Duet for Three Hands (37 page)

“Won’t be necessary,” Ferguson said, closing his eyes like he was taking a nap. “I’m glad to hear his song once more before I go.” He opened his eyes, smiling at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel glanced at Lydia, his eyes frightened, before turning his gaze back on his friend. “Gillis, don’t talk.”

Ferguson made a sound in his throat like he was choking. Nathaniel’s face contorted, and his hands covered the spot on the pastor’s robe where the wound gushed more and more blood. “Please no, Gillis, you’re going to be fine.” Nathaniel tore off his own jacket and pressed it into pastor’s chest.

Ferguson spoke with more strength. “Don’t fret. Tell my daughters I love them. As for you, Nathaniel, you must let go.” He smiled as he reached for Nathaniel’s arm. “Take the love that’s right in front of you.” Then he stared upward at a starless sky before the life drained from his eyes and he was still.

Nathaniel cried out, his hands now helpless in his lap, his head bent over his dead friend. “They’ve killed him, Lydia.” He rocked back and forth on his knees, his eyes blank. “They’ve killed him.”

She put her arms around Nathaniel, and he leaned into her, burying his face into her neck. In the light from the headlights Jeselle ran toward the car, letting out a cry when she saw Whitmore’s wounds, and she moved quickly to stand in front of Nate and Lydia. “Please, Mr. Nate, we have to go.”

“We can’t leave him here,” said Nathaniel.

Remain calm and firm
, Lydia ordered herself. “I’m afraid we’ll have to. Whitmore needs a doctor. We’ll have Lulu send someone to collect Gillis.” Lydia stood and took Nathaniel’s arm, tugging him to his feet. Bess had come out of the house, carrying a blanket, and hovered beside them.

“I’ll wait with him.” Bess knelt in the spot Nathaniel had just vacated and covered the pastor from head to foot with the blanket.

“Bess?” Jeselle’s voice cracked.

“Go on now, Jessie. You need to get somewhere safe.” Bess smoothed the edges of the blanket. “We’ll be all right here.”

“What about the children? The food?”

“We always manage, somehow,” said Bess.

“When we’re settled and are able, I’ll send money.” Jeselle rested her hand on Bess’s shoulder. “Whatever we can spare.”

Bess looked up at Jeselle. “I’m grateful.” Her eyes skirted to Nathaniel. “To both of you.”

The women embraced as Lydia took Nathaniel’s hand and led him to the car. He sank into the driver’s seat, staring at his lap. She put her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to focus on her face, and, with that, he appeared to come back to the current moment and to the task they had in front of them.

“I don’t know if I can drive,” he whispered.

“You have to,” said Lydia. “There’s no one else. You have to get us to safety.”

Jeselle appeared at the driver’s side window. “I can drive. Whitmore taught me how. You get back here with him.”

Nathaniel did as he was told, sliding in beside Whitmore and taking the boy’s bloody head into his lap. Lydia got into the passenger side, and Jeselle turned the car and sped down the dirt drive.

Whitmore was more alert now but still groggy, peering around as if he didn’t know where he was.

“What hurts, my boy?” asked Nathaniel.

“Around my middle.” He took a breath that sounded painful. “And I think my nose is broken.”

Lydia sighed with relief as they got out to the highway. There were no cars in sight.

W
hen they pulled
into the parish driveway, Lydia saw Lulu in the kitchen rolling out biscuits for Ferguson’s breakfast, unaware of the moment about to come, thinking instead of the mundane, the ordinary—biscuits and the making of beds and shopping for a pound of bacon later, with no idea that everything she thought was important for the day ahead was about to be shattered. It occurred to Lydia as she watched Lulu tossing the biscuits into a pan that life was like this. Tragedy was always around the corner, with no warning. She remembered the day of her husband’s death, of the moment when she understood he was gone, how she wondered over and over how a person could be there one moment and gone the next.

Nathaniel stared out the window, seemingly at nothing. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” Lydia said. “You must.”

