Please! I don’t know what to do. She won’t tell me. Please, Sarah!”
“All right, Phyllis, I’ll come as fast as I can. Wrap a blanket around Mrs. Protheroe and try to get her to drink some hot tea. Can’t Mr. Protheroe do something?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
No answer came, the line was dead. Sarah put down the handset, none too steadily. “Max, something’s terribly wrong at the Protheroes’. It sounds as if Anora may have had a stroke and George is either dead or disappeared. I can’t not go.”
“Hasn’t the maid called the police?”
“Phyllis could never do that on her own. She only does what Anora tells her.”
“Want me to call them?”
“It’s no use. Phyllis wouldn’t let them in. She’s scared of her own shadow. And Cook’s having palpitations.”
“Damn! All right, then, let’s go.”
“You don’t have to, I can manage.” Sarah sniffed hard and reached for her crumpled breakfast napkin. Max put his arms around her and kept them there until she’d had her weep and wiped her eyes.
“Better now, Kätzele? I know you don’t need me, I just want to come. Okay?”
Sarah gave him a kiss. “I always need you. You’d better phone Brooks while I fix my face. Tell him about Cousin Anne’s parrot, he may have some ideas.”
“No doubt he will, he always does. Where’s Davy?”
“With Theonia. They’ve gone over to the Public Gardens to ride the swan boats and feed the ducks, they’ll be out half the morning. I’ll tell Mariposa where we’re going, she can see to his lunch and his nap if we’re not back in time. Shall I bring the car around?”
“No, I’ll walk with you.” Max pushed the button that connected the office phone; Sarah went to alert Mariposa and change into a more suitable outfit. They were out of the house in seven minutes.
Parking was impossible on Beacon Hill. The Bittersohns’ two cars had their own reserved parking spaces close to the corner of Beacon and Charles in the vast underground garage beneath historic Boston Common, only a hop, skip, and jump from Tulip Street, not that Max was up to any one of the three. He made it in excellent time, though; they were soon in the car, past Kenmore Square, headed for Chestnut Hill.
Once they’d got more or less clear of traffic, Max asked, “Phyllis didn’t say anything about George except that he’s gone?”
“That’s all.” Sarah was holding tight to the steering wheel, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. “George hasn’t left the house once in the past five years, as far as I know. I think Phyllis must have been trying to tell me that he’s had a heart attack or something and Anora’s gone into shock. George is well into his eighties, you know. He eats too much and drinks too much, and the only exercise he ever gets is walking back and forth from the table to his easy chair.”
Sarah fell silent for a minute, Max left her alone till she felt like going on. “I know he’s a dreadful bore, but he’s sweet in his way. They’ve both been kind to me over the years. They never had any children of their own, and, as you know, my parents weren’t all that deeply interested in parenting, so the Protheroes rather took up the slack sometimes. It was mostly Anora, of course; George always reminded me more of a fubsy old teddy bear. He’d never do much but he’d be there, you know, telling long, silly stories and getting them all mixed up and dozing off in the midst. Nobody’s ever heard the end of one of George’s stories. Perhaps they never had any endings.”
Max gave his wife a wry little smile. “There’s an end to every story sooner or later, kid. If something’s happened to George, I just hope for both their sakes it was quick and easy. It’s worse when things drag on too long. How do you suppose Anora would manage without him?”
“Who knows? Phyllis and Cook are neither of them in any great shape, I suppose she might pension them off. George did that with Dennis a
“All right, Phyllis, I’ll come as fast as I can. Wrap a blanket around Mrs. Protheroe and try to get her to drink some hot tea. Can’t Mr. Protheroe do something?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
No answer came, the line was dead. Sarah put down the handset, none too steadily. “Max, something’s terribly wrong at the Protheroes’. It sounds as if Anora may have had a stroke and George is either dead or disappeared. I can’t not go.”
“Hasn’t the maid called the police?”
“Phyllis could never do that on her own. She only does what Anora tells her.”
“Want me to call them?”
“It’s no use. Phyllis wouldn’t let them in. She’s scared of her own shadow. And Cook’s having palpitations.”
“Damn! All right, then, let’s go.”
“You don’t have to, I can manage.” Sarah sniffed hard and reached for her crumpled breakfast napkin. Max put his arms around her and kept them there until she’d had her weep and wiped her eyes.
“Better now, Kätzele? I know you don’t need me, I just want to come. Okay?”
Sarah gave him a kiss. “I always need you. You’d better phone Brooks while I fix my face. Tell him about Cousin Anne’s parrot, he may have some ideas.”
“No doubt he will, he always does. Where’s Davy?”
“With Theonia. They’ve gone over to the Public Gardens to ride the swan boats and feed the ducks, they’ll be out half the morning. I’ll tell Mariposa where we’re going, she can see to his lunch and his nap if we’re not back in time. Shall I bring the car around?”
“No, I’ll walk with you.” Max pushed the button that connected the office phone; Sarah went to alert Mariposa and change into a more suitable outfit. They were out of the house in seven minutes.
Parking was impossible on Beacon Hill. The Bittersohns’ two cars had their own reserved parking spaces close to the corner of Beacon and Charles in the vast underground garage beneath historic Boston Common, only a hop, skip, and jump from Tulip Street, not that Max was up to any one of the three. He made it in excellent time, though; they were soon in the car, past Kenmore Square, headed for Chestnut Hill.
Once they’d got more or less clear of traffic, Max asked, “Phyllis didn’t say anything about George except that he’s gone?”
“That’s all.” Sarah was holding tight to the steering wheel, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. “George hasn’t left the house once in the past five years, as far as I know. I think Phyllis must have been trying to tell me that he’s had a heart attack or something and Anora’s gone into shock. George is well into his eighties, you know. He eats too much and drinks too much, and the only exercise he ever gets is walking back and forth from the table to his easy chair.”
Sarah fell silent for a minute, Max left her alone till she felt like going on. “I know he’s a dreadful bore, but he’s sweet in his way. They’ve both been kind to me over the years. They never had any children of their own, and, as you know, my parents weren’t all that deeply interested in parenting, so the Protheroes rather took up the slack sometimes. It was mostly Anora, of course; George always reminded me more of a fubsy old teddy bear. He’d never do much but he’d be there, you know, telling long, silly stories and getting them all mixed up and dozing off in the midst. Nobody’s ever heard the end of one of George’s stories. Perhaps they never had any endings.”
Max gave his wife a wry little smile. “There’s an end to every story sooner or later, kid. If something’s happened to George, I just hope for both their sakes it was quick and easy. It’s worse when things drag on too long. How do you suppose Anora would manage without him?”
“Who knows? Phyllis and Cook are neither of them in any great shape, I suppose she might pension them off. George did that with Dennis a
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