CHAPTER 24
Dickson and Margot sat side by side in the passenger seat of the Essex while Blake steered carefully down Broadway toward Madison. Dickson, wrapped in an overcoat with a thick wool muffler, kept the brim of his homburg pulled low over his forehead, but Margot had seen the exhaustion in his eyes and the tension in the set of his mouth. She wished she had some comfort to offer, but what was there to say to a father who had learned such terrible things about his son?
They rode in silence for a few minutes. Dickson coughed, adjusted his hat with his gloved hands, and said, “I’m sorry you had to do this, Margot. Not very pleasant for you. And the major’s gone? Headed back to March Field?”
“He flew out this morning. Blake and I picked him up and drove him to Sand Point. Bill Boeing was there, too, Father.”
“Was he,” her father said. “That’s something.”
“He wanted to see the airplane.”
“Major Parrish has made a wonderful impression.”
“Yes. Frank was pleased.”
Except Boeing’s presence had meant they couldn’t speak privately. She was trying not to worry about any of it, the letter, Frank’s preoccupation, the question that lay between them. He had, at least, kissed her cheek, right there in the presence of his boss. She would cling to that memory until he returned.
“Is someone covering for you at the hospital?”
“Yes. Matron Cardwell is handling it. I thought I’d go to the clinic this afternoon.”
“Good. Yes, you should do that.” He fell silent again, watching as Blake maneuvered the motorcar onto Yesler and turned cautiously down the steep hill.
The beige brick wedge of the Public Safety Building stood four stories high. During her training, Margot had spent several weeks in the City Emergency Hospital on the third floor. She had never been to the fourth floor, nor had she ever wanted to go there. It was kept separate, with its own elevator, and even from the street, she could see the steel bars on its windows. Now, with her father beside her, she walked into the lobby and turned in the opposite direction from the hospital elevator. They passed several men in suits and bowler hats, and a policeman and policewoman in uniform with a manacled prisoner walking between them. Dickson’s step faltered.
Margot glanced at him, but his head was up, his chin jutting in the familiar way. He would deal with it, she knew. In many ways this was a much harder thing to face than the supposed death of his youngest son, but he was a strong man. He knew how to manage difficult circumstances. And, in this case, he understood the truth of the matter.
Except for the uniformed operator, they had the elevator to themselves. As it carried them to the top of the building, Margot said, “Has Mother asked any questions?”
“No.”
“I thought, after the disturbances the other night—”
“You would have thought so,” her father said. “She doesn’t notice very much these days.”
The elevator stopped, and the operator touched his cap and said, “Fourth floor, sir. Ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Margot took her father’s arm as they stepped out. She felt the tension trembling in his muscles, but his voice was steady as he explained to the supervisor of the jail, a small, dark man with hard eyes, who they were and why they had come. The supervisor gave them sidelong, curious glances as he led them down the central corridor to a heavy locked door. He selected a key from the ring at his belt, and unlocked the door, which opened with a forbidding clang.
They found themselves in a corridor between a row of barren-looking cells. A few prisoners watched listlessly as Dickson and Margot passed by, but no one spoke, and Margot preferred not to look at them, to see the damaged humanity imprisoned here. The whole echoing space smelled of a rather unnerving mix of bleach and boiled vegetables. Beyond the barred windows the open sky was a perfect, cold blue, and it seemed to intensify the sense of despair within.
The cell was just as her father had described it. It was clean, but offered little comfort. Someone had provided Preston a blanket and a pillow and added a thin ticking mattress to the cot. There was no chair or any other furniture. The toilet in the corner had no lid, but the fixture seemed to be in working order. There was a rudimentary sink, rust-stained and slightly askew from the wall, with two taps. A window was set in the outer wall, too high for anyone to look out. The inner wall of the cell was made up only of bars, which meant there was no privacy at all for its inmate. Preston was sitting on the end of the cot, facing the blank wall at the back.
The supervisor said, “You don’t need to go in, right?”
Dickson said, “This will be fine.”
