Benedict Hall

by Cate Campbell

  Frank recalled, as he walked out into the salt-scented wind, how the summer sun had seared the Montana fields, even in June, drying his mother’s lawn and flowers, parching the wheat and hayfields. Here the sun was soft, filtered through rain-laden clouds that puffed over the mountains before spreading themselves thin above the waters of Puget Sound. Roses and daisies bloomed in pots and beds. Rhododendrons grew wild in every open space, struggling toward the light from thickets of evergreen shrubs. There was a restrained beauty about all of it, a gentleness that mocked his black mood.

  He rehearsed what he would say as he swung up, one-handed, into the streetcar. He meant to be courteous, but firm. Perhaps an apology was more than Benedict would countenance, but a retraction was necessary. Frank wanted his job back, and he thought Bill Boeing would keep it for him, at least for a time. The plans for the GAX triplane were in full swing, and he needed every engineer on his staff. Frank had been the point man for the project. No one understood the requirements of mounting cannon and machine guns better than he did.

  Surely Benedict could be reminded they were war comrades. They had been over there longer than other Americans. They had known what it was to be outsiders in the King’s army, as well as to be under fire.

  All these thoughts tumbled through his brain as he walked up Aloha and turned left on Fourteenth. He hesitated only a moment on the sidewalk outside Benedict Hall. Margot should have left early for her hospital rounds. Dickson and his elder son were no doubt already at their office. Preston probably set his own hours at the Times. He might catch him at home.

  Frank straightened his jacket and hat before going up the path and taking the porch steps two at a time. He lifted the knocker and let it fall twice. The confident sound of brass on brass strengthened his determination.

  Blake and Hattie looked at each other in surprise at the sound of the door. Blake set down the tray of cups he had been about to carry back to the dining room sideboard. “Everyone’s gone, aren’t they?” he asked.

  “Everybody,” Hattie said. “Mrs. Edith and Mrs. Ramona went shopping. Leona went to the hospital with Miss Margot, to sit with Loena.” She pulled the stopper in the sink, and paddled the water with her hand to disperse the soapsuds. “Loena’ll be home in a week, Miss Margot says. Praise the Lord.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Blake reached for his jacket, and shrugged into it. “Well. I’ll see who it is.” He moved down the corridor with a dignified step, allowing this unexpected visitor to wait a bit as a sign of the family’s importance.

  A wave of compunction swept him when he saw that it was Frank Parrish waiting on the porch, his hat in his hand, sunlight glinting on the faint gray streaks in his black hair. “Major Parrish,” Blake said, trying to hide his surprise. “Good morning.”

  Blake had read Mr. Preston’s column, but it seemed no one else had. Miss Margot would have been furious, so he had refrained from pointing it out to her. She had enough to worry about at the moment. Mr. Dickson would have remonstrated with his son for exposing a private conflict to public scrutiny, but he couldn’t have undone the damage. It had seemed best to let it go unremarked.

  Frank Parrish looked strained, but he spoke with his usual reserved courtesy. “Good morning, Blake. I’m sorry I didn’t telephone ahead. I wonder if Preston is available?”

  Blake stepped back, opening the door wide. “Please, come in, Major. Mr. Preston left early today—in fact, all the family is out—but let Hattie give you a cup of coffee. Have you breakfasted?”

  Parrish hesitated on the doorstep, pressing his hat against his thigh.

  “Please do come in,” Blake said. “Dr. Margot would want us to make you feel at home.”

  Parrish gave a nod, and stepped past him into the hall. Blake shut the door, and held out his hand to indicate Parrish should go into the dining room.

  “Nice of you, Blake,” Parrish said. “But if everyone’s gone—”

  Blake considered for a moment. “Do you mind the kitchen, then?” he said. “I could use a cup of coffee myself.”

  He saw the relief on Parrish’s face, and when they had made their way into the kitchen, he seemed more at ease. As Blake busied himself with the percolator, Parrish offered, “We always ate in the kitchen at home.”

  Blake glanced over his shoulder. “Home is Montana, I recall?”

