Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (42 page)
“Don’t be, not for me!” Basil spun away, laughing. “I live, not in my past, but in San Francisco, where I can taste the glorious future! It’s matchless! Except when I drive Sidney into debt, and
Olana to distraction with stupid attempts to find your saintly feet muddied with clay.”
Olana to distraction with stupid attempts to find your saintly feet muddied with clay.”
“It was you alone then? You followed me to the birthings?”
“It would have been perfect, were it true. We would have taken care of Olana and the baby. We would have resumed being the way we were, only better. With a child. Goddamn you, why did you come back?”
The two men stared hard at each other.
“I got other work to do,” Matthew finally said, turning. Wrong door. Another way into the damned closet. And Basil was yelling at his back.
“Where in bloody blue blazes are you going? Why don’t you hit me?”
“I think you’re hitting yourself hard enough for the both of us.”
Basil Hamilton faltered, as if struck. Then he swept his hand in front of his face. Matthew approached, though he knew this man and Sidney did purposely what the men of the Madeline forced on him, and that had blighted his life forever. He swallowed hard. He didn’t have to understand, isn’t that what Sidney had said? But perhaps he did, if there was to be any peace in his convoluted family.
“Basil,” he called quietly. “My father disowned me, too. When I was a boy.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because I wouldn’t fight Indians. Because I didn’t resemble him. He called my mother a whore, he was so sure that I wasn’t his. But I am. The darkness that you’re afraid of, that comes from him. You don’t have to be afraid. I won’t ever hurt you.”
Basil Hamilton took his shoulder, squeezed. Then his head leaned into his chest. Matthew felt the hot tears of Basil’s relief penetrate his shirt. It was all right. It didn’t hurt. Why hadn’t they had this talk sooner? He patted the slight, silk-vested back awkwardly.
Basil released him, swiping at his eyes, laughing. “It’s grown into quite a labyrinth, hasn’t it?”
Matthew puzzled out the word. “The one with the bull in the center?”
“Yes, exactly!”
Did this man know anything about that bull? The one in his dreams? “Please stay,” Basil said. He was again his old self, affable, polite. “I’ll only talk dispersal of worldly goods, I promise.”
“It’s not so bad you have to do any dispersing. We just got to get you thinking numbers, and staying inside their limits. I had the same problem when I started out with Mr. Amadeo.”
“Did you?”
“Sure. I was born in an army garrison, then lived with my gran who barters mostly, then in the wild. I could barely tell coins apart.”
“Not so different from living inside a title in that respect!” Basil bounded back into the closet. “What should I do with these?” he called, holding up suit after suit of clothes. “Look,” he urged, “hopelessly out of date! Help me spring clean before you unclutter my accounts.”
Matthew knew less about current fashion than he did about numbers. This was ridiculous. Still, he yanked through the hangers. “Well, you could get ’Lana’s things in their proper place, for a start.” He pitched a dark blue, lavish velvet gown into Sidney’s arms.
“This is not Olana’s.”
“Well, sure it is.”
“Matt?”
He turned to see the second son of the twelfth duke of Spenser holding the gown against his chest.
“Regardez,”
he invited. The garment was cut precisely to his shoulders. Olana’s weren’t anywhere near the size.
“Regardez,”
he invited. The garment was cut precisely to his shoulders. Olana’s weren’t anywhere near the size.
“Jesus,” Matthew muttered.
Basil pealed out his laughter. “Well, you were insistent! And this time wrong, for a rare and pleasant change.”
He went back to his housecleaning, humming.
Olana pressed her ticket stubs into her book on the bedside table. The date, April 17, 1906 stuck out as she turned down the lamp. Matthew was already asleep at her side.Though Caruso’s voice was even more heartbreaking than when she’d seen him perform in Rome, it was watching Matthew’s face as he listened that gave Olana the most pleasure. He had somehow found a new serenity, she thought. She could feel him letting go of everything — his work, their jumbled life together, even his nightmares, as he listened, caught up in a ripping good story. It reminded her of their nightly readings of Mark Twain in his tree house.
And when they came home, ahead of the others who had gone on to celebrate Caruso’s triumph at Delaney’s, they’d checked the sleeping children together. Olana had watched him at his ritual — carefully memorizing where each was — Coretta’s Andrew, Patsy’s Hugh snuggled beside Possum. Possum was the only one who’d awakened enough to murmur, “‘Night, Daddy. You look like a fairy princess, ’Lana,” before planting a dreamy kiss on their cheeks.
