Intimate Strangers Affair Read online

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

  “Of course, I am. Powerful happy. Ready to bust my buttons. Why, I couldn’t be happier.” His smile tightened even more at the corners like a man who says something that he thinks is proper, not something that he really believes. I didn’t understand this. This wasn’t the homecoming I’d expected. My hands reached up and jerked at my bow. I untied the crumpled ribbons, then took off my hat.

  What’s wrong? The question clogged in my throat, making me miserable and silent. Surgery was easier than people. Cut, sew, you’re done. Why weren’t things ever that simple? I couldn’t say what I wanted to, so I fumbled around for something else to say, swinging my useless hat by its ribbons. Finally I thought of something. Courtesy always worked. “Thank you for the stethoscope, it arrived just before graduation. I love it. Listening through those rubber tubes is fine, just fine. Heartbeats sound like snare drums. Real crisp. But my Laënnec looks different than anyone else’s, and not just the wooden listening cone. Did you fix it up?”

  “Not much, just a few modifications here and there.”

  “Well, you’re a genius. A certified genius. You should patent your idea.”

  He waved a hand, then shrugged.

  “Do you use it at the Infirmary? I bet you have many of your inventions there. That dripping cone to measure out the chloroform, and the birthing chair. I can’t wait to see your clinic.”

  “No, honey. It’s…” He broke off, looking away at something only he could see. “It’s closed now.”

  “What?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me. Come on, James. This is me, Nathalie. You can tell me.”

  He only closed his eyes as if shutting out the memory of me. It didn’t seem to work. Whatever he was trying to obliterate still seemed to be there, plaguing him like a megrim or something worse. He sighed. “The medical corps needed me, so I went back to Virginia for a spell. And now, well, everything’s changed. The War changed everything.”

  How could his clinic be closed? The Infirmary for Women and Children had been his pride and joy. His letters had been full of news, diagrams, scandalous stories about scandalous people. They had all attended his clinic. But come to think of it, his letters had stopped a year ago. And Catherine never wrote.

  I felt astonished. I blinked and forced myself to speak. “But why did you close the clinic? What happened, James?”

  He looked away again, laughing shortly. “What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Did I ever tell you about Reed Mellows? No? Well, I met old Reed at Harvard. Class of ‘40, me and Reed. Yes sir, he was a big feller. Real big. Big hands, big hearted, right friendly for a Yankee. Don’t suppose I’d have passed anatomy without his help. Or physiognomy for that matter. You could say that Reed just pushed me through medical school. Then one day we were finished. School was finally over, and we were celebrating the end of our examinations. Full of too much excitement and bourbon, and ice skating where nobody in their right mind should be skating. You can guess the rest. I fell through the ice. Cold as hell. No, colder. The water swallowing me ‘til finally I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I was so damned cold. Next thing I know, old Reed pulls me out of perdition just like he pulled me through school. He saved me that day.”

  James picked up his glass again and studied his drink as he slowly swirled it around and around. He knocked back the rest of his drink until the glass was empty, then very carefully set the glass down. “You only hear about the glory of war. You get called to it, but there’s no such thing, no glory, no grace. War is dirty, evil business. Brother against brother, friend against friend. So there I was, doctoring in the middle of the War, that peculiar living hell as only man or the devil himself can design. And one day, the wagons brought in the casualties, both the blues and the grays. We tended our men first, then the Yankee prisoners. By then, I was knee-deep in misery and blood. And who do you think I saw, honey? That’s right. Old Reed, officer in the medical corps just like I was in mine. Only Reed wasn’t doing so well. Seems that cannon fire plum tore off his arm at the elbow, brachial artery raw and exposed. He begged me with his last breath to save his arm even as I counted the drops of chloroform and put my friend asleep. And I chopped it off. Right to the shoulder. There. His precious arm gone, just like that. The good strong arm he used to rescue me that day long ago. I did it even though he asked me not to. That’s how I repaid my friend. The one who saved my sorry life.” James fell silent again.

  “But…you know and I know and Reed knew that no amount of ligatures in the whole wide world could save his arm. It would have taken a miracle.”

