Poison to Purge Melancholy (11 page)

“Let’s find a place we can talk in private.” Hugh’s brother led me out into the hall, which didn’t feel nearly so cozy as when I’d been snuggled against Hugh. “Mom’ll kill us if we go into the dining room while she’s setting up. How ’bout the back bedroom?”

I agreed, because I wanted to get out of the hall, and followed him to Beth Ann and Acey’s room, where he turned on the vanity lamp. The parchment shade cast an amber glow over everything. I sat on the edge of the sofa bed, facing the doorway, feeling less vulnerable that way, feeling somehow like I’d stepped into the room just in time.

Horse left the door open, but lowered his voice. “How are your knees? The aspirin help any?”

“A little.” Very little, but it
had
helped.

“I’ve been thinking. You said you went to Dr. Weisel, what, three weeks ago?”

I nodded.

“And you started having this pain when?”

“Beginning of last week.” What? Did he think Dr. Weisel had done something to my legs during the examination?

“Did he prescribe anything for you at the time?”

Blood rushed up my neck and into my cheekbones like a geyser. No way was I saying “the Pill” to Hugh’s brother. Nice Italian Girls are raised by stricter censors than the folks who do Disney cartoons.

“I’m a doctor, Pat. Nothing you tell me will go beyond this room.” Then he made it easier for me. “Did Dr. Weisel put you on birth control pills?”

Another nod.

“Ever take them before?”

This time I shook my head.

“How long after you took the first dose did your knees begin hurting?”

I shrugged. “Less than a week. Is that it? Is this just a side effect?”

Horse ignored my question. “This ‘bad circulation’ in your family—any of your relatives ever have thrombosis? Blood clots? Specifically in their legs?”

Blood clots were serious, weren’t they? “I—I don’t know—yeah, I think someone mentioned them.”

“Anyone you could ask to find out for sure?”

“Aunt Sophie.” Keeping track of who died and how was a hobby of hers.

Horse unhooked his cell phone from his belt. “Would she be home now?”

I glanced at my watch. Twenty to seven. “Probably finishing up dinner.”

He held out the phone to me. “Go on. Call information if you need the number.”

“I know it.” Taking the cell, I punched in the digits, wondering why this was so urgent. And feeling my stomach roll over in response to his urgency.

My cousin Lucretia answered. “Yo, Pat! How you doing? Hey, everybody, it’s Pat, calling to say Merry Christmas!” She had to yell—the phone was on the kitchen wall, right around the corner from the dining room, but when you stuff a small space with Italian-Americans, all talking at once, it gets loud.

I felt guilty, because I should have
thought
to call and wish them all Merry Christmas. “Lu, can you put your mom on?”

“Hold on—no, wait, she’s pouring the coffee. Here, talk to Dad a minute.”

Uncle Leo wouldn’t get up from his place at the head of the table, I knew, and Aunt Sophie didn’t trust portable phones. They had one of those extra long cords, though. I pictured everyone ducking around it to keep from getting strangled as the receiver was passed.

“’Tricia,” Uncle Leo said in his raspy voice, a result of smoking too many stogies over more than half a century’s time. “You doin’ okay? You need anything?”

“No, Uncle Leo. I’m good.
Buona Natale
to you.”

“
Buona Natale
. Lemme give you your Aunt Filippa.”

So I got handed around the table and had no choice but to wish every aunt, uncle, cousin, and cousin’s kid a happy holiday. In my family, you didn’t dare snub anyone. Not that I’d want to—if I’d been doing this on my own phone—of course, I couldn’t afford the long distance right now. Still, hearing their voices, I realized how much I missed them all.

At last, Aunt Sophie came on. I got the formalities out of the way—wished her
Buona Natale
and asked how her cannolis turned out this year.

“Ah,” she sighed, sounding like disaster had hit. “I tried making the shells with those metal cylinders. Next year I’m going back to my corncobs.”

I was willing to bet her finished product was flawless. Her cannolis always were, though she always claimed some catastrophe visited annually.

“You know who died?” Aunt Sophie went on. “That Messalina girl from Penn Street.”

