Ask a Shadow to Dance (15 page)

Bob sat down, still holding the book. “Give me one day to review the documentation. We want to do this right.” He pressed the intercom button.

“Yes, Dr. Townsend?”

“Melanie, clear my schedule tomorrow from four o’clock on. Designate two hours to Dr. David Stewart.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Bob stood, offered his hand to David, then Joe. “Thanks, gentlemen, for turning an otherwise dull afternoon into something quite extraordinary.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Bob.”

“Thank me day after tomorrow, when we see what we have.”

In the car, Joe shook his head and laughed. “I have to admit I never expected him to go for it.”

David leaned back, resting his head against the seat. “I knew Bob in school. He was undisputed king of the practical joke, and his jokes always had some psychological theory or dictum as a basis. He’d write up what happened to the victims and turn them in as assignments—case studies.”

“Nice guy.”

“Yeah. I’ll never forget the time he got us all. We’d just come in from a dull lecture—some professor specializing in … I forget … and we found Bob upstairs in the frat house, lying in a bathtub, covered in blood. Swear to God, it looked like someone had hacked him to death and dumped the body in the tub. A couple of guys started to gag and vomit, somebody ran to call the police, then Bob sat up and said, “How was the lecture? Murderously boring?”

“I’ll bet you wanted to kill him for real!”

“Some of the guys were really mad, but most of us were so relieved we could only laugh. Bob had used catsup and body paint to create the illusion. I never went into that bathroom again without the image flashing through my mind of Bob lying there in all that blood.”

“So, what do you think will happen tomorrow? Is this another of his jokes?”

“I don’t think Bob would joke about this. And who knows what will happen? The clock is ticking, even though it’s a hundred years old. I can’t let that bastard hurt her again. And I have to tell her …”

Joe waited a moment. “Tell her what, David?”

David laughed, startled by what had passed through his mind. “Never mind. Take me by the library, then drop me off at home. I’ll get my car later. I have some reading to do before tomorrow.”

* * * * *

At home, David settled into his recliner with a dozen or so books he’d checked out on Memphis history. Before he was ready for bed at midnight, his mind was swimming with dates and facts, some interesting but useless in this situation, others immensely interesting and potentially quite useful.

The yellow fever epidemics were foremost in his mind, simply because of the number of them. Six!
Beginning in 1828, followed by outbreaks in 1855, 1867, 1873, 1878 and 1879. The worst was 1878, killing more than five thousand people. This epidemic prompted the state legislature to revoke Memphis’s charter in 1879. It wouldn’t regain the charter until 1893, but in the meantime, it would become “the cleanest city in the country,” and its growth would be assured.

David thought about living in 1885, when the threat of another bout with yellow fever had to be on everyone’s mind. Could he stand to watch people die without being able to help them? Even if he were able to take a supply of drugs, they’d eventually run out. There was no way he could vaccinate everyone against the fever. He could at least vaccinate himself, Portia, Jacob and Lisette. A chill ran down his spine when the possibility occurred to him that Lisette might be the one in need of a specific drug—one which he’d depleted helping others—and that she might die, just as Fran had. Could he live with that?

It was a question he’d have to answer before he went any further.

Chapter Eight

They had an early supper that evening, Aunt Portia, Jacob and Lisette. Consumed with questions and problems, she hardly spoke while they ate. Aunt Portia seemed content to let her think, understanding she had to work out the details of a plan to rid them of Andrew for good. She’d told Aunt Portia she had such a plan, but, in truth, it was nothing more than vague wishes that refused to coalesce into a workable scenario.

She concentrated, instead, on the pleasure of sitting at this table with the people she loved, having dinner just as they had years ago. The table was covered with a white cloth, set with Grandmother Cecelia’s China and crystal. A huge arrangement of gold mums stood in the center of the table. The gasolier cast a soft glow, softening Aunt Portia’s lined face and muting the blankness dominating Jacob’s features since he’d come downstairs this evening. The portraits of her grandparents and her mother completed the family and lent such warmth to the room, Lisette found it difficult to swallow the lump in her throat.

The silence apparently bothered Aunt Portia. She fidgeted,
then rearranged the food remaining on her plate. Finally, she dabbed at her lips with a napkin and stared at Lisette until she smiled.

“Lisette, you’ve eaten practically nothing. Are the Boston baked beans scorched? I tried to watch them, but—”

“They’re delicious, Aunt Portia. The roast and potatoes are perfect, the beans are perfect, and the apple pan dowdy has tortured me all afternoon with its scrumptious fragrance. My mind is simply full—”

“I understand.” She glanced across the table. “Jacob, you aren’t eating, either. I swear—”

His eyes suddenly turned back into his head and his back arched so drastically that Lisette feared he would snap his spine. She leaped from the chair, as did Aunt Portia, and together they grabbed him, sagging, and lowered him to the floor, trying to keep his head from striking the edge of the table. By this time, his body shook as though buffeted by a strong wind. His lips were turning blue. A strangling noise came from his throat.

Lisette held his head in her lap and screamed at Aunt Portia to bring something to put in his mouth. A spoon inserted between tongue and teeth brought the tongue back into alignment and the strangling ceased.

Aunt Portia wrung her hands. “Dear God, what is wrong with him? Jacob, can you hear me?”

“It’s a seizure, Aunt Portia. There’s nothing I know to do except keep him breathing until it stops.” She’d seen James in a seizure much like this one, when he was ill with yellow fever. The doctor said high temperatures were the cause, but her father’s skin felt cold and clammy. “Get a quilt.
And a pillow. We can’t let him get too cold.”

She hurried away and came back with two quilts which she draped over him. “What else can I do? Tell me what to do!”

