The Saint Louisans (3 page)

There were maids of honor, heralds, pages in tights, Verdi's march from
Aida
announcing the presentation of debutantes wearing single-plumed tiaras imitating the English royal court and their three plumes. Bearded and robed ministers of the court proclaimed in stilted rhetoric the wishes of His Mysterious Majesty. Bengal Lancers marched and flourished lances.

The Prophet was indeed veiled, having been borrowed from Thomas Moore's oriental fancy
Lallah Rookh
, whose veiled prophet—‘The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung in mercy there, To hide from mortal sight his dazzling brow, till man could bear Its light no more…'—crowned his queen, later honored with a torchlight parade through the streets of downtown St. Louis. The Prophet and his ladies appeared enclosed in a glass box like precious gems. This only increased my delight. Later, I found out it was plastic because boys had started throwing rocks and firing pea shooters, a sign that the fifties and its Eisenhower peace was starting to unravel. The Veiled Prophet's troubles multiplied as the sixties rumbled and matured. Marches were held against the Veiled Prophet Ball as being racist, a privileged toy of the ruling class. In 1972, a crisis was reached when a woman broke into the ball and jerked off the Prophet's veil. Horror!

For far too long, I obsessed over the court of love and beauty. I wanted to be crowned; become a secret princess, a changeling who had royal blood. After all, even though loved by Aunt Mary and Spud, I was a child on loan. Outwardly I was a precocious savant imitating Aunt Mary, but inwardly I wanted a crown. I wanted to be Nurse Forbush swept off my feet by a Frenchman in the tropics. I wanted the magic of Christmas shopping and the spectacle of its windows. I wanted to wear a tiara again, recalling the day Dad crowned me in his cockpit. But the fantasies that charmed me as a child would later bloom with unfortunate results for little Cindy Lee Taylor.

And now those long-dead fantasies had been resurrected to haunt me in the person of Margot Desouche, the Margo Desouche who once been crowned Veiled Prophet Queen and who remained one of the association's power brokers. And who had now asked me to help her die.

I parked my car next to the gated tower that looked like it had been detached from one of Mad Ludwig's Bavarian castles. Standing next to its graceful turret and iron gate, the security guard nodded to me. I was expected. A lifting breeze, the first suggestion of autumn, revealed the red silk lining of my blue wool cape.

The tower belonged to Chouteau Place, built in the 1870s, a private street much like Portland or Westminster Place, those gated islands of St. Louis wealth; mansions running the gamut from early Federal to imitation Medici Palazzi; there is even a folly that begins with Heidelberg Castle and ends with King Tut's tomb. Worlds of turrets, trianons, and the Romanesque … fancies permitted old money before egalitarianism and income tax laws took their toll.

By the 1920s, old money in St. Louis began to move away from the commercial build of nearby Grand Avenue, and after the war, Chouteau Place was a tarnished jewel in the midst of a raffish neighborhood. The Desouche mansion was the centerpiece of the street. Saul adored it, and I saw it through his eyes. It was built in 1900, a copy of the Charles S. Hills house on the old Forest Park Terrace, once called Millionaire's Row. All of those mansions had long been destroyed to make way for a new hospital, housing, and commercial interests, and by the mid-sixties, all had become urban blight. But this twin remained.

Both pompous and delicate, the structure was built of Carthage stone,
capped by a red-tiled roof. Its front portico boasted four pillars of Corinthian design, and on its side entrances were five pillars like Grecian bookends. Aunt Mary and Spud would have been delighted. The balustrades were complimented by stonework design around its windows, its stairs leading to a gabled doorway that promised a world Henry James might well have novelized. I could see why Saul loved the mansion. It was a man's dream, wages for empire gained.

The brass knocker shined with a lion's grin above it. When the door opened, an elderly butler looked me over, a man with the posture and stiffness of a genteel drill sergeant. I wasn't entering high society. I was going through customs. That kind of look over.

“Good morning,” I said, “I'm—”

“You're her.” The frost in his voice matched the outside. “You're a minute late. And you wear a cape.” The accent was German, the tone locked and loaded.

“Which of those three am I most guilty of?”

