Down by the River

by Robyn Carr

  Tom knew they must be exhausted from the sheer demands of critical-care patients, not to mention the financial burden. Birdie had told Ursula in the quilting circle that their insurance would only afford hospitalization for so long. That’s why the boys were now getting home care long before the house was ready to be a home. Even with Birdie and Judge stopping in to help, even with the therapists and visiting nurses, Chris and Nancy were beat. And Chris couldn’t work as much as he needed to if he helped with the boys.

  “You might have to ask for help,” Tom said.

  “Ask who?” Chris bitterly replied.

  “Your friends. That’s who.”

  “My friends? My boys got into so much trouble with my friends, you think anyone would want to help them now? They stole from Burt Crandall’s bakery and egged the whole town. They vandalized George’s café, tipped over trash cans, beat up your kid, for God’s sake. No one’s going to feel sorry for them now. And this,” he said, looking over at Tom, tears wet on his cheeks, “is mostly because I wasn’t there as a father.”

  Tom gave him a light sock in the arm, but really he wanted to stop the car and shake him good. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Remember what you know about your people. Your town.”

  Chris got the handkerchief out of his pocket and gave his nose a good blow. “I know they can be pushed too far sometimes, that’s what I know.”

  Tom’s radio squawked. “Rios to Toopeek, where you at, Chief?”

  “Right at Paradise and 162, Ricky.”

  “We got truck versus deer at 162 and 86, you copy?”

  “I can take that.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  Tom turned on the lights and siren; the morning was foggy, particularly dense in the low areas between hills. “Slight detour, Chris. I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

  “No problem. I’m the tagalong.”

  “We can talk about this later, though.”

  “Hey, it’s a tough patch, but we’ll work it out.” He wiped his face, sniffed back the remnants of tears.

  In just moments they could see the headlights of a truck down the road through the early morning fog, which could be hell on both wildlife and drivers. Hal Wassich, a farmer, stood beside his truck with a shotgun. On the ground at the side of the road was the carcass of a large stag.

  Tom and Chris both got out. “Hey, Hal,” Tom said.

  “I had to put him down, Chief. Got him square on the hip, crippled him bad.” Hal shook his head and a stream of blood ran onto his shirt from a wound he didn’t appear to know he had sustained. “Ever hear a stag that size scream? It’s godawful, that’s what.”

  Instead of putting the flashlight to the animal’s carcass, Tom shone it square on Hal’s head. “Chris, get an ice pack and some bandages out of the truck, would you? Hal, what’d you smack your head on?”

  He reached up and touched his gushing forehead. “Damn. I must a bounced my head off the steering wheel. That sucker hit me like a tank. He’s big as one, too, ain’t he?”

  “You got a big one, that’s for sure,” Tom said, squinting at the injury. “Hal, you cracked your head wide open.”

  The grisly farmer grinned, showing a couple of missing teeth on the bottom. “Lucky for me I got nothin’ in there to fall out, ain’t it?”

  “Damn truth,” Tom agreed, smiling with him.

  Chris had bandages, tape and ice from Tom’s first aid kit and took over the cleaning of Hal’s head while Tom checked out the truck and the carcass. The stag was crushed on one side. If he’d managed to limp or drag himself into the woods, he’d have died a slow and miserable death. As for the truck, the bumper was bent, the hood was concave and the windshield was shattered. There wouldn’t be any driving it away from this spot.

  Chris had Hal sitting on the tailgate while he cleaned off his head wound. “You doing some kind of ride-along with the police?” Tom heard Hal ask Chris.

  “Naw. Tom was giving me a lift home from the bar. I had a couple too many to drive.”

  Hal laughed outright. “You sober enough to deal with my head?” He pronounced it “haid.”

  “Yeah. Fortunately it’s a huge cut and I can see it plain as day.”

  That made the old farmer laugh harder. “You still sellin’ insurance, boy?”

  “Yeah, that’s what pays the bills these days.”