  “Those are the plain scientific facts, but can I hide behind facts? No, honey. You see, I didn’t even try to help him. At least I could have tried. I was tired. Powerfully tired. Couldn’t even throw another stitch. And maybe that’s what made me do what I did. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing, made the wrong decision. It comes back to me. Every now and then, it comes back to me. What I did to old Reed, all the screams I heard, the limbs I had to…” He broke off. Shuddering, he picked up his glass, but remembered it was empty. He refilled it until bourbon slopped over the edge and spilled on to the piano, then downed that drink too. He rolled the glass between his palms, still not looking at me. “I was nothing more than a meat-and-chops man. A glorified butcher. That’s not why I became a doctor. And when I left the corps and came back, I couldn’t do it anymore. Just couldn’t.” James suddenly winced. One hand reached down and rubbed his calf.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, honey.”

  “James!”

  “Well, a piece of no-account foolishness. Sniper. Bullet in the shin. They wanted to saw it off, but I refused. Held them off with my silver Colt. They’re barbarians. And I…I’m one of them. Was one of them. And what’s worse, I’m a damnable hypocrite. So I don’t mind hurtin’. If I hurt a little, then that’s nothing more than I deserve. Maybe I deserve it for what I did to old Reed.”

  I laid my hand on his arm and squeezed as if I could draw out his sorrow. He had been my childhood hero, had set me on my path. My first studies had been with him, translating the engravings to the real human body. I’d seen him soothe his patients a thousand times, and it made me sad to think that he wasn’t using his gifts any more. I could see that the pain in his leg was nothing compared to the pain where his heart used to be. He had lost it, simply lost it. “Oh, James.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  He didn’t reply, only patted my hand. We stood there for a long time, not saying anything at all. Sadness filled the silence and all the gaps in between.

  ***

  “Where is she? Where’s my baby doll?” I heard a woman call out from far away, her voice sounding like honey and whiskey. Catherine Larsson. I could recognize that voice in a million. Just down the hallway, high heels clicked. Silk skirts rustled loud, then louder still, picking up momentum with each second. Catherine stepped over the threshold, a six-foot French beauty in the latest fashionable gown. She looked like Victory, sweeping into and dominating the room. All she needed was a trident and a palm wreath.

  People said we looked alike, more like sisters than aunt and niece. I didn’t see the resemblance. Maybe I had her height and her sky-blue eyes, a little tilted at the corners from some Russian Tartar ancestor. But everything else was different. She was fine, much finer than me. Her hair was as white-blonde as my own, but swept back into an elegant style with ringlets that I could never aspire to. I didn’t inherit my mother’s quiet prettiness or Catherine’s bold beauty. My aunt was larger than life. She still took my breath away. Had I been anyone else, Catherine might have taken the time to pose at the threshold: one foot poised and one hand higher on the wall for dramatic effect. But I was the closest thing she had to a daughter, and she ran into the room. She picked me up and swirled me around the room like I was still a kid in pigtails. I hugged her back, relishing the smell of lilac she a
lways wore and the Cuban cigars she favored. She was the one anchor in my uncertain life, like it or not.

  Catherine kissed on the cheek, then set me down and rubbed the marks of her lipstick off my face. “Baby doll, you’re back. You look…” She drew her head back and gave me a once-over. “Different. Something’s happened.”

  “Of course, I’m older.”

  “Not that old. A lady never speaks of her age, just her…assets.” Catherine grinned wickedly. “No, no. It’s something else. Why, it almost seems like a...a...” Her eyes lit with surprise. She leaned closer as if she were sniffing me for clues. “Like a man. I can see it. Just see it. Oh, Nathalie. How precious. A shipboard romance. Those silver barons travel that route, they say. Headed from the Big East banks to the Comstock mines. Oh, do tell. Tell me about him. Every single sordid detail. Is he old with big, really big, bank accounts?”

  “Catherine!” My cheeks were burning up. How could she say that? Just stand there and say something like that? James just chuckled. He’d heard all this before.

  My aunt shook her head. “Oh, don’t get all shy with me. Tell me, did you meet someone? Say it isn’t so.”

