Then Mr. Rainwater had asked, “What did he say to you as he left?”
“Something about me being on the wrong side.” She had remembered word-for-word Conrad’s parting shot, but the paraphrase omitted the personal connotation, which she’d rather not share with Mr. Rainwater.
He had dropped her at home, apologizing for not walking her to the door. “I need to get back to Hatcher’s place right away. I probably won’t be back by dinnertime.”
“Take care.”
He’d touched the brim of his hat and driven away, looking like a man who’d won his first battle and was returning to the front, flush with excitement over his victory and eager to experience more of it.
By nature, Ella wasn’t a fighter and avoided confrontation whenever possible. All the same, she envied Mr. Rainwater’s—indeed, any man’s—freedom to return to the fray and have his mettle tested.
After the sisters finished their dinner and went into the parlor to play cards, Ella coaxed Solly into eating. Margaret looked on, bragging on each bite he took. The maid was in good spirits tonight, having heard from Ella the outcome of the showdown. She’d extolled the courage of Brother Calvin, Mr. Rainwater, and the other men for standing up to Conrad, saying it was “’bout time that bully got his comeuppance.”
Ella doubted they’d heard the last of Conrad, but she kept her misgivings to herself.
While Margaret finished the dishes, Ella put Solly down for the night and said good night to the spinsters as they made their way upstairs, arguing over the score of their gin game.
Margaret intended to stop in shantytown before going home. Ella sent her off with two baskets of leftovers, then ate her own dinner alone at the kitchen table. Just as she was finishing, she heard a car. She made her way quickly to the front door and tried not to reveal her disappointment when she saw Dr. Kincaid huffing up the steps onto the porch.
“Good evening, Mrs. Barron,” he said when he saw her through the screen. “I hoped to catch you before you went to bed.”
She unlatched the door. “My bedtime will be a while yet. Come in.”
As soon as he was inside, she motioned him toward the formal parlor. “Would you like a glass of tea?”
“No thank you. I just finished dinner. Is David here?”
“He’s out tonight.”
“Hmm.” He removed his hat and took a seat. “I received this today and wanted to share it with you as soon as possible.”
He extended to her a large envelope. It had been opened. Ella sat down and withdrew several typewritten sheets clipped together. She read the letterhead, scanned the top sheet, then looked at the doctor expectantly.
“He’s a well-respected specialist,” he explained. “He’s conducted several studies. I told you I’d written to doctors around the country, asking for information about idiot savants. One of them remembered my request and was kind enough to send this to me. The article was published several months ago in a medical journal. I thought you’d find it interesting and encouraging. I did.”
“Thank you.” She flipped through the pages, reading the paragraph headings which had been underlined.
“Some of the children with developmental impairments similar to Solly’s are being taught to speak and read with comprehension, quite effectively in some instances,” Dr. Kincaid said. “Of course, no one, not even this world-renowned specialist, can boast one hundred percent success, but any measurable improvement is a stupendous step forward, wouldn’t you say?”
She held the sheets against her chest, crossing her hands over them as though clutching a treasure. “Thank you, Dr. Kincaid. You can’t know how grateful I am for your interest.”
“I believe I do,” he said, smiling.
She told him about Solly’s achievement that day. “He’s only putting dominoes in a line and in numerical order, but I doubt most children his age would have the concentration or the attention span to be that … um …”
“Meticulous?”
“Yes.”
“So says the doctor in his paper,” he said, nodding toward the sheets she still clutched. “That preciseness is a common trait among children with Solly’s symptoms. After reading about this study, I believe I was wrong to urge you to keep him medicated. No one actually knows the mental capacity of savants, and that capacity no doubt varies from patient to patient. Solly can’t communicate the level of his intelligence, so we have no way of knowing what his capabilities are. He may be limited to lining up dominoes, or he may harbor a brilliant mind. In any case, you owe it to him and to yourself to make that determination if it’s at all possible to do so.”
