by Alice Duncan
Everyone sort of wandered away from the couch, sat down willy-nilly, and stared off into space. Since we were already on the subject of weddings and nobody else seemed inclined to talk, I figured I might as well take advantage of the lull in the conversation. “Say, Sam, is there anywhere a couple can go to get married other than the city in which they live? I've heard people can get married in Reno.”
The question brought him out of his stone-statue pose, and he squinted suspiciously at me. Figured. “There's a residency requirement in Reno.”
“Oh.” That wouldn't work. Marianne didn't have anything else to do with herself except sit around and wait to be rescued, but George had a bookstore to run. Besides, it would be most improper for them to go to Reno alone together. If that's not a contradiction.
“Why?” he asked with more intensity than I deemed healthy for my own personal welfare. “Are your friends eager to tie the knot?”
“Yeah,” I said, striving to remain casual. “They don't want to make a big deal out of it.”
“Shucks, I think a girl's parents deserve to see their little girl into a new life with all the pomp and circumstance they can afford.”
I smiled at Pa. “Thanks. You and Ma sure did a wonderful job for Billy and me. And Vi.” I gave my aunt an especially bright smile, because she deserved it. “That cake was spectacular.”
Vi muttered a denial, but we all knew what I'd said was nothing but the truth.
I went on, “But Roger lost his mother to the 'flu, and Laura lost both her parents, and she doesn't have anyone else to give her away. I think they're worried about money, too.” I was going to have to pay a visit to Laura Berry pretty darned soon, if I could find her, just in case any of my family happened to run across her and ask her questions that would ultimately be embarrassing for me.
Sam didn't relax his squinty-eyed stare significantly. I could tell he still suspected me of dire dealings, but he answered my question. “A couple can go to Mexico to get married, but it's a two-day drive from here, and some states don't recognize Mexican marriages.”
“Mexico?” Good grief. I was absolutely certain neither George nor Marianne would care for that. “How come in books, couples can pop into a judge's office and tie the knot? Do you still have to go through all the preliminary rigmarole?”
“What rigmarole?” Sam narrowed his squint.
“You know. Licenses and that sort of thing.”
“A couple needs a marriage license, no matter where they marry. A judge's office is quicker than a preacher, I suppose.”
“Can somebody drive to another city and use its judge? I mean, you don't have to be married in the city in which you live, do you?”
“No.” Sam was sitting on the edge of his chair, frowning at me for all he was worth. “Are you sure you're only interested in these things for the sake of your friend?”
“Yes! Why else would I be asking?”
“I don't know.” He might as well have said “because I don't trust you,” to judge from the tone of his voice.
“Hmmm.” I needed to know more, but was afraid to continue my inquiries. Laura had worked as a reason to ask the first few questions, but Billy knew we weren't great friends; he'd be as suspicious of my motives as Sam if I kept prying. Darn it, I needed to know this stuff! In an effort to divert suspicion, I said, “Working on any interesting cases, Sam?” I gave him one of my most winning smiles.
It didn't win him. “Can't talk about it.”
Irked, I said, “How come you talk to Billy and Pa about your cases, but you won't tell me anything?”
“I never talk to them about my work until the cases are concluded,” he said sternly.
“That's true,” said Billy. “No matter how hard I pump him, he won't blab.”
Nuts. I didn't know what to say then. What I wanted to do was go back down to the bookstore, but I feared my departure would not only infuriate my husband, but induce Sam to follow me. If he discovered Marianne, the game was up and my goose was cooked, although what hiding a girl from her parents had to do with obstructing justice, I still couldn't figure out.
# # #
I know it sounds awful, but I sneaked out of the house that night after everyone else had gone to bed and I was sure Billy slept. I felt like an idiot, too, both for sneaking and for going to the bookstore at so late an hour. It was ridiculous, I told myself, to check up on Marianne and George just because I was troubled that they might be starting to like each other more than I believed was good for them. Or me.
Have I mentioned that the Model T didn't have headlights? Well, it didn't, and the sparsely spaced street lights didn't provide much illumination. I might as well have gathered a bunch of lightning bugs and used them to light my way, except that we didn't have lightning bugs in Pasadena.
