The next day Dr. Barker surprised Wolfgang with an appearance in the chapel near the end of Mass, where seven choir members had volunteered to sing. Wolfgang’s slight choir viewed him cautiously from afar, never slowing their song as the doctor leaned against the column in the back of the chapel and waited for Mass to finish. After everyone cleared out, he accosted Wolfgang in the center aisle. “Are you behind this?”
“Behind what?” Wolfgang asked.
“The choir members. And others. A hundred others. They’re refusing to take any medication. They’re refusing to eat. They’re refusing treatment unless I reinstate the concert.”
“I knew nothing about it,” said Wolfgang.
Dr. Barker’s mouth closed. He held up his index finger. “Have your damn concert. But only by my rules. We’re being reckless as it is. Rehearsals are limited to thirty minutes. I’ve seen your program; the concert itself must be shortened.” He stopped before the last row of chairs. “And any work with Rufus will be done down the hillside.”
“Is that all?”
“And no more secret practices after I leave at night.” He smirked. “Did you think I couldn’t hear you?”
“What if I need to work at the piano at night?”
“I have no problem with that.” He pointed to his ear. “But give me some credit. I can tell the difference between you and McVain on the piano.”
“How?”
“I know the difference between a genius and a dabbler.”
***
Wolfgang couldn’t flex his fingers enough. No matter how much he moved or blew into them, they remained numb. Tiny white cracks in the skin scarred his knuckles and the webbing between his fingers. He stared at the rose atop the piano. It needed to be changed.
McVain coughed behind him on the bed. Wolfgang turned around on the piano bench and faced him. “How are you feeling?”
McVain cleared his throat. “Hollow.”
“It must be torture to watch us practice.”
“What’s torture is listening to you play.” He winked. “Concert back on? Told you I’d think of something.”
“Blackmail? Cute. Almost as sneaky as making women appear on the fourth floor overnight. It was Lincoln, yes? He helped wheel the ladies up here for you?”
“You got me,” said McVain. “How could I keep the truth from a fake priest?”
“McVain…”
McVain simply smiled.
“It troubles me to know how much pull you have here.” Wolfgang faced the piano again. “He would have reinstated the concert anyway.”
McVain was silent. When Wolfgang turned to him again, McVain was staring at the wedding band on Wolfgang’s right hand. “Ever think of marrying again?”
Wolfgang folded his arms, hiding his right hand. “You never quit, do you?”
McVain chuckled. “Good thing the seminary-from-afar makes it easier for you.”
“Tell me about
your
wife, McVain.”
“I’m divorced.” Wolfgang waited. “We were happy before the war. When I came back…” He stopped.
“How long has it been since you’ve spoken with her?”
“Not as long as you went without seeing your mother,” McVain said. “Six years if you need to know.”
“What happened during the war?” Wolfgang asked.
McVain sniffled and then wiped his runny nose. “I wasn’t a violent man. I’d never fired a gun in my life. But I got pretty damn good at killing.”
Wolfgang leaned forward. “Tell me about it, McVain.”
“Don’t act like my psychologist.”
“Go on…”
“Trench warfare.” McVain’s eyes looked at the piano, but his real vision was probably somewhere much darker. “Mud and rain. Bombs everywhere. Mustard gas. I started smoking to calm my nerves. Couldn’t sleep.”
Wolfgang thought about the man’s restless sleep. “Do you dream about it?”
McVain looked at Wolfgang sharply. “I chased a Kraut out of a trench one time. He got stuck in the barbed wire without a gun. I couldn’t understand what he was yelling at me, but with his tone I could tell he was pleading for his life. I shot him. First in the face. Then in the heart. It was like I was standing there outside myself, watching from a different person, a different place.” McVain coughed heavily, leaned to his side, and spit into the bucket.
Wolfgang leaned closer. “Go on.”
McVain sighed. “Another night. I’m tired.”
“Rest then, my friend.” Wolfgang stood.
“You said you believe in fate.” McVain stared blankly toward the ceiling. “A man makes a choice to avoid danger only to then walk right into it. Choice A or B. I made a choice at Chateau-Thierry that determined my fate.” He wiggled the nubs of his mangled hand. “I chose B.”
“Everything happens for a reason, McVain. Perhaps A would have killed you.”
“Might have been better.”
A snowstorm blew in unexpectedly from the southeast, dumping seven inches of pristine white fluff atop the hillside overnight. The morning walk up to the sanatorium was like walking through a painting of beauty. The air seemed fresher than normal, untainted by the wet leaves. A trio of deer watched from thirty yards away, the lower halves of their skinny legs hidden under the accumulation. Squirrels danced overtop the snow, sprinting to avoid sinking. Susannah stepped on a patch of snow-covered bramble and her foot sunk to the knee. Instead of helping her up, Wolfgang made a tightly packed snowball and hurled it toward her, hitting her on the rump.
When they reached the sanatorium, Susannah bent to tie her shoes. Then as Wolfgang walked up the stairs, an explosion of white fluff hit the center of his back.
