He sat up slowly and painfully in bed, trying his best to smile at her. "I'm not as bad off as I look, actually. My ribs are killing me, but my neck's okay. This brace is coming off tomorrow. And the swelling on my face has gone down a lot."
Her eyebrows raised in surprise as she surveyed his still-swollen eye and cheek. "God, you must have been a mess if you're better now!" She laughed, and he laughed slightly also until the discomfort in his side stopped him. "Have you been out of bed at all?"
"Of course I have. I'm not crippled, you know. Just wound up fighting somebody four times my size, that's all." He grabbed her hand and kissed it. "I'm so happy to see you, Holly!"
Then you should have come to me instead of to that slut, she thought. What she said was, "You know, that sister of yours turned me away at the door three days in a row."
"Rachel!" he said, growing angry. "I swear to God, someday I'm going to …"
"Someday you're going to be all better and then this whole silly week will be just an embarrassing memory. In fact," she said, a hint of anger creeping back into her voice, "I'm looking forward to giving you a hard time about this someday."
He smiled and yawned, saying, "Sounds good to me." He yawned again sleepily. "I'm sorry, Holly. The doctor gave me a painkiller and it makes me drowsy." He lay back down.
"That's okay," she said softly. "Just go to sleep. You really look like you need it."
"Haven't been eating right, I guess," he muttered, his eyes closing against his will. "But I'm okay. I can stay up and talk for a while …"
"I wouldn't bet on it," she said, smiling. "Just sleep. Sleep and rest. I can wait until you're better to yell at you some more." He seemed to drift off almost immediately, and Holly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
As she descended the stairs, she heard Rachel saying coldly, "Miss Larsen, I wish to speak with you for a few moments, if you please."
Holly sighed, realizing that she had to attempt to establish some sort of amicable relationship with this woman, and not wishing in the slightest to do so. "Sure, Rachel," she said as cheerfully as possible. Rachel turned from the bottom of the stairway and walked into the sitting room. Holly followed her, willing herself to project an image of unruffled calm and poise, no matter what was to come.
"I don't believe that you have met my husband, Daniel," Rachel said in her hostile, rapid-fire voice. "Miss Larsen, Mr. Rowland. Miss Larsen is the young woman with whom Malcolm has been associating of late." Rachel's disapproval and dislike seemed to drip from her words.
"Hello, Daniel," Holly said amicably, extending her hand and walking forward toward him. "It's nice to meet you."
"Miss Larsen," he said, nodding, not moving to take her hand.
Okay, if that's the way you two want it, she thought angrily. "What can I do for you?" she asked Rachel.
"For one thing, you can stop attempting to see my brother," the older woman replied.
Holly emitted a curt laugh, stunned at the presumption. "Is that so!"
"Yes," Rachel said matter-of-factly. "Quite frankly, I don't think it would be in either of your best interests to pursue this friendship of yours."
"Really! Well, quite frankly, I don't think my relationship with Mal is any of your goddamned business!" Holly began to flush, angry not only at the other woman's words, but also at the way in which she managed to make the word "friendship" sound obscene.
"Young lady," Daniel said coldly, "I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing my wife!"
"Then tell your wife to mind her own business!" Holly said as she turned to walk out.
"Are you aware of the fact," Rachel called after her, "that our father, Malcolm's and mine, was hanged for murder twenty years ago?"
This stopped Holly in her tracks. "What are you talking about?"
Rachel laughed humorlessly. "Ah, I thought that might interest you. Yes, Abraham Harker, our father, was convicted of murder in Kansas and executed for the crime."
"So?" she asked angrily. "So what?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Rachel said. "Certain forms of insanity are hereditary, and can be triggered by improper associations and experiences. Our family is an old one, and we must guard ourselves very carefully lest we become involved with persons of unsavory characteristics. In Malcolm's case, his recent behavior, it seems to me, is a result of his relationship with you and his friendship with that Barry person."
"Jerry," Holly corrected her. "And I'm not going to bother arguing with you about something this stupid." She turned again to leave.