“Just the same. I’ll be right here, sir.” The small man retreated to a spot near the door, but stood with his arms folded, his gaze focused on Preston.
Dickson removed his hat and held it with one hand in front of his chest. His other hand gripped one of the bars, the knuckles white with tension. Margot stood in the center of the aisle, feeling both awkward, because she had no role here, and angry, because she could see how the situation pained her father. Even Preston’s slumped shoulders, the vicious scars she could see on his scalp and neck, engendered only impersonal pity, a feeling she might have had for a stranger. Her brother was her enemy, and though he was pitiful to behold, damaged and powerless, she couldn’t pretend affection for him.
Dickson said, “Preston.”
Preston didn’t move. Didn’t react at all.
“Preston, we need to talk about what to do. We have to make a decision.”
There was no response.
Dickson cast a pleading look over his shoulder at Margot. She hesitated, certain Preston would not welcome her intervention, but her father looked so stricken she couldn’t refuse him. She moved forward just enough to stand at Dickson’s shoulder, and spoke to her brother. “Preston. Father wants to help you.”
At the sound of her voice, Preston stirred. He moved his feet, side to side, forward and back, then settled them on the bare floor and pushed himself up from the cot. Still facing the back wall, he straightened the colorless shirt he wore and tucked the tail firmly into his baggy, unbelted trousers. Margot didn’t know if these were his own clothes, or those of the jail, but she knew how deeply Preston must loathe them. He turned slowly to face them.
Dickson shuddered from head to foot, and Margot realized it was the first time he had seen the full extent of Preston’s burns. She should have prepared him, should have warned him that Preston’s face was disfigured, was unrecognizable.
If Preston felt anything, he didn’t reveal it, or perhaps his scarred features no longer showed emotion. He stepped around the end of the cot and walked toward the wall of bars. Margot had to force herself to hold her ground, despite the protection of thick steel.
Her father put a hand through the bars, though the movement caused the supervisor to take a step forward with a small sound of warning. Dickson ignored him. He touched Preston’s shoulder with his fingers, and said, in a voice of pure heartbreak, “Son.”
“Pater,” Preston said. It should have been a light response, offered with Preston’s old insouciance, but his voice could no longer respond to his intention. “Doc.” He nodded to Margot. “New coat. It’s about time.”
She just stopped herself from touching the shawl collar of the blue wraparound coat Ramona had ordered for her, and had delivered to Benedict Hall. The coat fastened with a single, enormous Bakelite button that had made her laugh at first, but which Ramona assured her was perfect. Preston said, “I could feel bad about spoiling the old one, but really, it was past time for that thing to go.”
Dickson said, “Preston. What does any of that matter?”
Preston leaned one shoulder against the bars of his cell, almost pulling off the man-about-town attitude, despite his ugly clothes and his disfigured face. “What does matter these days, Pater? It’s all over for me, that’s obvious.”
“It’s not all over. It doesn’t have to be. In the end, nothing really happened.”
“That you know about,” Preston said.
“Don’t add to your problems,” Margot said. He shrugged.
“We’re going to send you to Western State Hospital,” Dickson said.
“Western State Hospital for the insane,” Preston responded, with emphasis.
“It’s not called that anymore,” Dickson said. “And conditions have improved, I’m told.”
“Oh, I’m sure, Pater. I’m sure now it’s a real treat. A resort. A spa!”
“It’s the only way to keep you out of prison.”
Preston waved a scarred hand to indicate his surroundings. “You hadn’t noticed? I’m already in prison.”
“It doesn’t have to be for long. Dr. Creedy will—”
“Creedy! That clacking old woman. He’ll do whatever you want, won’t he?” Preston’s mouth contorted in his effort to pull off a smile, and Dickson made an involuntary sound in his throat. “Going to have me committed, Pater?”