Now Olana lifted the covers and stretched out beside him. Matthew murmured into her shoulder, drawing her back closer
against his chest. The shiver of excitement it produced quieted to a drowsy contentment. Olana’s hands slipped inside her nightgown and touched the small bulge between her hips. This baby was showing faster than Lavinia had. Some of the opera patrons had even smiled knowingly at their box. Basil had taken her hand with what, a proprietary hold? No, not Basil, he’d promised never to hurt her. She couldn’t be making the same mistake again. Surely Basil was a different mistake. But a mistake, Olana realized, suddenly weary. A mistake, the consequences of which another child would have to suffer. But not tonight. Tonight had been so close to perfect, and Olana wanted to continue to feel rich, full of families, no matter what forms those families took.
against his chest. The shiver of excitement it produced quieted to a drowsy contentment. Olana’s hands slipped inside her nightgown and touched the small bulge between her hips. This baby was showing faster than Lavinia had. Some of the opera patrons had even smiled knowingly at their box. Basil had taken her hand with what, a proprietary hold? No, not Basil, he’d promised never to hurt her. She couldn’t be making the same mistake again. Surely Basil was a different mistake. But a mistake, Olana realized, suddenly weary. A mistake, the consequences of which another child would have to suffer. But not tonight. Tonight had been so close to perfect, and Olana wanted to continue to feel rich, full of families, no matter what forms those families took.
Later, Matthew’s breathing became labored and punctuated with suffering. Olana felt him stumble from the bed. She followed him into the small adjoining sitting room, where his hands were shaking as he gripped the mantle. When she touched his back, he turned, looked somehow startled to see her, then traced her face frantically with his fingers. He was still out of breath when he spoke.
“I dreamed I fell.”
“Fell?”
“Yes, through my life. I kept trying to wake, before the bad things happened between us, you know? I couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t.”
“It’s nice to have you back,” she said softly. “Now. Right now.”
“Is the city still here?”
“The city?”
“Yes.”
“It’s here.”
“Look out the window. To be sure.”
“Matthew —”
“Please.”
She pulled aside the drapery, then the lace. “See?”
“Ah. Yes.”
“Where would it go, darling?” she asked, returning from the
window. But two drunken baritones were trying to sing tenor on the stairway, accompanied by Coretta’s clear soprano and Serif’s base. Matthew smiled. “I think you have a few more house guests.”
window. But two drunken baritones were trying to sing tenor on the stairway, accompanied by Coretta’s clear soprano and Serif’s base. Matthew smiled. “I think you have a few more house guests.”
“We’re becoming a regular salon.”
“Good.” He sighed. “That’s good.”
She pressed her hand to his chest. “And your heart beats steady again,” she pronounced. “That’s —”
He took her hand, kissed into the palm. “Easily remedied,” he said. His tongue flicked a gliding path down her palm, then probed the pulse spot at her wrist. Her breaths came in short gasps as he nudged her nightgown off her shoulder, there before the sitting room’s fire. “Easy now, Mama,” he teased at her ear.
“I ain’t your mama,” she snarled back, her breasts rising, full and furious against his chest. “And there’s nothing easy about loving you.”
“‘Ain’t?’ Lord Almighty, Lady Hamilton, you’ll be cussing next!”
He came down on her mouth before she could answer. He drew her closer, his thumbs massaging her lips, the rest of his fingers cupping her backside, drawing her against him. Behind them, the doors to her rooms swung open. Matthew groaned, burying his head in her shoulder.
“Seven, seven curtain calls!” Sidney announced.
“It was eight,” Coretta corrected.
“Matt, Olana, settle this! Was it seven or —”
Olana viewed the segment of Caruso’s opening night audience through the gaze of her own happiness as Matthew growled low. Only Sidney looked peaked.
“Can’t you two at least turn your lights down before you start that! Why, if —”
Basil had him turned toward the door before he’d finished. “This is America, a free country,” he chastised his lover. “Let’s get Coretta and Serif a glass of champagne. Would you two like —” But Olana declined her husband’s offer with a wave of her hand.
A final “Ah, America” greeted her before Sidney closed the doors behind him.
A final “Ah, America” greeted her before Sidney closed the doors behind him.
Matthew Hart counted the tolling bells of Old St. Mary’s. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Yes, the tints of dawn were filtering in the window. Annie would be already about and in the kitchen, he surmised as he rose. He pulled on his pants, yanking the suspenders over his nightshirt. He intended to keep her company, there, a little while, downstairs. But when he returned to the bed to kiss Olana, she took hold of a suspender, held.
“Hey,” he teased. “You’re hell on my early morning routine.”
“Is that right?”
Her voice was moist, dusky. She lifted the covers and the scent of hyacinths and peaches laid siege to his intentions. He climbed into bed beside her. She nuzzled close, gliding her leg along his.
