All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By

by John Farris

  "What have we here?"

  "Coltsfoot leaves; fever weed; witch grass. Some peppermint to give it savor."

  "Any tansy, mother?"

  She looked, around patiently at him. "Not 'less I likes to kill him."

  "Know your plants, do you, mother?"

  "Knowed them all my life. Never made nobody worse. Made lots of folks better."

  Jackson got out his stethoscope and a thermometer.

  "Champ? How do you feel?"

  Champ moved his head. His eyes were bleary from grief, or shock.

  "All in."

  "Do you remember the trip home last night?"

  Champ licked his lips. "No." He turned his head toward the balcony. "Nancy's dead," he said quietly. "I didn't make it, did I? Just didn't make it in time."

  "You tried."

  "Get hold of Murph; let Murph straighten it out."

  "Murph?"

  "General Murphy T. Givens, War Department. He'll take care of it."

  "Take care of what?"

  "I'm AWOL. Not that it really matters a damn."

  "There shouldn't be any problems, once they know the circumstances. We do have more important things to worry about."

  Champ abruptly tried to sit up, to force his way past Jackson. He nearly fainted from the effort.

  "Major, you can't—"

  "Take me to her!" Champ pleaded. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Nancy, Nancy, why?"

  Jackson held him until the momentary charge of panic and shock failed. Then Champ lay back, weak and palpitating, perspiration breaking out all over him.

  "I haven't found out yet," Jackson said. "But I will. Please cooperate with me now."

  The lungs seemed clear, but Jackson wanted X-rays. The recent presence of a physician in Chisca Ridge argued for some type of clinic, perhaps a well-equipped surgery. He gave Champ a shot of penicillin, doubling the usual dosage. That left only a two-day supply. Just enough, he hoped, unless Champ took an unpredictable turn.

  "What is that you just give to him?" Aunt Clary Gene inquired, skeptical of the chalky liquid in the bottle.

  "It's called penicillin, mother. A recent discovery. They obtain it from the mold of bread."

  "All kinds of molds is good for healing. Why, I always knowed about that."

  "Keep giving him your tea, mother. All he'll drink. He needs the liquid. Champ, I intend to have a look at the local medical facility, if there is one. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Do you need assistance getting to the bathroom?"

  "I'd rather you be in a bed, you can't be too comfortable in this old deck chair."

  "I'm comfortable," Champ said, frowning. He drew a light blanket closer to his chin, as if he'd sensed the swift approach of one of the German torpedoes that had sent the liner to the bottom of the North Atlantic. He stared at a wavering bi-wing model airplane overhead: One wing was broken, hanging down. "I love this room," he said, voice just above a whisper. "Our rainy-day room. Used to dream about being here—you know, playing toy soldiers again, making up war games—all the time I was trying to get off that bloody Jap island, going round and round the island, tracers in the sky all night long, and men blowing up, shit, just never getting off. Not till this happened." His fingertips explored the slash across his throat; his lips parted, bloodless simulacrum of the wound. "I fixed that Wing twice after Clipper broke it. Clipper broke a lot of my things. Have to fix it again, damn it. God knows I'm tired."

  "Try to rest."

  "How do I do that?" he asked. Two tears rolled down his cheeks, but his voice was still bare, dry and unemotional. "I don't sleep. I just go straight back to that island Mac wanted so bad and do it all over again. There's no getting off. The only way off is dead."

  "Champ, I'll be back soon."

  "Oh, are you going? Tell Nancy—"

  He flinched and rolled his head aside and gestured with one hand, like a sorcerer trying to pacify an unexpected demon. "They keep telling me. She—but then I forget." He seemed exasperated, then frozen with dismay.

  "Oh, Champ, Miss Nancy's asleep in the bosom of the Lamb. By and by she'll wake to glory. Trust in Jesus to lift this curse from our house. Abide. Abide."

  Jackson looked around at Aunt Clary Gene, obscure in the shadowland of her great age. He felt a chilly apprehension: In this house he kept waking from dreams, his own lonely dreams or Champ's version of the circles of hell, to confront stern dark faces. Frail as she was, Aunt Clary Gene had a moralistic force as compelling as gravity. Jackson was drawn to her. He touched her arm, but she felt no need to look at him.