Margot began, “Preston, listen to reason. If you go to the hospital, we can get you some surgery, improve those—”
She never finished her sentence. Without the slightest warning, he lunged at her. He thrust both arms through the bars, his fingers curved into claws. Margot was standing behind her father, and the clutching fingers fell on him instead, gripping his coat, knocking the homburg from his hand. Dickson cried out, but Preston, showing his teeth like an angry dog, tried to reach past his father to get to Margot. His eyes were awful to see, the pupils swelling, the lashless lids stretched wide.
Margot fell back away from him. She tried to pull her father with her, but he stood where he was, tolerating the scratching of Preston’s hands, the futile grappling. Preston tried to shout, but his voice defeated him. “You bitch!” he croaked. “You arrogant bitch!” His whole body banged against the bars as he tried to reach Margot. His face distorted, pressed against the bars.
The jailer reached them, wielding his nightstick. He whacked the bars with it, and ordered the prisoner to back away. Preston paid no attention until the next blow of the nightstick fell on his outstretched arm, right at the elbow. Margot was sure it must hurt like the devil.
Preston fell silent. He withdrew his hands, and stood with his arms hanging uselessly by his sides, glaring at Margot.
“Why?” Dickson asked in a low tone. He waved the jailer off, and the man retreated a short distance. “Why did you do it, Preston? Your mother has suffered agonies this entire year. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same.”
Preston’s eyelids dropped, for just a moment, and when they lifted again Margot thought there might be something there, sadness perhaps, some remnant of human feeling. She couldn’t be sure. It might be wishful thinking, a longing to see something that meant her brother was not a complete monster.
Preston said, “Is she coming to see me?”
“I haven’t told her you’re here,” Dickson said. “In fact, Preston, I haven’t told her you’re alive.”
“Good. Don’t.”
“If you’ll go to the hospital,” Margot said swiftly. “If you’ll go willingly, commit yourself, admit your illness, Mother doesn’t need to know what you did. I don’t see the point in telling her.”
Preston’s pupils began to contract again, and in the pale blue of his eyes, Margot saw a shred of the pretty boy he had once been, the handsome young man he had become, who was now lost forever. He said, “How much does she know?”
“She thinks you were trying to put out the fire in my clinic. To save it.”
She was stunned to see tears rise in Preston’s eyes. They swam there, little tragic pools of misery. Despite everything she knew, everything she had been through with him, her heart ached for the grief that lay ahead. He swallowed so hard she could see the reflexive spasm of his throat.
He said tonelessly, “All right, doc. I’ll go to the booby hatch. As long as you don’t tell her about me.” He tossed his head in a grotesque imitation of his old charm. “Let’s allow the mater to believe her boy is a hero, shall we?”
Allison lay down on her bed after lunch and was sleeping so soundly that Ruby had to shake her shoulder to wake her. “Miss Allison,” she said. “Miss Allison, Mr. Dickson wants you. Wants everyone.”
Allison could hardly lift her eyelids. She yawned, and tried to pull away from Ruby’s hand, but the maid persisted until Allison blinked, pushed a hand through her hair, and sat up. The little enamel clock on her dressing table told her it was past five. “Oh!” she said. “I slept so long.”
“Mr. Dickson wants you to come to his study.”
“Really?” Allison had never been to her uncle’s study. She understood it to be his private lair, where even the maids were forbidden to go unless he gave express permission.
Ruby didn’t seem to appreciate the novelty of the invitation. She went to the wardrobe and got out the plaid dress. “You might as well dress for dinner now, Miss Allison.”
“Not that dress, Ruby.”
Ruby turned, the plaid frock in her hands. “I thought this would be good. You haven’t worn it for some time.”
“I’m never wearing it again.” Allison pointed to the wardrobe. “The cream chiffon, Ruby. You can take the plaid away.”
“What do you want me to do with it, Miss Allison?”
Allison pushed herself up from the bed and went to her dressing table. “Burn it. Cut it up. Make curtains out of it.” She sat down on the stool and picked up her hairbrush. Ruby, the plaid dress still in her hands, stared at her, open-mouthed. “If you won’t do it, Ruby, I will.”
“But, Miss Allison—Mrs. Adelaide especially likes this one.”