  Parrish nodded. “Missoula.”

  The coffee began to perk, filling the sunny kitchen with its cheerful bubble. Blake pulled out a chair for Parrish, and sat in one himself. “You don’t plan on going back?”

  Parrish sat down. He was silent for a moment, and Blake wondered if perhaps he didn’t want to converse with a servant. It was a little out of the ordinary, having a guest in the kitchen, especially with the family away. But he guessed Parrish had come to tackle Mr. Preston about the column. The major’s mouth was set in a hard line, and he looked as if he had not slept well.

  At length, he answered. “It’s a ranch,” he said. “Cattle and horses. Wheat.” He lifted the remnant of his arm in explanation, and raised his eyes to meet Blake’s.

  Blake pursed his lips. “Surely,” he said gently, “there are things you could do. Help you could give your family.”

  “I wish I could. The thing is—” His mouth twisted. “The damned arm is worse than useless, Blake. I can’t bear anything to touch it. Even the shirt sleeve hurts.”

  “Is that a problem in your work, then?”

  Parrish gave a short, bitter laugh. “Not anymore.”

  Blake got up to pour the coffee, and brought two cups back to the table. He set one in front of Parrish. “What’s happened?”

  Parrish drew a breath, and released it in a rush. “Lost my job.” He said it swiftly, as if to get it over with, as if the words themselves caused pain.

  Blake’s heart ached with shame. This was why Preston had written the column. The war had not changed the youngest Benedict at all, except perhaps to make him more wily, more subtle. More dangerous than before. He said heavily, “I’m so sorry, Major. That’s bad luck.”

  Parrish, with his cup halfway to his lips, said, “Bad luck. Yes.”

  Blake sat back in his chair, holding his cup, watching the swirl of steam rise from it. What could he say? It was not for him, a servant, to offer counsel.

  Frank watched the old Negro’s face. It was odd to be sitting here, in this gleaming kitchen, with someone like Blake. He experienced an irrational urge to tell him everything. He wouldn’t, of course. He had been raised to keep his feelings to himself. Even at dinner with Margot he had been constrained by his sense that to reveal anything of his feelings was to show weakness. And he had no idea how people normally dealt with servants.

  The hired men at home were like family—they slept in the bunkhouse, or at least Danny Jones had, before he died in France—but they ate with the family, attended church with the family, went along with them to weddings and dances and picnics.

  Blake was different from the hired men Frank had known. There was something elegant about him. Something refined and appealing.

  When Blake looked up from his coffee cup, the expression on his face was one of sympathy and some other, more complicated emotion. Frank had the fleeting thought that Blake looked ashamed. But that was foolish, of course. What would he have to feel shame over?

  “Major Parrish.” Blake’s deep voice resonated in the high-ceilinged kitchen. “I’m very sorry about your post at Boeing. I was under the impression things were going well there.”

  Frank shrugged. “Not well enough, it seems.” Again he felt that absurd urge to tell this kindly old man everything—about his dinner with Margot, his confusion, the damned flowers, the insult Preston Benedict had thrown at his sister. Of course he couldn’t do that. Blake was no doubt as loyal to Preston as he was to Margot and the rest of the Benedicts.

  And Frank didn’t want Preston’s words to reach Margot’s ears. It could only hurt her to hear what her brother had said.

  He looked away, feari
ng his weakness would show in his eyes. He fixed his gaze on the large aluminum clock hanging on the kitchen wall. “I’ll find another position.”

  “Of course you will. I’m sure Mr. Dickson would be happy to help.”

  Frank wasn’t at all sure that was true. Unless he could set things straight with Preston Benedict, he feared his friendship with the family would be at an end.

  He drained the coffee cup, and set it on the table. He stood up, automatically smoothing his left sleeve into the pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for the coffee, Blake. I’ll let you get on with your day.”

  Blake stood, too. “Before you go—could I ask you something, Major?”

  “Of course.” Frank stood, his hand on the back of the chair, as Blake took both their cups to the counter.

