Blood Autumn Read online

  Dr. Fredericks was in his office, as Rose knew he would be, and was not too busy to see two of his staff doctors. When Rose handed him her report, he raised his eyebrows.

  "What's this, Doctor?"

  Dr. Fredericks had not been the man who hired her. His predecessor had been. Shortly after she had arrived in Savannah, the other doctor had died, and Dr. Fredericks, his assistant, had been promoted to the position by the medical board. She and the older man had an uneasy truce, and she thought it would take very little for him to fire her. So far she had treaded fairly carefully. She would like to be in the position for at least a year before being fired.

  "Certain of my observations of the past week," she said. "I thought you'd like to see them."

  "I see, Doctor." He was a native of the city and had a Geechee flavor to his faint southern drawl, not at all unpleasant. He tapped his fingers on the papers. "Well, I'll try to find time to read it this afternoon or possibly this evening."

  "I think you should read it now," Guy said quietly. "It's very important, Dr. Fredericks, that you not delay reading it. There are several points that need to be brought to your attention."

  "I see." The administrator glanced at them, then pressed his lips together as he pushed his glasses back on his nose.

  Rose thought it was obvious what he was thinking. They were both Yankees, interfering with what they didn't know and didn't understand, and she was a woman, to boot. She almost smiled, but managed to hide it with a hand to her mouth as she pretended to cough. Fredericks began reading the report. At the end of the first page, he looked up. "This is concerning a Negro boy, Doctor."

  "Yes, sir." She met his gaze and did not waver. He dropped his and continued to read.

  After that it did not take him long to finish it. He leaned back in his chair. "I will take this under consideration, Dr. O'Shaunessey."

  "Dr. Fredericks," she said, "as you know, I am not given as many cases as the other doctors — "

  "Doctor, we have gone over this time after time," Fredericks said.

  "Yes, sir, and this time I'm not complaining."

  "You're not?" He sounded surprised.

  "No, sir. Because this time, if I can pursue this matter, then my fewer cases won't matter."

  "I see. Hmmm. Might this not be a matter for the colored hospital?"

  "Yes, sir, I've thought about that. But I am interested in it."

  He glanced at her. Disgusting Yankee ways, he thought, no doubt. A white woman . . . "Well, I will think about it."

  "But — "

  "Dr. Maxwell, Dr. O'Shaunessey," Dr. Fredericks said with a heavy sigh. "It is scarcely ten o'clock in the morning and already it's well over ninety degrees. I have patients waiting, as do you. I will consider this matter, but I am not promising anything." He heaved himself to his feet. "I will see you later."

  They stood up and left his office.

  "Old fool," she muttered angrily under her breath and glared at the closed door.

  "Here, here," Guy said, putting his arm around her lightly. It was too hot for much contact.

  "I should have let you present the report to him, Guy. He would have listened to you. No, that wouldn't have been right. It was mine, after all."

  He grinned down at her. "Feeling discouraged?"

  "Yes, and no."

  "Good, that's healthy. Now I think we ought to be getting to work. You know I'll help you however I can."

  She smiled slyly. "I do like you. Doctor. You have an evil mind."

  Guy bent down to lightly kiss her on the lips. "I try." He straightened. "And speaking of trying, I'm having dinner with my uncle tonight and said you would be coming. Will you?"

  "I'd love it."

  "Good, it's settled then."

  They kissed again, and as they left the office, Rose breathed a sigh of relief that Guy was restored to his old self.

  *

  Factor's Row.

  Not really a street, but more a cobblestoned walk a level above River Street, built on the bluff overlooking the Savannah River, and a level below Bay Street. The cotton warehouses, five stories high, fronted River Street, but could also be entered from Bay Street on wrought-iron walks as well as from the narrow, dark Factor's Row.

  Before the Civil War, River Street and Factor's Row had bustled day and night with the activity that made Savannah the leader in cotton exports; now, many of the warehouses stood empty, neglected, with broken and boarded-over windows, while Factor's Row, with its recessed doorways and the old bridges spanning it, lay completely in shadow. The cobblestones had been the ballast stones of European ships. Once thrown into the river, the stones had formed shoals along the river, though, and so that practice had been discontinued. Ramps laid with the ballast stones led from Bay Street down to Factor's Row, then curved down to River Street.

  It was not a well-lit area, and respectable people disdained it, for it was the haunt of derelicts and sailors and those who had no other place to go.

  On this hot night in September Factor's Row was even darker than usual, and more silent, the only sounds coming from two strolling sailors who sang in their inebriated state, and in the distance sounded the resonance of a ship's horn. A thick mist rose from the river, blanketing the dockside street, muffling the footsteps of anyone out. The light of the few gas lamps glowed yellow and faint through the fog. After the sailors left, heading toward the heart of the city, the silence deepened.

  The silence continued until it was broken by hesitant footsteps.

  A shadow slipped away from a doorway. Ahead, a young man who had wandered into Factor's Row was lost. He had left his ship, had a few drinks, and now was trying to find his way back to the dock. He knew this wasn't it, but he wasn't sure where to look.

