by Harry Kraus
The attorney held up his hand. “You’ve told me the story before. But that doesn’t change the fact that his name is in the will, and he gets half the estate when your mother dies.”
“Did you know my mother has offered to pay for a nursing home for Wally? Do you understand how much money that’s going to eat up?”
“So why is Wally at home?”
“Because I feed Della just enough to keep him there.” He held up his cup and motioned for the waitress. “And I’ve convinced her it’s best for Wally.” He chuckled. “And a whole lot cheaper for Grandma Elizabeth.”
The waitress came back and refilled their coffee mugs. “Creamer?” she asked, looking at Harvard.
“Just black, thanks.”
She disappeared as the attorney added, “Short memory.”
Leon nodded. “But the food is great, I promise. Abby should work Saturday mornings. She’s great. A real looker. And smart.” He hesitated. “Are you sure the will can’t be contested on the basis that John Wallace McCall only left Wally a fortune because he thought he was blood?”
“I don’t think it will wash.” He tapped the side of his cup. “But there is another way to keep more of the cash in real McCall hands.”
Leon waited and watched Harvard sip his coffee, obviously enjoying the control he had over his client. “So?”
“Keep the size of the estate down.”
“I’m listening.”
“If the estate is devalued, what she has to divide up will be devalued.”
“I’d be shooting myself in the foot.”
“Shut up and listen. You’ve said Elizabeth is tiring of the business. But she still has a controlling interest of stock. Tell her the bad news about the business, how McCall Shoes is going down, the worst quarter ever. The future really looks bleak, you know.”
“But—”
Leon’s protest was silenced by Harvard’s interruption. “Offer to buy her out. From the goodness of your heart, of course. Do it now before the company goes south. She’s old, after all. She shouldn’t have to be the one at the helm when McCall, Incorporated flops for the entire valley to see. She has other things to pay attention to, like Wally, for goodness’ sake. Offer her enough so Wally will be taken care of and—”
“Buy all her stock?”
“Yes, all of it. She’ll have to forfeit her position on the board, of course.” He paused, making a little flare with his hand, flopping around a limp wrist. “But do it soon, before you present Sugimoto’s offer. Then, once you have Elizabeth contented that she’s done the best she could for her unfortunate Wally . . .”
“Sell to Sugimoto,” Leon interrupted, folding his hands across his waist. “My stock value quadruples, and Elizabeth’s estate stays flat. Harvard,” he said, raising his coffee mug, “you’re brilliant.”
Claire circled the parking lot in front of John’s duplex and sighed. His Mustang wasn’t in his spot, and the shades were still drawn, something John the natural-light enthusiast would never permit if he were home. Perhaps he left before dawn? Or maybe he never came home?
She scolded herself for her runaway fears about John’s crisis and concentrated on what Pops had told her. It’s nothing too important, I’m sure.
Next she drove her blue VW bug to the office and filled her old college backpack with supplies. In went antibiotic samples, dressing supplies, saline, hydrogen peroxide, iodine solution, a glucometer, a blood-pressure cuff, and a small wrapped package of sterile instruments. In the front pocket she loaded needles, syringes, a bottle of local anesthetic, cotton-tipped applicators, and a half-dozen packaged sterile gloves, size six. She held out her fingers to convince herself of her steady hands and smiled. She’d spent last night staring at the ceiling listening to Wally when she came to a private revelation. She’d spent six weeks banging her head against the wall trying to practice Boston medicine in Stoney Creek. Here, her patients were used to medicine of a different kind. They’d hung on every word Dr. Jenkins provided, but why didn’t they listen to her?
It wasn’t just a gender issue. Dr. Jenkins listened, really listened, and let the patients participate in their own healing. He didn’t try to force a foreign concept too quickly into what they thought was best. He adapted his treatment to their framework, and when they made a bad choice, he did the best he could to steer them in a better way.
