by Harry Kraus
“Yes.”
“Would you honor my son by signing this for a souvenir?”
As she did, he continued to explain. “My son dreams of making a discovery like you, something that will make a difference to a community, to his country.”
Claire shook her head. “I didn’t discover Huntington’s disease. I just diagnosed a problem that someone else, probably Mr. Huntington, discovered.”
“Oh, I know,” he replied. “But the article details how you were able to debunk a myth that stood for generations, this Stoney Creek Curse.” He nodded. “That is my son’s dream as well: to use science to explain diseases which remain entangled in myth and mystery.” He reached out to take her hand. “You are a real hero, Dr. McCall.”
“Oh no, not me,” she responded. “All I did was figure out that my father jerked even when he wasn’t intoxicated.”
“You are too modest.”
She nodded and stayed silent.
“Are there others in the valley around Stoney Creek who are suffering from Huntington’s disease?”
“A few. And others will be discovered, I’m sure.”
“So your work has impacted the life of this community. They should be grateful. In my work, I teach my employees that they should make a positive difference in the communities in which they serve. Every factory should have a project to improve not just the employees, but their towns as well.”
She studied her patient for a moment. “Why did you come to Stoney Creek? What possible interest is here for you?”
“I’ve come to buy a shoe factory.” He smiled. “It bears your name. Could this also be your family?”
“My grandfather founded McCall Shoes.”
“Providence has brought me to you.”
“Why would you want to buy a factory here?” You obviously haven’t heard of their declining business.
“Oh, not me. I represent a large firm in Japan.” He handed her a business card with the familiar logo of an athletic company. “We want to manufacture athletic shoes right here.”
The news fell like a rock. “What?” She hesitated. “Has this already been decided?”
“Not yet. I’ve come to investigate the community, to see if an offer is in order.”
“How would this affect Stoney Creek? What about all the workers?”
“I’m sure we would need to expand. The basic physical plant is in place, but we will need additional equipment and assembly lines.”
“More jobs?”
He nodded.
“Mr. Sugimoto, have you discussed this with the board? Why doesn’t the community know?”
“Mr. McCall assured me that the board would be informed once an offer has been made. We’ve been talking about this for months.”
“I see.”
He stood to leave. “This has been a wonderful gift for me,” he said. “I am honored to meet such a fine American physician.”
“Mr. Sugimoto, I hesitate to ask, but, well, we have a code of confidentiality in medicine in our country. I have vowed not to speak of your medical problems without your specific permission.”
“Of course. We have a similar code of honor my country.”
“But could I ask an additional favor?”
“Anything.”
“Please do not mention our meeting to my uncle, Leon McCall. He is the man you have been talking to?”
“Exactly.” He paused and winked before placing his palms together and bowing again. “I understand. You wish to surprise him yourself.”
Exactly. “Will you return to see me when you are in town again?”
“It will be my pleasure.”
She bowed, hoping it was the right thing to do. “I’m sure it will be mine.”
That evening, as Claire prepared for an evening out with John, she couldn’t help but wonder if tonight would be the night. She wanted so desperately to believe in his undying commitment, a love without conditions, but found herself fighting through a fog of doubt. Could it be an intuition that’s important?
She crept up the hallway from the bathroom toward the kitchen, listening to John and Della as they gabbed about their weeks. Della had never had a malt at Fisher’s Cafe, and John was expounding with Italian exuberance about the double malt special he’d drink if he could choose anything as his last meal before facing death by lethal injection.
Della laughed at something John said just as Claire slid onto a kitchen chair. She loved John as much as Claire did.
Claire slipped off her shoe and rubbed at a scratch in the leather toe. It was a McCall product. Having a shortage of shoes would never be a problem for Claire. “Has Uncle Leon ever mentioned selling the company?” she asked when Della stopped laughing.
Della shook her head. The abrupt change in topics didn’t phase her. “No.” She squinted. “Why?”
Claire was careful not to betray a patient confidence. “I met a man today, a patient, who said he was in town to talk about a possible deal.”
Her mother shrugged. “I’ll ask him about it, but I’d be surprised if he would ever sell.”
“I’d be surprised if he ever turned down a deal that would make him money.”
Della gave Claire a look that said, “Enough!”
John broke in to diffuse the tension. “Have you seen Abby lately at the cafe?” he asked Della. “She looks great.”
“I saw her at church. Her daughter is her spittin’ image,” Della said.
“You know what she told me about marriage? She told me it was an invitation to come and die.”
“Die?”
“Sure. She just wanted me to understand about what we are really called to do, to place someone else’s needs in front of our own.”
Claire heard a rapid tapping sound and glanced over at John. He’s drumming his fingers on the table. He always does that when he’s serious.
He went on, “She called it dying to self.”
“She’s exactly right. Joy never comes to a marriage when you’re only there for what you can get. Okay, scholar,” Della snickered. “Complete the phrase. I’ll give you a hint. It’s from Ephesians.”