She told him she’d written to several schools. “I haven’t received any replies yet, so I don’t know what will come of my inquiries. These particular institutions may have no experience with children like Solly. If they do have suitable curriculums, the expense of enrolling him would probably be prohibitive.” She paused, then added quietly, “Besides, I can’t imagine sending him away.”
“Even if it was the best thing you could do for him?”
“He may not qualify, Dr. Kincaid. The choice may not be mine to make.”
“But if it does come down to being your choice …”
Unprepared to commit, she murmured, “We’ll see.”
After a moment, he slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up. “I should run along. Mrs. Kincaid is silly about going to bed before I get home.”
Ella showed him to the door and profusely thanked him again for bringing her the research paper. “I can’t wait to read it thoroughly.”
“I think you’ll find it enlightening. After you’ve had time to digest the information, let’s talk again.”
“Certainly.”
His gaze moved to the upper floor, then came back to her. “How’s he doing?”
She knew he was no longer speaking of Solly. “He got snippy with me yesterday. He’d told me repeatedly that he was feeling fine, but I continued to badger him. He finally had enough.” That was essentially the truth. The doctor didn’t need to know the details of why her hovering had nettled Mr. Rainwater. “Ordinarily he’s so even-tempered.”
“He can also be bullheaded. He was the most stubborn child I’ve ever run across. Not bratty, just persistent. Once he set his mind to something, he would wear you down until he got his way.” He chuckled. “I also remember him pitching a temper tantrum or two when he didn’t.”
She couldn’t envision Mr. Rainwater throwing a tantrum, but she could imagine him being mulish. Twice, his steely resolve had forced Conrad to stand down.
Dr. Kincaid frowned. “You said he was out.”
She nodded.
“I suppose he was at Alton Hatcher’s ranch today. And in shantytown tonight.”
Again she nodded.
“I tried to discourage his involvement in this business. You don’t want Conrad Ellis and his gang as enemies.”
“I tried to tell him that, too, Dr. Kincaid. It did no good.”
The doctor sighed. “It wouldn’t.”
“Has he always been committed to causes like this?”
“Lost causes you mean?”
“Why do you say it’s a lost cause?”
“Because throughout history there have been bullies, and I don’t think that’s likely to change. During this economic depression there are going to be those who suffer, and vultures who take advantage of their suffering. Others, angry over the situation, will take out their anger on blameless people, committing theft, assault, even murder in increased numbers. But, just so I don’t sound like an old codger, a prophet of doom and gloom, let me add that hard times can also bring out the best in people.”
“Like Mr. Rainwater.”
“The answer to your earlier question is yes. David typically takes up for the underdog. I think he grew up feeling guilty for the advantages he was born with.”
She would never have asked what those advantages entailed but was glad when Dr. Kincaid volunteered them.
“David’s father inherited thousands of acres of good land, and he was a savvy cotton grower. He made a lot of money during the Great War. David learned the business, literally from the ground up, and he was a quick study. By the time he was an adolescent, he knew more about cotton growing and marketing than most men who’d been in the business for decades.
“Dutifully he went to college and learned even more about business. Upon graduation he became a successful broker in his own right. He got top dollar for his cotton, and smaller farmers trusted him to get the best possible price for their crops, too. He did well, and he still owns the acreage that made his daddy rich. The market is so low now, he only cultivates a fraction of it, but he hasn’t cast off a single tenant. The yield and income from it is substantially less than it’s been in years past, but when this depression is over … well, the land isn’t going anywhere, and there will always be a market for cotton.”
What he was telling her, without coming right out and saying so, was that David Rainwater had significant money. “He could live anywhere. Why here?” she asked.
“For one thing, he wanted me to treat him. Don’t ask me why. I guess that once he’d received the diagnosis and was told he was terminal, he wanted to be near family. Mrs. Kincaid and I are his only family.”
“He never married?”
“No, but not for lack of opportunity,” he said, laughing softly. “Every single lady in North Texas tried to nab him. David’s an attractive man, but I imagine there were gold diggers among his admirers. He suspected that, too. I asked him once why he remained a bachelor when he had lovely ladies throwing themselves at him. He told me he was holding out for a woman who wanted him for himself, not for his means.”
