Calamity Town

Easter Sunday: Nora’s Gift

The invading press retreated, promising to return for the new trial; but Wrightsville remained, and Wrightsville chortled and raged and buzzed and gossiped until the very ears of the little Buddha clock on Pat’s dresser were ringing.

William Ketcham, by a curious inversion, became the town hero. The “boys” stopped him on street corners to slap his back, he sold five insurance policies he had long since given up, and, as confidence returned, he related some “details” of his relationship with Miss Patricia Wright on the critical nights in question which, when they reached Pat’s ears by way of Carmel Pettigrew (who was phoning her “best friend” again), caused Miss Wright to go downtown to Mr. Ketcham’s insurance office in the Bluefield Block, grasp Mr. Ketcham firmly by the collar with the left hand, and, with the right, slap Mr. Ketcham’s right cheek five ringing times, leaving assorted marks in the damp white flesh.

“Why five?” asked Mr. Queen, who had accompanied Miss Wright on the excursion and had stood by, admiring, while she cleansed her reputation.

Miss Wright flushed. ”Never mind,” she said tartly. ”It was¯exact¯retribution. That lying, bragging¯!”

“If you don’t watch out,” murmured Mr. Queen, “Carter Bradford will have another indictment to draw against you¯this one for assault and battery.”

“I’m just waiting,” said Pat darkly. ”But he won’t. He knows better!”

And apparently Cart did know better, for nothing more was heard from him about Pat’s part in the debacle.

* * *

Wrightsville prepared for the Easter holidays. The Bon Ton did a New York business in dresses and spring coats and shoes and underwear and bags, Sol Gowdy put on two “extras” to help in his Men’s Shop, and the Low Village emporia were actually crowded with mill and factory customers.

Mr. Ellery Queen shut himself up in his quarters on the top floor of the Wright house and, except for meals, remained incommunicado. Anyone looking in on him would have been puzzled. He was doing exactly nothing visible to the uninitiated eye. Unless it was to consume innumerable cigarettes. He just sat still in the chair by the window and gazed out at the spring sky, or patrolled the room with long strides, head bent, puffing like a locomotive.

Oh, yes. If you looked hard, you could see a mass of notes on his desk¯a mess of a mass, for the papers were scattered like dead leaves in autumn. And indeed the wind of Ellery’s fury had scattered them so. They lay there discarded and a mockery.

So there was nothing exciting in that direction.

Nor anywhere else, except possibly in Nora’s.

It was strange about Nora. She had stood up so gallantly under the stresses of the arrest and trial that everyone had begun taking her for granted. Even Hermione thought of nothing but Nora’s “condition” and the proper care of the mother, and there old Ludie was of infinitely more practical use. Old Ludie said a woman was a woman, and she was made to have babies, and the less fuss you made over Nora’s “condition,” the better off they’d both be¯Nora and the little one. Eat good plain food, with plenty of vegetables and milk and fruit, don’t go gallivantin’, go easy on the candy and do plenty of walking and mild exercise, and the good Lord would do the rest. Ludie had incessant quarrels about it with Hermione, and at least one memorable tiff with Dr. Willoughby.

But the pathology of the nervous system was so much Sanskrit to Ludie; and while the others were better informed, only two persons close to Nora suspected what was going to happen, and at least one of them was helpless to avert the catastrophe. That was Mr. Queen, and he could only wait and watch. The other was Doc Willoughby, and the doctor did all he could¯which meant tonic and daily examinations and advice, all of which Nora ignored.

Nora went to pieces of a sudden. On Easter Sunday, just after the family returned from church, Nora was heard laughing in her bedroom. Pat, who was fixing her hair in her own room down the hall and was nearest, got there first, alarmed by a queer quality in Nora’s laughter. She found her sister in a swollen heap on the floor, rocking, laughing her head off while her cheeks changed from red to purple to yellow-ivory. Her eyes were spumy and wild, like a sea storm.

They all ran in then and, among them, managed to drag Nora onto the bed and loosen her clothes, while she laughed and laughed as if the tragedy of her life were the greatest joke in the world. Ellery telephoned Dr. Willoughby and set about with the assistance of Pat and Lola to arrest Nora’s hysteria. By the time the doctor arrived, they had managed to stop the laughter, but Nora was shaking and white and looked about her with frightened eyes.

“I can’t¯understand¯it,” she gasped. ”I was¯all right. Then¯everything . . . Ooh, I hurt.’’’’

Dr. Willoughby chased them all away. He was in Nora’s room for fifteen minutes. When he came out, he said harshly: “She’s got to be taken to the hospital. I’ll arrange it myself.”

And Hermy clutched at John F., and the girls clung to each other, and nobody said anything while a big hand took hold of them and squeezed.

The Wrightsville General Hospital was understaffed for the day, since it was Easter Sunday and a holiday. The ambulance did not arrive for three quarters of an hour, and for the first time within the memory of John F. Wright, Dr. Milo Willoughby was heard to swear¯a long, loud, imagistic curse, after which he clamped his jaws together and went back to Nora.

