by Alice Duncan
“In a little more than a month?” I said, huffy as all get-out. “I don’t think so. But thank you so much for the compliment.”
“It’s not a compliment,” Harold said with a frown that appeared more worried than mean-spirited. Harold himself was a bit on the plump side and had been for as long as I’d known him. “I know you’re grieving, but you have to take care of yourself, Daisy. You won’t do your family any good if you fall ill, you know.”
My shoulders slumped. “Oh, Harold, don’t you lecture me, too. Please. I’ve heard it all from my mother and father and aunt and Sam. The thought of food makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t help it.”
“You can, too, help it,” said Harold firmly. “If you can’t, who can?”
It was a good question, I supposed. Hanging my head, I whispered, “I don’t know. But it’s the truth, Harold. I can’t seem to force myself to eat. Ever since . . .”
He hugged me. “I know, sweetheart. You miss your Billy.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“But he’d hate it that you’ve let yourself go so badly.”
That snapped me to attention. “I haven’t! I haven’t either let myself go, Harold Kincaid. Billy’s only been gone for a little more than a month, for heaven’s sake! Give a girl a break, can’t you? Shoot, Queen Victoria mourned her lost Albert for the remainder of her life!”
“In case you haven’t noticed recently, you’re not Queen Victoria.”
I gave him a sharp smack on the arm. “You know what I mean!”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. But this discussion is getting us nowhere. Fetch your hat, and I’ll drive us to the Castleton Hotel. They’ve got a great lobster salad there that might tempt even you.”
My stomach took that opportunity to heave in revolt at the thought, but I didn’t let on. Rather, I released Spike from his enforced seatfulness, went to get my hat, said good-bye to my father, gave Spike a farewell pat and left the house with Harold, Spike gazing mournfully after us. He’d be more than happy to eat a lobster salad, his big sad eyes seemed to say, and three more after that, along with all the dinner rolls anyone cared to toss him.
Harold owned a bright red, shiny, snazzy, low-slung Stutz Bearcat, and it stood out like a peacock in a flock of sparrows on our staid, pepper-tree lined street. I was grateful he’d put the top up on the machine, because I didn’t fancy having my hat blown off or my hair messed up. Mind you, since I’d had my hair bobbed a year or so prior, it was a good deal easier to take care of than it had been when it was long, but I still didn’t want to be blown to bits.
In spite of Harold’s eagle-eyed watchfulness, I couldn’t eat too much of my lobster salad, although I did manage several bites. I guess it was tasty, except that it made me want to throw up. The Castleton provided its diners with delicious rolls as an accompaniment to their salads, and I buttered my roll after I tore it into pieces, mainly so Harold couldn’t fuss at me anymore about my lack of appetite.
He did anyway. “I know what you’re doing, Daisy, and I’m not going to let you get away with it. You’re moving the food about on your place. You’re supposed to stick it in your mouth, chew it and swallow it.”
Feeling oppressed and beleaguered, I said, “I’m really sorry, Harold. But, honestly, I can’t seem to eat very much anymore. I’m sure I’ll get over this loss of appetite one day. But for some reason, ever—”
“Yes, I know,” he said, cutting me off. “Do you know I even spoke with your pal Johnny Buckingham about you?”
I felt my eyes go round as saucers. “You did what?”
“I talked about you with Captain Buckingham. Mother asked me to speak to him about Stacy, even though she’d already done so, so I decided what the hell and told him you were turning into a wraith before everyone’s eyes and asked him what he thought might be done for you.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead, aghast. “I can’t believe you did that, Harold! Johnny and Flossie are going to have their first child any week now, and they don’t need my problems heaped on their heads.”
Giving an irritated shake of his head, Harold said, “Nuts to that. He volunteered to devote his life dealing with other people’s problems. And we came up with a great idea.”
“You did?”
“We did.”
The expression of triumph on Harold’s face worried me. A lot.
Chapter Eight
“Harold wants to what?” Ma, fork held before her in shock, asked as we sat at the supper table that evening. When I glanced around the table, I saw that Pa and Vi were also staring at me, open-mouthed with astonishment.
