The Cure for Dreaming(8)

“Oh.” I nodded. “I see. You’re afraid of my father like everyone else.”

“No, I’m not afraid. It’s just . . . well . . . your father has never worked on my teeth, but he certainly took care of my mother’s and father’s mouths—I can tell you that much. He fitted them with the finest dentures money can buy.”

“And is that so terrible?”

“Your father smiled the entire time he was yanking out my father’s molars. As if he enjoyed it.”

I swallowed and squirmed. “He’s not smiling when he’s pulling out teeth. A natural reaction to luring a person into opening his mouth is to make a funny little grimace. I used to play dentistry with my dolls, and my grandmother observed me making the same face.”

“I’ve heard he also enjoys the use of leeches.”

“Only to relieve inflamed gums. It’s standard dentistry practice. They do the job beautifully.”

“They suck blood out of patients’ gums beautifully? Is that what you’re saying?” His eyes shimmered with amusement. “My goodness, Olivia. You do like horror stories, don’t you?”

“You see? This is why I don’t talk much in school. You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m just entertained that sweet little Olivia Mead is defending the use of leeches inside people’s mouths.” He inched his hand down the metal bar, closer to my skirt. “You have to admit, it is a little shocking.”

I picked at my coat’s cloth-covered buttons.

“Please, Olivia”—he nudged my leg with the back of his hand—“don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry. It’s just not easy being the daughter of . . . my father.”

“I understand. I’ve got an infamous father, too. He’s been known to make grown men cry in court.”

“Oh.” I met his eyes again, noting the softening of his expression. “I didn’t think of that. I suppose you might truly understand, then.”

“I do. I really do.” Percy offered me his hand. “It’s starting to rain harder out here. We should get you inside before it pours.”

“Will you come up to the door with me to meet my father?”

He helped me down from the carriage with a backward glance at the house.

“My father doesn’t extract teeth and leech gums just for fun, Percy,” I said with a smile. “His home office is solely for emergency treatments, not for torturing his daughter’s drivers.”

Percy blanched. “He keeps dental tools in the house?”

“I promise, you’ll leave here tonight with all the contents of your head intact.”

“Oh. Well . . . good.” He tucked my hand inside the crook of his elbow. A wind kicked up around us, forcing him to press his top hat against his head with his free hand. “Come on. We’re going to get soaked.”

We ran up the brick front path just as the rain gained force and pelted the ground with a clatter that sounded like the applause Henri had received when I was standing on the stage with him. Up on the porch, we ducked under the cover of the roof and shook water off our sleeves.

“Come inside for a moment to get dry.” I turned the doorknob with an embarrassing squeak and poked my head inside. “Hello? Father?”

Silence met my ears. The only movements within the house were the twitching flames of the entry hall’s sconces, which threw shadow and light across the rusty-brown wallpaper. The air smelled of gas from the lamps’ hissing jets, and there were lingering whiffs of the pot roast supper Father and I had shared earlier that evening.

“Father?” I called into the silence, stepping inside the entryway with a moan from the unvarnished floorboards. Our home had never seemed so much like the sinister abode of a mad, leech-loving dentist until that moment. “Are you still awake?”

“I need to talk to you, Olivia.” Father clomped out from his office at the back of the long hall, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief the way he usually did when he was anxious. When he saw I wasn’t alone, he stopped and blinked, as though trying to clear his head of a brandy-induced hallucination.

“Olivia?” He tucked his handkerchief into his coat pocket and patted down his graying black hair—a longer and scragglier mess than most professional gentlemen’s. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest home.”

“Father, this is, um, P-P-Percy Acklen, Judge Acklen’s son. He kindly drove me home from the hypnotism show.”

“He did?” Father bounded our way with a jolly smile that rivaled Santa’s in my illustrated copy of A Visit from St. Nicholas. The leftover stink of one of his cigars muffled Percy’s musky cologne. “What a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Acklen.” He shook Percy’s hand with rapid pumps that jerked the boy’s shoulder. “I’m Dr. Mead, a great admirer of your father’s newspaper opinion pieces. He’s a just and wise man.”

“Thank you, sir.” Percy slid his hand out of Father’s and stretched his fingers with a crack. “He’ll have another piece printed soon. A group of women gathered on the courthouse steps this afternoon and protested their lack of a vote in next Tuesday’s election.”

My heart stopped.

Father’s eyes flitted toward me for the briefest of seconds. “Oh?”