A half hour on an empty road in the middle of land and sky that goes on forever seemed like an exercise in futility. Even though I recognized familiar landmarks, it felt like I wasn’t any closer to home than I had been when I’d left town. The roof of my mouth was as dry as the road, and I could taste gravel dust over everything else. It was a wonder that my throat hadn’t been cemented shut. A cigarette would have only made things worse, so I passed. Besides, I could still smell the inside of the tavern on my clothes. Hank would be able to smell it, too, but I was sure he’d understand why I felt the need to stop and see to Herbert Frakes once I explained my reasons for going into the tavern. He would have done the same thing, if he’d had the chance, or ability, to do it.
The radio was silent. I had no desire to hear the news or another sad song by a dead singer.
I slowed the truck as the turn to the house came into view. Our property was marked with four-foot cones of rocks as big as pumpkins on both sides of the road. My grandfather had stacked them there one by one, a monument to the work he’d done clearing the first field to plow. Digging rocks was how my father had developed his endurance and strength as a boy, and there had been a time when folks thought this land wouldn’t grow anything but boulders and worry. Rocks still rose to the surface like pieces of flotsam in a calm and tamed sea—rocks that could do, and had done, serious damage to a sturdy plow.
I brought the truck to a stop even though I hadn’t planned on it. I noticed a six-foot tall plant growing behind the cone of rocks on the north side of the road. It was a dead thistle plant, one like so many others that I hadn’t noticed before I started indexing the Common Plants book. The weed looked like it belonged there, like it had been growing there since the prehistoric seabed had receded and vanished from sight and memory. But it was possible that I didn’t know what I was looking at. It could have been another immigrant, anxious to flee the old country and spread seeds all across the new land, from New York to North Dakota and beyond, just like the rest of us.
Curious, I made my way out of the truck. The wind pushed my dress up as the dry dirt crunched under my feet. I made a halfhearted attempt to pin down my hemline. I was alone, out of view of any house or car for miles; I could have been naked and it wouldn’t have mattered. At least to any human. A nearby jackrabbit popped its head up and froze, hoping to blend into the dun landscape like everything else. I didn’t let on that I saw it. No use ramping up its heart rate any more than it already was.
Thistle had no practical use that I knew of, which, of course, meant that there was no money to be made from its presence by a farmer or a seed salesman. Just the opposite. The thistle, especially invasive—immigrant—thistle could take over a pasture or field and choke out the healthy, more desirable, grasses and wildflowers. I felt fairly comfortable that I could identify the thistle before me, and upon reaching it I determined fairly quickly that the plant was my illusive and troubling musk thistle.
The plant’s spent head drooped, and the brown, crispy bracts looked like little pine cones. The stems were heavily branched, with spiny wings that fluttered outward without interruption. If they had been interrupted, this plant would have been plumeless or bull thistle. The leaves weren’t pubescent, and most of the seedless flowers were gone, eaten by birds or other wildlife. There was no doubt in my mind that this was musk thistle.
I reached down and carefully touched Carduus nutans. My identification of it was a gift from Leonard Adler’s incomplete and maddening description of the plant. Biennial or perennial wasn’t obvious. All of the plant was dry and withered, but the spines remained capable of a piercing jab. The tip of my finger immediately itched with warning, and I pulled back in fear of being injured.
I trembled at the thought, at the vision that streamed behind my eyes. Peter and Jaeger had given me the amulet that had been at the heart of their tragedy. It was a souvenir of a time that I wished did not exist. The amulet, too, had been said to offer protection. I was in no mood to revisit Norse mythology, alter my belief system, or consider my past with that amulet any more than I had to, but it seemed to be the right thing to do to take a sprig of the musk thistle with me. I quickly made my way to the Studebaker and grabbed a pair of Hank’s faded yellow leather work gloves and trusty pocket Western Auto knife out of the glove box—everything was just where he had left it—then I went back and cut the terminal, the top flower, off the thistle.
