Wolfgang raised his eyebrows. “So he
is
a little crazy.” Wolfgang pictured the fork in Herman’s tight grip, the same fork he’d taken with him back into Room 502. “Hopefully he doesn’t use it on Benson.”
“If he wanted to hurt Benson, he could have done it long ago,” she said.
Wolfgang watched her hop on one foot over a fallen tree branch, balance herself for a second, and then hop to the other foot. It was her childlike nature that he loved about her. “That was a beautiful thing you did tonight. For Herman.”
“It was long overdue,” she said.
Wolfgang reached down and gripped her right hand as they walked. She looked at him with surprise. Wolfgang averted his gaze and stared straight ahead, expecting her at any moment to move her hand away from his grip, but she didn’t. She even swung her arm slightly, which was enough of a reaction to give Wolfgang the confidence to not let go and run into the woods from embarrassment.
“This is long overdue as well,” he said.
Soon, as they approached Susannah’s dormitory, she removed her hand. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek, pressing just above the hair over his beard.
Wolfgang ran his fingers over his chin. “I was wondering if I should shave my beard.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Well…I don’t know…”
“I happen to like your beard.” Susannah giggled. “Good night…Father.”
***
Wolfgang’s sleep was restless.
He heard the gravel beneath his feet before he saw it, and then the driveway opened up to him. And beyond the upward bend around the apple trees, their old home was visible. The anticipation of seeing her face forced him to move faster. The intoxication of the moment still held the same feeling of giddiness he’d had the first day he’d met her outside the steps of the Cathedral of the Assumption. Nearly four years of marriage had not dampened his love for her, but what quickened his pace up the driveway was something more akin to lust. He’d spent all day at the medical school, splitting time between the smells of the lab and the even worse smells of the dissecting room with Professor Philpot. His arrival at home was the moment that fueled him throughout the day.
He hoped the sound of their Model T pulling onto the gravel driveway didn’t alert her to his early arrival. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she wasn’t expecting him until five. The professors had let all of the students out early. The toes of his right boot scraped narrow grooves in the rocks as he dragged it along. He wasn’t ashamed of it any longer. It was the deformity and the limp that had first drawn Rose’s attention years ago. With that limp she’d seen character, a story that needed to be told. He moved with a uniqueness to his hurried gait that Rose had come to call his gallop. So Wolfgang galloped along the driveway, creating tiny dust clouds in his wake. Pink buds had bloomed on the dogwood trees that lined the front of their brick Portland neighborhood house. The azaleas were in bloom, flowering in purple and red alongside the house near the shaded porch.
He hoped she didn’t suddenly open the door to find him. It made his day to surprise her. On the other side of the porch was a rose garden. Wolfgang squatted down and perused them all, rows of roses in various stages of growth. He spotted the perfect rose and plucked the stem low to the ground, snapping it carefully, avoiding the thorns. Today’s rose. Tomorrow he would choose another. He knew it was childish, but it was a ritual he did not want to get rid of. He snuck in the back door, quietly sliding inside the screen, and spotted her from the laundry room. Rose was in a chair in the kitchen with her back to him, reading. Wolfgang tiptoed across the linoleum floor, where sunlight abounded and purple flowers and green vines bordered yellow wallpaper. Rose’s hair had grown out since the first day they’d met. Now it was curly and pulled back in a ponytail that shielded most of her ivory neck. Her dark hair had a red bow in it. He felt sure she’d heard him coming, but her heart was too big to turn around and spoil it for him.
And then suddenly she closed the book and stood in her yellow summer dress that swayed around her knees. She turned toward him.
“A rose for a Rose,” said Wolfgang, as he had so many times before.
And she smiled as usual, but her eyes seemed tired. She smiled as if she were happy. So why was she crying?
***
Wolfgang awoke with a start and sat up in bed. She had seemed so real that the smell of her still lingered inside his cottage. Sleet pinged off his rooftop and tapped against his windows. He faced the right side of his bed. He pictured Rose beside him, the fingers of her hand spread out against the curve of her hip, looking into his eyes as she had on so many nights.
Then he imagined the touch of Susannah’s lips on his cheek.
His eyes caught a glimpse of the crucifix hanging on the wall. He turned away and forced his eyes closed.
All night he felt Him watching.
