Heart of the Country

by Rene Gutteridge

  “I remember a roast with black smoke rising from it.”

  “And that was still edible. The other times were even more disastrous.”

  “You did fine, Dad.”

  “But I miss her cooking. The way she oversalted the vegetables. Undercooked the eggs. The way the icing on her cakes was so . . . there’s not even a word . . .”

  “Perfect?”

  “That’ll do.”

  The waitress returned with drinks, then took our order. Dad had the chicken-fried steak. I had the vegetable omelet.

  “I talked to Lee. About the accident.”

  Dad sat there, didn’t say anything.

  “It was just something I had to do.”

  “Fine.”

  “I guess I was hoping she said her good-byes to us, said something—anything.”

  “Her injuries . . . she wouldn’t have been able to speak.”

  “I know. You still miss her as much? I do.”

  “Yes. As much as the first day.”

  We talked about some of our favorite memories. It was how someone deceased should be remembered. But I couldn’t help but wonder what my memories of Luke would be. He wasn’t deceased. And he wasn’t dead to me. So how was I supposed to remember him?

  It was like Dad read my mind. “You heard from Luke? About that doctor?”

  “I got a text from him. Said he’s still working on it.” It was the first time I’d heard from him since I left, and that’s all it said: I’m working on it. Of course, all I was calling about was my sick dad. Maybe that’s how we’d be: just two people communicating on the most basic level possible.

  Once we were back on the road, Dad fell asleep again. It was so obvious now, how tired he was. It broke my heart to see such a strong man falling victim to this illness. I prayed hard, the rest of the way. Prayed for my daddy. Prayed for things to be okay. Prayed Luke would find this doctor and we’d get in, and I wouldn’t look stupid for driving us all the way out to New York on “a wing and a prayer.”

  It’s just that something, other than Lee’s recommendation, told me to go. I couldn’t identify it. But there was an urgency there, and just like before when I left, I was following my heart, praying it wouldn’t lead me astray.

  But this time I wasn’t running from something. I was running to something. Hope. Answers. Healing.

  “It’s going to be all right, Dad,” I whispered. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  I turned on my GPS and listened for directions to the hotel Dad insisted we stay in, a Holiday Inn Express in Midtown, one that I hoped wouldn’t stand a chance against my wipes. But as I turned in, my heart sank. This was going to save us money, but probably not my sanity. I drove into the half-circle drive and kept the car running as I went inside to check us in. Dad stayed asleep, which bothered me because he was a light sleeper in the car.

  Inside a tired-looking woman with a sagging chignon and a “Becky” name tag tried her best at a bright smile. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

  I gave her my credit card and prayed Luke hadn’t suddenly decided to cancel it. I kept telling myself Luke would come through, Luke would come through. But my heart tugged a different direction, reminding me there was only one who promised never to leave me or forsake me. So as Becky ran my card, gathered the room keys, printed papers for me to sign, I prayed for help. For everything.

  I glanced outside to see if Dad was okay. Becky was in slow motion as she walked four feet to the printer, then back to the desk. With bloodshot eyes she willed into merriment, she explained our room location, that a complimentary breakfast was served, and that elevator two was broken.

  Back in the car, Dad grumbled as I shut my door and drove to the rear of the hotel. He woke up as I parked.

  “We’re here.”

  “That was some kind of nap.” He grinned at me. “I might stay up all night.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Did they say if they have SportsCenter?”

  “I forgot to ask. Come on, let’s get our bags up there.”

  Dad insisted on carrying the luggage, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. Soon enough, though, we were in the room. Thankfully there was ESPN. Dad viewed our modest accommodations like we’d landed a five-star. He kicked his shoes off and fell on top of the bed with his hands crossed behind his head. “This is nice!”

  “It’s just temporary until we can get a little apartment or something more long term. They have breakfast here, you know, and I’ll pick up some food so you have something in the room if you want. You want something to eat?”