Satisfied, I stuck the sprig under the driver’s seat and settled back into the truck to go home. I knew that I was being silly, but the musk thistle gave me a little bit of comfort and I needed that, especially after my visit to the Wild Pony with Herbert. Funny thing was, that weed had most likely been here all my life and I’d never noticed it, never had reason to, until now. I wondered if I needed to acknowledge its presence to ignite its magical powers, to call forth Thor’s protection. Maybe that’s why my life had taken a horrible turn. I hadn’t employed the magic that was on my land. I lacked faith, which was no revelation—and the rest was just drivel. I was sure of it.
I put the truck in gear and drove on.
Shep was waiting for me at the mailbox, overseeing the land like he always had when there was no one home, no one else to worry about. My heart raced a bit as I brought the Studebaker to a hard stop and watched the border collie make his way to me in the rearview mirror. He was slow on the return, casting a glance to and fro, not barking happily—or with warning. My sense of alertness and dread heightened as soon as I realized that there was no sign of Jaeger Knudsen’s red International Harvester truck anywhere.
I jumped out of the truck, ignoring Shep, who pushed at my hand for attention of one kind or another, and hurried to the house.
“Betty!” I called out. No answer came, so I called out again and was met with the same silence.
I pushed into the house and made a beeline for the bedroom, screaming for Hank the whole way. I nearly collapsed when I saw that the bed was empty and he was gone.
Gone. Hank was gone. How was that possible?
In his place on the ruffled bed was a note that I could barely read because my hands were shaking so violently:
Mrs. Trumaine, Hank is at the hospital. He was having a hard time breathing so I called Doc Huddleston and he said to get Hank to St. Joseph’s as quick as possible. Jaeger put Hank in the truck and we’re taking him instead of waiting for the ambulance. I will be there waiting for you. ~~Betty Walsh.
CHAPTER 15
I had spent enough time at St. Joseph’s Hospital to suit me for three lifetimes. I was born there, instead of at home like most of the children of the time; I’d watched helplessly as my mother and father died there; and I’d worried over Hank as he hovered between life and death in the long, endless days that followed the accident. It was not a place of happy memories, but then I guess a hospital rarely is.
I could have driven to the hospital with my eyes closed, even in a panic. But not in a panic mixed with rage, fear, and fury. The speed limit wasn’t a concern because I could only go as fast as the Studebaker would allow. A speeding ticket was the least of my worries.
I couldn’t believe that Hank’s breathing had failed enough since I’d left him with Betty Walsh that he needed to be hospitalized. I found myself annoyed with her, but I would have to control my temper, or at least swallow it. I feared telling Betty off, for no other reason than alienating and upsetting Jaeger. I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t take too kindly to someone yelling at his girlfriend. Not even me. And I needed him more now than ever before. I would be lost without Jaeger Knudsen looking after our farm.
I wheeled the truck into the hospital parking lot, squealing the tires on the turn. I’m sure that wasn’t uncommon at the Castle of Life and Death—that’s what the six-story red brick building with the green slate-tile roof looked like to me, an old musty castle with a terrible dungeon inside. It was only missing the spires and cathedral roof.
I feared that Hank would be dead by the time I arrived
, and I would be left with the guilt of him dying without me at his side. I’d promised him I would be there no matter what. I’m sorry, I was at the Wild Pony, consoling Herbert Frakes instead of looking after you. I didn’t want to have to live with that.
Of all that could happen to hasten Hank’s demise, I think I feared pneumonia the most. It was an invisible killer that always seemed to be lurking just outside our bedroom door, waiting like a snake in the grass for just the right time to strike. And it looked like it had waited until I left, until I wasn’t there to shoo it away, cut its head off once and for all. Warding off pneumonia was out of my power.
I should have never left him with Betty Walsh . . .
It didn’t matter to me that St. Joseph’s was the tallest building in Dickinson. To me, at that moment, it was the only building in Dickinson.
I parked in the closest spot I could find and hurried inside the door marked EMERGENCY. I whizzed past two nuns in full black habits without acknowledging them. They looked at me in unison, with a glare that I didn’t care to understand, and kept on walking.
