by Harry Kraus
He drained a swallow from the bottom of the bottle and tossed it to the floor, then stumbled out his door to look around. He was outside of town, halfway up Briary Branch Road, pulled off on a logging trail. How’d I get here?
Billy struggled into the trees, with each step awakening stiff muscles in his legs. I must not have moved all night. How’d I get so sore?
He faced away from the road to relieve himself and found his zipper was already down.
John Cerelli sat in the corner booth at Fisher’s Cafe sipping a double chocolate malt with whipped cream and Ghirardelli white chocolate shavings. He tapped on the palm pilot in his hand and frowned. When he asked his father for a loan, Tony first smiled, then chuckled, then laughed like he always did when he watched improv comedy, holding his ample stomach and letting his breath out in a rhythmic spray. “I’d like to help. Really I would. Say, Johnny, tell me again about Claire’s ring.” He raised his voice and did his best baso-profundo opera imitation, “Lascialo in libertá. Dagli il volo!”
John sighed and slid his computer back in his pocket. Good things were worth waiting for.
A knock on the table lifted his eyes to Abby McAllister. “Is this becoming a habit?” She smiled. “What’s this, twice in a month we get to see the famous Italian entrepreneur?”
“Right.”
She sat down across from him.
“Light day?”
“It’ll pick up soon. Always does after the noon whistle at Tysons.” She leaned forward with her eyes intent on his face. “So?”
Her intensity was too much. He looked away. “So what?”
“I haven’t seen Claire. She’s dissin’ the cafe since she started at the clinic. So I have to ask. Did she like the ring? When’s the big day?”
He lifted his hands. “Whoa, Nellie! What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Cerelli, I saw the ring box the last time you were in.” She straightened. “By the way you talked, I thought . . . well, I thought you were about to . . .”
“Pop the question.”
“Exactly.”
“No.” He shook his head.
“What’s the holdup, John?” She leaned forward again and grasped his arm with her hand and lowered her voice. “I listen to a whole lot of stuff in this little cafe. Plenty of guys will be standing at her door if you step aside.” She squeezed his arm before leaning back again. “Don’t mess this up.”
“Well, I—”
“John, she’s a gem. And I’ve seen you two together. She starts a sentence and you complete it. You start a question and she answers it before you’re halfway done. You guys are already communicating like an old married couple.”
“Thanks. I think.”
They sat quietly for a moment as John pondered Abby’s accuracy. Claire McCall was under his skin. In his mind. In his heart.
Abby lifted a rebellious strand of curly dark hair and placed it behind her ear. “So what’s holdin’ you back?”
He wasn’t sure how much to share. Abby was wise beyond her years, and had a wealth of personal experience living with a severely disabled husband, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to open up to the ear of the Apple Valley. He folded his hands. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s the curse, isn’t it?”
“Don’t call it that. It’s not a curse. It’s a genetic illness. Claire hates that word.”
Abby shrugged. “Well, maybe it’s not a curse per se, but it is a result of the curse.”
“The Fall? Adam’s sin?”
She nodded.
“I just don’t like people thinking that it’s a direct result of some stupid old story about a man making moonshine, being cursed by Eleazar Potts, or some-such unbalanced itinerant preacher.”
“Okay,” she said with a defensive whine. “I’m sorry I used that word. But Huntington’s disease is why you haven’t given her the ring. Am I right?”
He nodded slowly. “In a way.” He stopped for a moment before going on. “Huntington’s disease is a horrible suffering. But it doesn’t mean God is cursing anyone. And it isn’t a punishment.”
Now Abby held up her hands. “Hey, don’t misread me. I haven’t said any of those things. The Christian life is full of suffering. What was it Dietrich Bonhoeffer said? An invitation to Christ is an invitation to come and die?”
The phrase was too familiar. “That’s what you said about marriage.”
“So I made my own application. It’s called parallel thinking, John. Marriage is supposed to be a mirror of our relationship to Christ. We’re his bride.”
