“Don’t count your chickens,” the Colonel warned through a mouthful of beans. “After all, you still have me to plague you.”
Chapter 24
In the morning when I came downstairs there was a note on the kitchen counter in the Colonel’s large, elegant handwriting that simply said, “Walking.” I slid it away and picked up the phone for a little chat with the children, who were too excited about their visit to Uncle John’s and Aunt Helen’s to waste much time talking to me. At Uncle John’s they would also see my cousins, Diane and Sean, who were, Blythe told me sternly and precociously, her first cousins once removed.
“That’s right, Sweetie,” I exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“Lalla told me,” she announced. “And Carrie and Brent are my second cousins.” Carrie and Brent were Diane’s children and Blythe was right: they were her second cousins.
“Did Lalla tell you that, too?”
“Yes,” Blythe told me. “Lalla knows everything.”
Well, that summed it up, all right. After a few minutes of chatting I hung up the phone, feeling oddly dejected, and set about soothing myself by preparing a heart attack breakfast of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. But I had no sooner scrubbed the potatoes and counted out the eggs when I heard the slam of a car door outside.
I walked out on the deck, spatula in hand, and leaned over the side railing. There, on the parking pad below, sat Phillip Olson’s Grand Cherokee and beside it stood Phillip himself.
Shit.
He seemed to be surveying the cottage. Or maybe just the dunes and the view. I called out a greeting, feigning delight, and invited him to join me on the deck for coffee. He accepted, feigning reluctance.
“I don’t mean to impose,” he told me apologetically. “I was just on my way to Hatteras this morning, and thought I’d say hello.”
I assured him it was no imposition, guided him to the table by the railing overhanging the beach, and deliberately settled him in the chair facing north. It was a pleasant spot, cooled by an ocean breeze and shaded by a large market umbrella, and it had the additional advantage of being highly visible to anyone approaching the cottage from the beach. Which was important.
The thing was, I absolutely could not have Phillip in the house. To begin with, I needed him sitting in plain view as a warning to the Colonel when he walked back up the beach. And second, the living room was festooned with charts and notes and strewn with paper, magazines and books. Clearly I was in the middle of a project that would be hard to explain away.
As soon as I had planted Phillip where I wanted him, I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray bearing coffee, orange juice and toast. Then I plopped myself into the south-facing chair where I could keep an eye out for the Colonel, who had, I was pretty sure, walked in that direction.
“So,” I said, pouring coffee and distributing toast and juice. “Are you painting again today?”
“That, and fishing as well.”
I expressed great interest in both and mined the subjects for conversation. Eventually we ambled down other conversational lanes while I kept a casual lookout on the beach. Some minutes later I saw a figure coming our way. I threw out some more conversational gambits, which Phillip took up happily. Meanwhile, the figure on the beach kept approaching. I refilled Phillip’s coffee cup, passed him the cream and sugar. When I looked up again the figure had morphed into the Colonel. He ducked into the dunes. Phillip and I plowed through the plate of toast.
“This was just delightful, Kathy Lee,” Phillip said a little later. “I hope I didn’t keep you from anything.”
“Not at all,” I told him, and when he stood to go I made one of those let-me-escort-you-to-your-car gestures.
“But I can’t leave you with this mess,” he said, frowning at the debris on the table.
“Of course you can,” I assured him. And to prove it, I began stacking cups and glasses on the tray. “See? It’s no trouble whatso—”
In a heartbeat, Phillip lifted the tray from the table.
“Please,” I protested. “Let me.”
“Don’t be silly, Kathy Lee. It’s the least I can do.”
Short of wrestling him to the ground, there was nothing I could do except smile and lead him to the kitchen where he set the tray on the counter by the sink. I was in the process of babbling my thanks when he turned and saw the living room. Standing out from the general chaos was an eight foot timeline highlighting the nineteenth century that dangled carelessly down the back of the sofa and spilled out over the floor. I figured there was almost no chance he wouldn’t notice, and I was right. In a heartbeat, he had the timeline in his hand.
