White Wind Blew (8 page)

Wolfgang continued on. “I’m sorry you have tuberculosis, but Waverly is the place to be if you’ve got it. You know thousands are traveling to the Arizona desert for the sunshine and dry air. Pitching tents and building cabins. They’re calling them ‘lungers.’ But they underestimate the heat out west. Be glad you are here.”

McVain wasn’t amused. His eyes were nearly closed.

“You used to play the piano, didn’t you?”

McVain flinched slightly. He attempted to hide his mangled left hand beneath the sheets. He closed his eyes.

“My father played the piano. He loved Mozart.” Wolfgang watched him for a reaction. “Maybe we should start over. No mud to push me into this time.”

McVain opened his eyes and coughed into his hand. Then he resumed his gaze out toward the trees.

“I saw your fingers last night.” Wolfgang shifted on his seat and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “They moved as if you were playing the piano.”

McVain clenched his jaw.

“I know I shouldn’t have been prying, but, look, I consider myself a composer. I’m working on a requiem.” Wolfgang folded his hands. “It started out as a simple Catholic funeral Mass, but I’ve begun to expand it and make it grander. It’ll be a concert requiem. I have a full orchestra with piano in mind. And wonderful singers.” He leaned back and straightened his lab coat.

McVain’s eyes never wavered from the woods.

“I could use your opinion, Mr. McVain. I’ve come into a bit of trouble, you see, and I can’t seem to finish it with an ending it deserves. It all ends up in my garbage can or wadded up on my floor. Would you like to see it?”

McVain’s fist struck Wolfgang across the right side of his jaw. It caught Wolfgang totally off guard—he’d never been in a physical altercation in his life and was slow to react. Wolfgang rocked back. His chair toppled. He landed on his side and rolled to his knees, feeling for missing teeth. They all seemed to be in place, but his jaw felt numb.

Several patients leaned up from their beds but were apparently too shocked to say anything. They stared. McVain grinned and looked back out toward the trees again.

Wolfgang wiped his mouth with the top of his hand and it came back with a smear of blood on it. “So you
can
smile.”

McVain said nothing.

“TB hasn’t ruined that.” Wolfgang backed away.
You
stubborn
ass
, he almost said.

A grin spread across McVain’s face. “Possum-eatin’” was what Wolfgang’s mother would have called that look. He waited, then turned and left McVain alone, touching his sore jaw as he hobbled away.

Wolfgang waited until most of the patients were asleep and Dr. Barker had walked the trail to his own cottage shortly after ten o’clock. His plan would not be deterred tonight, despite the headache and bruised jaw McVain’s fist had given him earlier in the day. The cut on his lower lip had formed a healthy scab that felt twice as big as Susannah said it really was.

Susannah followed Wolfgang into McVain’s dark room, where the cantankerous man snored like a hibernating bear. “I don’t know about this, Wolf.”

Wolfgang put a finger to his lips and then winced upon the touch. He stopped a few feet from McVain’s parked bed. Luckily, Mr. Weaver was sleeping out on the porch, so they’d have plenty of room.

“Barker will fire us,” she whispered.

“He’ll fire me.” Wolfgang winked. “I made you help me, okay?”

Susannah rolled her eyes and mumbled under her breath. “You don’t
make
me do anything, Wolfgang Pike.”

“Why don’t you ever call me Father, like some of the others?” He said it without looking at her.

She brushed past him and headed toward the foot of McVain’s bed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Wolfgang rolled a wheelchair next to McVain’s bed. Weaver had told him that McVain was a solid sleeper, so Wolfgang hoped he was right. He snaked his left arm under McVain’s neck and locked his hand beneath the man’s left armpit. McVain grunted but didn’t awaken. Wolfgang did a silent count to three and nodded. He lifted McVain’s torso while Susannah lifted his feet, and McVain continued snoring as they lowered him, as gently as they could, into the leather seat of the wheelchair. Suddenly McVain snorted awake, but by the time he was alert enough to understand that his doctor and nurse were indeed tying him to a wheelchair, it was too late.

“What…what shit is this?”

“He just spoke to you, Wolf,” said Susannah, seemingly upbeat now that they’d gotten him locked in the chair.

“Quiet,” Wolfgang said.

McVain wrestled against the makeshift restraints, grimaced, and then allowed his body to settle. He was too weak to fight.

Wolfgang rolled McVain from the room and out onto the crowded solarium porch, where Mr. Weaver lay asleep with one arm dangling. Susannah draped a shawl over McVain’s shoulders, covering the restraints.

“Where in the hell are you taking me?”