A dainty older woman, with hair as silver as a brand new car bumper looked up from a crossword puzzle as I hurried to the information desk. I knew her. She was a cousin to Burlene Standish. Her name was Olga Olafson, and she had a similar reputation as Burlene when it came to being interested in all of the gossip that went on about town. I was in no mood for idle chitchat.
“I was a wonderin’ where you were, Marjorie,” Olga said. She had on a white crocheted sweater that looked like it had just been bought at the church bazaar. It was buttoned all the way to the top, pinching the wrinkles that had come naturally with age on her throat. With her glasses and pursed lips, she looked like an old fish about to exhale or explode, I couldn’t tell which. She smelled of prune juice and moth balls.
“Hank’s here then?” I said.
Olga nodded. Her glasses had a chain on the shafts just like Calla’s always had. A pang of recognition flickered in the pit of my stomach.
“Came in with that Knudsen boy. Doc Huddleston just came in, too. Must’ve got the call that Hank was dire.”
Dire? “He was fine when I left home.” I glanced at a set of double doors marked NO ADMITTANCE that I’d passed through more than once and knew that Hank was in one of three emergency bays. “Which one’s he in?”
“Oh, I can’t let you just wander back there, Marjorie. I have to call first and get permission. New rules. The sisters don’t want just anyone walking in and out. There’s awful things goin’ on from time to time back there. You don’t know what you might see, and it would be a sin for them to inflict any undue suffering on you. You have to sign in, too.” Olga produced a clipboard with a log on it. “Print your name and then sign it. I’ll call back and let them know you’re here.”
I took the clipboard but made no effort to pick up the pen that was on the front lip of Olga’s neatly organized desk. “If I don’t get an answer in one minute flat, I’m walking through those doors regardless of permission. I’m not afraid of a nun.”
“Like to see you try, Marjorie. Those doors are locked. No one gets in or out without me pressing this newfangled buzzer to open the door.” Olga pointed underneath the desk like a child with a new toy.
I shook my head, exhaled, and stared at the ceiling. “Can you call back?” I said through gritted teeth.
“Of course I can.” She picked up the phone, stuck her gnarled index finger in the rotary hole marked three, and dialed it quickly.
It was one of those moments where seconds felt like hours. I was trapped, kept from Hank with no way that I could see to reach him without making a full-blown scene—which I was on the very edge of anyway. All things considered, the events of the day had left my emotions dry and out of check. I preferred to think of myself as weathered, able to withstand the most difficult of circumstances without losing my head, but the requirement of patience and tact, at the moment, was the least of my concerns.
“Mrs. Trumaine is here,” Olga said into the black plastic mouthpiece of the telephone. She waited a second, and then said, “Of course,” and put the receiver back in its cradle.
She looked at me, feigned a smile, and punched the buzzer. It echoed throughout the empty waiting room. “You can go back, Marjorie.”
“It’s about damn time,” I said, spinning on my heels and marching away without offering so much as a thank you.
I was certain my reputation and lack of social skills was going to get spread across Dickinson, but to be honest I didn’t care. I didn’t care at all what that old biddy thought of me at that very moment.
CHAPTER 16
Hank had been easy to find. There were no other patients in the emergency room, and Jaeger and Betty Walsh stood sentinel outside the last bay. The hospital bed was enclosed with a thick blue curtain, and there was no one else to be seen. The lights were dim, and distant sounds of monitors beeped. An air conditioner or rooftop machine of some other kind groaned through the vents. It was like I had just stepped back in time. Nothing in the emergency room had changed since the last time I’d been there—except the presence of Jaeger Knudsen and Betty Walsh.
The full force of the antiseptic hospital aroma that I had come to expect hit my nose. It seemed thicker with ammonia than I remembered, and my eyes started to water almost immediately. I was sure the reaction was from the smell; I’d done everything I could to hold myself together.
This is a mistake. I’ll just pack Hank up and take him home where he belongs.
Jaeger looked up as I rushed down the corridor toward him. I’m sure I looked like I was on a mission. The idea of rescue was fully planted in my mind and heart, even though the reality around me suggested just the opposite. Hospitals were temples of change, of mortality. You never left as the same person you were when you entered it, patient or visitor.
