Hush Now, Don’t You Cry (17 page)

“That won’t do much good,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “Dr. Wilkins is the old-fashioned kind. Hasn’t taken to the electricity yet, nor the telephone.”

“Then what am I going to do?” I demanded. “Daniel is running a dangerously high fever. He’s delirious.”

“We’ll have to send somebody for the doctor,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “Too bad the master didn’t bring his chauffeur this time. Can that footman boy drive the automobile?”

“I’ve no idea,” Father Patrick said. “But I have driven a vehicle a couple of times in my life. I expect I can manage it. Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll go and fetch the doctor myself.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” I was on the verge of tears.

“You’ll find him on Spring Street,” Mrs. McCreedy said. “White clapboard house just up from Narragansett Street. You’ll see his brass plate outside.”

I watched him go back upstairs. “I must get back to Daniel,” I said. “But I don’t know what to do.”

Mrs. McCreedy patted my shoulder tentatively. “Don’t you worry, my dear,” she said. “I’ll come over to the cottage and stay with you until the doctor arrives.”

“Thank you.” I muttered again, feeling a tear now trickling down my cheek. Their kindness was almost too much to bear.

We helped open the gates, then went to the cottage. I heard the sound of cranking, then the
pop-popping
sound as the engine came to life The big vehicle jerked forward in a rather hesitant manner as if its driver was not the most skilled, but at this stage I didn’t care. Mrs. McCreedy followed me in through the cottage door. I picked up the lamp and carried it up the stairs. I could hear Daniel’s ragged breathing a mile away. So could Mrs. McCreedy.

“He sounds terrible,” she said. “I reckon it’s turned to pneumonia. That’s how my poor husband went, God rest his soul.” And she crossed herself.

I went over to Daniel and touched his burning forehead. He moaned again. All I could think was that I had made light of his illness when he had probably been rather sick for the past two days. It felt as if I had somehow brought this on myself.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” Mrs. McCreedy said, going down the stairs and leaving us alone.

It seemed an eternity before I heard the sounds of a motor again and the scrunch of tires on the gravel. Then I heard the front door open.

“Hello?” a voice called.

“Up here, doctor,” I called and heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Now what have we got here?” he asked. “I hope it’s serious. I’m getting too old to be dragged from my bed at three in the morning.”

Before I could answer he looked at Daniel and shook his head. “My, my. That doesn’t sound good, does it?”

His manner changed and he was all business. He undid Daniel’s nightshirt, brought out his stethoscope, and listened to Daniel’s chest. He took Daniel’s temperature, making little
tut-tutting
noises. Then he looked up at me. “I’m afraid I’ve no good news,” he said. “As you may have gathered, your husband has developed an inflammation on the chest. To put it shortly, pneumonia. There’s not much we can do for him but make him comfortable and hope for the best. In my early days in medicine we’d have tried a purge or even a bloodletting, but both those are
pooh-poohed
in these days of modern medicine. All I can suggest is to keep the windows closed. Keep him bundled up and try to sweat it out of him. If he can drink give him water.”

“That’s all? Would something like aspirin help?”

He gave me a cold stare. “I’m still suspicious of these newfangled medicines, young lady. From all I’ve heard, aspirin is helpful for headaches,” he said. “I’ve no doubt he’s got a whale of a headache at this moment but it’s the least of his problems. No, I’m afraid all you can do is make him comfortable, let him ride it out, and pray.”

He gathered up his things and stuffed the stethoscope into the black bag. “I’ll return in the morning,” he said. “And in the meantime—” he put a hand on my arm. “I’m afraid you should prepare yourself for the worst. The chances of survival are not ever the best with pneumonia.”

“Would he be better off in a hospital?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Would they be able to do more for him there?”

“There’s nothing they could do for him in our small hospital,” he said, “and the ride to Providence over bumpy roads could well finish him off. But he looks like a fit and active fellow. So we won’t give up hope, will we?” He attempted a positive nod that didn’t exactly come off as sincere. Then he patted my arm and left.