  Dad had something in his hand, a brightly colored pamphlet that he’d grabbed off the nightstand. “I want to go to a show.”

  I pulled the heavy curtains shut, hoping to block out some of the noise. “Sorry it’s so loud, Dad. But everything is loud in New York.”

  “West Side Story.”

  I turned. Was he serious? I’d been waiting on the punch line.

  He held up the pamphlet. “Your momma told me she was going to play Maria on Broadway. It was her favorite. Her dream.”

  I smiled. I knew the story. “And she told you this on your first date.”

  “That’s right!” He slapped the pamphlet with the back of his fingers. “I want to see if anybody can do it better.”

  “West Side Story it is.”

  “We have to have some fun while we’re here, right? Why come to New York and not see the city? The sights?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Dad . . . you hate big cities.”

  He turned up the volume on the TV. “Maybe people change.”

  48

  LUKE

  WHEN JAKE SAID we’d celebrate, I knew he hadn’t counted on Dad wanting to come along. We were both surprised when Dad said we’d be going to Malone’s for a long lunch the next day. A big deal because Dad didn’t stop work for lunch unless it was business. It was Dad’s favorite off-the-map place to take guests and people he wanted to impress. It was fun going with him . . . brought us back to when we were little kids. The smell of cigars and expensive liquor. Laughter that roared throughout the boys’ club. It was at the top of a high-rise, and Jake and I would press our hands and faces against the glass, just like we were asked not to, and peer into the city. The streets seemed alive with furious light. The sky looked closer, heavier. We’d bring marbles or dominos to play. Those seemed better than our electronic toys. Inevitably, one of Dad’s friends would find us at a table and want to join in. We felt like giants. We didn’t realize that’s exactly what Dad was raising us to be.

  Through a four-course lunch and three rounds of drinks, yesterday’s events weren’t mentioned at all. I still did not understand what happened and tried to ask Jake about it, but he said we’d talk later. “Enjoy this!” he said, toasting the air. “You’re free, little brother!”

  It felt good. Even my cell phone was lighting up from time to time, a friend here and there who dared to talk to me again. But I was only concerned with two calls: Dr. Sinclair and Faith. Faith had texted to tell me she was in town but didn’t bother letting me know where they were staying. Nothing from Dr. Sinclair’s office.

  Jake had sensed my concern, but it wasn’t the time to talk about it. We toasted, poured, talked about the glory days, and shared dreams for our future. It was nice to see Dad’s face light up with gusto. “These are my boys!” he kept repeating to every new acquaintance he saw at the lounge.

  I was back at my apartment by afternoon and drifted to sleep wondering how in the world I was a free man. I didn’t doubt it, but neither did I understand it. I slept fitfully, listening for the door to open and Faith to arrive. I knew it was only wishful thinking she’d come home, but I couldn’t give up hope.

  I woke up an hour later and lay in bed watching the ceiling, planning. I had to come through for Faith. It might be my only way to win her back.

  I showered, put on slacks and a button-up, then headed to Sloan-Kettering. Not so long ago, one phone call, from my secretary no less
, would’ve had this taken care of. But those days were over. I had my freedom, but my mistakes cost me dearly. I had my family back, save one. And she was the most important.

  Dr. Sinclair’s office was modest considering his reputation. The carpet was stained, the waiting room small, the magazines months old. A TV was mounted in the corner, its picture fuzzy and its screen not flat.

  Sitting well below the fairly high Plexiglas window was a large woman in bright-blue scrubs. Her hair was slicked back in a tight ponytail with a blue streak in it and her makeup consisted only of bloodred lipstick. Without looking up, she slid the window open and continued typing as she asked, “Your name?”

  “I wanted to see about getting my father-in-law in to see Dr. Sinclair.”

  “You got an appointment?”

  “No. I wanted to come in person and—”

  “Your name?” She grabbed a sticky pad and plucked the pencil from behind her ear.

  “Luke.” My last name wouldn’t come out.

  “Skywalker or what?”

