O Little Town (13 page)

CHAPTER 23

Sleep did not come easy for Walter. He was in and out of consciousness and awake every half hour. The shadows on the wall were more intrusive than the soft sounds from the hall. His waking thoughts and his dreams were intermingling. Sometimes he was aware of a nurse being in the room. Sometimes he thought it was his dad. Sometimes he thought it was Captain Bennington. Once, he was sure it was Adrienne.

Young Walter stayed in the hospital lobby all night. He fell asleep in an armless chair twisted unnaturally in a position only a sixteen-year-old could survive. When he awoke with the first light of morning shining across him and onto the patterned carpet at his feet, he saw his mother and his father sitting opposite him, watching his every squirm and twitch. They had no way of knowing what the police’s next step would be and neither did they know beyond all doubt why their son was involved in the first place.

His mother spoke first. “Son, are you ready to come home and eat some breakfast?”

Walter ignored her question. “What’s happened? Have you heard anything from upstairs?”

His father answered. “They operated in the night. I talked to the doctor just a couple of hours ago.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“That’s hard to say, Walter. She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“I want to see her.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, son,” his mother said. “I don’t think it would be proper and I don’t think it would be allowed.”

“Who’s the doctor?”

“Dr. Larnette. He’s been with her all night. He’s the same doctor, you might remember, that looked after your aunt when she …”

E. G. Selman’s sentence was interrupted by the appearance of the until-now silent policeman who had accompanied Captain Bennington at the theater the night before. He walked up, said good morning, and then looked to Walter. “She’s awake and she’s asking to see you.”

Walter followed the policeman down the hallway to the stairs, and at Mrs. Selman’s insistence, E. G. trailed behind. At the top of the staircase Captain Bennington took over from his subordinate and escorted them to the room. The hall was dark and quiet, and a uniformed officer was sitting in a chair outside. He rose as the three of them approached. Dr. Caywood Larnette exited room 226, surveyed the group, and spoke to them jointly, quietly, and with authority.

“Mrs. Knoles is in a very serious way. The bullet pierced her intestines in sixteen places and perforated her bladder. We’ve done all we can to prevent infection and make her comfortable. She is conscious. Thankfully she’s been in very little pain with all this.” Dr. Larnette rubbed his hand across his bald head and breathed deeply, settling his gaze solidly on Walter. “And, young fellow, if you’re Walter, she’s asking to see you and no one else.”

Bennington stepped forward. “She’ll see him, Doc, but I need to be in there with whoever she’s talking to.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Calvin,” said Walter’s dad. “Let the woman be. If she wants to talk to the boy, let her be.”

Walter had never heard his dad talk to Captain Bennington this way and had certainly never heard him use his given name. Apparently Walter wasn’t the only one surprised by this outburst because it stopped the captain cold.

“Well, I don’t want them in there cooking up some kind of story. He can go in, but I’m standing right here till he comes out.”

Dr. Larnette stepped aside and opened the door for Walter, who entered slowly and anxiously. The bed near the far wall consumed the small body in pristine sheets. He moved forward and stood as close as he dared and kept his silence until he saw the slight movement of head and eyes.

“Walter, you’re here.”

“Yes. How are you?” He knew how silly this question was as soon as it hit the air, but it was as much sense as his nerves would allow.

“Come closer. I don’t want them to hear me outside.”

Walter inched toward the bed until his leg was touching it. Adrienne reached for his hand and pulled him gently until his head was bent near her lips.

“What did you tell them, Walter? Did you tell them it was an accident? That Nick wasn’t to blame?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen Nick?”

“No.”

“You must find him. Please, Walter.”

“How?”

“You’ll find a way. You’ll find a way. Go on now and tell them outside that I just wanted to thank you for your kindness. Don’t tell them we talked of Nick. Do you understand? And tell Nick I’m going to be just fine.”

With this her head rolled back facing the wall and Walter was left standing in the semi-darkness more confused than when he had entered. He walked to the door. The doctor pushed past him and went back in the room to see to Adrienne. Bennington glared down at him with steely eyes.

“What did she want?”

“She just wanted to thank me.”

“Thank you? Thank you for what?”

“For being her friend,” and Walter walked back to the staircase and down the steps. E. G. followed at a distance and Captain Bennington just stood there with a puzzled look on his face.

The last murder Bennington had worked was right after the turn of the century in the summer of 1900, when Daniel Moss had been found dead on the back porch of John Tuttlemeyer’s farmhouse. The cause of death was a shotgun blast to the face. It was a clear case of breaking and entering and self-defense—the whole town knew the Moss boys were nothing but trouble. An investigation was conducted, but charges were never brought. Of course, this wasn’t a murder case … yet. Bennington knew there was a slim chance the actress would survive … but he wasn’t optimistic about it. It would become a murder case, he thought. Eventually.