“I know the metaphor, Abby.”
“What do you think? Just because I’m waitressing a small cafe, doesn’t mean I don’t read.” She stopped and put her hand to her mouth, as if to mechanically lower her passion volume. “I’m sorry, John. I’m not supposed to preach. It’s just that there hasn’t been a day since Nathan’s accident that I haven’t suffered along with him. Day after day, he’s bound to that wheelchair.” She shook her head. “And over and over, I’ve gone to the cross seeking answers. And to the theologians who help us make sense of our pain.” She hesitated. “I’d always dreamed of going to school like Claire.” She shook her head and stared off through the lettering on the front window of the cafe. “That all changed when Nathan was shot.”
“A commitment to Christ doesn’t give us an exemption from pain.”
“I hate to break up this heart-to-heart, but I’ve got a cafe to run.”
Abby’s face reddened as she looked over to see Ralph Knitter, the proprietor and soda jock par excellence.
Mr. Knitter jabbed John’s shoulder. “You’re supposed to bring your dates here, not pick up the help,” he chuckled. “Where’s Claire? She’s been too scarce.”
John lifted his hands. “The life of a doctor. Sometimes I think I’ll have to marry the woman just to see her.”
Abby stood up. “Good idea.”
Mr. Knitter touched her shoulder. “The counter needs coffee refills.”
“Sure,” she said, scurrying away.
The owner leaned down to John. “I love Claire like a daughter. Don’t wait forever, John.”
Why is this suddenly everyone’s business? Stoney Creek needs to get a life other than mine. “Uh, sure.” He lifted his malt to change the subject. “I’m going to have to work out an extra two hours because of you.”
He walked away, wiping his hands on his apron. “Glad to be of help.”
John laid five dollars on the table, thinking of what Abby told him the last time. “The advice is free, but the malts are three bucks apiece.”
The girl’s dark eyes brimmed with tears as she tried hard to hold still. “You’re hurting me.”
Claire paused from her job of removing the fine row of sutures she’d put in the week before to close a nasty laceration on Cindy’s scalp. “I’m sorry, honey. Just two more.”
Cindy’s mother stroked her daughter’s forehead and moved away to give Claire closer access to her work.
“Why does it have to hurt?”
Claire looked at Cindy’s mom. “Tough question.”
“She’s thirteen going on twenty-one.”
“Ow!”
Claire squinted. “Sorry. This one seems to be buried a little.”
Cindy gritted her teeth. “I wasn’t talking about philosophy or whatever. I just wanted to know why it hurts.”
“Hmm. The wound edge is a little swollen, making the stitches harder to cut without pulling on them a little.” She stopped and snipped the last suture. “There. All done.”
“About time.”
Her mother gasped. “Cindy!”
“It’s okay,” Claire responded. “Most of us get cranky when we have to face pain.” She smiled at the young woman. “I do.”
She handed Cindy’s charge sheet to her mom. “Just show them this at the front window.” With that, she checked her watch and walked out.
Five-fifteen P.M. The waiting room was miraculously empty. She qu
ickly dictated her last note, initialed and dated the lab data in her in-box, and noted that Lena Chisholm’s pregnancy test was indeed positive.
She lifted her stack of unopened mail. John was to meet her at six to take her to Brighton to talk to Lena. It had been a long day and twenty-seven patients since she’d started her day with the SANE examination. She sifted through the mail, tossing out everything that wasn’t first class. She didn’t have time for junk mail. Within the stack, one letter caught her attention. It was a thank-you note from Mr. Sugimoto, expressing his gratitude for her treatment of his “problem.” He was too refined even to write the word hemorrhoid. She smiled at the memory of the gentleman from Tokyo and reminded herself again to ask her uncle Leon about the possible buyout of the shoe factory. Here she was in the same town and she didn’t know anything more about the running of the family business than she did when she was in Boston. And Della was no help. Every time Claire asked her mother about the shoe factory business, she just started talking about how well Uncle Leon had treated their family. She reassured Claire that Uncle Leon always acted with the family’s interests at heart. Claire shook her head. Secrecy from the public was one thing, but she was suspicious that Leon was holding out on everyone, Della and Elizabeth included. She looked at her watch. Her days were too full to worry about everything. She pushed ahead with her deskwork and hoped Della’s blind trust was well founded.