Wolfgang squatted in the frosted grass behind his cottage, perusing the rose garden. The cold January air slid unabated into February, a month when temperatures were often sporadic throughout the Ohio Valley. Slivers of ice hung from the tree branches and glistened under the clear night sky. Sleet and snow turned the blades of grass to silvery daggers, except around the rose garden, where the precipitation had melted under Lincoln’s heat lamps.
Wolfgang thought of Herman as he searched for the perfect rose. At first, Herman’s addition to the choir had a negative effect on the other singers. The children knew him only as the crazy cake man from the rooftop, but it took them only one rehearsal to warm up to this new Herman, who smiled more, talked less, and combed his hair. The adults, on the other hand, were intimidated by him and didn’t sing as loud in his presence, as if they were afraid they’d be inferior. For three days, rehearsals dragged on with Herman the only one fully invested, standing a good ten feet away from the rest of the choir with the fork in his right hand. Wolfgang watched their eyes and how they’d watch Herman sing, wondering if the addition was actually hurting the choir. Herman had yet to utter a word to anyone except Susannah, and the concert was less than two weeks away.
Then, on day four, Herman surprised them all. In the middle of a Vivaldi piece, he held up his arms, waving, his fork nearly scraping the solarium’s ceiling. Wolfgang halted the choir and musicians. Herman faced them with a huge smile on his cleanly shaved face. “You can do this.” His eyes darted from person to person. “You can do this. I’m better than all of you, but you can do this. We can do this.” He ruffled Abel’s hair, which sparked nervous grins from the rest of the kids. He opened his arms to a young woman named Clarice in the second row. She looked ready to turn and run, but he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her slender figure, nearly squashing her with a bear hug. The children laughed.
“What shit is this?” McVain said under his breath from the piano. Josef lowered his violin and watched as Herman moved to the next lady. He hugged her as well. “You can do this,” he said with authority, clutching her by the shoulders.
Wolfgang, amused, but surprisingly not worried, watched Herman hug all thirty members of the choir. He reached two of the men near the end and took them both into his embrace. With each hug the choir’s uneasiness seemed to lessen. Their insecurity became less with every embrace. By the end, the children were laughing, Susannah along with them. Herman’s strange emergence into the group had galvanized them, and he returned to his spot, stood straight again, gripped the fork, and looked ready to sing.
Remembering this, Wolfgang laughed out loud as he clipped a rose. This one would be perfect.
Footsteps drew Wolfgang’s attention back to the cottage. “Who’s there?”
Lincoln stepped out of the shadows, breathing heavily, his cheeks red from running. “Wolf—”
“What is it?”
“McVain. He’s missing.”
***
Wolfgang, Big Fifteen, and Lincoln took flashlights down the body chute, and the deeper they penetrated the seemingly endless tunnel, the more claustrophobic Wolfgang became, to the point where, near the end of the chute, he was scaling the cold walls in fear of doubling over. He’d been inside the chute many times before, but never in a panic, unless he counted the near run-in with the policeman on horseback on the night they’d snuck the piano into the sanatorium. But that had been exhilarating in comparison.
McVain was not the only patient missing. Josef and Rufus were gone as well.
“McVain said nothing to you?” Wolfgang had asked Lincoln as they rushed from the rose garden up to the main building. “Anything that sounded suspicious?”
Lincoln thought for a second. “I ate lunch with McVain today out by the piano. He talked about the Seelbach Hotel. Said he used to play the piano there before he got sick.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“Also said he was there with Capone a few times.”
“But why go there now?”
“Maybe they wanted a night out on the town before—”
“Before what?”
“Before they die.”
These were not the first patients to escape Waverly Hills. It had happened before. Three years earlier, four old ladies had snuck out and walked down Dixie Highway to drink Cokes. They were kicked out upon their return, deemed healthy enough to leave if they were healthy enough to escape. Three of the ladies ended up coming back. The fourth one survived. But Wolfgang knew that none of the three men missing now were healthy enough to leave, especially McVain, who seemed to be growing weaker and thinner by the day.
When Wolfgang hit the fresh air at the bottom of the chute, he let out an enormous gush of breath, not realizing how long he’d been holding it in. His lungs ached. He felt as if he’d just had one of his nightmares.
Big Fifteen placed his hand on Wolfgang’s back. “You okay, Boss?”
“I’ll be fine.” Wolfgang stood straight in the grass, where train tracks crossed their path. Three distinct piles of clothes had been left at the chute’s entrance. Josef and McVain had tossed their attire in heaps while Rufus had folded his, neatly placing them next to the beginning of the chute. Three sets of footprints marked the icy grass along the railroad tracks. “What are they wearing now, I wonder.”
