by Alice Duncan
To give him credit, he didn’t want to hurt me. He stroked my head and murmured, “I’ve loved you for almost as long as you’ve loved me, Daisy. But my life is hardly a life at all anymore. I’m not a husband to you. I’m a burden to your whole family. Do you think I enjoy knowing that?”
“You’re not a burden, Billy. And I know you think you are and don’t enjoy it,” I burbled. “But I try to make your life better, Billy. Truly I do.”
He sighed shallowly, the only way he could sigh. “I know you do, sweetheart. And I know I’m rough on you a lot of the time. I don’t like the way you support me. I don’t like that you have to support me. God, I hate being helpless.”
Sniffling pathetically, I said, “Spike would be awfully lonely if you left us, Billy. And I’d be devastated.”
He said, “Ha,” bitterly.
“Oh, Billy.”
We sat there for several more minutes, until my tears dried. Then I sat on the grass beside the chair and drew Spike into my lap, feeling hopeless and helpless and wishing I could wave a magic wand or something and cure my husband’s many ills. Damned Germans and their damned mustard gas.
Then I thought about Hilda Schwartz and gave a huge sigh. Darn it. I couldn’t even hate the entire German race any longer. Was nothing sacred? Recalling that box full of morphine syrup, I bleakly acknowledged that, no. Nothing was sacred. Not even life, for my darling Billy.
The next day, when breakfast was over and Billy and Spike were cozy in the living room with Pa, I canceled the appointment I’d had with Mrs. Kincaid. I didn’t want Billy to overhear.
“Are you sure you can’t come, dear?” She sounded shaky, but that was nothing unusual.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Kincaid. I need to visit the doctor. It’s . . . it’s important.” I didn’t want to confess that my visit was about my husband. Mrs. Kincaid knew about Billy’s problems, but not the extent of them, or of the despair those problems caused him. Not to mention me. “Perhaps we can reschedule our appointment.”
She hesitated a second or two, then said slowly, “Yes. I suppose we can do that. Are you unwell, Mrs. Majesty? I certainly hope you aren’t.”
“Oh, no. It’s not about me.” Drat. I hadn’t even wanted her to know that much. She wouldn’t have minded, of course, but Billy didn’t like his problems broadcast to the world, and I felt honor-bound to keep his confidence. Besides, I aimed to keep this particular doctor visit a secret even from Billy.
“Is it about your poor husband?” Mrs. Kincaid’s voice fairly throbbed with sympathy.
I sighed, then said, “Yes. It is.”
“That poor, poor man.”
He was that, all right. I didn’t say anything.
“Very well, dear. Do take care, and ring me when you’re able to come over.”
“I will, Mrs. Kincaid. Thank you. Perhaps. . . .” I was going to mention the morrow, but recalled my appointment with Miss Castleton just in time. “Perhaps I can come on Wednesday. Would that be all right with you?”
“Wednesday would be fine, dear. Is ten o’clock all right with you?”
“Yes. Ten o’clock on Wednesday. See you then.” I hesitated for a second, then blurted out, “Thank you for your understanding, Mrs. Kincaid.”
“Of course, dear.”
So I went to see Dr. Benjamin. I’d talked to him many, many times about my poor beleaguered husband, but Billy had never threatened to commit suicide before. I’d always just sort of assumed he’d keep on trying to survive until pneumonia or bronchitis or some other vicious disease attacked his ruined lungs and took him away from me.
The worst part for me was that I could see his point. I wouldn’t want to live the way my Billy lived, either.
Dr. Benjamin kept morning office hours, and he visited patients in the afternoon. He regularly called on Billy, but this wasn’t his day for doing so. His wife acted as his nurse and receptionist. I was fortunate to be the first one in the office that morning, so I didn’t have to wait. Mrs. Benjamin ushered me right into the doctor’s office.
“Good morning, Daisy,” he said, smiling. He was a genial man and one who took a genuine interest in his patients and their families.