Just before signing her last note, she heard the electronic ring of her cell phone. Maybe it’s John. “Hello. Dr. McCall.”
The voice on the other end was thick and slurred, slow and masculine. “Doctor McCall.”
She waited, already suspicious that it was Billy Ray.
“I need to find Lena. I know she’s in Brighton. Eddie told me so.”
“Billy Ray, my office is closed. If you have a clinical concern, call me during office hours!”
His words fell out in a tumble. “Oh, Doc, I’m sorry about the time. Listen, Doc, it’s about Lena. She’s lying about me, Doc. I never hit her when I’m not drinkin’. You got to believe me and help me find her.”
Claire wanted to hang up. She’d call her phone service and ask how to have his calls blocked.
Billy Ray went on. “Eddie saw her at the university. She admitted she had a boyfriend.” He paused. “It ain’t right. But maybe I drove her to it. I gotta get her back, Doc.”
“I’ll be glad to pass along your concern. Now if you don’t mind only calling when—”
Billy Ray sounded as if he may cry. “Who’s her boyfriend, Doc? A man shouldn’t be messing with another man’s wife. It ain’t right.”
She raised her voice. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to a crying drunk. “Mr. Chisholm, I have no idea about what you’re talking about. I am going to hang up now.”
“Doc, you know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. You were with him when she ran away.”
“Good night, Mr. Chisholm!”
She terminated the call and pondered turning off her phone. After a moment, she decided to keep it on, in case Brittany would need to call. Fortunately, Billy Ray didn’t call again, and Claire dispatched with her work and headed outside to wait for John.
John was punctual, and for once, she was ready for him, needing only the image of John in his red Mustang with the top down to relax her a notch. She needed this drive over to Brighton to regroup. The day had been stressful, and it wasn’t over yet. An outing with John Cerelli was just what she needed to unwind.
She walked toward the car holding her little black medical bag. She wanted to check Lena’s blood pressure in addition to satisfying her own curiosity about something her patient had said. Claire just couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Billy Ray may be involved in Brittany’s rape, and she wanted to ask Lena a few additional questions. “Open the trunk, Cerelli. I don’t want my bag out in the wind.”
“Hello to you, too.”
He hopped out and walked around to where she stood behind the car. He gave her a quick kiss and held out his hand. “I’ll get it.”
She handed him the bag and waited. John seemed to hesitate before sliding his key in to unlock the trunk. He looked at her. “I said, I’ll get it.”
She shrugged and walked around and sat down. “Whatever.”
Behind her, John made quick work of opening and slamming his trunk lid. “Hey,” he said, tossing a small container of surgical masks onto the backseat. “These must have fallen out of a box of supplies I picked up for you.”
The sight of the masks unsettled her. She inspected the box, turning it over and over in her hands. The top seal was intact, apparently unopened.
“Are you okay? Do you want me to take it inside?”
She studied him for a moment before tossing it onto the backseat again. “No, let’s get going. I need some mountain air after a day like today.”
John nodded, and soon they were on their way. The straight road out of Stoney Creek began a gradual undulation before sharply snaking up the side of North Mountain. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“What?”
“You’re quiet. Share the weight with me.”
She sighed. “I saw a lot of pitiful things when I was on the trauma service in Boston, John. And nothing broke my heart like seeing children who were hurt.” She stared through the windshield. “Until this morning.”
John stayed silent. He had always been a good listener. She glanced at him. His face showed no hint of anxiety.
“I don’t feel like hashing through the gory details.”
