by Robyn Carr
“No, not so much. But I’m so light-headed and feel all…vague. I feel vague.”
June tried to keep the chuckle from her voice. “Well, you’re not vague at all. Your pulse is slowing…can you feel it?”
Birdie concentrated for a moment. “Yes,” she finally said. “Oh, June, you’re so gifted.”
“I haven’t done anything, Birdie. Tell me, what were you going to do after folding the clothes? What’s on the agenda for the afternoon?”
“Oh. Let’s see. I put a casserole and cake in the oven that I’ll take out to Chris, Nancy and the boys later. A little trip to the grocery if there’s time. I have a couple more loads of wash—I’ve brought some of theirs home to do. They can’t keep up, you know. And that house… They just don’t have the…ah…facilities.”
“I can imagine,” June said sympathetically. “Taking care of two bedridden teenage boys must be a nightmare. You must be very worried about them.”
“I wish I’d locked my car,” she said.
“Birdie, they took the keys off the kitchen hook. You couldn’t have prevented them from stealing your car.”
“I wish I’d locked the door, then.”
“Your pulse is almost normal, darling. Do you know what happened? I think you’ve had an anxiety attack.”
“Piffle,” she said. “Impossible.”
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because if Judge couldn’t throw me into an anxiety attack in all the years I’ve put up with him, nothing could!” She stood up and smoothed her wool plaid skirt. She had worn skirts with white blouses, cardigan sweaters and clompy oxford shoes since June was a tot. When she was younger, Birdie had wound her hair into tight little brown pin curls that were now white, but nothing else in her style had changed. Change disturbed Birdie. And though Judge was a cranky old handful, he was static. Her life had been turned upside down by the sudden appearance of her son and grandsons. And now this additional stress—a near-fatal car accident with her car!
“I want you to have some routine blood work done tomorrow morning,” June said, reaching into her bag for a lab order slip. “I’m not expecting to find anything, but better to be safe than sorry. And after work today I’m going to run over to Chris and Nancy’s and look in on the boys.”
“Oh! Would you? Oh, thank you, June!”
There was no pretending—Birdie had had about all she could take of this stress. She would have to be settled down somehow. “In fact,” June said, “when I’m done at the clinic I’ll come by here and get that casserole and cake. I’d like you to take a night off.”
“Oh, but June, much as I’d like to, I just can’t leave them—”
“Doctor’s orders, Birdie. I said I’ll go out there and check on them.”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear. And then, when can we talk about your wedding?”
She swallowed. “Well, not today. I just don’t have the time.”
Jurea Mull and her two teenage children lived in a tiny house in a poor section of town, but every day was a wonderful day for them because it was the best they’d ever had. Up till a few months ago Jurea’s whole life had been spent in the mountains, first as a child in a large family that lived very meagerly off the land, then as the wife of Clarence Mull, a Vietnam vet. Their home, the place where they’d raised their two kids, was little more than a shack in the backwoods, an isolated existence that they had once seen as protective.
Clarence had suffered since the war from posttraumatic stress disorder and bipolar disease. He could cope only if he felt he was hidden from the general population. This medical condition had nothing to do with his intelligence, which was high. He had been what they called a dropout vet, living in the forest near Grace Valley when he came upon Jurea’s family and found that they had been hiding their daughter from view because of the morbid scarring of her face. The claw end of her father’s hammer had ravaged the entire left side of her face, and the lack of medical attention had resulted in Jurea’s disfigurement. Clarence, in his sickness, immediately recognized in her a soul mate, a fellow prisoner from the world at large.
They’d made their life in the woods, where Clarence first taught her to read and write and cipher, then taught their children. That is, until they were discovered by June Hudson and Tom Toopeek. They helped the Mulls move into town so that Jurea could begin a series of plastic surgeries, the children could attend public school and Clarence could get both veteran’s benefits and some medication. He’d been doing very well on psychotropics until, as is fairly common, he stopped taking his drugs and fell back into his delusional world. While he was in the hospital getting straightened out, Jurea, sixteen-year-old Clinton and fourteen-year-old Wanda were on their own.
