A Show of Hands

by David Crossman

  “Aye, aye,” said Gammidge, snapping to potbellied attention with a mock salute. Sarah laughed. Gammidge was struck, as Crisp had been, by the music of her laughter.

  “Then I’ll leave the medicine with you,” she said, placing it on top of the piano. “Good-bye, Mr. Gammidge.”

  Gammidge watched after her as she collected her coat, picked up her bag, and started down the hall, her shadow trailing dutifully behind. He wondered how many shadows he was trailing.

  Dinner was conducted in relative quiet, meaning there was little conversation between the men. Matty, of course, held forth as usual. Gammidge didn’t hear what she was saying, though. He was too preoccupied by Crisp’s calm silence. It implied something. Demanded something. Once or twice he glanced at Crisp, half expecting him to be staring back. But he wasn’t. He was eating his pea soup, nodding at Matty now and then with a benign smile. What does he want? Gammidge thought. What does he expect from me?

  Nothing interrogates a man so deeply as silence. Crisp had planted a seed, what he called a “conscience worm,” and he could almost hear it working its way through Gammidge’s thought process. You have to know your man, and Crisp knew his, evidenced by the fact that Gammidge, no mean devotee of the dinner table, was playing with his food absentmindedly. Thought had so jammed his mental works that even the mechanical process of eating had slowed to a standstill. Billy Pringle probably ate the same way.

  “Mr. Gammidge,” said Crisp. Gammidge, surprised from his intricate web of thought, dropped his spoon in the soup.

  “What? Yes?”

  “I was wondering . . . ,” said Crisp slowly, “would you pass the butter?”

  Gammidge passed the butter.

  “No you don’t,” said Matty, intercepting the artery-clogging cube. “I don’t know how you think you could get away with that, Winston. Right in front of my eyes! Your brain must be foggy. You have margarine.” She supplanted the margarine for the butter and passed it along.

  “You know,” said Crisp to Matty, though he was looking at Gammidge, “I could sneak down to the kitchen tonight and open up the refrigerator and take out the butter, and you’d never know.”

  What was that supposed to mean? thought Gammidge. What did butter have to do with anything?

  “Oh, you think so, do you?” chortled Matty. “Well, just you try it and you’ll see what happens.”

  “Not a thing,” said Crisp with a sly smile. “It would be very late at night. The whole town would be fast asleep.” He looked at Gammidge. “Penobscot Island has very little nightlife, Mr. Gammidge. As you may have noticed. People generally turn in quite early.”

  “Oh,” said Gammidge. The conscience worm finally drilled its way home. “That hasn’t been my particular experience.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Matty. “This old house creaks like Methuselah’s knees. I can just see you tryin’ to sneak past my room now!”

  “You must want that butter awful bad,” Gammidge ventured.

  “Oh, he does!” Matty affirmed. “Butter and chocolate and eggs and bacon. He’d have ’em all for breakfast if he could. And top it off with ice cream.”

  “I’d have it all by breakfast,” Crisp nodded into his plate.

  “What if you got caught?” said Gammidge.

  “Well, I was speaking figuratively,” said Crisp, looking up. “I wouldn’t get it by myself. Matty’s right. I’d be too clumsy. I’d need an accomplice.”

  “An accomplice?” said Gammidge.

  “This is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Matty with a giggle. “Two grown men plottin’ to come down and steal the butter! Besides, what would you put it on? There isn’t anything for toast except that horrid packaged white bread I use for stuffin’.”

  “I think just the butter would be enough,” said Crisp.

  Gammidge spoke hopefully. “In fact, I doubt we’d even have to take it out of the refrigerator. Would we, Professor?”

  “Butter?” said Matty incredulously. “By itself?”

  “Just a peek would do.”

  “I think both your trolleys have jumped the track!” said Matty. She laughed heartily. “I’ll tell you what. If you want to peek at the butter, you can do it right now”—she waved the butter dish under Crisp’s nose—“and save us all a lot of trouble. There! How’s that?”

  “Just not the same, Matty,” said Crisp. “The best time to steal butter is about midnight. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Gammidge?”

