CHAPTER 12
BOSTON
February 1919
 
A brilliant powdery blue sky covered Boston. The air was cold enough for snow, but the sun shone without clouds for company. The morning passed with Emma bent over the toilet bowl; however, the queasy sickness had faded by noon when she managed to eat a bowl of oatmeal for lunch.
After the bout with her stomach had cleared, feeling well enough for a walk, she’d decided to find Linton, knowing she could no longer put off the inevitable. Time waits for no man—or woman.
She traversed the narrow streets of the West End where the row houses, in their congested and endless line of brick fronts, depressed her. The deeper she descended, the closer she came to the address she sought, the worse the houses became. Many of them stood derelict, their windows broken or shuttered with yellowed newspaper, the wooden steps rotting from the damp. In the dark shadows that covered some of the façades, Emma spotted candles burning through the windows—a piteous source of heat on a frigid day.
She shuddered upon reaching the address Louisa had given her, lifting the note from the shadows into the sunlight to make sure she had arrived at the right building—but there was no mistake. She stared at the house and struggled to contain her revulsion. The third-floor windows were broken, the frames twisted like branches into the air. Pigeons cooed and fluttered in the openings. A filthy sheet covered the second-story windows and behind the makeshift scrim, the figure of a heavyset man moved in shadowy outline. The first-floor windows were sealed against all light, heavy maroon drapes hanging against them like ornamental swags adorning a tomb.
She gathered her courage and forced herself to knock on the door. Curses rose from above, followed by the heavy clomp of feet down the stairs. The door flew open and Emma faced a man larger than John Harvey, balls of yellow spittle clinging to his mustache, the warm odor of beer floating on his breath.
“What do ya want?” he asked in a brogue laced with hostility.
“I’m looking for Mr. Linton Bower,” Emma said, trying to maintain her composure.
“He ain’t ’ere,” the man replied, “and no decent woman would go looking for ’im in this neighborhood.”
“Are you sure he isn’t here? This is the address I was given.”
“Quite,” he replied with mock civility. “Now, go about yer business elsewhere.”
Emma was about to leave when she heard a raspy voice call out from the first-floor apartment, “Terry, who’s there? Is it a visitor for me?”
“Shut up and mind yer business,” the man spit back. “Yer not fit for guests.”
“Is that Mr. Bower?” Emma poked her head past the doorway.
“Did you ’ear me? I said begone.”
“Terry?” the voice asked again, this time with more force.
“Go back to bed,” Terry shouted at the door and then turned on Emma. “This ain’t none of yer concern!”
“If it is Mr. Bower, it is definitely my concern—and his.”
“I knew it,” the man said. “Yer after money, too. Well, the bugger ain’t paid his rent for two months, and he ain’t gettin’ out of here scot free.”
Emma looked past Terry as the inside door inched open. Through the crack, the face of a man appeared, although she wasn’t at all sure the features belonged to Linton. Filmy eyes sank deep into ashen sockets; the man’s black hair lay matted against his scalp. He wore trousers but no shirt, his shoulders and chest wrapped loosely in a gray blanket.
“Linton?” Emma asked, barely containing her horror.
The tenant’s face twisted toward the door; then, his head tilted back in recognition.
“Emma?” His voice barely rose above a whisper.
“It is you!” She ran into Terry, who blocked the doorway with his girth. “Please, let me past.”
Linton lowered his head and said, “You should leave. It isn’t safe—it isn’t right.”
“Are ya deaf?” Terry asked. “He’s told ya to get out.”
“I have money. I’ll give you twenty dollars if you let me pass.”
Terry’s eyes lit up.
Emma withdrew two bills from her coat pocket and pushed them into his outstretched palm.
He bowed slightly and let her pass.
She rushed toward the door.
Linton attempted to close it in front of her, but she pushed back, staring through the gap between them. His legs buckling, his strength failing to sustain the resistance, he clutched the doorknob before collapsing.
“My God,” Emma said. “You need help.”
“He needs more ’an help,” Terry called back as he headed up the stairs. Then he laughed and shut his door with a thump.
