I must have stared at the note for five full minutes as I tried to make sense of it. What was the OPA? Did it have something to do with the factory? And what had Lucy been helping with?
I put the note in a new envelope and simply left Henry’s name off the front. Suddenly exhausted, I climbed the stairs, quickly washed and changed into my nightgown, then fell into bed, leaving the note on the nightstand. I heard the front door open a while later and listened to the footsteps downstairs long enough to know it was Ruth and not Henry. I rolled onto my side and the moonlight reflected off the mirror of the armoire. I sat up with a gasp. Did the money in the armoire have something to do with Teddy’s note?
I got out of bed quietly, not wanting Ruth to hear the creaking of the floorboards, and turned on the night table lamp. I opened the beautiful carved mirrored door of the armoire and was greeted by the soap-and-pipe scent of Henry’s clothes. I spotted the leather tab on one side of the false bottom and lifted it gingerly. The bundled money was still there. As a matter of fact, I was certain there was quite a bit more of it than there had been. On top of the bundles lay three large manila envelopes, identical to the envelope Lucy had wanted to deliver to someone across the river and the empty envelopes I’d seen in his desk drawer.
Each of the envelopes had a white label affixed to the front, and each label had two or three letters on it. Initials? I lifted the top envelope and sat down on the edge of the bed, listening for Henry’s car in the driveway. This label bore the initials R.T.D., written in Henry’s hand. I turned it over and saw that it was only closed with a clasp. I pinched the two sides of the clasp together, lifted the flap, and slipped my hand inside to withdraw the contents. Gasoline rationing coupons, three booklets of them. Class C. And a red Class C sticker for a car. I knew what Class C stickers were. Most people had A stickers, allowing them three gallons of gasoline a week. Some people, traveling salesmen for instance, had B stickers entitling them to eight gallons a week. Class C was reserved for doctors, the police, and anyone else who shouldn’t have their gasoline limited. I stared at the coupons. Where had Henry gotten these and what was he doing with them? He’d told me something about factory truck drivers being entitled to more gas. Maybe that was it? Maybe R.T.D. was one of Kraft Fine Furniture’s truck drivers? And what exactly was Teddy warning Henry about? My head hurt from trying to figure it out. There was only one person who could explain it all to me, and I was married to him.
*
It must have been close to three in the morning by the time I finally fell asleep and Henry still wasn’t home. I’d lain awake, feeling alternately angry at him and worried about him. When I woke at six-thirty, he was getting out of his bed, running his fingers through his hair. I was instantly awake and I sat up in bed and reached for the envelope from Teddy on the nightstand.
“Teddy dropped this off for you last night,” I said, holding it out to him.
Henry frowned as he took the envelope from me. “Teddy Wright?” he asked. “From the police?”
“Yes.”
I watched him tear open the envelope. His frown deepened as he read the note. He folded it up again and put it back in the envelope.
“What is it?” I asked innocently.
He shook his head, getting to his feet. “Nothing important,” he said. “I can drop you off at the hospital this morning, but then I’d better get back to the factory.”
“Is it something personal in the note or police business?” I prompted. “Teddy seemed pretty anxious for you to get it.”
“I told you, it’s nothing.” He folded the envelope and slipped it in the pocket of his pajama top as he walked toward the door. “I’ll use the shower first, if you don’t mind.”
“I know about the armoire.” I blurted the words out and he turned to me.
“What are you talking about? What about the armoire?”
“The money. I saw it weeks ago. I saw that leather tab and thought something had gotten stuck in the crevice between the floor and the back of the armoire. I pulled on the tab and the bottom came up and I saw the money.” I stopped briefly for breath. “Why do you have it stashed away like that?”
He said nothing for so long that I was sure he was going to simply turn away from me without an explanation. That was so like Henry whenever I asked a question he didn’t want to answer. Instead, he sighed and sat down on the bed again. Our beds were so close together that our knees nearly touched.
“Look,” he said. “I believe in having a nest egg. You know what happened in ’29, when the stock market crashed? That affected my father and a million men like him. I just feel better having some of my money in cash here at home.”
“What’s in those manila envelopes on top of the cash?” I asked.
He gave me a tired look. “This is business, Tess,” he said. “It doesn’t concern you and please don’t worry about it. It has nothing to do with the police or the note from Teddy and you’re just going to work yourself into a tizzy. Trust me, all right?” He gave me a completely sincere look, so sincere that I nearly believed him. But I was utterly perplexed. He was a wealthy man. He had no need I could think of for this extra cash. Our new house was already paid for and there was plenty of money for furnishings and décor.
He leaned toward me and touched my cheek tenderly. “I’m sorry you’ve been worrying about this,” he said. “There’s no need to. Everything is fine.”
73
Henry and I ate dinner with Ruth that night and she was full of questions about Life magazine’s visit to the hospital, which had taken place that day. It was one of the more animated meals the three of us had had together. I might have enjoyed it if not for the fact that I was so filled with longing for Vincent I could barely eat.
The reporter and the photographers from Life had been low-key and respectful, although it seemed as though every time I turned around, one of them was standing behind me. They took pictures in the wards and on the grounds, the reporter marveling over what had been accomplished in such a short time. After the first couple of hours of having them around, the staff began to relax and we barely noticed the click of the camera and the pop of the flashbulbs. I knew I was in a few pictures, although whether any of them would be used in the article was anyone’s guess. I did wonder about the photographs taken in the admissions tent in the afternoon, when Vincent and I had been working together. I wore my surgical cap, mask, and gown, and even though my eyes were the only part of me that was visible, did they give me away? Was it obvious how in love I was with the doctor by my side?