Almost. But the pain persists.
I still can’t walk.
I’ve spent my life in mines, in dark confined spaces. But I can’t take it. Maybe it’s the light, or the fresh air, or lying in bed, day after day, night after night. A month gone by.
Every day, as three o’clock draws near, I count down the minutes until she gets home. A man, waiting for a woman to get home. It calls into question the premise of the sentence.
I’ve insisted she stop working in the hospital. Germs. Bombs. Chauvinists. I’ve tried it all. She won’t hear it. I can’t win. I don’t have a leg to stand on. I simply can’t put my foot down. And on top of that, I’m losing it, making lame jokes about myself, to myself.
Out the window, I see her coming down the path. What time is it? 2:30. She’s early. And— there’s a man with her. In the month I’ve been here, she’s never brought a suitor home. The thought’s never occurred to me, and now, it strikes me in all the wrong ways. I strain to get a better look out the window, but I can’t see them. They’re already in the house.
I frantically straighten my bed and push myself up, through the dull pain, so I can sit up in bed and appear stronger than I am. I pick up a book and begin reading it, upside down. I glance up, then flip the book right-side-up just before Helena enters. The mustached, monocle-wearing poser in a three-piece suit is close on her heels like a greedy dog at the hunt.
“Ah, you’ve gotten into some of the books. What did you choose?” she tips it toward me slightly, reads the title, and cocks her head slightly. “Hmm, Pride and Prejudice. One of my favorites.”
I close the book and toss it on the table as though she’d just told me it was infected with plague. “Yes, well, a man’s got to stay up on such things. And, appreciate the… Classics.”
The monocled man looks over at her impatiently. Ready to get on with the visiting — away from the cripple in the spare bedroom?
“Patrick, this is Damien Webster. He’s come from America to see you. He won’t tell me what about.” She raises her eyebrows conspiratorially.
“Pleasure, Mr. Pierce. I knew your father.”
He’s not courting her. Wait, knew my father.
Webster seems to realize my confusion. “We sent a telegraph to the hospital. Have you not received it?”
My father is dead, but he didn’t come here about that. What then?
Helena speaks before I can. “Major Pierce has been here for a month. The hospital receives a great many cables each day. What’s your business, Mr. Webster?” Her tone has grown serious.
Webster glares at her. He’s probably not used to a woman talking to him in such a tone. He could probably do with more of it. “Several matters. The first being your father’s estate—”
Outside the window, a bird lands on the fountain. It fidgets, dunks it’s head, rises and shakes the water off.
“How did he die?” I say, still focused on the bird.
Webster speaks quickly, like it’s something to get out of the way, an annoyance. “Automobile accident. He and your mother both perished instantly. Dangerous machines, I say. It was quick. They didn’t suffer, I assure you. Now…”
I feel hurt of a different kind, a crushing feeling of loneliness, emptiness, like there’s a pit inside me that I can’t fill. Like I’ll never be happy again. My mother, gone. Buried by now. I’ll never see her again.
“Will that be acceptable, Mr. Pierce?”
“What?”
“The account at First National Bank in Charleston. Your father was a very frugal man. There’s almost 200,000 dollars in the account.”
Frugal to a fault.
Webster is clearly frustrated and plows on hoping for a response. “The account’s in your name. There was no will, but as you’ve no siblings, there’s no problem.” He waits another moment. “We can transfer the money to a bank here on the continent.” He glances at Helena. “Or England if you prefer—”
“The West Virginia Children’s Home. It’s in Elkins. See that they get the balance of the account. And that they know that it came from my father.”
“Uh, yes, that’s… possible. May I ask why?”
A truthful response would be “because he wouldn’t want me to have it” or more exactly, “because he didn’t like the man I’ve become.” But I don’t say either, maybe because Helena is in the room or maybe because I don’t think this shyster deserves an honest response. Instead, I mumble something approximating, “It’s what he would have wanted.”
He looks at my leg, searching for the right words. “That’s all well and good, but the army pensions are… rather sparse, even for a Major. I would think you’d be keen to keep a bit of the money, say 100,000 dollars?”