As I squinted into the darkness, I mentally berated myself all the way to the store, wondering what would happen when I crashed the car into a tree or a fence. If I lived through the accident, would Billy ever forgive me? If I didn't, would he think I'd been sneaking out to a secret rendezvous with another man? He probably would, and his opinion would have been grossly unfair. Heck, I didn't have time to meet other men, even if I'd had the inclination, which I didn't.
I'd managed to work up quite a state of self-righteous indignation by the time I reached Colorado and Oakland, although my feathers smoothed out once I realized I'd been worrying myself unnecessarily--at least until the drive home.
For all my sneaking and worrying, I didn't learn a darned thing that night. The bookstore was dark, the cottage was dark, and I didn't have nerve enough to knock at the door. After the scolding I'd given Marianne that morning, she'd probably die of fright if she heard somebody knocking on the cottage door in the middle of the night.
It seems stupid now, but I walked clear around the block, searching for George's automobile. I knew, because I'd seen it, that he drove a dark-gray Cadillac. Since the night was pitch black, I had to do a lot of squinting, and I think I remembered every single one of the gruesome detective novels I'd read in the past five years. I didn't find a dark-gray Cadillac, although how I could have told if it was dark gray, black, or navy blue in the dark, I have no idea. On the other hand, I didn't get mugged by a heat-packing mugger, either, or slashed to death by a modern-day Jack the Ripper, so I guess my late-night adventure might have turned out worse.
After I'd walked around the block, I stuck my nose against the front window of the cottage and saw nothing but nothing. The weather was freezing and I was afraid my nose would stick to the glass, so I decided I'd snooped enough for one night. I wasn't comfortable, though. As much as I trusted George, the situation seemed mighty darned perilous.
It was with an uneasy feeling in my innards that I drove back to Marengo. The Ford didn't appreciate our evening out. It barely made it home. I think I prayed it home, actually, although I'm surprised God listened to me since I'd been telling so many fibs lately. Then again, I hadn't noticed God paying much attention to what we humans did on earth anyhow, so maybe the car would have made it home even without my prayers.
The house was quiet when I tiptoed up to the door. That state of affairs lasted until I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. I'd forgotten about Spike.
You'd have thought a crazed ax murderer was trying to sneak into the house to kill everybody. I scooped the pup up and clamped a hand around his long snoot, but the damage was done. Lights flared on all over the house, and Billy called out in a shaky voice, “Daisy? Daisy, where the heck are you?”
Doggone it! Literally. “Darn you, Spike,” I muttered, knowing it wasn't his fault. He was only doing his job--a state of affairs that sounded a lot like my own, actually. I called out, “It's okay, Billy. It's only me. I . . . uh . . . went out for a little walk because I couldn't sleep.”
Okay, I suppose it was fortunate that God didn't pay too much attention to us poor human creatures here on earth. If He were more attentive, he'd probably have struck me dead with a li
ghtning bolt a year or so before that evening's pack of lies.
“A walk?” Pa stumbled down the hall and into the living room, rubbing his eyes, his bathrobe flapping. “Daisy, are you nuts?”
“I wouldn't be surprised.” With a sigh, I sagged against the door frame. “Sorry for the uproar, Pa. I forgot about Spike.” Thinking fast, I fumbled to come up with some way to substantiate my latest lie. “I . . . uh . . . should have taken him with me, I guess.”
Pa looked at me strangely, but only said, “I guess.”
“Is everything all right?” Ma appeared at Pa's side, looking bewildered and sleepy-eyed. She had to get up early in the morning and go to work, and I felt so guilty, I darned near blurted out the truth. Since the truth would probably be even harder on my family than a pack of lies, I didn't.
“Everything's okay, Ma. I'm really sorry.”
“Daisy!” Billy. Roaring. “Daisy, what are you up to now?”
Oh, Lord, I didn't want Billy to have to get up and get himself to his wheelchair. Moving around was agony for the poor man. My guilt soared like the mercury in a thermometer on one of our hot Pasadena summer days. “I'd better get to Billy,” I told my parents apologetically. “I'm awfully sorry for waking you up.”
