Heart of the Country

by Rene Gutteridge

  But my words might as well have been mixed right into the drinks. They continued to chat as I took my phone out and texted Faith. Not yet.

  I was pretty sure that I should’ve just said “never.” Except that was too painful to even consider.

  The next thing I knew, hours had passed and Jake and I were playing some stupid ESP trick on Maria, who was either dumb as a brick or playing along. Or both.

  “No way!” she screeched as we pretended that I knew he was thinking of Napoleon Bonaparte. We’d had our fun with it over the years, using taps and snaps and all sorts of other subtle signals. It’d actually become quite a good little art form, appreciated only by those totally wasted out of their minds. “How did you do that?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s ESP. Brother-to-brother ESP.”

  They roared with laughter, but I felt a tug to leave. “Guys, I gotta go.”

  Jake eyed me and set down his drink. “He’s gotta go. I’m the one who’s gotta go because I actually have a wife and kids at home.”

  “Ouch.”

  “It’s a gift,” he said with a mischievous grin and a slap on the arm.

  Even with the slight, I still felt the urge to hug him. “Thank you.”

  And he knew I meant it. “We’re family. Nothing’s more important.” He turned to Maria. “Maria, it was a pleasure. See you around.”

  We watched as he wove his way through the skinny bodies on the dance floor. Outside, I saw him duck into a cab, already back on his phone.

  “I wish I was psychic,” Maria said, her finger tracing the edge of her martini glass.

  “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause I would love to read your mind.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Seriously, I would. I mean, I used to talk with Faith about you all the time. How she could never figure out what you were thinking. I know I never could . . .” She moved her drink aside and fully faced me. “What’s going on? Are you guys talking?”

  “No.”

  “Is that your idea or hers?”

  I ordered another drink.

  51

  FAITH

  “MY DADDY ACTUALLY LIKES show tunes.” I smiled at him as we walked, my arm through his, along the thinning streets of Midtown. I watched him as he gazed up at the lights. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “You know what? I do.” He pointed down the street. “But I still want a pretzel and a beer.” And he picked up the pace. I hadn’t seen Dad walk that fast in a while. He took a wad of cash out of his pocket. “You look like you can help me with the pretzel,” he said to the vendor. “What’s it going to be around here? A hundred bucks?”

  “Daddy . . . ,” I said, swatting him. My phone sounded and I prayed it was Luke, except my stomach rolled a little bit at the thought of actually talking to him. Didn’t matter. “It’s Olivia,” I told Dad.

  “Tell her I’m dead—see what she does.”

  While Dad purchased his pretzel, I stepped away and answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hey.”

  “I wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I doubted you. I know you’re only trying to help him.”

  “It’s okay,” I said as I watched Dad put extra salt on his pretzel.

  “Daddy sleeping?”

  “No . . . just enjoying himself here.”

  “It sounds loud.”

  “We’re fine. He’s been tired but holding up okay.” He didn’t look tired as he stuffed his face with the pretzel. He looked full of life. And joy. “He wanted to see a show.”

  “A show? What kind of show?”

  “West Side Story.”

  “The play?”

  “Musical, yes.”

  “I think the brain tumor is showing itself in weird ways.”

  I laughed. “Maybe.” Dad was chatting it up with a cab driver now.

  “I have good news.”

  “You do?”

  “Sloan-Kettering hospital just called the house. They can see Daddy. At noon tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “I know. I just went by the house to feed Silver and check on things and noticed his answering machine light was blinking.”

  My head was spinning with hope. How could that man over there be so sick? He looked perfectly fine. But inside, the urgency wouldn’t go away.

  “Looks like your Yankee boy came through after all.”

  I took in a deep breath and smiled. I knew he would. I knew it. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Please. As soon as you know anything.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I walked to Dad, who had already finished his pretzel. “I think I’ll have another one of those.”

  “You’re eating like you’re dying,” I said with a smirk.

  “Exactly! How about a hot dog?”

  “How about we get you some rest before you actually kill yourself with a heart attack.”

  “Come on . . . you take me to the big city and I don’t get to have any fun?”

  “You’ve had plenty of fun. The hospital called. Left a message. We have an appointment tomorrow.”

  Dad looked surprised. “What do you know.”

  “I know we need to get back to the hotel room.”

  “You’re such a killjoy.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It’s not.”

  I smiled and hailed a cab. “I know.”

  The short drive back was spent with Dad mostly lamenting that I wouldn’t let him have a hot dog. Funny how you can be dying and can even lose sight of that. But once we got back to the hotel, he’d settled down a bit, and I could tell his strength was draining fast. He tugged at each shoe like it weighed more than his leg, and then he fell back onto the bed as if he’d just spent the day baling hay.

  I walked over and adjusted the pillow for him. He folded his hands over his belly like he always did when he took a nap. “Let’s get you ready for bed,” I said, but he waved me off with a mumble, something about not needing pajamas. It broke my heart. He was too tired to change. Maybe the show was too much. “You’ve had a big night. Tomorrow’s even bigger.”

