by Lynn Shurr
Burke Boylan clambered down the rest of the stairs. Wilbert’s eyes went wide as he took in the man’s swollen nose and blood soaked shirt. “Yeah, I’ll go for a doctor all right.”
Buster stormed out the door. Minutes passed, too many minutes. Miss Roz bled more and more from between the legs. Wilbert, who had been holding her head up with his good arm, laid her gently on the floor. He struggled with the telephone and dialed Gilbert St. Rochelle from the number in the book.
“Doctor, you gots to come quick. Miss Ros’mond. I think she dyin’.”
Chapter Fourteen
The walls were white and the bed narrow and covered with sheets that smelled strongly of bleach. Someone had tucked a gray blanket tightly over her chest. Every breath Rosamond St. Rochelle took hurt. Beyond the half-open door, masculine voices, speaking low, said her name. She turned the side of her face that didn’t ache in their direction.
“Pierre, would you talk to Rosamond? I’m too close to this case, much too close, and you have a way with distraught women.” She recognized Uncle Gilbert, his voice sounding as choked and strained as it had the night Aunt Harriet died. Perhaps, she would die, too. The idea did not upset her all that much. Then, Pierre Landry came into the room and drew a chair to her bedside.
“Have I died and gone to heaven, Pierre? But no, girls like me don’t go directly there. They have to spend a long, long time in purgatory first, and the powers that be probably wouldn’t allow us to be in the same room together. Maybe being married to Buster will count against my sins as serving time in hell on earth.” She tried to laugh, but her face throbbed, and she gave up the effort.
Pierre took her hand from under the blanket. She could hardly bear the deep sympathy showing in the darkness of his eyes, but sick as she was, Rosamond felt the same surge of warmth that always flowed through her at his touch.
“Roz, you will recover from this. The broken ribs will mend, and this,” he touched a finger gently to the swollen side of her face. “This will heal without a scar.”
“The baby?”
“Lost.”
“My fault. I didn’t want Burke’s baby, and now it’s gone. Funny, I’d just begun to think of the child as mine, one I could raise alone after I left Buster.”
“Not funny and not your fault. Wilbert, your colored man, says you fell off the open staircase, a terrible accident. You miscarried, but you will be able to have more children.”
“Not like the other woman, then, not like her.”
“Other woman? Do you want to tell me about this?”
“Buster beat a maid until she lost her baby back in Philadelphia. The family paid her off, sent her back to Ireland. She is barren now. I wonder what they’ll do with me?”
“Roz.” Pierre leaned closer to her ear. “Why didn’t you use the gift I sent you? I knew about Burke from some of the women I sewed up in the Quarter. He enjoys hurting people, especially when he drinks. You must not go back to him. Next time, and there will be a next time, he may kill you.”
“I know. We argued about my hair. Isn’t that ridiculous? I said I was leaving, and he hit me in the stomach—more than once. After that, I don’t remember anything.”
“I always wanted to run my fingers through your long hair, but you should be free to do as you want with it.”
Tenderly, Pierre drew a finger around the bedraggled curl in the center of her forehead. Rosamond raised her hand and lightly brushed her fingers across his mustache and down the side of his face.
Dr. St. Rochelle watched from the half-open door and understood what he saw. About this time last year, he’d been sitting with his wife in her last hours. They had touched in the same ways, the bittersweet farewell of lovers. He heard his brother approaching with his gruff voice comforting the sobbing Emmaline, and stood in the doorway blocking the view of the brief kiss Pierre gave to Rosamond’s lips.
“Oh, Gilbert, will she live? Will she be able to have other children?” Emmaline sobbed. “Such a dreadful accident. I knew that open staircase was a danger.”
The taller Laurence looked over his brother’s shoulder. “What’s that Cajun voodoo doctor doing in my daughter’s room? Where’s Burke—didn’t he bring her in?”
“No. Wilbert called me. We set his broken arm, but he’s still in the colored waiting room, I believe. He said he didn’t want to leave until he was sure Rosamond would be all right.”