"It is quite serious, Miss Larsen," Rachel said firmly, again stopping her before she left the sitting room. "For us, only religious devotion can serve to repress the bad strain, the bad blood, as it were. You, I take it, are not particularly religious?"
"My religious beliefs are my own concern!" she snapped.
"So," Rachel nodded, as if Holly's response had confirmed her suspicions. "I'm afraid, Miss Larsen, that if you and Malcolm continue to see each other, it will have a terrible effect upon him. And if, God forbid, you two should marry, I shudder to think what your offspring would be like." She said all of this in a largely expressionless monotone.
"Okay, listen up, lady, and listen good!" Holly said heatedly. "Point one: the only kind of insanity which can be hereditary is a type of schizophrenia which comes from a chemical imbalance, so any notion of insanity running in a family is superstitious nonsense. Point two: I don't care one bit what Mal's father was like or what he did. It doesn't mean anything to me at all. Point three: I draw a very clear line between being religious, like lots of nice, kind, friendly people are, and being an overbearing, narrow-minded, pompous, parochial, ignorant ass, which is what you are. And," she shouted over Rachel's and Daniel's voices as they began to speak angrily, "point four: I love Malcolm, and I think he loves me, and if you don't like it, you can just go … go … well, I don't know what," she huffed, "but you can just go do it!"
"Rachel. Daniel. Leave me with the child," old Quincy said as he shuffled into the room, his sudden appearance silencing all of them for a moment.
"Now just a moment, Grandfather," Rachel began.
"Don't argue with me," Quincy said sternly. "Just go about your business and leave me with the child." Rachel and her husband stormed out of the room, casting Holly one last angry look. Quincy turned to her and smiled. "Don't let them bother you, my dear. Neither my granddaughter nor her husband have ever developed the, ah, social graces, shall we say."
She smiled at the old man and blushed slightly, embarrassed at her own flare of temper. "I'm sorry if we disturbed you, Mr. Harker," she said. "I really am. I just came by to see if Mal was okay, and they started … well, why go into it. I'm just sorry; that's all."
"Think nothing of it. It's not important." Quincy paused and looked up and down appraisingly with that innocent presumptiveness acceptable only in the very old and the very young. "I'm gratified to see that my taste in ladies has been handed down to my grandson. I know Rachel thinks that Malcolm isn't safe in the same room with you, but I have to say that if I were seventy years younger"—and his rheumy old eyes twinkled—"you wouldn't be safe in the same room with me!"
She blushed but could not keep herself from laughing. "Mr. Harker! Please!"
"I'm well into my nineties, my dear," he said, smiling. "That gives me the right to say anything I want." He chuckled. "How else do you think I keep Rachel at bay?"
Holly shook her head. "I don't know why she doesn't like me. I've never done anything to her, and I … well, I'm very, very fond of Malcolm."
"I think that Rachel takes after her mother, Cynthia," he said, shuffling over to the large cut-glass decanter on the table and pouring her unbidden a glass of sherry. She did not really want it, but she was reluctant to offend the old man by refusing his hospitality, so she accepted it as he handed it to her. Then he said, "Cynthia, my son Abraham's wife, was as stiff as a starched shirt and just about as stimulating. I never did underst
and why he married her."
Holly waited for a moment before speaking so she could choose her words carefully. "Mr. Harker, I don't mean to be nosy, but what Rachel just said a moment ago … I mean …"
"About my son, Abe?" He nodded sadly. "Yes, that was true. He killed a man in the Midwest, and they hanged him for it." The old man sighed and shook his head. "The poor boy. He was lost to us, lost to God. Just lost, period."
She felt simultaneously sad and uncomfortable. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Harker."
"Ah, well"—he shrugged—"it wasn't his fault, not really. He just couldn't control himself."
"His temper, you mean?"
He ignored the question. "Malcolm never knew his father. Abe died when Malcolm was only about four, I think, four or five, and his father hadn't been living here at home for a good long while before that. Over a year, I think."
"Was he a salesman or something?