Emma lifted Linton by his arms and dragged him toward a small bed pushed against the inside wall of the tiny room.
He collapsed on the dilapidated mattress, shivering and moaning as he wrapped a soiled sheet over the blanket.
Emma found another covering under the bed and placed it over him. Kneeling by his side, she put her hand to his forehead feeling the fiery skin, clammy to the touch, yet beaded with sweat.
“I’m burning up,” Linton whispered, his voice scratchy and hoarse.
Emma withdrew her hand, suddenly terrified of the possibility of influenza. “How long have you been like this?”
“Going on the third day, maybe more, I can’t remember,” Linton said, his voice rattling as he gasped for breath.
“I’m taking you out of here.” Emma looked around the room, in the scattered light, seeing only a chair and Linton’s soiled clothes piled in a corner. The apartment smelled of an oily sickness—of sweat and disease that emanated from the lungs and skin. “You’re burning up and freezing to death at the same time. You need to see a doctor.”
“I can’t—I owe Terry rent. I don’t have money for medicine.”
“To hell with Terry. I’ll pay him and get you to the hospital.” She wanted to stroke his clothed leg and kiss his pale cheeks, but as a doctor’s wife she was aware of the infectious diseases that might harm her and the unborn child.
A weak smile formed on his lips. “I’m glad you’re here. I thought I’d die before I could touch your face again.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. You’ll be fine. I’m calling for a cab. Does Terry have a telephone?”
Linton suppressed a laugh, which only caused him to hold his chest and wince in pain. When he could breathe again, he said, “Terry lives as sparsely as I do. A telephone is a luxury.”
Emma opened the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Can you walk?”
“If you help me.”
“You know I will.” She stood by the bed, wishing she could touch him. “You must be calm and wait for me no matter what happens.”
Linton nodded.
As she shut the apartment door, Terry’s rough voice boomed down the stairs. “Had enough, ’ave ya? I said he was no good—not fit for a piece. I ’ear he was a fine specimen once, even though he’s sightless.” His head appeared over the railing.
“How much does he owe you?” Emma said coldly.
“Well, if ya count the twenty ya gave me—which I shouldn’t—as being a fee to enter this fine establishment . . . I suppose I could let him go for another twenty as long as he swabs his room for the next tenant.”
“I’ll be back with forty—lock the door and keep his things as they are.”
“Lock the door?” Terry guffawed in response to Emma’s request. “He ain’t got nothin’ to steal—a few worthless paintings and some grubby old clothes. Who’d want ’em?”
“If you destroy his work, I’ll personally come after you.”
“I’m shakin’,” Terry said, puffing out his eyes. “Come back with the money.” He spat on the floor.
Emma found a cab at the edge of the West End. She instructed the driver to take her home and then return to Linton’s address. Anne helped her gather a nurse’s mask, gloves, a couple of handkerchiefs, and one of Tom’s left-behind winter coats. She washed her hands and returned to Linton’s wearing the mask and gloves. She found him, soaked in sweat, dressed in trousers and a shirt and sitting on the bed. She held out Tom’s coat and guided Linton’s arms into it, led him into the hall, and closed the door. She felt Terry staring at her and, saying nothing, dropped the forty dollars on the mucky wooden floor.
“Boston General,” Emma told the cabdriver, who looked at Linton with suspicion, keeping as far away as he could from the sick man.
A few blocks away, Linton’s head swayed onto Emma’s shoulder.
She placed one of the handkerchiefs under his head and looked at his ashen face.
A thin line of blood trickled from his nose.
* * *
Emma felt it too risky to return to Linton’s apartment that day to get his paintings. She assumed Terry would wait a few more days before ignoring her order to keep the soiled clothes and the artwork, and thought of hiring a workman to retrieve his belongings.
The day after Linton was admitted, Emma walked to Boston General. The admission process the day before had not been easy. Linton had no money or family to support him. The staff, who knew Emma on sight because of Tom, welcomed her, but, overall, seemed more interested in her story in Paris than they were in the patient. After a half hour of getting little accomplished, she finally called for the director, a venerable Boston gentleman with years of experience as a surgeon. Once she talked with him, Linton was admitted to a ward with other influenza patients. The director assured Emma that his new patient would have the finest care and that she could visit any time if she was willing to take proper precautions.
