“Is this a restaurant?” Sean asked apprehensively.
“Not a restaurant proper.” Dr. Middleton looked over at him and winked. “It’s more like a friend making another friend lunch. Otherwise the county would regulate Miss Minnie outta business.”
Sean’s apprehension didn’t ease when they entered the warm house through a whining screen door and stepped into a large parlor full of people. Miss Minnie, Sean quickly surmised, must have a great deal of friends—and apparently, all of them had come to lunch. Sitting in mismatched chairs around tables that were covered with checked red and white tablecloths, the diners—all of whom were black, Sean noticed—ate with relish from Styrofoam plates. Almost in unison, they stopped eating and looked up when Dr. Middleton and Sean came in, making Sean swallow. He’d gone to university in Belfast, Northern Ireland, where unrest still pulsed through the city’s veins like a latent virus zealous to infest. He understood the risk a man took by happening into the “wrong” establishment.
His fears were instantly quelled, however, by an amiable chorus of, “Afternoon, Brother Hugh,” from the patrons.
“Ladies, gentleman,” Dr. Middleton replied, nodding politely to them as he motioned Sean to the only empty table. He then turned to the hall that ran alongside the staircase and shouted, “Miss Minnie, I’ve a friend with me today.”
“What is this place?” Sean asked when Dr. Middleton sat down across from him.
“This is Mammy’s house,” Dr. Middleton told him, smiling, a tinge of pride in his voice.
“This is your mother’s house?”
“My mother’s house?” Dr. Middleton looked confused.
“In Ireland, mammy or mam is what we call our mother,” Sean explained.
“Oh, no, Mammy was Miss Minnie’s mother, God rest her. She ran this old place as a boarding house for years, called it Mammy’s House.” Dr. Middleton sighed thoughtfully and gazed around the room in a way that told Sean he saw it differently than he. “Would it surprise you, Sean, if I told you that I passed most of my childhood here?”
“Oh?”
Dr. Middleton leaned on the table and clasped his hands together. “My daddy lost the farm, literally, when I was about six years old,” he began; both his eyes and voice were warm with reflection. “The foreclosure was too much for my mama to bear, so while I was at school one day, she took the things that mattered to her and left.” He looked at Sean then and stated matter-of-factly, “I wasn’t one of them.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Sean said softly.
Dr. Middleton gave Sean a shrug that lacked any emotion for his long-gone mother and continued, “She did, however, take the lockbox with the last few dollars my daddy had left in the world. That night we cooked the last three turnips from the cellar for supper over a fire ’cause the gas had been turned off. The sheriff made us leave the next morning. We were hungry, penniless, and had nothing but the clothes on our backs. Thankfully, Miss Minnie and Mammy took us in.”
“Where’s your father now?” Sean asked.
Dr. Middleton stared at his clasped hands for a few breaths then said, “He finally got a job at one of the paper mills. But…it might as well have been prison to a man that’d never worked a day of his life indoors. He was a broken man, Kelly, and that damn place took the last bit of life out of him. I was fourteen when he died. Miss Minnie and her mama finished raising me. Thank God, I could throw a football good enough for the University of Georgia, otherwise I’d be workin’ in one of those damned mills today myself.”
A tiny, grey-haired black woman came from the kitchen with two Mason canning jars filled with sweetened iced tea and set them on the table in front of Sean and Dr. Middleton. “Lord be, Hugh, who’ve you gone and dragged in here today?” The elderly woman asked as she put an affectionate arm over Dr. Middleton’s shoulders.
“Miss Minnie, meet Sean Kelly from Ireland,” Dr. Middleton said and then added, “Ireland’s beside England…across the Atlantic.”
“I know where Ireland is, Hugh Middleton!” she snapped, looking crossly at him. “My mama didn’t raise no fool!”
“No, ma’am,” Dr. Middleton affirmed quickly, raising an appraising brow at Sean.
Miss Minnie smiled sweetly at the newcomer. “You’re welcome here, Sean Kelly from Ireland. I’ll get you boys some lunch.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sean replied, reflecting the smile.
“Don’t know where Ireland is…” Miss Minnie mumbled under her breath as she turned and made her way to another table.