  I sat down on the bed and stared at his face, sunken more than usual. Lines crisscrossed his cheeks like the fork marks on a peanut butter cookie. His breathing slowed and I found myself watching each breath, counting out the seconds between them.

  Then Dad’s eyes popped open and cut to me. “Stop it. You’re acting like Olivia.”

  “Yes, well, Olivia’s done a good job of keeping you alive and well, so maybe I need to be more like her.”

  Dad rolled his eyes.

  “And since you were only faking being asleep, let’s get another pill down you,” I said as I held it out in my hand. I picked up the glass of water with my other. And punctuated it all with a bright smile.

  “Oh, brother,” he groaned. He sat up a little and took the pill, then lay back down. “That was a good thing he did.”

  “What?”

  “Luke. Kind of thing a man does when he loves somebody.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? One phone call on our behalf and he’s off the hook?”

  But Dad only chuckled, then closed his eyes again.

  “Not so fast. You can’t say something like that and then fall asleep.”

  Dad opened one eye and looked at me.

  “So he gets you into a fancy hospital and you want me to run over there and forgive him for lying to me?”

  “No. But I do think you should talk to him.”

  “And say what, exactly?”

  “That’s between you and your husband.”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  Dad smiled. “Baby, I may have a brain tumor, but I ain’t gonna die tonight.”

  And before I knew it, he was asleep. For real this time.

  I went to the closet and found a blanket to cover Dad up with. At least he’d managed to take off his tie.

/>   I knelt by his bed and put my hands on his arm. He didn’t even move. Bowing my head, I cried out a prayer, mostly in my head. I don’t know how long I prayed. I don’t even know when I stopped. But I could not imagine losing this gentle man, not after how he loved me and took me back. He was everything a girl could hope for in a father.

  “I know You can save him,” I said, over and over and over, until I believed it. And then, all at once, I found myself praying for Luke.

  52

  OLIVIA

  I HUNG UP the phone with Faith and fluffed my hair. It was a nervous habit I’d acquired before doing anything uncomfortable. And this counted for more than uncomfortable. I would’ve never believed I could do this. Would do this. But here I was, with my suitcase between my knees. I called Hardy, holding the cell phone close to my ear. It was hard to hear at the airport.

  “You okay?” Hardy asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to go.”

  “Why am I going?”

  Hardy knew rhetorical when he heard it.

  “I mean, don’t I trust her? Don’t I trust him? Of course I do. But I should be there. It should be the three of us together. Making the decisions about what kind of treatment Daddy’s going to get. Right?”

  “Can’t go wrong with another opinion.”

  “If I didn’t trust Faith, I would’ve stood in front of her car and made her run me down when she told me she was taking him to New York. But I did no such thing.” I slumped. “I just can’t lose him, Hardy. I can’t. He’s my daddy.” My throat strained hard to keep my emotions all tidy. “What if the girls lost you? You’re their daddy. You can’t go. You can’t leave them. And he can’t leave me either. He just can’t.” I drew in an overly deep breath, the kind that makes you cough out the extra air. “So. I am going, just as an adviser. Just to make sure we’re all hearing the same thing, because you know how doctors can talk, all gibberishly.”

  “You’re there for support. That’s what you told me. And you know they’d both appreciate support.”

  I sighed. “Hardy, we both know that I’ve never been able to support a thing in my life. I’m loud and bossy and I always take over because nobody can do nothin’ right. I am fooling myself if I think I can.”

  Hardy went back to listening.

  “I love my sister. As much as I hate to admit that she’s affected my life like that, it’s true. I don’t want to run her off or upset her. I can’t be having her estranged from us for another decade.”

  I imagined Hardy was on the front porch, looking out into the dark sky, chewing on a dead blade of grass that he must’ve plucked from beside our concrete porch steps. “Liv, you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “I think, Hardy, that I give myself too much credit.”

  “Now just shush and listen. You know what is good and true and right, and you’ve always stood for those things. You’ve allowed your sister back in your life, even though it was hard and you were hurt. And now here you are, willing to travel all the way to hell, just to help two people that mean the world to ya.”

  “I’m going to get murdered in New York, aren’t I?”

  “Like I said, just don’t make eye contact with anybody.”

  “I know this sounds kooky, but I kind of feel drawn there. I don’t know if it’s for selfish reasons or not, but there’s not too much that’d make me go to a place like New York.”

  They called my flight to board over the loudspeaker. “Guess I better get on with it.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to call, let ’em know you’re coming?” Hardy asked.

  “Don’t want anybody derailing my plans. Besides, Faith’s gonna think I don’t trust her.”

  “Can’t imagine why . . . since you don’t trust her enough to tell her you’re coming.”

  “I gotta do things the way I gotta do them.”

  “You always do,” Hardy said. “That’s what I love about you. You got all your directions?”

  “Everything you printed off the computer, I guess. Directions to the hotel. To the doctor. All that.”

  “You’re sure you shouldn’t call?”

  I looked straight toward the lovely young lady taking tickets. I was certain. Nobody liked surprises, I knew. But then again, sometimes you just gotta invite yourself to the party.

