Scarlet Fever

CHAPTER 28

March 27, 2019 Wednesday

“Jean, you walk Bunsen, I’ll walk Aga. Let’s have a walking lunch.” Marion carried two leather leashes in her hand, waited by the front door.

“Where’s your scarf? The sun may be shining but it’s not that warm.” Jean grabbed her own cashmere scarf, soft. “I’ll get yours from the back.”

Marion slipped on her coat as the two Scotties looked up, ready to go.

“Why does it take them so long?” Aga grumbled.

“No fur,” Bunsen, beard perfect, replied.

“Here.” Jean handed Marion her own scarf, which she had bought in Scotland years ago.

Marion, while not a Scot, displayed an affinity for Scottish terriers and vice versa, plus her keen eye for fabrics prized those tight Scottish weaves. She handed Bunsen’s leash to Jean as she knelt down to clip their leather collars onto them. Nothing plastic for these two.

The two women stepped outside. Sunshine made old town Warrenton bright again. Winter had dragged on, gray skies plus all that snow and rain. The day seemed a tonic, although the mercury had only nudged into the low fifties and the slight breeze made both women glad they wore their scarves and gloves.

“Let’s walk up to the Courthouse,” Marion suggested.

Alexandria Pike, the road on which Horse Country sat, ended at the Courthouse door. The building, a soft yellow, originally constructed in 1764, glowed. The polished walnut doors appeared bright in the early-afternoon sun, although perhaps not welcoming. One did not usually go into any courthouse in a good frame of mind.

The two humans and two dogs turned left, nodding to people they knew, as a few were out shopping. Mostly people blinked, for it was a long time since the sun had shone this brightly, or so it seemed.

“I miss the old work-clothing store. They carried Red Wing shoes. Lasted a long time, those old work boots.” Jean looked into the large plate-glass window now offering fancy stuff.

“When you consider how many new people, people with money, have moved here it’s surprising so many of the old stores are left. At least the buildings are undisturbed, even if the goods have changed.”

“More restaurants.” Jean looked across the street.

“True. People who don’t know the area can walk to decent places. I’m hooked on that wonderful place down at the old train station. I think of it as the Station Restaurant.”

Jean smiled. “Do you have a destination in mind?”

“I do. First Baptist Church.”

“Oh. Well, okay.”

The church, clean lines, red brick, built in 1867, added to the allure of Main Street.

If someone time-traveled from the nineteenth century, they would know where they were. They might be surprised at the contents of the stores, but Warrenton remained Warrenton. The difference now was that with such improved highways people could commute to Washington, D.C. The nation’s capitol was forty-eight miles away. It wasn’t the distance that got you, it was the traffic, the subdivisions, the two airports.

“Over there.” Jean stopped, pointing across the street to where the old insurance agency once stood. “That’s where Fred Duncan, hunting Warrenton’s hounds, wound up, his whole pack inside. I would have given anything to see it. Pack ran right down Main Street in the middle seventies. Made the papers, made the TV news. They’d switched to a deer, who ran down Main Street and turned into the store. As did the pack.”

“I think Fred told me that story.” Marion remembered with affection the late Fred Duncan and his irrepressible wife, Doris, both missed.

“Well, the deer actually crashed through the front window but lived. Made it to wherever home was. And Fred, mortified, snapped back when Melvin Poe,” Jean mentioned another famous huntsman now also gone, “told everyone that Fred and the Warrenton Hounds got foxhunters more good publicity than they would have gotten otherwise.”

“Ah.” Marion turned onto the walkway to the church, opening the front door.

“Can Bunsen and Aga go inside?” Jean wondered.

“They’re Christian dogs. Being Scots, they’re Presbyterian.” Marion smiled. “We can sit in the back. They’ll be quiet.” She opened the door.

Jean glanced around. “No one is here. Is it always this empty?”

“That’s one of the things I like about Catholic churches. There’s usually someone in the pews, or lighting candles. The Protestant churches, not so much.”

“You were raised Episcopalian, right? Why do I remember that?”

Marion smiled. “Because my last name is Italian, people think I was raised Catholic. But I find comfort sitting in a church, any church.”

Jean slid into a pew, Bunsen also, and being a good fellow he lay down. Aga showed more curiosity about the altar but Marion convinced him to also walk into the pew and rest.

The four remained silent, then Marion spoke. “How long have we known each other?”

“Decades.” Jean felt the years fly by.

“Do you think we know each other well?”

“Given that we’ve traveled overseas together, worked in the store for years, I’d say we know each other as well or even better than our own families.” Jean smiled.

“You are one of my best friends. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

This startled Jean. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Your health is good?”

“Of course it is. Maybe I should ask if you’re okay.”

Marion nodded that she was. “Harry’s death has affected you. You cover it well but you can’t hide your feelings from me. You two were old hunting buddies.”