"No." Old Quincy shook his head. "Just a ne'er-do-well, a drifter. He and Cynthia never really got along too well. She was as straight as an arrow, and just about as much fun, and Abe was … well, at times Abe was a lively fellow. Oil and water, those two."
"What happened to Malcolm's mother?"
"She died." Quincy sat down heavily in the easy chair. "Cancer, a few years later. You know, Holly, you have to understand that Rachel sort of raised the boy. I know it doesn't excuse her behavior, but it does explain it to some degree."
"I understand." Holly smiled. "I'll try to get along with her."
"Yes, well, now," he said, suddenly all businesslike. "I think you're a charming young lady, and I'm pleased to see that Malcolm is keeping company with you, but there is one thing you must understand: This is a religious family, a very religious family. I don't know what your own beliefs are, and I certainly would not presume to question you about them, but I sincerely hope that a full participation in the life of the church will be part of whatever life you and Malcolm make with each other." He noticed that she was beginning to blush and he hastened to add, "Please don't take offense at what I'm saying, Holly. I know that some people seem to think that when a man hits ninety he is entitled to say anything that comes into his head, but—despite my teasing you just now—I've never agreed with that. I certainly don't want to offend you."
"Oh, no, Mr. Harker, it isn't that at all," she replied. "It's just that … well, Malcolm and I have only been seeing each other for a few months. I think it would be a little premature to begin talking about … well, about our life together."
"Of course, of course, I understand," he said. "But I was not really speaking about that. I was speaking about religious devotion. Now I know that Rachel sounds a bit daft with her gibberish about hereditary insanity and all that, but I can't help but feel that a bit more Bible and a bit less booze might have saved my son, Abraham, from his sorry end."
Holly felt so warmly toward the old man that she decided to reassure him. "Well, I'm not really a regular churchgoer or anything, but I believe in God and all that. I mean, I wouldn't have any objection to going to church with Mal, if we … well, if we … well, you know."
"Marry?" he finished for her, his eyes twinkling once again. "You can say it, my dear. It isn't foul language, you know."
She laughed. "No, I know it isn't."
"Malcolm and I are going to mass tomorrow afternoon. I'm sure he would like it if you were to come with us. Are you Episcopalian?"
"No," she said. "I'm a Methodist. Sort of, I guess."
"Well, that's fine. My mother was a Methodist, until she married my father, that is." He smiled at her. "Please don't think me pushy, but it would make my old heart glad."
She returned his smile. "Oh, I'd love to come along. I've never been to an Episcopal service before"—I haven't been to any church in years, as a matter of fact, she thought—"but I've heard that they're very beautiful."
"I think they are," he said, nodding, "but of course I've grown up with them. Well, we'll see you at twelve noon, then?" He began to struggle to rise from the chair.
"I'll be here," she said, "and please don't trouble yourself to get up, Mr. Harker. I can let myself out." On an impulse she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"My, my!" He laughed. "That was the most fun I've had in years!"
She laughed along with him, finding him utterly charming and delightful as only the serene elderly can be. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good-bye, Mr. Harker."
"Good-bye, my dear," he said, watching as she walked out into the foyer and left the house.
Rachel Rowland was in the room in an instant. "I heard that, Grandfather! What on earth is the matter with you? That girl isn't acceptable, not acceptable at all!"
"Oh, hush up, Rachel," he grumbled. "I know what I'm doing."
"But she isn't right for him! She isn't what he needs!"
Quincy shook his head. "I don't agree. I think I made a mistake with Abraham, forcing him to marry that prune of a woman. I think it was that more than … more than the other thing which led to his downfall. I think Malcolm needs someone lively and in love with life."
"Oh, Grandfather, for pity's sake!"
"Rachel, leave me be!" he snapped. "I've had crosses enough to bear in my life. I don't need you adding to the weight with your constant harping!"
She drew herself up, a portrait of affronted dignity. "As you say, Grandfather. But believe me, it will take more than a pretty smile and a 'love for life' to counterbalance 'the other thing,' as you call it!" She spun around on her heel and marched from the room.
"I know, Rachel," he muttered. "I know that full well." And then he began to pray.