  Behind him he heard the whisper of cloth. He turned and peered back into the white gloom, but could see nothing. Probably a cat or dog, he told himself and shrugged.

  He walked on, stumbled over a loose stone, and heard faint laughter. Again, he looked back over his shoulder; again, he saw no one.

  "Who's there?" he called.

  Silence met his words.

  "I hear you," he said. "I hear your breathing." What he heard was his own rapid, fear-induced breath, harsh in his ears. "Stop it!"

  Again, silence.

  His pace quickened; he stumbled once more, fell, flinging his arms out so that he landed on his palms. He scrambled to his feet, nursed his scraped hands.

  The whisper of cloth.

  His eyes were wide and fearful, and a low whimper had started in his throat. He ran now, ran blindly in the fog. Something dark loomed out of the mist, and he cried out as he slammed into it. It was a wall. He slid down to the cobblestones, feeling the blood trickle from the lacerations on his face.

  "Poor dear," said a soft voice out of the darkness.

  The sailor looked up. "Who's there?" He could hardly move and had just managed to get into a sitting position with his back to the wall. He was stiff everywhere, and his head throbbed from where he had knocked it against the wall.

  "I am," said the woman as she knelt before him. She took his bruised hands in her own cool ones and turned them palm up. She bent down as if to kiss them, and he could feel the velvet touch of her tongue against the torn skin as she licked the blood away. He cried out once in pain, but realized after a while that the pain was subsiding and his hands were feeling better. His head lolled back as the waves of pleasure swept up from his hands to his chest, then down to his groin.

  Her hands were inside his shirt now, kneading the flesh there, pressing it with her nails, and he groaned, but not from pain this time. He tried to discern the details of her face, but all he saw was the black hair and the white face, and in it the dark eyes that drew him to her.

  She was loosening his pants now, and he sucked in a breath as her fingers caressed his genitals. He tried to lift his arms to put them around her, but they weighed so much that he couldn't. He opened his mouth, and she kissed him, jabbing her tongue again
st his. Then she was crouching above him, and he could smell the muskiness, feel the soft downy hair tickle him, the wetness that told him she was ready for him, and she was pushing down on him, and down and down —

  And he screamed silently in agony as red-hot pain, worse than any he had ever felt, exploded in his throat and groin. He could feel his blood being drained, could feel the life fading, could feel all of it leaving his veins, draining, until there was nothing left but a husk, a dried-out husk, nothing but —

  She laughed as his cooling body toppled to one side. It would be so easy to dispose of this one. He would roll easily down to the river; with one final push he would be gone. They would not find this one.

  And then she would bide her time.

  Father Daniel dined with his nephew and with Rose, and enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when they were finished, he returned home.

  He paced restlessly in his room, again fearing to sleep. He had to, but . . . what if she came? He walked and walked and prayed, and finally, in the early hours of morning, he slept.

  When he woke, stiff and tired, he knew that he had one thing to accomplish today.

  Once he was finished making sure the boys in the home were all right, he went about paying visits to various parishioners who had recently promised to pledge money to the boys' home. He had a second reason for going. He was seeking information about August Justinian, and he knew that, Savannah society being as tightly knit as it was, he would soon learn all he wanted about her.

  He was correct.

  She lived not far from the city on a small island in the Savannah river and was the recent widow of a wealthy Georgia planter, Hugh Justinian. The man had been relatively young when he married the woman, whom he met while traveling, and he had returned home sick, then had died a week later.

  Dismayed, Father Daniel realized the terrible pattern was repeating itself. Always a recent widow, he thought with a shudder. He also discovered that his woman parishioners disliked her as intensely as most men liked her. That, too, was familiar. She had been content to stay in mourning, but had been urged by her acquaintances and her husband's friends not to shut herself away and to come to a few limited social functions. No one knew what she planned to do after this.

  This information did not cheer him, and he returned to the boys' home somewhat absentminded. When he could, he returned home and sank down on his knees and stared up at the crucifix on the wall.

  The waiting was unbearable. He knew she was waiting, and he knew that she knew he would be aware of it and would be tortured by it.

  Let it be done! he cried out silently, but knew he didn't want her to come to him.

  The next night the dreams began, and each time he sank into sleep and the dream began, he woke up screaming. He wrapped his rosary around his hand, kissed the cross, and went back to sleep; he was not further disturbed that night.

  But he knew the dreams would return, and she would be stronger the next time.

  *

  The confessional was dark and smelled of dust and sweat and old sin.

  Daniel waited for the other priest to enter the confessional, then bowed his head. He had been too ashamed to go to his own church, St. Patrick's, and too intimidated to go to the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, so he had walked to the southeastern section of town to the parish of the Church of the Sacred Heart. He knew none of the priests here.

  The small door slid back to expose the grille.

  "Bless me. Father, for I have sinned," Daniel said, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. "It has been one week since my last confession. I have committed the following sins. I have had impure thoughts. This I have done three times." He knew it was more frequent, but could not bring himself to admit that. He was so ashamed; he had never confessed to impure thoughts before. "For these and all the sins of my past life, especially these sins against purity, I am heartily sorry." His confessor would never know how sorry he was for his present sins and his past — all of them, he realized bleakly, which could be traced to August.

