I laid my hands flat on the table and shut my eyes. The illustration from Poems of Our Land rose instantly in my mind: the skinny beadsman sitting on the steps, his white hair flowing, breath rising like incense. I took up where Nora had left off, reciting all the way to the sixth stanza, the one about the rituals girls must practise in order to dream about romance.
As we got up from the table after dinner the corporal made an attempt at a formal bow. “May your dreams be sweet tonight, ladies.”
Beth laughed. It was clear the corporal liked her, but the way he was looking at her made me melancholy. My own loneliness and the news of Howlett’s death had cooled the warmth of the wine. It was time for bed.
Before I left the dining room, however, Nora touched my arm. “You of all people must dream tonight, dear Agnes. It’s your name day after all.” She smiled, but her sister, who was standing beside her, looked embarrassed. The poem was about young virgins, after all.
That night, however, I did dream. The face that came to me was unexpected. It did not belong to my father or to poor dead William Howlett. I was no longer aboard ship but back in Montreal at the museum, surrounded by shelves of specimen bottles. This was the old museum I realized even as I was dreaming, before the fire had demolished it. Miraculously everything was intact. The bones were whole and white. The bottles were in one piece, standing upright in rows. Even my favourite specimen, the Howlett Heart, was there, sitting on the corner of my desk where I used to keep it. And there too was Jakob Hertzlich.
I must have tried to speak because I was awakened by my own moan. I lay still for several seconds, remembering the dream and thinking of blond Nora at dinner insisting that I have a vision. It must have been the wine affecting my fragile nerves, I thought, swinging myself upright and reaching for a sweater. My eyes moved around the cabin, taking in details as consciousness returned — the pale green walls, the fat pipe curving along the ceiling, the fogged porthole. I sighed and lay back on the bunk. Here I was at sea, three thousand miles from home, and whom should I find but Jakob Hertzlich?
31
JANUARY 30, 1919
The morning after I arrived in Montreal I took a train to St. Andrews East. Between ship and rail I had been in perpetual motion for a week and a half. I was looking forward to stopping. From outside the Priory looked as it had when I had left, if perhaps a little shabbier. When I walked in, however, it was warm and welcoming.
George came from the kitchen. “It’s you!” she said.
I hadn’t told her I was coming. I hadn’t known myself that I would board the train to see her first thing. Since going overseas I seemed to be living on impulse, following instinct rather than reason. I walked up to her and gave her a prolonged hug. The embrace wasn’t entirely comfortable. I had trapped her arms with my own, which she didn’t appreciate. But as she backed away from me I could see that she was happy.
I walked into the parlour. The room was bathed in late-January sunshine. Outside the temperature was still below zero, but in here there was comfort. George had taken the curtains off the windows. Light was pouring in, making the room seem large and airy. She had taken away my grandmother’s rugs, exposing the floorboards, which she’d scrubbed and polished. The whole house seemed to have been scoured from top to bottom and all its contents sorted. The material accumulation of three generations of White family life lay in bags and boxes waiting for my permission to be delivered to needy families in the parish.
When I told her how wonderful the place looked she frowned. “I didn’t do it for you,” she said archly. “Or at least,” she added, realizing how mean she sounded, “it was only indirectly for your benefit. I thought you wouldn’t be home for months.”
IN THE BAY WINDOW, three jars of paperwhites were sitting, their stems waving like long green fingers.
“That smell,” I said, inhaling. “It’s like springtime.”
“Narcissus,” she said. “Some people can’t abide them but I’m partial to them. They’re the only flower that blooms this early in the year.”
The narcissus bulbs were fat and dark, scabbing slightly in the water and providing a startling contrast to the graceful shoots and flowers. “I did not plant them just for me, although they do cheer me up. They were also motivated by Jaime MacDonnell.”