“1803-1815, the Napoleonic Wars,” he read. Then: “1803-1806, Lewis and Clark Expedition; 1808, U.S. prohibits the importation of slaves … 1837, Accession of Queen Victoria … 1861-1865—” Phillip raised his eyebrows. “What is this, Kathy Lee?”
“A timeline.”
“Well, I can see that,” he remarked, then continued scanning: “In 1869, Transcontinental Railroad completed; 1872-1874, buffalo hunted to near extinction — I didn’t know that — 1879, Edison’s light bulb … Why, this is fascinating!”
For a split second I could think of nothing to say. And then it came to me. “I want to return to teaching,” I told him. “There’s an opening in American history at, um, James Monroe — you know, where I taught before — and, well, I was trying to come up with a basic framework that would interest the kids, just to get them started, with some interesting, um, references to Britain and Europe, so, ah, they would know what was going on in the rest of the world…” I ground to a halt, then added lamely, “It’s not an honors class, or anything, just—”
But Phillip spared me more lies. “Yes, yes, an overview, highlights, events they can build around,” he enthused, glancing around the room at the clutter. “So this is what you’ve been doing tucked away down here! Now I see why you bought all those news magazines at the drugstore the other day.”
“You have found me out, Phillip,” I teased, guiding him out onto the deck and toward the stairs. “But remember, my application hasn’t been accepted yet—”
“It will be, Kathy Lee,” Phillip assured me kindly. “I have no doubt of it.”
His faith in me as I lied to him so shamelessly made me blush. Mercifully, however, we had reached his car where I stopped perjuring myself long enough to say goodbye. I waved as he headed down the drive, then returned to the kitchen where I rinsed the dishes. A few minutes later I heard the Colonel’s footfall on the deck.
“Your mother’s friend,” he said, joining me at the counter.
“Yes. Phillip Olsen. He stopped by on his way to the Cape.”
“How remarkably inconvenient.”
“I thought so.”
“But how clever to seat him where you did. I clearly saw that you had company.”
“I saw you duck into the dunes.”
“Yes, and just in time. What a tedious morning. I thought he would never leave.”
I glanced at him. He seemed more impatient than usual, testy and annoyed. I salvaged some breakfast for him and watched him poke abstractly at his food, a million miles (and possibly two hundred years) away. As soon as the plates were cleared he announced a return to the schoolroom, where began a brief discussion of Darwin’s theory of evolution that he found only mildly interesting.
“It makes sense, I suppose. Anyone who has looked at the natural world can follow his argument, whether one agrees with it or not. Tell me, what does the Church think of this?”
He meant either the Church of England or Christianity in general. “It depends,” I told him. “Most theologians accept it as part of God’s wondrous plan, et cetera, and others reject it out of hand.”
“And scientists. What do they think?”
“Evolution is a given, actually. Kind of a basic premise of scientific thought, like gravity.”
The Colonel grunted, and moved on to viruses and immunity, wonderi
ng out loud how susceptible he was to modern germs. A week ago he had never even heard of germs, yet now he was making the connection between bacteria, viruses, and human resistance. It was an excellent point, one that I thought of privately, in fact, some days ago.
“Considering how viruses mutate,” I told him, “the immunities you acquired in your own century might very well be useless as defense against the diseases of today.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A cheering thought. I survive a leap across time only to die writhing in fever.”
“But then again,” I said slowly, another thought occurring to me, “there are many people who live in relative isolation — people from obscure Pacific islands, or tribesmen deep in the Indonesian jungles and so forth. It’s very possible you wouldn’t be any more susceptible than they are, which is to say you’re probably more susceptible than the general population to a lot of virus-borne illnesses, but not lethally so.”
“How comforting to realize.”
“Or perhaps,” I went on, running down yet another possibility, “Since you’ve had to rely on your own natural immunity to fight disease — lacking antibiotics, vaccinations, and all — it’s quite possible your resistance far outstrips the average person’s of this century … weakened, as we all are, by our reliance on modern medicine.”