Thoughtfully he tugged on his earlobe. “A wife could be of great comfort to him now. I wonder if he laments his decision to remain single.” Then he shook his head. “If I know David, he doesn’t. He’s not one to look back with regret.”
Ella was still curious as to why Mr. Rainwater, who apparently could afford better, would opt to live in a boardinghouse. “He could be in a house of his own,” she mused aloud. “One much grander than mine.”
“He had a house of his own. He left it and came here. I suppose he’d rather not be alone while going through this. I think he much prefers the family atmosphere to solitude.” He looked at her for a long moment, then put on his hat. “I really must say good night. Let me know what you think of the research paper. It goes without saying to call me if David takes a downturn.”
“Of course. Good night. Thank you again.”
After seeing him off, she went back into the parlor, took a seat near the brightest lamp, and began to read the medical report. She was going through it a second time when Mr. Rainwater returned.
She was at the door before he reached it. When she saw him, her heart surged to her throat and she gasped.
“It’s all right,” he said quickly. “It isn’t my blood.”
“Good Lord.”
“I told you it was messy business. I can’t come into your house like this. Do you mind if I go around back, use the faucet in the laundry shed to wash up?”
“I’ll bring a bar of soap and a towel to the back door.”
“Could I also trouble you to fetch me some clean clothes?”
“I’ll bring them right down.”
He descended the front steps, then disappeared around the corner of the house. Ella hurried upstairs to his room. She found shirts and slacks hanging neatly in the closet, and hesitated only a moment before opening his bureau drawer and taking out a pair of undershorts and a pair of socks.
She had touched his undergarments before, when she and Margaret did laundry. But they always left their boarders’ clothes folded on the bed. It was disturbingly different to take such personal items from his bureau drawer.
From the bathroom, she got a cloth, towel, and bar of soap, then hastened downstairs, through the kitchen, to the back door, where he was waiting. She pushed open the screened door. He reached for the items, but she withheld them. “If you touch the clothes, they’ll only get blood on them. I’ll carry them out for you.”
“Thank you.”
She picked her way across the dark backyard to the shed and set his clothes and the articles from the bathroom on the worktable where she kept detergent and bleach. “There’s no light out here.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not for red meat.”
She smiled at his wryness. “I made chicken salad for tomorrow’s lunch.”
“I’m troubling you already.”
“I’ll fix you a sandwich.” She left him. Before she entered the house, she heard the squeal of the faucet being turned on and the splash of water.
She made the sandwich, then put it on a plate along with sliced tomatoes and a wedge of cantaloupe. She also cut a piece of pound cake and put it on a separate plate. Not knowing what he would want to drink, she put an empty glass at the place setting and fixed a pot of coffee, leaving it on the stove ready to brew if he asked for it.
Then she sat down, her back to the door, and waited.
When she heard him pull open the screened door, she turned. He was standing on one leg, pulling on his sock. “My shoes are filthy. I’ll have to clean them in the morning, when I can see better.” He switched legs and pulled on his other sock, then walked into the kitchen.
He smelled of soap. His hair was wet, finger-combed back off his face. “I left my clothes soaking in a washtub. I hope that’s all right.”
“Margaret will see to them in the morning.”
“I can’t ask her to do that.”
She motioned him toward the table, where his supper was waiting. “She’ll do it gladly. Since she heard about your face-off with Conrad, you’re her hero.”
He looked at the food. “I didn’t think I was hungry, but this looks awfully good. Thanks.”
“I can get a tray if you’d rather eat in your room.”
“Here’s fine.” He pulled the chair from beneath the table and sat down.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Milk, please.”
She filled the glass beside his plate, but after replacing the milk bottle in the icebox, she was unsure what to do next, leave him to eat alone, or join him at the table?
He looked up, his mouth full. He swallowed. “What’s the matter?”
“Do you want company?”
He slid his chair back and stood up. “Mrs. Barron?” He indicated the chair across the table from him. “Please.”