He nodded and opened the car door, gazing for an instant at the ground before getting to his feet and moving toward the house. She watched him knock at the kitchen door and saw Lulu’s surprised greeting. Through the window she saw Nathaniel’s mouth moving until Lulu fell into a kitchen chair.

Whit moaned from the backseat. Nervous, Lydia glanced at Jeselle. “Mrs. Tyler, we have to go,” Jeselle whispered.

“I’ll get him.” Lydia jumped from the car and sprinted toward the house. Without knocking, she threw open the door. The kitchen smelled of coffee, bacon, and baking biscuits. “Nathaniel, Whit needs a doctor.”

Lulu’s face seemed to have sunk into itself with the news. Now her eyes flashed determinedly as she stood. She wiped her cheeks of tears and indicated the door. “Well then, best be getting on. The fine man wanted you to get the lass on the boat.” The freckles on her face stood out against her white skin as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ears. Lulu’s Irish accent seemed stronger. Grief does that to a person, Lydia thought. Peels off your layers until you’re nothing but the soft flesh you were when you were a child skimming your mother’s hemline, holding on to her legs as she moved about the house.

“Professor, it was Mick Landry who warned the pastor. He told Gillis where to go. You all might be dead if he hadn’t.”

Nathaniel flinched and stepped backward. “That can’t be.”

“Landry heard his brother on the phone planning the whole thing,” said Lulu. “Excuse me for saying so, but it was your wife who set the whole thing going.”

“Frances did this? And Mick saved us?” Nathaniel asked.

“Sometimes we can’t understand the ways of others. Gillis always said it was up to God to judge, not us.” Lulu pushed them toward the door and handed them a basket of biscuits. “I started baking the minute he left as a way to keep my mind busy. Was hoping against hope he’d be home to eat them before the sun came up.”

J
eselle

N
athaniel insisted
on driving from then on out, and Jeselle was grateful to take the backseat. She wanted to be by Whitmore, where she belonged. The skin around his eyes was black and blue, and his face was covered with dried blood. Occasionally he opened his eyes but then seemed to fall back into a deep sleep, moaning when they went over bumps in the road.

Jeselle prayed silently, closing her eyes and pretending to sleep.

“Nathaniel, where is Frances?” said Lydia from the front seat.

“On her way to California, I suspect. She’d been carrying on with Mick Landry. And others. So many others. The man, the gardener that night, she went up of her own free will.”

Lydia gasped.

“Mick Landry did the right thing at the end. He was a smarter man than me when it came to Frances,” said Nathaniel. “I’ve been a fool, Lydia.”

There was nothing but the hum of the car for a long moment. “What will you do?” said Lydia.

“Learn to live again.”

They came to a town named Longview. Near the edge of town, they spotted a roadside motel and stopped, renting two rooms.

Nathaniel left to take Whitmore to a doctor, while Jeselle and Lydia went into one of the rooms to bathe. Afterward, Jeselle curled up on her side and closed her eyes. But the images from earlier played before her eyes. From the bed she saw Lydia in her slip leaning over the bathtub, washing both their dresses.

“You shouldn’t be washing my dress,” Jeselle called out to her.

“Why’s that?”

“Doesn’t seem right.”

“Must get the stink of those awful men off.” Lydia hung the dresses over the tub before coming to stand at the side of Jeselle’s bed. “Can’t sleep?”

“Can’t turn off my mind,” Jeselle said.

“Me either.” Lydia disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a cool, damp cloth. She set it on Jeselle’s forehead. Then she lay on the other bed. “I’ll never forget the moments when my babies were born. To see their faces for the first time—there’s nothing like it.” Her voice was soft and reassuring, reminding Jeselle of Mrs. Bellmont.

“What did you name them?” But she fell asleep before she heard the answer. She awoke later to Nate tapping her arm. “Jes, we’re back,” he said.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Whit was on the other bed, awake and smiling. “Jessie, I made it. They patched me up, but the doc says my nose might be slightly crooked. Will you still love me?” He reached out his hand. Jeselle took it, kneeling at the side of the bed.

“Will he be all right?” Jeselle asked Nathaniel.