It was no secret, of course. Dr. Jenkins had explained that she’d have some adapting to do, that the white towers of academic medicine needed to be filtered with some practicality before they’d work in Stoney Creek. And a test couldn’t be ordered simply because the physician needed to cover her backside to prevent a frivolous lawsuit. Lawsuits may be a way of life for Boston, but in Stoney Creek, a test had better make a difference in a medical decision if the patient was going to pay. In Boston, medical insurance was the norm. In the areas around Stoney Creek, where Old-Order Mennonite farms were the norm, medical insurance was a worldly concession they wouldn’t permit.
So she’d decided to try a new approach. She was going to listen more, and start warning her patients of their stupidity less. She’d adapt where she could, and she was going to start by making a few housecall amends.
Once her packing was complete, she headed for the first house, a brick ranch in the center of the next town of Fisher’s Retreat. When Claire rapped on the front door, Mabel Henderson called, “It’s open.”
Claire entered the dim house which smelled of old laundry and mold. “Ms. Henderson?”
“Back here.”
She followed the voice to find Mabel sitting at the kitchen table staring into an electric fan. Her bad foot was propped up on the chair beside her, not exactly above her heart as Claire had urged, but at least off the floor.
“Dr. McCall?”
Claire smiled sheepishly. “I wanted to check on your progress,” she said, opening her backpack. “I brought you some more antibiotics so you wouldn’t have to come back to the clinic so soon. I want you to stay off the foot, you know.”
“That’s why this place is a wreck. It’s hard cleaning up with your foot above your heart.”
You were listening. Claire nodded and put on a pair of exam gloves before unwrapping the day-old bandage. “I’ve been thinking about your foot. Are you willing to go to the hospital? A surgeon may need to help this drain.”
She shook her head. “I’m doing just fine right here.”
“Well, perhaps we need to do the best we can with what we’ve got to work with right here.” Claire probed the area around an ulcer on the bottom of Mabel’s foot near the great toe. “You see that drainage? I think you’ve got a trapped infection behind this eschar, uh, scab.”
“I can’t see it, Doc. But this diabetes is tearing up my vision.”
“I want to lift off this callous here. I have some local anesthetic.”
“Honey, I can’t feel anything you’re doing down there. You could cut my toe off right here and I doubt I’d cry one bit.”
The image made Claire wrinkle her nose. Meticulously, she painted Mabel’s foot with antiseptic, then taking a scalpel and forceps, she began to trim the thickened skin and the dying flesh at the base of the ulcer. She was rewarded with an ooze of tan cream. She collected some pus for a culture and cleaned the wound before placing a new dressing.
“I’ll send this up to the lab in Carlisle.” Claire checked her watch. “What time did you eat breakfast?”
“Around eight.”
“Okay, hold out your finger.” Mabel obeyed as Claire held her middle finger against the glucometer and pushed a trigger to release a small lancet. Then, she collected the drop of blood on the test paper and waited for the result. “Two eighteen,” she said, scribbling a note on a piece of paper. “I want you to increase your morning regular insulin by three units.”
Claire looked around the kitchen with dishes overflowing the sink. “I want you to rest on the couch. Prop your feet up on a pillow.”
“It’s too hot in there. The cor
d on the fan is too short to reach to the table in front of the couch.”
Claire sighed. “I’ll bring an extension cord by on Monday. I know I have one packed up somewhere.”
Mabel protested, but Claire wouldn’t hear of it. “It does me no good packed away. You can give it back in the winter.” Then Claire attacked the dishes, shushing Mabel’s protests again. “Somebody’s got to do this or you’ll soon have a houseful of ants.” She pointed at her patient. “And you need to stay off that foot.”
After the dishes, she called the cafe and talked to Mr. Knitter, who agreed to have someone deliver supper three times a week. “Make it broiled chicken or fish, maybe some rice and a salad,” Claire instructed. “And no dessert. She’s a diabetic.”
She hung up the phone to see Mabel’s eyes brimming with tears. Claire gave her a hug.