Despite the previous day’s drawbacks, Emma knew that Boston General was opulent compared to the hospital in Toul and that Linton would be well looked after. The corridors were spacious and the floors gleamed white, unlike the cramped facility in France. Here, the doctors and nurses walked in their starched uniforms down well-lit halls.
When she arrived, the front-desk nurse greeted her cheerily and called for an orderly. The young man led Emma to a sparkling white room where she pulled on a smock over her clothes, positioned a fresh cotton mask over her mouth and nose, and put on gloves. He then directed her to the ward.
“How is Mr. Bower?” she asked a nurse who stood outside the door.
The woman smiled and said, “He’s holding his own. So many young men are sick. We’re concerned about the pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia?” Emma asked, shocked by the diagnosis. “He has it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“May I see him?”
“The director has asked me to make an exception for you, but please don’t touch him and don’t take too much time. He’s very weak. He’s in bed ten, near the window.”
Emma thanked the nurse and walked into the rectangular room full of patients, mostly men, some wearing masks. She spotted Linton near a corner, enveloped in a pool of sun from a window behind his head. As she approached, he lifted his head from the pillow. The pallid face showed slightly more color than the day before; still, his overall complexion remained ghastly. Emma started to touch his shoulder but relented, and instead stood close to the bed.
“I knew you would come,” Linton said.
“Of course.”
Linton studied her with watery eyes. “Another time, another place,” he said in a strained voice and managed a smile.
She backed into the sunlight so he could see her better.
“I recognized you today, just as I did when you came to my studio. That day, you smelled of oatmeal soap and I ran my hands over your stockings.”
“I remember,” Emma said. “But don’t talk—you must save your energy.”
“The doctor says I have pneumonia.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been so blind, I would have whisked you away.”
Emma held a finger to her lips, before drawing up a chair and sitting beside his bed. “Let me talk, Linton.”
He turned his head toward her.
“I have something to tell you . . . I want to thank you for your letters. They meant so much to me, I saved them in Paris and brought them back to Boston. They’ve traveled thousands of miles and now they’re home. I was worried when your letters stopped, but now I understand what happened.”
Linton’s eyes, gauzy and pale, gazed past her into the ward.
“I’ve spent much of my life running away . . . from my past . . . from you. But I’ve stopped running. I returned to Boston because I had to. I’ve struggled with numerous difficulties over the past two years and I’ve faced them in my own way. The day Alex introduced us and we walked to your studio, I knew I could love you. I’m sorry there couldn’t have been more days, but my marriage, my work . . . you understand. I’ve been a coward many times in my life. You were right when you said, ‘another time, another place,’ at Frances’s party. In such a world our love would have been reserved for each other.”
“But if you and Tom aren’t . . . ? Don’t we have time?”
Emma leaned as close to him as she dared and lowered her voice, “I don’t think so. This is so difficult for me to say . . .”
Tears welling in his eyes, Linton turned away, anticipating the worst, and stared at the ceiling.
“I’m going to have a baby.”
Linton swung his head toward her, his face turning into the sun. He tried to lift his arm to cover his eyes but failed, and dropped it stiffly by his side.
“There’s no time to explain,” Emma pleaded. “Please believe me when I say that my affection and respect for you never faltered.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, choking back tears. “Your baby shouldn’t be exposed to sick people.” His voice sputtered and a cough wracked him so violently he shook in bed.
Emma grabbed a clean white cloth from the bedside table and dropped it over his mouth and nose. Soon, crimson streaked the fabric.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “You must hate me.”
Linton turned toward her again, the cloth falling from his face, tears streaking his cheeks. “I could never hate you, and I’ll never stop loving you. Your child will be my child as well. . . .” He tried to lift himself up on his elbows, but couldn’t. Groaning, he fell back on the pillow.
