I Will Fear No Evil (38 page)

(God knows I wish I could avoid it. Never mind, beloved; we won’t see him until you know—as I do—that we must. Now either shut up, or coach me in how to handle these brave men.)

(Well . . . I’ll help all I can. But you’ll never get them as easy as they were with me—‘kissing-friends’ easy, I mean.
I
was an employee.
You
are the Boss.)

(If that argument were valid, queens would never get pregnant. Sure it makes it harder. But you’ve given me a lot to work with. Want to bet?)

(Oh, sure, I’ll bet you a billion dollars you can’t kiss even one of them. Don’t be silly, Boss; we can never make a real bet, there is no way to pay off.) (You don’t have much practice being an angel, do you. little imp? You still think in earthy terms. Certainly we can make a bet and pay off to the winner. This baby in us—) (Huh! Now wait a moment—) (
You
wait a moment, Eunice. If I win this bet, I name our baby. If I lose,
you
have the privilege. Fair bet?)

(Oh. All right, it’s a bet. But you’ll lose.)

(We’ll see.)

(Oh, yes, you will, Boss. You’ll lose even if you win. Want to know why?) (Planning on cheating?) (Not necessary, Boss darling; you’re going to find that you
want
to name the baby whatever name
I
want it to have. Because you’re a sucker for a pretty girl, Boss, always have been and still are.) (Now wait a moment. I used to be, but now I
am
that ‘pretty girl’ and—) (You’ll find out. Do you want coaching? I’ll help you win if it can be done. It can’t.) (Yes, but tuck your advice in edgeways; I’ve been chewing this bone too long.) “Fred, I’ll trade you one of these Danish sandwiches for more wine. Then keep our glasses filled; Shorty doesn’t drink and Tom won’t and I want company in getting tiddly, this is my freedom celebration.”

(Fred might be easiest if you can get him over seeing ghosts when he looks at you.) “I don’t mind another glass, Miss, but I mustn’t get tiddly, I’m on duty.”

“Pish and tush. Tom and Shorty will get us home even if they have to drag us. Right, Shorty?” (Shorty is your impossible case. I managed it only by being ‘little girl’ to him—which you can’t be, Boss.)

“We’ll certainly try, Miss Smith.”

“Do I have to be ‘Miss Smith’ on a picnic? You called Mrs. Branca ‘Eunice,’ did you not? Did she call you ‘Shorty?’ ”

“Miss, she called me by my name. Hugo.”

“Do you prefer that to your nickname?”

“It’s the name my mother gave me, Miss.”

“That answers me, Hugo; I will remember. But it brings to mind a problem. Anybody want to fight me for the last black olive? Come on, put up your dukes. But that’s not the problem. I said I didn’t want to be called ‘Miss Smith’ under these circumstances. But I don’t want to be called ‘Johann’ either; that’s a man’s name. Hugo, you have christened babies?”

“Many times, Miss—uh, Miss—”

Joan cut in fast. “That’s right, you don’t know what to call me. Hugo, having named so many babies you must have opinions about names. Do you think ‘Joan’ pronounced as two syllables would be a good name for a girl who used to be a man named ‘Johann?’ ”

“Yes. I do.”

“Tom? What do you think?” (Tom would kiss you at the drop of a hint if you weren’t his employer. I don’t think he ever did give up hoping to catch me alone . . . so I was as careful not to let that chance come up as I was with Dabrowski. All it took with Tom was to say, ‘Tom, if you’re going to be stuffy about letting me pay for extra service’-it was an after-midnight run, Boss; a rare-blood call—‘at least you can kiss me good-night.’ So he did, quite well. After which Hugo was too polite not to lean way down and give me a fatherly little peck. But what worked for Eunice can’t work for ‘Miss Smith.’) (So watch me switch decks on them, young’un.)

“It sounds like a good name to me,” the driver-guard agreed.

“Fred? Do I look like ‘Joan’ to you?” She sat up straight and lifted her chest. (You look like you’re going to break that bandeau, if you aren’t careful.) (Pfui, little hussy; it can’t break. I want him to realize that I’m female.) (He realizes it. Winnie ought to be here to take his pulse.)

“I don’t see why anybody should get a vote but you. But, sure, I like it.”

“Good! I still have to sign papers with my former name—but I’m ‘Joan’ in my mind. But, friends, this country must have a thousand ‘Joan Smiths’ in it; I need a middle name. But I
want
one for a much better reason.” She looked with solemn seriousness at the giant black. “Hugo, you are a man of God. Would it be presumptuous of me to call myself . . . ‘Joan Eunice?’ ” (Boss, if you make my friend Hugo cry, I’ll—I’ll—I won’t speak to you the rest of the day!) (Oh, quit nagging! Hugo won’t cry. He’s the only one of the three who believes you’re here. He has faith.)

