by Robyn Carr
“Never expected nothing like this,” George told his cronies as he poured coffee all around.
“Was there anyone else broken into around town?” Elmer asked.
“No sir, Doc. Tom checked the clinic, church, flower shop and bakery first thing. He had Lee dust the door and the cash drawer for prints to send out to some high falutin crime lab, but there were surely too many smeary prints to get the burglar’s. Sam? You checked the station, didn’t you?”
“There’s no money there, George. And if someone stole some of the tools, he’d be doing me a favor. Don’t use ’em much, they’re as old as God and I still have insurance because I’ve always been too lazy to cancel.”
Elmer turned on his stool and regarded Sam slyly. “You’re the only man I’ve ever known who could make poverty and lack of industry sound like a virtue.”
“Lack of industry?” he argued. “I’m busy every second!”
“Poverty?” George seconded. “The man’s probably the richest in the county, save Myrna.”
“I ain’t that rich,” Sam said. “I put aside a dollar or two is all.”
There was a round of amused laughter.
“You keep a wallet so fat, I’m surprised you don’t have scoliosis from sitting lopsided.”
Sam, like a lot of men his age, liked to deal in cash and wasn’t too enamored with things like check writing and mutual funds. He kept a savings account and had recently allowed the Rockport banker to talk him into a certificate of deposit, but it took some doing. He owned the house he lived in, and the station, and wasn’t impressed by things like deductible mortgage interest. He was most comfortable with things that just added up.
And one thing that didn’t add up just right was the fact that George was robbed a little less than a week after Sam had told that useless Conrad Davis to take a hike.
Sam finished his coffee and took his leave just as June was coming into the café. They said their good mornings at the door.
“Morning, everyone,” June said. “George, I heard you were robbed! How in the world did that happen?”
“Looks like it probably happened with a crowbar,” he informed her. “I know you’re off coffee right now, but you’re not off bear claws for breakfast, are you, June?”
“Certainly not! I think I could eat ten, but I’ll just take two.” She kissed her father’s cheek.
Rather than looking up at her face from the stool on which he sat, he looked at her middle. “You’re growing by the second,” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said, rubbing her tummy idly. “It’s about ten per cent baby and ninety percent bear claws, I think.”
“That baby’s gonna be born with sticky fingers,” George said.
“Fine by me,” said Elmer, then muttered, “long as June’s got something on her finger besides sugar glaze.”
Sam noticed that the old truck was not parked in front of the house Conrad and Erline shared. Though it was early, a homey curl of smoke rose above the house. She must be up and had stoked the fire to warm the little ones. Still, he knocked softly. It was a long wait before her quiet voice inquired, “Who is it?”
“It’s Sam Cussler, Erline. I know it’s early, but—”
The lock moved and the door opened. Clearly she’d been crying. Her eyes were red, and that look that reshapes a woman’s face from cheerful to mournful had transformed her. It was too early in the day to have already had an insurmountable problem. She’d been crying through the night.
She sniffed and tried to smile, but it was lopsided. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, Mr. Cussler.”
“Thank you, Erline. I was hoping to find young Conrad at home.”
“No, sir, he ain’t.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “Could it be he’s found some honest work?”
Her chin dropped and she resumed crying, softly. Sam just let himself all the way inside and closed the door behind him. He could see where they’d made camp on the living room floor in front of the wood stove. The two children and baby still slept atop that single, thin mattress, covered by what looked to be their mother’s sweaters.
“Now, what is it has you crying, Erline?” he asked her.
“It’s Conrad. I haven’t seen him in days. He took the truck and left.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone?”
“I’ve already been so much trouble to everyone. Starting with Conrad, I suppose. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant…” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. The redness of her nose wasn’t just from crying; she was cold.
“Erline, the café got robbed last night. The back door was pried open and the cash drawer was emptied. I have a notion it might’ve been Conrad.”
“If it was, he didn’t come by here. I laid awake all night, listening for that old truck, hoping he’d come back and help us.” She sniffed loudly. “Can’t be he’s left us for good, can it?”
“Erline, just how old are you?”
“I’m nineteen now.”
“And that oldest of yours?”
“Three. There’s been one a year. One died.”
“And Conrad? How old’s he?”
“He says twenty-four, but I don’t know.”
So, Conrad had had himself a youngster. A fourteen-year-old girl. And now look at what he’d left behind.
“He’s done this before. He’ll probably be back after he lets off some steam.”
“What’s your name, Erline?”
She looked confused. “You know my name….”
“You and Conrad…you’re not really man and wife. Where you from?”
She turned away from him then, went back to the children. She knelt and tucked the clothing around them tighter, then reached over to the stove to stir the embers around and make room for another piece of wood.
In many ways Sam was innocent. Unlike Tom and June, he wasn’t continually forced to look at the seedier side of life. Yet, he could tell that if Erline wasn’t forthcoming with the answer to his questions, there was something painful and shameful enough to hide.
She turned and looked up at him. “Conrad took me away from a much worse condition. If you can believe that.”