  "Poor boys," she murmured. "Poor boys."

  "What curse, mother?" Jackson asked.

  Champ answered him. "There's no curse. We've had our share of bad luck, that's all. What family hasn't?" He had propped himself up and was staring at Jackson, for the moment both demanding and rational, yet he seemed to be slipping in and out of dense cloudy moods, some charged with lightning. "Bad luck with Clipper. Couldn't hold himself together. I know all about that now. Almost gave way myself. Maybe it'll still happen."

  "You'll_ soon _be_ back on your feet, Champ. Don't worry."

  Aunt Clary Gene had turned away and removed the tea maker from Champ's cup. She took the tea to him and spoke in a voice toothless and so soft as to be almost without words, a kind of communion hymn. Champ drank for her and lay back, her hand on his forehead. Jackson had further questions but felt out of touch now. He left them alone and went pensively downstairs toward the remaining voices in the front parlor.

  Nhora Bradwin looked up as soon as he entered the room.

  "There you are, Dr. Holley."

  The night before he'd been too exhausted to fully appreciate her. Because of her exceptional height she dominated the few older men and women in the large parlor. She wore midnight blue instead of black: jersey, vest and skirt. Her uncovered hair was severely bound up, almost penitential in design, and her face had no coloring except for skin tone and the startling, marbleized green of her eyes. As she approached Jackson she still looked mildly embarrassed by the circumstances of their first meeting. She took his arm, momentarily turning her back on the room. It seemed to come as a relief to her.

  "I hope you were able to get some rest."

  "Yes, thank you." A servant appeared; Jackson helped himself to a glass of whiskey from a tray.

  Nhora lowered her voice and tightened her grip on him, as if to draw him more securely into her confidence. "You've seen Champ? What do you think?"

  "He's not in serious danger from the pneumonia. His mental state concerns me. He's suffered repeated shocks to the nervous system, going back to his experiences in combat a few months ago."

  "I know, it must have been awful for Champ. That scar on his throat . . ."

  The whiskey turned out to be bourbon, which had a sweetish resonance he didn't really care for. "Very simply put, it's a miracle he's alive. But he may have endured a critical period of oxygen deprivation which—"

  Nhora released him, looking around and smiling at the others in the parlor. They had everyone's devoted attention. Her voice continued low. "I want to talk to you about that; about everything. Thank God the calls are almost over."

  "Was it meant to be a wake? The deceased isn't present."

  "No, there was cosmetic work that had to be done because of the—the accident, the coffin falling off the train. Anyway, with this behind us we can bury her in privacy and in peace. Let me introduce you. I hope I have all their names straight. Most of them I never see except at weddings and funerals."

  Jackson wondered, as he'd wondered shortly before falling asleep that morning, about Nhora's position in the family hierarchy. Unquestionably she was mistress of Dasharoons, though she couldn't have been more than thirty years old. Her speech was not southern, nor was he certain, as he had been earlier, that she was French-born, despite the telltale sibilance (Sshamp) and Gallic inflections. Perhaps she'd been raised bilingually, in some distant corner of the world.

  Aunts, uncles, cou
sins. Nhora introduced him as the physician who had accompanied Champ from San Francisco in this emergency. And how was Champ? Too ill to come downstairs, but recovering. No, he wouldn't be going back to war. Thank the Lord, said one besotted old gentleman with drooping mustaches. What Dasharoons needed was a man around the place. "Not that we don't love you, honey," he then said to Nhora, who smiled gallantly. There were other smiles, from the women, with no appreciable measure of sincerity. By and by it was over. Only then did Nhora allow herself to pick up a glass, of red wine.

  "You must be starving," she said to Jackson. "There's supper. I don't think I could eat. But if you wouldn't mind company—"

  "By all means."