He bade me enter. “It is merely an observation. This way.”

I thought to click my heels, but shrugged. I was impressed by the marble floor and statuary in the foyer, but when I entered the drawing room, the sensuality of its soft gilt and warm carpeting was a butterfly of pleasure. Huge French windows bathed one in morning light, and would later glow in sunset's resignation. I could imagine the dinner parties and debutante's laughter bouncing off these walls, the stiffness of first communion photographs. There were paintings: a Watteau whose playful rococo sensibility made the room smile. Portraits of Desouche Mere and Pere stared out in Gallic dignity, cautious about being submerged into American society, when the early 1800s city was swamped by Yankees—the “Bostons,” as the French irritatingly called their new masters.

The portraits were painted by one of the itinerant portraitists of the 1830s: competent enough, but he had trouble with hands and knuckles. He curved them into trowels. The fourth painting was of Margot Desouche in her youth, exactly as Saul had described it to me. Chestnut hair curled, cheekbones high, a noble forehead bearing the tiara of the Veiled Prophet Queen. Her smile was assured and radiant as she presided over the court of love and beauty.

“It was painted by Scott MacNutt,” a firm but gracious voice called behind me. “He was rather old by then, but still much in demand by everyone in St. Louis.”

Margot Desouche smiled with benign charm as she limped into the drawing room, supporting herself on a shiny black cane. The butler helped her in until she nodded. “Please bring us tea,” she instructed. With a slight bow, he reluctantly withdrew.

“You were very beautiful,” I said.

She sat in an Empire chair, looked at the portrait, and sighed. “Thank you for using the past tense. I hate flattery. Had enough of it. Sick of it all, and now I'm sick in the final way.”

I was aware I was being studied by her clear gray eyes, much as I had done so with the portraits.

She motioned toward a matching chair and said, “Please have a seat, Mrs. Bridger, or is it Ms.?”

“Call me Lee.”

“Yes,” she was relieved, “Lee is a pretty name. Please call me Margot.”

The French name was expected. In St. Louis society, although long immersed in America, the French families often give themselves French names. Her children were Pierre, Therese, also known as Terri, and Lucas. Lucas committed suicide fifteen years ago.

“I spoke to Dr. Kemper,” I began. “He said your cancer is pancreatic.”

“That means I'll die.” Margot passed sentence calmly.

I was used to patients euphemizing, but Margot would have none of it. I took out some booklets and brochures from my case.

“The recovery rate is three percent,” I said. “Colon or breast cancer has an eighty-eight to ninety-one percent recovery, but it usually means half make it, half don't. Dr. Kemper is prepared to try some radical therapy—”

“No, Lee. I prefer to make my peace. That is why you are here. Saul said the nicest things about you. I don't want to die in a hospital. A hospice … is different, isn't it?”

The butler returned with a tea tray and poured for both of us.

I smiled at him, and then turned to Margot.

“It's more a state of mind than an actual place.”

“A place to die, then.” Margot was determined not to sound helpless.

“I think of it more as a place of meeting. A place of transit. Of arrival and departure.” I let that sink in, then offered one of the booklets.

“As this explains—”

Margot quickly took the glossy booklet and set it down. “Please. I want you to tell me. To hear your voice … Lee.”

“The hospice began in medieval Europe,” I continued. “It was used by pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land and a refuge for the dead and dying. The root word is
hospes
, which means both host and guest.”

Margot nodded with intent eyes, waiting for me to continue.

“The modern hospice was created by Dame Cicely Saunders. It is St. Christopher's, in Sydenham. West London.”

“Have you seen it?”

“On my first trip abroad, I went and was able to meet Dame Cicely herself. In America we treat it more as a program of care than an actual place.”

“You help people die in their homes.”

“We should speak with your relatives.”

“My children?” she scoffed. “They're vultures. The estate is all they care about. They've run away from me for years, and now that I'm dying, they'll all reappear with lawyers.” For the first time, her gracious expression hardened into a mask. “I warn you, Lee: the bile they have for me will be passed on to you.”

