The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (26 page)

H
alf of Papa’s
face seemed on fire as he burst through the door. Staring at him, Grace dropped
the plate that she was drying and gaped, not even hearing the china shatter.
The top part of Papa’s countenance wore a mask of shining, blistering crimson.
His eyes shut against the horror.
Are his eyes even there anymore?

The smell of
burning flesh – she knew she’d never forget the nauseating scent – preceded him.
Papa stumbled forward, falling, hands feeling for the way into the kitchen.

Grace felt
frozen to the spot where she stood near the sink, unable to move her hands from
the dish towel or her feet toward Papa. He rolled on the floor in agony, hands
clasping his head.

But Mama…!
Barely had Papa fallen when Mama let the broom drop right where she’d been
sweeping up the crumbs from the sandwiches they’d eaten for lunch. The broom
fell with a crash, and Mama ran to Papa’s side, her huge stomach bouncing
beneath her housecoat.

Mama’s reaction
shocked Grace after the frigid separation between the two of them for so long,
but there wasn’t much time for pondering it. Kneeling down, Mama grabbed Papa’s
hands away from their scraping at his face and gripped them tightly in her own
fists. All while struggling to tame Papa’s agonized flailing, Mama shouted out
to Grace, “Get me a bowl of cold water!”

Mama’s sharp
voice snapped through Grace’s immobile state. She grabbed a bowl from the
cupboard above her head, letting the doors bang shut while she dashed to the
sink. The cool water poured from the faucet, taking so long to fill the mixing
bowl. Her eyes fastened on the stream of water, Grace’s ears took in the
wild-animal groans coming from Papa. A glance over her shoulder showed that he
still thrashed like a rabbit caught in a boy’s snare.

There! The water
filled the bowl. Without bothering to turn off the faucet, Grace pulled the
bowl out of the sink and hastened to Mama’s side, recoiling at the sight of
Papa.

“Set it down
there!” Mama commanded, not taking her eyes off Papa for a second. Grace’s hands
trembled as she obeyed. “Get me a rag!” Mama directed, but then she saw the
dish towel hanging from where Grace had tucked it into her skirt’s waistband.

“Never mind!”
Mama let go of Papa’s hands and plucked the towel from Grace. She plunged it
straight into the cold water and pulled it out, laying it sopping wet across
the top of Papa’s head and face, leaving just his mouth uncovered so that he
could breathe, Grace guessed.

Papa had stopped
pawing at his face. He lay stiffly with his head in Mama’s lap, gasping and
moaning. Tremors began to shake his body, so slowly at first that Grace could
hardly discern them, then stronger and more pronounced. “Grace,” Mama breathed
out the words quickly, “get the doctor. Run!”

Grace scrambled
to her feet, tripping over the hem of her skirt, hearing it rip a gaping hole
at the waistband seam. She glanced back just once before plunging out the
screen door into the harsh evening air. Crouched there on the wooden floor,
Mama held the soaking towel on Papa’s face, rocking back and forth from hip to
hip. She stayed silent amid Papa’s moans.

Not daring to
waste another moment, Grace clattered down the back steps. The dog rushed from the
side yard, barking at her and wagging his tail, but Grace didn’t pause for a
second. Toward the wooded path she ran like a young child, mindless of
appearances, catching her hem on low branches. Unable to see clearly in the
dusk, she fell in the mud-filled path twice, scraping open her knee on a tree
root the first time and nearly twisting her ankle the second time.
Get the
doctor, Grace! Get the doctor!
Mama’s words played in her mind to the
pounding rhythm of Grace’s flying feet. The memory of Papa –
her
Papa –
groaning and floundering across the floor boards joined the phrase and spurred
her on to an even faster speed.

By the time she
reached the almost-vacant Main Street, the March twilight had become night.
From Main Street, it was just a short sprint to Doctor Philips’ tidy house-and-office.
A lamp shone in the bay window, pink roses stenciled around its globe. Panting,
Grace cut across the lawn. Her cold fingers fumbled to open the white-washed
gate, fairly glowing in the darkness.

The latch seemed
stuck, and she jerked it toward and away from her, desperate to open it.
Mother
of Jesus, help me!
With a final yank the latch gave way. Grace let the gate
rattle shut behind her and dashed up the brick pathway to the doctor’s neat front
porch.
Doctor Philips won’t be in his office now; he’ll be in his house,
finishing supper.

Her fist slammed
into the ornate door, not paying mind to the brass door-knocker hanging just
above her eye-level. She pictured the doctor pausing over his supper, raising
his eyebrows at his syrupy-as-candied-sweet-potatoes wife, and rising to get
the door. “I’ll answer it, Dolores, dear,” he’d say, dabbing at his mouth. He’d
put aside his napkin and…

Grace’s eyes
swung from their roving back to the door as the knob turned. She opened her
mouth, ready to ask the doctor to come with her. To beg, if necessary.