“Yes. He has a broken rib and a concussion, so we have to take good care of him. I’m taking you all to my mother’s up north. To Maine. And Whit’s going to sit by the ocean and let the saltwater mist heal his wounds.”

“We’re going to the ocean?” said Jeselle.

“Yes, Jessie. We’re going to stand by the ocean,” said Whitmore.

“And we’ll feel small,” she said.

Whitmore smiled at her and then shifted to look at Nate. “I can’t ever repay this.”

“No need,” said Nate.

“So you say.”

Nate, smiling, started for the door. “Get some sleep. Both of you.”

“Where’s Lydia?” Jeselle asked.

Nate fidgeted with his shirt collar. “She’s resting next door.”

After Nate left the room, Jeselle lay down next to Whitmore on the bed, gently so as not to hurt his ribs.

He placed his hand on her stomach. “You feeling well?” he asked, soft.

“I’m fine.”

“When those men came to get me, I thought of you, Jes. First and last.”

“Me too. Always.”

N
athaniel

N
athaniel knocked
on the other motel room. Lydia answered at once, as if she’d been standing at the door, waiting. She wore her blue dress, the one that matched her eyes. He wondered, absently, if the blood had come out of the yellow one.

She motioned for him to come inside, which he did, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it, feeling liberated finally to gaze at her in her entirety, to take in every detail without guilt. Her hair looked clean and soft, and pink flushed her cheeks. She’d had a bath, he realized, imagining her long legs in the water of a tub. But the whites of her eyes were red. He felt a pang like the tapping of a pointed object against his chest. He did not want her to cry. Not ever again, most especially because of anything he’d done.

The room held the odor of stale cigarette smoke, embedded in the carpet and the white paint, but when Nathaniel approached Lydia, he smelled nothing but her freshly washed hair.

She sank onto the edge of the bed with her knees pressed together, like a schoolgirl.

“Have you been crying?”

She nodded, and her chest rose and fell in hiccups, like a child after a long cry. “All this ugliness. The pastor. He was such a fine man.”

“Yes, but think of the kids. Next door, together. It’s what the pastor wanted. He came around, Lydia, to your way of thinking. After years of thinking one way, you see, we both came around, which should give you great hope for the lot of humanity. It’s possible to change our minds about what we think we know.”

“Yes, there’s that. Yes.” Her neck flushed red, and her eyes flashed as she jutted out her chin like she did whenever she was angry. “I don’t want to go to Rochester.” She took a long, deep breath. “I don’t want you to leave me there. Without you.”

He smiled and knelt on the floor, near her feet. For such a tall woman she seemed small to him just then. “Lydia.”

“Yes?” In what he suspected was an attempt at defiance, she wiped under her eyes with her forefinger and looked toward the door. A lock of her hair was stuck to her damp cheek, and he pulled it away with his thumb, holding it between his fingers for a moment, thinking that the dampness made it the color of honey.

“I thought perhaps you might like to come to Maine. We could stay with my mother. Work on the Brahms and our three-handed duet. Ready ourselves for a tour in the spring. Walt’s agreed to manage us.”

“And would this arrangement be purely professional?” she asked, looking at her hands.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you feel. About me.”

She peered at him for a moment. “Don’t you know?”

“Not entirely.” His knees made a popping noise as he sat next to her on the bed. He placed the fingers of his left hand on the pulse at her neck, feeling that the blood pumping there could just as easily have been from his own surging heart. Perhaps the pulse might heal his hand? And yet, knowing nothing could restore the movement he at one time relished more than anything else, he realized, at least in this very moment, that it mattered less, because of the woman sitting next to him. Nothing felt as important as the warmth of her body next to his or the way she leaned toward him, inviting his touch, her eyes peering without reserve into his own. When he gently kissed her, her mouth softened, and he drew her to him, like she’d been there all his life.

It was joy, the feel of her skin underneath his fingertips. He moved to the buttons of her dress, undoing them one by one, until he was able to slide it from her torso. Then he paused and, without taking his eyes from her, tugged his wedding ring from his finger and placed it on the bedside table.