Oh, not in a bad way, of course. What eight-year-old did terrible things? But he was the person who would never admit to being tired, or hungry, or in pain. He was always fine. Always.
He died because he hadn’t admitted that he was sick.
For two days, he kept his illness to himself. He stayed in his room and pretended to study his readers when he was actually sleeping.
Beth was the one who noticed that Calvin’s face was suspiciously flushed at dinner. Reid, of course, hadn’t noticed. He’d been too preoccupied with his friends and a certain girl who was inordinately fond of wearing blue ribbons in her hair.
When Beth mentioned Calvin’s bright red cheeks, his mother took a better look at her younger son and noticed his glassy eyes. When she pressed her hand on his forehead, she realized Calvin had a high fever. A doctor was called. And that doctor confirmed that Calvin had contracted the influenza.
A panic arose in the house. Beth was sent away to stay with cousins. Reid—much to everyone’s surprise—refused to leave his brother’s side.
For the next twenty-four hours, he cajoled and bullied Calvin to drink the medicines and submit to cold baths to bring down the fever. His brother had done it all without complaint, but there was an acquiescence in his eyes that told Reid much. He accepted that there was no hope.
Finally, late the next evening, long after their parents had fallen into an exhausted slumber and the nurse had done the same, Calvin finally told Reid the truth.
“I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not,” Reid had countered. “And you’d better not say any of that again or Father is going to whip your behind.” That had been their father’s constant threat, though he’d yet to make good on the promise.
But even that reminder hadn’t made Calvin smile. “No, Reid. I know I’m going to die soon. I’ve been talking to God and his angels for days now. They say I don’t have much more time here.”
Reid hadn’t bothered to waste time pointing out that angels definitely did not talk to little boys about trips to heaven. Instead, he’d done his best to sound like their father. Stern. No-nonsense. “You listen to me, Calvin. You need to tell those angels that you’re not ready to go. Promise them anything, Calvin.”
“I already have. But they’ve made some promises too.” With a stare that was far more mature than his eight years, Calvin spoke again. “The angels have promised to look out for you. They say you’re destined for great things.”
It had been all he could do to will the tears not to fall. “You are the family’s hope, not me.”
“That is where you are wrong.” Calvin coughed, the effort racking his body. A flash of pure pain entered his eyes.
Reid helped him sit up, patted his back softly. “We don’t need to talk about this anymore. You’re supposed to be resting.”
Calvin shook his head and glared. “No. No, Reid, I’ve gotta tell you this. The angels told me that you are going to make Mom and Dad real proud. Beth is going to depend on you. You’re going to be real rich too.”
“Calvin—”
“Listen,” Calvin whined in a voice that was very un-Calvin-like. “You are going to do everything, Reid.”
His brother’s voice was so sure, his gaze so direct, Reid didn’t have the heart to refute his words any longer. “If you believe it to be so, then I will do my best to do you proud.”
“No, Reid. You have to promise. Promise you will do those things. All you have to do is promise.”
“All right. I promise.” Of course, what he didn’t add was that he would have said anything for Calvin to lean back and rest.
Calvin had smiled then, a pure, angelic smile. It almost made Reid believe in angels after all. He coughed again, allowed Reid to pat his back and help him sip water, then he closed his eyes. He died an hour later.
That last conversation with Calvin was both Reid’s best and worst memory of his childhood.
After that awful time, he’d tried harder to be patient. More generous. He looked after Beth more. He tried harder in his lessons. He tried harder in a hundred ways. And to his consternation, much of what Calvin had predicted would happen, did. He had a good life.
But now, as he walked down the front steps into the Sloanes’ main drawing room, he realized that though he’d done much good, he’d still retained some of the selfish ways he had been born with.
Douglass Sloane was not a man Reid ever wanted to emulate. He’d symbolized his parents’ hopes and dreams in the social realm, and Reid also knew that he owed him a great debt for his assistance in boarding school. But in the past year, his flaws had started to outweigh his strengths. He’d become increasingly degenerate and increasingly cavalier in his treatment of other people, especially women. His drinking had become constant, his pranks and amusements had become darker and more lurid.