Hall of Secrets (A Benedict Hall Novel) Page 2
“I don’t believe I’ve met Mr. Henry.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“He’s a Benedict, though.”
“Yes. From the ‘poor’ Benedicts, as Mother used to say!” She couldn’t help chuckling. “I understand Uncle Henry didn’t have a pin when Aunt Adelaide married him, but he’s built up quite a successful import business. Father is impressed, although he thinks Uncle Henry should diversify. We’re coming out of the recent depression, but Father sees trouble ahead.”
“Mr. Henry should listen, then. No one excels at business more than Mr. Dickson.”
“Very true. In any case, Uncle Henry wrote to Father, claiming that Allison has been diagnosed as a hysteric, which makes a convenient cover for whatever it is she’s supposed to have done. As nearly as I can tell, it’s Aunt Adelaide who suffered a nervous attack, but they’ll never say so.”
Blake laughed, his old deep rumble. “Nervous attack. Is that the medical term?”
Margot grinned. “I doubt Aunt Adelaide’s trouble is medical.” She pushed her fingers through her hair, which she could never remember not to do. It mussed her bob into a bird’s nest. “Adelaide’s a brittle sort of woman. The way she spoke to her daughter, when they were here last fall, set my nerves on edge, though I don’t know if anyone else noticed.”
“It will be beneficial to Miss Allison, then, to spend some time at Benedict Hall.” He sounded so much like his old self that Margot felt weak with relief. She had been terribly worried about him. He was, of course, a servant, a colored man, the child of slaves, but that didn’t matter. He had always been like a third parent, and she couldn’t imagine life without him.
He said, “Mrs. Edith should be a good influence. She always speaks kindly to everyone.”
Margot said, “Blake, Mother’s really not herself. You’ll understand when you come home.”
“I did see her, you know. She came to visit once, with Mr. Dickson.”
“She did?” Margot couldn’t picture her prim, polished mother visiting this nursing home in the Negro neighborhood. She hoped Edith had not sniffed or kept a handkerchief pressed to her nose. No doubt her father would have put his foot down if she had. Dickson was sensitive in the matter of Blake. It was one of many ways in which he had surprised Margot during this difficult year.
The smile faded from Blake’s face. “Poor Mrs. Edith. It’s been terribly hard on her.”
“Hattie doted on Preston nearly as much as Mother, but Mother needed her, and that kept her going, I think. Mother, though—” Margot brushed her hair back again. “She’s terribly thin, though Hattie does her best. Her hair has gone gray, and she seems . . . I don’t know, Blake. As if she’s not quite there.” Margot made a small, helpless gesture.
Blake said, “It hurts you.”
“I can’t make it right for her.”
“That is correct, Dr. Margot. No one can make it right for Mrs. Edith. And none of it was your fault.” Blake paused for a tactful moment while Margot blinked away the sudden sting in her eyes. “I’m surprised Mr. Dickson agreed to Miss Allison’s visit, with Mrs. Edith still so delicate.”
“It was my idea, actually. I hope I won’t be sorry I suggested it. We have an abundance of space, and when Uncle Henry wrote to ask Father’s advice, it seemed like a good idea. I hope I haven’t made a mistake. I had this notion that having a young person in the house—a girl, you know, who would want to go to parties, buy clothes—I thought it might help Mother. Give her something to think about.”
“It’s worth a try,” he answered, but she heard doubt in his voice, too.
“Well,” she said, with some briskness now. “Things can’t be any worse than they are. Uncle Henry and Aunt Adelaide wasted no time accepting our invitation. Hattie’s made up the south bedroom at the back, the one beyond the servants’ stair. The window opens onto the garden, you remember. It has a bath of its own, though it’s small. Allison can use either the kitchen staircase or the main one.”
“What’s become of Mr. Preston’s room?”
Margot gazed into Blake’s kindly face. His hair had changed, too, like her mother’s, but Blake’s had gone completely white during his long illness. Sarah had cut it for him into a curly cap that contrasted dramatically with his dark skin. Margot said, “Mother closed the door of Preston’s bedroom the day of the funeral. Everything in it is just the way it was before he died. The maids are allowed in to clean, but not to move anything. She pretends—or she believes—that he’s coming back.”
“Mrs. Edith still doesn’t understand about Mr. Preston.”
“I don’t think it would make a difference if she did. Sometimes I think she clings to her pain as a way of keeping him alive.”
“Do you and Mrs. Edith—”
“No,” Margot said, her voice a little rougher than she intended. “No, we don’t talk about it. I’m certain she wouldn’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“Such an old, old problem.” His gaze shifted away from her to the window of his room. Steady rain streaked the glass beyond the printed cotton curtains, and in the brief silence Margot could hear its rhythm on the roof. “I thought perhaps she would understand now. That she would see . . .”
“She doesn’t want to see,” Margot said. “She never did, of course, but now more than ever. . . . She imagines he was the victim. She sees him as a hero. Believes he sacrificed himself.”
“I wish I could have attended the funeral.”
“You would have hated it, Blake. I did.”
“I’m sorry about that. I believe such ceremonies are meant to be healing to those left behind.”