  “I never figured you for paperwork, you know? I always figured you for doing something with your hands.”

  Now it was Chris’s turn to laugh. “Is that because I could barely get passing grades in school?”

  “Well now, I can’t say I ever knew the state of your grades. But you was in shop with Hank, weren’t you? Hank…he’s a couple years older than you. But I remember you made your mother this fancy coffee table with a planter in it. Nice piece of work.”

  “I’ve done a little woodworking here and there…shelves, repairs, simple things,” he said.

  “As well, we had you in 4-H and I remember you had a nice hand with the animals.”

  “We haven’t even had a dog in years,” Chris said.

  “If you want one, just say the word. That old bitch of ours whelps every spring. She should’ve dried up four years ago, but she keeps ’em coming. Border collie, sometimes mixed. Good dogs.”

  “I might take you up on that,” Chris said.

  “We got a couple of pups now. Six months, not housebroke. They’re herders. Keep to the barn. Hey, Chief!” he yelled. “You gonna let me keep the deer?”

  “Sorry, Hal. I have to call Forestry.”

  “Jesus, Chief! Think you’d at least let me have the son of a bitch who tore up my truck.”

  “Maybe Forestry’ll let you have him.”

  “Those sons of bitches never give up a thing. Remember that bear what scared the bejesus out of the whole town? You think anyone got her?”

  “A bear’s a different thing.”

  “Hal,” Chris said. “You’re gonna have to get some stitches. There’s no way this thing is gonna heal with just tape. It’s huge.”

  “You want me to call a tow truck?” Tom asked him.

  “Naw, just loan me that phone to call Hank. I’ll get him out here with his flatbed and chains. Damnation. I think my day’s ruined.”

  “Your insurance should take care of the truck at least,” Chris said.

  “Would if I hadn’t let it lapse. Isn’t it the damnedest thing? Just when you think things are going pretty good, something jumps out at you.”

  “I hear you,” Chris said.

  The ringing phone woke June.

  “Do you ever get up to the alarm clock?” Jim asked from beside her.

  “June Hudson,” she answered.

  Behind her Jim muttered, “Or, God forbid, just let the sun wake you up?”

  “Shh,” she hushed him.

  “I’m really sorry to do this to you,” John Stone was saying. “But I’m all the way in Rockport with a patient with a hot appendix and if the surgeon doesn’t show, I’m going to… Well, I’m calling because Tom’s running a special on facial stitches and head wounds. He’s got two MacAlvies at the police department. They got in a fight out at…I can’t remember.”

  “Rocky’s,” she said. And she thought, I hate stitching up the MacAlvies. Someone almost always gets sick.

  “Yeah, Rocky’s. Must be some little nightclub.”

  “Oh, you know it. Are they badly cut up?”

  “Not too bad, Tom said. But he thinks you should look at them. And he’s taking Hal Wassich to the clinic. He hit a deer with his pickup and cut his head open on the steering wheel. Do you know him?”

  “Uh-huh. Farmer. He’s been here forever. How bad?”

  “Tom said it’s a deep occipital gusher, but he’s conscious. Must have a hard head.”

  “The hardest. Okay. I’ll take care of them. See you at the clinic later.”

  She hung up and leaned over to kiss Jim on the head. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to go put in some stitches and come
home for a shower. Then you can have the truck if you want it.”

  He rubbed her arm. “You feel okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. I slept like a baby.”

  She pulled on a sweatsuit and tennis shoes, put a ball cap on her head and snuck out of the bedroom without turning on the lights. She didn’t notice the dining room as she passed through, but saw the roasting pan soaking in the sink. She backtracked and looked in the dining room. One place setting—hers—and burned-down candles still sat on the table. A bottle of what looked like champagne sat in a bucket of water. It all came back to her.

  She went to the bedroom and knelt beside his side of the bed. “I fell asleep on you last night,” she whispered. She twisted some of his thick chest hair around her finger. “Are you mad?”

