With the peach face, the smooth lips, and the pillow eyes, everything Martin Limerick said to Brian that afternoon at the Pennsylvania Hospital caressed his heart with a glossy sheen and magical sparks. Victoria’s philandering son might’ve been on the British throne and the blustery Rough Rider might’ve been in the White House for five years – but Brian looked into Martin’s eyes and reigned over all things, English, Irish, and American.
“Nurse, we must change these dressings every four hours. Fresh bandages, please,” the good Dr. Limerick said, smiling at his patient, “otherwise infection may set in and we shall lose him. He’s far too kind for such a fate.”
Dr. Limerick triggered a memory in Brian, playing polo with his father at the Wynnewood Lawn Club, at least until Mrs. Wickham-Smith had evicted them, club policy preventing employees from enjoying the amenities, even after hours – he had the same baritone vibrato as his father. True, Brian had been twelve when he’d died, but that was only seven years ago.
“Most unfortunate, nurse, that Mr. Larney sustained these injuries in the attack. Perilous terrible, what some young men must endure, simply for attending a music lecture …” Brian felt stronger hearing the good doctor’s words. How might he repay him for his kindness, if not now, years down the road?
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