Lincoln and Big Fifteen shrugged.
They weren’t supposed to be leaving the hillside, but if Dr. Barker found out that three of his highly infectious patients had escaped the grounds entirely, he’d have an aneurysm. He’d cancel the concert.
Wolfgang started up the slippery slope toward the tracks, and then Lincoln led the way as they jogged toward Dixie Highway. “My uncle’s house is only two blocks away. He’s the one I get the booze from. He’s got a brand-new Cadillac I’m sure he’ll let us borrow.”
To Wolfgang’s amazement, Lincoln’s uncle Frank—a short, stocky man in an expensive three-piece suit, fancy brown shoes, and with a head of dark hair slicked back with what appeared to be an entire can of grease—didn’t even hesitate when Lincoln asked to borrow the car.
“Be my guest.” He patted Lincoln on the shoulder. “Have yourself a ball. You and your buddies.” He suspiciously eyed Wolfgang’s cassock and instead took a step toward Big Fifteen and offered his hand. “You’re one big son of a bitch.”
Big Fifteen shook his hand. “Reckon I am.”
“I’m Frank.” He lit a cigar and looked Big Fifteen up and down. “I could probably use you sometime. Would you like that? Little extra dough for the pockets, hey? Perhaps some women.” He slipped a second cigar into Big Fifteen’s breast pocket and then turned quickly toward Lincoln. “Have the car back by morning. Got to drive to Cincinnati.” He winked. “Important meeting.”
***
Lincoln turned into a madman behind the wheel of his uncle’s expensive car, speeding in and out of traffic despite the snowy roads. Big Fifteen laughed in the backseat. Wolfgang’s beef-and-rice dinner was about to come back up and ruin Uncle Frank’s interior. Lincoln glanced over toward him. “You okay?”
“Maybe you should slow down a bit.” Wolfgang cracked the window about an inch, and the cool air made him feel better. “You know where you’re going?”
“Of course.” Lincoln gripped the steering wheel harder as the car fishtailed on a patch of ice. He regained control, eyes peeled. “Been to the Seelbach dozens of times with Uncle Frank.”
“What exactly for?”
Lincoln shrugged. “Important stuff, you know. But mostly I’d wait in the car. He’d run in for about a half hour, then come back out.” Lincoln bounded over a pothole, and it sounded as if something had come off the right tire. Wolfgang rose up off his seat and his head nearly hit the ceiling. He braced his hands on the dashboard. Lincoln finally decreased his speed when the lights of downtown Louisville loomed just over the horizon. The traffic grew thicker as they neared the famous hotel. Lincoln rolled down his window and a rush of freezing air filled the car. He honked the horn at three women standing alongside Fourth Street. “Hey, dolls!” Wolfgang hunkered down in his seat as the ladies waved.
Big Fifteen leaned enthusiastically forward from the backseat. “Never been here before.”
Streetlamps were aglow. Snow flurries danced wildly through the air. The clip-clop of a horse carriage echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings and storefronts. The road turned to cobblestone as they closed in, and the ride suddenly became much bumpier over the patchwork of stone and ice. Lincoln pointed to an old car parked with one wheel on the curb. “Got us a petting party inside that flivver.” Lincoln honked and whooped out the window. “Four of ’em with kissers locked.” Wolfgang glanced away. Lincoln focused on the road again, where the hotel loomed. “George Remus spent a lot of time at the Seelbach.”
“Who’s he?” Big Fifteen asked.
Wolfgang rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lord, here we go.”
Lincoln’s tone was serious. “Cincinnati mobster. Made a fortune running whiskey. That writer Fitzpatrick? He based the main character from
The
Great
Catspee
on Remus.”
“Fitzgerald,” said Wolfgang.
“What?”
“And it’s ‘Gatsby,’ not ‘Catspee,’ you baboon.”
Lincoln slowed the car and coasted past a brand-new Oldsmobile with a sharp-dressed couple inside. He tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs, looking for a place to park. The street was teeming with people standing, walking, talking, most everyone wearing extravagant suits and pretty dresses. Wolfgang’s modest clerical robes would hardly fit in, but they weren’t coming to socialize. If their three Waverly escapees were here, they’d quickly snatch them and be on their way. Wolfgang planted his palms against the dash again as Lincoln cut off a Desoto and dove into a parking spot vacated by a delivery truck.
“I’ll wait in the car,” Big Fifteen said.