“Jaime MacDonnell?” The only Jaime MacDonnell I knew was a boy, son of the richest man in St. Andrews East, who happened to live two doors down from the Priory. For a crazy moment I pictured Miss Skerry going a-courting at the MacDonnell house, narcissus blooms in hand.
“He has come by here several times in your absence.”
“He’s all of seventeen!” I said, by this time completely baffled.
“Twenty-four, actually. He fought in Flanders but now he’s home and recently married to a lovely girl from Lachute. A French one,” she added as if this made things clearer.
“And why, may I ask, is he visiting you?”
George Skerry laughed and gave me a look as if to say that some people appreciated her, even if I did not. “It was really you he came to see, but you were away so he spoke to me instead. He has been living at his parents’ home, but the wife, whose name is France, is pregnant now and they want a place of their own.”
“And they’re interested in the Priory?”
Miss Skerry did not respond at once. “You would like France,” she said, looking out the window. “She’s sweet but also practical. What is that French expression? Terre à terre. I expect she’ll make a first-rate mother. She is having quite a time with her mother-in-law.”
“She told you this?”
“She comes over too,” said Miss Skerry. “We have both been in need of company.”
“Of course,” I said, for the first time picturing how hard it must have been for Miss Skerry when I set off for Europe immediately after Laure’s death. “I wasn’t here to help you, George. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You had to make that journey.”
I nodded. I hadn’t said a word yet about my father, nor had Miss Skerry asked. It would all come out soon enough. “What did you tell Jaime MacDonnell?”
She took off her glasses and held them up to the light, checking for smudges. “I said that you were very attached to the place,” she said, “and that you probably would not want to part with it.”
This was only partly true. The Priory held many memories. It was where my mother had died and where Laure and I had spent the bulk of our childhood. But it was also a terrible drain on my finances and my time. My home was in Montreal now. There was nothing but nostalgia and my sister’s grave to keep me here.
Before I could put any of this into words Miss Skerry resumed her story. “This only seemed to make Jaime MacDonnell more determined. He is like his father, Agnes. When he gets something in his head nothing on this earth will stop him. His wife is absolutely in love with the place.”
There was something sly in Miss Skerry’s manner. I had known her long enough to recognize when she was withholding a piece of news. “What are you saying, George?” I asked. “What exactly have you done?”
“Me?” said Miss Skerry, hooking her glasses behind her ears and turning to me with a look of exaggerated innocence. “I’m only the messenger, Agnes.”
A bit more prodding eventually produced it. Jaime MacDonnell and his wife had made a handsome offer on the house. The amount Miss Skerry quoted was enough for me to retire comfortably and secure Miss Skerry’s old age. My mind was all but made up, but I was afraid of being impulsive, so I asked what she would do in my shoes.
“What a question,” she laughed. “I can’t imagine what your shoes are like and I wouldn’t presume to try them on. But I can tell you one thing. When opportunity knocks it’s generally a good idea to open the door.”
AFTER SHE HAD FED me a lunch of soup and fresh bread she suggested that we take a walk. But first she cut half a dozen narcissus blooms, wrapped them in newspaper, and put them in her satchel. I knew better than to as
k what she was up to.
The section of the North River that flows in front of the Priory is not particularly wide, but the current is sufficiently strong that it does not freeze. Today great patches of blue were visible through the snow. The sun had been beating down so fiercely that some of the ice cover near the banks had begun to break off in chunks. It was by the river that I told George about the meeting with Sir William and about my reunion with my father in Calais. She was the first person I had told and the story came out awkwardly. I was glad we were outside. It seemed right as well to be telling this to her in wintertime in St. Andrews East — the same season and place in which my father had last lived with me. This time it was George who encircled me with her arms, clumsily because of her coat and mittens. She did not offer advice or try to cheer me up. She let me tell the story, and she held me.