“We were.” Jean wondered where this was heading. She looked down at Bunsen then up at the altar. A long, long silence enveloped the two dear friends.

“Jean.”

“He left the store with me. He knew I had an Ashland Basset meeting so he left a bit before I did.”

“Go on.”

“We agreed to meet back in the lower parking lot in two hours. He said he’d take me to dinner after my meeting. It was dark, pitch black and cold. One of those nights.”

“And?” Marion waited.

“I parked next to his car, got into his passenger side. He had his coat off and his sleeve rolled up. He handed me a needle, one of those tiny butterfly needles. He asked me to shoot it into his vein.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

“No! I told him I wasn’t going to shoot him with anything. I thought we were meeting to drive to dinner. Well,” she looked at the altar again, “he said he found out only two weeks ago that he had an incurable cancer. A very rare one, behind his eye. It was inoperable and the pain would be considerable. He’d be blind and immobile. I cried. I couldn’t help it.”

“He knew you were a true friend. And he loved you.” Marion’s voice was consoling.

“I asked him wasn’t there some way he could go to hospice? Hospice of the Piedmont is really good down where he lives, but he said no. If he did, he would live maybe two or three more months. He’d be drugged useless, or if he refused, in hideous pain. He said he wanted to leave this world while he still felt, strange to say, alive.”

“Did he tell you how he discovered his cancer?”

“Yes.” Jean took a deep breath. “He kept breaking blood vessels in his right eye. His vision blurred but it would clear up, sort of. But he knew the eye wasn’t really getting better because the blurring came more frequently. So he went to his eye doctor, Dr. DiGirolomo, who told him to go to a specialist. He gave Harry three names and told him all were terrific. He said the one at Virginia Commonwealth Hospital had operated on a friend of his and did a fantastic job. But he said the doctors at UVA were also outstanding. So Harry made an appointment with the Virginia Commonwealth doctor. In fact, Dr. DiGirolomo called from his office so Harry would be seen the next day. That’s how Harry knew something was very wrong.”

“He drove to Richmond alone?”

Jean nodded. “He could drive although that wasn’t going to last long. The doctor ran tons of tests. He asked Harry if he could return tomorrow.”

“Poor Harry. He had to know something was up.”

“Well, thanks to Dr. DiGirolomo being close to this fellow, they rushed the results to him and when Harry came to the office the doctor told him he had an extremely rare form of cancer. It was advanced, which wasn’t uncommon because it doesn’t affect a person until the end. He couldn’t operate. It’s right behind the eye. There’s not a way it can be done. And, as you know, the brain is right there, too.”

“Did he tell you the expert’s name?”

“Dr. Isaac Fuqua. I wanted to dial that man right from my cellphone but I knew Harry was telling me the truth.”

“Yes.”

“According to Dr. Fuqua, Harry, at best, would live another two months and it would be awful. So he turned to me with that crooked smile of his and said he wanted to go out now. He could feel this thing taking hold of him but pretty much he felt good. He drove up here, after all.

“I didn’t have to think about it, Marion. I mean, I didn’t want to get caught but if this was his last wish, he trusted me with it.”

“He trusted you period. You gave him the shot?”

“First we got out of the car. He held out his arm and told me not to worry because these little butterfly needles don’t leave a mark. Closes over immediately. He said he would in essence have a heart attack, which he would feel, but that it would be quick. So I gave him the shot. He put on his coat and walked over to the steps.

“I asked him what he was doing. He said if he climbed the steps it would bump up his heart rate. He thought he would die faster. He also said he wanted to die outside. His happiest times in life had been outside. He started up the steps and then he groaned and dropped.”

Another long silence followed this.

“You did the right thing. And he was right. Nothing showed. Do you know what was in the needle?”

“Potassium.”

Another silence followed this. “I knew something was nagging at you.”

“Marion, I killed a man.”

“No you didn’t. You released a dear friend. You granted a last wish and it’s a wish I’m sure other people pray could be granted to them. You did the right thing.”

Tears ran down Jean’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Neither of us will ever have this discussion again. But you did the right thing. My one question is, what was he doing with the Erté ring?”

“I showed it to him, took it out of the case. He put it on, said he’d give it back after my meeting. I think he slipped it in his pocket and then he forgot about it. Harry would never steal a ring or anything. I totally forgot about it.”

“You both were distracted.”

“Funny, Marion, Harry was clear. In total possession of his mind and emotions.” She paused. “When he died I knew I couldn’t move him. This would have been easier in his car. He would have been found the next morning, but he was adamant about his last moments being outside, inhaling the cold air, feeling the cold tingle on his face, and when he fell, he cracked his head. I had to leave. If I’d stayed there or called 911 I might have been caught. I was distraught. I didn’t trust myself. So I left, and you know the rest.”

They rose, the dogs, too, walked back outside, two old friends bound by many things, now this.

Marion spoke at last. “Dignity. It’s really about dignity.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence.