to her illness.

“Thank you,” wheezed a thin voice that jolted her awake.

Lydia stared in confusion at the dark window and at the three vacant beds as the sound so unattuned to the
curve of her throat echoed in the empty room. In the grip of that sound she could assign herself neither name nor place. She bolted from bed. Her pounding heart pushed her from her room, down the hallway, and outside the barrack. She stood motionless, her face flushed as the dream faded and her body once again became her own. She began to walk.

It was late. The lower portion of the diminishing moon was draped in gauzy clouds, as if even it were wearing a mask, but enough remained unobscured to illumine her steps as she traced the compound’s edge. She crept forward on the balls of her feet, not wanting to stir even the wind with her trespass. Then the quality of the island’s silence changed. She thought she heard a footstep. She told herself it was her imagination, or perhaps a rabbit, though she had never seen a rabbit at night.

She strained her eyes toward the fence. A figure appeared to be standing frozen just outside the compound’s perimeter, but in the moon’s dim illumination its outline was vague. She was not prepared for what she did next.

“Henry?” she whispered.

The shadow—or what she took for a shadow—did not move. The longer she gazed the more it seemed to approximate a human figure, but moonlight could be deceptive. She moved closer. As she neared, she thought she saw the shadow shift slightly, as though deciding whether to flee; but instead it remained, more broad shouldered and sturdy than Henry had ever been.

“Michael?” she gasped. She stilled the urge to run forward and instead gazed at the figure as if her eyes
had grown fingers. Slowly the figure began to move. Like part of the wind itself, it entered the compound through a hole in the fence and made its way toward her. Warmth welled from within her as though her body had grown, in its longing, a second heart. Then her lips formed her brother’s name again. The figure was too close to deny. The fence was behind it now and it approached faster than before. If she could be held one last time in her brother’s arms she would memorize everything: the press of each muscle into her torso; the places on her body where Michael’s palms and fingers fell; the smell of him; the confidence contained in his limbs.

She wobbled on her feet. She rushed toward the figure and gave in to the broad chest and encircling arms, her head pressing into the space just beneath the neck.

“Liddie?”

The voice was familiar. When she gazed upward she recognized the broad nose, the full mouth. These features did not belong to her brother. She pushed away from the chest with such force that she lost her balance. Gravel pressed into her palms and backside, but the coldness of the ground did not erase the lingering warmth beneath her skin.

“Careful,” Frank Bentley’s voice whispered. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright.” He held out a hand to help her up.

Slowly she stood. She felt like a part of her had been emptied onto the gravel beneath her and was now indistinguishable from the dust.

“You all right?” he whispered. “If I thought you hadn’t seen me I would have stayed put, believe me.”

“You’re not supposed to be outside,” she warned. “You’re supposed to be in the barracks.” She looked around, expecting to see someone running toward them. “If they catch you they’ll send you back.”

“On nights when I can’t stand it anymore,” he whispered as though he had not heard her, “I crawl out the barracks window. If any of the other boys see me they keep it to themselves.”

There was no more than a foot of space between them. “Usually I just walk along the beach but sometimes I go in up to my knees.” He smiled. “I can’t swim, you know. Most gobs can’t. Throw us in the drink and we’d drown like a bunch of rats.”

“When I first saw you I thought I was dreaming,” she whispered. “I thought—” She stopped. She was no longer certain what she had been thinking.

“You’re cold,” he said.

She was wearing only a nightgown. She ought to have been embarrassed as well as cold, but somehow Frank spared her from both, their combined presence creating a buffer between themselves and the exigencies of the world.

“It’s mad, wading in the ocean in winter.” Lydia could smell brine on his clothes. “If you were to catch a chill now, after coming through everything else …” She shook her head. “Don’t ever do this again,” she cautioned.

“Dance with me,” he whispered.

She meant to speak, surely she meant to protest, but then came his hand at the small of her back, the warmth of it running along the length of her spine. They stepped as if to a waltz. She could hear pebbles shifting beneath her feet.

“Aren’t you frightened?” she whispered, but he shook his head. She watched the tendons of his neck rise to the surface of his skin and then resubmerge.

They were no longer dancing. They were standing frozen, the way dancers do while waiting for the next song to begin. She knew she ought to remove her hands from his shoulders. She ought to turn away and return to her room.

He lowered his head. She could feel the warmth of his cheek and the slight stubble there. She could smell soap and salt and the clean, pure scent of skin.

“Thank you, Liddie,” he whispered.

There was the fleeting press of his lips against her cheek, and then he was gone.

You all right, Percy? You’re looking peaked.

I’m okay. A little tired perhaps.

You work too hard. You ought to play a rubber with me and Chaz; forget the lab for an evening and give us a chance to win your hard-earned wages.

Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’ll probably make an early night of it.

Don’t be such a grampus. The way you’re going you’ll run yourself into the ground before things even get interesting—at least wait until the graybacks get sick before you start making the rest of us look bad.