Ciji Ware (21 page)

“Well, I’m sure you also know, Doctor Gibbs—”

“Call me Bailey,” Gibbs interrupted. “I’ll call you Sim so’s I can call this pretty lady here Daphne, which is
such
a lovely name,” he added with a generous dash of courtliness that made Daphne smile. “But, you were sayin’, Sim?”

“I was about to say that you’ve probably seen the growing body of evidence that air borne pesticides and defoliants can also work their way into the water table, and have been linked to all sorts of human cancers. The good news, though,” he continued, “is that the deadliest ones used in modern agriculture have finally been banned or severely curtailed.”

“Well, those recent bans didn’t come soon enough to save entire species of birds that are now close to extinction,” Gibbs retorted. “And they weren’t put in soon enough to save Caroline—or Madeline Whitaker’s husband and son, or the scores of people I’ve treated in this town.” Dr. Gibbs banged his palm on the nearby railing. “And guess what
else
those jackasses want to do now? There’s some danged fool legislative plan brewing up in Jackson and Washington, D.C., to put a bunch of toxic dump sites ’round poor states like Mississippi and Louisiana and New Mexico in order to dispose of the chemicals that those yahoos finally were forced to get rid of by rabble-rousers like Caroline and me. And you know what?”

Sim and Daphne merely shook their heads questioningly.

“One of those dumps is slated to be put right here in Adams County—
next
door
to my bird sanctuary on land owned by that pirate neighbor of mine,” he declared, pointing through the woods.

“You’re kidding,” Sim said, incredulous. “Do the politicos realize the sanctuary is located right here?”

“Sure they know!” The old doctor’s face had grown flushed, and Daphne estimated his blood pressure had risen twenty points by now. He rubbed the tips of his fingers together as if he were a bank teller. “I think it’s payback time for all the trouble Caroline and I caused agitating against chemical and oil companies all these years.”

“So, you think people are getting paid off?” Daphne asked, dismayed.

Dr. Gibbs gave a shrug. “Cyrus, my greedy neighbor up the Trace, was once a big wheel in politics around here. Believe me, he has nothing good to say ’bout
me
since I stole my sweet Caroline right out from under his thumb a million years ago. I ’spect he still can play a few of his ol’ chips up in the capital. These days, though, he’s pretty broke.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Maybe he’d like to unload that derelict old place next door and go into a nursing home. I bet he hasn’t got any relatives that’ll speak to him anymore, he’s so cantankerous.”

“Have you stated your case yet to the state officials?” Sim asked, his concern evident.

“No legislative hearings have started yet. Just backroom stuff and rumors, you know. That’s what’s got me worried.” He banged his fist again. “Those policy wonks’ll probably just say this is another case of not-in-my-neighborhood-you-don’t! Well, maybe it is, but we’ve got a precious sanctuary here, and besides, I’m willin’ to fight
any
dump site anywhere near folks that might get sick because of it.”

“We’re poisoning the planet,” Daphne said softly.

Bailey nodded emphatically. “That’s right, little lady. Who knows if those toxic dumps don’t leech into the groundwater, endangering people and animals alike—just as if those rotten so-and-so’s were still spraying that poison on everything in sight.”

“No wonder all these cancer spikes are starting to show up everywhere,” Daphne declared.

“That’s just what Caroline kept sayin’ till the day she died.”

“I’m so sorry, Bailey,” Sim said soberly. “This must make the loss of your wife that much harder.” He looked into the distance, as if his thoughts were far afield. “My father died of cancer last year, and every time I fly into San Francisco or L.A. and see that crud in the air, I want to commit a felony.”

“What’d your daddy die of, son?” Dr. Gibbs asked quickly.

“Prostate.”

“That’s what I’ve got.”

“Oh, no,” Daphne cried before she could help herself. She glanced at Sim sitting in the chair beside her. He wore a stricken expression that he didn’t attempt to hide.