  “Not at all. You must have been exhausted. You barely woke up to go to bed.”

  “I’m so sorry. You went to a lot of trouble.”

  “Hmm. I had a big night planned for you.”

  “Can I get a rain check?”

  “Sure. But as far as I can remember, it’s Tuesday. Meat loaf night.”

  Every Tuesday for years, unless there was some sort of emergency, she made her deceased mother’s meat loaf recipe for her father. It was important to Elmer; she couldn’t discontinue that, as Jim obviously knew.

  “I’ll see you in a little while,” she promised.

  June went first to the clinic to take care of Hal Wassich, and then, before cleaning up the treatment room she’d used, she went down to the police department to check on the MacAlvie boys. They both snored as she cleaned their facial cuts and applied a couple of bandages over antiseptic. As long as they slept, working on them was easy. They both smelled like breweries, but there was no arguing or fighting.

  She went back to the clinic to clean up and when she came out, it was almost dawn. She saw that the light over the grill was on in the café and decided to walk over there for a cup of cocoa. When she got to the back door, she could see the silhouettes of three men down by the river—one tall with silver hair, one medium height with a big stomach, one short and bald. Sam, George and Elmer.

  She walked on down. As she got closer, she could hear the sound of rushing water. The Windle River was usually calm and docile. In summer, when it was dry and hot, it was little more than a creek in most places. Sam dropped an occasional line there.

  This was the first real sign that winter had arrived. The old men in town were watching the river to be sure it wasn’t flooding. And they would watch it right through spring as the last of the mountain snow melted.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Sam. George.”

  “Hi, honey,” Doc answered. “Awful early for you, isn’t it?”

  “I had to tend a couple of cuts. I put some bandages on passed-out MacAlvies and stitched up Hal Wassich, who hit a stag and cut his head open on the steering wheel.”

  “Good thing he didn’t hurt anything that matters.”

  “Dad!” she scolded. “So what’s going on here? Thinking about some fishing?”

  “River’s up,” Sam said.

  “Higher than usual,” George said.

  “Weather’s too damn warm, that’s what.”

  “Warm?” She shivered. “I’m freezing!”

  “Not cold enough. It’s warm for this time of year and we’re getting too much rain, too little snow in the mountains.”

  “It always rains a lot through winter,” June pointed out.

  “It always stays wet all winter. Drizzle and fog are our friends—heavy rainfall and warm temperatures that melt mountain snow can do us in.”

  “We gotta keep a close eye on this here,” Sam said. “It’s been twenty years since she came out of her banks, but when she does, she does it fast. One minute she looks like a nice little stream, the next minute she’s a raging river.”

  “It’ll be okay, guys,” June said, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to go home, shower and start the day over.” She turned to head back to the clinic for her truck and saw that a car had parked in front. “Maybe I’ll see who this is first,” she said.

  “Want me to get that, honey?” Elmer asked.

  “No, thanks, anyway.”

  In a way typical for June, she wasn’t able to get back to her house. In fact, it was noon before she even had time to call Jim. And then there was no answer.

  Six

  Jim Post didn’t have a vehicle when he came to Grace Valley because, up to that point, the truck he drove had belonged to the government. A company car, if you will. Part of separating, retiring, was turning in the keys. It didn’t take him very long to see that it would be impossible to share the little truck with June. She would go off on a call to put in a few stitches, promising to return in an hour or less, and he wouldn’t see her until that night.

  The very first time she was more than an hour late, Jim called Tom and said, “I know this isn’t something you call the police for, but I need a truck.”

  “Oh?” Tom had replied.

  “Let me explain. I need to get to a car lot somewhere so I can buy or lease a truck. I can’t share a truck with June and I can’t sit out here at her house without wheels. You with me?”

  He was. “And how can the Grace Valley Police Department help you with this…ah…problem?”

  “I need a ride. I only have about three new acquaintances and nobody’s phone number. How do I go about calling a cab around here?”