Oh, goody.
After heaving a less-than-ecstatic sigh, I explained. “Harold wants to take me to Egypt to get me away from home. He—and he talked to Johnny Buckingham, who agreed with him—thinks that a change of scenery might be what I need to perk me up.” As if anything could perk up a grieving widow.
“How nice of him,” Ma said at last, her voice faint. She allowed her hand to carry her fork the rest of the way to her mouth. That night it had stabbed a bite of cold roast pork.
Vi had turned the leftover mashed potatoes into potato patties, fried them in butter, and served the pork and potatoes with a nice green salad. And I still could barely tolerate the idea of food, much less eat more than one or two mouthfuls of it.
“That’s . . . amazing,” said Vi. “Um, why did he decide to take you to Egypt?”
I shrugged. “He says he remembered that Billy always wanted to visit Egypt, and that his mother and Mister Pinkerton enjoyed their visit down the Nile. Or is it up the Nile? I can’t remember. Billy would have known.” Harold had also said he wanted to see me ride a camel, but I decided not to tell my folks that.
After a deal of thought, Vi said, “I bet you anything this is a thank-you for helping his mother see the light about that daughter of hers.”
“Maybe.” I nodded, although I doubted Vi’s scenario. I’d believed Harold when he’d told me he was going to whisk me away to foreign ports in a mission to heal my heart. The scenario he’d presented at lunch didn’t make a lick of sense to me, but I supposed it might be interesting to be sick of food in England, where we’d land first, and then in Egypt. Heck, maybe I could be sick of food in France and Turkey, too, along the way. But our main destination, according to Harold, was Egypt.
“When is this trip supposed to take place?” asked Pa, looking as befuddled as everyone else.
“Next month.”
“In August?”
“Well . . . yes. Next month is August.”
Pa shook his head and shoveled in another bite of potatoes and gravy. “It’s going to be hotter than heck in Egypt in August.”
“Mercy, yes,” said Ma. “Don’t most expeditions to Egypt take place during the winter months?”
“Yes, they do,” said Pa, who used to enjoy the same articles in National Geographic that Billy had. Well, he still would. Until Billy’s subscription ran out. I shook my head, not wanting to think about that.
“Hmm,” said Vi. “But it’s hot in Pasadena during the summer months, too. Why, it gets to be over a hundred degrees here quite often.”
“That’s so,” said Ma thoughtfully. “Egypt probably won’t be so bad. And you can always take summery clothes with you. Knowing Harold Kincaid, he’ll demand the very best of accommodations, so even if it’s hot, you probably won’t suffer from heatstroke or anything like that.”
“That’s true,” said Vi. “Harold is quite a wealthy man.”
“I guess so, but it doesn’t matter. I told him I wouldn’t let him do it.”
“You what?”
Ma again, this time with a piece of lettuce spiked on her frozen fork.
“I can’t let him spend all that money to take me to Egypt, Ma. It wouldn’t be fair to him. I mean, it was very nice of him to offer, but . . . well, I just can’t accept.”
“Don’t know why,” said Pa after he’d swallowed a bite of whatever he’d forked up. “He�
��s got all the money in the world, you and he have always been great friends, and it would give you a chance to see the world. The good Lord knows you’ll never be able to see it any other way. We Gumms aren’t the traveling kind.”
What he meant, of course, was that we Gumms—and me, as a Majesty—were hardworking peons who couldn’t afford to do any traveling.
“I think your father’s right, Daisy,” said Vi after giving the matter some thought. “Harold is a good man, and he has your best interests at heart. Besides, I think he might well be right. His mother will probably agree, too. In fact, she’ll probably start telephoning here and bothering you about taking the trip with her son as soon as she hears about it. All you’re doing here is moping around and missing Billy. You need to expand your horizons.”
There had been a time in the recent past when I’d have joked that my horizons had expanded plenty enough already, thank you, but that wasn’t true any longer. In fact, my bottom hurt as I sat in the hard wooden dining room chair because it was no longer padded as it had once been.
