Unsettled Spirits (35 page)

"Huh," said Sam.

"Hmm," said Ma.

"We'll see," said Vi.

"Sleep some more, sweetie," said Pa.

So I did.

On Wednesday of that week, I was well enough to get up, bathe, wash my hair, and put clothes on. I thought about calling Mrs. Pinkerton (who hadn't stopped telephoning the house every day or two. "Just to see how our darling Daisy is coming along." Sure.) but couldn't quite make myself do it.

Luckily for me. Miss Petrie had come by twice to bring books she thought I'd enjoy. Even more luckily for me, as I already mentioned, Sam had been prowling the stacks at Grenville's Books, and had bought the very latest murder mysteries for me.

Therefore, from Wednesday through Friday of that week, Spike and I enjoyed ourselves by sitting on the sofa in the living room, me wrapped in a nice shawl my sister Daphne had crocheted and given me for Christmas. I wore bedroom slippers on my feet, and Spike snoozed on my lap while I read. And slept. I could read for approximately forty-five minutes before I had to haul a sofa cushion closer, rest my head on it and go to sleep.

Dr. Benjamin had continued to visit me every day since the beginning of my illness, and on Friday of that week, he pronounced me well enough to take Spike for a short walk with Pa, as long as I bundled up.

"If you feel short of breath, come home instantly," he said in a serious voice. "There's still the chance you might get pneumonia, and we want to avoid that at all costs."

I felt my eyes widen. "Pneumonia? Really?"

"Really. I didn't want to frighten you, but I was worried your influenza was going in to pneumonia after the second day of your illness. You were extremely ill. Don't take any foolish chances, young lady."

"I won't," I promised, remembering all the people I used to know who were no longer with us because they'd contracted pneumonia after having the 'flu. Shoot. I knew I'd been sick, but I didn't know I'd been
that
sick.

Pa had been standing behind Dr. Benjamin, gazing at me and frowning. "Do you really think she should go outside, Doc? It's pretty cold out there still."

"As long as she bundles up, she should be all right. If she doesn't start moving soon, she'll turn into a marshmallow. I can tell her appetite has returned." He grinned at me.

I love Doc Benjamin, but sometimes he could be a trifle blunt. "I haven't been eating
that
much!" I said hotly. Well, as hotly as I could with my vocal chords still severely compromised.

"Just teasing you, Daisy," the good doctor said with a wink. "Bundle up, be sure to wear a scarf around your neck and over your ears, and don't walk far. You need to exercise a bit to regain your strength, but don't overdo it."

"May I go to church on Sunday?"

"As long as you don't try to sing in the choir. Well, you can't with that voice anyway."

I sighed. "Too true."

"But I don't think church will do you any harm."

"Thanks, Doc."

"Probably do her some good," said Pa with a wink for me. "All this pampering has spoiled her."

"Has not!" But I winked back at him.

So the days drizzled by—we got a surprise that March when some rain came. Generally we get our rain during the winter, when we get rain at all, which isn't often. Anyhow, the second Sunday since I became so ill crept up on us, and I rose to take breakfast with the family.

"Should you be up and around?" asked Ma, eyeing me critically.

"You still look peaky," said Aunt Vi, also eyeing me critically.

"Dr. Benjamin said she could go to church if she didn't overdo," said Pa, who'd been there and was reporting the truth as he knew it.

"I feel better," I said. My voice was still on vacation, but that was all right. At least Mr. Hostetter couldn't accuse me of malingering. "A little weak."

A lot weak would have been more like it, but I didn't want to admit to same. The word
pneumonia
clanged in my brain, however, and I vowed to take it easy. I still hadn't telephoned Mrs. Pinkerton. That counted as taking it easy, didn't it? I decided I'd take a nap after church and then, if I felt up to it, I'll give her a ring. She'd want me to zip over to her house instantly, but I'd make an appointment for some day later on in the week. I'd cite Dr. Benjamin's fear about my contracting pneumonia if she whined.

Sam came for breakfast, and when he saw me all dressed up and ready for church, he said, "Where do you think you're going?"

"To church," said I.

He glanced at my parents and my aunt. "Is she well enough to go to church today? She still looks sick."

"How kind," I muttered.

"Doc Benjamin said it was all right for her to go to church, as long as she doesn't overdo," said Pa.

"Huh," said Sam, and he handed me a box of chocolates. "Here," he said in his most gracious tone of voice. I'm being sardonic.

"Thank you, Sam! I won't flush these down the—"

Whoops. I hadn't meant to say that. Nobody knew I'd flushed Betsy Powell's chocolates down the toilet, except Spike, and he wasn't talking.

"Flush them?" my mother asked, looking at me strangely. "Why would you flush them?"

"Probably because they're from me," said Sam, sounding disgruntled.

"No! No, I wouldn't flush them for any reason at all. Thank you very much for bringing them to me." And right there, in front of my mother, father, and aunt, I lifted myself on my tippy toes and kissed Sam on the cheek.

His olive-toned skin turned sort of mauve. The family beamed upon us. Oh, let them beam. One of these days, I'd have to tell them Sam and I were engaged.

We had waffles with bacon and maple syrup for breakfast. Vi had a lovely chicken soup ready to heat over the stove burners when we came home from church. Vi was, I presume, still worried about my health and trusted Sam's Jewish friend in New York City regarding the healing properties of chicken soup. I'd already seen the pile of sandwiches she'd prepared for us to eat with the soup, covered with a dampish cloth and residing in the Frigidaire. She was awfully good to us, Vi was.