“I can gag you if you like.” Wolfgang plodded along, his foot hurting more the faster he moved, weaving behind and around the scattered beds, hoping no one called out for him. No musical requests or confessions tonight.

They made it to the elevators and down to the first floor without anyone seeing them. It wasn’t as if Waverly were a prison, but Dr. Barker had made it clear that they weren’t supposed to leave the hillside, and that went double for the patients. But they weren’t taking McVain off the hillside anyway. Wolfgang’s heart pounded as the wheels of the chair sped over the checkered tiles in the center of the hallway. He hadn’t done anything this mischievous in years, not since Rose was alive, and he felt himself smiling. He dared Dr. Barker to show up now just as they were leaving. He imagined the confrontation. He imagined knocking his boss aside.

Susannah held the doors open. Wolfgang didn’t break stride outside as the wheels sped from tile to concrete and then finally to grass. Moonlight lit the clearing. An owl hooted from a nearby tree. Bats circled the bell tower in a frenzy. Crossing the grassy knoll that rolled down toward the woods meant lots of bumps for McVain. His neck lolled. He grunted every time the wheelchair plummeted down from an exposed root. He moaned when the wheels slammed into and up every incline, and it only got bumpier in the woods, with the uneven ground of brambles, twigs, leaves, acorns, and deadfall. Susannah jumped ahead to kick away a few branches, and Wolfgang pushed as quickly as he could, knowing if he slowed his pace he might not be able to muster enough strength to get the wheelchair moving again. McVain was heavy.

Susannah straightened the shawl around McVain’s shoulders. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“It was her idea,” said Wolfgang.

Susannah slapped Wolfgang’s shoulder. “Don’t believe him.”

McVain surveyed the trees and the darkness beyond. “You should be fired for this.”

McVain was stronger than Wolfgang had thought, certainly stronger than a man with his condition should have been. He’d managed to wriggle his left arm free from the chair, flinging the shawl from his shoulders. From the lingering pain in Wolfgang’s jaw and the spasms that shot up his cheek every time the wheelchair caused a jarring movement, he didn’t know why he’d doubted McVain’s strength. “Wherever the hell I’m going, I can walk there. Untie me, God damn it.”

After a short hesitation, Wolfgang untied McVain’s right arm. The patient nudged Wolfgang away before he had a chance to untie his ankles. McVain bent at the waist and worked on the ankle ropes. His fingers moved effortlessly, as if he’d escaped from restraints many times before. “So what happened to your leg?”

Wolfgang watched the top of McVain’s head move. He finished with the ropes and then shot Wolfgang a glance. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What happened to your leg?” asked McVain. “You walk like a three-legged mule.”

“Polio,” Wolfgang said. “When I was eight.”

McVain didn’t seem to care. He stood from the wheelchair, stumbled as if drunk, which triggered a tiny squeal of panic from Susannah, and then righted himself against the trunk of an oak tree. He straightened his pajamas and ran his left hand through his orange hair. Wolfgang thought it amusing that he’d used the hand with the missing fingers for such a duty.

“What’s so funny?” asked McVain, running his maimed hand through his hair again.

“Must be like raking leaves with a pitchfork.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” McVain looked up the hillside. The rooftop and bell tower of the sanatorium were visible between the swaying tree limbs. “Never thought I’d get kidnapped from a TB hospital in the middle of the night.”

Susannah walked by his side, but not too close. “Consider it a field trip.”

McVain gave Susannah an angry sneer. “Do I scare you, doll face?”

“It’s Susannah, and no, you don’t scare me, Mr. McVain.”

“Didn’t I warn you about calling me Mister?”

She giggled. “Sorry. It’s just a habit when I speak to my elders.”

McVain called up to Wolfgang. “Where did you get this mouthy broad?”

“Gift from God, I’m afraid.” Wolfgang pushed the empty wheelchair, and McVain and Susannah followed. McVain kicked various rocks down the hill like a kid would probably do, and he walked with his hands in the pockets of his pajamas. He looked up when they neared Wolfgang’s cottage. The lone window on the side of the house glowed with a fiery warmth not found in the hospital.

Wolfgang extended his arm. “Shall we go inside?”

Susannah gripped McVain’s elbow and walked him inside. McVain didn’t pull away from her touch. Wolfgang lit several candles to go along with the snapping flames in the fireplace. It was warm and the windows were steamed.

“No electricity?” asked McVain.

Wolfgang lit a candle above the fireplace and caught a glimpse of Susannah’s right wrist, which had a purple ring around it. “Where’d you get the bruise?”

Susannah looked at Wolfgang. “Where did you get yours?”

Wolfgang touched his jaw and nodded toward McVain, who now wore a smirk on his face. “You’re dodging my question. Your bruise?”