Claire rolled her eyes. Della loved this game. Especially with someone she could impress with her knowledge of the Bible.
“Husbands love your wives . . .” She halted, waiting for John.
Claire didn’t want her boyfriend to be stumped, so she interrupted and finished the verse rapid-fire, complete with a concluding argument. “As Christ loved the church. And how was that? He died for the church. Thus, supporting Abby’s theory that marriage is an invitation to come and die.” She lifted her hand to John. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”
Della frowned. “Whoa, why the pressured speech? I was enjoying a nice conversation here, something that’s somewhat of a rarity around this place, I might add.”
Claire dropped her head. “Sorry. It just sounded so depressing, that’s all. Makes everyone want to rush out and get married.” She lifted her hands in an invitation. “Come and die.”
“Abby was making a point,” John responded.
Della pushed back from the table. “And she’s right.”
Claire shook her head. “And just look at the theory’s chief proponents. Abby is married to a quadriplegic, and you’re married to a . . . well, to Wally. I’d say that’s a pretty balanced look at marriage.”
Della stood. “Sarcasm isn’t your prettiest quality.”
The truth stung. She wished she hadn’t said it. But her restraints were low and she was hungry. “I’m sorry.”
“Wait a minute,” John said. “I’m getting a little revelation here myself. Della’s love for Wally and Abby’s love for Nathan is a lot better picture of Christ’s love for the church than most. Here we are, pitiful and unable to help ourselves, but Christ chooses to love us anyway.”
Claire pointed at a Bible on the kitchen counter. “But the verse says husbands love your wives as Christ—”
“Okay, okay, the analogy breaks down a little, bu
t you get my drift.”
Della slapped his shoulder. “You keep preachin’ it, John.” She pushed him to the door. “Take care of my daughter.”
Claire mouthed a second apology to her mother, who waved it off with her hand. “Have fun,” she added. Della was hard to offend.
They drove to Carlisle for a Chinese buffet, which John yawned through, in spite of his love affair with General Tso’s chicken.
After dinner, Claire declined a movie, seriously doubting whether John could stay awake for anything other than a guy movie. She didn’t feel like watching exploding cars or women falling for guys who needed shaving. In fact, when she insisted on driving John’s Mustang home, he tossed her the keys to his baby and curled up for a nap in the passenger’s seat. This was definitely not vintage John. Some date he is tonight. His work must be keeping him up late.
She woke him in her driveway, offering to drive him home and keep his car.
He opened one eye. “Nice try, McCall. I think I can handle it.”
“You’re afraid I might scratch your baby?”
He jumped out and pointed. “I’m afraid you just want to get me at my apartment alone. Pops told me about women like you.”
She laughed and fell into his arms. His kiss was warm on her mouth. Some nights she wished they could just elope. But she was waiting to be sure of his love. She pushed him away. “Go away,” she said with an exaggerated pout.
“I’m leavin’, love.”
“Can I see you tomorrow? Why don’t we climb Blue Knob or something?”
“I need to go to Brighton. Ms. Addison has a contract I need to hand-deliver by Monday.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? Lately John had been scarce. She nodded. “Say,” she added. “Could you pick up an order for the clinic at Brighton Pharmacy? We’ve got an account with them.”
“Is it a lot?”
“Just a couple boxes.”
He nodded. “Gotta run.”
“Get some sleep, dopey.”
He threw her a kiss and drove away. She watched him pause at the end of the lane, and heard a familiar melody began to drift from his stereo.
“L’amore é svanito. Il mio cuore non canterá mai piú. Non tenere stretto l’amore.”
John pulled off the road once he was safely out of view. Then he popped the trunk and retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles and a metal detector, which he gently laid on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He’d obtained both through a rental shop in Brighton. He hoped tonight would be a better night than the last few.
So far, pickin’s had been slim out at Lena’s place, and all he’d netted from his efforts were four beer cans, a dozen bottle caps, and a lug nut. But the treasures he found sifting through the silt on the forest floor weren’t the only glimpse into country culture he’d had. Last night, long after he’d grown weary of his search, he’d been drawn by the melodies he’d heard streaming from the house’s open window. And so, with some trepidation, he’d dared another quiet approach to her house. That’s the way he thought of it. It wasn’t the gunslinger’s or the gorilla’s place or even the Chisholms’. In John’s mind, any goon that would leave a young bride alone at night didn’t rank high enough to have his own place. And so, from his protected position at the edge of the woods, he’d paused and watched as Lena waltzed across the yard in her nightgown with a bag of trash. It was odd, really, the way she seemed to be clutching the overstuffed bag to her slender waist and pirouetting in the moonlight.
But he hadn’t found the ring. So he whispered a prayer as he thought ahead to the night’s work. Hopefully he wouldn’t run into the gunslinger or the monster dog again. He was sure theirs wouldn’t be a kindly reception.
But he wouldn’t mind seeing Lena.
He shook his head and restarted the Mustang and the CD, and shivered at the insanity his nightlife had become.