The house just a half block down from the Mulls had stood vacant and vandalized for a long time, long before the Mulls came into town. Jurea had no idea who owned the place, or if anyone did. But to her surprise she saw Sam Cussler pull up to that house. He had a young man with him and they went inside.
Jurea was by nature very shy, but she’d been pushing herself to interact with people more, especially now that she’d had the first surgery on her face and it was so dramatically improved. If she was to be a citizen of the town, a parent to students and a member of the church, it was imperative that she learn to mingle. So she put on her jacket and bravely walked down the street to say hello to Mr. Cussler. She waited until he came out of the house with his friend.
“Well, Jurea, you saved me a trip down to your house,” Sam said. “This here’s Conrad Davis.”
“How do you do,” she said slowly, carefully.
Conrad sunk his hands deeply into his pockets, looked at the ground and gave a brief nod. He’s as shy as me, Jurea thought.
“Conrad here has a young family,” Sam said. “Three children, one just born. He’s a little down on his luck at the moment and—”
Conrad’s head came up suddenly and he interrupted Sam. “Got laid off,” he said.
“That’s right,” Sam went on. “This old place hasn’t had an owner in I don’t know how long. It stands here just a miserable sight in need of attention while there’re people like Conrad and his young wife in need of a roof. So I think we’ll just slip him in here and for the price of a little fixing up, he’ll have a place to live.”
“Isn’t that fine,” Jurea said. “And where is Mrs. Davis?”
When Conrad didn’t answer at once, Sam did for him. “Social Services has her and the little ones in a Rockport hostel while Conrad here’s been looking for work. I have something he can do, but the family really can’t come here till the house is habitable. And heatable.”
“If you’d like, Clinton, Wanda and myself would be obliged to help you clean it up a little, once the kids are home from school.”
“That’d be very neighborly of you, Jurea. Isn’t that neighborly, Conrad?”
“What happened to your face?” the young man asked.
Stricken, Jurea’s hand rose automatically. It had been ten times worse than it was now—her cheekbone had been caved in and her eye scarred shut—yet in all her life no one over the age of seven had ever come out with the question as bluntly as that. Fortunately Jurea was always hungry to learn, and always an optimist, so she took it as an opportunity to practice the handling of a difficult situation. “When I was a small child, I walked right into the path of my daddy’s claw hammer. My scars were so much more terrible than they are now. I’ve had some plastic surgery.”
Jurea didn’t notice Sam frowning at Conrad. In fact, Conrad didn’t notice. “Well, bless your heart,” Conrad said, but there was something in his tone that was just slightly mean.
“We’d better get going, Jurea. I’m determined to get some plywood hammered over those broken windows today,” Sam said. “We’ll be back a little bit later.”
“I look forward to meeting your wife and children,” Jurea said. “And once Clinton and Wanda get home, we’ll wander down and see if we can lend a hand.�
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“You’re a kind soul,” Sam said.
He walked ahead of Conrad to his truck and got inside. He just sat there for a while after his passenger was in and settled. He was thinking.
Life hadn’t been too pleasant for Sam lately. He’d just buried his second wife, a woman younger than him by more than forty years who’d died a slow and painful death from cancer. He was feeling low and lonely when this poor boy with his truck full of pitiful belongings had pulled into the garage and recited his sob story of hard times. It had long been Sam’s custom that when he was feeling a little less than good, the best way to perk up his spirits was to help someone less fortunate. It had also long been his experience that whenever he needed perking up, the Lord would slip a less-fortunate individual into his life at the perfect moment. Conrad had just returned to the valley to collect his household goods after his weeks-long unsuccessful search for a job. In his seventy years, Sam had never regretted a good deed.