“I can’t pay you today,” she said.
“You already have.” Claire sniffed and broke the choke hold Mabel had on her neck. She scribbled her cell phone number on the front of a yellow phone book on the table. “Use this number if you need me. Call if you start having fever, chills, or redness running up that foot.”
Claire gathered her supplies and got back in her Beetle. In twenty minutes, she was sitting in front of an old white clapboard house with green shutters. She knocked on the door and waited. She heard children squealing inside and a radio. This didn’t seem right. Brittany Lewis was supposed to be single.
A young mother with a baby on her hip pointed Claire around back. “She lives in the apartment downstairs. She might not be home. She works weekends sometimes.”
Claire followed a decaying sidewalk around the side of the house to the back door. She knocked loudly.
“Coming!”
Brittany yanked the door open, wearing only a pair of shorts and a top to expose her middle. The look of surprise on her face told Claire she’d been expecting someone else. Her jaw slackened. “Dr. McCall?”
“In the flesh.” She hesitated. “May I come in?”
“Sure, I guess. What do you want? I told that lady I’d bring my payment on Friday.”
“It has nothing to do with your bill, Brittany. I came to apologize.”
For the second time, Brittany opened her mouth without speaking. She pointed to a green couch. “Uh, have a seat.”
Claire studied the little apartment. The furnishings were meager, but the rug was swept and the few items on the bookshelf next to the couch were evenly spaced and dusted. She squinted to read the name of a book she recognized. It was authored by Max Lucado. Claire sat and pointed to the book. “Are you a Christian, Brittany?”
She nodded.
“Good, then you’ll understand why I’m here. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was not to pay attention to your real problem with having surgery for your gallstones.”
Brittany shifted in her seat across from Claire. “I’m really okay now,” she said, rubbing her right side.
“I heard about your father. Would you like to tell me what happened?”
She looked away. “I really don’t remember much. I was only eleven. He had diabetes and went to the hospital real sick. The surgeon operated and took out his gallstones, but he died a few days later. My mom told me that gallbladder surgery is one of the most dangerous areas to operate on. It’s near the liver and all.” She shrugged. “That’s what she said the surgeon told her.”
“Listen, Brittany, a lot has changed since your father’s surgery. It’s much safer for you if you go in while you’re not sick. And you’re not diabetic like your father. It doesn’t have to be such a big deal anymore.” She hesitated and asked if she would call her if she had more trouble. “I’d be glad to schedule an appointment with a surgeon if you call.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?”
“My mother had gallbladder surgery a few years ago. She’d be glad to tell you how it was.” Claire leaned forward. “You can’t even see her scars. She’s way over fifty and she still lays out in a two-piece.”
Brittany smiled. It was a good sign, a point of contact.
Claire shook her hand and turned to go, but stopped just short of the door. She took a deep breath. She’d heard of doctors that incorporated their faith with their medicine, but she had never tried. She cleared her throat. “Would it be okay if I prayed for you? I mean, right now?”
Brittany shrugged. “I guess.”
Claire spoke a simple prayer for guidance and wisdom, for release of Brittany’s fears, and for a complete healing in whatever way God would see fit. With that, she winked at Brittany, taking note that for the second time that day, she’d left a patient with eyelids holding back the tears.
The third stop on her list actually turned out not to be a stop at all. Besides, she only wanted to see the patient’s status to satisfy her own curiosity. When she pulled up in front of little Stevie’s house, he was sitting on the front steps licking a chocolate ice-cream cone. She slowed and waved.
“Hi, Dr. McCall!” he yelled.
His speech was clear and he was licking ice cream happily. And that was enough follow-up for Claire.
Chapter Nine
By the time John heard the slow, regular crunch of the forest floor signaling the arrival of a man, he was sizing up a tree limb to snap in preparation for fighting off the monster dog. But once he got a good look at his new company, he thought he might be better off facing the dog.