  “It’s not. You’re making things up.” I folded my arms. This catechism had begun since I grew those unfortunate in-the-way items called breasts. Turning from girl to woman had always felt like an accidental calamity. Just because my body had changed, I was suddenly barred from almost all those things I loved to do best. I had heard Catherine’s lecture a million times, and it bored me to tears. I had no time for the gentle art of trapping a man. “Really, Catherine. You’re imagining things. Seeing what’s not there. Shall I check your eyes? I’ll get my reading chart. Stand back ten paces and cover one eye.”

  “Hmmm…always had a smart mouth. I wonder where you learned that from. Certainly not from your mother. We may have been sisters, but Isabelle was not like me. She never ever said a bad word. Not once in her life that I remember.” Catherine absently patted her hair.

  I gave her a blistering look. Melodramatically, she stepped back and splayed one bejeweled hand over her bosom. “Me? You can’t mean it! You got your smart mouth from me?” She tossed back her head and laughed, shoulders shaking. “Well, I’m glad you learned something from me, even if you won’t take my advice about practical matters like any sensible girl would. That’s all right. If you say there’s no man, well then, that’s the end of it. That’s it.” Catherine beamed, giving me another hug. “It’s so good to see you, baby doll. Now, tell me. Just where is that brother of yours? We could almost have a family reunion right here in my little old parlor.”

  I stared blankly at her. “But…but I thought you knew.”

  “Me? I never know where Claude is. I only know what happens afterwards. I got run out of Kansas, you know. That Ponce de Leon gimmick…some Fountain of Youth Tonic. Half the territory lost their hair. The other half got spots.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. I giggled. “So what was that one? One of your concoctions, James? You were working on a hair-restorer.”

  “Well, yes. I do recollect that one, honey. Only it spilled on my worktable, and I discovered that it made for a superior furniture polish. Far superior. Accidents are the mother of all invention. Pure and simple. I cannot be responsible for what Claude does with it.”

  But I could see the twinkle, once again, in James’s eyes.

  “Speaking of Claude ...”

  “Mmmm hmmm?”

  “Have you seen him?” I asked, studying his face carefully.

  “Claude? And which Claude might that be? That’s a common name, honey.”

  “You know who I’m talking about. My brother,” I said patiently.

  “Which brother?”

  “I only have one. Claude Montague Arnaud. The hide-your-purse-and-daughters Claude.”

  “Oh, that Claude.”

  “Well?” My suspicion grew. I’d seen that conspiring look before, that quick shift of the eyes when James and Claude improvised cover stories for each other. Two peas in a pod, one as bad as the other. “I’m waiting.”

  “We’re both waiting. How much trouble is he in this time? Who do I have to bribe now?” Catherine joined me. We tapped our feet in unison.

  James looked up at the ceiling as if he were contemplating something. “I’m thinking about it…don’t quite recollect the details.”

  While I was waiting, my eyes fell to the newspaper lying across my satchel. Pirates! screamed the headline. My mouth dropped open as a new worry flooded through me. “Oh, don’t tell me! Claude wrote something about golden opportunities. You don’t mean…he didn’t…he can’t be tied up with this mess! Did he steal the gold?”

  James looked sorrowfully at me. “Now, now. What did I teach you? A good physician never asks yes or no questions. Those are fly-swatter questions. Always ask open-ended ones. They’re like honey. Draws the flies every time. Gets a patient to talking, and then the information just opens before you. Be careful now, you hear? Mind where you jump with those conclusions. You might not like where you land. And anyway, look on the brighter side of things. Maybe Claude isn’t mixed up in this gold heist after all. Maybe Shanghai Kelly got to him first. Maybe the crimps got to Claude, and he’s working on that slow boat to China. The boy’s been so busy he could use the rest and relaxation an ocean voyage could provide. Yes, indeed, he could.” James winked slowly.

  “Very funny,” I muttered.

  “You ladies are getting stirred up like a nest of hornets. Buzzing, flying, fussing over nothing. Just settle yourselves down before you form another committee of vigilance.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said reluctantly. Maybe he wasn’t involved in nothing bad. After all, Claude was pretty sharp on his feet. I told myself that because I wanted to believe it. Too bad wanting didn’t make it so.

  ***

  I watched the little call bell jangle and jerk on its string for at least a few seconds. Then it was silent again below-stairs in the kitchen.