Susannah pulled her sleeve down to cover it. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It happened this morning.” She shook her head. “I was up on the rooftop. Something spooked Herman. I tried to calm him and he grabbed me. No big deal.”

“Who’s Herman?” McVain asked.

Susannah and Nurse Rita had the unfortunate job of tending to the mental patients daily, and Herman was a loose cannon inside Room 502. Susannah could hold her own with most men, but Herman was twice her size.

“Was this the first time he touched you?”

“Who the hell is Herman?” McVain asked again.

“I’ll be fine.” She walked McVain deeper into the room and stood beside him in the center of Wolfgang’s dwelling area—piano to the east, bed to the south, couch and fireplace to the west and kitchen to the north. She turned toward McVain. “He prefers candlelight to electricity. Which is probably why his eyesight is going bad. But it’s all part of the nostalgia. Right, Wolf?”

“All part of the freak show,” said McVain. “I half expect to hear some Gregorian chant coming from the dark corners of this cave.”

“He told you about his cylinder collection?” asked Susannah.

“Nearly fell asleep.” McVain finally pulled from Susannah’s grip. “What am I doing here? I want to go back.”

“And do what, McVain?” Wolfgang asked. “Sleep? Rest like you’ve been doing for the past month? Go back to ignoring your doctor?”

“Ain’t the doctor part I got a problem with, Padre.”

Wolfgang could tell he’d seen the piano but was purposely avoiding it. Wolfgang placed a candle on top of the instrument, highlighting the rose beside it.

“This some kind of joke?” asked McVain.

“Therapy,” said Susannah. “Therapy we think will do you more good than rest and fresh air.”

Wolfgang held up a finger. “A happy McVain would do us all a favor.”

“Breeze off, priest.” McVain turned away from the piano and headed for the door.

Susannah blocked his path and stood rigid, her arms folded. “Please stay.” Her voice quivered, but she didn’t budge.

McVain clenched his jaw. “I hate both of you. You know that?”

“We can discuss your anger in confession,” Wolfgang said. “But don’t hate the music.”

Wolfgang propped a few sheets of music on the piano, sat down and began playing a Mozart piano sonata. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder at McVain, who looked sad and angry at the same time. His red hair was aflame in the candlelight, his deep-set green eyes rested in pockets of darkness. Wolfgang rose from the piano, urging McVain on with his eyes.

Slowly, McVain walked through patches of shadow and light, approaching with small, shuffled steps. Wolfgang watched him sit and wondered how long the man had repressed this. McVain coughed. He straightened his back and stretched his fingers. He touched a low key with the pinkie on his left hand. When the sound faded, he struck another key with his left thumb. Again he waited until the sound faded. He looked at the music and began to play. He hit a few clunkers and stopped. “Needs tuning,” he said.

“Keep going,” Susannah said.

“I’m missing three of my fucking fingers, Miss Susannah.” McVain continued to face the piano. His shoulders relaxed. His tone softened. “I just can’t hit the right keys.”

Wolfgang stepped into light that shrouded the piano. “Then the remaining two fingers will have to work that much harder.” Now that Wolfgang had heard McVain’s talent, it made him more persistent. “Please, keep playing.”

McVain focused on the piano again. He played for ten seconds and then messed up. He played again. The fingers on his right hand flowed over the keys, gentle yet demanding, and he milked every note and tone. But his left hand lumbered, stiff and plodding, his wrist at the wrong angle. Tight. Wolfgang’s father would have hit him atop the hand with a violin bow for such technique, but Wolfgang could empathize with McVain’s difficulty. He needed to learn how to adapt.

Wolfgang tapped the sheet music. “Mozart’s piano sonata in C minor.”

“I know what it is.” McVain pushed the music to the floor. “I don’t need this.” His hands hovered above the keys at the center of the piano. First the right one dropped softly, then the left. He played, but the left hand lost pace quickly again. He stared silently at the keys.

“Try to make the adjustment,” said Wolfgang.

McVain raised both hands and brought them down as fists, hard. “How’s that? Huh?” He banged against the keys again and again, looking over his shoulder, his anger focused on Wolfgang. “How’s this adjustment?” Bang. Bang. The shrill sound of the keys was painful. Across the room, Susannah winced. Bang. Bang. Bang. McVain stood and faced his two kidnappers. “I’m tired. I’m ready to go back now.”

“But—” Susannah started.

“I’m ready to go back!”

“Yes, of course.” Wolfgang’s skin tingled. “But if I may ask, how long has it been since you’ve played?”

“Over ten years.” McVain looked to the floor. “Not since the war.”