“Good morning, Dr. Benjamin.” That was as far as I got before I began leaking tears again. Darn my sentimental nature! I’d hoped to get through this appointment without bawling, although God knew I’d cried in front of Doc Benjamin plenty of times before this.
“Oh, my dear child.” He came around his desk and patted my shoulder. “Is something the matter with Billy, Daisy?”
I nodded miserably.
He sighed. “Would you like a glass of water, my dear?”
Shaking my head, I said, “No. That’s all right. I’m sorry to be so pitiful.”
“You’re not pitiful, Daisy. You’re a very brave young woman who’s suffered grievously. You and your Billy are strong people who have endured unnecessary pain and hardship on account of other people’s mistakes.”
I swallowed hard and got right to the point after wiping my eyes with my hankie. “Billy’s managed to get hold of an extra supply of morphine syrup from somewhere, and he says he’s going to use it when he can’t stand his life any longer.” I looked at the doctor, and I’m sure that all the pain I felt was there on my face. “Dr. Benjamin, he says he’s going to kill himself.”
Dr. Benjamin didn’t say anything until he’d rounded his desk and sat in his chair once more. Then he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and regarded me soberly. “And would you blame him for it, Daisy? He’s in terrible shape, he’s in constant pain, and he can scarcely breathe.”
There went my chin again, trembling like one of our occasional earthquakes. “But. . . .”
The doctor sighed heavily. “I know you love him, Daisy. And I know he loves you. But consider his condition before you condemn him for contemplating relief from a life he evidently considers unbearable.”
“Even with me trying to help?” My voice squeaked, and I guess I sounded as pathetic as I felt.
Dr. Benjamin’s eyes half closed, and he didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “Do you remember what Billy was like before he went to war, Daisy?”
“Yes. Of course, I do.”
“He was young and strong and fit, and he was young enough to believe that he could get through the war and come home to you a hero.”
“He is a hero to me,” I muttered. It sounded stupid, but I meant it.
“I know he is, Daisy. But his dreams and his spirit were shattered in France. It wasn’t just his body that suffered. His entire life was turned upside down. If he’d only been wounded, he probably would have recovered his spirit sooner or later, but that gas . . . well, you know what it did to him. And he was one of the lucky ones. I’ve seen the lungs of young men who were gassed to death.” He shook his head and shuddered. “You wouldn’t believe what those lungs look like, Daisy.”
I didn’t ask him where he’d seen those lungs. For all I knew, he performed autopsies every day. I think I nodded, but I’m not sure. I was too busy trying not to cry some more.
“I’m afraid you’re not the first young couple to find out that love isn’t everything in this mean old world we live in, my dear. Billy may not use that stock of morphine syrup. I’ve heard other people with painful physical problems claim that just knowing they have a way out of this life if it gets too hard for them is what keeps them from going beyond a certain point.”
Brightening minimally, I said, “Really?”
“Yes. Really.” He shook his head and appeared genuinely unhappy for a moment. “Believe me, Daisy, Billy’s not the only young man whose health was ruined by that blasted mustard gas. Nor is he in the worst shape of the patients I see.”
Boy, that was hard to imagine.
He went on, “I also have to treat several young men who are sound physically, but who suffer from terrible shell shock. Even worse than Billy’s, if you can believe me—and you can. Some of them aren’t far from being fright
ened, babbling babes. The worst of their symptoms is that they can’t forgive themselves for having been so badly affected by the horrors they saw that they can’t get over them, can’t work, and can barely live with themselves. One young man I see has to live in an honest-to-God bunker in his parents’ backyard. Fortunately, his parents have the wherewithal to accommodate him, because he assuredly can’t maintain any sort of job of work.”
“Oh, dear,” I whispered. Poor Billy was still apt to cry out at night after dreaming he was being shelled by the German army. Was it General Sherman who said war was hell? Well, he was right. It’s hell on everyone, even those left behind.
“I don’t know how to advise you,” Dr. Benjamin continued. “If he got hold of one supply of morphine, I presume he can always get more if you dispose of this batch.”
“He told me as much,” I admitted. “And he wouldn’t tell me where he got the one in the closet.”