He didn’t even question it. Nor did he comment. “How’s the food holding out?” he asked, and she looked away again. Certainly that, more than Conrad’s absence, was what had her crying. “You all out now?” he pressed, and she nodded weakly. “Any money, Erline?” he tried, but he knew the answer even before she shook her head. Conrad had left the station with some money, plus what he’d skimmed from money he’d collected from customers against Sam’s orders. You’d think the scoundrel could’ve left the mother of his children with enough money to feed them for a little while. “He use it mostly for drugs?” he asked her. And of course she nodded again, but she couldn’t look at him.
The room was quiet for a long spell except for the miserable, soft weeping.
“Look here, Erline,” Sam finally said. “If you can make up your mind to be finished with that losing piece of crap, I can get you some legitimate help. But no way am I going to help Conrad. If you plan to take him back, just tell me now, and I’ll fix you and the little ones up with some sort of bus ticket to somewhere. But this is a decision you have to make. You’re overdue, I’m thinking.”
She stood up from the mattress. “I never wanted it to be like this. I just never had any choice. He was all there was. That or starve.”
“Well, looks like you’re about to starve now for want of him. Your choice. I can get you some county help. Some money and food and maybe a little more improvement on this beat-up old shack. It happens Corsica Rios, a caseworker for the county’s Child Protective Services, is a good friend around here. Her boy Ricky is a deputy.”
“What do I have to do?” she asked him.
“You’ll have to fill out some forms, I reckon,” he said. “I’ll go over to the café, put in a call to Corsica and bring you back a little milk and cereal for the children. Next I’m going to get some sturdy locks
for what pass as doors on this sorry old house. But you have to promise, Erline, that you’re not going to give whatever help you get over to that drug abuser.”
She smiled slightly. Weakly. “That’s an easy promise to make, Mr. Cussler. Life with Conrad ain’t exactly easy.”
Later that same day, Ricky Rios pulled up to the little house in his squad car. He carried four generous bags of groceries to the front door and knocked by tapping his foot against the portal. Erline peeked out nervously. Behind her came the sound of crying children.
“Can I come in?” Ricky asked. “I have some food for you and the children.”
She opened the door uncertainly. “Why’s the police bringing me food?” she asked.
Ricky laughed. “The police aren’t bringing you food, young lady. Corsica’s son Ricky is bringing you exactly what she told me to bring by. You got some place handy to store this? I figured there was no refrigerator here.”
She just stood back and shrugged. “We live in this one room here, where there’s heat from the wood stove.”
“Good enough,” he said, stacking the bags alongside her meager baggage against one wall.
She went back to the rocker with the baby in her arms.
“My mother can’t get over here right away. This time of year there’re lots of people need her and not enough of her to go around. So she told me to drop this by and she’ll get here when she can. You need a few dollars to get you by?”
She just looked up at him in silent wonder. Ricky was about six-two, nicely muscled in his impeccable uniform, all the heavy police accouterments hanging from his belt. And handsome. So unbearably handsome. He grinned at her speechlessness and became even more beautiful.
“You need a couple of dollars to get you by?” he repeated.
“Um.” She shook herself. “Um, no. Mr. Cussler took care of that. He gave me a little money. Which I fully intend to repay.”
“Don’t let it cost you any sleep. Old Sam is pretty well fixed.” Ricky crouched, one knee on the floor, as he checked out the little girls and their worn-out baby dolls. “You ladies had your lunch yet? I brought some peanut butter and bread. And some bananas. How about that?” The little ones withdrew shyly and Ricky stood up. “Well, my mom will get over here when she can. Meantime, if something comes up, you can leave a message at the police department. You know where that is?”
She nodded. Her mouth was still slightly agog. She wondered what it would be like to have a man like this in her life. A man so strong and tall and clean and smart. A man on the right side of the law. It would have to be wonderful. And she could tell, just from this brief period of time with him, that he was safe. He wouldn’t hurt. He would protect and not hurt.
There were women who had good men in their lives, she thought. She’d never been one of them and her mama hadn’t, either, but there were decent men out there. Decent men, loving wives, happy, well-fed children. If she had to list the things she dreamed of, longed for, it would be that impossible combination for herself and her children.
“I’ll check on you in a couple of days, make sure you’re okay. Don’t get up,” he said, turning toward the door. When he got to the door he said, “Oh. If that Conrad shows up around here, would you let someone know? We’d like to talk to him.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Well, me, the Chief, the police. We’d like to know where he was when the café was robbed.”
“I don’t think he did it,” she said. “I mean, I don’t say that because I’d make any excuse for him, but I think I’d of heard that old truck if he was anywhere near here.”
“That right?” he asked her. “Bad muffler?”
“Almost everything on that old truck is bad. It makes a terrible ruckus.”
He smiled that glorious smile again. “Thanks, Erline. That’s good information. I’ll pass it on to the chief.”
Then he was gone. For the longest time she sat there in the rocker, holding her infant son against her chest and for the millionth time prayed that God would give her and the children a chance to escape from the dreary poverty and violence their lives had been.