He began again after catching his breath. “I’m not afraid of dying, Emma. I’m afraid of never seeing the world again, of leaving behind all this beauty. I’ll never be able to touch your child—our child—or be there when it takes its first step. I’ll never be able to walk with you through a meadow, smell a rose, feel the warmth of the sun, know the turn of the seasons, or watch the bright day fade into night. I’ll never have that again.”
She wept.
“You will see beauty again, wherever you may be,” she said after composing herself. She stood, leaned over the bed, and kissed him lightly on the forehead through her mask, his love melting any fear of danger. For once, she wasn’t afraid to show her affection.
Linton put his arms around her neck and pulled her gently toward him.
She felt his breath in her hair, and stayed in his embrace, enraptured, until a hand tapped her shoulder. She looked back to see the ward nurse.
“That isn’t wise,” the woman said. “Please . . . move away, he’s contagious.”
Emma disengaged herself from Linton’s arms. “You’re right, but I would have held him just the same.”
“You must think of your own health—not just the patient’s,” the nurse said.
“You must go,” Linton said. “I’m tired and they need to take care of me.”
“You can visit again, but you must obey the rules or you’ll be removed,” the nurse told her.
“Tomorrow.” Emma stood in the sun and blew him a kiss.
He pursed his lips in a kiss.
The nurse escorted her to the door. “Please observe our rules, Mrs. Swan,” the woman said in a reproachful tone. “I’m sorry to be so strict, but these patients are seriously ill. We don’t want more deaths.”
Emma nodded, slipped off the mask, gloves, and gown, and handed them to the nurse. She was glad to be out of the ward, away from the sickness and the painful emotions Linton stirred within her, feelings that would require the balm of time to heal. She chided herself for not having the nerve to tell him who had fathered her child, but that story would have to wait until he recovered.
On her way out, Emma spotted Alex at the bottom of the hospital steps. He leaped up them, stopping near her, a frantic grimace on his lips. “A friend told me Linton is here.”
“He has pneumonia,” Emma said. “You might not be able to see him.”
“Oh, God.” Alex drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, but only a moment passed before he said good-bye and rushed to the hospital doors.
* * *
From her chair near the sitting room fireplace, Emma watched the snow fall in soft, lazy circles. Winter had arrived full blown in her dark world. The courtyard worktable, nearly obscured by the drifting flakes, was covered in a layer of glistening white. Lazarus stretched on his back in front of her, his limbs sprawled akimbo.
Anne brought a steaming pot of tea and placed it on the table next to her. “I’ll be going to bed now. Is there anything else you need?”
Emma shook her head and sniffled.
“Drink your tea. It will make your head feel better.”
“It’s just a cold,” Emma said, hoping her self-diagnosis was correct. She had stayed away from the hospital for three days because of her illness, and called the nurses’ station to relay her get-well messages to Linton.
Emma sipped her tea and opened her diary. The fireplace crackled and a damp log hissed and popped on the hearth. Startled, she shifted in her chair. The reports reminded her of rifle fire at the Front and the fireworks the night Monsieur Thibault committed suicide. She took a deep breath while holding the warm cup in her hands. After a time, she lifted her pen.

Entry: 14th February, 1919
Today is Valentine’s Day and here I sit, like a lump, on the evening of love. If a Gypsy had foretold my fortune for this day, my laughter would have echoed down Charles Street. I’ve rather made a mess of life and prospects don’t seem to be getting better. Who knows, soon I may be a single mother in Boston—not unlike the woman I met in Saint-Nazaire who lost her husband in the war, or Madame Bouchard—if Tom does return to Boston. When my baby is born I will exorcise many memories. Despite my demons, I know my love for this child will extend beyond my own concerns.
Neither Tom nor Madame Bouchard have written, telephoned, or sent telegrams. Madame Bouchard would be looking for money. I haven’t the faintest idea what Tom’s been up to. Sometimes I feel him in the house, looking into the studio, shaving in the bathroom, sitting in the courtyard, and I do miss him. He was always strong in ways I wasn’t. It’s not that I pine for him; however, I see his picture on the mantel and I realize we’re still married despite our trials. Honestly, Tom is an anchor for me—not a man who thrilled me like Kurt with his sense of the forbidden, or like Linton with his unbridled romance. Tom is kind and strong and always present like a faithful friend. But where was the spark, the fire, in that friendship? I ask myself that question too often. Yet, after he left for France, without him for an anchor, I drifted.