  Blake turned to face him. “There was a man here. A man who was with Mr. Preston in the war. I wondered if you might know him.”

  “You mean Carter.”

  “So you do know him.”

  “Not well. He was Preston’s batman. And I saw him when I—that is, I saw him the other day. With Preston.”

  Blake nodded. “He was here the other night, very late. He said he needed money.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows. “He asked you for money?”

  “He wanted me to wake Mr. Preston. Naturally, I refused—it was after midnight, and the family was asleep.”

  “Why should Preston give him money?”

  “This Carter said he had done some work, and needed to be paid. I gave him a meal, and I offered him what money I had if he would tell me what the work was.” Distress pulled at his mouth and creased his forehead. “He said Mr. Preston paid him to put a word in certain ears. A rumor.”

  “Did he tell you what it was?”

  “He did.” Blake looked grave. “It was about Dr. Margot. I didn’t tell her, because I knew how it would hurt. I don’t like to repeat it, and I don’t think it will come to anything, but—I’ve been wondering if this Carter is a dangerous man. We have ladies in the house. I have to think of their safety.”

  Frank considered this. He didn’t want to add to his troubles with Preston, but Blake was right. There were other people in Benedict Hall to consider. He said carefully, “If the Benedict ladies were part of my family, I wouldn’t want Carter around them. He—”

  The telephone rang in the hall, interrupting him. Blake excused himself, and went to answer it. Frank followed, turning away from the hall table where Blake was speaking into the receiver. He heard his name as he walked to the coatrack and plucked his Stetson from its hook. He was just settling the hat on his head when Blake said, “That was Dr. Benedict. I’m going to fetch her from the hospital for a house call. She wants me to offer you a ride, since I’ll have the car out.”

  An automatic refusal rose to Frank’s lips, but he didn’t speak it. He couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to see her again. She wouldn’t have time, he supposed, for a meal, but he could ask. Try one more time. “Thanks,” he finally said to Blake. “Awfully nice of you. Of both of you.”

  Margot sat beside Frank in the back of the Essex, first tossing in her medical bag. She said, “It’s good to see you, Frank. I’m sorry about the other day. You could see—”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Good to see you, too.”

  And it was. He had forgotten how dark her eyes were, how much he liked the firm line of her jaw and the way her short hair brushed her cheeks. Her long calves looked elegant beneath her short skirt.

  She said, “I need to go to Thea’s. Her husband’s taken a turn for the worse, and she got a neighbor to call me at the hospital. Their house is in West Seattle, and the trolley doesn’t reach. Blake, we can drop Frank at Boeing on our way.”

  Frank’s eyes met Blake’s in the mirror. “Well,” Frank said. “Drop me anywhere convenient. Not Boeing.”

  Margot turned to him in surprise. “You’re not working today?”

  He made himself meet her gaze. “I lost my job.”

  “No! But I thought—” She stopped, and put out her hand to him. Her fingers were firm and strong through her gloves, and before he could think better of it, he took her hand and held it. It felt good to touch her, and to be touched, even through the thin leather of her gloves.

  “Afraid so,” he said. “Two days ago.”

  “I’m so sorry, Frank. You must be terribly disappointed.”

  “I liked the work,” he said.

  She was shaking her head and frowning. “I don’t understand. I know Father spoke to Bill Boeing just last week. He said everything was going well. He was grateful to have you.”

  Frank was searching for a way to explain when Blake said, over his shoulder, “Mr. Preston printed something unpleasant about Major Parrish in his column.”

  Margot’s hand tightened on Frank’s. “What was it? Why would he do that?”

  Frank had to look away from her intense gaze, out to the glistening waters of Elliott Bay beyond the pier. “We had a disagreement.” He saw they had reached Cherry. “Here will be fine, Blake. Thank you.”

  Blake pulled the car to the curb, and Frank released Margot to put his hand on the door.

  “Wait,” she commanded. “Blake, what’s this about? What’s Preston done?”

  The edge in her voice, the quick fury, made Frank look at her again. She was leaning forward, tension in every line of her body.

  “Margot, I don’t—” Frank began.