Eighteen

“You’ll be all right alone with him, will you?” Mrs. McCreedy asked, setting a tea cup down beside me. “I should be getting back to the big house. I don’t like to—I mean it will soon be dawn and I need to make sure those girls are up to light the fires in the bedrooms.”

She gave me a sympathetic smile.

“Thank you. There’s nothing you could do anyway,” I said, “except say a prayer for him.”

“I’ll do that, my dear. I’ll say a rosary. We’ll put him in the hands of Our Lady. She’ll take good care of him.”

I nodded, wishing I had her faith. Presumably she’d said a rosary when her husband was dying of pneumonia and it hadn’t helped. She got as far as the door, then turned back. “Look, I’m sorry I was short with you the other evening,” she said. “When you came about the chicken. I had no idea your man was so poorly. You startled me, you see. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

“I understand,” I said. “You gave me a turn too when I opened that door and saw your face on the other side.”

“I’ve been a bit jumpy these last few days,” she said. “This whole visit didn’t seem natural from the beginning, and then you and your man turning up like that.”

I nodded again, wishing she would go. Frankly I had no desire to sit chatting with her while my husband tossed and turned in his fever.

“And now that the master has been taken from us—well, I’m all of a tizzy. I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”

“I’m sure it will all turn out just fine.” I put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Whoever inherits the house will want you to stay on.”

She nodded. “Ah, well,” she said at last. “I’d best be going. I’ll send one of the local girls round in the morning to look after you. You’ll not be wanting to cook and clean with your man lying in this state.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m often awake during the night.” She went quietly down the stairs as if trying not to wake a sleeping child and I got the impression that this was a woman whose nerves had been on edge for some time—long before Brian Hannan had announced that he was bringing his family to the cottage for an October stay.

I turned my attention back to Daniel and sponged his forehead. “Can you try to take a drink, my darling,” I whispered and attempted to lift his head. Again he fought me off, thrashing so that he kicked off his covers. Dutifully I replaced them. Another bout of coughing followed, then more rasping breaths. He was fighting for air now.

As I sat on the bed beside him, watching him, other pictures flashed into my mind. I saw myself as a fourteen-year-old standing at my mother’s bed, watching her die. And the Irish patriot Cullen Quinlan dying in my arms as he spirited me to safety after the failed Dublin uprising. And each time that feeling of utter hopelessness, of anger and frustration that I wasn’t God and I couldn’t save them, whatever I tried. Now the thought struck me that I was to be a widow before I even had a chance to learn what it was like to be a wife, before Daniel and I really learned to love and appreciate each other, before there were children …

I had resisted marrying Daniel, even though I knew I loved him, because I wanted to savor my independence for as long as possible—thinking, of course that we had all the time in the world. And now I knew with absolute clarity that I didn’t want to be alone and independent anymore. I didn’t want to struggle and deal with danger. I wanted to be part of a joint life, with someone at my side, someone on my side. I squeezed back tears. I was not going to cry. I had been strong in situations as tough as this and I was not going to give in now.

“You can beat this, Daniel,” I said loudly. The sound echoed around the small room, bouncing back at me from the slanting ceiling. “You’re a strong man. Fight it. Keep fighting, do you hear?”

I looked around and started in terror as a tall figure in black with a skeleton’s face stood in the doorway watching me. My first reaction was that it was Death, come to claim Daniel. But then he said softly, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but the door was unlocked so I thought I’d let myself in and save you the trouble of coming downstairs.”

He stepped into the circle of lamplight and I saw that it was Father Patrick, dressed formally now in his priests’ robes and wearing a stole. “I came to see if I could be of any comfort,” he said, “and to offer the last rites to your husband.”

“He’s not going to die,” I said fiercely.

“Let us pray that he won’t, but knowing the terrible reputation of the disease would you not want him anointed anyway, just in case, so that his soul goes straight to his maker?”

A battle raged inside me. I had renounced my religion long ago when I had clashed with narrow-minded, judgmental priests, seen the injustice and suffering in the world and all those prayers going unanswered. But Daniel’s Catholicism meant more to him. He had insisted that we marry in a church. And I got the feeling it wasn’t just to please his mother and the family friends. Deep down I felt that he still believed. So could I deny his soul the right to be washed clean of its sins? Could I condemn him to years of purgatory because of my stubbornness?