This came out of nowhere. Why would I be a target? Okay, I thought, the family has wounds. There was bad blood between her and her surviving children, Pierre and Terri. Luca's suicide had been a media event, and the sibling's accusations at their parents had been a feeding frenzy for the local press. St. Louis is a small town in this respect, and the Desouche rumblings were common knowledge, but I was here to heal as well as comfort.

“We'll work it out,” I said.

Margot's eyes and tone implied a mystery. She was wanting to bond with me in some unique way. Needing more information, I went along.

“Stay with me until the end,” she said. “I want to get to know you in the time that is left. Money is no object. Please, Lee. I don't want to seem a
rich woman trying to buy you, but,” she stopped as her eyes moistened, “I'm alone.”

I leaned toward her, my fingers curled around hers. “No, you're not.”

Relieved, she sat up straight, her posture like that of the portrait.

“I haven't led a useless life,” she said, returning to the voice of society. “I accept my end, but not to die alone. It would be incomplete.”

Die. A word avoided in America because of its finality. Most Americans ‘pass away,' but Margot Desouche was old money, and preferred the old language. She was direct and to the point, hardly a batty recluse, or a St. Louis version of Mrs. Havisham.

The Desouches donated to charities, as did all the French families. The Church was generously provided for. But Margot asked for me, and under her benign dignity, I saw hungry eyes. “This is a journey we'll share,” I said.

“I knew you'd be good.” She looked at me in a kind, but strange way, and then saw me glance at a small plaster cat painted in milky brightness that studied us with neutral eyes, left paw raised as if to say goodbye. “You like it? Pierre gave it to me.” She held it up.

“It's Manekeneko,” I replied, ‘the beckoning cat.' In Japan, people beckon to you by raising their hand like so. It's good luck to have one around. It even has an epic poem written about it.”

Margot's eyes twinkled. “You like Japan?”

“Yes. A friend of mine, an old friend, Doc Pickwick, read me a book about Japan,
The Tale of the Genji
. Written by a Lady Murasaki in the 1100s, and I've been fascinated ever since.” I placed a booklet before her. “Now, we should discuss your diet, as well as a regimen—”

“
The Tale of the Genji
talks of Prince Genji,” Margot smiled. “A study of his love affairs. It's full of poetry contests, people going out to view the moon, cherry blossoms, the snow, the three things Japanese must see.” Margot sighed and placed the cat back on the table. “Pierre's crazy about it. Whenever we'd go to the Japanese Garden at Shaw's Garden, he'd stare at the Koi swimming under the bridge. ‘Like aquatic autumn leaves,' he'd say. This was when he was younger, but he changed. Children … they all change.” Her sadness ended in a blink. “Now, Lee, let me ask you about your cape. I haven't seen one like that in years.”

“No, most nurses don't wear them anymore, but a friend gave it to me.”

“She must have been a good friend.”

“Not at first. I disliked her. I was a real ass. The cape was handed down to me.”

“Please tell me. I want to know.”

“It's a long story; maybe some other time.” I waved my hand and shifted in my chair.

“No, Lee,” she reached out and touched my hand, “I'd really love to hear it now, if you have time.”

I was struck by her insistence, and, from what I could tell, her genuine interest. So I gave in and started at the beginning, thirty years ago, when I was finishing my nursing degree at Saint Louis University; or majoring in Chaos 101, so it seemed. Reading texts like
Nursing Research Methodology
back-to-back with fourteen hour shifts. Two children in tow and a marriage that had assumed room temperature. I had worked hard, even delivering a baby when the doc from OB got delayed, forcing me to conscript a crabby LPN to assist. I aspired to be super nurse.

But the floor already had a super nurse, or at least one who wore a cape. Polly Carnahan, our new head nurse. She wore starched whites, a cap, and a cape. Cape. By the early seventies, the cap was viewed by younger nurses as useless and best dispensed with, but the cape wasn't just useless, it was ridiculous. I was Nurse Radical and Polly was Nurse Ratched. Polly had been sent to shape us up. She came from Barnes, a world I distrusted and envied. Nurses in the cleanest whites, using the twenty-four-hour clock for everything, given to quoting research, handling larger wards, and not being dependent on the capricious funding of St. Louis City.