  She cast him a swift look, and he saw in an instant that she knew what her brother was. She understood, perhaps better than he did. There was no need to explain.

  He opened the car door. “You have a patient waiting,” he said. “Let’s talk soon.” Before she could object, he stepped out of the car, only bending to say briefly, “Thanks for the lift, Blake.”

  Margot said, “Come to the house tonight, Frank.”

  “I don’t think that’s best.” And then, fearing she would misunderstand, he said, “Perhaps another time.” But as he closed the door and the car pulled away, he doubted there would be another time. He stood watching, lifting his hand, as the Essex pulled away.

  “Blake,” Margot said. “What did Preston write about Frank?”

  “It wasn’t good,” Blake said heavily. He drove with his usual deliberate speed. “He accused him of brawling in the street. He didn’t use Major Parrish’s name, but I have a good idea there’s no other amputee engineer working at the Boeing Airplane Company.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “All of this happened in the middle of Loena’s illness, Dr. Margot. It was my judgment that you had more pressing concerns.”

  “But why would Boeing fire Frank over one of Preston’s silly columns?”

  “Mr. Dickson would know more, but I suspect there’s pressure from the city government. I’ve heard your father say that the mayor and the council have their doubts about Boeing using Lake Union to land the seaplanes. There was that crash, you remember. In the lake.”

  “So Preston did this on purpose. But why?”

  Blake only shook his head, and Margot leaned back in weary frustration. “I like him, Blake. Frank, I mean.”

  “I like him, too, Dr. Margot.”

  “Do you think Preston did it just to hurt me?”

  Blake hesitated before he said, slowly, and in a voice rough with sorrow, “I’m not sure Mr. Preston needs a reason.”

  Thea’s house was small and dingy, with a flat roof and a neglected patch of lawn in front. The next-door neighbor was pushing a mower around his own yard, and he looked up curiously when the Essex pulled up and parked. When Margot went in, calling out to Thea that she had arrived, she was struck by how spare everything was. A brown divan rested beneath the curtained front window, with a matching armchair drawn up before an empty fireplace. The kitchen opened to the right, a narrow, dark room with a wooden table and two chairs. There seemed to be only one bedroom at the end of a short hallway. Margot felt a twinge, thinking of the beauty
and space of Benedict Hall compared with the meanness of the Reynolds home, to say nothing of the Essex waiting in the street outside. It occurred to her for the first time that she had no idea how Thea got to work.

  Thea emerged from the bedroom, her face haggard, her graying hair straggling from its pins. “Margot, thank you for coming. I’m so sorry about the office—”

  “Nonsense. Where’s Norman?” Margot said.

  “He couldn’t get out of bed this morning. His breathing is so bad.”

  “Let’s have a look at him.” Margot took off her gloves as she followed Thea down the short hall and into the bedroom.

  Here a small window had been opened to the fresh air, and dimity curtains billowed slightly in the breeze. A lamp beside the bed burned weakly, shedding just enough light so Margot could see. An emesis basin and a small stack of towels rested beside the lamp, along with a pitcher and a glass.

  Norman Reynolds lay propped on pillows, but his head was pulled back as he struggled for breath. His lips were blue, and when she picked up his hands, the nails were gray. Despite the open window, the odor of necrotic flesh overpowered the scents of salt air and newly mown grass.

  She said quietly, “Good morning, Norman.”

  Thea said, “It’s Dr. Benedict, Norman.” Her husband’s closed eyelids flickered.

  Margot opened the clasps of her bag, and took out her stethoscope and a pair of rubber gloves. She pulled on the gloves, then affixed the earpieces. Thea opened Norman’s flannel nightshirt, and Margot bent to press the chestpiece to his skin. She was interrupted by a spasm of his coughing, while Thea pressed a towel to his lips. When she tried again, she found that it was, as Thea had already surmised, very bad. Norman’s lungs bubbled as if he were trying to breathe thick liquid through a straw. She imagined the seared tissue struggling to flex, to open and close. There was little she could do beyond another dose of potassium iodide.