  “Room Ten. Mister Green must be ready for his restorative,” said Mrs. Bernard. She lifted the silver lid of a dish and sniffed, then nodded. “Estrella, come here, girl. Oysters to Room Ten.”

  The short dark-eyed, dark-skinned maid pouted. “Not Ten. Not ‘im again. Señor Green ees a banker, but he ees cheap. Don’t give no tip. Give it to Lorena. It’s ‘er turn this time.”

  “No, no. It’s not.” Lorena was stirring a pot on the stove. She looked long and thin like the spoon she was using. The girl lifted the spoon and pointed it like a weapon. “You always say that, but it’s your turn. I wan’ Room One. Ay-ay-ay.” She pretended to sigh, one hand flapping over her heart. Her long black eyelashes fluttered. “Muy guapo. Handsome, that one. And all hombre.” She held her hands eight inches apart and giggled. Then increased her hands span by two more inches. “Mucho hombre. Mucho, mucho.”

  “Too much hombre for you,” snapped Estrella.

  “Eight inches or eight feet, it’s none of your business,” Mrs. Bernard interfered. “You can look, but you better not touch. You’re too young, the both of you. If Catherine hears about this, she’ll send you packing before you say hombre. Is that what you want?” She picked up the tray and almost shoved it into Estrella’s resentful hands. “Careful. We don’t want the oysters sliding all over the platter, now do we?”

  Before Estrella left the kitchen, she shot a venomous look at Lorena, who had returned to her pots. The younger girl resumed stirring, a knowing smile playing about her lips. It should have belonged to a much older woman, far older than Lorena’s years. Somehow, her expression unsettled me.

  Uncomfortable, I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s settled. Smooth as clockwork. You still run an efficient ship, Mrs. B. Nothing seems to have changed.”

  “Well, it’s absolute satisfaction guaranteed. All the aristocrats come here now. Everyone can come here, check their politics at the door, and have a helluva good time. The girls like it here.”

  “Yeah, they must like it a
lot. They all seem to be fighting over Room One. Who’s in One?” I served myself some more stewed meat from the porcelain bowl in the center of the table.

  “Why that would be the Don. Don Cabrillo.”

  “Don Cabrillo! How could they fight over him? He’s…what? At least sixty-five? He’s old enough to be their grandfather. No, great-grandfather. I don’t care if he’s one of the first five Spanish families, and it doesn’t matter how rich he is, or if he owns half the land here. The man’s creaky. Eight inches or not, that’s disgusting.”

  “Good Lord, just what are you yapping about now? No, no. You’re thinking of the wrong man. The old Don. Don Juan Cabrillo. He died last year when you were away at school.”

  My brow furrowed. The old Don was dead. That left two sons. The older one had a fondness for whiskey and women, and there was something about the younger one. Something odd. What were their names? It was just on the tip of my tongue…Edmundo. Yes. That was it. Edmundo and Ricardo. “So what’s the new Don like?”

  Mrs. Bernard put her hands on her hips, only grinning at me.

  “Hey, I’m just curious. No big deal,” I muttered, drawing patterns on the tabletop. “And you know everything that happens here. Upstairs, downstairs…everything. Half the time I just bet you know even before Catherine does.”

  Mrs. Bernard smiled a little. “Well, I do. No one knows more than me.”

  “So what can you tell me about the new Don?”

  “He’s a man of regular habits. Always Bordeaux to drink, and a mushroom side dish. Always Room One. And always Michelle. They say she reminds him of his wife, who died in a horrible boating accident. They never recovered her body, you know. So mysterious, so tragic. They say…well, just rumors. Idle mouths with nothing better to jaw about. You take it from me, Don Cabrillo is a good man. I know it. He always says please and thank you. Never gropes the girls, never spits tobacco on the carpets. Real quality. I feel sorry for Michelle. Poor girl. She’s ambitious, tries so hard. But some men only want one kind of pleasing if you catch my meaning. Don Cabrillo’s not interested in anything else. Just one kind of arrangement…business-like, really.” Mrs. Bernard lowered her voice. “He doesn’t need any oysters, mind you! Michelle should be happy with what she has, and just stick with it. No use pining after the moon. Better to enjoy what’s at hand. She’s a lucky girl, you know. Some girls live and die without ever having that kind of luck. You mark my words.”