“I think that would be beautiful,” the Reverend Hugo White answered solemnly and sniffed back tears.

“Hugo, Eunice would not want you to be sad about it.” She looked away from him, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “That settles it. My new name will be—
is!
—Joan Eunice. I don’t want anyone ever to forget Eunice. Most especially I want you, her friends, to know this. Now that I am a woman, Eunice is my model, the ideal I must live up to, every hour, every minute, of my new life. Will you help me? Will you treat me as Eunice? Yes, yes, I’m your employer; somehow I must be both, and it’s not easy. But the most difficult part for me is to learn to behave and think and feel as
Eunice
. . . when I’ve had so many weary years as a cranky, self-centered old man. You are her friends—will you help me?” (Boss, did you ever sell real estate in Florida?) (Damn it, if you can’t help, keep
quiet!
) (Sorry, Boss. That was applause. As Hugo would say, ‘You done perfect.’)

Tom Finchley said quietly, “We’ll help. That goes for Dabrowski too. By the way, she called him ‘Anton.’ First she called him ‘Ski’ like the rest of us. Then she learned his first name and called him by it.”

“Then I will call him ‘Anton.’ Will you all call me ‘Eunice’? Or at least ‘Joan Eunice’? To help me? Oh, call me ‘Miss Smith’ when others are around; I know you won’t feel easy otherwise. You probably called her ‘Mrs. Branca’ if other people were—”

“We did.”

“So call me ‘Miss Smith’ when it would be natural for you to call her ‘Mrs. Branca.’ But when you called her ‘Eunice,’ call me ‘Joan Eunice’ and—dear and trusted friends!—any time you feel that I have earned it, please call me ‘Eunice.’ It will be the highest compliment you can pay me, so don’t use it lightly. Leave off the ‘Joan’ and call me ‘Eunice.’ Will you?”

Finchley looked at her, unsmiling. “Yes . . . Eunice.”

“Tom, I haven’t earned it yet.”

Finchley did not answer. Fred said, “Let me get this straight. ‘Joan Eunice’ is for everyday . . . but ‘Eunice’ means we think you’ve done and said just what Mrs. Branca would have.”

“That’s right, that’s what I said.”

“Then I know what Tom meant. Uh, this has been a touchy day—worse for you, I’d say, but not easy for any of us. Shorty—Hugo, I mean—said she was an angel. Or meant it, anyhow. I can’t argue; Shorty is a preacher and knows more about angels and suchlike than I do. But if she was—is, I mean—still, she had a lot of salt and pepper in her, too. You remember an hour back when you snapped at Shorty and yelled for Tom?”

She sighed. “Yes, I remember. I lost my temper. I’ve got a long way to go. I know it.”

“But that’s just what I’m
saying
. . . Eunice. She had a lot of spunk. It we had tried to make her eat by herself, she would have kicked the gong. Right, Shorty?—I mean ‘Hugo.’ ”

“Amen! Eunice.”

Finchley said, “Fred read my mind close enough . . . Eunice. But I was thinking of other things, too. I never thought of her as an angel, partic’arly. She just treated us like people.”

“Tom—”

“Yeah, Shorty? Hugo.”

“My name’s Shorty to you—and to you, Fred. Don’t put on any fancies. Hugo was Mama’s name for me. And hers. Yours, Eunice. But I near forgot what I had to say. Tom, that’s all anybody wants. To be treated ‘like people.’ She done it that way—Eunice. And now you do, too. ‘Like people.’ Mr. Smith didn’t quite manage it. But he was old and sick, and we made allowances.”

“Oh, dear! I feel like crying again. Hugo—when I was Mr. Smith, I never meant to be anything but people. Truly I didn’t.”

“Sick people can’t help being cranky. My Daddy got so mean before he passed on, I run away from home. Worst mistake I ever made. But I don’t fault him for it. We do what we do, then we live with it. Eunice—the first Eunice—is an angel now, my heart tells me and my head knows. But she had her little human ways, same as everybody. The dear Lord don’t fault us for that.”

“Hugo? If it had been me and not her, would I have made it? To Heaven?” (Om Mani Padme Hum! Watch it, Boss! He’ll drag you over to that creek and wash your sins away.) (If he wants to, I’ll let him. Shut up!)

“I don’t rightly know,” the preacher said softly. “I never knew Mr. Smith that well. But the Lord do move in mysterious ways. Looks like He give you a second chance. He always knows what He’s doing.” (Oh, all right, twin. Try not to get water up our nose.)