But the doctor’s
wife, not the doctor himself, waited on the other side. “Yes?” she inquired,
her silvery head tilted to one side. A look of slight irritation spread across
her face when she glanced down to see Grace’s muddy shoes dirtying her pristine
porch. Known to be a fastidious housekeeper, Mrs. Philips always reminded Grace
of one of those fancy house finches.

“Please, ma’am,
I need Doctor Philips to come with me right away,” Grace pleaded, her breath emerging
in faint white puffs.

The doctor’s
wife smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sorry, but that’s
impossible. Doctor Philips is away this weekend at a medical conference in
Boston.” She emphasized the last phrase, as if to impress and intimidate Grace
with Doctor Philips’ importance.

Get the doctor!
“But…” Grace
trailed off, panic setting in.

The woman began
to shut the door until there was just a crack left open. “If you need medical
assistance, you can visit Doctor Kelver in Smithfield. He’ll be happy to help,
I’m sure.” She smiled again to close the conversation and inched the door shut.

But Grace
stopped her from closing it with a desperate hand. “Please! It’s an emergency,
ma’am! My father burned himself – I don’t know how – and we don’t have a way to
get him over to Smithfield – and-”

“Well, then,
you’ll have to call the ambulance if it’s a real emergency, dear. I’m sorry that
I can’t be of more help. Goodnight.” The door clicked shut decisively, and Grace
let her hand fall to her side.

There was no
money to pay a hospital bill; Grace knew that.
We can’t call the ambulance.
Doctor Philips would have accepted milk and butter, maybe some eggs, in
exchange for his services, whether his wife liked it or not. The hospital, on
the other hand, didn’t accept that last relic of the barter system. Its cold
white halls demanded cash money, which the Picolettis did not have. And neither
Mama nor Papa would beg for charity, even for an emergency such as this.

Who can help us?
Who?
From the corner of her eye, Grace saw the curtain move; the doctor’s wife
waited for her to leave the clean-swept porch. Her heart thudded in her chest
as Grace made her way down the steps.
Where can I go? Who will help us?

The bells of First
Baptist rang out sharp and clear in the night, announcing the hour. The notes
touched Grace’s ears even as the chill wind brushed her hot cheeks. And she
knew to whom she would go.

Paulie.

Paulie Giorgi’s
father was a doctor. She would go to him. Paulie had mentioned once that he
lived on River Avenue, and Grace knew that she could find him.

T
en minutes
later, Grace gasped up the even tidier path to the Giorgi house on the east
side of town. She hadn’t even needed to knock on someone’s door to ask which
house belonged to the Giorgi’s; Doctor Giorgi had engraved his last name on a
stone pillar at the beginning of their long driveway. Pruned-back rose bushes
lined the walkway, and they bowed to her like commoners to a princess.

Some princess,
Grace thought,
slowing down as she reached the four marble steps ascending to the front
entrance. A porch light illuminated the front area fairly well. Enough so that Grace
could see how very dirty she’d gotten, falling through the muddy, slushy wooded
pathway from her home to town.
It can’t be helped… If something happens to
Papa…

Gritting her
teeth, Grace clambered up the four steps and pressed the doorbell hard. She
heard it ring through the large rooms within the house, and she drew her
dirt-smeared hands behind her back. Then, she caught sight of the hole yawning
at her waistband and remembered how she’d stepped on her skirt in her hurry to
get a doctor. Undecidedly, she pulled one hand from behind her back to cover
the tear, then put it behind her back again…

The door opened.

“May I help
you?” a puckered voice inquired.

Grace gathered
all of her courage and met the middle-aged woman’s vigilant eyes. “Please,
ma’am,” she panted, “I need to see Doctor Giorgi!”

“I am Doctor
Giorgi’s housekeeper. I regret to say that the doctor is in his study and
cannot be disturbed.”

The door
threatened to close, but Grace, desperate, stepped forward, gripping the
doorpost so that the woman would have to shut the door on her hand. “Please,
ma’am! It’s my papa who’s hurt. If you’ll just tell Doctor Giorgi that Grace
Picoletti is here…”

The housekeeper
shook her head. “I don’t care who you are, young lady. Doctor Giorgi gave explicit
orders-”

“Grace, is that
you?” The familiar boyish tone brought a blush to her cheeks, and she found
herself glad for the dark night and the shadows in which she stood.

Sure enough, Paulie
peered over the housekeeper’s shoulder. Mrs. McCusker pursed her lips but made
way for her master’s son. “Grace! Thought I heard your voice.” He grinned in
his old way, dimples showing. “Boy, am I glad to see you!” He seemed to really
mean it, too.

“Hello, Paulie,”
Grace managed. She let him catch her eyes at first but found herself unable to
maintain the connection. What must he think of her, despite that smile, when
their last words had been so sharp on her part?

“So… why did you
come here? I mean, so late at night?” Paulie asked. Mrs. McCusker lingered in
the background, pretending to inspect the hall mirror for dust.

