The Devil's Beating His Wife (2 page)

My back was turned towards him. He probably couldn't see the anger that flared when he said those words. Night was fast approaching, and there would be no evening flights back to the States. I was stuck here until morning, and I knew that this man would keep me here until I told him what he thought he wanted to hear.

"What happened to Spicey?"

"What?"

"Baxter, I asked about Spicey. Since you didn't invite her in, what happened to her next?"

"She stood there on the porch, waiting for her mother."

"You didn't tell her to go around back?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Shifting my gaze from the fire, I turned towards the doctor. "Is this really relevant?"

He held his pipe near his mouth. His dark eyes widened for a moment, and then he blinked and settled the pipe against his lips. No smoke came out as he chewed absentmindedly on its bit.

"Tell me. What does Spicey look like?"

"As a child?"

"No. As a woman."

Finally the doctor had settled onto a subject I enjoyed. Images of Spicey had gotten me through the nights spent hiding in trenches. Memories of our few, brief conversations had been my lifeline when the infection had ravaged my body.

"She's beautiful," I said. "She grew to be just as tall as her mother. Probably coming up to—" I lifted my hand and made a line at my nose. "Here on me. She has a heart-shaped face with a small dimple in her chin. Her skin is a rich dark brown, probably the color of your chair, doc." I lifted my hand and rubbed the back of my neck as her image crystallized in my mind. "She usually wears her black hair in a bun at the back of her neck. She's never been too concerned with her looks. I mean, she's always neat and well put-together, but she don't spend hours primping and pressing to impress nobody. I like that about her. Them other girls would put all of that color on their faces, hoping to catch a man's attention."

"Have you and Spicey kept in contact while you've been in Europe?"

The temperature shifted again. I had added too much wood to the fire. Now the room was stifling. The syrupy-thick air caught in my nose, and I began to feel light-headed as I fought to drag fresh air through my nostrils.

"Baxter, come take a seat." The doctor lifted my water glass from the table, and refilled it to its rim. He set it down, and motioned for me to move forward. "When was your last meal?"

That took me a moment to recall. "I had an early lunch."

"It's well past suppertime. Take a seat and I'll ring the canteen." The leather chair rocked when Doctor Finley jerked from his seat. Grabbing the telephone on his desk, the doctor turned his back to me and stared out the window.

"Good evening, Mrs. Harris." There was silence as he listened to Mrs. Harris. "Yes, I know how much my little phone calls put you out. I am deeply sorry for the inconvenience." He turned around and shrugged in my direction. Cupping the receiver, he mouthed: "Won't be a moment." Nodding, he continued to listen to her tirade. "Soup would be lovely, and perhaps a slice of that brown bread you make. I've been meaning to ask if you would share the recipe. No, no. I mean it. It's quite nice. Yes, ten minutes will be fine. Thank you, Mrs. Harris."

Hanging up the phone, the doctor turned to face me. He clapped his hands with satisfaction. "Job well done, that."

"Is the bread truly that good?"

"No. It's dreadful."

I laughed. The doctor grinned. Returning to my chair, I took the glass of water into my hand and allowed the coolness to sink into my palm. "Mrs. Harris planning to do what the Krauts couldn't do, doc?"

He cackled. "It'll fill your stomach and calm your mind. It, quite frankly, is better than nothing. Now, why don't you tell me more about your Spicey? I can tell that she is very special."

"How long until the food gets here?"

"Won't take long at all. The canteen is just a few meters down."

"Can we finish talking after dinner?"

"We've a few minutes yet. Tell me more about your girl."

"You're very persistent."

"Very."

"It's quite annoying."

"Baxter, there's a mystery here that needs unraveling. I've always been keen on a good mystery."

Sipping my water, I considered his words. Mysteries usually involved a crime of some sort. My story definitely involved a crime.

"No mystery, doc. I know all of the particulars."

"Yes, but I don't."

"And you don't need to."

"Someone needs to hear it. Otherwise, these terrors will just escalate. Come now, tell me what it is that frightens you."

That caught my attention. "I'm not afraid."