“This one wasn’t. It was just Gothic! The empty casket, the reception with all those society people murmuring platitudes—it was ridiculous.”
“Not to Mrs. Edith, I suppose.”
“She went through all the motions, and I thought at the time it was a good thing. She wore a black dress and a hat with a veil, black gloves, insisted on supervising all the food, the flowers, even instructed the priest what to say.”
“Hattie told me that.”
“Poor Hattie! It was awful for her. She cried for days, even while she was cooking. I was afraid she’d make herself ill, but Hattie’s like you. Made of stern stuff.”
That made Blake smile again. “Tell me about Major Parrish,” he said. “Is he well? The new arm is working?”
A quiver of tension tightened Margot’s belly, but she said with determined cheer, “The Carnes arm is the best there is, Blake. The elbow bends, the fingers flex. He uses it almost as much as he does his right arm these days. I’ll bring him to visit, and you can see for yourself.”
“I’d like that.”
“It will have to wait, though. Bill Boeing sent him to March Field, down in California, to meet with some army pilots. Something about new developments with an airplane.”
“Perhaps, when he comes back to Seattle, the two of you . . .”
Margot sighed, her tension subsiding into the more or less persistent melancholy she had felt since Frank left. “I don’t know, Blake.”
“Now, I was quite sure you and Major Parrish had an understanding.”
“We did, Blake. We do, I mean.” She shifted in her chair, trying to explain without saying too much. She said, “There are some things—it’s just that, with Mother the way she is, we’ve felt we should wait until things are—settled, I suppose. As settled as they’re going to be, in any case.”
There were other issues holding them back, but she would keep those to herself. She didn’t want to worry Blake with them, even though she really had no one else to talk to. What did it say about her, she wondered, that this old family retainer was her only confidant? Except for Frank, of course.
Blake, his eyes still on the rain-soaked darkness beyond his window, took a long, slow breath, and let his head drop back against his chair. Margot clicked her tongue. “Blake, I’m tiring you. You need to rest. I should get home to change for dinner, in any c
ase. Mother hates me coming to dinner in my work clothes.”
He turned his head without lifting it and gave her a weary smile. “I don’t have all my strength back yet. But you tell Mr. Dickson I’ll be back as soon as I can. As soon as my very fine doctor gives her permission.”
She stood, and because they were alone, she bent to touch his hand. Hers was pale and narrow, and his was thick with age. She liked the way it looked, her young white hand on his aged black one. All her life, this strong dark hand had been her protection. She wished she could impart some of her own vigor to him now, through her touch.
“Don’t you worry, Dr. Margot,” he rumbled. “After all you and Mr. Dickson have done for me, I couldn’t help but get better.”
“Good, Blake,” she said. “I’ll hold you to that.” Her throat tightened, and she turned away to pull on her coat and gloves and pick up the umbrella drying by the radiator. She coughed a little and fixed a smile on her face as she turned back to say good night. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“No, no,” he said. “You don’t need to come all the way out here every day. Sarah takes fine care of me.”
“I know she does. I’ll come this weekend, then. Perhaps I can bring Hattie for a visit.”
“That would be very nice, Dr. Margot.” His eyelids drooped, and she saw that he truly was tired. He said in a softer tone, his vowels broader than ever, “Very nice. I will look forward to that treat.”
CHAPTER 2
Raindrops skittered from the ribs of Margot’s umbrella as she hurried through the squall toward her streetcar stop. Several people nodded to her, and two said, “Good evening, Doctor.” She smiled and responded, cheered by their acceptance.
She had been uncomfortable in this neighborhood at first. The residents had been startled, even suspicious, at the sight of a tall white woman walking along East Madison. They whispered to one another as she passed, and some stared openly in ways that made her neck burn. There had been no respectful greetings in those early weeks.
One evening, just as darkness was closing in, a lanky young man in coveralls and a porkpie work hat had stepped right up to her and said, “Slummin’, are ya?”
Margot had tried to walk on, but he stood in her way, leaning insultingly close, treating her to a sour gust of bootleg whisky and cheap tobacco. His eyes were red, and his dark face distorted with drunken resentment. He reached a grimy hand toward her medical bag. “Whatcha got there, missy?”
Margot instinctively pulled the bag away, out of his reach. Her hospital experience had rendered her reckless with her own safety, but in that bag—a gift from her father to replace the one lost in the fire—was a necessary supply of drugs. She carried morphine and laudanum, atropine and adrenaline chloride, none of which were safe in the wrong hands. There was no alcohol, but she knew that for some, any drug would do. She tried to sidestep the young man. He laughed and mimicked her steps, reaching around her toward the handle of her bag.
It could have been a bad moment. It would have validated everyone’s worries about Margot’s trips on the Madison streetcar. Blake, in particular, once he was able to speak, worried over her visits. Her father, Hattie, even Sarah Church had tried to dissuade her from coming so often, and so late in the day.
But that night, an elderly woman in a shapeless housedress and an assortment of shawls resolved the situation by bursting from a nearby house with an attention-arresting bang of her front door. She stood on the stoop, hands on her skinny hips, and called, “William Lee Jackson, you get on in this house right this very minute!”