June stood before her stove, stirring a pot of rich, thick chili. All seemed right with the world when she could get out of the clinic early enough to actually cook, lay a cozy fire, feel the baby move inside her and wait for the baby’s father to come home.
The headlights from Jim’s truck strafed the front of the house. Absently, she smoothed her hair and felt the roundness of her belly. “Daddy’s home,” she whispered.
The dog preceded him and June fell immediately to one knee to welcome Sadie, not at all surprised by how much she missed her when Jim took her with him. “Hey, my girl! How was your day? Were you very good? Did you entertain the twins?” Then she looked up at Jim, who had grime and sawdust all over his heavy sweatshirt. “You don’t think you’re going to take over my dog along with everything else, do you?”
“Look at her,” he said. “She’s grinning ear to ear. She likes riding in the back of the truck.”
June gasped. “You didn’t!” She had strictly forbidden that.
“I didn’t,” he said. “Something smells wonderful. I didn’t know you could cook,” he teased.
She slapped his arm with a damp dish towel and a little cloud of sawdust puffed up. “I’m a better cook than you! Hey, you’re dirty. Get a lot done today?”
“A real lot. It’s damn near habitable.” He pulled his shirt inside out over his head to capture the sawdust and dirt, and the sight of his bare chest took her breath away, like usual. Grace Valley was a town of strong men; June had grown up with them. But every time she saw Jim with his shirt off, she wanted to melt into his arms and never leave. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed above her swollen middle, and just gazed at him while he washed his hands and talked to her.
“I can see what Chris was thinking when he bought the place,” Jim said. “It has great possibilities, and Chris is a good builder, a good carpenter. You should see what he’s been able to do since some of us are helping him. He’s taught me a lot. I don’t know what kind of judge Judge Forrest is, but he’s good with wood, and Chris is just that much better. We moved the boys into one of the bedrooms and did everything but lay carpet in that great room.” She handed him the towel as he turned away from the sink. “Any news on the café burglary?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Any word on that Davis guy?”
“Seems he abandoned his family,” she said. “Sam said he called social services on their behalf.”
“They’re better off.” He went to the chili pot and gave it a stir, took a taste. “Damn,” he swore in appreciation. “Not bad for a gringo. Won’t this give you heartburn or anything?”
“Naw. I have an iron stomach. Let’s sit on the floor by the fire.”
They filled bowls and put them on trays. June broke a French baguette in half and put it on a breadboard with butter and a knife, which she handed to Jim. She followed him into the cozy little living room and watched as he deftly lowered himself to the floor. Sitting cross-legged before the fire, he took a couple of giant spoonfuls of chili and yummed appreciatively.
June stood there in total consternation. She lowered herself to one knee, then two, but there was no way she could lower herself to the floor. Her stomach was just too big. When had that happened? She placed her tray on the floor in front of her, and attempted to brace herself with her hands, but there was a problem. She could reach the floor in front of her so she balanced on hands and knees, but when she kneeled upright and tried to reach for the floor behind her, her stomach became this ungainly giant mound that swayed out in front and threatened to topple her with its weight. She was back on all fours again, and tried the other direction. The result was the same. She thought about letting herself just drop to the floor, but realized that probably wasn’t such a good idea.
On her knees, she wobbled to the couch, grabbed one of the larger throw pillows, then wobbled
back to where her dinner waited. She applied the pillow to her butt, and with all the grace of a water buffalo, let herself drop the short distance to the floor. She immediately rolled too far to the left and had to catch herself before doing a complete backward somersault. When she sat upright, she saw that Jim was frozen, his unchewing mouth full of chili, as he watched this performance.
He slowly swallowed and said, “When it’s time to get up, you let me know. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Okay.” She crossed her legs and reached for her tray, which she was going to put on her lap. Was. There wasn’t really much lap there. But not to be discouraged, she simply picked up the bowl, took a dainty spoonful and said, “From now on, we’ll be eating at the table.”
“I guess so.” He laughed. “Jesus, June, look how pregnant you are! Were you this pregnant this morning?”
“No,” she said, making a face. “And I’m less pregnant right now than I’ll be tomorrow morning.” She took another bite. “And so forth.” She rested the bowl atop her belly, and as he watched, it jumped slightly.
“Oh, man, did you see that?”
“Yes,” she informed him.
“This is so fun,” he said in a childlike way. This great, big, strong, dangerous man sat on the floor, laughing at her belly.
“You’re a dolt,” she told him, and ate her chili.
Deep in the night she was awake. At first she thought it was heartburn, but knew too quickly that it wasn’t the chili. And it didn’t feel like those harmless Braxton-Hicks contractions common in the last trimester of pregnancy. She wasn’t even in the last trimester, just almost.
She got up, used the bathroom and went to the living room to sit alone in the dark for a little while, just to get a grip. She was too far along for miscarriage, not far enough for a safe birth. Her best guess was that she was approaching six months. And these were contractions.
She called John, described her symptoms and then woke Jim. He snuffled awake in the middle of a snore. “Jim, I have to go to the hospital,” she said.