The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (27 page)

T
he short ride
across town passed in a blur. Doctor Giorgi attempted no conversation. He
seemed to understand how tense Grace felt. Paulie sat silent, too, fidgeting a
little in the backseat and clearing his throat a few times. The car moved
smoothly through the inky darkness; there was no moon tonight.

“Turn here,” Grace
directed the doctor. Her voice sounded loud in her own ears. She squeezed her
lips shut, anticipating the meeting of her parents and Paulie’s papa.

Nodding, Doctor
Giorgi maneuvered the massive car around the back road’s bend and down the
stony driveway that led to the house’s back door. Grace saw that Mama had
turned on the kitchen light, but the rest of the house loomed dark above them.
I
wonder where Cliff has got to?
The thought moved fleetly through her mind,
but Grace shrugged it away. Far more important matters than Cliff’s absence
occupied her.

Doctor Giorgi switched
off the engine and hopped from the car with one fluid movement, slamming the
door. He immediately strode toward the house. “Paulie, bring my bag, please,”
he called out behind him.

“Yes, Dad,”
Paulie replied, grabbing the soft leather satchel and bounding into the yard.

Grace scrambled
out. Her hand clutched her waistband together as her numb legs carried her up
the pathway behind Paulie and his father. Humiliation crashed over her in waves
as she saw Doctor Giorgi mount the broken-down steps.
I’m so embarrassed for
them to know where I come from!

Grace knew that
she should be worrying about Papa, not caring about what a virtual stranger
thought of the Picolettis’ lifestyle. But she couldn’t help it; he was Paulie’s
daddy, and she had never wished harder that they lived in a nicer neighborhood…
that her parents were better people … that her daddy didn’t burn garbage in a
barrel in his backyard and keep a mistress in a cottage way out back. The tears
pressed against her eyes, but she fought them back

Upon reaching
the back door, Doctor Giorgi gave only a short rap with his knuckles, and without
waiting for an answer, he turned the knob. The scent of bacon grease and soap
wafted out as he pushed open the door. The doctor stepped inside the dimly-lit house,
ducking his head a bit because of the low doorway.

Grace scuttled
in right behind the doctor, her eyes slowly adjusting to the light of the
single lamp. Mama must have helped Papa to get up onto the long, ratty
horsehair couch that leaned against one of the kitchen walls; the couch had
occupied that spot for as long as Grace could remember, perfect for any ill
family members. Moaning low, Papa lay there, one leg lolling off the couch. His
pants had rumpled up, displaying his mismatched, much-darned socks and a
healthy swath of dark Italian leg hair. Grace ground her teeth in
embarrassment. She couldn’t imagine Mr. Kinner or Doctor Giorgi lying there
like that. Anxiously, she risked a glance at Doctor Giorgi, but he seemed
unfazed by his patient’s uncouth display.

Mama looked up
then from her place sitting beside Papa. “Who’s this?” she barked, squinting
into the shadowy entryway. Her unkempt, graying hair snarled around her worried
spherical face, accenting the thin, tight line of her mouth.

Grace sucked in
a deep breath. “I brought Doctor Giorgi, Mama. He says he’ll look at Papa.”

“Doctor who?
Where’s Doctor Philips?” Mama halted in her nearly-continual administration of
wet cloths to Papa’s face and head. As soon as she paused, Papa’s groaning grew
louder, though, so she quickly dunked the cloth down deeply into the cold water
and applied it.

Grace hadn’t
counted on Mama disliking that she’d gone elsewhere for a doctor. But what
choice was there, other than bringing Papa to the hospital? “Doctor Philips
ain’t home, Mama,” she said.

Doctor Giorgi
stepped out of the entryway toward Mama. His feet took him from the shadows and
into the circle of soft lamplight. “I’m Doctor Samuel Giorgi, ma’am. I’d be
glad to see to your husband, if you would like.” In his quiet, kind way,
Paulie’s papa crouched down so that he could be at the same level with Mama,
sitting there on that stool. Mama turned from sponging Papa’s face to look the
doctor square in the eyes, her usual tough manner displayed.

And then Grace
saw it – the shock suffusing across Mama’s countenance. The line of Mama’s lips
broke as her mouth fell open a tad, and she stared at Doctor Giorgi with
unblinking eyes.