Because I didn't have to leave my family to put on my choir robe, the whole lot of us marched to the front door of the sanctuary, where members of the congregation who were designated as greeters smiled at us and welcomed us to the church.

"It's good to see you again, Mrs. Majesty. I understand you've been quite ill," said Mr. Jankowski, a little, bent, white-haired man with a sweet smile. "I hope you're not coming back to us too soon."

Golly. Was
everyone
going to tell me not to overdo? I'd been sleeping for two solid weeks, for Pete's sake.

"I'm feeling much better, Mr. Jankowski. Thank you."

His smile tipped upside down when he heard my whispery voice. "You don't sound well."

I shrugged and decided not to try to explain my health situation. I'd just try not to talk to anyone.

Naturally, that turned out to be impossible.

The first two people to meet our eyes when we entered the church were Mr. and Mrs. Albert Zollinger, newly returned, I suspected, from their honeymoon in San Francisco.

"Daisy!" cried Lucy a little too loudly. She glanced around with her gloved hand to her mouth as if in dismay at having made such a noise in church. Her beloved merely smiled gently at her, for which I appreciated him.

"Hey, Lucy. How was the honeymoon?"

"Gosh, you sound terrible," she said, gazing upon me with concern.

"I'm really sounding much better than I did a week or so ago. I'm pretty much well again now, but I had the 'flu."

"Well, you'd better not let Mr. Hostetter hear you," warned Lucy. "He'll be livid. Albert and I just got home yesterday, so I'm not singing today, and you've been sick so you're not singing today. He must be pulling his hair out."

"He'll be bald as an egg if he does too much of that," I said. "He doesn't have a lot of hair to begin with."

My mother said, "Daisy." But Lucy laughed, so that was all right.

"But how was your honeymoon, Lucy? It sounded perfect when you told me about it."

Folding her hands across her bosom and looking dreamy, Lucy said, "It was wonderful, Daisy. Just wonderful."

"I'm so happy for you both."

I felt a tug on my arm and realized Sam was bored and wanted us to head to our seats. So I said, "See you after church," to Lucy, and followed my family to their customary pew.

Mind you, pews weren't assigned to certain people or anything, but people tended to sit in the same places week after week. Folks could get downright argumentative if they found other folks sitting in what they considered "their" pews.

Fortunately for us, there were no such quarrels that day. Mr. Hostetter did, however, spot me. He gave me a hideous frown and stomped down the chancel steps, his choir-director's robe billowing around him.

"Mrs. Majesty. I see you're here today. When do you think you'll be able to join us in the choir?"

"Maybe I can come to rehearsal this coming Thursday," I said, smiling sweetly. I knew I sounded like a dying cat. As soon as Mr. Hostetter heard me, he said, still frowning, "Well, don't come back too soon. We don't want you damaging your vocal chords. Gargle with hot salt water. Put some lemon in it." He transferred his frown to the rest of my family. "See that she rests and takes care of her voice. We need her."

"So do we," said Ma a trifle huffily. "And we've been taking excellent care of her."

"Hmph," said Mr. Hostetter, and he whirled around and tramped back up the chancel steps.

"Of all the nerve," said Aunt Vi.

Pa chuckled.

Sam said, "He sounds as if he thinks you got sick on purpose."

"Stupid man," said Ma, which was most unlike her.

I just sighed and said, "It's nice to know they missed me."

Sam said, "Huh."

And the church service commenced. It might have been my imagination, but the choir didn't sound particularly robust that morning without Lucy and me singing. That was all right with me. I wanted Mr. Hostetter to know what a gem he had in me. Well, two gems, if you count Lucy.

Chapter 29

Singing in the choir makes a church service pass by more quickly than if you're just sitting in the congregation listening. Well, and standing when you have to sing a hymn. But that morning, I couldn't even sing the hymns because my voice didn't work, and the service seemed to drag by unmercifully. I almost wished I'd stayed home and napped with Spike for one more Sunday.

But I hadn't, and the service ended eventually. Most of the choir members, including the organist, Mrs. Fleming, rushed to greet me as soon as the final amen sounded from his people again, as the old hymn has it. They were glad to see me, although they weren't delighted to hear me. I assured one and all that I was well on the road to recovery, and my family and I were finally allowed to go to Fellowship Hall for tea and cookies.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Daisy," asked Sam, being delightfully solicitous.

I gave him my warmest smile. "I'm a little weary, but I'll go to Fellowship Hall for a few minutes. It's fun seeing people again."

"As long as you don't wear yourself out. You don't need to suffer a relapse."

"True. I promise I won't make everyone late for Aunt Vi's soup."

"That's not what I'm worried about," he growled.

I patted his arm with true love and affection. "I know it, Sam. Thank you. I'm just going to take a teensy side trip to the ladies' room to powder my nose, and I'll join you in a minute or two."

"Your nose doesn't need powder," he told me, staring at said protrusion critically.

He sounded as if he meant it, and I sighed. "That's a polite way of saying I need to use the toilet," I whispered in his ear, to do which, I had to stand on my tiptoes.

"Oh. Well, don't be long." He gave my waist a squeeze and allowed me to leave his side. I opted to go to the ladies' room at the rear of the church, since I knew it wouldn't be crowded. My family—including Sam, who was becoming more and more a part of it—had stayed longer in the church sanctuary than usual because of all the people welcoming me back. Therefore, the corridor leading to the back ladies' room was deserted, and my shoes made a sort of echo-ey
click-click
as I walked. The sound and the lack of people might have been eerie had I not known every inch of that church.