Pa yawned. “That's okay, Daisy-Belle.”
As I hurried toward our bedroom, I said over my shoulder, “It was Spike. I forgot he was such a good watchdog.”
“Good-night, dear,” said Ma. I'm sure she was still confused. I relied upon Pa to explain everything to her.
It wasn't until I entered the bedroom that I realized I still held Spike. He didn't mind. His tail was wagging up a storm.
“What the hell are you up to, Daisy?”
Because I didn't want to blind him, I turned on the small lap on the dresser. My heart crunched when I saw him sitting up in bed, and I rushed to his side.
Dropping Spike on the bedspread, I hugged Billy gently. “I'm so sorry, Billy. I didn't mean to wake the whole house. I forgot Spike was such a terror.”
He wasn't acting too terrible at the moment. After an initial moment of confusion, he liked the soft covers and started burrowing around in them. Ignoring the puppy, Billy scowled at me. “What's going on, Daisy? I don't believe that trash about going for a walk.”
“But I did!” I couldn't come up with an ounce of indignation to color my statement. It was kind of the truth. I had walked around the block that night; it just hadn't been our block. “See? Feel my hands.”
I put a hand on Billy's cheek, which was another bad mistake, since my hands were cold. He jumped, which made his muscles tense, which made him cry out. I really hated myself in that instant.
“Oh, Billy, I'm so sorry!”
“Damn it, Daisy,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
I burst into tears. I guess the strain of the past several days had gotten to me. Sinking onto his lap, I repeated, “I'm so sorry, Billy. I'm so sorry.”
He gave one of his shallow sighs and put his arm around me. “I can't stand this, Daisy.”
Sniffling pathetically, I said, “You can't stand what?”
“Being lied to.”
I cried harder. In between sobs, I said, “I'm not lying to you, Billy.”
“Right.”
Okay, here's the thing: I was lying to him, but not in the way he thought. But I didn't dare tell him the truth about Marianne Wagner, because I was afraid he'd tell Sam, and then I'd be in truly deep water. But more than that, I didn't want Marianne to have to go back to her father's house. Her father was a terrible man, and I honestly believed I was doing a good deed in continuing to hide her from him. It was my guilt that was turning all my good intentions inside out.
I tried hard to stop crying. “It's the truth, Billy. I would never, ever lie to you.” About anything important to you. Naturally, I didn't add that part, since he wouldn't have understood, and it would have made things even more confusing, if that was possible.
Another small, raspy sigh issued from his ruined lungs. He kept his arm around me, and I wiped my eyes on the sheet. I couldn't see Spike any longer. Without getting up, I asked, “Where's the dog?”
“Huh?” Billy's eyes had been closed, but he opened them at my questions. “Spike? Hey, Spike, where are you?”
We both saw a wiggle under the bedspread, and Billy chuckled softly. He used to have a hearty, loud laugh. “I think he's just found my foot. He's nibbling on my big toe.”
“Good grief.” I lifted the counterpane and peeked under it. Sure enough, there was Spike, tail wagging madly, chewing on the lump that was Billy's left big toe. “I'll take him outside to piddle once more.”
“Bring him back. It might be nice to have him in bed with us.”
Billy sounded so wistful, I darned near started blubbering again. If this Marianne Wagner situation didn't resolve itself pretty soon, I didn't know what I'd do, although I feared for my sanity--not to mention that of my family.
I took Spike out the back door and let him snoop around for awhile as I sat on the back porch steps and shivered. It was no more than I deserved.
When I got back indoors, Billy was standing by the dresser, putting a bottle away. I stopped at the door, holding Spike, and bit my lip, telling myself to remember what Dr. Benjamin had said. An addiction to drugs was a small price to pay for freedom from pain. I wanted to know if that was the bottle Dr. Benjamin had given me. I wanted to know if he'd picked up another bottle somewhere. I wanted to know if he was seeing a doctor other than Dr. Benjamin. I'd heard that drug addicts were awfully clever when it came to securing their poison.