He looked over at Conrad, who slumped in the seat next to him. “I went out on a limb to help you, boy, and you were just rude to a friend of mine.”
Conrad looked at him square in the eye. “Was I? That was a mistake.”
Sam thought about this a second. “Maybe it was,” he said. “Or maybe the mistake is mine. We’ll see.”
There were very good reasons why June had not, until now, gone out to Chris and Nancy Forrest’s house to see how the bedridden twins were doing. First of all, she’d been almost insanely busy, so busy professionally that she was having trouble finding time for the complex new chapter in her personal life. Plus, she was not their family doctor, though she had attended the emergency of their car accident. Too many doctors in the mix could confuse things, so now her visit would be in the role of a friend.
But there was even more to it, like her complicated history with Nancy and Chris Forrest. June and Chris had been steadies in high school, with Nancy her constant rival. When June went away to college, Chris and Nancy ran off and got married, an event that, when she thought about it, could still take her completely by surprise. He had been writing her love notes at college while screwing around with Nancy in Grace Valley! Even in love with another man and pregnant with his child, it could piss her off all over again if she thought about it much. But she didn’t act angry. At least she didn’t think she did.
In the almost twenty years since they’d run away together, Chris and Nancy had lived in southern California. It was only a few months ago that Chris and the boys had returned to Grace Valley, and it was only two months ago that June had learned that Chris was not divorced, as he had claimed, but only separated from Nancy. And the separation had been Nancy’s idea. Brad and Brent were such a handful of trouble and Chris such an oblivious parent, that Nancy thought maybe he should be the one to take over. So Chris had come home. Like any red-blooded American man, he thought his mother would probably help.
Obviously, it hadn’t gone well. The kids had been in constant trouble around town, culminating in their theft of Grandma Birdie’s car, which they plunged off the road into a ravine.
What had started as a domestic problem, marital and familial, had escalated into a crisis. They were in the fixer-upper Chris had bought before the accident. No doubt it had been a good idea at the time. Before the accident there had been time to make slow but steady improvements on the house even with his job, but there certainly couldn’t be much time now. Nancy had left her San Diego job to rush to her boys’ sides; their income was probably at an all-time low, while stress was at an all-time high.
As promised, June retrieved the casserole and cake from Birdie and drove out to Chris’s house in the country. It was situated on a nice piece of land on the rise of a knoll with a long driveway up from the road. Prime property. The house, however, had been falling apart long before Chris bought it. Only the most basic improvements had been made—plumbing and electrical, thank God—when Brad and Brent had been hospitalized.
As June raised her hand to knock on the front door, she heard one of the twins hollering, “I want my pain pill!” while another yelled, “Ma-a-a-a!” Though she wanted to flee from the chaos inside, she knocked. Nancy yanked open the door, an impatient frown on her face. She blew an errant lock of hair off her face.
June could see a lot from the doorway. The floors were bare, there were rooms without doors, the bathroom at the end of the hall had only a curtain to offer for privacy, some windows were boarded, the kitchen cupboards had been torn from the walls and were in the midst of being refinished, ancient appliances were in use, probably until the new kitchen could be finished, and electric bulbs dangled from the ceilings in place of fixtures. In the middle of the living room stood two overpowering hospital beds, complete with traction rigging and tray tables.
“Good Lord,” June said as she looked past Nancy into the house.
“If your children are going to have a car accident and be laid up for a while, it isn’t practical to have just bought a fixer-upper,” Nancy said. “Not exactly Better Homes and Gardens.”
“My house was a lot like this,” June said. “It took me forever to get it in shape.” June noted the dark circles under Nancy’s eyes. “One thing at a time,” she advised, giving her the casserole dish as she balanced the cake in her left hand.
“June. How lovely of you.”
“I wish it had been lovely of me, but Birdie made these. And I am totally ashamed. I should have been out here a couple of weeks ago. Not to mention giving you a hand with meals and chores.”