“Let her wear it, then.”
Allison hurried her toilette and, dressed in the cream chiffon, descended the main staircase to the hall. She found Blake waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and he guided her to the study, which turned out to be much smaller than Allison had expected. There were books everywhere, on shelves, on a low table, piled on a writing desk next to one of Uncle Dickson’s ubiquitous ashtrays. This one was brass, and Uncle Dickson was seated nearby, tapping ash into it in an abstracted way.
“I’m sorry if I kept you waiting,” Allison said. Every face turned to her. Her father was there, scowling in a corner. Cousin Ramona sat on a straight chair, with Cousin Dick standing behind her. Allison took a low stool, the cream chiffon pooling around her on the carpet.
Uncle Dickson said, “That’s all right, Allison. I know you were tired.”
She looked up in surprise when Blake ushered Hattie into the already crowded room, and closed the door behind the two of them. The servants stood, looking stiff and self-conscious, just inside the door. Hattie had taken off her apron and put on a fresh housedress. Her hair looked as if she had just combed it with water. Small drops glistened in the light of the desk lamp. Blake stood with his hands on the lapels of his jacket, his face drawn in somber lines.
“Margot will be a bit late tonight,” Uncle Dickson began. “She telephoned from the clinic.”
“And Adelaide?” Henry asked.
“I’ll get to that, Henry,” Uncle Dickson said. “There are things I need to say. Hattie and Blake, thank you for joining us.”
Blake said, “Of course, Mr. Dickson.” Hattie touched her hair as if to be certain it was still in place, and gazed at her feet.
“I would have preferred, Hattie,” Dickson said heavily, “not to burden you with this, but we have a problem. I know how much you care about Mrs. Edith. This is a good time to tell you that you’ve been invaluable to all of us in this past difficult year.” He paused to crush out his cigar, and Allison was sure he was giving himself time to choose his words with care. It all seemed terribly exciting and mysterious, and it was all she could do to sit still.
“Fortunately for our purposes just now,” he went on, “Edith has not seemed to notice the—shall we say, drama—that has unfolded around us in the past two days. She has kept to her room, except for dinner last night, and so I think we can manage what I have in mind.” He paused again, and Allison hardly dared breathe. “Hattie, this will be hardest on you. If you find it impossible, I hope you will tell me now.” He looked up, and Hattie, fidgeting with the buttons of her dress, brought her eyes up to meet his gaze. “You learned about Preston,” Uncle Dickson said. “From Blake.”
Hattie’s lips parted, but she seemed not to know what to answer. Blake, seeing, said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Dickson. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“There’s no blame to attach, Blake,” Uncle Dickson said. He drew a long, sibilant breath. “No need for an apology. This is a profound shock to us all, and you naturally thought of confiding in Hattie.”
Allison had to clutch at the stool beneath her to keep from bouncing on it. She could hardly wait to see what would happen next.
“The reason I mention this, Hattie, is that Miss Margot and I feel it would be best not to tell Mrs. Edith that Mr. Preston survived the fire.”
Ramona pressed a hand to her lips. Dick patted her shoulder.
“This means,” Uncle Dickson went on, “that we will be keeping a big secret, for Edith’s sake. Ramona and Dick have already heard my thoughts about this, but Henry, and you, Allison, need to understand our reasons. My wife has had a terrible year, and her mental state is not the best. You have no doubt noticed this already.”
Allison took a surreptitious glance at her father. He stood with his hands in his pockets, listening with his head on one side. When he didn’t say anything, Allison said, “We don’t need to tell Mother, do we, Uncle Dickson? I’m not sure she can keep this secret.”
Her father said, “I don’t like keeping secrets from my wife.”
Allison lifted her head. “You do it all the time, Papa,” she said, winning a glare from him and a sympathetic glance from Cousin Ramona.
Uncle Dickson said, “I would like your promise, Henry. Please don’t speak of this. It will serve no purpose to tell Adelaide.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, and he finally said, “Yes. Of course, Dickson. Allison and I will both respect your wishes in this matter.”