  “Oh,” said Gammidge. “I really don’t think . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea. You never know how much trouble you can get in trying to do something like that.”

  “Probably fall down stairs and break your neck,” Matty prophesied. “And even if you don’t, you’ll have me to contend with sooner or later. And cholesterol in the meantime. That’s what. Now, stop this talk and make sense for a change, let’s.”

  Crisp tapped the place his watch would be if he had one and mouthed the words “twelve o’clock.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” said Gammidge.

  “Oh, honestly!” said Matty. She stood and began gathering up the plates.

  Gammidge looked at the old grandmother clock in the hall. “Five hours,” he said. “You’d better take your medicine now if you want to be up stealing butter at midnight.”

  Crisp took the proffered bottle. “I think I’ll turn in early, Matty,” he said as he rose slowly. He winked and patted her on the shoulder as she whisked by. “Been years since I stole butter.”

  Matty shook her head and frowned a not-too-convincing frown. “Boys,” she said.

  Crisp tottered off up the stairs, leaving Gammidge alone amidst the residue of dinner and the whirlwind that was Matty. The upstairs landing creaked loudly under Crisp’s weight.

  So that’s what Methuselah’s knees sounded like.

  “Midnight,” said Gammidge to himself.

  When Crisp awoke at 11:30, he was swaddled in pain. Everything hurt. Especially his head. And his hand. And his foot. And his throat—that hadn’t hurt in a long time. He fumbled in the darkness for the brown plastic bottle, popped it open, and greedily swallowed two pills. Maybe three or four.

  He lay there in a thick sweat, breathing rapidly and irregularly, waiting for the pain to subside. In a few minutes he felt much better. This time, though, there had been no tingle. Instead, the relief came in a block, all at once. The periphery of his reason was embroidered with fuzz. Paradoxically, the core of his brain seemed completely free of its customary clutter. He could concentrate with absolute clarity; if only he could find something to concentrate on.

  He sat up in bed and swung his feet to the floor. They didn’t want to stay there. They were filled with helium and wanted to float like balloons. Big orange and yellow balloons with happy faces painted on them. He put his hands on his knees, pushed as hard as he could, and giggled.

  “Winston.”

  Suddenly the carnival that was setting up shop in Winston’s mind collapsed. She was back, standing by the little wicker chair in the corner, with her body in the shaft of soft blue light from the street lamp and her head in the shadows. He didn’t look. He didn’t have to. He knew.

  “Amanda,” he said. His heart was beating him to death, and his skull seemed to expand and contract with every pulse of blood to his brain. He hung his head and cried aloud. “I can’t do anything!” he sobbed. “Stop bleeding!” His voice fell and his tears trailed away. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “Stop hurting.”

  There was a movement in the shadows. She was walking toward him! He saw her feet through the haze in his eyes as they crossed the wicker web of light traced on the floor by the chair. She stood in front of him. “Amanda!” he whispered between sobs. He slid from the bed and onto his knees and threw his arms around her legs. She was cold as slate. Her skirt folded around his face and shoulders. It was damp and smelled of sea salt and lilacs. “Amanda!” he cried, not daring to look up at her. “Don’t be dead!” He was th
inking with such clarity and focus that the ragged edge of his thoughts cut deep gashes in the membrane of logic.

  “Why?” she said quietly. Her hand, brushing softly over his head, tore his heart from him in a torrent of uncontrolled anguish and tears.

  “Because I love you!” he shouted. He’d never said those words before, not even to his mother or father. He’d always held the words suspect. They came too easily. Without a price. Even now they sounded strange in his ears, but there were no other words that could frame his feelings. A drop of liquid fell heavily on the nape of his neck. Warm. Thick. It oozed down his back. If only it had been the blood of Christ. “I didn’t mean to kill you!” he bawled in extremes of sorrow.

  Her hand continued caressing his balding head.

  “Did I?” he said, his words echoing in the silence. The clockwork of his reason had come apart. Gears and wheels were falling from their hubs and crashing into one another. He began frantically rubbing his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. “What did I say?”

  There was no answer.

  “I didn’t kill you, did I?” he asked, almost frantically.