Jaeger’s face was pale and grim. He looked like all of the summer sun had been drained from him and left outside the hospital door. I made it to him in record time.
“Doc Huddleston’s in with him now,” Jaeger said, averting his eyes from mine as quickly as he could. He glanced at the slit in the curtain.
Words bubbled at the tip of my tongue, and I could feel the hateful acid that had brewed and was ready to pour out of my mouth as I took note of Betty Walsh. She didn’t look as grim as Jaeger. As a matter of fact, she didn’t look grim at all; she stood tall, with her shoulders straight and a satisfied turn on her bright red, recently refreshed lips. She looked entirely pleased with herself. Which only infuriated me more. Sexy red was not the color I had hoped to see.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” I said to Betty, as I turned to push my way through the curtains.
Betty Walsh started to say something and that stopped me dead in my tracks. “Don’t,” I ordered, pointing my index finger at her at the same time. “Just don’t.” And without waiting for a smug response, or something that I would consider to be throwing gas on a growing fire, I nearly jumped through the blue curtains. The truth was, I was saying “don’t” as much to myself as I was to Betty Walsh.
I nearly tackled Doc Huddleston with my entrance into the room, if it could have been called that. He was standing at the foot of the hospital bed, writing on a chart, and he had to use all of his balancing skills not to drop the clipboard and pen onto the sparkling clean white floor. The overhead light nearly blinded me and was such a shock to my retinas that I feared joining Hank in his blindness. Fortunately, my vision returned almost immediately.
Doc was a tall man, a few inches over six feet, of Danish descent, with hair as white and thick as a cotton ball, and a beard that looked like it belonged on a nineteenth-century president’s stern face. The beard was long and wavy, always meticulously combed, and stopped mid-chest; I knew no other man that wore such a beard. If he’d had a belly and puffy cheeks, Doc would have made a great Santa, but neither was the case. He was thin as a rail, and I had never seen him be jolly.
“Marjor
ie,” Doc said, regaining his composure. There was no annoyance in his voice. Just surprise. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The collision with Doc had been as much of a surprise to me as it was to him. It was like running headlong into the side of an Angus bull. It took me a second to recover. When I did, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Hank was encased in a clear plastic tent. It looked like a see-through coffin, and I didn’t like that idea at all. The image of him was blurry, like I was looking at him through tearful eyes—which I wasn’t. Yet.
A plastic dome-shaped hood sealed the outside environment away from Hank. Oxygen-rich air was being pumped into the tent, forcing the regular atmosphere to the top, into the dome. A noisy pump, regular as a ticking clock, sat at the side of the bed, along with three tall green canisters of oxygen. NO SMOKING signs were posted everywhere—which explained why there was no cigarette dangling from the corner of Doc’s lip. He was rarely without a Tareyton, even in the hospital. There were no ashtrays anywhere to be seen, either. A series of tubes ran out of the tent, all leading to a set of controls that looked more suited to a spaceship than a hospital room. My mind wondered for a second, curious about the buildup of carbon dioxide inside the tent—where it went—but that question would have to wait.
“Is this necessary?” I said to Doc. “He was fine when I left the house. I mean, I heard a rattle this morning, but it was distant, and I just heard it once. I wasn’t sure . . .”
Doc Huddleston looked at me curiously. He was not the most easygoing man I had ever met, but there was no sign that he had taken offense at my questioning him. He had dealt with me enough to know that I was born without the capability of holding my tongue or hiding my attitude.
“Of course it is necessary, Marjorie; otherwise I would have driven Hank home myself. It’s a precaution that I hope wards off any further deterioration in Hank’s condition. Those kids did the right thing by calling me. You just relax a bit now. He’s fine. Exactly where he needs to be.” Doc went silent and looked over at Hank. His tone and eyes finished saying, “I know what’s best for Hank, trust me.” But I wasn’t convinced. I didn’t trust anybody when it came to Hank’s care. Not even myself.
See Also Deception Page 7