Mama knows him.

Curious, Grace
flashed a glance, lightning-quick, at Doctor Giorgi. For a split second, he
appeared confused at the surprise dawning plain-as-day on Mama’s face. Then,
recognition emerged.
He knows her, too,
Grace realized, looking from one
to the other.

“Sarah?” The
name stumbled out of Doctor Giorgi’s mouth, sounding as if he found himself
using a second language he’d not known he could speak. “Sarah… Antonelli?”

Grace saw a red
flush rise to Mama’s cheeks. Her mother swallowed hard, the sinews in her neck
straining. “Sam Giorgi,” she acknowledged in a voice as quiet as a dying
cricket. “Didn’t know you’d come back.”

Doctor Giorgi
nodded. “Yes,” he said, low and controlled. An expression rose in his eyes that
Grace could not read as he peered at Mama. Certainly, it could not be any
tenderness, for Mama sat, a crumpled mess, shiny with sweat and big with the
baby that should be coming any day now. But for several seconds, Grace watched
as Doctor Giorgi held Mama’s gaze gentle as he might cup a butterfly. Mama
broke the silent grip first, turning her face to look at Papa.

“I understand
your husband burned himself badly,” Doctor Giorgi straightened up and turned
his attention to Papa, too.

“Yeah, he did,”
Mama replied, swabbing at Papa’s face with her wrung-out dish rag. “Burning
trash out back, I think. Don’t know what happened. Came in like this, face
nearly on fire.”

Doctor Giorgi
leaned forward, and Grace crept forward a little, too, hardly aware of Paulie’s
presence behind her at all. Mama lifted her dish rag off Papa’s face so that
the doctor could see the extent of the injury.

A chill prickled
through Grace’s limbs as she gaped at Papa’s burns. The crimson skin, extending
from Papa’s singed hairline to his lips, appeared glossy and bubbly like
soda-water. His mouth open in a guttural groan, Papa seemed hardly aware that
anyone but Mama was in the room. His eyes remained closed against what Grace
knew must be searing pain. Papa was a strong man; it took significant agony to
debilitate him.

“What’s your
husband’s name, Sarah?” Doctor Giorgi asked.

“Charlie,” Mama
managed to reply, fluttering away from the couch now that professional hands
had come to do their job. She rose from her seat and went to stand behind Grace.
Almost as if I was a shielding wall.

Doctor Giorgi
sat down next to the couch. His hand grasped Papa’s shoulder with great
gentleness. “Charlie, I’m Doctor Giorgi,” he spoke near Papa’s ear. “Your wife
has asked me to look at your burns. I’ll be as gentle as I can, alright?”

Grace watched as
Papa gave a slight nod, and Doctor Giorgi began his examination.

S
arah’s nails bit
into her palms as her eyes followed the brilliant headlights of the doctor’s
car. The beams cut through the dark night as the man and his son pulled out of
the driveway and onto the dirt back road.

Her shoulders
relaxed into their usual rounded posture, and she released the breath which she
felt like she’d been holding since meeting Sam Giorgi’s gaze earlier this
evening.

Sam Giorgi.
Sarah could
hardly get over it. No, she really couldn’t. In a dull, detached way, her heart
thudded like she was sixteen again and he’d pulled up in front of her papa’s
front stoop. Many years had passed since then, and they’d sure been kinder to
Sam than to her. With a glance over her shoulder at Charlie lying prone on the
couch, eyes bandaged shut, Sarah tiptoed to her and Charlie’s bedroom – well,
hers, really, ‘cause Charlie hadn’t slept there in months – and waddled her
pregnant self over to the little mirror drooping against the yellowed
wallpaper.

Half-fearful,
half-bold as brass, Sarah forced herself to look into that mirror. And as she
gazed, the red rose to her cheeks as if she’d spent all day ironing clean
laundry.

I’m an old
woman.
The thought made her mouth sag deeper into its already-grooved wrinkles.
An
old, fat woman with bare feet, too many kids, and a good-for-nothing husband.

