“In an hour or so our Tom’ll be deserting us,” said Trelinack.
“Off on his mysterious Thursday errand,” said Hugh.
“All barbered this way, he puts me in mind of my courting days back home.”
Tom’s neck flushed dangerously. “The hell with that!”
“Oh, so you do hear us,” said Trelinack. “I was wondering if you’d lost your hearing the same as you acquire a cloak of invisibility—or is that only when you’re with a certain black-haired bit?”
Hugh looked at his brother. The sly teasing was fine, but he did not like the angry set of Tom’s jaw.
At seventeen Hugh surpassed Tom by a full inch; however, his was the rapier slender height of a dancing master. His pearl-gray alpaca suit fit him like a stocking—he dressed the dandy on work days, his excuse being the efficacy of a smart appearance when inveigling prospective buyers. Though his face had lengthened into manhood, it retained an appearance of ingenuousness. His angelic good looks camouflaged a financial shrewdness, while Tom, who was far more straightforward, appeared a tougher business opponent. (Another comparison between the brothers was equally deceptive. Concupiscence persistently jolted Tom, yet he had a nice gentle streak, a decency, that prevented him from approaching a virgin—any woman he did not pay. Hugh’s sexual needs were sluggish, but his vanity had prodded him to succeed with the two prettiest girls at Central High. He was renowned as a hot trotter.)
Tom said coldly, “You know the lady’s name.”
“Last Thursday my Maud was buying some ribbon for her seamstress work. She saw you and Miss Dalzell leaving Hudson’s together.”
“What of it.”
“What if Major Stuart knocks your block off when he gets back to Detroit?”
Tom’s face still burned. “It’s her father’s concern.”
“So she has one, then? Have you met the man? No, I thought not. Maybe he’s a wondrously concocted tale?” Trelinack had never adjusted to his mechanic becoming his boss. He still spoke to Tom as he did everyone who worked under him, in bluff tones. “And as far as this not being the Major’s concern, I hear that his interest goes in quite deep, if you get my drift.”
“No, Trelinack, I don’t get your drift, Trelinack. Explain your drift to me.”
“The missus and the girls are forever mentioning it. Why, they ask me, why don’t they see her name in the social columns alongside the Major’s? I don’t know what to answer. They’re my wife and daughters. How do I explain to them why she isn’t invited to decent homes? I can’t say to them that for the Major the local whores aren’t good enough. He has to bring in fancy bits and call them relatives.”
“She is his niece!” Hugh cried. “Tom told—”
“Come outside,” Tom interrupted his brother.
Trelinack remained straddling his chair. His rolled-up shirt sleeves exposed massive forearms covered with curly copper hairs. He was an expert boxer.
“No, Tom, I’m not coming to blows with you over this. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re a friend. I just wanted to set you straight about her.”
“Come on out, you shit-mouthed cocksucker.”
Trelinack, growling deep in his chest, rushed into the yard.
The shop men, along with the Stuart workers, also on their lunch break, formed a circle about the pair. Sun beat down fiercely. Foreheads were mopped. Money was held out and bets made in a variety of languages. The combatants approached each other.
Trelinack outweighed Tom by thirty pounds of brawn. He crouched, his boots shifting delicately, his arms curved as if grasping a large balloon. He feinted with his right hand, gauging the distance, then with a perfectly timed movement his left fist shot out against Tom’s nose.
Tom heard the crunch, his eyes filled with involuntary tears, but the fury that surged through him anesthetized the pain. Trelinack wrapped both arms around him, hugging him close. A clinch. Tom, panting, broke away. With squared fists he pounded at Trelinack’s large, firm belly, his full strength behind the blows. The skin of a knuckle split.
Trelinack’s legs sagged. He skidded in a puddle of oil and fell slowly onto his back, resting on his elbows. Tom stood gasping over him.
Hugh pulled at his brother’s arm. “That’s enough! Tom, what’s the point? No more. Please. I can feel an attack coming on.”
“Fight, fight, fight.”