Noticing a slight limp in the woman’s weary gait, Sean leaned forward and asked, “Dr. Middleton, isn’t Miss Minnie the name of your cook at home?”
“One in the same; most days she comes over to my place as soon as she finishes here and fixes supper for Prissy and me.”
“Do you not think she’s a wee bit”—Sean paused and lowered his voice—“a wee bit old for such a long day’s work.”
“Shhhh,” Dr. Middleton warned, his eyes darting nervously in Miss Minnie’s direction. “Be careful what you say, Sean. You’ll get her temper up.”
Sean, too, glanced at the small form. Aside from the limp, the woman’s back was straight and her grey hair was pulled back in a severe bun. No, he quickly determined, he decidedly did not want to get her temper up.
Miss Minnie was soon back, carrying two heaping plates of collard greens cooked in ham hocks, black-eyed peas, and cornbread. She placed the steaming meals on the table and patted them both affectionately on the shoulder. “You two be sure and say Grace now, hear? I didn’t stand back there cooking all morning for you all to eat food that ain’t been blessed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the two replied, sounding more like schoolboys than grown men.
“Mm-hmmm,” Miss Minnie hummed with satisfaction and left them to their lunch.
It occurred to Sean as he obediently bowed his head over the delicious smelling meal that whether Dr. Middleton realized it or not, Miss Minnie pretty much was his mother.
On the way back to Norbury, Sean sat back in his seat, patted his stomach, and spoke with a gluttonous strain in his voice. “I’d never tell me mam this, sir, but that was about the finest meal I’ve eaten.”
Dr. Middleton laughed. “That Miss Minnie’s a good one all right! She had a stroke last year and gave us a mighty scare. I reckon you noticed the limp?” Sean nodded, so Dr. Middleton continued, clearly wanting to set the record straight, “Just so you know, Sean, I did try and put our Miss Minnie in one of those nice retirement communities after her stroke.”
Sean grinned. “Let me guess. She wasn’t very keen on the idea?”
Shaking his head, Dr. Middleton laughed again. “No, as a matter of fact, the woman almost clawed my eyes out. She said, ‘Hugh Middleton, my mama died in this house and so will I!’” Still chuckling, Dr. Middleton shrugged. “Miss Minnie takes care of people…it’s what makes her happy. It’s not for me to take that away.”
Sean nodded again in silent agreement then changed the subject. “Dr. Middleton, there was a student I wanted to speak with you about.”
Dr. Middleton glanced sideways at him. “Shoot.”
“Toby Patterson, I saw him sitting on the bench outside my window on Monday.”
“Ah, yes, Toby. He’s a mute you know, but he can speak.”
“Actually, sir, I’m quite familiar with the disorder. Joseph, my youngest brother, stopped speaking when he was six. Unfortunately, we lived in rural Ireland, and the country doctor knew naught about muteness. He told me parents that Joseph was just being stubborn.” Sean was quiet for a moment then lowered his head and divulged in a whisper, “The doctor told me da to be firm with me wee brother, so he did. But…it only seemed to drive the boy further inside himself.”
In Sean’s whisper, Dr. Middleton heard a more distinct Irish accent and an undeniable hint of shame for what happened to Joseph. “Your father did what he thought best,” he told his young intern with sincerity. “What he’d been told to do
no less.”
“Aye, sir, I know,” Sean softly agreed.
“So…what became of your brother?”
“It wasn’t until a few years ago that we better understood why Joseph was lost to us for a bit. I came across a series of studies on the different types of mutism during my postgraduate work and did a research paper on him.” Sean smiled bashfully. “It was published in a Dublin medical journal.”
“That’s right!” Dr. Middleton exclaimed. “I remember reading that on your résumé. And I was pretty impressed.”
“Well, don’t be too impressed,” Sean said humbly. “That particular periodical isn’t widely circulated. Doubtfully anyone read it but a few ancient academics and me mam. She keeps a copy on the coffee table beside the Bible and her favorite collection of Yeats.”
“Did your brother experience a shock of some sort?” Dr. Middleton asked curiously.