The name meant squat to me, though I translated “girl” to mean someone Aunt Sophie had gone to school with, and “from” as being before World War II. I tried to break in with my real reason for calling, but she gave me three more obits, then switched gears.

“Did Lu tell you about Marcella? You oughta know, before you call my sister Lydia.” She assumed I’d phone all of Dad’s surviving siblings, but that, naturally, she’d been first. “Her husband left her.”

“Cella’s Ron?” My aunt used pronouns freely—“her” might have meant Marcella, Aunt Lydia, or the Messalina girl.

“Yeah, Ronny. Left Marcella for the girl who cut his provolone every week at the Acme Market. Shoulda never let Ronny pick up their order. Marcella coulda done it after work.”

Last I heard, Cella not only had a full-time job, on top of raising two kids, but was going to night school for her master’s. Regardless, she and Ron had been together since high school (we all graduated in the same class) and, like I said, we Montellas love fiercely. I wanted to ask how Cella was taking it and if her kids were okay. Horse, though, was showing signs of impatience. I vowed to contact Cella soon as I got home, and interrupted Aunt Sophie’s litany of “shoulda”s to ask my question.

“Blood clots?” she said. “That’s what Pop died of.”

“My grandfather?” He’d died before I was born. I’d never thought to ask how.

“Your Uncle Mario had one, too, when he was laid up with his first heart attack. And your cousin Nicola when she was pregnant. Remember? Landed her in the hospital and she almost lost little Joey. Mario’s taking blood thinners now. So’s Lydia—what’s that, ’Lippa? . . . Filippa says she is, too. Me, I just take an aspirin a day.”

“So did Dad,” I suddenly remembered.

“If you’re having trouble, Patricia, you go to a doctor. You want, I’ll make you an appointment with Dr. Saluti. Come up on the train and Leo’ll meet you at the DeKalb Station.”

I spent an extra minute convincing her there were doctors in Virginia. Even if there weren’t, Uncle Leo’s driving would be worse for my health. Then she wouldn’t let me hang up until I promised I’d go to mass for Christmas. Finally, I managed to get off the phone and handed it back to Horse. “Sorry that took so long.”

Smiling, he shook his head. “Consider it a Christmas present.”

I thanked him, thinking it was the best gift anyone could have given me this year—I was more homesick than I thought. Then I related the family medical woes.

His smile disappeared and, for the first time since we’d met, he actually looked grave. “You shouldn’t be on birth control pills with a family history of thrombosis. Didn’t you read the warning on the package insert?”

“I didn’t see any insert. Dr. Weisel gave me two months worth of sample packs and—”

“Unsealed?”

“Only one card was open, but that’s the one I used first.” I felt stupid, so I overjustified. “I mean, each pill is individually sealed, and a doctor gave them to me, so I figured they were safe.”

“But the insert was missing,” he said, disgust in his voice, though it didn’t seemed to be aimed at me. “Did Dr. Weisel give you a full examination before prescribing the pills? Did he ask you questions about your medical history and your family?”

“He asked if I smoked and if I had any known medical conditions. Then he gave me a regular check-up.” Like I said, I was out of there in fifteen minutes.

Horse scowled, looking very much like Hugh when Beth Ann was being stubborn. “Stop taking the pills immediately. Continue two aspirin a day for at least a week. Drink lots of water. Stay off your feet as much as you can this weekend. You’ll need some blood work first thing Monday morning, along with an ultrasound of your legs and a lung scan.”

“Lung scan?” Now I was scared.

“A precaution,” he hastily assured me. “I don’t think you’ve been taking the pills long enough to do real damage, but we have to check for clots in your lungs and legs to be sure. If I thought you were in real danger, I’d take you to the hospital right now.”

Hugh suddenly filled the doorway. “Mom just gave the three-minute warning. Wants us all in the parlor.” He saw the grave look on his brother’s face, glanced at me, then back at Horse. “She okay?”

Horse relaxed, but still seemed unhappy with the situation. “She’ll be fine. Just needs a few tests.”