“I think so, too,” said Ma. “You don’t get offers like that every day. You’d be throwing away a wonderful opportunity if you refuse. Besides, it would hurt his feelings.”
Hurt Harold’s feelings? I doubted it. Granted, his suggestion had been kind and generous, but . . . Vi’s words finally struck home. “Have I really been moping around?”
“Lord, yes, child! You don’t do anything from sunup to sundown but crawl around the house like a ghost. I was so pleased when you finally agreed to work for Missus P. again. I’d hoped it might help you feel better if you got back to work.”
Talk about guilt! I lowered my eyes and said penitently, “I guess I haven’t been pulling my weight around here recently, have I?” I knew my family needed the money I made. Had I been self-indulgent and childish for the last month and a half? Should I have shoved my grief aside and charged back to the spiritualist trade, even given my bad attitude, which had me wanting more to chuck my clients out of high windows than help them cope with their trivial problems through idiotic spiritualistic means?
“Nuts to that,” said Pa. “You’re hurting, and you have every right to hurt. Your Billy was a good man, and what happened to the two of you was a tragedy of the modern age. Anyhow, thanks to your generosity, we can manage fine for a few months without you working. But you’d be better off not working in, say, Cairo, than here, looking at the same old walls day and night for another six months or so.”
“You’re all against me!” I cried pettishly. “I don’t want to go to Egypt.” What I wanted was to sulk and put flowers on my husband’s grave every couple of days or so.
Very well, so perhaps I had been a little self-indulgent in recent weeks.
“We’re not against you, Daisy. We’re worried about you.”
When I looked at Ma, who’d spoken the words, I was appalled to see tears in her eyes. Oh, Lord, I was breaking my parents’ hearts. It didn’t seem fair that I had to think about their hearts when my own had been so recently plucked from my chest, stamped upon repeatedly, and dumped back inside my body, where it ached and throbbed constantly.
“Why don’t you go down and talk to Johnny yourself, Daisy?” suggested Pa. “He’s a good man. I don’t think he’ll steer you wrong.”
“Probably not,” I admitted reluctantly.
“Harold is such a dear man,” said Vi. “So unlike his sister.”
“And remember, too, that if you’re hoofing it all over Egypt with Harold, Missus Pinkerton can’t call and wail in your ear,” said Pa, grinning.
That’s what decided me.
* * * * *
I sat in a chair opposite Johnny Buckingham’s desk in his office at the Salvation Army. “I know you’re doing the right thing, Daisy,” said Johnny, smiling at me.
As for me, I was mopping up tears with my hankie. I swear to you, I never used to cry all the time. In those days, I was a blasted watering pot.
“Thanks, Johnny. Harold has been quite insistent, and even my folks and Vi think it’s a good idea.” I remembered the past Saturday, when Sam Rotondo had again come to dinner and played cards with Pa afterwards, and added grumpily, “And so does Sam.”
Johnny’s smile turned into a grin. “Billy told me he asked Sam to watch out for you after he passed, you know.”
Flabbergasted, I blurted out, “He did?”
“He did.”
“Good Lord. I overheard a conversation between Billy and Sam about a week or two before he died, and I heard him ask Sam to take care of me after he was gone.”
Johnny nodded. “It looks as if Sam is trying to do his best to follow Billy’s wishes.” He added with what I considered an unnecessarily sly glance, “If you’ll let him.”
“I don’t need anyone to look out for me,” I said irritably. Then I remembered the incident in the car, when Sam had found me blubbering on a stack of library books, and sighed. “But, yes, Sam has been . . . nice lately.” Boy, it hurt me to say that! But Sam and I had been enemies for so long, it was difficult to give up my animosity toward him.
“He is a nice person, Daisy. Give him a chance. He’ll be a good friend to you.”
“You think so, do you?”
“Sure. And it never hurts to have a copper on your side. Just ask Flossie. Heck, just ask me.”
I think I’ve already mentioned that Johnny’d had a terrible time after the war ended. “I thought it was the Salvation Army that saved you.”