However, Dr. Gibbs merely shrugged. “I’ve lived with it for eight years, now. Run-of-the-mill deal. Probably fifty percent or more of men my age have it. Mine’s pretty slow growing. Old coots like me usually die of somethin’ else before this kind of cancer gets to ’em. I caught it early, and got the best treatment money can buy—and now, I eat organic,” he added proudly. His expression grew grave once more. “With Caroline there wasn’t a thing we could do. She started having headaches, and speech loss, and died within months.”

“But what a wonderful tribute this place is to her,” Sim said quietly.

Bailey Gibbs put a hand on his visitor’s shoulder. “I feel that way too, son, and I’m sorry ’bout your daddy. I know how much it hurts when it’s one of your own.”

Daphne watched a series of emotions play across Sim’s sober features. He’d lost a baby, too, she reminded herself. And a wife through divorce. She’d read somewhere that marriages often didn’t survive the death of a child. Suddenly, she had an overpowering urge to touch his sleeve in sympathy—yet, she resisted, bewildered to be feeling such closeness with a man she’d known only four days.

“My father ignored all the warning signs of cancer,” Sim disclosed.

Dr. Gibbs nodded sadly. “I don’t know much ’bout the environment where y’all live out west, but the problem ’round here is, it’s almost impossible to prove that
any
of these illnesses are due to the stuff in the air or the groundwater. So the damned polluters get away with it over and over.”

“Well…” Sim said, with a determined look, “I work the problem from the other end… taking photographs that might make people appreciate the wildlife that still exists, and maybe even inspire them to join the fight to save what’s left.” He laughed mirthlessly. “That’s what keeps me going these days when I’m hip-deep in some tropical river, praying the piranha won’t get me before I squeeze off a close-up of an endangered parrot!”

“And thank God you do,” the doctor said gruffly. He glanced at a busy bird feeder that was a dead ringer for Stanton Hall, the magnificent mansion in the heart of downtown Natchez that Daphne had pointed out to Corlis the day before her wedding. “Seein’ those little fellas inspires me to live a good while longer,” he announced. “And besides, Caroline left a lot on my to-do list. Now, why don’t I show you the rest of the three-ring circus I’ve got going here?”

Bailey Gibbs forged ahead, leading his guests to the bank of a burbling creek where foliage grew even thicker than at Liz Keating’s house, and horsetail rushes made the going considerably rougher.

“You know, gentlemen,” Daphne declared after forging ahead a few more yards, “I’m not properly equipped in terms of footgear, should some lil’ ol’ snake-in-the-grass cross my path. Why don’t you two continue on your tour, and I’ll wander back to the cottage in a few minutes and wait for you there, okay? And take your time.”

Dr. Gibbs inspected his visitor’s feet and nodded. “Wise woman. Obviously knows her way ’round this neck of the woods. Caroline loved birds, but she hated snakes. She always said,
she
was in charge of the glade… but the back forty was a hundred percent my bailiwick.” He looked at Sim. “Okay with you, son, if we press on?”

Sim glanced questioningly at Daphne, who smiled and waved them ahead. “I’m fine. I’d love just to sit on this log over here and listen to the creek for a while.” She walked around her proposed resting place making a mock inspection, and declared, “No snakes and no weeds. It’s perfect! See you later.”

She took a seat and listened contentedly to the sound of twigs snapping as Sim and Dr. Gibbs’s footsteps faded into the distance. A shaft of sunlight shone down through the canopy of trees, warming her face and making her sleepy. She closed her eyes and absorbed the gurgling sounds of water flowing by a few feet away. A frog croaked and crickets chirped nearby.

A bird called
Ca-coooo
…
ca-coooo
… and Daphne wondered if it were a spoonbill or a wood stork en route north.

Another bird cawed… and then another, and suddenly the surrounding woods were alive with birdsong, hoots, and trilling noises. Her eyes flew open, and she stared, amazed, at the flutter of wings overhead. In fact, wherever Daphne gazed, birds abounded on branches and were silhouetted in the air. A flock of small creatures flew over the brook fifty yards upcreek from the grassy footpath nearby. Soon, woodcocks were screeching and a buzzard circled over head.