Instead of asking him any of those questions, I went over and kissed him, hoping my kiss conveyed even half the love I felt for him. Then I threw Spike onto the bed, thrilling him and making Billy chuckle again, changed into my nightgown, and crawled into bed. I think I went to sleep before Spike, who was a championship sleeper.
# # #
I spent the entirety of the following morning with my husband. Anxiety gnawed at my insides, and I had to suppress the urge to telephone Grenville's Books approximately seven hundred and fifty times, but Billy deserved a wife, and I was it. He, Pa and I decided to walk to the dry goods store on the corner of Marengo and Bellevue to buy some dried pea beans which, according to Pa, he was going to make into authentic Boston baked beans. In order to do it properly, he claimed, we'd have to make a detour to the butcher's shop for some salt pork. Since I'm game for trying anything at least once, I agreed to this scheme.
“What do you know about fixing Boston baked beans, Pa?” Billy wanted to know.
So did I. “Yeah, Pa, what's going on with this sudden urge to cook? Do you know something about Aunt Vi that we don't?”
He looked so horrified, both Billy and I laughed. “Good gosh, no!” Slapping a hand on his chest, he said, “Don't scare me like that, Daisy. I have a weak heart, remember.”
That was supposed to be funny, so I laughed. The truth was that the thought of Pa having another heart attack scared the living daylights out of me.
Billy saved the situation. “I didn't know you liked to cook, Pa.”
“I don't, but I remember eating my aunt Grace's baked beans when I was a kid, and I found this recipe in one of last year's Good Housekeeping magazines.” He flapped a folded periodical at us. “Just thought I'd give 'em a try. They're good with sausages or frankfurters.”
I covered Spike's ears. “Don't listen to him, Spike.” The puppy had been frolicking at our feet, trying to persuade us to take him with us. As much as I hated to disappoint the little fellow, I didn't think a trip to the butcher's shop would be a good idea for a piggy little puppy. He licked my hand.
Billy grinned at me and said to pa, “Sounds good to me.”
“My Massachusetts relatives still eat Boston baked beans every Saturday night. It's tradition.”
“I thought they lived in Auburn,” said I, handing Billy his overcoat. It was a struggle for him to get it on, because it was long, but the weath
er had taken a downturn, and his legs hurt in cold weather even worse than they normally did. I wasn't going to take a chance on him catching a chill, either. Dr. Benjamin's warnings about pneumonia and other lung ailments were clear in my mind.
Pa shrugged. “Auburn's close to Boston.”
“Ah.”
“It might be fun to see the eastern states someday,” said Billy. It was the most optimistic comment to come from that quarter in, literally, months.
“Yes, it would,” I agreed. “Isn't Sam from back east?” I knew he was. I was only making conversation.
Billy nodded. “New York.”
“Massachusetts is better,” said Pa with conviction.
Billy and I exchanged a glance and then we both laughed.
We used the back-door wheelchair ramp, then I pushed Billy down the long drive to the sidewalk in front of the house. Our across-the-street neighbor, Mrs. Killebrew, waved a bouquet of chrysanthemums at us. “Morning, Daisy! Mr. Majesty. Mr. Gumm. I'll bring you a bouquet when you get back home.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Killebrew. The flowers are gorgeous.” That pleased her. It pleased me, too, since I love to have flowers in the house.
It was, all in all, an auspicious beginning to our day. I made Billy put a light-weight rug over his legs, since I didn't want any part of him to get chilled, and we all three strolled along, chatting companionably.
“The only thing I didn't like when I was back east,” said Billy after contemplating the weather for a bit, “was clam chowder.”
“Where'd you eat it?” Pa demanded. “If you ate it in New York, you didn't eat the real stuff.”
“I can't remember. Why? What's the difference between New York clam chowder and everybody else's?”
“They put tomatoes in it in New York. Call it Manhattan clam chowder, but it's no kind of clam chowder, if you ask me,” Pa said in a disgusted voice, with a shudder to match.
“Oh.” Gee, I liked tomatoes. “Er, tomatoes don't go well with clams?”
“No.” Pa was as positive as I'd ever heard him.
“As far as I'm concerned,” Billy said, “it's the clams that don't go with the tomatoes. Clams don't go with anything that I care to eat.”