And she couldn’t
even pay Sam. Perhaps that was the most humiliating part of this night. As he
finished cleaning and bandaging the burns, Sarah had fished around in her old
butter crock, hopelessly wishing she could draw out enough money from the
makeshift piggy bank to compensate the doctor for his services. But her chubby
fingers had managed to scrape out only a dime and a few pennies. Sarah felt her
own face burning as she remembered how she’d turned to Sam – that is, Doctor
Giorgi – and sucked in her breath before mumbling, “Doctor Philips usually
takes a down payment… Don’t know if you’d be willing to do the same?” She’d
held out the grimy coins, putting steel in her eyes to show him she wasn’t
ashamed.

He’d given her
that reserved, sweet-as-red-licorice smile and pressed the money back into her
palm. “No payment is necessary, Sarah. My reward came from seeing you again
tonight.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe it. “I never expected
this. Not in a hundred years, Sarah.”

Surprised at the
tenderness – there was no other word for it than that – in his voice, Sarah
hadn’t said a word. Just stared at him and then back at the boy standing behind
him. A handsome boy, just like Sam had been two decades ago.

A few more
moments passed, just the two of them looking at each other, Sarah growing more
and more awkward and Sam seeming as if he wanted to say something. Then Charlie
had groaned, and Sam shook himself. “Paulie,” he’d turned to his son, “are you
ready?”

Paulie – whose
attraction to Grace was unmistakable, though the girl didn’t seem to realize it
– finished packing up his papa’s satchel. “Yes, Dad,” he replied, fastening the
buckle. Sarah heard the boy murmur something to Grace, who stood nearby with
that embarrassed stance she
would
adopt, no matter how many times Sarah
told her to pick up her head!

“I’m leaving
some ointment for the burns,” Sam explained, more guarded now. “Change the
bandaging every day and clean the wounds. Let me know if there’s any sign of
infection. I’ll return to check on him, but those burns should heal nicely
within a few weeks. Not much scarring, either, I should think. As I said, it’s
a second-degree burn. Extensive, but not disfiguring or life-threatening.”

Suddenly,
desperation to keep Sam there had overtaken Sarah. “You want some coffee?” she
asked, wishing she could offer him some cake to go with it but knowing that her
cupboard was empty.

Sam shook his
head. “No, we must be getting home,” he’d answered.

Heart sinking,
Sarah kept her expression emotionless. “Your wife’ll be waiting up for you, I
guess,” she’d managed.

But a sad smile
found its way to Sam’s lips. “No, only a housekeeper. My wife – Paulie’s mother
– died six years ago this April.”

“I’m sorry,”
Sarah automatically answered, but wasn’t she glad that a beautiful wife didn’t
lie awake for him?

“Thank you,” Sam
replied, “but the memory doesn’t come with such a painful twinge now as with
the reminder of the mercies of God to me.”

The mercies of
God…

Even now,
looking into the bedroom mirror after Sam and Paulie left, Sarah narrowed her
eyes in disbelief. The mercies of God? What were they? The mercies of the
Mother of God she could understand. At times, Sarah herself begged the Mother
of the Lord to plead for her before her Son. But the mercies of God himself?
She shook her head. All of her life had become one long marathon to escape a
cold God’s sickle-blade, it seemed, no matter what that radio preacher said.
What mercy had God shown to her? What mercy did she even deserve?

“None,” Sarah
whispered aloud. Though she’d always tried to live decently. And she couldn’t
be blamed for being born. Didn’t God owe her something for that, at least?

And how could
Sam find the mercies of God in the
death
of his wife? The question
puzzled Sarah. Perhaps his wife had been a nasty old hag. But if she’d had
anything to do with the raising of their son – a polite, good boy by all
appearances – Sam’s wife couldn’t have been
too
bad. Not bad enough for
Sam to consider her death a mercy in and of itself.

A groan from the
kitchen couch roused Sarah from her reflections. No sense in pondering such useless
things as this, at any rate. She had a sick, grouchy husband to tend. With his
eyes bandaged shut, Charlie wasn’t likely to be in good humor.
Second-degree
burns,
Sam had said, probably from a flash flame in that stupid barrel
where Charlie always stood tossing in the trash and leaves.

I really oughta
get a haircut,
Sarah sighed as she turned from the mirror and waddled back to the kitchen.