“I need your
papa – I mean, your dad,” Grace blurted out, realizing the minutes were ticking
away. How long had it been since she’d left Mama with Papa lying in her lap?
Twenty minutes? Even longer? “He’s a doctor, right?”

She saw that her
words took him aback for a second. “Why?” he questioned.

It was a strange
request, she knew. “My papa. He got burned. Bad, I think. Doctor Philips isn’t
home. I tried…” The words tumbled over each other, but somehow Paulie seemed to
make some sense of it.

“Well, hey, come
in, Grace. I’ll get Dad. No problem there.” He swung the door open wide for her
to enter and rushed off, down a long brightly lit hallway. As Paulie called for
his father, his voice fairly echoed in the vast house.

Mrs. McCusker
stood to the side, chin raised, allowing Grace to step into the house. Clutching
the hole in her waistband, Grace hurried inside, head ducked. The door shut
decisively behind her.

She glanced up.
Mrs. McCusker stood guard parallel to her, the housekeeper’s droopy eyes
pinning Grace to the square of tile upon which she stood.

The woman
needn’t have worried. Grace had no plans to move farther into the rooms filled
with domed antiques. The silent yellow lights above her head glinted off the
crystal vases and, in the room just off the entryway, gleamed on chandeliers.
Like
a palace.
Grace dropped her widened eyes to her smeared shoes again.
My
socks are filthy,
she mused, glumly staring at her besmirched,
formerly-white stockings.

In just a few
moments, hurrying feet sounded on a staircase somewhere nearby, and then came
nearer. Finally, Doctor Giorgi strode into the entryway, followed by Paulie
tagging along right at his elbow. Dressed in casual but well-tailored trousers,
the doctor rolled his sleeves down as he walked.

“Grace, what
brings you here?”

She glanced up
to see a warm smile stretching across Doctor Giorgi’s face, lighting up his
tanned olive countenance and crinkling the corners of his eyes. That smile
emboldened her to ask what she must. “Will you come? My papa’s hurt bad – got
burned – Doctor Philips ain’t home,” she explained, realizing too late that
she’d slipped back into low-class speech in her nervousness.

Doctor Giorgi’s
eyebrows knit together. “If he’s hurt badly, why not call the ambulance?” He
cocked his head.

Shame colored Grace’s
face, and the richness of her surroundings pummeled her. “Ain’t no money for
that,” she forced herself to mumble, scrunching her toes inside her shoes and
feeling the place where the soggy cardboard edge met the sole.

The housekeeper
sniffed. “Well, if that isn’t nice, Doctor!” She folded her arms across her
shriveled bosom and stared at Grace with smirking eyes. “She expects you to
work for nothing, I guess. Those n’er-do-wells—”

“Mrs. McCusker, have
the goodness to be silent, please,” Doctor Giorgi interrupted, and Grace
wondered at the soft authority his voice held. He kept his gaze on Grace, and
she knew he took his housekeeper’s words into small account. “I’ll be right
back with my bag,” he stated. “Son, wait here with Grace, please.”

“Sure, Dad,”
Paulie agreed, a study in seriousness.

Doctor Giorgi
could not return soon enough for Grace’s comfort. As the loud hall clock ticked
the slow seconds, Paulie sought to catch Grace’s eyes while she kept them
locked on the freshly-vacuumed carpet. Whenever she lifted them, she found Mrs.
McCusker staring at the hole in her skirt, chin tucked deep into the fold of
flesh at the housekeeper’s throat.

“All set,”
Doctor Giorgi announced as he reentered the hallway at last. One hand grasped
his black leather medical bag, and the other held his coat. “We’ll drive,” he
said.

“Can I come,
too, Dad?” Paulie spoke up.

Grace’s heart
skipped a beat before she heard his father’s answer. “Yes, son. I may need you.
Let’s go; we’ve wasted enough time.”

Conflicting
emotions swirled in her chest as Grace followed Doctor Giorgi out to his
intimidating car. Silver-gray with shining mirrors, it waited in the driveway;
a man – Grace guessed that he must be an employee – had driven it from its
place in the garage. He stood holding the driver’s side door open for the
doctor.

“Thank you,
Taylor,” Doctor Giorgi said to the stocky man before hurrying over to the
passenger side. With the courtesy due to royalty, Paulie’s father opened that
door and gestured. “Grace,” he invited.

Awed and pleased
in an uncomfortable-sort-of-way, Grace slid past Doctor Giorgi and into the
front seat. Seeing the smooth leather interior, feeling its soft give beneath
her light weight, Grace regretted that her filthy dress would surely dirty it.
Well, she would try to keep her muddy shoes from soiling the floor too much, at
least, by holding them slightly above the mat. It might be difficult to keep
her balance thus, but Grace had her pride, too.

Paulie jumped
into the backseat, and Doctor Giorgi placed his black bag beside his son before
going over to the driver’s side and entering the car himself. “Alright,” he
said, “and where do you live, Grace?”