Upstairs, patients too close to the end of the solarium’s screen windows had been rolled to the middle to avoid direct contact with the snow. Someone had thrown a blue tarp over McVain’s piano. When Wolfgang asked about it, McVain shrugged, claiming he’d first seen it when he’d opened his eyes in the morning.
Mid-morning Wolfgang lifted Frederick up and placed him in a wheelchair.
“Gonna remove another rib?”
“You’re speaking now?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“For a walk,” said Wolfgang. “And no, we’re not taking out another rib. Your lesion has not grown in weeks.”
He wheeled Frederick out to the fourth-floor solarium and parked him right next to the screen. “Enjoy the scenery. And bundle up with those blankets. It’s cold out here.” Wolfgang pointed out over the treetops toward the road leading up the hillside. “You see that road? That’s where Mary Sue Made the Walk. She wept when we got to the bottom. You are not dead yet, Frederick. You want to hold your son?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then start breathing,” said Wolfgang.
***
Wolfgang sat beside Anne Barker’s bed and played his piccolo for her. She’d requested his music and he’d played nervously, stopping after several miscues before continuing, afraid at any moment that Dr. Barker would hound him for disturbing his wife. He lowered the piccolo and Anne thanked him with her magnetic smile.
“It isn’t the music that he dislikes, Wolfgang.” Anne said. Her smile had faded. “Give him time. He’s just confused.”
Wolfgang almost laughed out loud. “Aren’t we all?”
***
Wolfgang opened the door to the chapel’s small freezer and removed a bag of frozen communion bread, hoping it would not be as hard as the last batch, which had caused most of the crowd to chew for several minutes after they’d returned to their seats. The bread would not be changed into Christ’s body and the wine would not be changed into his blood, but the Catholics who attended his service asked for communion anyway. A Baptist in the chapel mumbled, “as it should be,” as all the Baptists believed that the bread and wine merely represented the body and blood of Christ and could not be changed into the real thing anyway. And that was a process Wolfgang refused to emulate until he was ordained to do so. As he carried the bread to the altar to thaw, he spotted Susannah and Abel entering the chapel. Abel appeared a little distraught, his face blotchy. Wolfgang knelt down and touched the boy’s skinny shoulders. “You’ve been crying.”
Abel stood stiff with his hands to his sides. Susannah squatted beside Abel and put her right arm around his back. “He didn’t sleep all night.”
“I have a confession, Dr. Pike,” Abel said. “I’m a liar.”
Wolfgang gave him a warm smile. “How so?”
“I did see somebody.” Abel looked up toward Susannah, who kissed his forehead and nodded encouragement. “The night we found Fifteen in the tree.” He wiped his nose with a fist. “A big man. Dressed in white. With a hood. I ran into him when I was going through the woods.”
“Then what happened?” asked Susannah.
“He knocked me down in the mud. Said he’d kill me if I told anybody.”
Wolfgang sighed heavily. “I see. Did you recognize him?”
“No, but I seen ’em coming out of the maintenance shed.”
“The shed?”
He nodded. “He was watching me last night.”
“Watching you?”
“From the woods.” Abel became more courageous. “I was in bed on my porch. He watched from the woods, staring at me with his white hood on. Like a ghost. He put his finger to his face like this.” Abel put his right index finger to his lips.
Susannah squeezed Abel’s shoulders. “They’re trying to scare him, Wolf.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t just the snow and shadows?”
Abel shook his head adamantly. “No, he was there to remind me—not to tell.”
Wolfgang pulled Abel forward and embraced him.
That afternoon, two white robes with hoods were found behind an old tractor in the back of the maintenance shed, concealed under a wooden crate that still carried the smell of ether. The maintenance staff had been questioned thoroughly, but none of the three men seemed strong enough to pull Big Fifteen up into a tree, and their answers had all checked out. They’d been too busy fighting the fire at the colored hospital to hunt down Big Fifteen in the woods and hang him.
Dr. Barker demanded that the police bring in more security to stand guard at the children’s pavilion. Susannah wanted Abel to stay with her, but he’d insisted on sleeping with the other children. He claimed it was his job to keep
them
calm.
After Wolfgang and Susannah dropped off Abel and met with the three new police officers, Susannah felt more comforted. The men were dressed warmly for the night shift, and they seemed to take their jobs seriously. They all had children at home. Wolfgang believed Abel and the children would be safe.
Before Wolfgang and Susannah left the officers to their duty, one of them startled Wolfgang with a question. He had a handlebar mustache and big brown eyes. “Father, we’ve gotten a few letters from someone at Waverly recently.”
“Oh, about what?”
The man chuckled and scratched his mustache. “About some bootlegging activity into the sanatorium. Booze, Father.”
Wolfgang laughed right along with him, as if the notion itself were preposterous. “Bootlegging, huh? Demon rum…into a hospital? Not a bad idea, though. We could serve the patients shots of whiskey right after they down their nightly milk.”
The officer chuckled again. “Thought I’d ask about it, at least. Don’t mean to bother.”
Wolfgang smiled. “No bother. Was there, by chance, a name attached to the letters?”
“No. No name.”