We walked down the main road after that in the direction of Christ Church, which my great grandfather had founded nearly a century before. The Priory hadn’t been sold yet and I was beginning to view it nostalgically as a place left behind. George led me down the street abutting the church and then stopped. Someone had dug a little path through the snowbank to the churchyard in back, which was surprisingly well-trodden and packed.
“Come then,” she said, hoisting her skirts and stepping across the ditch. I was reminded of the year I turned thirteen when George Skerry first entered my life. She had hoisted her skirts in exactly the same way on our treks through the woods in search of microscope specimens. My eyes brimmed again. I was going soft with age and the funny thing was I didn’t mind at all.
We climbed over the log fence, which was easy to do as it was half-sunk in snow, and entered the church’s property. By this time I had figured out what my old friend was up to and wasn’t surprised when she knelt down in the snow and opened her satchel. There were other offerings — a sprig of holly and the bright petals of a frozen amaryllis. On top of these she laid the sweet-smelling narcissus.
“I loved Laure,” she said simply. “Your grandmother too.”
The churchyard was lovely. I had only ever come here for funerals, never to sit, but now I had a chance to appreciate its beauty. It was sheltered by pine trees in whose branches chickadees had gathered. The snow was deep and clean, unmarred by any footprints but our own. We sat in silence for several minutes, thinking of my sister, buried under her cross. Her name — Laure Frances Stewart White — was chiselled in the stone.
“When I die,” I said, “I shall be buried here.” In my mind’s eye I saw the stone. For the first time in my life I accepted the fact that it would bear the name of my grandmother, the brave woman who had loved and raised me.
As we walked homeward I recounted my dream.
“You did it!” George cried, startling me. “You actually conjured him on your name day! Well that is something, Agnes White.”
I had expected her to say it was nonsense, but she did nothing of the sort. She started laughing, and with such unrestrained and simple mirth that soon I was laughing too.
32
FEBRUARY 1, 1919
A blister was forming on my right heel. I could feel it rubbing against my boot with every step I took. My stockings were wet, that was the problem. It was the second day of a thaw and the gutters were rushing with water. I had been out since early morning, walking the entire length of St. Denis Street, stopping at just about every doorway from Dorchester north to Mount Royal Boulevard.
I paused on the doorstep of a tall, grey, stone apartment building and unbuckled my boot to check the damage. This was the fifteenth rooming house I had visited. Tea was in order, I promised myself, ringing for the concierge. I was parched. If this one proved as futile as all the others I would stop. My heel was beginning to throb.
An old man in suspenders came to the door and I repeated the name I had been saying to concierges on St. Denis Street all morning. It was a hard one for French speakers, who struggled with the aspirated “H.” I was expecting another negative response but the old man gave a little cry. “Urts-ligue. Mais bien sûr. C’est un Anglais, n’est-ce pas?” He looked me over and said he couldn’t let a woman up the stairs.
I was dressed that day in an old coat and boots that wouldn’t last another year. In a month I would turn fifty. Clearly the reputation of the establishment was not in peril. “I have to see him,” I said in my best French. “It is urgent.” He relented and told me the room number.
Tracking down Jakob Hertzlich had not been easy. He had last been spotted at McGill, not long after I left for England. He had dropped in to visit Dr. Mastro, who reported that he looked dreadful, rake-thin and more unkempt than ever. He had mentioned something about renting rooms on St. Denis Street and talked about moving permanently to England.
Dr. Mastro had told me this the previous afternoon. He had also passed along news about Sir William Howlett. Apparently he had left instructions in his will that his body was to be autopsied, the brain donated to an institution of higher learning. Hopes had been raised in Montreal that that institution might be McGill University. They were dashed when the announcement came that the University of Pennsylvania would receive the honour. “Just think, Dr. White,” Mastro had said. “You would have been custodian.”
To Mastro’s surprise I had shown no disappointment. I had dedicated so many years to serving Sir William in life, I told him, that I was more than ready to let others step in.