Holly Larsen knocked on the Harker door at five minutes to twelve the next day, a clear and beautiful Sunday in May. She had taken care to dress in an attractive but not flashy manner, even to the extent of wearing a hat that matched her purse and shoes. She rarely wore hats but had fished around in her closet until she found an appropriate ensemble. She knew that no matter what she wore, it would make a bad impression upon Rachel and Daniel, but she did not care. She wanted old Quincy Harker to like her, and she reasoned that proper attire for church was a step in that direction.
It was Malcolm who opened the door and admitted her, smiling at her warmly, kissing her lightly, and saying, "Holly, I'm so sorry about this. I had no idea Gramps was gonna pressure you into going to church with us."
"He didn't pressure me at all, Mal," she said cheerfully. "He just invited me along, that's all. And I thought it was a sweet thing for him to do."
"Well, that's good," he said, unconvinced.
"You look a lot better than yesterday," she observed, noting that the neck brace was off and the swelling on his face was somewhat reduced. "Your color's better, too."
"Yeah, I feel better," he agreed.
She frowned at him with mock austerity. "Maybe this will teach you to behave yourself!"
"Oh, it has," he said, laughing. "It has. Let me gather up Gramps and then we can go. The mass starts at twelve-fifteen."
"Aren't your sister and brother-in-law going?" Say no, she wished.
"No," he complied to her great relief. "They go to the nine-o'clock service." He led her into the sitting room and said, "Holly's here, Gramps. You ready to go? You sure you feel up to it?"
"Certainly, certainly," the old man said. He was standing in the dining room, helping himself to a glass of sherry. "Just fortifying myself for one of Father Henley's sermons," he said, grinning at Holly.
"Father Henley tends to be rather long-winded," Malcolm confided to her. "Nice fellow, though."
"I'm sure he is," she said. Quincy walked over to them, offered her his arm, and they departed.
Fortunately, the church was just around the corner on Ascan Avenue. It was abundantly clear that the old man could not have managed a longer walk. As it was, this short distance taxed him considerably. He was flushed and winded by the time they reached the church and seated themselves in the front pew, Quincy sliding in first, Holly following, and Malc
olm sitting beside her. Quincy Harker always sat in the front pew when he attended church. As the oldest member of the parish, he had an unspoken right to it, so that the priest could come down to him and administer the sacrament rather than having him struggle up the steps to the altar rail and then kneel down upon stiff knees.
He made quiet conversation with Holly until the organist began the prelude, and then they and the other people in attendance fell into a contemplative silence. Holly paged through the Book of Common Prayer and then gazed up at the stained-glass windows.
And Malcolm was becoming terribly, terribly uncomfortable. It's almost summertime, he thought. Why the hell don't they turn on the air-conditioning? It's hot as a blast furnace in here. He looked around and noticed that some of the women in the pews were pulling their scarves and stoles around their necks, and then in a brief silence between the end of the postlude and the priest's invocation he heard the faint hum of the air-conditioning unit. Maybe I'm getting feverish, he thought. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to get out today.
"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," the priest chanted, making the sign of the cross.
"Amen," the congregation sang.
Malcolm began to feel dizzy, slightly nauseated. The air conditioner must be broke, he thought. I feel as if I'm sitting in a steam bath. Beads of perspiration welled up on his forehead and trickled down his cheeks.
He found that by closing his eyes and breathing deeply he could master the growing nausea. The sounds of the service became blurred and indistinct in his ears, and he rose and sat mechanically as he heard other people doing it. Only on occasion did some familiar sound or phrase penetrate his self-imposed isolation.
"Kyrie eleison, Christos eleison, kyrie eleison …"
Better go back to the doctor, he thought. I really don't feel at all well. He opened his eyes for a moment and a wave of nausea swept over him. He struggled to repress it but felt the telltale pressure of sour air beginning to force its way up from his stomach. No, no! he ordered himself. Not here, not in church, not with Holly here, not when it means so much to Gramps for me to have come today. He managed to press down the threatening flow.
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