  Tom couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t even bother to tell Jim there was no cab. Well, at least not in Grace Valley. “Sit tight. I’ll hook you up.”

  About forty minutes later the pastor showed up in his twenty-two-year-old station wagon. Harry drove him to Rockport, waited around for him to find a Ford truck with an extended cab that he liked, borrowed fifty bucks from him and followed him back to the valley.

  “I like this,” Jim had said, shaking Harry’s hand. “A full-service church. This could turn me to religion.”

  “We aim to please. Anytime you need anything, give me a call. Oh, and I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my check.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Harry. A cab would’ve cost me at least that.”

  The rest of the month passed somewhat slowly for Jim, as he was just settling in and hadn’t quite figured out what he was going to do in his retirement. He made the family meat loaf for June and her dad, something he enjoyed far more than he expected to. He checked out various hardware stores in the larger towns near the coast, just in case he decided to build something, like a room addition or baby furniture. He called his sister, Annie, in Madison and told her about June and the baby…and was put on the spot about his plans, or the lack thereof. He did the chivalrous thing and let Annie assume he couldn’t be pinned down to a date. But maybe it wasn’t chivalry. Maybe he was just embarrassed.

  And while Jim pretty much fought boredom, for June and Tom Toopeek it was just the opposite. They were coming into a rough season, which would peak just after Christmas and wouldn’t ease up till spring.

  There were layoffs, which led to ennui, drinking and domestic strife, and economic crises, which led to depression, more drinking, more fighting… The circle widened. The skies stayed cloudy, the weather damp and cold, which didn’t do much for creating work or easing depression. Flu came on and assaulted even the hardiest, but picked on those out of work, out of money, out of heating oil, and those who suffered from bad nutrition.

  Tom’s nights were late, his mornings started too early. And the clinic was always full. If Jim wanted to spend any quality time with June, he learned it was best to show up at the café around break time, or maybe catch lunch with her, which meant her and the regulars. If he waited around at home until quitting time, he might or might not see her for dinner. And the combination of hard work and pregnancy made her a teensy bit testy and very tired. She was edgy sometimes, snappish. And sleep came easily. The second her head hit the pillow she was gone.

  But Jim was patient. He liked watching her sleep, so all wa
s not lost.

  In fact, he would often think, nothing is lost and all is gained. After twenty years of having only one commitment, to the struggle to maintain law and order, there was a kind of peace in this lifestyle that required nothing more from him. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew it was a temporary idyll soon to be shattered by either boredom or some problem—hopefully not relationship-oriented—or even by the squalling of a hungry or colicky infant. But for now, while June got used to the idea that he was here to stay and their family was growing, he would enjoy the quiet. He would watch her sleep.

  He had never considered what his notion of true love might be. He had even begun to think that in this life he wasn’t going to get the perfect partner, the woman he’d live and die for. But he had. No matter the complications, he had never felt so secure. So sure.

  In the midst of a busy clinic day, Jessie summoned June to say, “Birdie Forrest is on the phone. She says she can’t stop her heart from racing.”

  June didn’t even check to see if there was a patient waiting to see her. She grabbed her bag and fled to her godmother’s side. She found Birdie in the glassed-in front porch of her house, rocking nervously. The room was icy cold because they didn’t heat it in winter; Birdie must have been flushed and tried to cool down. Judging by the look on Birdie’s face, she was trying to stay calm. There was perspiration on her upper lip, despite the chill.

  “All right,” June said, kneeling beside her and taking her pulse. “I’m here, you’re going to be fine.” Her pulse was one-twenty and thready. June gave her one aspirin, the universal precaution against heart attack, though she wasn’t terribly concerned about that. She suspected something else altogether. “What were you doing when your heart started to race?”

  “Just folding some of Judge’s undershorts,” she said weakly. “Am I all right? Because if I die, he’ll run out of clean shorts in a week.”

  “It looks pretty good for Judge’s clean shorts. Does your chest hurt?”