  53

  LUKE

  I WASN’T SURE how many drinks I’d had. Enough to keep me glued to my seat talking to Trouble, yet not so many as to not see I was dancing in the dark with the devil. Maria exuded everything a man wanted in a woman . . . on the outside. She knew it, and she knew how to roll her shoulders in just the right way . . . how to play coy, protective, innocent . . . whatever mask she wanted.

  And she always smelled good. And her hair, it liked to flop across her eye. She’d give it a gentle shove out of the way. It was glossy, like plastic. And that wasn’t the only plastic she was using to her advantage, either.

  “Look, I love Faith,” she said, talking with her hands. I followed her fingers, which seemed to keep pointing me in the exact direction I shouldn’t be looking. “You know that. I miss her. But she just left, Luke. I mean, don’t you think she owed it to you to talk it out?” Her eyelashes batted, waiting for an answer. Her mouth formed a tiny little O, pursed, waiting for an answer.

  I leaned back, tearing myself out of her vortex. “I’m the one who lied to her.”

  “You were protecting her!”

  I took a long look at Maria. Her face was lit up with the exclamation. But her eyes were saying something much different.

  “I’ve really got to get going,” I said. I pushed a fifty to the bartender.

  “Oh, wow . . . me too,” she said, quickly glancing at her watch. Not one to be left in an awkward position, Maria followed me out of the bar, one hand touching my arm as we made our way toward the door.

  But it felt a little like slow motion, and I decided I better get a cab. I whistled as Maria stepped up beside me.

  “Drop me off in Murray Hill?”

  Ugh. I really hoped I hadn’t said it out loud, but by the sour look suddenly emerging on Maria’s face, I might’ve. “Sure,” I sighed.

  Inside the cab, it was relatively quiet. I stared out the window, and Maria stared at me, and that took the entire seven-minute cab ride. It pulled in front of an apartment building, trendy but older.

  Maria’s hand slid from my shoulder down to my forearm. “Thanks for the ride.” She started to take money out of her purse, even though she knew good and well I’d never let her pay.

  “I got it.”

  “You’re sure?” Surprised eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  “It was so great to see you.”

  “You, too.”

  “Good night, Luke . . . and, um, if you need to talk, call me. You know where I am.” She said it like she was out of breath . . . or wanted to be.

  “Thanks.”

  She opened the cab door, kicking her long, bare legs out first, then slowly standing. She shut the door and the driver waited for her to walk in front, even though the back would’ve been faster.

  And we were off.

  The cab was just pulling up my street when something shiny on the seat beside me caught my eye. When the next streetlamp’s light passed through the window, I realized it was Maria’s sequined purse.

  “Oh . . . great.” I sighed and pulled out my phone, working my way through my contacts to find her, wondering how evil her plotting was. Before I could think much further about it, her purse vibrated, then started in with some techno-dance song.

  Part of me wanted to just leave the purse there, pretend I didn’t see it, but I knew that could open her up to all kinds of problems. And I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t been blessed by somebody’s good graces myself. So I paid the cabbie and took the purse as begrudgingly as when Faith used to make me hold hers in public. I
tucked it under my arm and looked up at the dark, fifth-story window of my home. The empty sidewalk seemed warmer than what I’d find when I opened the door to my apartment.

  But I didn’t have any other options.

  Well, that wasn’t completely true. I stared at the purse. I could just run it back to her . . . just . . . talk . . .

  I took a breath—a gasp, really. It was getting to me. It was all getting to me. How could I even conceive of doing that to Faith? I hurried to my apartment, took the elevator, and let myself in. I closed the door, locked it, turned my back against it. Caught my breath. I’d leave the purse with the doorman tomorrow and hopefully never see Maria again.

  I didn’t want to think about Maria anyway. I wanted to think about how to face Faith. Or how to even get near her. Was it possible to feel like a bigger failure? I’d messed up everything between us and still couldn’t even do a simple favor for her.

  I plopped down in my usual chair these days, the one that I stared out into space from, and wondered how badly I’d damaged the family name. When I couldn’t even summon a return phone call from a man I’d known since I was a teenager, things were looking pretty grim.

  From my chair I could see the dimly twinkling lights of the city. Before, I’d gaze at them and see all the possibilities the city had to offer. Now they just reminded me that my light had gone out.

  I had to face the idea that my marriage was probably over. Even managing to get out of my predicament couldn’t change the circumstances in which I found myself. I rose and walked to the window, gazing out at skyscrapers that many men had jumped from. Before, I couldn’t conceive of what would drive a man to fall to his own death. Then I wondered what might stop a man who had nothing left. Now I had . . . hope.

  I decided to write Faith a letter. I figured she wouldn’t take a phone call from me. Besides, there was a lot I needed to say and it couldn’t be said in the middle of a heated argument, which I guessed ours would turn into.

  It took me a while to find stationery. I guess we just don’t write letters much these days. I found some in the top of the closet, a boxed set my dad had given me when I’d decided to leave his company and go out on my “new venture.” I hadn’t appreciated it back then like I should have. It was a gesture from Dad that I didn’t see because of my own blind ambitions.