“Well, that’s reassuring, I must say.” He glanced at me. “Given that I’ve been on this side of the border for several days now and have yet to sniffle or sneeze, perhaps we can delay in planning my funeral.”
We spent the rest of the day working, exchanging scarcely ten words that didn’t have to do with the subject at hand. By four o’clock I had reached my limit. I sat down in a chair across from his place on the sofa and cleared my throat. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” I asked finally.
He looked up from a Time magazine article on Eastern Europe — New Europe, that is — and gazed at me coolly. “Pardon me?”
“You’ve remembered something,” I said shrewdly. “And you don’t want to tell me. That’s why you’ve buried yourself in that stupid magazine.”
“How remarkably perceptive, Mrs. Finlay. I must remember to have you interpret all my behavior to me.” He returned to the Time article and began marking a paragraph with a yellow highlighter.
“It must be something upsetting. And judging from your mood all day, I’d say it’s something you remembered either very late last night last night or early this morning.”
For an answer, I heard the squeak of highlighter moving across the slick surface of the page.
“You know,” I told him, “you really don’t have to worry about all those former Soviet republics. No one can pronounce their names, let alone remember them all. You’d do better to memorize the modern nations of Africa—”
“Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Egypt, Mauritania, Mali, Chad, Ethiopia—”
“Fine. Great. I get your point.”
“Somalia, Kenya, Zaire—”
“All right! ”
We glared at each other, annoyed and edgy. Finally the Colonel tossed the magazine on the coffee table. “Shall we recess?” he asked with forced brightness. “Escape the classroom?”
Escape from each other, perhaps? “A lovely idea,” I said aloud.
My answer seemed to relieve him. “Very good,“ he smiled. “Perhaps I’ll go for a swim.”
With any luck, he’d drown.
Chapter 25
A couple of hours later I found the Colonel in the kitchen. He was studying the contents of the fridge while rumbling his way through another ditty. I have a pocket for my oatmeal, he sang in his low, pleasant voice, and another for my rye —
He broke off when he saw me in the doorway. “Where have you been?”
“Upstairs. I’ve been sleeping. Did you swim?”
“Yes. A very pleasant swim, actually.” He turned back to the icebox. “I was about to make us a little supper,” he said, sounding almost cheerful. “We’ve a bit of beef and a wedge of rather good cheese—”
“Let’s go out to dinner.”
He looked over his shoulder at me. “I can easily make something for us instead.” Man of the twenty-first century that he was.
“No,” I said. “I think we need to get out of here a while.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded. “What did you have in mind?”
What I had in mind was a moderately fancy restaurant up in Duck that I’ve always liked. It was nearly an hour north of Avon, but the drive was interesting and it was well out of range of Lila’s local buddies — and Phillip, too, for that matter. I looked at the clock, saw that it was almost six, and reached for the phone. The restaurant could take us, the maitre d’ informed me, but not until eight o’clock. Actually, that worked out well for our purposes, giving us an easy hour to get ready. I glanced at the Colonel, decided he could wear Dockers and moccasins and the banded collar shirt we bought in Ocracoke, but he’d need a sports coat. I was stumped for a moment, then inspiration struck.
I went down the hall, threw open the closet door and triumphantly retrieved Cameron’s navy blue blazer, which, fortunately, I had neglected to take back to Fredericksburg with the rest of his things. “I think it will fit,” I told the Colonel, then ran upstairs where I took a long shower and slathered myself with baby oil. A little later I stood gazing at my closet, wrapped in a towel. There on a hanger in front of me was my new dress, beckoning me with its lovely splash of peonies.
I stared at it, the lone swan of my wardrobe, and realized it was the sort of dress my grandmother would not have approved of. In an uncharacteristic flash of insight, I understood that was why I bought it in the first place — not as a shopping lesson for the Colonel, but simply because the dress was, in a way, a forbidden pleasure.