“Anonymous,” said Wolfgang. “Of course.” The officer turned away and headed toward the children’s pavilion. Wolfgang watched him until he disappeared into the tree shadows. The KKK was a major supporter of the Anti-Saloon League. They took pride in rooting out bootleggers, breaking up speakeasies, burning saloons across the South, and apparently foiling the plans of a sanatorium’s orderly who sneaked the demon rum up the hill through empty coffins.
“Fame and attention.” Wolfgang stared into the shadows. “That is what most villains crave, Susannah. Advancement. To be promoted inside an organization built on hate. Which means he has plans on Making the Walk soon.”
“Come on, Wolf. Let’s go.” Susannah took Wolfgang by the arm and started him down the hill. She followed Wolfgang home and they lit a fire. They shared a bottle of wine and Wolfgang told her about his mother’s visit. In the silence that ensued, Susannah stood from the couch and lifted one of the violins on the floor. She laughed as she tried to play. Wolfgang joined her back on the couch, where the heat of the fire had warmed the cushions. She giggled, gripped Wolfgang’s shirt, and pulled him close, so close he could smell the sweet wine on her breath. “I feel safe right now,” she whispered.
It was snowing outside again. The doors were locked. The fire snapped beside them. Shadows caressed the angles of her cheekbones, the curve of her lips, the rounded turn of her chin…and no one was watching. Wolfgang bent down, closed his eyes, and softly pressed his lips against her mouth. He felt as if a bolt of electricity had struck him. Her mouth eased open.
She ran her fingers across the back of his head and through his hair. And then suddenly she pushed him away. Wolfgang dropped to his knees beside the couch, staring at her, mortified. How could he have done it?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be. I can’t…I just can’t. I’m sorry.” She turned away and closed her eyes.
He stood up, hobbled because his right food had gone numb, and backed away. He blew out all the candles. He couldn’t get the cottage dark enough, not with the fire licking the stones of the fireplace. He wanted to crawl into bed and never come out.
Eventually he drifted off to sleep, but not until he heard her snoring.
***
Susannah was still asleep on the couch when Wolfgang shot up in bed.
The porch steps creaked under the weight of an intruder.
The clock on the wall read four in the morning. A loud thump sounded against the door. Susannah shifted on the couch but her eyes remained closed. Wolfgang moved around the foot of his bed, grabbed the iron poker from beside the fireplace, and walked quietly toward the front door. The knob rattled. Something slid down the outside, calling to Wolfgang. “Doctor…” It was more of a groan than a threat.
Wolfgang kept the poker in his hand, opening the door. A male patient knelt on the porch, shivering. Blood dripped down his chin. Wolfgang recognized the thin young man from the east wing of the fourth floor, Ray Lot. He couldn’t have been far from death. What was he doing here?
“Doctor…I have a confession.”
Wolfgang knelt. Ray’s eyelids fluttered. He coughed up blood. “What is it, my son?” Wolfgang glanced over his shoulder; Susannah still slept. He returned his attention to Ray.
“I was with him…when he tossed the brick.” Ray unfolded his legs and rested back on the porch, his head in a pile of hardened snow. “I helped…that night, in the woods.”
Ray’s hands shook violently. Wolfgang grabbed them and it seemed to calm him somewhat. “Go on,” he said.
Ray had attended many of his Catholic Masses over the duration of his stay at Waverly. Now tears dripped from his eyes. “I told him not to hang that nigger. He only wanted to…to…to scare him. I promise.” His teeth chattered. “It was always
his
idea.”
“Who?”
“We hid our Klan robes in the shed.” His eyes widened. “He scared that boy last night.”
“Who did this?”
“This is a confession, right, Father?” Ray gulped and breathed heavily. Loose fluid gargled in his weak lungs. “Just between you and me, right?” Wolfgang nodded. “Promise me you won’t go after him.” Ray coughed up blood. “Promise me you’ll just let him die like me. Let the white wind take ’em.”
Wolfgang gritted his teeth and lifted Ray’s head from the porch. “I promise. Tell me and the good Lord shall judge you.”
“Will I go to heaven?”
“If it’s God’s will.”
Ray stared for a second. “Jesse.”
A huge ball of rage suddenly arose in Wolfgang’s throat. Jesse—Ray’s roommate, whom Wolfgang had taken under his wings, the young man who had eagerly claimed to be interested in the priesthood. Weeks ago, Wolfgang had entered the chapel and Jesse had given him a note, claiming it had been left on the altar. Or had Wolfgang nearly caught Jesse in the act of writing it? He’d claimed to be illiterate, but it dawned on him that Jesse had probably written those anonymous letters to the police. He was the reason they’d been snooping around the train tracks weeks ago. And Jesse had the size, thought Wolfgang. He was getting stronger, closer to Making the Walk. Jesse must have only pretended to be simple-minded, and he’d gotten close to Wolfgang, conning his way into the chapel, so as not to be expected of the crimes he’d committed.
“We got the ether from the hospital…to knock him out. The rope from the shed. It was Jesse’s idea…” Then Ray closed his eyes. “Our secret.”
Wolfgang waited until Ray was silent before checking his pulse. Finding none, he stood and retreated inside to wash the infected blood from his hands.