  Still no answer. She was gone. He was alone on the floor, knee deep in tears. “So many,” he whimpered. He raised his eyes toward the window, and the light edged his tears with softness. “All loved by someone.” The smell of mist was thick through the open window. The foghorn off Lane’s Island croaked its lonely note of judgment. “I’ve killed them all.” His conscience worm had come home, and it was a monster.

  “Crisp!”

  Gammidge’s voice came from the hall. He was tapping on the door with his knuckle. “Crisp? You awake?”

  Did it make a difference? He couldn’t tell anymore. He got up from his knees, stumbled to the door, and opened it.

  “Good Lord!” Gammidge exclaimed as Crisp nearly collapsed into his arms. He dragged him to the bed and sat him down. “Are you having a heart attack?”

  Crisp shook his head. Unfortunately not.

  With one hand Gammidge grabbed a straight-backed desk chair from the corner and pulled it to him and with the other hand held Crisp steady on the bed. “What happened?” he asked. He was face to face with Crisp, searching his eyes intently. “Do you want me to call Matty?”

  Crisp tried to respond, but he couldn’t. He simply shook his head and mumbled.

  “Can you sit there for a moment?” Crisp nodded. “Good.” Gammidge reached for the wash basin, wrung out a facecloth, and dabbed Crisp’s face with it.

  The cold water, wiping away the tears and the fevered sweat on his brow, was like a slap in the face. Crisp inhaled sharply and began blinking rapidly, each blink scraping away a layer of fog from his brain. The room came into focus and, shortly thereafter, so did Gammidge.

  “Gammidge?” he said weakly. “Nate?”

  “That’s right,” Gammidge reassured him. “I thought I’d lost you for a minute. What happened?”

  Crisp rubbed his face vigorously with the palms of his hands. “I’m not sure,” he said softly. “I guess the operation is . . . taking its toll on me. I’m not recovering as fast as I’d hoped.” It occurred to him that he wasn’t recovering at all, but he didn’t say so.

  “Have you taken your medicine?” said Gammidge, picking up the bottle and inspecting it. It was still open. “Seems so. Doesn’t help?”

  “I can’t tell,” said Crisp. “I can’t imagine the pain would be worse if I hadn’t taken it. Still, I wouldn’t want to find out.”

  “Well, take some more as soon as we’re done . . . with the butter,” Gammidge commanded. “Then you can see if you can get it changed in the morning.”

  “Good idea,” said Crisp. “The doctor’s coming by.”

  The bones in Crisp’s legs seemed to collapse as he tried to stand. He sank back on the bed. “Everything seems to be going at once,” he said. Maybe this was what it was like to die of old age. He wondered if his finger and toes had been given a proper burial. They’d served him long and well.

  “I think we’d better give this up for tonight,” said Gammidge, making no attempt to conceal his relief. “You’re not up to it.”

  Crisp protested. “If that news gets out—”

  “It’s too late to make any difference anyhow,” Gammidge replied. “Paper’s already set, like I said.”

  “But if we can prove . . .” Crisp began in protest. Once again he tried to stand. But it was no use. Even with Gammidge’s help he couldn’t take so much as a step. Gammidge directed him back to the bed. “You take some medicine and get to sleep,” he said. “We’ll just have to play the cards as they come.” He read the directions on the bottle: “ ‘One or two as needed every four hours for pain.’ When did you take it last?”

  Crisp was trying desperately to think. The fog was closing in around his consciousness again. He hated the feeling. Did the medicine bring it on or ease it? He couldn’t remember. “I don’t remember,” he said wearily. “I can’t think straight.”

  “Well,” said Gammidge as he emptied a pill into his hand. “I don’t guess one more will kill you. Here, take this and get some sleep.” He tipped the pill into Crisp’s hand and passed him the glass of water from his bedside table. “We’ll talk it over in the morning and decide what to do.”

  Crisp meekly took the medicine and lay down on the bed. In a moment he felt much better. Foggier, yes. But much better. The pillow crinkled around his ears like a nicely starched shroud. Perhaps Amanda Murphy was under there somewhere, with all the others. It was an inviting thought. At least they were his ghosts.