The doctor nodded slowly. His eyes narrowed for a moment, and his thin lips pressed together. Inhaling sharply, he turned his face away, creating distance between us. It was an emotion I didn't expect from the doctor. Anger happened when someone felt frustrated or betrayed. This was my story, not his.

"You disagree?" I asked.

When he turned back to me, the calm smile was once again in place. His dark eyes twinkled with amusement as he cocked his head. "I have nothing pressing this evening other than this conversation. Perhaps we can cease with the dodge and parry?"

"Is that why you got so angry just now?"

The doctor watched me, the smile hovering on his lips. Sniffing loudly, he took the brown glasses from his nose and briskly cleaned them with his handkerchief. "You're very astute, Lieutenant."

"You address me as Baxter when you're trying to con me. You call me Lieutenant when you're trying to distract me."

"Very astute."

"Look, I ain't tryin' to be a bother, doctor. I just want to go home. I've been away too long and this whole session just seems like one more unnecessary hurdle. You know what I mean?" I watched the doctor settle the glasses on his face. He glanced at the clock. Hope flared in my chest that he was going to let me out of this farce.

He poured himself a glass of water and took a few sips. "Your supper is late."

"Well."

"Lieutenant Bennett, the anger you saw was not intended for you. I am highly frustrated with our lack of time. To be perfectly frank, it usually takes a few sessions before my patients feel comfortable enough with me to share their inner thoughts. Unfortunately, we do not have that luxury. I can't force you to trust me, but I hope that you will."

There was a light knock on the door. The doctor looked at me before swinging his gaze to the door. "Come in."

A pretty blond-haired girl entered the room, carrying a tray. Her round cheeks darkened with a rosy blush and her pale lashes fluttered as she peeked at me. Her lips curled upward slightly before falling into a passive line.

"Here's the supper you ordered, doctor," she said. My experience with English accents was limited, but I could tell she wasn't from these parts. She might have been from the north, but don't get me guessing where.

Stealing another glance at me, the girl set the tray on the table before me. She smiled at me but addressed the doctor. "You need anything else?"

"No, Nelly, that will be all. Wait, no." He laughed with embarrassment. "How about tea?"

Glowing with pleasure, the girl turned towards the doctor and said, "Will do, Doctor Finley." Glancing in my direction, she said shyly, "And for you, sir?"

I unleashed the full force of my smile, knowing its impact on these Englishwomen. They seemed fascinated by my American arrogance. "The soup's for me. I'm good for now, darlin'."

The rosy color of her cheeks darkened. She scampered from the room, murmuring, "I'll return in a jiffy."

I watched her leave. The doctor watched me. Clearing his throat, he waited for me to look in his direction before he said, "Nelly's a pretty girl, don't you agree?"

"Very pretty."

"But not like your Spicey?"

I lifted the brown bread from the tray and smeared a dollop of preserves on it. In a moment of perverseness, I took a huge bite and smiled in the doctor's direction.

I immediately regretted my smug attempt at a diversion. The bread was by far the driest, most disgusting thing I had encountered in a long time. That was saying a lot, considering the Army rations I'd lived on for the last several months. In spite of the sawdust crammed into my mouth, I attempted to smile, showing no hesitation to finish the bread.

"Sticking in your mouth, isn't it?" asked Doctor Finley. "Have at it. I'll wait."

He watched me as I ate. I went through each item, meticulously savoring everything, even though each dish was even more flavorless than the one before it. Finally finished with the brown bread, I took a long swallow of water, hoping to wash away the last of the sawdust.

The clock ticked as I fought the urge to gag. The doctor watched, genuinely amused at my predicament. Except for the sounds from the fire, the room was silent. The quiet grew out of control until I finally set my emotions aside and told the doctor what he thought he wanted to hear.

"I watched him die and did nothing about it."

The doctor leaned forward and folded his hands together. His feet tapped the floor, creating a slightly hypnotic beat. "Was this someone under your command?"

"No."

"A friend of yours?"

"No. It wasn't supposed to go that far, but it did."

"What did, son?"