I worry so about Linton. When he recovers, we must settle into our roles as friends. I don’t know if that will be possible for either of us. Sometimes separation is the only option when love causes so much pain. It will take time for us to adjust. There’s so much to be done with the baby and Tom I can’t think about it now. The thoughts of a divorce and settlements, relocation, the disapproving looks and the telling “I knew you’d disappoint me” from my mother sends me into spasms of anxiety. Many times, like this evening in front of the fire, I wish my life could have been different. That’s when I yearn for a world with Linton that I know is just a dream.
I’ve received no word from Louisa about Tom’s letters. Perhaps she is concocting the perfect alibi to prove her innocence.
I did get a letter from John Harvey, telling me he might have a staff opening in London for Virginie. I wonder if she will take my advice and follow a lead I’m sure would benefit her career. A note, I’m certain, is already on its way from Paris to me, and knowing Virginie, she will accept the position, but protest all the way to London.
I have written enough for one evening. There’s a full lover’s moon tonight, but the snow continues to fall and obscure its cold beauty. Tomorrow promises to be windy and cold. This lump must lift herself from her chair, disturb Lazarus, tend the fire, and crawl into bed—alone, but warm, this Valentine’s night.

The knock on the door, the bustle on the stairs and downstairs hall was followed by a deathly silence. Her bedroom clock ticked forlornly as she strained to see its face, the dial partially obscured in shadow. It was a few minutes after two in the morning. She sat up in bed, uncertain, in the haze of sleep, of the sounds below. Soon, hurried steps pattered up toward her bedroom.
Anne called from the hall. “Ma’am . . . Emma . . . ?”
Heart pounding, she jumped from her bed, and opened the door.
Anne stood trembling, a single candle illuminating her wan face. “A man from the hospital is downstairs. . . .”
“Yes?” Emma asked, fearing the worst.
“Mr. Bower died just before midnight.”
Emma reached for the door but instead stumbled backward.
Anne captured her in her arms and silently guided her to bed.
“I am so sorry, ma’am,” Anne whispered as they sat, holding hands.
Emma could only look at the young woman beside her and think about a future swallowed by death, before she burst into sobs that clawed at her throat.

Entry: 18th February, 1919
I’m not much in the mood to write. We buried Linton this morning. When I say we—I mean, Alex, Anne, myself, and the funeral staff. We were the only people who bothered to attend his burial in Mt. Auburn. I arranged and paid for it, although Alex offered to help. Linton had no living relatives as far as Alex and I could tell. So, we buried him in a lovely plot, under large trees on a snowy hilltop. Alex said a few words and I attempted to, but I couldn’t keep my composure. I wanted the whole affair to be over as quickly as possible, and I think Alex did as well. Poor man, I believe he loved Linton as much as I did, if not more.
From there, Alex drove Anne and me to Linton’s apartment in the West End. Fortunately, the second-floor landlord was a bit more obliging than last time, considering the money I had paid him previously. He hadn’t touched the apartment, but was glad to be rid of Linton’s belongings. The three of us, dressed in masks and gloves, disposed of Linton’s clothes and gathered the rest of what he owned, which was insignificant except for three small paintings, which were buried under the soiled garments. As Anne and Alex got into the car, I searched the apartment one final time, looking for any correspondence or personal items that might have escaped our eyes. I found nothing. We brought the paintings back to the house. Alex told me to keep the artwork—which I had hoped to keep anyway—as a remembrance of Linton’s life.
Anne prepared tea for us and Alex left early that afternoon. Once again, I was left with Anne, and my thoughts, and the reminder of Linton as I looked at the paintings stacked against my studio wall. This evening, after dinner, I will collapse into bed. My body feels empty, as if a light has been extinguished in my soul.