  A profound darkness imploded on his consciousness and, for the first time in a very long time, he slept the dreamless sleep of the dead.

  Sunday morning was clear and cool. Spring was building more and more insurmountable defenses against the possibility of a surprise resurgence by straggling troops of winter, lost on the retreat northward. There was very little wind, and what there was moved slowly, burdened by the heavy scents of the season.

  Matty was not moving slowly, though. She was up early and, without even taking time to bathe or make her bed, rushed downstairs to check the butter. However, as she reached the bottom of the stairs, her investigation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “My land sakes,” she said as she hitched the purple cotton cord on her robe a little tighter under her bosom and bustled down the hall. “Who do you s’pose that could be at this hour?” She cast an inquiring glance at the grandmother clock. “Six-thirty,” she said. “Later than I thought.” She could see a sun-drenched silhouette through the frosted glass. “A girl.” She opened the door a crack. “Oh, it’s you! I might have known! Come on in!” She opened the door the rest of the way, and Sarah Quinn drifted in on the sunbeam.

  She’d taken time to bathe, thought Matty. She looked chipper and lovely, her hair was done up, and her bed was probably made as well. Matty didn’t often feel shabby. She did now. She gathered her collar a little tighter around her neck. “If you don’t mind waitin’ a few minutes, I’ll have some fresh coffee on.” She was hanging up Sarah’s coat. “I overslept this morning somethin’ awful! I think my alarm must not’ve gone off. Come with me, dear. You can sit in the kitchen while I mix up some muffins.”

  “Actually,” said Sarah, stopping at the foot of the stairs. “I’ve already eaten, thanks. I just dropped by to see how he’s doing.” She gestured upstairs.

  “Oh,” said Matty, hesitating slightly. There were several things to be considered, propriety not the least of them. After all, she wasn’t a real nurse. “Well, he’s probably sleepin’.”

  “I hope so,” Sarah replied with a smile. “I hope he had a good night.”

  “Well, don’t you think you might just wait ’til he comes down?” Matty suggested, although Sarah was already halfway up the stairs.

  “I can’t,” she said in a strong whisper. “I have to catch the boat. Don’t worry, I won’t be a minute. I just want to make sure he’s okay and see to it he gets his
medicine on time. Then he can go back to sleep, if he wants.”

  “Well,” said Matty weakly, but she was talking to herself. Sarah was gone and Winston’s bedroom door had already closed behind her. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore,” she said as she trundled off to the kitchen. “I know I wouldn’t go to a gentleman’s room. Not if he was Moses and I was Florence Nightingale.”

  All at once there was a cry from the top of the stairs. Matty, who hadn’t yet crossed the threshold, stopped in her tracks and looked up at the landing. Sarah was standing there, clearly in a state of shock. She was holding something in her hand. “Matty!” she yelled. “Call Doctor Pagitt!”

  “What’s the matter?” said Matty, starting up the stairs.

  “Don’t waste time, Matty,” Sarah ordered. “The professor’s in a coma. I’ve been giving him the wrong medicine!”

  “You what!” said Matty, frozen on the stairs. “How did you do that?”

  Gammidge’s door opened and he emerged from his room, his plaid bathrobe hanging from his shoulders. “What’s going on?” he said sleepily. “What’s all this noise?”

  “Matty!” Sarah said sharply. “Go call Doctor Pagitt now! Don’t waste any more time!”

  Matty ran down the stairs to the phone and began scanning the list of emergency numbers on the wall. There were only three. “Merciful Lord,” she said. “What’s the number? Ah, there it is!” She began dialing.

  By this time Gammidge was at Sarah’s side. She was looking at the bottle of medicine and mumbling over and over, “I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake!”

  “What is it?” said Gammidge. He took the bottle from her. “Didn’t he take his medicine?”

  Sarah laughed at the irony. “Oh, he took it all right,” she said. “If only he hadn’t!”

  “What do you mean?” said Gammidge, gripping Sarah by the shoulders and shaking her. “Talk sense, girl. What happened?”

  “I gave him the wrong medicine!” she replied. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she burst into tears. “I think he’s dead!”