“’Lana. I have to go to work.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got appointments. Clients.”
“They’ll understand.”
“Mr. Amadeo won’t. Not after sitting beside us at the opera last night and managing to get in on time himself. He’s got a beautiful woman too, you know.”
She traced his jawline. “Sidney will not be so hard on me.”
He smiled. “You do handle Sidney well. You handled both carousing members of this family well last night.”
Her skittering laughter felt good, but then came the “Oh, Matthew,” and the tears. He would never get used to her tears. Or understanding their source. “What? What did I do?”
“You called them — Sidney and Basil — family.”
“Well, what else are they?”
More tears. He attempted his stern voice once more. “Stop that now. We got a whole household lying about like — like artistic bohemians this morning. We’ve got to —”
“Join them?” she whispered at his ear. “Just a little longer?” Her fingers worked the buttons on the placket of his nightshirt deftly. She kissed the knot of stitches at the base of his throat. He surrendered, kissing her ripe mouth, crushing the glory of her hair in his hands.
It started then. With a rip, a buckling. Matthew closed his eyes and saw the trees first, the ancient redwoods north of the city, the ones he’d visited often, depended on, to help maintain his sanity. They were snapping like matchsticks. Falling. He heard deer, then coyote. From where? The closest place they roamed was Mount Tamalpais, wooded slopes close to the city. But not this close. Not this loud, panicked, in his ears.
Olana, against his heart, whispered. “Matthew. What is it?”
“Earthquake,” he said. “Just an earthquake.”
She laughed nervously. “What?”
The church bells of Old St. Mary’s sounded, though it was only moments since they’d last tolled. They were not tolling, but clanging wildly, impossibly out of tune, but in a cacophonous waltz with the floor, the framed paintings and photographs on her walls, the furniture.
Olana was still in his arms. Or was he in hers? They were fighting each other, suddenly, fighting to protect each other’s heads from the falling plaster.
It stopped. Matthew looked down at his plaster-dusted hands, at Olana’s hair gone the same gray except under where his fingers lifted. “Another’s coming,” he said. Though all the church bells of the city had joined Old St. Mary’s in its mad tolling, she heard him.“The doorway,” she urged.
He pulled her from the bed, shouting down the stairs. “Gran! Patsy! Coretta! Get the babies in the doorways!” They had only gotten to the arch of her sitting room when it started again.
The undulating floor knocked him down first. He swept Olana beneath him, only giving her enough turning room to face him. The sitting room’s chimney toppled, burying their dancing bed in bricks. Her wardrobe and dresser bounded through the bay windows. He heard them hit the street below.
Olana couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe except through the weave of his shirt. She felt pressure, incredible pressure, and released a small cry, just as the windows of her French doors blew out. Glass showered them, then flew out windows, whose panes were already gone from the first wave. Olana felt Matthew grunt and shake his head, as if bothered by a fly. He held her down lower as the tremor crescendoed to an impossible loudness, force.
Then, it stopped. Everything was still, except something small inside her.
Then, it stopped. Everything was still, except something small inside her.
“Matthew,” she whispered, cutting into the silence.
“Yes, love?”
“The baby’s moving.” She brought his hand inside her nightgown. “Here.”
“That’s good, darlin’.” His hands left her childspace and glided over her form, checking for injuries. Olana saw a rivulet of blood trickling down from his scalp, pooling in the collar of his nightshirt. She reached, but he caught her wrist.
“Don’t. The others, the children —”
“This first,” she told him firmly.
“Best listen to her, Matt,” Sidney cautioned, offering Olana his handkerchief.
Matthew Hart looked up to see him and Basil, still resplendent in their formal opera clothes gone gray. Olana threaded through his hair. Shards slid out until she found the wedged one. She doubled the thickness of the handkerchief and pulled. Matthew felt the deep red, clotting blood flow down the side of his face. He swayed between the two men holding his arms. Basil waved his opera program tersely.
“This is really too much. Now you’ve got a crown of thorns. Wasn’t being a saint enough for you?”
Half Matthew’s mustache quivered upward. “I’ll gladly relinquish my position,” he said, before getting to his feet on the men’s arms. From below, the moans and cries started.
Matthew bounded for the stairs, until he heard them creak and splinter. Olana gasped, the men called out his name. He stepped quickly to the side near the wall. “Stay behind me,” he urged them quietly, reaching along the cracked wall for Olana’s hand. She linked hers to Sidney’s, and he linked to Basil. They passed rooms redecorated by the earthquake into a jumble of fallen furniture, splintered glass, and crockery. But the beds were empty. Olana’s guests had gotten to the doorways. In the first they saw Serif, still bent protectively over Coretta and Andrew, who was happily climbing from Coretta’s arms to his as she kissed the
side of the giant’s bald head. “We’re fine. Keep going, we’ll follow,” she urged.
side of the giant’s bald head. “We’re fine. Keep going, we’ll follow,” she urged.