  “It’s terribly urgent that I get my father-in-law in.”

  She eyeballed me. “Well, I’m Darth Vader, so unless you can unleash the Force or a last name, it ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Carraday. Luke Carraday.”

  “Carraday . . .” She stood, looked me up and down, put her hands on her hips. “And which brother are you?”

  “The one who runs.” I kept my stare squared on hers.

  “How’d those handcuffs feel?”

  “Makes me appreciate my freedom even more. I was given immunity yesterday.”

  “Whoopty do.” She sat back down. “That’s what’s wrong with this country. Money buys you out of your worst sins, doesn’t it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t—”

  “’Course you didn’t.” She slid the window shut.

  “Wait! Please! If I could just talk to Dr. Sinclair, I could—”

  “Explain this is a life-and-death situation?” Her voice was muffled through the glass. “You and hundreds—and I mean hundreds—of other people.” She turned back to her computer. “Sorry. Money’s not buying you in this time.”

  “I’m not asking . . . I just need to . . .” But the phone rang, she snatched it up, and I found myself backing out of the tiny room. I stood in the empty hallway. I’d failed Faith. Again.

  My phone vibrated with a text. From Faith. Any luck?

  49

  FAITH

  I AM UNCERTAIN how old I was. Small, maybe five or six. But I remember her distinctly. She wore a white eyelet dress and dusty flip-flops. She’d been mopping the floor the last I knew, and we’d been sent to our rooms to play quietly until she was done.

  I’d snuck back, probably because I heard her singing. I peeked around the frame of the door, one half of my face showing, my cheek smooshed against the wood. She was twirling around the floor, the wet mop her dance partner, belting out a song I didn’t recognize from church. Later I would know it . . . “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story. That day, it was just a song, but it entranced me. She entranced me. Her long, fluid limbs, her ballerina body, twirled and twisted, weightless like a tumbleweed. I wondered who she sang it to. But I remember realizing that my momma had dreams like me. I’d run in the pasture and dream I was somewhere far away. Daddy would let me ride Lady or Silver and I’d pretend to be a cowboy. There she was, far away, dreaming.

  “Mommas have dreams too,” I explained to Olivia when I told her what I’d witnessed.

  “What in the world would a momma be dreaming about?” she asked.

  I didn’t know exactly then. But I knew it was something special because she never saw me standing there.

  I glanced at Dad. He was comfortable in our budget seats, taking in the show, the music. He had that glow to his skin. It usually surfaced when he talked about good memories.

  I remembered later, as a teenager, singing “I Feel Pretty” as Essie Mae played the piano and Momma stood nearby, beaming like light reflecting off the tin roof of the shed. As I sang it, I felt a sense of empowerment. The words bubbled up in me, refusing to stay put. I felt like Momma felt. I knew the power of music. And as I suspected, it had been with me as long as I could remember. It would be with me far along in my life too.

  Early in my marriage to Luke, maybe six months into it or so, he found me in the kitchen, singing this same song. His cheek was pressed against the doorframe. He was grinning, almost laughing. I stopped midnote when I saw him.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “You’re standing there watching me!”

  “Why don’t you sing more? Your voice is beautiful.”

  “My mom loved that song. It’s from West Side Story.”

  “I know. I’ve seen the show half a dozen times.”

  “I wish you could have met her,” I said, walking into his embrace.

  “I have. I see her every day.”

  That was how Luke was. He always knew how much I loved her. He held me when I cried and never asked me to get over it or move on. He just knew.

  He twirled me back into the kitchen. “Don’t stop singing!” But I was giggling too much to carry a note.

  The song was ending. Dad and I both stared forward, but I slid my hand into his. A tear slid down his face and I couldn’t bear it, so I just closed my eyes, held his hand, and prayed. It was in the middle of a Broadway musical, with lights and show tunes and tight applause, that I got down on my knees. Not physically, but in my heart. I surrendered because what else could I do? Trust what this life was giving me? Everything that gave me happiness was temporary, and all that was rooted deeper could be pulled up. I felt myself less attached to this world. My feet felt lighter and the sky looked closer. I realized I was nothing more than a vapor in the wind, no more than a blade of grass that withers under the sun. I could do nothing to save my mom. Or my dad. Or my marriage.