  A table had been set for him in an oak-paneled drawing room; servants came and went with covered dishes and chilled wine. The drawing room was dominated by full-length portraits of patriarchs and their women. The largest, most impressively framed portrait took up nearly half of one wall. In the painting a full-dress mounted parade was in progress on a western army post. A turn-of-the-century cavalry lieutenant occupied the foreground facing away from the dusty parade ground, strong chin sharply drawn against a pale blue sky. He was mounted on a dangerous-looking black horse. He looked equal to the danger. Despite his youth, it was obvious that the arrogance of command already had been fused with a sense of duty and high calling, producing this masterpiece of the martial temperament.

  In the planes and angles of the lieutenant's face there was something of the sick man upstairs. But Champ, at roughly the same age, had been humanized by self-doubt, by true fire and bloodbath and pain.

  The painter's style and artistry were unmistakable, but Jackson checked the signature to be certain. Frederic Remington.

  "When was this painted?"

  "In 1903, at Fort Riley, Kansas."

  "Who is he?"

  "Sylvanus Bradwin the third. He was my husband. No one ever called him by his given name. After he was discharged from the army he was just plain Boss. Like his father, and his grandfather before him."

  "Boss Bradwin. I assume that he's no longer—"

  "Boss died a little over two years ago." Nhora helped herself to more wine and looked at the untouched tureen with a faint smile. "You're not eating."

  Jackson politely uncovered a clear soup and picked up his spoon.

  "I shouldn't pry into family relationships, but I can't help being curious. Obviously you were not the first Mrs. Sylvanus Bradwin."

  "No, the third. I married Boss when I was twenty-four years old and he was—let me think about that—sixty-five. He already had three grown sons."

  Outside there was a passing voice, indistinct. The landscape had blurred into darkness. Nhora looked sharply out, away, then out again.

  "A difficult situation for a young bride," Jackson said.

  "It was trying at first. I was overanxious and anticipating real bitterness. But Champ and Clipper treated me with intelligence and courtesy. They never tried to make me feel ashamed of my—my need for their father. Hardly anyone else reacted so well."

  She sipped her wine and prowled restlessly beside the glass veranda doors. "Would you mind if I closed them?"

  After closing the doors she also drew the drapes. There was a ceiling fan in the drawing room, and the door to the hall stood open. Nevertheless Jackson quickly felt overheated. Nhora, still restless, didn't seem to notice how stuffy it was.

  "And what was the attitude of the third son? Beau, is that what they call him?"

  Her reaction was delayed; startled. "Where did you hear about Beau?"

  "Champ mentioned him. Apparently he's very worried about Beau—he implied some sort of threat. 'Someone I'm having trouble with.' Those were his words."

  "What? When was this?"

  "Night before last, in Kansas City."

  Nhora came back to sit opposite him at the table. "My God. Do you suppose he's actually seen Beau? Talked to him?"

  "I don't know. Would that be unusual?"

  "Beau left Dasharoons in 1920, when he was seventeen. He had a violent falling-out with Boss. As far as I know, no member of the family has had any further contact with him. Champ told me once he believed Beau was dead. But Boss never thought so. Boss seldom mentioned Beau to me, but I'm sure he was hoping—someday Beau would come home."

  Jackson buttered a crusty slice of bread. "I told you how Champ and I happened to meet."

  "Through that Red Cross worker, the one I spoke to."

  "Champ was in rather a bad state when I first saw him. Not so much from the pneumonia. But he was drifting in and out of touch with reality, possibly hallucinating. How old was Champ when his brother left Dasharoons?"

  "He couldn't have been more than four or five years old."

  "At first Champ mistook me for his brother, before I spoke to him. He was holding me at gunpoint, I might add."

  "But what was he afraid of? If he thought you were Beau, then obviously he couldn't have seen Beau recently. Yes, he must have been hallucinating."

  "Still—he was specific about his fears. He felt that Nancy was in danger and that Beau, somehow, was responsible. So far his fears have been realized."

  Nhora bowed her head. "Poor Nancy. Oh, God, I felt so helpless! There was no way I could describe to Champ—and hoped each episode would be the last."

  Jackson sampled a Creole dish, diced veal and mushrooms with a rich herb sauce. "Tell me about Nancy. How long was she married to Champ?"