I took a deep breath. “Very well,” I said. “It’s probably what he would want.”

“I think you’ll find there is a lot of comfort in the sacrament—for the receiver and for those who witness it,” he said and brought out a little silver box, opened it and set out various little vials. Then he made the sign of the cross and commenced to mutter the prayers. The familiar Latin words hung in the air like incantations. I kept expecting Daniel to open his eyes, sit up and say, “What the deuce do you think you’re doing?” but he didn’t. He didn’t react at all when Father Patrick anointed him with the holy oil of the sick. The sacrament was finished. He started to put the vials of oil back in the silver box, then stepped back.

“His soul is now at peace,” he said. “At least we’ve done one good thing for him, haven’t we? It’s always good to know we’ve done everything we can to make up for…” He looked at me with eyes that were incredibly sad. Of course I remembered then that he’d just lost his brother. Brian Hannan’s death had been pushed from my mind in this crisis.

“I’m so sorry about your brother,” I said. “I can tell that you’re grieving.”

He took a deep breath. “My brother was a good man,” he said. “It was a terrible waste that he had to die now. He could have accomplished many things.” He went to say more, then closed his eyes. “A sad loss for the family.”

I took a deep breath. “I never had a chance to thank you for fetching the doctor, Father. It was good of you to think of us at this sad time, and to bring the sacrament to my husband when you were not able to do the same for your poor brother.”

He nodded. “It was the least I could do.” He placed the last of the sacramental vials back in the box and closed the lid with a sharp little snap.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Daniel. He seemed to be breathing more irregularly now. “Do you believe that the souls of the just go to Heaven? That there is such a place?” I asked.

“Yes I do. I most definitely do,” he said.

“And the souls of the damned go to Hell if you die in mortal sin? You believe in that too?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid that I believe that there is no pardon for the damned.”

“And last rites can make a difference?”

“It is always good to die in a state of grace,” he said. “It’s what we all hope for.”

At least I had done that for Daniel. I sat staring at him, listening to his rasping breath.

“Is there anyone you’d like notified?” Father Patrick asked. “Friends or family? I would be happy to have telegrams sent for you.”

“You’re very kind,” I said. “Yes, I suppose I’d better let his mother know.”

“Then write down for me what you want to say and where it has to go.”

I went downstairs to find a piece of paper and noticed the letter to Sid and Gus lying on the hall table. I couldn’t send that to them now. Suddenly I decided that I wanted them to know. I had to send them a telegram too. I wrote:
Daniel pneumonia outlook not good.
Then I copied down the addresses of his mother and of my neighbors onto a sheet of paper. I wondered if I should send a telegram to police headquarters but I decided there would be time for that later, after—I stopped that thought before it was allowed to take shape.

Father Patrick had come down the stairs behind me. I handed him the piece of paper. He took it without saying a word, then nodded. “His mother lives out in Westchester County, I see. Not too far from my present assignment.”

“You’re in the Hudson Valley? I assumed you were a priest in New York City,” I said.

“I had to leave the city years ago, for my health,” he said. “Since then I’ve been in smaller parishes in rural settings. More to my liking, away from the dirt and noise of the city. I’m currently at St. Brendan’s in Granville. Do you know it?”

I shook my head, wishing he’d stop talking and go away when all I wanted to do was be at Daniel’s bedside.

I held out my hand. “Thank you again,” I said. “You’re most kind. Especially when you’re grieving the death of your brother.”

“It’s my priestly duty,” he said. “At least I try to do that.”

I watched him walk back toward the house. As he went I looked up and thought I saw a light winking in a turret window. I blinked, stared again, but the light had gone and the turret loomed as part of that great shape in the darkness.

I went back to Daniel. He did seem to be sleeping a little more peacefully now and I hoped that somehow he had felt the presence of the sacrament. I perched on the edge of the bed beside him and took his hand. It felt hot and dry, and a memory flashed back to me unbidden of being handed a baked potato fresh from the oven by my mother. His lips looked cracked and I tried again to tip some water through them. He coughed and spluttered as the liquid ran down his throat.