The hapless William started as if someone had struck him. His shoulders slumped, and despite his adult height, he seemed to shrink to little-boy size. He dropped his head and backed away from Margot. As he turned and started up the cracked cement walk of the house, the old woman glared at him as if daring him to disobey. She was half his size, but that seemed to make no difference. Under her gaze, he slunk into the house without a word. The woman followed, but not without casting Margot a hard glance. She didn’t scold her, but that glance told Margot she was in a place where she didn’t belong.
That had been months ago. Now that Blake had been in the East Jefferson Convalescent Home for more than a year, her regular visits had made her a familiar sight. Sarah had been a great help, informing the families who lived around the Convalescent Home that one of its residents had a white doctor. A young lady doctor.
As the word spread, it became common for Margot to find someone waiting on the steps of the Convalescent Home after one of her visits. Occasionally, one of the workingmen of the neighborhood had an injury or an ailment, and no time during the day to visit the office of one of the Negro physicians. Often it was a worried mother with a baby on her hip or a gaggle of toddlers clinging to her skirt. Margot followed these people to their homes, single-story houses built like little boxes, divided into three or four sparsely furnished rooms by the thinnest of partitions. In these modest places she treated earaches, burns, sprains, fevers. Once she attended a case of food poisoning that kept her at a bedside all night, administering saline and a mixture of bismuth carbonate and salicylate until she was certain her patient, who was the sole support of an alarmingly large family, was going to recover.
The families rarely had any money. They paid Margot with what they had, and without apology. She had carried away jars of homemade jelly, loaves of freshly baked bread, once a vast blackberry pie that Hattie very nearly refused to admit to her kitchen, but which proved so delicious Margot had to beg Sarah to go back to its baker for the recipe.
Margot was aware now, as she strode through the rain, of protective eyes on her. Curtains were drawn over lighted windows, but they twitched occasionally as the women inside watched her pass. Men smoking on their cramped porches nodded to her, and one or two stood up politely. William Lee Jackson, that unhappy young man who couldn’t find work and who occasionally consoled himself with a jug of two-dollar whisky, materialized out of the dusk, touching his dilapidated hat brim and grinning at her. His teeth were very white in the darkness, and on this evening Margot detected no acrid smell of whisky.
“My Granny Jackson sent me,” he said. “She says she won’t give me no dinner if I don’t see you to the streetcar.”
Margot said gravely, “Please thank your grandmother for me. I hope your dinner is excellent.”
They walked side by side the remaining two blocks. William didn’t speak again, but he stood beside her as she waited in the darkness. The rain fell hard enough to splash from the sidewalk and wet her ankles. Her umbrella dripped furiously, and she began to shiver despite her woolen coat with its warm fox collar. She was relieved when the streetcar came clicking up East Madison from the lake.
She thanked William again, and swung up into the car’s lighted interior. She dropped her nickel into the fare box and sat down in the first available seat. The bench seat was hard, but the car was blessedly warm, and she shivered a little with relief. She shook the rain off her umbrella as she rode up the hill and out of the Negro district. She had to change cars at Broadway, dashing through the rain.
In the second streetcar, she propped her umbrella against her knee and gazed out the window. The houses seemed to grow, bit by bit, as the car clicked its way northward. Neat picket fences appeared, occasionally flanked by garages. The gardens expanded and the rooflines rose. This alteration of the landscape from one neighborhood to another was a phenomenon she hadn’t really noticed before this year, when she had begun taking the streetcar everywhere.
She thought wistfully of the days when Blake, rain or shine, light or dark, would wait for her outside her clinic or in front of the hospital. She loved riding in the polished Essex with its sparkling windows and cozy plush seats. Blake was inevitably attired in his driving coat, cap, and gloves. There had been something restful about the ritual, something comforting about being welcomed into the automobile’s warm interior, relinquishing her responsibilities, relaxing into Blake’s hands.
Margot’s stockings were soaked by the time she reached home. She hurried to her apartment above the garage, stashing her umbrella at the bottom of the stairs before dashing up to get out of her wet things and change into a suitable frock for dinner. She caught sight of the blue celluloid clock on the bedside table, the one she and her brothers had given Blake for Christmas long ago. She was late again.
She shrugged out of the shirtwaist and skirt she had worn all day and into a wool crepe sheath with a dropped waist and shawl collar. As she pulled on a fresh pair of stockings and fastened them, she remembered that the last time she had worn this sheath had been a dinner date with Frank. A sudden rush of longing for him made her press one hand to her heart.
She blew out a breath and dropped her hand. There was no time to indulge her weakness. She had to gather herself to face the gantlet of dinner, her mother’s wan face, her father’s struggles to behave as if nothing were amiss. Her older brother’s genial bewilderment didn’t help. Her sister-in-law, at least, though her efforts were sometimes awkward, was doing her best to step into her mother-in-law’s place and keep the house running smoothly. Without Blake, that wasn’t easy.
All Margot could do was be present for dinner as often as she was able. She washed her hands, straightened her frock, and went down the stairs to take up her still-wet umbrella and cross the back lawn into Benedict Hall.