  "Five years. But of course they saw very little of each other after Pearl Harbor. When Champ was assigned to Fort Bliss in the fall of forty-one, Nancy came to Dasharoons to live. She'd lost the baby only a few weeks before, naturally she was depressed. She needed rest and quiet, not the strenuous competitive life of a military post."

  "What was she like? I've only seen a photograph."

  "Photographs don't do her justice—she looks fragile and sort of dreamy or inconsequential, her bone structure doesn't hold up for the camera. But her skin was exquisite, translucent, sunlight seemed to pass right through her. She was a very bright girl. Phi Beta Kappa at the University of Virginia. History. She and Boss would go on for hours, but other people thought she was shy, standoffish. That's a capital offense in a place where socializin' takes up so bloody, much time. It was just that Nancy hated the gossipy invective that passes for conversation around here. She much preferred to listen and observe. When she talked she was never boring. She had a knack for defining someone's personality or style with a few words. A lawyer friend of ours with a really good mind has been going to the dogs lately—Nancy said he ought to stand trial for 'self-embezzlements.'"

  "You really liked Nancy."

  "I loved her. I wanted to. I tried." Nhora paused in exasperation, unsure of how to neaten the contradictions.

  "But you couldn't fully respond to her, is that it?"

  "Nancy was an exceptionally good person, but sheltered and unsophisticated. An only child. Her parents were schoolteachers. They lived decent, calm lives in a decent, dull town. No serious illness, no family upheavals or moral dilemmas. She never had to push or shove to get to the front of the line like—some of us. So I think she lacked the fortitude for the life she eventually chose."

  "And the man?"

  "Champ is not the warrior his father was. He was gentle with her. And too protective. When Clipper tried to kill Nancy, she wasn't equal to the—the irrationality, the sheer horror of it. Something gave way in her mind and she was never the same—"

  "Clipper did what?"

  Nhora stared across the table at him as if looking into a newly opened tomb. "Went berserk on his wedding day. It was a military wedding, full dress uniform, sabers. The cadet chapel at Blue Ridge Military Institute. Clipper drew his sword on the altar and ran it through the throat of his bride-to-be. He then came down into the aisle and beheaded my husband with one stroke. Nancy apparently was to be next. Somehow Champ prevented—more slaughter. Only God knows why Champ wasn't killed. Instead Clipper—swallowed his ow
n sword and plunged through a window, thirty feet to the pavement below." Jackson was speechless, food caught in his throat. Perspiration stood out on Nhora's face. She continued to stare at him, and through him. Jackson cleared his throat with a swallow of wine.

  "Champ said something about his brother 'giving way,' but I—that's a terrible tragedy. No wonder he still has nightmares about it."

  "Does he?" Nhora said quietly, coming back into focus. "He isn't the only one. And I wasn't there."

  "Why?"

  "I was sick the day of the wedding; it might have been food poisoning, or an inflamed appendix." She reconsidered an earlier judgment. "I didn't mean to sound so critical of Nancy. Of course she went to pieces, I probably would have done the same. I was hysterical just hearing about it. I can't tell you much about the rest of the day—I drifted, trying to make myself useful, but it was one dreadful scene after another at the hospital."

  "When did this happen?"

  "May, two years ago." Nhora suddenly jumped, almost upsetting the chair, and turned on a maid who had quietly reached in front of her to remove a plate of melting butter. "Lillian!" Momentarily her face was transformed by an expression of such ferocity that Jackson was shaken. So was the maid. She had jumped back a good three feet.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Nhora."

  Nhora softened, lips thinning in wry apology. "'You gave me a scare, Lillian. Let the butter melt. And please leave us alone."

  The maid nodded and turned quickly away, but Jackson observed that she was still in shock, as if there'd been other nights like this, occasions when Nhora was not so forgiving. During their brief time together Jackson had found Nhora intelligent and humane, not the sort to abuse servants. On the other hand, one would not expect to encounter her night-riding with a shotgun and a Negro companion.

  "What happened after the tragedy, Nhora?"

  "As the surviving son, Champ could have been discharged or transferred from the cavalry and come home. He was needed here—Nancy badly needed help. We argued about it, but he was under such a strain I couldn't reason with him. Champ felt dishonored by what Clipper had done. He wanted to fight this war for all of them."