“A good boy, that Wilbert. May we see her now?”
“Of course. Dr. Landry broke the news about the baby. She’ll want her mother now. Pierre, the St. Rochelles are here.”
Pierre stood, letting Roz’s hand slip slowly from his. “I’ll be going then. I want to speak to Wilbert. I’ll let him know he can leave now.”
As the St. Rochelles moved to their daughter’s bedside, Pierre Landry left the room and took the staircase to the hospital lobby. The colored waiting room sat unadorned and crowded with long benches that looked as if they had come from a train station. At this early hour of the morning, only Wilbert and two women waiting for their men to be sewed up after a brawl occupied the dreary space.
“Wilbert. I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”
“Johnson, but jus’ Wilbert is fine.”
“I wanted to thank you for saving Mrs. Boylan’s life, both in the fall and afterwards. If you hadn’t called, she might have bled to death. She’s going to be fine thanks to you.”
“Well, at first, I was waitin’ for Mr. Boylan to come back wit’ a doctor, but he didn’t come. He was bleedin’ hisself so maybe he passed out somewheres. Don’t know. Glad to help.”
“Did you see Mrs. Boylan fall off the staircase?”
“No, suh. Jus’ saw her comin’ down, but she didn’t scream or wave her arms like people do when they fall, more like she passed out. I tried to catch her. Broke my arm.”
“How did Mrs. Boylan land?”
“Right on top of me.”
“Not on her face or side or stomach?”
“No, suh. Guess I must be like a big ole cushion.”
“Before that, did you hear any sounds of fighting, a struggle?”
Wilbert paused, squirmed on the uncomfortable bench. “Well, something got broke upstairs. I heard that, went to get the dustpan.”
“Did you hear what was said?”
“No, suh. I was getting ready to go out the back to my room, but I heard the crash, some thumps. Thass all.”
“Thank you. Thank you again, Mr. Johnson. I’d offer you a ride, but I don’t have a car.”
“That be okay. Here come Mr. Boylan now. Maybe he give me a lift.”
Pierre noticed Burke Boylan staring into the waiting room but not entering. He sported a swollen nose with a line of dark sutures across the bridge. Dr. Landry went to face the man who had beaten Rosamond St. Rochelle and nearly caused her death.
“I see she fought back, Boylan. Good for Roz.”
“She went crazy when I said I didn’t like her hairdo. Hit me with a perfume bottle, then tried to run down the staircase, missed her footing. It was her own fault.”
“You know, she lost your baby when you hit her in the stomach,” the doctor said quietly, but his tone implied something more lethal.
“I don’t know anything about a baby. Rosamond never said a word. She’s a lunatic, Landry. Be glad you aren’t the one stuck with her.”
Pierre Landry came very close to the larger man, the man who had broken a lovely, spirited woman to pieces as he would a discarded liquor bottle. He stared into the pale, cold eyes of Burke Boylan until the man dropped his gaze.
“Roz did not get those injuries falling on an old colored man. I’ll file a report with the police testifying to that. She can use that statement to be rid of you.”
“You think our easily paid-off officers of the law won’t lose that paperwork? Who in this city is going to take the word of some over-educated Cajun whose family only crawled out of the swamps a generation ago?” Buster sneered.
“If I were you, Boyl
an, I wouldn’t be taking any trips outside the city. My kin are everywhere, and they know what to do with vermin when it crosses their path.”
Pierre fixed his black eyes on Buster again, then turned his back and walked away so noiselessly that Boylan had a brief feeling of having been stalked by a panther in the dead of night. He dealt with that moment of fear with his usual bluster.
“Are you threatening me, Landry? I’ll have your job! Do you hear me?”
Chapter Fifteen
They had her surrounded like a wildcat beleaguered by baying hounds. Papa on one side of the bed, Mama on the other, Uncle Gilbert at its foot as if she might try to escape. Father Darby in his black garments loomed over them all.
“I’m not going back to Buster, Papa. I want a divorce,” Roz asserted for the second time. “I tell you he hit me first and punched me in the stomach. I may have fallen off the stairs trying to get away from him, but I know what happened before that.”