“Thank you, Hugo. I think He did, too—and I’m trying to justify it.” She sighed. “But it’s not easy. I try to do what Eunice would do. At least justify the second chance
she
gave me. I think I know what she would do now. But I’m not certain.” (I’d knock off all this talk, that’s what
I’d
do.) (Pipe down and give me a chance.) She looked around. “I don’t know how well you knew her and I keep learning things about her. I think you three—you four; I include Anton—must have been her closest friends, at least in my household. Certainly you knew her better than I had thought. Tom?”

“Yes, Eunice?”

“Did you ever kiss her?”

Her driver looked startled. “Yes . . . Joan Eunice.”

“Meaning Eunice would never ask such a question, she would just do what her heart told her to. I wanted to, Tom—but I was scared. Not yet used to being a girl.” She jumped up, stood by his chair, took his hands, pulled.

Slowly he got to his feet. She put her arms around his shoulders, put up her face—waited.

He sighed and almost scowled, then took her in his arms and kissed her. (Twin, he can do lots better.) (He will. The poor dear is scared.) Joan let him go without forcing it beyond his willingness, whispered, “Thank you, Tom,” and quickly left his arms.

—went on to Fred, took his hands. Again Fred looked frightened but he got up promptly. (What about Fred, Eunice? Sexy or sisterly?) (Too late, twin!) Fred embraced her with unexpected force, met her mouth so quickly that Joan was caught with her lips open and he at once answered it, savagely.

But briefly. He broke from it and both were trembling. (Eunice! What is this? You didn’t warn me.) (So I goofed. Later, dear. Slow march now and say three Money Hums and be darn sure to be an innocent child with Father Hugo.)

Joan went slowly around the table the long way, stopped by Hugo, waited. He got up from his chair, looked down at her. She moved closer, put her hands on his chest, looked up, face solemn, lips closed, eyes open.

Gently he put his arms around her. (My God, Eunice, if he really hugged us, he ’ud break us in two!) (He never will, twin; he’s the gentlest man alive.)

Hugo’s lips met hers in soft benediction, unhurried but quickly over. She stayed in his arms a moment. “Hugo? When you pray for her tonight, will you add a prayer for me? I may not deserve it. But I need it.”

“I will, Eunice.” He seated her with gallant grace, then sat down again. (High, low, jack, and game, twin—what are you going to name him?) (‘Eunice,’ of course!) (Even if he’s a boy?) (If he’s a boy, he’ll be named Jacob E.—for ‘Eunice’—Smith.) (‘Johann E Smith’ is better.) (I won the bet, so shut up. I won’t wish ‘Johann’ on a boy. Now what’s this about Fred?) (You won’t believe it.) (By now I believe anything. All right, later.) “Fred, is there any wine in that bottle? Hugo, will you open the second bottle? I need it, I’m shaky.”

“Certainly, Eunice. Hand me the bottle, Fred.”

“I’m going to eat some more, too, and I hope all of you will. Tom, am I still ‘Eunice’? Or am I a hussy who doesn’t understand how a lady behaves?”

“Yes, Eunice. I mean ‘No, Eunice.’ I—Oh, hell!”

She patted his hand. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had yet, Tom. You would never have said ‘Oh, hell’ to Miss Smith . . . but you know that Eunice and Joan Eunice—is human.” She looked around the table. “Do you know how
good
it is to be touched? Have you ever watched kittens snuggling? For over a quarter of a century no one kissed me. Except for an occasional handshake I don’t think anyone ever touched me. Until nurses and doctors started handling me. Friends—dear friends—you have taken me back into the human race, with your lips. I am so very grateful to Eunice—to Eunice Branca—that she kissed you before I did, and won your friendship—your love? I think so. For it meant that you let me in—treated me as ‘people’! Uh, tell me this, I must know—even if it makes you, Tom, call me Joan Eunice’ again. Did Eunice kiss Anton, too?” (Boss, I’m not going to tell you
anything
until we’re alone!) (Didn’t ask
you
, dear.)

“Won’t anyone tell me? Well, I suppose it’s an unfair question.”

Finchley said suddenly, “Teams shift around. I drive with Fred, and Shorty with Ski, and so forth. Been times when I rode Shotgun for Ski. Eunice, she treated us all alike. But don’t never think anything bad about it—”

“I don’t!”

“—because there wasn’t any such. She was so warm and friendly—and
good
—that she could kiss a man friend just for, uh—”

“For lovingkindness,” Shorty supplied,

“ ‘For lovingkindness.’ Kissed us thank-you and good-night as quick with her husband there as any other time. Always did, if we stopped for a late bit o’ supper with them.” (All right, twin. Fred and Anton. Not Tom and Hugo. Happened only once. Oh, Tom would have, but no chance, so I kept it cool. Hugo—nobody gets past Hugo’s guard and I never tried. He has moral character—something you and I don’t know anything about.)