“Nothing we’ve ever discovered, but most of the research concludes that when children stop speaking suddenly and completely to anyone, it’s most likely in direct response to a traumatic event.” Sean exhaled a lungful of uncertainty. “Me gut tells me that something did happened to Joseph, but I’m damned to my own imagination, for he’s never said.”
Dr. Middleton glanced over at Sean. “So, he speaks now?”
“Oh, aye,” Sean said, smiling now. “Our Joseph’s a quiet lad to be sure, but he came back to us. That’s all that matters, I reckon. He makes excellent marks at school and carves like a master. I believe, sir, you’ll find the horses to be a great benefit to a boy like Toby, might even draw him out a wee bit. It’s what helped Joseph.”
“Great God! If that boy ever speaks up, what he might say,” Dr. Middleton said. “You know his father claims to be innocent. He told them to ask Toby…said he could tell them the truth. But Toby’s not said a word since he woke up in the hospital. I guess you’ll have noticed he only wears sweatshirts.”
“I have.” Sean nodded.
“Poor child’s arms are covered with scars from the attack. He gets very agitated when he sees them. Doesn’t like havin’ his hair cut either…the scissors scare him.”
“What does his father say happened?” Sean asked.
“The way I heard it, the daddy says that he came home from a night out drinkin’ and found Toby covered in blood on a park bench near their house. Says he picked the child up and carried him home only to find his wife stabbed to death.”
“But, he was convicted, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dr. Middleton affirmed with obvious satisfaction. “It only took the jury about fifteen minutes to send the sorry s.o.b. away for life. For the boy’s sake, and because they weren’t able to locate the murder weapon, the D.A. didn’t seek the death penalty.”
“So you believe him to be guilty—even without a murder weapon?”
“I do.” Dr. Middleton parked in front of the administration building, turned off the engine, and looked directly at Sean. “Kelly, police records confirm that the man had a long history of alcoholism and domestic abuse. I guess after years of getting drunk and slapping the wife around, he just snapped.” At the close of his sentence, Dr. Middleton snapped his fingers in demonstration. “And besides, there’s plenty of swamps ’round here to toss a knife never to be found again.”
***
Dr. Middleton’s snapping fingers preoccupied Sean on his drive home. He couldn’t help but wonder…did Toby’s father “snap” as Dr. Middleton put it, or was the man telling the truth?
Pádraig Kelly was Sean’s uncle; he was also a mean-as-the-devil drunkard who oftentimes stumbled home late from the local pub and beat his wife. In his mind’s eye, Sean could see Uncle Pádraig’s two little daughters rushing in the house, barefoot and wearing matching Strawberry Shortcake nightgowns. “Come quick, Uncle!” they’d cry, their eyes round and faces white with fear. “The devil has hold of Da again!” It was a phrase their mam had used to explain their father’s behavior—or excuse it.
Sean recalled running over the hill alongside his father and little cousins whose thin, straight hair flew behind them like a banner on a biplane at the county fete. Most often, they would arrive too late, in time to find Uncle Pádraig collapsed in a sobbing heap at his wife’s feet, begging for her forgiveness. Seamus Kelly would pull his younger brother to his feet and deal him a hard, punishing blow for his trouble, but little good it did; the damage was done.
Sean sighed shakily. He’d never told Catie about his Uncle Pádraig. He was embarrassed. He’d be lying to himself to say otherwise, but that wasn’t all of it. Sean genuinely feared that Ben Darcy might not have blessed his sister’s marriage if he knew that alcoholism and domestic violence lay so near Sean’s door.
“Alcoholic and abuser, yes, but murderer?” he questioned aloud. It was that which had smoldered in Sean’s solar plexus since Dr. Middleton snapped his fingers. Granted, like Toby’s father, Uncle Pádraig was a mean drunk, but he wasn’t — and never could be—a murderer.
It was just past dusk when Sean got out of the car. The back of the house was lit with a welcoming, yellow glow. From inside came the homey sounds of clattering pots, and on the air floated the familiar aroma of home cooking…good home cooking. Something was dreadfully wrong.
Sean flew up the steps and barreled frantically in the back door, yelling his wife’s name. “Catie!”
“Well now, you must be Mr. Kelly.” A short, round, black woman greeted him, flashing a white toothy smile.
“Y-yes,” he replied hesitantly. “And you are?”