“Now, sweetie, Buster says you were upset that he objected to your hairdo, and you slapped him. He has fighter’s reflexes, honey, and says he did cuff you, though he pulled his punch. You hit him in the face with the perfume bottle and rushed out. Your injuries were caused by the fall. We know you don’t want to believe you caused the death of the baby, but it wasn’t intentional. Father Darby says he can certainly give absolution in a case like this.” Laurence St. Rochelle patted her hand.
“You’ve only been married three months, Rosamond. Think of what people will say,” her mother pleaded. “Perhaps, you would consider a short separation until you feel better. No one would question your wanting to be in your mother’s care under the circumstances, or maybe you’d prefer a nice rest at a sanatorium.”
“I’ve had a stern talk with Buster. He understands that he must curb his natural temper when dealing with you or suffer the consequences,” her uncle added.
“You, too, Uncle Gilbert?” Tears gathered in his favorite niece’s eyes.
Gilbert St. Rochelle had to turn his head away. Full of anger and passion, Pierre Landry had come to him with the houseboy’s story. He was so sure Roz had been beaten before the fall, so ready to believe the worst of Boylan. Clearly, the young doctor loved his niece. He’d had to ask a favor of his old friend from medical school, Leonard Spivey, who lived in Chapelle, to remove the lad from this awkward situation before Pierre ruined his career and his life by getting between a married couple.
Dr. St. Rochelle saw his niece’s eyes turn toward a simple cobalt blue vase holding two white calla lilies pure in color and form. One for her and one for the baby, Pierre said when he brought them. Roz cried on his shoulder, and young Dr. Landry held her as if the child had been his own. As embarrassed as he’d been to witness the scene, Gilbert did not feel he could leave them alone together. So far, Rosamond refused to see Buster.
A nurse interrupted the family meeting. “Mrs. Boylan, your husband sent these. Aren’t they gorgeous?” She held out an arrangement of two-dozen red roses that looked like splashes of blood against her white uniform.
“Take them away. Give them to the nurses or the elderly. I don’t care.”
“Now, now, child. It is a sin not to forgive,” Father Darby said. “Let me speak with Rosamond alone for a few moments.”
Closing the door behind them, the family members went out to hover in the hall while the priest had his say. “I’ve known you for several years now, and you have done little to curb your tendencies toward impulsive, even immoral behavior. Your husband tells me that as soon as you moved into the house on Prytania, you began tearing the place up to his discomfort, depriving him of a quiet home to rest after a hard day’s work, spending all his money on decorations. He says you were too tired to fulfill your conjugal duties, and that drove him to seek relief elsewhere. The duty of a good wife is to provide these comforts for her husband.”
“And what is the husband’s duty?” Roz questioned, staring the priest straight in the eye.
“Why to love, honor, and support his wife, as it is yours to obey. If he preferred your hair long and your face unpainted, was it so much to ask, Rosamond? That you struck out at him when he mildly chastised you is a sin on your part, not his.”
“Father, Burke has brutalized me since the day we married.”
“Did you give him cause, child? Your own temper brought about the loss of your baby, God’s punishment for your willfulness. His mercy is that you can conceive again. Submit to your husband. Try to be a dutiful wife, and you will be rewarded with more children.”
“I never want Buster to touch me again.”
“Understand, my child, if you divorce your husband, you will be cut off from the sacraments of the Church and endanger your immortal soul. I will pray that you won’t go down the road to perdition.”
“Please, leave me alone. Please.”
“For now. We will talk again when you are feeling better.” Though Roz turned her head away, the priest blessed her.
“Very hard-headed, your daughter,” he told the family as he went on his way.
“I want to rest now. Please go, all of you, except Uncle Gilbert,” Roz called.
As soon as the others left, Roz turned to her uncle. “I want to see Pierre. Where is he?”
“He was called home last night. Doctor Spivey suffered a mild heart seizure and needed his help immediately. I signed off on his training. Since you were asleep, I asked him not to disturb you.”