“She’ll be all right, Hermy,” said John F.; but his face was gray. If Milo swore, it was bad!

When the ambulance finally came, the doctor wasted no time in further anathema. He had Nora whisked out of the house and away, leaving his car at the Wright curb to accompany her in the ambulance.

They glimpsed Nora’s face for an instant as the interns carried her downstairs on a stretcher. The skin lay in coils that jerked this way and that, as if they had a life of their own. The mouth was twisted into a knot, and the eyes were opalescent with agony.

Mercifully, Hermione did not see that face; but Pat did, and she said to Ellery in flat horror: “She’s in horrible pain, and she’s scared to death, Ellery! Oh, Ellery, do you think¯?”

“Let’s be getting over to the hospital,” said Ellery.

He drove them.

There was no private pavilion at the Wrightsville General, but Doc Willoughby had a corner of the Women’s Surgical Ward screened off and Nora put to bed there. The family were not admitted to the ward; they had to sit in the main waiting room off the lobby. The waiting room was gay with Easter posies and sad with the odor of disinfectant. It sickened Hermy, so they made her comfortable on a mission-wood settee, where she lay with tightly closed eyes. John F. just pottered about, touching a flower now and then, and saying once how nice it felt to have the spring here again. The girls sat near their mother. Mr. Queen sat near the girls. And there was nothing but the sound of John F.’s shoes whispering on the worn flowered rug.

And then Dr. Willoughby came hurrying into the waiting room, and everything changed¯Hermy opened her eyes, John F. stopped exploring, the girls and Ellery jumped up.

“Haven’t much time,” panted the doctor. ”Listen to me. Nora has a delicate constitution. She’s always been a nervy girl. Strain, aggravation, worry, what she’s gone through¯the poisoning attempts, New Year’s Eve, the trial¯she’s very weak, very badly run-down . . . ”

“What are you trying to say, Milo?” demanded John F., clutching his friend’s arm.

“John, Nora’s condition is serious. No point in keeping it from you and Hermy. She’s a sick girl.” Dr. Willoughby turned as if to hurry away.

“Milo¯wait!” cried Hermy. ”How about the . . . baby?”

“She’s going to have it, Hermy. We’ve got to operate.”

“But¯it’s only six months!”

“Yes,” said Dr. Willoughby stiffly. ”You’d better all wait here. I’ve got to get ready.”

“Milo,” said John F., “if there’s anything¯money¯I mean, get anybody¯the best¯”

“We’re in luck, John. Henry Gropper is in Slocum visiting his parents over Easter, classmate of mine, best gynecologist in the East. He’s on his way over now.”

“Milo¯” wailed Hermy.

But Dr. Willoughby was gone.

* * *

And now the waiting began all over again, in the silent room with the sun beating in and the Easter posies approaching their deaths fragrantly.

John F. sat down beside his wife and took her hand. They sat that way, their eyes fixed on the clock over the waiting-room door. Seconds came and went and became minutes. Lola turned the pages of a Cosmopolitan with a torn cover. She put it down, took it up again.

“Pat,” said Ellery, “over here.”

John F. looked at him, Hermy looked at him, Lola looked at him. Then Hermy and John F. turned back to the clock, and Lola to the magazine.

“Where?” Pat’s voice was shimmering with tears.

“By the window. Away from the family.”

Pat trudged over to the farthest bank of windows with him. She sat down on the window seat and looked out.

He took her hand. ”Talk.”

Her eyes filled. ”Oh, Ellery¯”

“I know,” he said gently. ”But you just talk to me. Anything. It’s better than choking on the words inside, isn’t it? And you can’t talk to them, because they’re choking, too.” He gave her a cigarette and held a match up; but she just fingered the cigarette, not seeing it or him. He snuffed the flame between two fingers and then stared at the fingers.

“Talk . . . ” said Pat bitterly. ”Well, why not? I’m so confused. Nora lying there¯her baby coming prematurely¯Jim in jail a few squares away¯Pop and Mother sitting here like two old people . . . old, Ellery. They are old.”

“Yes, Patty,” murmured Ellery.

“And we were so happy before,” Pat choked. ”It’s all like a foul dream. It can’t be us. We werq¯everything in this town! Now look at us. Dirtied up. Old. They spit on us.”

“Yes, Patty,” said Ellery again.

“When I think of how it happened . . . How did it happen? Oh, I’ll never face another holiday with any gladness!”

“Holiday?”

“Don’t you realize? Every last awful thing that’s happened¯happened on a holiday! Here’s Easter Sunday¯and Nora’s on the operating table. When was Jim arrested? On St. Valentine’s Day! When did Rosemary die, and Nora get so badly poisoned? On New Year’s Eve! And Nora was sick¯poisoned¯on Christmas Day, and before that on Thanksgiving Day . . . ”

Mr. Queen was looking at Pat as if she had pointed out that two plus two adds up to five. ”No. On that point I’m convinced. It’s been bothering me for weeks. But it’s coincidence. Can’t be anything else. No, Patty . . . ”

“Even the way it started,” cried Patty. ”It started on Hallowe’en! Remember?” She stared at the cigarette in her fingers; it was pulpy ruin now. ”If we’d never found those three letters in that toxicology book, everything might have been different, Ellery. Don’t shake your head. It might!”