“Well, then, my dear, it’s up to you. Unfortunately, I have no sage, fatherly advice to dispense on this issue. I suspect your Billy won’t kill himself, but if he does, just remember that it’s not your fault. The fault lies, as it always does when it comes to war, with the people who started it in the first place. The fault lies with the old men who refuse to talk out their troubles, and who send young men to fight in their stead after filling their heads with patriotic songs and heroic music. ‘Over There,’ indeed. Men like your Billy are only cannon fodder, more’s the pity. Why, it positively makes me angry.”
I could see it did. Boy, what a depressing conversation. I nodded, seeing his point and wishing I could write to President Wilson, Clemenceau of France, Nicholas II of Russia, the King of Serbia, the guy who assassinated Archduke Ferdinand, Prime Minister Asquith and the Kaiser and everyone else who’d started the cursed bloody conflict. Better yet, I’d like to turn them loose in a field, arm them, and let them have at each other and leave my darling Billy and all the other young men at home, safe and sound.
As with so much else in my life, it was too late for that now—and I was only twenty-one! I rose from my chair. “Thank you, Dr. Benjamin. I appreciate your willingness to talk to me about this.”
He rose too, and extended his hand. “Anytime, Daisy. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you and Billy have to endure these problems. I’ve known you both all your lives, and you’re like my own children in many ways.”
I knew that to be true. Doc Benjamin had delivered us both, in fact, and he was invited to all our family functions. Since just about every other family in Pasadena and Altadena also invited him to the same functions, he didn’t always come to ours, but he and his wife had attended many a Christmas dinner at our humble bungalow on Marengo.
“Don’t forget, Daisy, that if ever Billy goes—and he will, one way or another—you’ve done everything you could to help him.”
“Sometimes I wonder about that.”
He gave me a saddish smile. “I know you do, but you’re being too hard on yourself, just as Billy is too hard on himself.”
With that, he ushered me out of his office, and I still had no idea how to help my husband.
It then occurred to me to talk to Sam Rotondo. Billy and Sam were fast friends. Surely Sam would want to help me out in this instance, even though he didn’t like me. Because I didn’t want to discuss Billy’s problems over the phone, particularly with the nosy Mrs. Barrow as a party-line neighbor and Billy sitting in the same room with me, I decided to see Sam in person.
So I headed to the Pasadena Police Department directly after I left Dr. Benjamin’s office. At that time the Pasadena Police Department occupied space in the back part of our city hall on the corner of Fair Oaks Avenue and Union Street. I’d been there before—seldom because I’d wanted to be—and I recognized the policeman at the front desk. I think he recognized me, too.
It then occurred to me that maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. I mean, I sure didn’t want any rumors to start circulating about Sam and me! But the policeman up front only nodded and told me I could go up to Sam’s office, so I did. When I opened the door, all the people inside turned to see who’d invaded their space, my face went hot, and Sam frowned at me. How typical.
Uncomfortably enduring the men’s stares, I walked over to Sam’s desk and sat in the chair beside it. He continued to frown. “What are you doing here, Daisy?”
Oh, boy. This didn’t sound like an auspicious opening line to me. Nevertheless, I was there, and I knew good and well that Sam cared about Billy’s welfare, even if he wasn’t happy to see me. Therefore, I said, “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, Sam.”
His expression didn’t lighten when he said, “Go ahead.”
Darn him! “Not here,” I whispered. “I need to talk to you in private.”
“Now?”
How unhelpful could the man get? “Yes, now. It’s important. It’s. . . .” I glanced around the room. All the other fellows in it had gone back to their work, so I lowered my voice. “It’s about Billy.”
Sam gazed at me, his heavy eyebrows lowered for a couple of seconds. Then he stood suddenly, grabbed his suit coat from the back of his chair, started shrugging it on, and said, “Let’s go outside. Have you had lunch?”
“Lunch?” I rose too. “What time is it?”
“Lunchtime. Let’s go to the Crown City Chop Suey joint.”