“He didn’t leave a message?”
“No. He had to leave on the midnight train.” The note Pierre had given him for his niece burned in his pocket like a coal from Hell. Just as he had blocked Burke from seeing Roz, he’d told the switchboard she wasn’t to be disturbed by telephone calls either. Unable to endure the despair washing over Rosamond’s face, he made his excuses.
“I have patients to see, dear girl. Pierre might inquire about you later once he is settled in his practice—as any friend would.”
Safely out of the sight of those tragic blue eyes, Gilbert whispered, “Forgive me, Harriet. This is for the good of the family. You would understand if you were here. No, no, you wouldn’t. You’d probably give those two enough money to run off together.”
****
Rosamond St. Rochelle held out alone for three more weeks. If Buster came to speak with her father, she locked herself in the guest bedroom at her parents’ home where she slept. She made do with old clothes she’d left behind before the wedding because no one seemed inclined to help her bring her belongings from the house on Prytania. Still feeling physically weak, she rested a great deal and took the medicine prescribed by her uncle to help her sleep in the evenings, untroubled by dreams of Burke driving his fists into her stomach.
Was it pride or the fear Pierre Landry felt only pity for her that kept her from sending a letter addressed to him in care of general delivery, Chapelle, Louisiana? In a town so small, everyone would know the village doctor. Instead, Roz waited for a call or a letter to give her hope for a new life away from Burke Boylan.
When the telephone rang in the evening, Emmaline St. Rochelle quickly answered it before the bell could wake Rosamond. Thank heaven, the young doctor stayed busy with patients most of the day. At first, she politely assured him that Rosamond was recovering her strength and thanked him for calling, shutting him out with fine manners. In the end, she resorted to lying about her daughter reconciling with her husband. Dr. Landry didn’t have to concern himself with her welfare anymore. At last, the calls stopped coming.
Still, the man didn’t give up. She barely intercepted a telegram before the maid carried it to Rosamond. The words were bland enough. “Are you well? Stop. Do you need help of any kind? Stop. I am at your service, Pierre.”
Emmaline St. Rochelle crumpled the yellow tissue containing the message and using the large table lighter, incinerated it in one of the smoking room’s ashtrays. She knew exactly the kind of help and service the doctor offered her daughter. For the good of Rosamond’s social standing
and also her immortal soul, her daughter could not be allowed to accept it.
****
Emmaline made special plans for Thanksgiving. The St. Rochelles were to be honored by the presence of Father Darby who would offer a prayer for the family over the oyster-stuffed turkey. After that announcement, Roz found the energy the day before the event to go out and have her hair retouched and trimmed. If Burke appeared at the dinner table, she hoped the sight would infuriate him.
Her estranged husband arrived as the family seated themselves to celebrate the feast. He took the empty chair across from Rosamond after making a great show of presenting his motherin-law with a bouquet of golden mums and greenery. Before Roz could rise to leave the table, Father Darby stood at his place and offered a blessing. All heads bowed under the weight of his authority.
“Dear Father in Heaven, we thank thee for this bounteous feast, for the love of the family gathered here, for hospitality toward guests who come to this door. Do not let anyone at this table lack in appreciation for a fine home, a good provider, and all the blessings of prosperity. Let there be forgiveness for past sins and misunderstandings, especially between the fine young couple seated here today. Let the spirit of reconciliation fill them this day and remind them of the vows they spoke before the altar of the Holy Catholic Church not so long ago. Reward them with renewed love and the blessings of married life in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
As the family crossed themselves, Father Darby took his seat, and Buster sprang up and extended his arm across the table in a gesture looking as if it had been rehearsed a dozen times in front of a mirror. “Rosie, I want you to come home with me tonight. I swear before this man of God I will never raise a hand to you again—if you will swear your obedience to me and be the loving wife you vowed to be.”
Roz sat frozen, staring at his large, extended hand. With a pink scar and a bump across the bridge of his nose, Buster looked more like a thug who would beat someone’s brains out than ever. She thought she might be sick again.