“I’ve already said so,” Allison said. “You don’t need to speak for me.” She turned her head to escape his angry expression. There was going to be trouble later, and plenty of it. Just now she didn’t care.
Cousin Ramona asked quietly, “What’s going to happen to him, Father Benedict? To Preston?”
Uncle Dickson sighed. “Of course you’re concerned, my dear. Thank you. Preston is going to be committed to Western State Hospital.”
“The insane asylum,” Dick said.
“I don’t care for that description, but yes, Dick. He needs psychiatric care. He agreed to it as long as we—that is to say, on the condition that—his mother is kept in ignorance. Of all of it. When he’s been there long enough to satisfy the courts—to speak frankly, that is, to avoid criminal prosecution—Margot and I will find an appropriate place where he can be cared for.” He cleared his throat and added sadly, “Indefinitely.”
Blake said, with dignity, “Hattie and I have discussed this, Mr. Dickson. She will tell you herself, but you can count on us.” He nodded to Hattie and moved a little aside, as if to leave her in center stage.
Hattie, staring at her shoes, spoke so softly Allison wondered if Uncle Dickson could hear her. “I think this is a good thing, Mr. Dickson. Mrs. Edith has suffered enough. She don’t need more grief in her life.”
“Thank you, Hattie,” Dickson said gravely. “Your loyalty humbles me. I hardly know what we would do without you.”
Cousin Ramona said, “Father Benedict, I usually go up to Mother Benedict at this time to help her get ready for dinner.”
“Please do, Ramona. We’ll gather in the small parlor, and carry on as usual.”
“Adelaide,” Henry said sharply. “I’m still waiting to hear something about my wife.” Allison turned to stare in disbelief at her father’s tone.
“Oh, yes,” Uncle Dickson said. He stood up and pushed his chair under the writing desk. “Dr. Creedy will meet with you in the morning, at the hospital. Your appointment’s at ten. Margot will be there, and the three of you can discuss Adelaide’s condition.”
“What condition?”
Uncle Dickson shook his head. “I’m not a medical man, Henry, but apparently there is one, or Margot wouldn’t be concerned.” When Henry began to bridle, Uncle Dickson held up one hand. “You can trust her,” he said, firmly. “My daughter is an excellent physician, and if she thinks Adelaide needs treatment, then you should seek it.”
Blake said, “Drinks, then, Mr. Dickson?”
“Please, Blake.”
Blake held the door for Hattie and ushered her out into the corridor. Uncle Dickson rose, grunting a little, and waited for Ramona and Dick to go out ahead of him. Allison followed close behind, but her father caught her arm to hold her back. She tried to pull free, but he held tight, and she gave in so as not to make a scene.
He waited until the others had gone out into the hall. He gave her arm a small, angry shake before he released it. “Just because you’ve fooled Dickson and the rest of them, Allison,” he said, “don’t think you’ve fooled me.”
“Fooled you how, Papa?” Allison was proud of the steadiness of her voice. She thought of the way Margot stood up to Cousin Preston, her bravery in the face of that terrifying blade, and she met her father’s eyes without blinking.
“Acting like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, my girl. I know better. I know how you really are.”
Allison tried to hold on to her dignity, to be as much like Margot as she could, but this was too much. She stamped her foot, and angry tears sprang to her eyes. “You don’t know anything, Papa,” she whispered. “You don’t know anything about me, and you know even less about Mother.” She stepped around him and turned toward the door.
Before she reached it, he said, “I’m warning you, Allison! Dr. Kinney—”
Her tears dried instantly. She spun, in a twirl of cream chiffon, to face her father. “I have Cousin Margot now. She’s a good doctor. She knows perfectly well I’m not a hysteric. I am not going to a sanitorium no matter what you or Dr. Kinney or any other stupid old man says!” She spun again, full of defiant energy, and marched through the door and down the corridor to the small parlor. She didn’t bother to look back to see if her father was following.