“There’s nothing else. As soon as he stops shaking—”

He relaxed into her arms. At first she thought he was dead, but his breathing resumed and color returned to his pasty face. She removed the spoon from his mouth. A trickle of blood came from his lip where he’d bitten it. She dabbed at the blood with a napkin from the table.

“Thank the Lord.” Aunt Portia bowed her head and murmured a prayer of thanks.

“Help me get him upstairs.
Call Sedonia.”

Aunt Portia hurried to the kitchen and brought Sedonia and Seth back too. With the four of them lifting, they were able to get Jacob across the room to the bottom of the stairs. It took everything they had to move him, as he was nothing but dead weight in their arms.

“We’ll never get him upstairs. We’ll have to make him comfortable down here.”

“But where?”
Portia asked.

Lisette cast about for a good place.
“The music room. We’ll make him a pallet on the floor. Sedonia, bring more quilts.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Seth, move the furniture around in there to make a space next to the far wall for Mr. Morgan. Quickly!”

“Yessum!”
Seth disappeared into the music room.

The bumping of furniture indicated he had taken the orders seriously. Lisette tried not to think about the scars he might inflict on those expensive tables and chairs. Right now, her father was all that mattered.

The door. The sound of knocking gave Lisette a shiver. She tried to ignore it, but Aunt Portia could not. She opened the door without looking first to see who it was.

Andrew took one look at Jacob lying at the foot of the stairs, his head in Lisette’s lap, and bolted through the door.

“Good God, what has happened here?” Andrew tried to take Jacob but she elbowed him away.

“Don’t touch him. He’s had a seizure. Another could kill him.”

Andrew knelt, lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Let me help you, Lisette. I can carry him upstairs. Please.”

She had never seen this side of Andrew. Under the circumstances, she really had no choice.

“Very well. I’ll show you where to take him.”

Andrew lifted Jacob and followed her up the wide staircase, being careful to protect him from the banister on the left and the wall on the right. He carried him into the bedroom and waited while she hurriedly threw back the covers. Then, with tender care, he laid Jacob on the bed and bent to remove his shoes.

She stood back and watched while Andrew prepared Jacob for bed. Easing off his jacket, Andrew hesitated before removing the trousers.

“He’s my father. I’ll be caring for him. Take them off and give them to me. They’ll have to be laundered.”

Andrew nodded, removed the trousers and covered him to the neck with the sheets and quilts. Then he turned to her. “What else can I do?”

She had no idea how to respond to this behavior. In all the years she’d known him in New Orleans, he’d never had a kind thing to say. His jealousy of her place in his father’s life—and the fact that James was not willing to share her favors with his son—had been evident from the moment James had brought her to New Orleans. Andrew had never held his tongue about how he felt. Sincerity or true sympathy
were emotions she had considered him incapable of feeling. Could it be she had misjudged Andrew all these years?

“Lisette, is there anything else I can do to help you?”

She gathered her composure. “No, Andrew. But thank you. I appreciate your help more than you know.”

“When did this happen?”

“At table. Only a few minutes before you arrived. We were making a place for him in the music room since we could not get him up the stairs.”

“Well, if you should have to move him again, I will gladly help in any way I can. Have you sent for the doctor?”

“No. There hasn’t been time. Perhaps Aunt Portia—”

“Lisette!
Lisette, the doctor is here!” Aunt Portia hurried into the room followed by a short, round man with a balding pate and thick spectacles. “This is Doctor Samuels. I sent Seth the minute Andrew got here. Oh, Doctor, please tell us he’s going to be all right.”

Doctor Samuels took one quick look at Jacob. “I’ll need to examine him. If you’ll all wait downstairs, I’ll take care of everything.”

They went into the hallway. Lisette lingered at the door for a moment. “If you need anything, Doctor—”

“I’ll call you. It won’t be long, I promise.”

She closed the door. Andrew followed them downstairs. Sedonia was pacing from the front door to the stairs, her face a mass of wrinkles and worry-lines. “Is Mister Morgan going to be all right?”

Aunt Portia hugged her. “The doctor is with him now. We’ll know soon. Thank goodness Doctor Samuels lives only four houses away.”

Sedonia took Seth and went back to the kitchen, promising to bring tea. Lisette went straight into the parlor and collapsed into a Sleepy Hollow armchair with plush upholstery that made it more comfortable than most of the other furniture in the room. It had always been her favorite place to curl up as a child, to read or to listen to Aunt Portia’s stories. Aunt Portia sat on the settee. Andrew paced back and forth a couple of times, then sat down on the Turkish sofa.

For a long while, no one spoke. Lisette’s mind whirled with worrisome thoughts and suppositions. Her father would require more care now than ever before. Remembering when James suffered his seizure and the agonizing weeks afterward, she felt as though someone had constricted her chest with a tight band. The work involved in taking care of a complete invalid was staggering, even when that person was a loved one. Aunt Portia would never be able to manage it, and even with two of them it would take all their time and energies to keep up with the demands of caring for him.

Then there was Andrew. She honestly did not know how to feel about him anymore. He gazed into the fire with the oddest expression. There was no hate there, or anger. He seemed lost in thought, with a sad turn to his lips.

Doctor Samuels came back downstairs just as Sedonia arrived with a tray carrying tea, cups, saucers, and pastries.

Lisette met the Doctor at the bottom of the stairs and escorted him into the parlor. “How is he?”

“The best I can tell, blood vessels in the brain have broken. There’s bleeding. In severe cases, holes are drilled in the victim’s head to allow the blood to escape—”

Aunt Portia gasped and paled at the suggestion.

“— I don’t think that will be necessary for Jacob.”

Lisette motioned for Doctor Samuels to sit down and offered him tea, which he declined.

“He’s already feeling better. Whatever you did when he had the seizure was the right thing. He opened his eyes, followed the movement of my hand,
then went to sleep. We’ll know more in the morning.”