TWELVE
“It wasn’t just a stomach flu, was it?”
Ella and Margaret were in the kitchen, pickling cucumbers, okra pods, and watermelon rind. It was hot work, and there were no shortcuts to the process. The vegetables and rinds had to be thoroughly washed, sliced, and blanched. The Mason jars and their lids had to be boiled. The spices and vinegar were simmered together to achieve the best flavors.
Everything in the kitchen was steaming.
Including Ella, who pushed back coils of hair that had escaped her bun. She looked at Margaret, who was ladling a hot vinegar mixture redolent with dill over the cucumber spears she had packed tightly into a jar. Ella was prepared to play dumb or fib in reply to Margaret’s question, but when her loyal maid looked back at her, she knew that duplicity was pointless.
Margaret knew, or at least sensed, that Mr. Rainwater suffered an ailment, and she hadn’t been fooled by the explanation they’d provided the day Dr. Kincaid had been summoned to the house to treat him.
“No, Margaret. It wasn’t just a stomach flu.”
“He don’t eat much. Less ever’ day. I thought it was just the heat.” Margaret set the seal on the rim of the jar, then twisted on the ring. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to Ella. “Is he bad sick?”
“Very bad.”
Ella didn’t need to elaborate. Her tone spoke volumes. Tears filled Margaret’s eyes. “Poor, poor soul. How long?”
“No one knows that for sure.”
“A year?”
Ella shook her head. “Not that long.”
Margaret raised her apron to catch a sob in the hem of it.
“But please don’t say anything about it to anyone, especially not to him. He doesn’t want anyone to know. He doesn’t want a fuss made. Don’t act any differently toward him. Promise me you won’t.”
“I won’t,” Margaret mumbled as she blotted her eyes. “But it ain’t gonna be easy, ’cause I think a lot of him. He’s a gentleman, about the most decent white man I know.”
“If you feel that way about him, the nicest thing you can do for him is to treat him normally. Don’t let on like you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ella began slicing cucumber disks for her bread and butter pickles.
“Miss Ella? Did you know? Before that day we had to call the doctor?”
“I knew before he moved in.”
“You a good woman.”
Holding her knife poised above her chop board, Ella raised her head and looked through the window over the drainboard. Steam had fogged the windowpane. As she watched, it condensed into an iridescent bead of water that trickled down the glass like a raindrop, or a tear.
After that conversation with Margaret, she began taking particular notice of Mr. Rainwater’s appetite, or lack thereof. She monitored how much food he left on his plate after each meal. One night as she was clearing the table, she asked if the meat loaf hadn’t been to his liking.
“It was delicious, Mrs. Barron. But my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I took too large a portion.”
But from then on, he did better toward cleaning his plate. She was heartened, until one evening when she saw how little he served himself. His portion of chicken and dumplings was less than what she’d dished up for Solly.
She didn’t mention it to him in front of the Dunne sisters or Mr. Hastings, who was disappointed when Mr. Rainwater declined a game of chess and, saying he preferred to read that night, excused himself and went upstairs.
Before going to bed, Ella decided she should check on him. Rarely did she go upstairs once her boarders had retired, feeling they deserved their privacy. But knowing that Mr. Rainwater had suffered in silence through one whole night and half a day before she discovered his misery, she felt justified in breaking her rule. She told herself that if no light shone beneath his door, she wouldn’t disturb him, and no one ever need know she’d been there. But if his light was on, she would verify that he was comfortable.
As soon as she reached the landing, she saw that his door was the only one with light shining beneath it. Keeping her footsteps light, so as not to disturb the others or alert them to her presence, she made her way down the dark hallway to his room, where she tapped softly on the door.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Mr. Rainwater,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she asked if she could come in.
“Yes.”
She pushed open the door. He was sitting on the side of the bed, but it was apparent that he’d been lying on it seconds earlier. The pillow bore the imprint of his head, and his hair was tousled. He was dressed, although he had removed his coat and necktie, and had lowered his suspenders. His cuffs were loose around his wrists. His shoes were on the floor beside the bed, but he was still wearing his socks.
His skin looked pale and waxy, but that could have been attributed to the harsh glow of the reading lamp on his night-stand. It also turned his eye sockets into dark caverns, preventing her from seeing into his eyes.
She stepped into the room but left the door open. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.”
“I wanted to ask if you thought I should write to one of those schools for special children that Dr. Kincaid recommended.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then stood up. “You didn’t believe me.”
“Pardon?”
“You didn’t believe me when I told you that I was all right. That’s why you came in.”
She smiled self-consciously. “I confess.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“It’s not a bad quality, being so honest you can’t conceal a lie.”
They smiled across at each other. She asked, “Are you?”
“Am I a good liar?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
She nodded toward the book he held in one hand, his index finger marking his place. “You really did come up early so you could read your book.”
“A Farewell to Arms. Have you read it?”
“I’ve wanted to. I don’t have much time for leisure reading.”
“It’s excellent.”
“Doesn’t it have a sad ending?”
“Sad but beautiful, they say. I’ll let you know.”
Feeling awkward now, she backed away and reached for the doorknob. “I apologize for the intrusion. I noticed you didn’t eat well tonight. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t … that you were resting well.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
“Then good night, Mr. Rainwater.”
“Good night, Mrs. Barron.”
She pulled the door closed, but for several moments she huddled in the dark hallway, her hand gripping the doorknob, her heart clenching with indecision, wondering if she’d been right to pretend that she hadn’t seen on the bedside table, along with his gold cuff links and pocket watch, the syringe and vial of pain medication.