Hugh turned his face back toward me, surveying me head to toe. I usually loved his once overs, but right now I felt like a favorite pet with worms. “Is it what you thought?”

What I thought? I was about to ask him what he meant when I saw Horse nodding.

“What?” I said to Horse, standing. “You discussed this with Hugh? What happened to patient confidentiality? ‘Nothing you tell me will go beyond this room,’ you said.”

“No.” Hugh came into the room and took my hand. “Other way around. I consulted Horse. Called him a few days ago, told him you’d been having a lot of pain in your knees and asked if he’d come early today—check you out before everyone else showed up.”

“You did that behind my back,” I squawked.

“I tried to get you to go to a doctor,” Hugh argued.

“After the holidays.” I’d told him a dozen times already. Though, really, I’d procrastinated because my health insurance didn’t cover office visits.

“I know, but with Horse being an orthopedist—”

“It’s a good thing he called me, Pat,” Horse put in. “Another week or two taking those pills and—”

“
And
,” I added, even madder at Hugh, “you told him I was on the Pill, didn’t you?” Because how else would Hugh know what Horse thought?

“I asked him,” Horse said, holding up a hand as if he could calm the waters, “after I heard you’d seen a GYN in the past month. But I promise, Pat, from now on I won’t talk to Hugh about it unless you’re present, and only with your permission. Let’s get back to the parlor,” he added, dismissing the discussion. “I’m starving.”

“Ladies and gentlemen sitting by the fire,
Put your hands in your pockets and give us our desire.”

—from
Recollections of Samuel Breck
, quoting from a
mummers play he witnessed in America, circa 1780

December 24, 1783—On the Streets of Williamsburg

’Twas Master Tom who
fetched us from the Eagle. Some small bit of reveling had begun in front of the taverns, though the hour was early and elsewhere the streets were quiet.

Tom led us within the walls of the old capitol, into the shadows on the north side where, in the dim glow of a hooded lantern, Sam stood beside a handbarrow piled with the clothes that would be our costumes. Where he had procured the raiment, he declined to say. He himself was dressed in a black frock coat and britches, with a long green waistcoat, all a bit tattered and hanging loose upon his lean figure.

For Will, who due to his tall stature was our General Washington, Sam had foraged a moth-eaten blue coat. The wool strained over Will’s broad shoulders, the fabric tearing further to accommodate his girth. The sleeves were a cuff too short. However, the military trousers fit well enough, if Will remembered not to sit or stoop.

Jim was to be King George, and the red brocade coat Sam handed him seemed tailored to his form. But no sooner was it on, than Jim wrinkled his nose. “What is that stench?” As he moved, I detected the odor myself—both sweet and fetid.

“Some inferior breed of wig perfume,” Sam replied, handing Tom a long black cloak to cover his clothes. “Perhaps a bit spoilt with time.”

“A bit!” Jim protested.

“’Twill do you no harm,” Sam assured him.

“Indeed,” Will said, “as King George, sir, you
should
have a stink about you.”

We all laughed, Alex the loudest, until Sam presented him with a woman’s shift and petticoat, and to go atop, the most homely gown any of us had ever seen.

My own costume was a fringed white hunting frock big enough for Goliath, so its length and girth hid my coat and britches. I tied the excess lengths of sleeve up about my wrists.

Next we took grain sacks with eyeholes cut in them, to place over our heads and tuck into our collars. Masks were a tradition, I knew, but a precaution besides, for other mummers out this night—those with ruffian natures bolstered by excess of drink—might bring trouble. And if trouble brewed, the constable was apt to seize all revelers who’d been recognized.

Beneath the pile of costumes lay two muskets (Sam’s and my own) and a pair of fine pistols.

“My grandsire’s,” Tom said, as Sam gave a hand weapon each to Jim and Will, “and my father’s after him.”

“We’ll take good care of them, lad,” Jim said as he primed one pistol with black powder from the horn he’d brought along, and a wad of paper from his pocket. Will did likewise. Sam and Alex took up the muskets, charging them with blank cartridges they’d rolled for the occasion.