By ten the next morning Walter was back in the theater doing what he always did the morning after a show. He was cleaning the aisles and sweeping out between the rows of seats. There would be no show tonight. His father told him that within one hour of the ambulance carrying Adrienne off to the hospital, most of the remaining cast and crew had packed up and left town. The local police had done a poor job of securing the room as a crime scene, and when they returned to comb through any possible evidence, it had all disappeared. Someone had even mopped up the blood. Walter’s dad said it was an old circus troupe tactic of leaving no trace behind that could convict one of their own, even if one of their own was guilty. Did Nicholas and Simon leave with them? And where were they? In a neighboring town? On the way back to Baltimore? Adrienne had asked him the impossible when she asked him to find Nick.

Walter was filling the trash cans outside the theater when he was suddenly aware that someone was watching him from the curb. It was a small boy, maybe seven years old, in a filthy coat much too small for him and much too light for the bitingly cold weather. He had no gloves and his nose was red and running, but his eyes were alert and watching Walter’s every move. Walter continued his cleanup, picking up debris off the sidewalk, and every time he looked back, the dirty-faced little boy was still staring at him. Finally he came closer and asked, “Are you Walter?”

“Yeah.”

“Here.” The boy handed Walter a folded note and then ran away as if Satan himself was on his tail.

Walter watched until he rounded the corner and disappeared. Then he unfolded the note and with great difficulty read the scrawling on the paper.
Am in hiding near train depot. Come past tracks at dark. Need to talk. Bring no one. Nick.

Walter spent the rest of the day at the hospital. As he sat in the lobby, he saw flowers being delivered every half hour—big beautiful Christmas wreaths and colorful poinsettias. Later he would learn that Adrienne had received everything from nuts and fruit to bedclothes and cosmetics, gifts from the good people of Mt. Jefferson to the ailing, and maybe dying, Adrienne, whom they had only known and admired for one performance. It was obvious to everyone, through the newspaper and by word of mouth, that Adrienne was without any formal family. Mt. Jefferson, in an expression of communal kindness, had adopted her.

By suppertime small groups of citizens had gathered in the cold outside the front of Lenity General, showing support and awaiting news. The evening was beginning to pale into darkness when Walter weaved his way through the small groups of well-wishers along the front steps and set his sights on the train depot, about six blocks away.

Walter crossed the tracks and stood for a few moments in hopes that someone would come to him. Time passed and no one came. He started walking along the tracks in ever-increasing darkness and cold. About a half-mile from the depot, he could smell food cooking. He looked to his left over a shallow embankment and saw small flickers of flame coming from what appeared to be a company of individual campfires. The secluded field could only be seen from the train or the tracks. His eyes were adjusting to the sight and the lack of light when a voice he had heard before spoke his name.

“Walter.”

He jumped and turned and saw the dirty little boy who had delivered the note. The boy then ran down the embankment and toward the camp. Walter waited. A larger figure left the camp and started up the hill toward him. Nicholas Knoles. There was no greeting. No “thank you” for coming. Nicholas went straight to the business at hand.

“How is she?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Is she going to live?”

“I don’t know.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot her. She knows that doesn’t she?”

“Yes, sir.”

Walter was mesmerized by Nicholas’ appearance. He was still wearing his expensive street clothes and long heavy coat, but he looked as if he had not slept in the past twenty-four hours. His tired eyes stared at Walter with a cry for help, and Walter, who had both feared and felt sorry for this man in the past day and a half, sensed genuine remorse in him.

“Can you get a message to her?”

“Maybe. They’re watching her pretty close.”

“Tell her I’m here. Tell her I haven’t left. Tell her I’m sorry and I love her. Will you do that?”

“If I can.” Walter looked past him down the hillside into the camp. “Who are all those people? Is that the cast and crew?”

“No. That’s just some hobo camp that took me in. I can stay here with them until something happens or they get run off.”

Walter had never seen anything like it before and found himself staring at the strange but rather pretty sight of the small campfires against the oncoming night.

“And, Walter, one more thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any money?”

Startled at the request, he dug into his pockets and pulled out all he had.

“Eighty-five cents.”

“That’ll help.” Nicholas Knoles, star of stages throughout America and Europe, reached out his hand and snatched it from the boy. “That’ll help.”

The gifts and letters and telegrams and notes of well-wishing continued to pour into the hospital until a special committee from the Ladies Auxiliary of Local Affairs volunteered to intercept them and manage the barrage of kindness. On the ground floor of the Faith Presbyterian Church, the largest in the city, they began to keep account of all the gifts and cards that Mt. Jefferson’s most famous visitor was generating. The church also became an information post on her medical status to help keep the corridors and front steps of the hospital clear. On her third night of hospitalization and exactly one week before Christmas Day, a community choir from all the neighboring churches gathered on the lawn under her window and sang carols. It was uplifting, depressing, thoughtful, and eerie all at the same time. Walter found himself either in the lobby or with the crowd every waking minute. He adroitly avoided being seen by Captain Bennington and was secretly trying to spot Dr. Larnette, who never seemed to come out of the building. It wasn’t until Monday evening just before the choir began to sing again that he saw the doctor getting out of his Oldsmobile runabout. Walter met him coming up the walkway.