“Maybe you’re right,” muttered Ellery. ”I’m shaking my head at my own stupidity¯” A formless something took possession of his mind in a little leap, like a struck spark. He had experienced that sensation once more¯how long ago it seemed!¯but now the same thing happened. The spark died; and he was left with a cold, exasperating ash which told nothing.

“You talk about coincidence,” said Pat shrilly. ”All right, call it that. I don’t care what you call it. Coincidence, or fate, or just rotten luck. But if Nora hadn’t accidentally dropped those books we were moving that Hal-lowe’en, the three letters wouldn’t have tumbled out and they’d probably be in the book still.”

Mr. Queen was about to point out that the peril to Nora had lain not in the letters but in their author; but again a spark leaped, and died, and so he held his tongue.

“For that matter,” Pat sighed, “if the most trivial thing had happened differently that day, maybe none of this would have come about. If Nora and I hadn’t decided to fix up Jim’s new study¯if we hadn’t opened that box of books!”

“Box of books?” said Ellery blankly.

“I brought the crate up myself from the cellar, where Ed Hotchkiss had put it when he cabbed Jim’s stuff over from the railroad station after Jim and Nora got back from their honeymoon. Suppose I hadn’t opened that box with a hammer and screwdriver? Suppose I hadn’t been able to find a screwdriver? Or suppose I’d waited a week, a day, even another hour . . . Ellery, what’s the matter?”

For Mr. Queen was standing over her like the judgment of the Lord, a terrible wrath on his face; and Patty was so alarmed she shrank back against the window.

“Do you mean to sit there and tell me,” said Mr. Queen in an awful quietude, “that those books¯the armful of books Nora dropped¯those books were not the books usually standing on the living-room shelves?” He shook her, and she winced at the pressure of his fingers on her shoulder. ”Pat, answer me! You and Nora weren’t merely transferring books from the living-room bookshelves to the new shelves in Jim’s study upstairs? You’re sure the books came from that box in the cellar?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Pat shakily. ”What’s the matter with you? A nailed box. I opened it myself. Why, just a few minutes before you came in that evening, I’d lugged the empty wooden box back to the cellar, with the tools and wrapping paper and mess of bent nails¯”

“It’s . . . fantastic,” said Ellery.

One hand groped for the rocker near Pat. He sat down, heavily.

Pat was bewildered. ”But I don’t get it, Ellery. Why all the dramatics? What difference can it make?”

Mr. Queen did not answer at once. He just sat there, pale and growing perceptibly paler, nibbling his nails. And the fine lines about his mouth deepened and became hard, and there appeared in his silvery eyes a baffled something that he concealed very quickly¯almost as quickly as it showed itself.

“What difference?” He licked his lips.

“Ellery!” Pat was shaking him now. ”Don’t act so mysterious! What’s wrong? Tell me!”

“Wait a minute.” She stared at him and waited.

He just sat.

Then he muttered: “If I’d only known. But I couldn’t have . . . Fate. The fate that brought me into that room five minutes late. The fate that kept you from telling me all these months. The fate that concealed the essential fact!”

“But Ellery¯”

“Dr. Willoughby!”

They ran across the waiting room. Dr. Willoughby had just blundered in. He was in his surgical gown and cap, his face mask around his throat like a scarf.

There was blood on his gown and none in his cheeks.

“Milo?” quavered Hermione.

“Well, well?” croaked John F.

“For God’s sake, Doc!” cried Lola.

Pat rushed up to grab the old man’s thick arm.

“Well,” said Dr. Willoughby in a hoarse voice, and he stopped.

Then he smiled the saddest smile and put his arm around Hermy’s shoulder, quite dwarfing her. ”Nora’s given you a real Easter present . . . Grandma.”

“Grandma,” whispered Hermy.

“The baby!” cried Pat. ”It’s all right?”

“Fine, fine, Patricia. A perfect little baby girl. Oh, she’s very tiny¯she’ll need the incubator¯but with proper care she’ll be all right in a few weeks.”

“But Nora,” panted Hermy. ”My Nora.”

“How is Nora, Milo?” demanded John F.

“Is she out of it?” Lola asked.

“Does she know?” cried Pat. ”Oh, Nor must be so happy!”

Dr. Willoughby glanced down at his gown, began to fumble at the spot where Nora’s blood had splattered.

“Damn it all,” he said. His lips were quivering.

Hermione screamed.

“Gropper and I¯we did all we could. We couldn’t help it. We worked over her like beavers. But she was carrying too big a load. John, don’t look at me that way . . . ”

The doctor waved his arms wildly.

“Milo¯” began John F. in a faint voice.

“She’s dead, that’s all!”

He ran out of the waiting room.

PART SIX