“You sure?” Wolfgang asked.
Big Fifteen nodded and then pulled out the cigar Uncle Frank had given him. “Got a light, though?”
Lincoln tossed him the keys. “Uncle Frank keeps a Banjo in the glove department. A flip and it’s lit, Fifteen. Don’t burn the car down.”
Wolfgang and Lincoln hurried across the busy street. Lincoln’s face lit up as he looked toward the top of the hotel, which stood ten stories tall and dwarfed the buildings around it. “McVain said there’s a small alcove off the Oakroom where Capone plays blackjack and poker when he’s in town. He had a big mirror brought down from Chicago so he could watch his back.”
Wolfgang found himself stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk, limping noticeably. “And check out his opponents’ cards, I bet.” He folded his arms against the cold wind and moved beside a parked horse-drawn carriage. Long plumes of steam jetted from the horse’s nose as it fidgeted in the freezing temperatures. They passed a brick building with a poster attached to the front door—KEEP YOUR BEDROOM WINDOWS OPEN: PREVENT TUBERCULOSIS.
On the corner of Fourth and Walnut, the European-style hotel designed with the French Renaissance in mind was brightly lit and alive with people. It was the first skyscraper in Louisville, one of the grandest hotels in the country, and Wolfgang had heard rumors of women fainting the day it opened. Portions of the façade reminded Wolfgang of the grandeur of Waverly Hills. The Seelbach’s exterior was made of stone and dark brick pieced together with charm and elegance. Charles Dickens had been ejected from the hotel for showing poor manners. Presidents Taft and Wilson had stayed in the hotel, apparently without suffering Dickens’s fate. Already in its short existence, history seeped from every door and window, and Wolfgang felt a rush of blood to his head as he stepped under the canopied entrance and moved up the stairs. The merry atmosphere was contagious. A glass of wine would have felt appropriate for the moment. He remembered Rose and the nights they’d celebrated much as these people did now, carefree and tipsy from alcohol, despite Prohibition.
Wolfgang was first inside the lobby. Behind him, Lincoln paused to take it all in. The boy was awestruck. European marble everywhere, beautiful carpets, exquisitely carved wood, bronze railings, friezes and frescoes on the walls, brass chandeliers and wall sconces, and a skylight above made of hundreds of panels of glass.
Men in suits stood shoulder to shoulder smoking cigars or cigarettes, drinking and laughing, their faces flushed and happy. The women wore their hair bobbed—just like Rose’s, Wolfgang couldn’t help notice. They wore makeup and long, cylindrical silhouette dresses, Basque dresses, or the popular one-hour dress that allowed more freedom for dancing. They wore silk, cotton, linen, and wool with colors ranging from bright greens, reds, and blues to pastels. Assertive colors. Aggressive colors. Free-spirited, smart, and sexy. Women out on dates without chaperones.
Wolfgang squeezed his eyes shut. How times had changed. How dearly he missed Rose. Then, amid the chattering in the lobby, Wolfgang heard music. “Oh, my Lord,” he said. “Beethoven.”
Wolfgang fought his way through the clouds of cigar smoke to a larger crowd in the back corner, listening to a musical trio of piano, flute, and violin. Lincoln tapped Wolfgang’s shoulder. “I think we found them.”
Wolfgang wormed his way through the crowd, close enough to smell the alcohol and perfume and see the intoxication in their reddened eyes. But they all seemed fascinated with the musicians who had set up shop around the piano on the right side of the ornate stairs—a black man on the flute, a violinist with a chalkboard on his chest, and a piano player who dazzled despite missing three fingers on his left hand.
Their music soared high off the lobby’s tall ceiling. On the floor next to Josef’s feet sat an upside-down bowler hat, the same one McVain had worn the day he arrived at Waverly. It wasn’t large enough to hold the bills and coins that had already been dropped at their feet. Where had they gotten the nice suits? How long had they planned this? Wolfgang wondered.
Despite the fact that they needed to urgently remove these three from the hotel, ensuring that no one here got sick and that Barker was none the wiser, it was a beautiful scene to watch. If only Susannah had been there. Maybe one night they’d sneak out and have a harmless night on the town, away from the sanatorium, away from the patients, away from the hillside, and away from the death. There was a world moving on outside the woods in which they roamed daily, and he imagined Susannah’s hand in his grip again as he slithered through the crowd. And then he forced the thought from his mind. What was he thinking? And then he remembered McVain’s words to him the other night: “You can’t have it both ways…”