“We were in a boxcar riding the rails. We were both bos.”
“Bos? What’s bos?”
“We were hobos!” Jolie turned and laughed up at him. “You didn’t know that?”
“No, and I can’t believe it.”
“You’ll have to, because it’s true. He and Easy got on the boxcar, and I was hiding in the other end. They were nice enough to me, but I was suspicious of men. I’d had a bad experience.”
Clinton turned to look at her and started to ask, but something about the look on her face stopped him. “Sorry for that,” he said.
“It’s all over now, but that night three rough ones got on. They started to . . . to bother me. Peter and Easy tried to stop them, and it turned out to be an awful fight. One of them had a gun and it fell.” She shook her head and said quietly, “I picked it up and told them to stop. They were about to throw Peter off the train. They didn’t think I’d shoot and started to push him off—so I shot one.”
All this was beyond Clinton Lanier’s experience. “You shot him?” he asked in shock. “Did you kill him?”
“Peter says not. He fell out the door, and Peter and Easy threw the other two out. Peter says he saw the one I shot get up, holding his shoulder. I’ve never been sure whether he told me that to make me feel better or not. I could have killed him.”
They were walking along at a slow pace, and Clinton shook his head. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me.”
“Be thankful for it.”
Her terse words caught at Clinton, and he nodded. “I’ve had it easy, and every wise man I’ve ever known said that men are made by hard things, not easy things. I guess that’s why I’m not the man I ought to be.”
Surprised at Clinton’s words, Jolie turned. “Why, Clinton,” she said, “don’t say that!”
“It’s true enough,” he said bitterly. “My father runs every part of my life!”
“I’m sure he cares for you and wants you to do well.”
“I suppose that’s true. He had a hard time as a boy and a young man himself. I really think he’s so afraid of poverty and hard times that he overreacts.”
The two walked on talking, Clinton telling Jolie about how he had never been able to free himself from his father’s domination. When they got to the hospital, Clinton suddenly stopped and said with shock, “I’ve never told anyone these things! I didn’t mean to drop all this on you, Jolie.”
“It’s all right, Clinton.” Jolie reached out and touched his arm, then smiled. “You’ve got to have faith in God.”
“I think it would take God to make a better man out of me.”
“That’s right. It always takes God to make us better.” Jolie took his arm confidently and said, “Come on. We’ll talk about this later. Let’s see how Peter’s doing.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’d Strangle Me in a Week!”
Dr. Owen Smith sat behind his desk staring at the young man across from him. He was unhappy with his own performance in the case of Avis Warwick and knew that it was irrational to let his temper escape. It was also useless to blame Peter Winslow, for Smith had become well aware that young Winslow blamed himself far more than anyone else could. Smith had not been particularly interested in the racing of automobiles, which he considered a stupid risk and a senseless waste of time, but he was interested in people. Now he was concerned not only for Avis Warwick’s condition, but also for young Winslow. He knew he needed to be blunt with him, but he wasn’t sure how to begin.
“I can’t offer you very much hope, Mr. Winslow,” Smith finally said. He noticed his own nervous action in drumming the table and with some irritation pulled his hand back and interlaced his fingers. He eyed the tall young man across from him, then said abruptly, “You’re not going to do yourself any good carrying on as you have been.”
Peter was surprised. “What do you mean by that, Dr. Smith?”
“I mean I deal in broken bodies, but there are those doctors who deal with mental problems—and you’re headed for a bad one if you don’t stop blaming yourself for the accident.”
“Who do you want me to blame? It was my fault.”
“The way I understand it from Mr. Lanier and from your relative, Mr. Phil Winslow, it was the fault of that German who drove his car into yours.”
“I should have avoided him.”
“That’s nice to believe,” Smith shrugged, “but if you were thinking clearly, you would understand that you can’t avoid things like this sometimes.”
Peter remained silent, trying to grasp what the doctor was telling him.
“You need to pull yourself together and expend your energies now on helping your friend,” Dr. Smith went on, shaking his head. “I’m very worried about Mrs. Warwick.”