The climb up the rooming-house stairs was steep and I paused to rest. By the time I reached the top landing I was breathing hard. There were only two rooms up here. One was empty, its door open, revealing a mattress stripped of bedding and a low, sloped ceiling. This was an attic, decorated to hide the fact, but an attic just the same. The eaves of the roof were visible through the window. I could hear water dripping from a rainspout.
The second door was closed. Behind it someone was smoking. I stood staring at this door, which was white with a crack running the length of it and paint chipping at its edges. The tobacco smell was strong. What would I do if it turned out to be him? What would I say? Bedsprings creaked. Whoever was in there knew that someone was out here. I raised my hand and knocked.
There was a tentative reply in French, in a voice that seemed too small for Jakob Hertzlich’s. The bedsprings creaked and then there was a bang, followed by scuffling. “Une minute,” said the voice. A drawer was pulled open and shut and footsteps approached the door.
He was visibly surprised to see me. He was wearing only work pants and an undershirt, from which dark hair poked at the armpits and chest. His feet were bare. I looked away. The window was wide open. That had probably been the bang — wood slamming against brick as he tried to air out the room. The sunlight poured in, softening his astonished face.
The room was like a monk’s cell. Jakob’s folding cot was unmade with a novel lying face down on its sheets. Beside it was a cheap wooden chest of drawers. In a corner clothes spilled from a battered old valise.
“I thought you were the concierge,” Jakob said. His voice was gravelly with tobacco. “He hates it when we smoke.” He pulled the bedcovers hastily over the mattress, knocking his book to the floor. It was Père Goriot. He grabbed a shirt out of his suitcase. “To what do I owe the honour?” He had put his shirt on and was buttoning rapidly.
I swallowed and wet my lips. “I heard that you were leaving.”
“You heard right.”
“London?”
“Colchester, actually. That illustration work I told you about.” He was sitting on the side of the bed now, pulling on socks. As soon as he finished he reached for his boots.
“That’s wonderful news.” My voice cracked.
“It’s the only offer I’ve got,” he said. “Mastro has nothing, what with the veterans returning. And everyone else I knew at McGill is dead or retired.”
“I’m still here.”
Jakob Hertzlich made no answer, but his expression hardened.
“If it’s work you want,” I said, loos
ening my scarf, “there’s more than I know what to do with at the museum. I’d have you back gladly. We have received the Army’s war specimens and they have said I can hire a technician. The Army pays splendidly,” I added inanely.
His look made me wince. He had backed away at my approach, literally recoiled along the mattress. It was as if we were doing a dance but I had no idea what the steps were.
He jumped up and grabbed his coat from a hook on the door. “I don’t wish to be rude, Dr. White, but I was on my way out.” He was unshaven and unwashed. It was quite obvious that he had never intended to leave his bed that day, yet his hand was on the doorknob. “Keep your goddamn charity,” he said over his shoulder. “Save it for someone who asks for it.”
I didn’t hear anything more, not the sound of ice dropping from the branches or the water rushing in the gutters outside. Not my breath, which seemed to have stopped altogether. Not even the beating of my own heart. Sun was pouring in the window and the heat was suddenly too much to bear. I lay down on his bed. I was trying to fill my lungs but each time I inhaled there was a stabbing pain. I watched, unable to move as Jakob Hertzlich turned and walked away.
His footsteps crossed the landing. He was walking out of my life just as my father had so many years before. It was such an old, familiar pain that I could do nothing but surrender. My voice failed now just as it had when I was four years old. My mouth was open but nothing came out. Inside me, however, every single cell was crying. My skin, my bones, my blood screamed in the silence.
I was so caught up with myself, lying there with my face in his pillow, that I failed to notice when the footsteps on the landing halted, or when they retraced the path along the carpet to the bedroom. I did not notice the door open or Jakob’s head peer in. In my despair I saw nothing until he was standing so close that I caught a whiff of cigarettes and dark licorice from Holland.
The Heart Specialist Page 29