Suddenly, the woods were alive with fowl. Daphne began to experience vertigo, as if the sounds in her ears were pulling her into a vortex of another time, a time when millions of birds filled the trees, and their musical notes were as common as human speech. A time when another Daphne, in a place very close to where she sat overlooking the burbling play of water in Whitaker Creek, gazed through a window and watched a flock of sparrows circle and swoop… circle and swoop… warbling their delight at a simpler world—that turned out to be not so simple, after all.

Chapter 9

January 29, 1794

Daphne Whitaker gazed moodily through her bedchamber window, idly noticing that Mammy’s daughter was emptying the bread crumbs gathered in her apron onto the ground outside the cookhouse. A flock of brown sparrows fluttered at Kendra’s feet and greedily gobbled the unexpected bounty on this unusually cold, January morning. Even through the wavy glass windowpanes Daphne could hear the birds twitter excitedly, but she paid little heed.

It
will
start
all
over
again. Mama’ll shriek and shriek and shriek, and I shall go mad.

Daphne heard the rustle of starched cotton skirts advancing down the hallway, and suddenly Mammy stood in the door frame, a cautious smile illuminating her dark brown features.

“Chile, you have a new baby brother. He’s mighty small, but his color’s good. Your mama wants you to come say hello.”

“Don’t want to,” Daphne said shortly.

“Now, Daphne,” Mammy reproved.

“He’ll die.”

“He might not,” Mammy said in a hopeful tone. “That’s up to the Lord to decide, not young’uns like you.”

The faint cries of the newborn drifted down the carpeted upstairs hall from Susannah Whitaker’s bedchamber.

“He sounds puny,” Daphne declared. “Has Daddy seen him?”

“Yes, and now your daddy’s out with the men in the fields, plannin’ the sowin’ for next year.”

“I don’t believe you,” Daphne said sullenly. “Daddy won’t even look at him, will he, ’cause he thinks he’ll die, same as the others.”

“Now you stop that, y’hear?” Mammy scolded. “They’ve given him a name. Keating, after your mama’s grandma, so you be a nice chile and tell your mama you’re happy for her.”

After a few moments of silence, Daphne rose from her chair by the window and walked halfheartedly toward the door. Mammy stepped aside to let her pass.

“She didn’t want this baby,” the girl announced flatly. “Daddy made her have it and hurt her to do it, and now the baby’ll die.”

“What you talkin’ ’bout?” Mammy demanded with a shocked expression.

Daphne refused to respond. Instead, the Whitaker household’s eldest child walked swiftly past her mother’s door and down the stairs to the parlor. Soon, the house was filled with the sound of a single passage of music, played stridently on the harp.

By the time Charles Whitaker flung open the front door, Daphne’s fingers were aching from repeating the same section of the Bach cantata a dozen times or more.

“What’s the point?” he shouted to no one in particular as he tramped into the foyer. “What’s the whole, damnable
point
to any of it?”

Her father’s boots were muddy and his frock coat wrinkled from shoulder to hem. Given his foul temper, Daphne quickly surmised that he must have received even more bad news on his latest inspection of his tobacco fields. She’d heard the conversations behind the half-closed doors of her father’s study. It had become widely known that Devon Oaks Plantation was threatened with foreclosure due to the steady fall of tobacco prices in recent years. In the months following the ghastly night Daphne had watched her father storm into her mother’s bedchamber, the king and queen of France had lost their heads to the guillotine, and tobacco shipments from America were still blockaded by hostile French and British forces. For the third year in a row, the money loaned to a host of planters for the purchase of seed and supplies was now past due. Everyone around Natchez was feeling the pinch, including the bankers who had granted Charles Whitaker another round of credit.

Daphne gazed into her father’s library. This chilly morn, he hadn’t even bothered to close his study doors. The harp fell silent and she watched, mesmerized, while her father poured himself a full glass of spirits and downed it in a few gulps. He opened a drawer to his desk, took out a pistol, cocked the hammer and then set about pouring lead powder into a piece of cloth and wadding it into the short barrel of the gun. He served himself another half glass of spirits, drank that down like the first, and strode out of the room and through the foyer without even a glance into the parlor where Daphne sat transfixed beside her harp. She heard the back door slam, and with the sound, an overwhelming sense of foreboding overtook her.