“He’s perfectly right,” Placide says. “In our business, we call it acting.”
GILBERT
Gilbert is gone five minutes,maybe ten—long enough to take one turn around the sanctuary and make sure Louisa isn’t there. He wanders outside, where he yanks a picket from the fence that surrounds the church and snaps it in two, then returns to McCaw’s pew to find Phyllis Johnston deep in conversation with a man he doesn’t recognize.
“Oh, you’re back,” she says softly when he holds up the two pieces of fencing. “This is my husband, Richard Johnston.” To her husband, she says, “This is Gilbert Hunt.”
Mr. Johnston doesn’t acknowledge Gilbert. All of his attention is on McCaw. “His back’s a mess,” he says to Mrs. Johnston. “What the hell happened to him?”
Mrs. Johnston seems tongue-tied, so Gilbert offers a short retelling of the evening’s events. “He was sitting up in one of the second-floor windows, until the bitter end. Must have saved a dozen women.”
If Mr. Johnston heard what Gilbert said, he doesn’t let on. “James,” he shouts into McCaw’s ear. “Can you hear me?”
“It wasn’t just him,” says Mrs. Johnston. “Mr. Hunt risked life and limb, too. Trying to catch me and Mary Watkins and Catherine Kilbourne and the rest of the women James evacuated. He plucked us right out of the air, like we weighed next to nothing.”
“Is that so?” says Mr. Johnston, who doesn’t seem inclined to give his wife’s claims much credence.
But Mrs. Johnston won’t quit. “He’s a hero.”
Mr. Johnston eyes the pieces of wood in Gilbert’s hands. “What are those?”
“Pieces of fencing. I thought we could use them to stabilize his leg,” he says, and hands them over.
Mr. Johnston inspects the thin boards. “What am I supposed to tie them with?”
Gilbert knows better than to tell a man of his station what to do, but he allows his eyes to settle on Mr. Johnston’s cravat, which is as fancy a one as he’s seen. Must be at least five yards of linen holding that thing together.
“Fine,” says Mr. Johnston loudly as he begins to pull at the fabric that swaddles his neck.
When the cravat is undone, Mrs. Johnston steps aside, and Gilbert helps her husband wrap McCaw’s leg. The doctor moans anytime he is moved, but eventually the job is done.
“Do you need help getting him home?” Gilbert asks against his better judgment. He has no desire to see McCaw home, especially if it means spending another minute working alongside Mr. Johnston. But he doesn’t know how to excuse himself without at least offering.
Mr. Johnston shakes his head. “I sent our man for a cart.”
“I see,” says Gilbert, relieved. “In that case, I think I’ll take my leave.”
Mr. Johnston doesn’t seem to care whether he stays or goes, but Mrs. Johnston, who still clutches at the front of her thin dress, looks anxious. “You don’t want to stay? Until the cart arrives?”
“I’ve got someone I’m trying to locate. Before the night gets too far gone.”
He can tell Mrs. Johnston wants to be helpful. “Anyone I’d know?”
“Louisa Mayo?”
Mrs. Johnston bobs her head up and down like a parrot. “Yes, yes, of course. A dear girl. Don’t tell me Louisa was in the theater.”
“I think she was.”
“Does her mother know?”
“Her mother’s who alerted me to the situation.”
Mrs. Johnston gives him a sad look that he isn’t quite sure how to interpret.
He hasn’t asked for her permission to go, but for some reason, he finds himself waiting to be released.
“Give her my regards.”