“She’s not getting any better, is she, Doctor?”
“No, and we can’t find the problem.”
“Why don’t you operate?”
With disgust Dr. Smith stared at him and shook his head angrily. “You mean just start cutting away, hoping to find something? That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?” Then he added quickly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that—well, I don’t like to lose, and I haven’t won this case. But it’s not over yet,” he added.
Instantly Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You think there’s a chance she’ll get better?”
“There’s always a chance. No telling about these things. We doctors never really heal anybody. The body heals itself. Sometimes we can take a few stitches or pull something out that doesn’t need to be there, but basically, when something’s wrong, if it gets fixed at all it’s because the body does the healing.” He looked up at Peter, a curious expression in his eyes. “Or perhaps God does the healing . . . but I wouldn’t know about that.” He rose abruptly. “She’ll be going home today. Will you take her?”
“Yes. I’ve already talked to her about it.”
“Be as positive as you can. At this stage of the game, it’s important that she doesn’t get depressed.”
“She’s already depressed, Doctor, and you know it. And I don’t blame her.”
“I suppose that’s so. I don’t have any more answers,” Smith shrugged. “I wish I did.” He suddenly put his hand out and took Peter’s with a surprisingly strong grip. “Try not to blame yourself, Mr. Winslow. I’ll do whatever I can to help. Come and see me from time to time.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Peter left Smith’s office and went down to the room where the nurse was preparing Avis for her departure. A wheelchair stood ready, and a male orderly waited nearby to help. “I can handle this,” Peter said.
The orderly lifted his eyebrows with a questioning arch. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’ll be all right.” He turned to Avis, who was sitting in the bed, her legs stretched out in front of her. She was dressed in a nightgown with a blue robe over it. “Ready to go home?” he asked as cheerfully as he could.
“I suppose so.” Avis gave him an odd look, but he ignored it and moved over and picked her up easily. She automatically put her arm around his neck to steady herself, and when he put her in the wheelchair, her legs fell off to one side. He glanced at her and saw the bitterness in her lips but without comment moved her legs back onto the footrest. The nurse came forward and put a blanket over her.
“Now then. You’re all ready to go. I hope you have a speedy recovery, Mrs. Warwick,” she said cheerfully.
Avis looked at the nurse, her expression blank. “Thank you. I’m just sure I will.” There was such bitterness in her tone that Peter flinched, and he said hurriedly, “Thank you, nurse. We appreciate all you’ve done.” Then he pushed the wheelchair out of the room as the nurse moved ahead to open doors. “I’ve got a car outside.”
Peter waited for her to reply, but she said nothing. He pushed the chair to the front door, and as they left the building, the bright sunlight struck Avis’s face. She blinked and raised her hand quickly to shade her eyes. Peter
shifted the wheelchair to a more favorable position and opened the front door. “You can sit up in the front with me.” He reached down and lifted her into the car, then arranged the robe around her legs. Shutting the door, he said, “I’ll go back and get the rest of your things.”
“I don’t have any things. Let’s go,” she replied briefly.
“All right then.” He took the wheelchair and lifted it up with a grunt to a rack on top of the car, lashing it down with some cord he had brought. He quickly moved to the front of the car, cranked the starter, and when the engine caught, leaped in and stepped on the gas. The large car moved jerkily out into the middle of the street.
“I met your nurse, Mrs. Taylor, this morning.”
“She’s not a nurse. She’s just my housekeeper, but she can help me do the things I can’t do for myself.” Avis was looking out, avoiding Peter’s gaze, as the car threaded its way down the street. The April sun was rising high overhead, and the blue sky was dotted with fluffy pink clouds. The air was warm, and it ruffled Avis’s hair so that she shook it and ran her hand through it.
Peter had to make all the conversation, for Avis was silent, just staring out the window. Finally he pulled up in front of a gray brick building. “It’s a good thing you live on the first floor. Without an elevator we couldn’t get the chair upstairs very easily.”