He nodded and didn’t push. In a few minutes he probed again. “I saw Abby at the cafe again this morning. Mr. Knitter said he wants to see you.”
“Probably just looking for free medical advice.”
“Claire, they like you. You’re their hero. You know it.”
“Is that supposed to make me proud? That a bunch of country rednecks look up to me?”
“Stop it, Claire. It’s not like that. As far as Abby is concerned, you’re the one living the dream. She wanted to go to school, like you did, but she needs to work to help care for her husband.”
“Why are you telling me this? You want me to feel sorry that I might put you through the same thing some day? Is this to give me a guilt trip?”
“No!” He glared at her. “How can you say that? I was merely trying to say that there are some smart people around that hold you in high esteem. It was supposed to be a compliment.”
“It sounded like a reminder that HD may ruin your life some day, just like a quad for a husband has ruined Abby’s.”
“Don’t project your guilt on me. I was trying to compliment you.”
She huffed. Some compliment. It just reminds me of “the cloud.” She tried to return her attention to the forested mountainside and reminded herself that she’d been looking forward to a ride with the top down to relax, not think about her problems. After a few minutes, she spoke again. “John, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
He lifted her hand from her lap and pressed it to his lips. “Forget it.”
She leaned over, laying her head against his shoulder.
“I know just what you need,” he said, pressing a button on the dash board. In a moment, a clear tenor voice filled the air around them.
“Great. Of all the men who want me, I had to choose the Italian renaissance one.”
She felt John’s chest expand. “Hey. Even a Stoney Creek boy can appreciate baseball and opera.”
“You’re no Stoney Creek boy.”
He laughed. “Oh, yeah? I fit right in down at the cafe. What sets me apart from a Stoney Creek boy?”
“They don’t like baseball.”
He turned up the music. “Good answer.”
She shook her head and listened. She certainly hadn’t been raised on classical music like this. Life growing up with Wally and Della was nothing like the supportive and refined upbringing John experienced with Tony and Christine Cerelli. But since John liked it, she did her best
to give it a fair shake. It didn’t quite lift her soul like it did John’s, but she did enjoy it more than she’d admit.
After they pulled to a stop in front of the Brighton women’s shelter, John bolted from the car and had her medical bag in hand and the trunk closed again before Claire unbuckled her seat belt.
In a hurry, John?She let it pass and accepted the bag from his hand. “Meet me back here in an hour?”
“Sure. I’ll pick up dinner.” He wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was already beyond her, lifted above her head. She’d seen that look in his eyes before. Intensity. Longing. She followed his gaze to a window on the second floor. Lena Chisholm leaned forward with her face against the glass.
She waved at Lena and forced herself to smile to hide her irritation. “Anything but pizza. I had that for lunch.”
Lena Chisholm took the small leatherbound Bible from Claire’s hand. “I appreciate all you’ve done, but . . .” She looked away. “I know what you want.”
Claire didn’t understand. “I—”
“But I can’t keep this baby.”
“This isn’t about the baby, Lena. Your child is important to me, but so are you. I just wanted to make sure you had a Bible. We left in such a hurry, I thought that, well, you might need it.” Inside, Claire cringed. She wanted to be able to reach out to her patients in a natural way, sharing her hope in God’s grace as a solution, but she felt like an unstable toddler.
Lena looked away and placed the book at her side. “Okay.”
Claire shifted in her seat, wanting to say something encouraging, but not sure how to penetrate Lena’s shell. “It’s helped me.”
Lena looked up.
“The Bible, I mean. Things haven’t always been a breeze in my life, Lena. I couldn’t make it without my faith.”
Lena nodded quietly.
They sat together for an awkward moment as Claire pondered what to say, and wondered how to bring up her suspicions about Brittany’s rape. “Lena,” she began slowly. “Once when I asked you about fighting back, you told me about Billy Ray forcing you to . . .” She paused. “. . . have sex with him. Did he, well . . . do anything, well, you know, use a disguise or anything?”