“I’m Juniata Oliver, the new cook ’round here. But you can call me Etta…I don’t much care for Juniata.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am. Did you say cook?”
“Uh-huh.” The woman smiled big again. “Your sweet little wife hired me.”
“My wife!” he repeated incredulously and then held his hand up to his shoulder. “A pretty, young Englishwoman about this tall?”
“Yes, honey, that’d be the one.”
“And where might I find my sweet little wife?” Sean asked sarcastically, making no attempt to hide his mounting anger. “I really need to speak with her.”
“Upstairs. But I wouldn’t bother. She went to a tea party this afternoon and won’t be up for talkin’ for a few hours yet.” The woman winked at Sean like he should understand her meaning…which he didn’t.
“We’ll see about that,” he declared as he brushed by her and stomped out of the kitchen.
“Humph,” Etta uttered as he left. “I thought the Irish folk was s’ppose to be a happy, singin’ and dancin’ bunch.”
Sean found his new bride tucked snuggly in bed and snoring softly, the very picture of serenity. He, however, wasn’t feeling very serene. As a matter of fact…he was furious. How could she hire a cook without so much as a by-your-leave? Hadn’t they agreed that neither of them would make any large monetary decisions without consulting the other after she’d rented the townhouse? True, Sean Kelly was in no way financially capable of making large monetary decisions, but that wasn’t the point.
He yanked back the covers. “Catie!” No response. “Catie!” he said again, gently shaking her.
She stirred enough to peer at him through heavy, blinking slits. “Sean?” she croaked.
“No,” he replied tersely, “it’s the bloody butler!”
“Bloody butler,” she giggled then fell back asleep.
He shook her again—more forcefully this time—and demanded, “Catie Kelly, will you wake-up and kindly tell your husband why you hired a cook!”
Clumsily putting a finger to her lips, she whispered, “Shhhhh, you’re yelling.”
“Damn well bloody right I’m yelling!” he fairly roared. “Now explain this…this Etta woman!”
“Etta?” she repeated questioningly, clearly struggling to comprehend.
“Yes, Etta.” Sean sat down next to her, curious why his wife wouldn’t, or more like couldn’t, wake-up. “She says she’s the cook.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, Miss Etta.” Catie blinked open her eyes and tried to focus on him as she slurred her answer. “The boy, Sean—the boy pissed in the potted palm.”
“Catie Kelly!” Sean sounded shocked. “Did you just say pissed?”
“Mm-hmm, in the potted palm.” She nodded, making herself dizzy. “Darling, please stop spinning the room.”
Suddenly more concerned than angry, Sean leaned over his wife and pulled her face close to his, instantly getting a whiff of her breath—whiskey and no small amount. “Christ, Catie! You’re drunk as a lord! What’s happened, lass?” he asked, but she leaned against him and drifted off again.
Sean put her head down on the pillow with care and went to wet a washcloth. When he returned, he gently wiped the cool cloth over her face and lips in hopes of rousing her. “Wake-up, cailín,” he pleaded worriedly. “Wake-up, and tell me what happened.”
Not opening her eyes, she whispered, “The boy, Sean…he pissed in the potted palm.”
It was useless. She would have to sleep it off. Sean spread the covers back over her.
“Thanks.” She blinked and grinned idiotically at him.
He narrowed his eyes. “Grin at me, will ye? Foolish woman. I’d put you back to bed with a smacked bum if I thought it’d do you a bit of good.” She hiccupped loudly then giggled, making Sean sigh. “Or if I thought you’d feel it.”
Back in the kitchen, Etta Oliver greeted Sean with a plate of food. “Told you she’d not be up for talkin’. Supper?”
Feeling utterly defeated, Sean collapsed in a chair and plowed his face in his hands. “I knew marriage wouldn’t be easy but…bloody hell.”
Etta set down the plate and asked, “How about a beer? You look like a man that done gone and had hisself a bad day.”
“Beer?” He looked up at her. “We have beer?”
“Yeah.” The woman smiled. She smiled a lot, Sean noticed. “The queen of England up there sent me to the store with her Visa and told me to get whatever I needed and be sure to get beer for Mr. Kelly.”
The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2) Page 8