If this was the gorilla, perhaps John’s imagination had run away. The man stood about John’s own height, although he really wasn’t used to judging stature from this vantage point. He had dark curly hair, like John’s, and a muscular medium frame. But what made him appear so daunting was the shotgun leveled at John’s chest.
The man spit and stared at John for a minute before speaking. “Watcha doin’ up there?”
“Is that your dog? Could you call him off, please?”
“I said, watcha doin’?”
John contemplated the relative value of his life, and what it might cost him if he told this stranger he’d lost a three-thousand-dollar diamond ring on his property. John opted for vague. “I’m trying not to be the big doggie’s dinner.”
The man nodded. “I mean before.”
John Cerelli was a stickler for the truth. He knew his conscience would smite him if he lied, even if it was a self-preserving move. “I lost something around here. I was looking for it.”
The man squinted and didn’t move his gun.
John gestured one hand nonchalantly and tried to maintain balance on the tree limb. “Something small and metal flew out of my car. I thought it may have landed here in the trees somewhere. So I came to look. But your dog found me.”
The excuse sounded so lame to John, but maybe it was just lame enough that the gunslinger would believe he didn’t make it up. The man smiled. “Old Jeb thought you was a bear. I was out getting him used to the gun again. You have to fire it around them in off season. They might get jittery if they hear it only during bear season.”
John felt a little jittery himself. “Do you mind calling Old Jeb off? I’m getting a little tired of this tree-hugging.”
The man reached forward and took the dog by the back of the collar.
John slid down the tree and looked at the bark imprints in his forearms.
“Does it still run?”
“What’s that?” John asked.
“Your car. When this little metal thing flew off, did it just quit running?”
“Oh no, it still runs fine. It’s just that—”
“Well then, I reckon that part really wasn’t that important. You’d probably best conclude your looking.”
John looked at the dog, who strained against the man’s grip. “Thanks. I owe you one.” He backed up a step and turned to go.
The man called after him. “I wouldn’t think it’d be too smart to keep snoopin’ around here. There are plenty of folks out in the woods sightin’ in their hunting rifles. It wouldn’t do to be gettin’ shot by acciden
t.”
Or getting eaten by a slobbering monster named Old Jeb. John didn’t look back. He scrambled up the bank, the briars ripping at his arms. When he examined himself on the road, his forearms looked like maps with red roads. He jogged to his car, checking over his shoulder for the gunslinger. He started the Mustang and pulled back out onto the road, slowing by the spot where he’d tossed the ring to think again exactly what its direction was and where it could have fallen. Maybe I should get a few more ring boxes and toss them out to see where they land. He nodded. A reenactment of my insanity. Not a bad idea.
He checked his rearview mirror to see the man with the shotgun in the road, standing next to Old Jeb. He stomped the accelerator when he saw the man raise his gun.
It’s going to be along time before Ilaugh about this, Dad.
The blast from the shotgun roared in his ears and died in the trees. Billy Ray Chisholm lowered his shotgun from his shoulder and pulled on Old Jeb’s collar. Then, laughing, he said, “Easy boy, just having a little fun. I was just scaring him, that’s all.” He laughed again and sniffed the smell of burnt tire rubber mixed with the acrid gun smoke. “That city slicker’s going to have to change his shorts.”
He laughed at his own joke, then pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket. “It’s not right to trespass, is it, Jeb? And I wouldn’t want to take the law into my own hands now, would I?”
Old Jeb walked off the road and lay down in the shade of the trees, apparently uninterested in the mystery of the intruder. If it wasn’t bear, Old Jeb didn’t get too excited.
Billy Ray punched a number on his cell phone, all the while still talking to his dog. “I think I’ll see what Deputy Jensen has to say about trespassin’.”
Claire’s phone chirped just as she was pulling into her parents’ gravel driveway. Maybe Brittany has already come to a decision.
“Hello.”
“Claire.”
“John, where are you? I’ve been worried.”