“Yes, aren’t I lucky!”
Ignoring the bitterness in her voice, Peter stepped out, untied the wheelchair, and put it down. Opening the door, he reached in and said, “Here we go.” He plucked Avis out, then sat her down in the chair and carefully covered her with the blanket. As he wheeled her across the sidewalk, a man walked by and looked at Avis curiously.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded.
The man flushed, dropped his eyes, and murmured, “Sorry,” and walked on away.
“Have to go up backward here,” Peter said. The landing was three steps high, and carefully he lifted her up as smoothly as he could. He could not help jolting her a little bit, for he was somewhat awkward. Opening the door, he held it with his foot and backed in, and said as a woman approached, “Hello, Mrs. Taylor.”
“Hello, Mr. Winslow, Mrs. Warwick. Glad to see you home.” Mrs. Taylor was a tall, gaunt woman with rather forbidding features. She had served as Avis’s housekeeper for some time. She was a humorless woman, Peter had quickly learned, and now she said, “I’ll put you to bed if you’re ready.”
“No, I’ve had enough of bed.”
“Well then, I’ll go fix lunch.”
When Mrs. Taylor turned and left, Peter said, “Where would you like to go, Avis?”
“In there. In the library.”
“All right.” Peter wheeled the chair through the foyer over polished oak floors and turned left into a large library. He had been here earlier to make sure that things were ready for Avis, but he had not been in this room. Lifting his eyes, he was almost staggered by the books that lined every wall, most of them in leather covers. “Quite a library,” he said. “I didn’t know you were such a reader.”
“My husband was. At least he collected books. He didn’t read them all, though.”
She reached forward, seized the wheels, and propelled herself over to the window, then awkwardly wheeled the chair about. “Thanks for the ride. You don’t have to stay around.”
“Why, I thought you might invite me for lunch.”
“All right, then. You’re invited.”
Peter, as usual, felt awkward around Avis. She had a peculiar expression in her eyes, as if she expected him to say or do something, but he could not for the life of him decide what it was. Nervously he turned and went over to one of the bookcases. He studied the titles and said, “Mostly philosophy books. Over my head.”
“They were over Charles’ head, too, but he hated to admit it.”
Peter moved to another shelf and said, “Well, here’s a pretty new book—and one I’ve actually read.” He picked out the book and brought it back. Turning to her, he said, “The Call of the Wild by Jack London. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“London likes to write about dogs. This one is about a big dog. He was stolen from the south land and taken to the Yukon during the Alaska gold rush. They made a sled dog out of him.”
“I don’t think I’d like a dog story.”
“Well, actually,” Peter said, “it’s more than that.” He came over and sat down across from Avis. The furniture, he noted, was expensive. His eyes took in the large mahogany desk, its pond lily desk lamp with a green slag and white leaded glass shade, the dark oak end table holding a Tiffany spider web lamp, and the overstuffed easy chairs with high backs and scrolled legs. He thumbed through the book he held and said, “It’s really a sad book in a way. The only way Buck learns to survive in the north is to steal. There were only so many fish for the sled dogs, and he learned to steal in order to stay alive. Some other dog had to starve for that, of course. Evidently that’s the way London feels about things: dog eat dog—survival of the fittest. That’s what that fellow Darwin said. That we’re all just some superior kind of monkey.”
“Maybe he’s right,” Avis said tonelessly.
“No, he’s not right,” Peter shook his head firmly. “A man’s more than a monkey. You know,” he said, “when I was a boy I had a dog named Dandy, and that dog and I did everything together.” A smile touched his broad lips, and he thought back to his childhood. He made a lanky shape as he sat there holding the book in his strong hands. His hazel eyes were dreamy as he spoke of that time long gone. “Dandy and I played every game you could imagine. He slept in my bed when my mother didn’t catch him. We probably even ate out of the same dish. But you know something, Avis?” He looked at her and grew tremendously sober. “When I knelt down at night to say my prayers,” he hesitated, then shook his head, “Dandy didn’t know anything about that. There’s a difference.”