I spent an inordinate amount of time on myself, blow-drying my hair, fiddling with makeup, before slipping on the dress and the lethal high-heeled sandals. I spun around in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door, and decided that Mae-Mae would have thought the shoes, with their bright color and spiked heels, were downright vulgar. I didn’t care. In fact, I was glad the shoes were vulgar. I hoped the dress was vulgar, too, and figured it was, with its low, fitted bodice and nipped-in waist. I peered at myself in the mirror and wondered if I should apply more blusher to my cheeks.
Don’t push it, I cautioned myself, and descended the stairs. When I reached the landing, the Colonel looked up and saw me.
“Upon my soul,” he said, rising from his place on the sofa. “It’s a girl.”
I ignored him and flounced down the remaining stairs as if I’d been wearing spiked heels and fancy dresses all my life. I would have pulled it off, too, had I not tripped on the last step. In a flash the Colonel was at my side, his hands on my arms to steady me.
And then slowly, almost gravely, he raised my hand to his lip.
My breath caught in a small gasp. Over the top of my knuckles, the Colonel raised his eyes to mine. A long second passed, and then another. Finally, he released my fingers and with his own he tipped up my chin. Lightly, delicately, he lifted my hair away from my face.
I lowered my gaze and stared at the third button of his immaculate white shirt. He was standing so close to me I could see the weave of the flawless Egyptian cotton and smell the clean scent of soap on his skin. When his fingers traced down the length of my arms, I quickly stepped away.
“I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before,” he said quietly. “You’ve cured the pox.”
He meant small pox, and he didn’t mean me, specifically. It was amazing how the man could touch my face and arms and be reminded of pustules, fever and death. I tried not to be insulted.
“Yes,” I said, turning away from him. “We should have put that in your curriculum.” I fluffed out my skirt self-consciously like a cat licking herself after an embarrassing fall. Then a thought struck me. “How did you know?” I asked, looking back at him.
“No pock marks,” he s
aid. “It’s the first time I’ve really seen enough of you to know. And then I realized I hadn’t seen signs of pox on anyone. How did you do it?”
“World-wide vaccination,” I told him.
He blinked at me, amazed. “I cannot comprehend it. Tis a plague…”
“Was a plague,” I corrected, studying his face. “Did you ever have it?”
“I had cow pox. When my brother and I were young my father made small cuts on our forearms and exposed us to fluid from a sore on the udder of a cow. The dairymaids never got what you call small pox, you know. They got cow pox, and were not nearly as sick.”
“William Jenner was supposed to have done that. All that cow pox stuff.”
“Never heard of him,” the Colonel said shortly.
“It was after the Revolution. Jenner was a doctor. He exposed people who never had small pox to cow pox, and then to small pox a few months later. The idea was to prove immunity — or resistance, at any rate. Some of his patients got mildly feverish, but no one got desperately ill.”
“Then he only documented it. Country people have been doing that for years.” He paused. “In London, you see people who are terribly disfigured by scars. I worry about Nanny and Edmund.”
“I worry about Blythe and Sammy.”
“Truly? Do you? But you have cured the pox. You have cured nearly all the plagues, it seems to me. What have you to worry about?”
“New plagues. AIDS, for example. Plus all the old ones we still haven’t cured, like tuberculosis.”
“What’s that?”
“I believe it was called consumption,” I told him.
“You mean you haven’t cured consumption yet?” The Colonel was simply astounded, like I was somehow personally responsible for this little oversight.
“We can treat it,” I said somewhat defensively. “But it’s gotten resistant to conventional drugs, like all those weird viruses that keep reinventing themselves.”
“It’s because of your increased population,” he offered astutely. “Lots of hosts to feed upon. It fuels the viruses, I would think, allows them to mutate even faster. In England — my England — it was safer in the countryside than in the city. We knew that, though we never heard of viruses. Fewer people to spread disease, you see.”
Out of Time Page 17