In the next doorway Patsy and Selby, still dazed, held little Hugh between them. Patsy’s lower lip began to tremble when her eyes met Matthew’s. “Possum was with Hugh. Right here …” She spread her arms around the room that was no longer there. Most of its floor was piled onto the downstairs entrance hallway, and that was in the basement’s kitchen. There Matthew saw the small figure of his grandmother, standing beside the stove with a spatula in her hand.
“Gran?” he called, as if he were going to ask her where she put his fresh socks.
She looked up. “I’m all right,” she said. “Find Possum.”
He looked across the splintered gap in the floor, to where the front wall had been. Now the third-story balcony of the house across the street was there, its high ornamental tower still intact. Lying across the railing, in his pink robe over pink pajamas piped in maroon, was a man. He raised his balding head, crowned by a lump. Mr. Morgan, the music teacher. His grand piano had somehow flipped onto its back and was in Olana’s sitting room below, its strings intersected by her gramophone’s horn.
“Good morning all,” he said, his voice as musical as ever. “Wesoma went inside to get my canary.”
“Possum!” Matthew called. The rent in his voice was palpable, echoing in Olana’s ears. She caught his hand, afraid he’d vault over the slanted, unsteady floor of debris. Possum appeared in Mr. Morgan’s broken window frame, her white nightgown shimmering, a silver bird cage in her hand. “Look, Daddy!” she called out over the abyss, which was now hissing from leaking gas pipes.
“Good girl,” he shouted back. “Stay there. Wait for us to get you.”
“Get Mr. Morgan first. He’s hurt.”
Matthew looked up the stairway, his eyes smarting. Coretta smiled. “Another rescuer. She’s your daughter, Matt. Gentlemen, ladies, shall we form a chain?”
“I will anchor,” Serif informed them.
Before Olana realized what was happening, she found herself holding Hugh’s hand while angling Coretta’s Andrew unsteadily at her hip. She watched the human chain wind around the last of the room’s flooring and connect to the tumbling balcony of Mr. Morgan’s house. Possum put down the bird cage and helped her singing teacher to his feet. She gave his arm to her father and stepped back. Matthew passed the dazed man along the line. When Mr. Morgan reached Olana he bowed. “Good morning, Lady Hamilton. Quite a shaker this morning, was it not?”
“It was.”
“May I assist you with your charges?”
“Yes, please.”
The children went to him as if he were a favorite uncle with a teddy bear. Across the splintered and missing floorboards, Matthew had his daughter in his arms. She touched his blood-crusted face. “Daddy, you’re all dirty,” she chided.
The floor between them and Basil gave way.
“Get back!” Matthew shouted to his grandmother below. The bird cage slipped from the little girl’s grip, and clanged onto an exposed pipe. Olana was sure Possum would follow, but Matthew’s grip on her wrist held. He arched her behind him. She floated before her legs clamped around his back.
“Hold on to me, darlin’.” Olana heard his whisper, and with it the knowledge he would not survive the loss of another child. She pressed her fist against her mouth when she saw his fingers’ grip on the building’s drainpipe. He inched his way along it until they reached the iron railing of Mr. Morgan’s balcony.
“Here, Matt,” Basil called out, holding the brass floor lamp, the one he’d brought to their marriage, the one Sidney teased him about, called “the funeral parlor lamp.” Basil nudged Matthew’s shoulder with its base. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Trust me, Matt. I’m stronger than I look.”
The skepticism in Matthew’s eyes turned to hope. “I’m going to grab the lamp, Possum,” he said. “Basil’s got the other end, see? You think you might skitter across?”
“Then you’ll come? And we’ll find the bird?”
“Sure.”
She loosened her grip on his neck, eased herself onto the ribbed brass bar. She looked back when only their fingers were still touching. “Like this, Daddy?”
“Perfect. Go on.”
She reached Basil’s outstretched hand. He passed her down the human chain, until she stood on solid flooring. Olana hugged the little girl close.
Another tremor. Matthew dropped his end of the lamp. Basil leapt on a new ledge that jutted out on the tilted building. Then all Olana heard was screaming, all she saw was a cloud of gray dust. She sheltered Matthew’s child close against the one inside her. After an eternity of seconds, someone took her hand.
“Come.” A voice. Matthew’s voice. “Basil’s fallen.”
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