Did I want to have lunch with Sam? No. I did not. But I had to admit that the Crown City Chop Suey Palace would be a better place to talk than a crowded office full of police detectives. And it wasn’t far to walk, being on Fair Oaks and all. I trailed after Sam, as he headed to the door and snatched his hat from the tree residing nearby, and we went downstairs out into the day, which was, as I may already have mentioned, brisk.
We didn’t speak until we’d walked about half a block. Then Sam said, “What’s this all about, Daisy? You don’t generally seek out my wise counsel.”
He was being sarcastic. “I know, but I thought you might have a suggestion in this case.”
“Huh. Well, we’ll talk about it over some chop suey or something.”
“Very well,” I said meekly, wishing Sam were an easier person for me to talk to. I couldn’t fathom why Billy and my father liked him so much. They didn’t have trouble talking to him. Of course, they hadn’t been treated like a criminal by him, either. Or arrested by him.
By that time I’d decided this had been a foolish notion.
But it was too late now. Sam held the door for me when we got to the Crown City, as delicious Chinese food smells wafted out to greet us. A Chinese waiter led us to a table tucked away in a far corner, which was a good choice, since it was dark and kind of secluded.
Sam politely held my chair for me. It always surprised me when Sam behaved appropriately, although I’m not sure why. I guess it’s because we’d met under somewhat inauspicious circumstances. Well, it was also because he thought I was basically a crook, which definitely cast a pall over our relationship. I freely admit, and always have done, that what I did for a living was bunkum. But I wasn’t a crook. I didn’t take money under false pretenses. Well . . . oh . . . all right, so maybe I did. But I only worked for people who wanted to be fooled. I never tried to convince anyone who didn’t want to be convinced.
But enough of that. Sam and I both ordered from the menu, and the waiter brought us some egg-flower soup. As Sam sipped, I explained my predicament. His brows lowered as I spoke.
“He’s never mentioned committing suicide to me,” he said at last, after I’d been silent for a minute or so.
“He’d never mentioned it to me, either. But I found that box crammed full of morphine syrup bottles and asked him about it.” A wave of sadness washed over me, and I stopped talking for fear I’d start crying again. Blast my oversensitive tear ducts!
Sam pushed away his soup bowl. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I don’t, either. That’s why I decided to talk to you. You and Billy are good friends. I th
ought maybe you might be able to suggest something I could do to help him feel less desperate.”
Sam gazed at me for so long, I began to fidget in my chair. Before I lost my nerve entirely and bolted from the restaurant, the waiter brought our food. Darned if I didn’t realize I was hungry! I’d kind of toyed with my food at breakfast, because I was feeling so baffled and distraught about Billy, so this food idea of Sam’s had turned out to be a good one. First time that had happened. As a rule, I didn’t care for Sam’s suggestions, mainly because they generally meant some kind of discomfort for yours truly.
We both dug in—politely, of course—while Sam thought. At least I presume he was thinking. After munching on a shrimp, he looked up at me, his face a study in contemplation. “In a way, I wouldn’t blame him if he killed himself.”
I almost dropped my fork. “Sam! What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I wouldn’t much blame Billy if he drank that syrup. Do you have any idea what he has to go through every day?”
Before I could respond indignantly that I certainly did have an idea, Sam surprised me again by saying, “But of course, you do. You live with him and do everything for him.”
Merciful heaven, that’s the first time Sam had ever admitted I was good for anything at all. I appreciated his words.
“That’s one of the main reasons he feels so desperate, I suspect,” he said.
“I’m afraid it is,” I admitted bleakly. “He hates being helpless.”
“I know he does. But no matter what you do for him, you can’t do anything about his health or the pain he’s in all the time.”
My spirits sagged once more. “No, I can’t. Wish I could.”
“Yeah. So do I.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I kept eating. The food was really good, although I discovered I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought I was. I think worry has that effect on a person. Sam remained silent, too, as he consumed his lunch.
After several minutes of chewing and swallowing, he set his fork down on his plate and looked at me from across the table. “Listen, Daisy, what I’m going to say probably isn’t anything you want to hear, but I’m going to say it anyway.”