  "Are these impure thoughts directed in general to all women or to a specific woman?"

  "To a specific woman. Father."

  "Then do not see her again, and if you cannot avoid seeing her, then see her in the presence of someone else."

  That, Daniel knew, would be of little help.

  "You must say the Act of Contrition now."

  "O my God, I am heartily sorry for offending thee, and detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend thee, my God, who art all-good and all-deserving of my love. I firmly resolve with the help of thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin."

  Daniel listened as the priest gave him absolution and assigned his penance: He must go on a fast, say six Hail Marys, and say a novena to St. Joseph. Daniel nodded, even though he knew the priest couldn't see.

  "Go in peace," the priest murmured.

  When Father Daniel left the Church of the Sacred Heart, he did not feel satisfied. His sin had not been purged as he had hoped, as he had needed. His sin would remain as long as August Justinian remained in Savannah.

  Perhaps if he fasted as the priest had suggested . . . perhaps if he denied his body enough, the dreams would stop. He almost smiled at that.

  That first night of his fast he didn't dream, and when he woke in the morning, he was relieved. But as afternoon came, he began to dread the night, dread it because he knew with a certainty that he would dream again. The fast hadn't kept him from dreaming.

  August was toying with him, and he could have sobbed with frustration. Instead, he went in to check on the boys at St. Mary's. The dormitory contained about twenty beds, and the older boys and younger ones slept there. At the end of his bed each boy kept a trunk with his belongings, for the most part donated by members of the parish, and next to each bed was a desk so that the boy could do his school work.

  The windows were high — the better to keep the boys from climbing out on one of their escapades — and they were open. A slight breeze wafted in to stir the stifling air.

  One of his favorite boys, William, a twelve-year-old with big brown eyes and dark blond hair, was busy with his school work.

  "And how are you today, William?"

  "Oh, Father." The boy scrambled to his feet. "Very well, sir. I'm doing my mathematics." He made a face. "Sister Agatha's favorite subject."

  "Yes, I know," Father Daniel said. He was well acquainted with the stern Sister Agatha, who cared more for numbers than her God, or so he secretly believed. Oh dear, he thought suddenly, and knew he would have to add this to his already-lengthening list of sins for his next confession.

  "Are you ill, Father?" William asked, staring up at the older man.

  "I'm fine, lad, just fine. It's the heat, as I'm sure you know." The boy nodded. "Well, continue." The boy smiled shyly at him and sat down once more.

  Father Daniel moved away and chatted with each of the boys: Peter, the two Michaels, the three Johns, and all the other boys.

  At the end of the dormitory he glanced back. William was still working, and some of the little boys were pretending to do the same, although he knew very well they weren't. He smiled, feeling very good for the first time in a long time, and left.

  All he needed was some rest, he told himself, and for the heat to break. That was all.

  By week's end the unseasonable heat wave still held Savannah in its grip.

  Guy, coming to visit his uncle early one morning before the heat became too unbearable, was appalled when his uncle opened the door to admit him.

  "My God," he said after he was seated, "what's happened to you?"

  Daniel frowned. "What do you mean? And good day to you, too, Guy."

  Guy stared at him. "You look as though you've aged ten years! Are you ill?" He peered in what his uncle called his medical way.

  "No, it's just the heat," Daniel said.

  "God, the heat, I know. Are you sleeping well, Daniel?"

&nbs
p; Father Daniel shook his head. He had been shocked to see his haggard appearance just that morning in the mirror. Surely he didn't feel as bad as he looked.

  "What about eating?" He was no longer the priest's nephew, but rather the physician, and Daniel was touched by his concern.

  "I've been fasting a little lately," he admitted reluctantly, uncomfortable with Guy's line of questioning, and wished that he could divert the conversation to some other topic.

  "Drinking?" Guy asked.

  "No. I've given that up."

  "Curious." Guy drummed his fingertips on the arm of the chair and studied his relative.

  Daniel feared his nephew would press him for details of the malady, and he knew he'd be forced to tell the young doctor that it was a private matter. He couldn't tell Guy the truth, at least not yet. Truth of what? That his dreams, all of them centered upon August Justinian, were becoming increasingly sensual? He blushed a little.

  "Come now," he said, "there's no mystery. The heat has simply taken its toll upon me as it has others. Surely you have other elderly people similarly affected by the rising temperatures?" He knew Guy did, but he wanted to draw attention away from himself.

  "Yes, Daniel. There've been a number of deaths from the terrible heat. This damned weather. Maybe it'll break in a day or so, and we'll have some rain to cool it off. I don't know what we're to do if the temperature gets any higher. Every bed in the hospital is already occupied. And there are ten on pallets in the halls." He shook his head. "I pray that the rains will come."

  "How is Rose?" Daniel asked innocently.

  "She's fine," Guy said, smiling, recognizing the other man's ploy. "When she's not helping with the heat victims, she's busy working on a project of her own."

  "Don't let her work too hard," Daniel cautioned.

  "I won't." He rose slowly to his feet, "I'd best be heading to the hospital. I was there all night and just went home a few hours ago for rest."