Archie doesn’t make eye contact with her.
“Margaret will adapt. If there is anyone who can do it, it is her.”
“But to spend the rest of her life hobbling around…” Archie trails off, unsure of himself.
Sally tries to shake Margaret awake, to get her to weigh in on her own probable demise, but she doesn’t stir.
“Mrs. Cowley,” says Sally, desperation in her voice, “tell him what you told me. About how high the risk of infection is with a break like this.” But all Mrs. Cowley does is quietly acknowledge that what Sally’s said is true.
“You told me yourself that you wouldn’t keep the leg.”
The old woman stiffens. Sally is putting her in an uncomfortable position, but she doesn’t know what else to do. So much is at stake.
“Isn’t that right? You’d amputate if it were up to you?”
There is something that passes, unspoken, between Dr. Foushee and Mrs. Cowley, because the next thing Sally knows, Mrs. Cowley is kowtowing to the doctor. “The good doctor knows what he’s doing.”
Sally is not having it, and she can hear her own voice rising. “She’s afraidto contradict you, Dr. Foushee. But we both know that allowing Archie to make a decision that is so clearly—”
“Mrs. Campbell,” Dr. Foushee says sharply. “Mr. Campbell is within his rights to determine what is in his wife’s best interests.”
“What about Margaret’s rights?” Sally is screaming now. “What about the fact that she jumped out of a burning building so that she’d have an actual chance? What about the fact that she told me, just last night, that she was in favor of whatever course of action might give her the best possible chance of survival?”
“Is that true?” Dr. Foushee asks.
It is a blatant lie, but she is desperate. “Yes.”
The doctor speaks directly to Archie. “If we know her wishes, that changes things, doesn’t it?”
“Hmmm?” says Archie, as if he’s been in a trance.
“Will you allow me to amputate?”
Sally holds her breath.
Archie stares at Margaret’s pale lips, her furtive brow. Then he shakes his head, as if he has reconciled himself to something unpleasant and has decided it is best to just get on with it. “No,” he says finally. “She deserves to be whole.”
GILBERT
It is strange, not seeingthe theater in its usual spot. Almost like a trick of the eye. Or the way, when a man is missing a button on his jacket, its absence is all Gilbert can see. The building itself has never seemed like anything special—nothing compared to the pictures of all those European amphitheaters and opera houses in Louisa’s schoolbooks. But now that it is gone, Gilbert realizes how big and grand it actually was.
A great number of men are at the site, and after scanning the crowd for Kemp, Gilbert proceeds cautiously. Some men are combing the ruins, others are sifting through small piles of debris that have been placed atop large white sheets. But most of them are simply standing around, talking about who saw what when. “I was there,” says a man with an exceptionally long beard, “and I tell you—there was nothing to be done.”
One man, in an angora hat, has established himself at a small table, which someone took the trouble of dragging outside. He takes down the names of the injured, along with people who are believed to be among the dead, but sometimes he gets confused and Gilbert can hear him say, “No, wait, wait. Did you say survived or died?”
Another man stands watch over a wheelbarrow, and when Gilbert leans in, he sees that it is full of jewelry, pocket watches, and even a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that have survived the blaze. Gilbert tries to decide whether Louisa might have been wearing any jewelry; she sometimes wore a thin gold chain around her neck, but he doesn’t think he’s seen her in it lately. He draws closer to the wheelbarrow and reaches out a hand, thinking that if he can just sift through the mess, he might see something he recognizes.
“Hands off!” says the man in charge, and Gilbert yanks back his hand, as if the metal is still hot enough to burn him.
“Sir, I was just—”
“Just what?” the man says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“I was just wanting to check to see if anything in that wheelbarrow belonged to my wife’s mistress—Miss Louisa Mayo.”
The man’s expression doesn’t soften, but he does uncross his arms. “Her stepfather’s already been by. Just a few minutes ago. Didn’t find a thing.”
Gilbert wants to tell the man that General Preston barely knows Louisa, that Gilbert wouldn’t need two hands to count up the hours those two have spent in the same room. Even if General Preston knew what to look for, it is unlikely he’d find it among so many other baubles. He can barely find his way out of a bottle.