  I was weak.

  But I knew there was one who was strong. I knew nothing was in my life that hadn’t passed through His hand first. So for the first time in my life, I truly trusted the God that my momma told me would never leave me alone.

  50

  LUKE

  I WAS NOT entirely sure if I was drinking out of the joy of immunity or the sorrow over Faith or the frustration over my inability to help her father. Nevertheless, I was drinking and thankful for it. My stomach had been hurting and my head pounding for over twenty-four hours, with a short reprieve when Dad took us out to the lounge.

  I didn’t really know why I was free. Or how. Didn’t know if my name would ever mean anything good in this town again. Didn’t know if Faith planned on talking to me beyond her father’s need for help. Didn’t know if I could do something as simple as get the attention of a doctor.

  “Gotta feel good, huh, kiddo?” Jake said, punching me in the arm as we both slumped over our drinks at the bar.

  My phone lit up. Another text from Faith. Anything to report?

  “Told you it was taken care of,” Jake said, squeezing my shoulder a little too hard. He slapped me on the back and grinned sloppily.

  I nodded, but I was staring at my phone, wondering how to reply.

  “Yesterday you were peeing the floor over the thought of going to prison. You get immunity and you’re acting like you got the death penalty.”

  I glanced up. “Sorry.”

  “What’s going on?”

  There’s something about brothers where the harder you try to hide something, the more they seem to know. As much as I tried not to press my lips together and look away and tighten the grip on my glass, I did all those things and then flagged down the bartender.

  “Faith.” It sounded so heavy coming off his tongue that it seemed to fall to the bar and make a thud.

  I let the bartender refill my bourbon and Coke before I said, “She’s back in town.”

  “Of course she is. You’re off the hook.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  But Jake was already
seething. His nostrils flared with every breath. He stirred a drink that was already thoroughly stirred.

  “Her dad’s got brain cancer.”

  Jake dropped the stirrer back into his glass and looked at me.

  “She asked me to get him into Sloan-Kettering. I called Sinclair, but . . . I’m not exactly a guy people want to do favors for, you know?”

  “Oh my gosh! Luke?”

  Jake and I turned at a voice that was both familiar and alarming. It’s just instinct, but when oh my gosh is followed by my name in a tone that can shatter glass, I pretty much know there is trouble to come.

  Maria. Dressed as desperate as ever. I was hoping for a polite handshake, but she went in for the big squeeze anyway. A long squeeze. I wasn’t sure where to put my hands. With that kind of top, it all seemed inappropriate. I finally settled on her bare shoulders.

  “How are things going?” she asked, her voice high and frenzied, as if life were the same as before. As if I could answer that question simply, like usual.

  The awkward silence was filled by Jake. “Fantastic,” he said, jumping in as though trying to save the mood before I could torpedo it. “Luke is officially a free man tonight!”

  Oh, boy. Leave it to Jake to drunkenly double entendre the situation. Maria was wide-eyed, but it was hard to tell why.

  “From jail, he means.” I tried a definitive smile but ended it with a sheepish sip of my drink.

  Jake’s hand shot out from his side. Maria slid hers into his. “I’m Luke’s brother, Jake.”

  “Jake, Maria. Maria, my brother, Jake.”

  As luck wouldn’t have it, the barstool next to me opened up and Maria pounced on it like it was a free diamond bracelet. I leaned back, figuring the conversation was going to continue with or without me.

  “So,” she said, “this is a party night, huh, boys?”

  “Without a doubt,” Jake said. “Whatcha drinkin’, Maria?”

  “Alamo Splash.”

  “Good for you. I like a woman who can hold her tequila.”

  “Too bad Candace isn’t here. Jake’s wife. For you to meet.”