He should be with Claire. He should be at home asleep. He took a deep breath and made a U-turn to head toward Briary Branch Road. I hope Old Jeb is chained.
Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth McCall always used the airport shuttle when she traveled. It was convenient, they picked her up at her door, and the drivers were E quiet, leaving her to her thoughts. The week had been hectic. The pace of business certainly wasn’t like it used to be when her husband started McCall Shoes so many years before. She remembered those days fondly now, how she would keep the books, and he would drive that eyesore of a truck over to the train station in Brighton to pick up the thick hides of leather himself. She loved the business, loved the bustling little factory, loved even the smell of the place. Her husband would come home with that rich aroma saturated in his flannel shirts. She would bury her face in his chest and savor the fragrance like some expensive perfume. It was a comfort to her now, and occasionally as she was dressing for an evening out, she would find herself lifting her leather purse to her nose to release the memories locked within.
She was escaping to Martha’s Vineyard. These few days had been as stressful as any within recent months. The business was failing. She’d suspected it for a long time, and although she missed her husband, she was glad he wasn’t here to see the business fold.
Leon had been gracious. He had offered her a fair buyout. He was young enough to begin again, to take care of the selling off of the hard assets or scaling back to rework another shoe line. And that attorney of his was so funny. She’d never seen a lawyer happy to see his client writing such a large check, but she supposed it was because he was glad for her, knowing he had assisted Leon in doing the right thing. It had happened fast, to be sure, but when dealing with loss, she’d found it best not to drag out the process. She had always been able to make a snap judgment on her feet, a trait which she’d passed down to her granddaughter, a trait which would serve her well in the operating theater and in life.
She was thankful it had been fast. She couldn’t have stomached the process if Leon would have insisted, as he often did, for a special appointed committee of the board to study the issue from every angle. And with Mr. Pittington, the decision to move ahead was a polished and easy process.
She’d asked her husband for permission, a habit she’d gotten into as she faced life alone after his death. She supposed it was early senility, but it seemed only right to voice her concerns to his picture before selling the business that defined his life.
But now, the deed was done. She’d sold her shares of the family business to Leon. It was time for the next generation to hold the reins. She needed to move on.
She leaned against the window and watched as the honeysuckle blurred past.
“United?” the driver asked.
She turned her head.
“Are you flying United?”
“Yes. To Martha’s Vineyard.”
She would be gone a week before waking up with chest pain and the thought that she’d moved too fast.
It was three more weeks before Lena Chisholm took her diamond to a pawn shop in Carlisle. Until then, she had taken it out of its hiding place only three times when William Raymond insisted on spoiling her. The last time, he’d made her wear it to yet another of the highbrow affairs he was constantly dragging her to. She had carefully applied her makeup and put on her prom dress, the one she’d worn only two years before during her junior year at Ashby High. Then, William slipped the ring on her finger and danced with her until midnight, when Billy Ray returned after second shift and she frantically pulled off the dress and hid the ring in her sock drawer again.
Billy Ray thought the makeup was for him and she was smart enough to know she shouldn’t tell.
There were two pawn shops in Brighton, but that was a good hour away, and she wasn’t sure how often her husband checked the mileage on the Toyota, so to be safe, she took the ring to Carlisle. She’d heard from other girls at the shoe factory that you could pretty much double your money if you took your stuff over to Brighton, but she wasn’t selling. She was only looking to find out just how much the rin
g would bring, because a girl with a man like Billy Ray needed options.
The man at the shop lifted the ring from her hand a little too quickly for Lena’s comfort. She’d opened her palm, and he snatched it away so fast that she hardly knew what had happened. She watched the little man with too-black hair as he held up the ring and studied it through a little tube. It was like a magnifying glass, she figured, and his humming and grunting was starting to irritate her when she realized her hand was still open palm up. She felt her face redden and closed her fingers into a fist around her empty hand. She wasn’t sure why, but she was suddenly seized with the need to have her ring again, and she fought the urge to grab it back from the man behind the counter.
He made a clicking noise with his tongue against his dentures. They seemed a size too big for his small oval face. “I can give you two hundred dollars.”
She knew not to accept the first offer. She forced a laugh and held out her hand. She said the first thing that popped in her mind. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I might be able to scrape up three hundred.”
She left her palm open, waiting for her ring.
“Four?”
She shook her head.
“Look, lady, I got a business to run here. You gotta know that your fiancé is going to find out about this and he’s gonna run in here ready to pound my head if I don’t cough the ring up. Life is too short to take that kind of grief without adequate compensation.”
She hadn’t thought about what he might think. “No deal. It’s my grandmother’s ring and I can promise you my grandfather has been dead for years.”
“I’ll ask the little woman.” He folded his hand around her ring and disappeared behind a curtain before she could think to protest.
“Hey!”
She could only imagine what he was doing back there.
“Hey!”
She started looking for a way around the long counter and had just hoisted her foot onto the counter to start climbing over when he reappeared. He touched the tattoo of a rose on her calf.