“It was, but I was steered there by a good old Pasadena copper. George Halstead. We still keep in touch, George and me.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“For the most part, policemen join the force because they want to help people by taking crooks off the street. Sometimes you’ll find one who’s willing to go the extra mile—or two, in my case—to help someone who has problems. I thank God every day for sending George to me.”
I thought about all the people in my life and wondered if God had put them all there for a reason. It didn’t seem likely. After all, why should God pay that much attention to little old me? He had bigger problems to solve. I didn’t say so to Johnny, who claimed God had His eye on every single individual in the entire world. Sounded like a mighty big job to me.
“I guess I should start thanking Him for you and Harold.”
Johnny’s grin widened. “Wouldn’t hurt. I thank Him for you every day.”
His words so startled me, I jumped in my chair. “You do? Why, for heaven’s sake?” Apt phrasing, although I didn’t plan it that way.
“For connecting me with Flossie.”
“Aw. Thanks, Johnny.” It had been through my influence that Flossie and Johnny had got together, although I hadn’t originally planned that they should marry and have a family together. I was only trying to help Flossie at the time.
“Thank you, Daisy.”
And then he made me pray with him. He always did that. It embarrassed me a little, but I appreciated him a whole lot and didn’t argue.
* * * * *
I called Harold that evening without even bothering to shoo our nosiest party-line neighbor, Mrs. Barrow, off the line. I didn’t care if she eavesdropped on this conversation. Harold, by the way, lived in a lovely home in San Marino with his special friend Del. I’d done a séance there for them once. It had gone very well. I feared this telephone call wouldn’t.
“Have you talked it over with your parents?” he asked as soon as he knew it was me on the other end of the line.
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound overjoyed. Does that mean a yea or a nay?”
“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Harold. Billy always wanted to go to Egypt, but I . . . well, everybody in my family thinks I should take you up on your very kind offer, and so does Johnny Buckingham. Heck, even Sam thinks so.”
“It’s not a kind offer. It’s a gift to a dear friend in need. I’ve always wanted to see Egypt, too, and we’ll start off in England, where I ha
ve friends.”
Oh, boy. Just what I needed right then: a bunch of rich English friends of Harold’s to make me feel poor and inadequate. “You have friends in England?” My voice quivered slightly.
“Don’t worry. They’ll love you, and you’ll like them. Most of them, anyway. Piggy Fallowdale is a bit of a snob.”
I drew my head back and stared at the ‘phone on the wall. “He’s a snob, and his name is Piggy? I should think being called Piggy would cure anyone of his snobbishness.”
“The British are different that way. They give each other nicknames. You know, like Bertie Wooster in the Wodehouse books.”
“Oh. Yes. I read one of his books. Had a butler in it who was smarter than his boss.” I didn’t tell Harold, but I’d identified strongly with Jeeves, although I wasn’t the genius at getting people out of trouble that Jeeves was. Still, I must be smarter than most of my clients if only because I didn’t believe in the garbage I spewed at them.
There went my attitude again. I simply had to overcome my present state of impatience and irritability. According to my family, Johnny and Sam, the cure probably lay in Egypt. The notion didn’t appeal a whole lot.
“But that’s beside the point,” said Harold, sounding moderately impatient himself. “Are you going to go with me to Egypt or are you not?”
I hesitated and drew in a deep breath. Then I let it out in a whoosh and said, “Yes. I’m going with you to Egypt.”
“Bully, as our late President Roosevelt might have said! That’s wonderful, Daisy. We’ll have a glorious time. I promise you that you’ll feel one hundred percent better about life when we get back.”
I doubted that. “I still won’t have Billy,” I reminded him. Then, naturally, I felt guilty for throwing the corpse of my dead husband at Harold when all he was trying to do was be a good friend to me. “I’m sorry, Harold. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“Piffle. You did so mean it, but it doesn’t matter. You have every reason to feel bitter and resentful about life. But two or three months away from home, seeing and doing new things and meeting new people, will prove the cure. You’ll never get Billy back, but you might regain your spirit. So to speak.”