“You really believe that, Peter?” Avis asked. She cocked her head to one side and grasped the handles of her wheelchair so that her knuckles turned white. “You really believe that there’s a God who cares what happens to us?”
“Why certainly!”
“Well I don’t!” Avis clasped her hands together suddenly, squeezed her fingers, then shook her head. “I think it’s all chance. Darwin’s right, and London, too.”
“I don’t like to hear you talk like that. Of course, my parents are Christians and they gave me a good start, but I know that Jesus Christ is who He said He was—that He’s the Son of God. I know that much.” He rose quickly and put the book back in its place on the shelf, then turned and came to sit down beside her. “I don’t mean to preach at you, but I don’t see how I could go on without God in my life.”
Avis did not answer. She had recovered some of her color, but still there was a stubbornness that revealed itself in the set of her lips and in the tenseness of her cheeks. She was an attractive woman, even as ill as she had been, and there was a rebelliousness that had been deeply ingrained in her. Now as she listened to Peter speak about God, she said nothing, but there was a set to her back as she held herself upright that told Peter his words were falling on deaf ears. Thinking it better not to press it, he said, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s pick one of these books and read it together, you and I.”
“You don’t have to entertain me.”
“Why, I’m entertaining myself,” he said. He rose and walked around the room, perusing the shelves of books, then finally selected one. “What about this one? Poems of Robert Browning. I’ve always liked Browning. I don’t understand some of his poems, but some of them are as good as anything I’ve read.” He walked back toward Avis and said, “Some of his writing is so obscure. One time Elizabeth Browning asked what a certain line meant that he had written in one of his poems. He took it from her and looked at it, then after a while he scratched his head.” A grin came to Peter’s lips then. “And Browning said, ‘When I wrote that only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant. Now
only God knows what it means.’ ” He laughed and was rewarded by seeing her features relax. “Here, let’s start with this one. If you don’t know it, it might be fun. It’s called ‘My Last Duchess.’ He sat back and began to read: “ ‘That’s my last Duchess painted there looking as if she were alive. . . .’ ”
As the days passed Jolie grew more and more preoccupied with Peter’s behavior and his almost frantic efforts to see that Avis was well cared for. She grew weary of hearing his reports, for Peter had quickly discovered that Mrs. Taylor was not a good companion at all for Avis. He had said on various occasions, “She’s a cheerless, griping old woman, and Avis needs someone with her at this time who’s got some joy and some hope. I’d like to throw the woman out the window!”
Jolie had sympathized with his concern. She had visited Avis twice and found Mrs. Taylor to be exactly as Peter described her. Even though Jolie was concerned about Avis’s physical condition, she was even more concerned about Peter’s mental and emotional state. With each passing day, she saw him becoming more and more obsessed with the tragedy that had blown up in his face. She had tried to get him involved in other things, but he seemed to have lost all interest, even in car racing. Since he had no car to work on, Jolie knew he needed to find something else to throw his energies into.
One morning when she woke up, she was vaguely aware that something had come to her during the night. She lay there in the twilight state between sleep and wakefulness, and at first she thought it was merely one of those dreams that come just when one is emerging from deep sleep. But the longer she lay there, the more clearly she remembered how she had awakened several times in the night, and always the same thought had come to her. It was almost imperceptible at first, but then it came more and more strongly. There was something almost frightening about it, and she threw the covers off, got up, and dressed, determined to put it out of her mind. She went to work, and all that afternoon, and all during the performance, she could not help but think of the dream, or whatever it was, that had come to her. Despite every attempt to put it out of her mind it did not fade, and that night when she went to bed she did not fall asleep right away. The impression came back to her, and she knew she could not ignore it. She slept only fitfully that night, and the next morning she made an early visit to Calvary Baptist Church. Since the evening she had given her heart to God, she had visited the church often and had learned to trust George Camrose’s godly counsel.
The Shadow Portrait Page 22