Trelinack looked up, dazed. “Who would of believed it?” he mumbled. “You have me on the ground with hardly a blow. It must of been that last beer.”
“Fight!”
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. His fury had evaporated. That he had downed Trelinack, his friend, filled him with self-loathing. He extended his hand. “Here.”
The crowd groaned with disappointment.
“I shouldn’t drink beer on the job, heat or no heat,” said Trelinack, draping a heavy arm over Tom’s shoulder as they went back into the shop. “So she really is a niece, this Miss Dalzell?”
Tom balled his handkerchief against his nose to stanch the blood.
It was Hugh, closing the doors, who explained. “The Major’s half brother lives out at the chateau. Apparently he’s ill a lot. An invalid. She’s his daughter.”
Trelinack said gruffly, “Well, anyway, Tom, you can tell one and all that you knocked down John Trelinack. I’m sorry for my mouth.”
Tom wanted to return the apology, but the words would not come, so he pressed the handkerchief harder, wincing.
Again Hugh spoke for him. “You know Tom and his temper.”
“Yes, his own worst enemy.” Trelinack folded back newspaper from plump, golden-crusted Cornish pasties redolent of potatoes and lamb, handing one to each brother. “I shouldn’t of repeated lying gossip. But sneaking around alleys with the young lady won’t help her reputation, either.”
II
“Antonia, there’s an automobile ready for the final test. Want to take a ride this afternoon?” They were leaving Hudson’s dry goods department. “Like me to chauffeur you?” Chauffeur was the French word for driving or for anyone in the driver’s seat.
“Tom, I’d love to!”
“When Major Stuart gets back, he’ll hear about it. Your father’ll hear about it.”
“Tonight. From me,” she said. Her brightness seemed forced.
On Gratiot, outside the red-brick and brownstone department store, an excited group was clustered around the yellow Curved-Dash Bridger, more people gathering as Tom draped the long scarf over Antonia’s straw sailor. Men threw him the usual half-admiring, half-jeering questions as he checked the gearbox and grease cups. When they pulled away, small boys tossed pebbles after them.
Tom headed in the direction of Grosse Pointe, where the Major’s friends summered in chalets and cottages bordering Lake St. Clair. At this time of day the streets were quiet, but Tom slowed whenever a horse approached—there was always danger of shying and accidents. Antonia clasped her small needlepoint reticule very tightly, saying nothing. Despite his involvement in the task of chauffeuring, Tom was acutely aware of her silence. It dropped between them like a chasm.
As city became country they jounced along a narrow, deep-rutted lane. The previous night a soft drizzle had fallen, not enough to impede them with mud but sufficient to dampen the earth so there were no dust clouds. Trees draped with ivy, berry bushes, and wild lilac spread lushly on both sides of the road. It would be perfect, Tom thought, if only Antonia were not so silent.
“It’s so strange, moving this fast, and without a horse,” she said finally. “The scent of the trees and bushes and flowers comes at you.”
“All I smell is gasoline,” he said. Easing his foot from the pedal, he shifted back the clutch stick, tugging with all his strength on the brake. Gears ground shatteringly. With a series of jerks the automobile halted in a patch of wild wheat. “I have to check the carburetor anyway, so we might as well take a look around. There ought to be a view of the river beyond those trees.”
“Along the little path?�
��
“It’s going in the right direction,” he said. His mouth was dry.
She kept on the duster, for the narrow track took them Indian file through a blackberry thicket. The path widened into a clearing as they came to a stand of ancient sycamore whose branches intertwined far above their heads. The dense foliage had kept out much of the rain, and the warm air was humid and still as a greenhouse.
Tom said, “There’s no state law we have to meet on Thursday afternoon.”
She turned to him. “Don’t you want to, Tom? I thought you did, but maybe that’s because …” Her voice faded.
“Because what?”
“Why are you angry?”
“Me? What about you?” His voice rang loud. “You’ve been a million miles away.”
Antonia turned away, toward a mossy tree trunk, and burst into body-wracking sobs. Feeling helpless and tender, he touched her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Antonia. Please don’t. I never meant to bark at you. I’ve been crazy, that’s all. You mean so much to me.”