“I hear you have quite a lot on your mind, too.”
June’s hand went immediately to her middle. “But you should have sent up the alarm, Nancy. You need help around here.”
“June, don’t be naive,” Nancy said sullenly.
“What do you mean?”
Nancy ignored her question and said, “Come in, June. If you’re patient, I’ll put the coffeepot on right after I finish Brent’s range of motion exercises. I can’t really stop in the middle—it’s so painful for him we have to get it over with. Then maybe I can visit for a minute or two.”
“Forget about it, I’m watching the caffeine for the time being. And I’m miserable about it, too. Go ahead with Brent. I’ll put this casserole on the stove for you.”
When she got to the kitchen she could see that it was even worse up close. The sink wasn’t attached to the wall, there were no shelves in the pantry, and what few kitchen items there were had been stacked on orange crates on the floor. Groceries were either in the ancient refrigerator or still in bags. “Nancy, what do you do without a working kitchen sink?” June asked.
“Ma! It’s time for my pain pill!” Brad yelled while Brent, whose leg was being stretched and pulled by his mother, gritted his teeth and moaned loudly. He gripped the bed rails and struggled to keep back tears.
“Bathtub,” Nancy yelled back. “I know, honey, I know. First Brent, then I’ll get it. Just give me a couple of minutes.”
June went to Brad’s bedside. “What do you get, Brad?”
“Percocet,” he answered. “It’s right back there on the card table.”
June looked at the prescription bottle, shook out a pill, poured him a glass of water from the pitcher and dosed him. Then she helped herself to some lotion from the card table laden with everything from medication to linens. “Roll on your side,” she told Brad. “I’ll work on your shoulders a little bit.”
His leg was in traction and maneuvering was a problem, but he managed enough so that June could pull up his T-shirt and massage his shoulders. Now his moans of pleasure mingled uncomfortably with Brent’s cries of pain. “Hang in there, Brent. When you’re through with the hard part, I’ll give you a little rubdown.”
“Can I have another pain pill?” he asked, his voice tremulous.
“You had one before we started,” his mother said.
“But she’s here! She’s a doctor!”
While June massaged Brad’s back, she took note of some pressure spo
ts on his skin from bedrest, spots that could turn into dangerous bedsores overnight. She answered Brent, “It isn’t a good idea to have more than one doctor writing you prescriptions. Just hang in there, the pain medication will kick in soon. I know orthopedic pain is the worst. Nancy? Is your visiting nurse massaging these boys? Looking them over for pressure spots and bedsores?”
“She only comes three times a week. We all look them over and massage them. She mentioned the other day that we could use some sheepskin, but there hasn’t been time to—”
The front door opened and Chris came in, the look on his face one of terror. “June? Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” she said. “I’m just visiting.”
He grabbed his chest. “Thank God. I had my cell phone and Nancy didn’t call, but when I saw your truck…”
“I seem to have that effect on a lot of people,” June said. “I dropped off a casserole and cake your mom made for your dinner…and I thought I’d make myself useful.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Where’s Mom?”
“I told her she had to take the night off, Chris. She had a spell this afternoon. Nothing too serious, I hope, but her heart was racing and she was flushed. I think it’s the stress.”
“There’s plenty of that to go around.”
“You should know she wanted to come out here, anyway, but I insisted—”
“Well, if she’s okay, we need her,” he said.
“She needs a night off,” June said firmly. “Doctor’s orders. Until I look at some blood work and we can be sure she’s fine.”
“Chris, are you going to get that sink hooked up and running tonight?” Nancy asked.
“Did I not just get home?” he countered unpleasantly.
“I’m only asking!”
“I said I’d try!”
“Look, folks, I know you’re tired—” June attempted to say, but Chris just walked past her toward the back of the house. He did pause to give Nancy a peck on the cheek, a very short one, but she didn’t look especially grateful. You could cut the tension with a knife. For once the boys were quiet.