"Carver said all we were going to do was teach that boy a lesson."

"Carver? Was he the one who died?"

"No."

"Who died?"

"Her brother."

"Who is Carver?"

"My brother."

The doctor's gaze wavered. The benign smile disappeared, replaced by a look of sorrowful disappointment.

"This young man," he said, "the one who died, he was Spicey's brother, wasn't he?"

For a moment, I thought another bite of that sawdust had magically appeared in my mouth. I could only nod in response.

"I see." Doctor Finley sat back in his chair. He glanced towards the fire. "I think I understand."

"Do you?"

He turned back to me. "Your Spicey really isn't your Spicey."

Those words pierced my heart. The gnarled muscles of my destroyed leg clenched with displeasure. The words found their way out of my mouth.

"It was just Spicey, her mother, and her brother. I don't know about the father. I don't think he was ever around when we were growing up. No one ever spoke of him. That brother of hers was a few years older than us. A big strapping boy who intimidated everyone that crossed his path. They all looked to him like some savior or something. He was just like his mama, not knowing his place. One day, he disappeared and we all—the white folk—thought he'd run away, just like his pappy. Months passed and then he re-appeared, wearing a starched, white Navy uniform."

My leg grew angry. The spasms were persistent now. I began rubbing the knots, hoping to ease the tension. "That brother of hers always had an uppity attitude. Refused to acknowledge the white folk he encountered. He walked around like he owned the town, and his attitude only got worse when he came back some kind of sailor." The pain was so bad now that I doubted I could think straight enough to finish the story. "Do you have any pain medication?"

Doctor Finley stared at me for a moment. His smile was long gone. His right arm moved to the side table beside his chair. He pulled open a drawer and fumbled inside until he grasped a pill bottle. I could hear the pills rattle around inside. He opened the top and raised it in my direction. I held out my palm, and the doctor poured a pill into my palm.

"I need more than that."

"That shall do," he said, closing the bottle. He tossed it back into the side desk. Crossing his legs again, he cupped his chin with his hand. He stared at me, waiting for me to continue my tale.

I tossed the pill into my mouth and took a drink of water. A dose that small wouldn't put a dent into the pain, but maybe it would be enough to get me through this hellish appointment.

"What happened, Lieutenant?"

Clenching my hair, I tugged until the pain was strong enough to overcome the agony in my leg. Taking a deep breath, I forced the words out.

"Some people said that boy tried to mess with my sister-in-law, Mary-Alice. A few people said he had stolen something from Carver, and they were afraid if he wasn't punished then the other niggers would get it into their heads that they could act up. But Carver—" I paused to fill my lungs with air," he said he just didn't think it was right for a nigger to wear a uniform. For a nigger to go to war when he couldn't."

"What did he mean?"

"Carver was born with a bad leg." I laughed and glanced down at myself. "Now my parents have two boys with lame legs. Well, because of Carver's leg, he couldn't enlist. The Army turned him away, while they snapped me up. I was the perfect recruit, and my parents couldn't be prouder. They never said anything against Carver because it wasn't his fault he had a bad leg, but I knew they were disappointed they couldn't send both of their boys to fight the Krauts."

"So Carver was jealous—"

"My brother ain't jealous of no nigger."

"Pardon me." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of his own. "I should have said that your brother was disappointed he could not fight in the war. He felt that his place, his opportunity, had been taken by Spicey's brother. Is that right?"

"That really don't make no sense. Carver's a white man. His place would have been in a different unit and likely in the Army. But if I'm honest with myself, I know that when he saw that boy in that uniform, all of his limitations came to the fore. It didn't seem right. Like it was an injustice."

"So your brother sought his own justice?"

My lips clenched together as I tried to force out the truth. "Yes."

A knock at the door stilled my words. The doctor looked at me, frustrated at the interruption. He glared at the door. "Nelly, girl, is that you?"

The door swung open and the pretty blond entered the room. Her sweet innocence was a stark contrast to the hatred and bitterness that had darkened the room before her arrival. She placed the tray on the side table near the doctor. She lifted the teapot and began to pour the hot water into a teacup.