Drawing in gulping breaths, she controlled herself, and blew her nose. “It’s Father,” she said.
“He’s found out about us?”
“He’s known all along.”
“So he’s ordered you to stay home?” Tom’s hand lingered on her shoulder.
“No.”
“What does he say about us?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s wrong, then?”
“He’s had a cold.”
“Cold?” Tom asked. “That’s all? A cold?”
“He’s had it for nearly two months, and in his condition …”
“It’s turned into something worse?”
“Dr. McKenzie says it’s just a cold.”
“Nobody gets this upset about a cold. It can’t be only a cold. Tell me what he said about us.”
She looked up at him. The delicate, irregular nose was red, her eyes full. She said in a low, rapid voice, “On my sixteenth birthday, we were in Paris, he became ill. A very high fever. Since then he doesn’t speak.”
“The fever caused that? Does he write everything down?”
Her fingertips pressed together as if in prayer. “He doesn’t react properly,” she whispered. “He’ll recover.”
“You mean his mind has gone?”
“There’s nothing wrong with his mind,” she said firmly. “His mind functions, but he cannot communicate with us. That’ll come back when he recovers.” She straightened her shoulders. “For the time being he can’t look after himself. That’s why it’s so important for me to take care of him. This cold—what if it goes into his lungs?”
“It won’t,” he soothed. So this was the secret that kept her so silent. He ached with loving pity, yet at the same time he knew that such a revelation meant she loved him. “Antonia, he’s getting the best care.”
“This morning Nurse Girardin said it would be best if … if he did get pneumonia. Dr. McKenzie didn’t answer her, but he thinks the same. I’m the only one who sees him as a man, the way he really is, not a medical case. The others think of him as a burden.”
Tom kissed her damp forehead and with great tenderness said, “I’m glad you told me.”
A flock of sparrows blundered into the clearing, chirping their way upward to the high branches before swerving in the direction of the river. Wild birdsounds faded into the soughing of the old trees.
Tom put his arms around her. Her body melted into his, her breath shivering moist on his neck. The softness of her breasts against his chest, the scent of her heavy, satiny hair—a fragrance like roses—excited him unbearably, yet the moment went far beyond the physical, reaching into the recesses of his being, releasing an ungovernable mass of feelings, joy, pride, wonder, relief, a sweet yet inscrutable sadness. Her fingers trembled on the tendons of his neck. He moved to kiss her, and with both hands he slipped the duster from her shoulders and the heavy canvas rustled onto the mulch at their feet. She was caressing his neck, his throat. In this timeless place where trees grew forever, he accepted that she was no princess in a limestone castle, she was Antonia, Antonia whose tender, wandering caresses were for him. He spread the duster and they fell embracing onto it. Kissing the shirtwaist over her racing heart, he undid the pelisse’s crimson frog, fumbling with the gold bar pin at her throat. Soon they were surrounded by her white embroidered underwear and his own clothes. He stared at her, awed. The delicate curves glowed white. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
“Ahh, Tom …”
“I’ll love you always,” he said, his mouth open on hers. When he reached the barrier, she flinched, her nails digging into his shoulders. With a frantic jab he found his home. She gave a small cry, and then her arms circled his waist, pulling him closer. He heard his own rasping breath and hers, an echo. Kissing her face, her neck, her ear, he began moving faster, deeper, and at the ultimate moment, called her name.
When they had quieted, he raised on his elbow. She smiled, then gazed up at laced branches whose greenery was reflected dark in her eyes.
“Mine?” he said, tugging a strand of her loosened hair.
“I love you.”
“Always?”
“Forever.”
“I want to marry you now, but I can’t support you yet. Not with your father, too. This year, though, we sold twice as many automobiles as we have in the whole time since the shop opened. Soon—six months at most—I’ll be able to.” To speak of money, which had never meant a damn to him, when his emotions were molten fire and should stream out in song or poetry! “We’ll be married then.”
“Yes.”
“Some things about me aren’t so wonderful. Antonia, I needed you to belong to me, so I took advantage of your unhappiness.”
