Part 14 (1/2)
”In here,” a voice answered.
He moved to the bedroom, and twisted the k.n.o.b.
George Donovan lay propped on a cloudbank of pillows, his thin face white as the linen. He was smiling.
”I'm glad to see you, Father,” he said, quietly.
The priest's heart expanded and shrank and began to thump in his chest.
”The Chianti's down here in the night-table,” Donovan gestured. ”Pour some: morning's a good enough time for a dinner wine.”
”Not now, George.”
”Please. It will help.”
Father Courtney pulled out the drawer and removed the half-empty bottle. He got a gla.s.s from the bookshelf, filled it. Dutifully, according to ritual, he asked, ”For you?”
”No,” Donovan said. ”Thank you all the same.” He turned his head. ”Sit over there, Father, where I can see you.”
The priest frowned. He noticed that Donovan's arms were perfectly flat against the blanket, that his body was rigid, outlined beneath the covering. No part of the old man moved except the head, and that slowly, unnaturally.”That's better. But take off your coat--it's terribly hot in here. You'll catch pneumonia.”
The toom was full of cold winds from the open shutters.
Father Courtney removed his coat.
”You've been worried, haven't you?” Donovan asked.
The priest nodded. He tried to sense what was wrong, to smell the disease, if there was a disease, if there was anything.
”I'm sorry about that.” The old man seemed to sigh. His eyes were misted, webbed with distance, lightly. ”But I wanted to be alone. Sometimes you have to be alone, to think, to get things straight. Isn't that true?”
”Sometimes, I suppose, but--”
”No. I know what you're going to say, the questions you want to ask. But there's not enough time . . .”.
Father Courtney arose from the chair, and walked quickly to the telephone extension. He jabbed a b.u.t.ton. ”I'm sorry, George,” he said, ”but you're going to have a doctor.”
The screen did not flicker.
He pressed the b.u.t.ton again, firmly.
”Sit down,” the tired voice whispered. ”It doesn't work. I pulled the wires ten minutes ago.”
”Then I'll fly over to Milburn--”
”If you do, I'll be dead when you get back. Believe this: I know what I'm talking about.”
The priest clenched and unclenched his stubby fingers, and sat down in the chair again.
Donovan chuckled. ”Drink up,” he said. ”We can't have good wine going to waste, can we?”
The priest put the gla.s.s to his lips. He tried to think clearly. If he rushed out to Milburn and got Doctor Ferguson, perhaps there'd be a chance. Or--He took a deep swallow.
No. That wouldn't do. It might take hours.
Donovan was talking now; the words lost--a hum of locusts in the room, a far-off murmuring; then, like a radio turned up: ”Father, how long have we been friends, you and I?”
”Why . . . twenty years,” the priest answered. ”Or more.”
”Would you say you know me very well by now?”
”I believe so.”
”Then tell me first, right now, would you say that I've been a good man?”
Father Courtney sniieci. ”There've been worse,” he said and thought of what this man had accomplished in Mount Vernon, quietly, in his own quiet way, over the years. The building of a decent school for the children--Donovan had shamed the people into it. The new hospital--Donovan's doing, his patient campaigning. Entertainment halls for the young; a city fund for the poor; better teachers, better doctors--all, all because of the old man with the soft voice, George Donovan.
”Do you mean it?”
”Don't be foolish. And don't be treacly, either. Of course I mean it.”
In the room, now, a strange odor fumed up, suddenly.
The old man said, ”I'm glad.” Still he did not move. ”But, I'm sorry I asked. It was unfair.”
”I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”
”Neither do I, Father, completely. I thought I did, once, but I was wrong.”
The priest slapped his knees, angrily. ”Why won't you let me get a doctor? We'll have plenty of time to talk afterwards.”
Donovan's eyes narrowed, and curved into what resembled a smile. ”You're a doctor,” he said.
”The only one who can help me now.”
”In what way?”
”By making a decision.” The voice was reedy: it seemed to waver and change pitch.
”What sort of a decision?”
Donovan's head jerked up. He closed his eyes and remained this way for a full minute, while theacrid smell bellied and grew stronger and whorled about the room in invisible currents.
”. . . the gentleman lay braveward with his furies . . .' Do you remember that, Father?”
”Yes,” the priest said. ”Thomas, isn't it?”
”Thomas, He's been here with me, you know, really; and I've been asking him things. On the theory that poets aren't entirely human. But he just grins. 'You're dying of strangers,' he says; and grins.
Bless him.” The old man lowered his head. ”He disappointed me.”