Taking his hand, she held it between her breasts. “I wanted you, too, Tom,” she said, and kissed his chin.
On the drive back to Detroit, he told her about his father’s screaming death, about his mother’s madness and suicide.
III
A buggy with a rubber top waited under the porte cochere.
“Dr. McKenzie’s here!” Antonia cried. Before Tom could help her, she climbed out, missing the oval footstand, losing her balance and falling to her knees, pushing rapidly to her feet, skimming over the gravel, lifting her skirts to take the porch steps two at a time, slamming the knocker of the side door, a wild bird beating against the cage.
Almost immediately the door was opened by a short, spare man carrying a leather bag.
“Dr. McKenzie! What’s happened to Father?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. This morning you were so worried that I decided to drop by on the way home. The chest’s clear as a bell.”
Antonia was taking off the duster and goggles and scarf. She handed them to Tom. “Thank you for the demonstration, Mr. Bridger,” she said, her voice joyous. She ran inside.
The doctor extended his hand: the weathered skin, like that of his face, was covered with freckles. “I’m Dr. McKenzie.”
“I’m Tom Bridger.”
As they shook hands the sharp hazel eyes fixed professionally on Tom.
“What happened to your nose?”
Tom had forgotten the fight this noon, and Dr. McKenzie’s reminder made him aware of the pain. “It’s nothing. I bumped into a machine in the shop.”
“It could be broken. Let me take a look.”
“I’m fine, thank you, sir.”
“As you say.” The doctor walked up to the automobile. “So you’ve been taking Miss Dalzell out in a horseless carriage.”
“A Curved-Dash Bridger.” Tom folded the duster and scarf with the goggles into the wicker basket.
“Now I remember. That’s where I heard your name. So you’re the Major’s young partner.” He circled the machine. “In Chicago I rode in an electric brougham. But this runs on gasoline. I can smell it. What keeps your contraption from blowing up?”
It was a doctor’s trick. While Tom explained the inter
nal-combustion machine, McKenzie watched him intently.
The doctor glanced up at the house. “Not much of a life, not the way for a lively, pretty girl to live, cooped up with elderly servants and an invalid. And it’s not even her own choice.”
“But she thinks she’s the only one who can look after Mr. Dalzell,” Tom said, then paused. “The Major, does he insist?”
“Andrew? He dotes on the child. He uses every means short of force to keep her out of the sickroom.”
“But you said—”
“Her nature traps her, her own nature. Bridger, I’ve been in this profession nearly thirty years, so I’ve had ample opportunity to observe humanity at its best and worst. And there’s still matters beyond my comprehension. Why are a few people so defenseless against their emotions? Most of us learn early on to chloroform ourselves against feeling the extremes of pain or pleasure. Most of us are dulled to real joy or real agony—it’s for the best, of course. But then there’s the few. The sensitives, I call them. They love more deeply, they have greater happiness. And their misery is correspondingly more terrible. I fear for her. Mr. Dalzell’s present condition has improved, but he’s gravely ill.” The doctor avoided the knowing glance that would have been professional betrayal. “To be honest, I worry less about my patient than his daughter. She’s so exceedingly vulnerable. Have I made it clear what I meant, no choice?”
Tom held himself immobile in the late afternoon sunlight. “She’s a wonderful girl,” he said.
“With the Major in New York, she’s very lonely.”
“I’m her friend.”
“Why do you think I’ve been unburdening myself to you? Here, bend down. I’m going to look at your nose.”
As light fingers moved on his face tears came into Tom’s eyes.
“Not broken,” the doctor pronounced. “I’ll put on a proper plaster.”
“Thank you, sir.”
When Dr. McKenzie closed his bag, he said, “My prescription for Miss Dalzell is that you take her riding.” He climbed into his buggy, clicking the reins. His brown gelding circled wide around the Curved-Dash Bridger as though sensing they were inimical.
IV
“A racer?” Hugh asked.
“Two cylinders, not one like the Curved-Dash. Light, though. Powerful and light.”
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