I Shall Not Want

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

Someone coughed.

  Oh, my God. She saw realization replacing rage on his face. They had played the whole scene out in front of an audience.

  “Chief Van Alstyne?”

  Russ closed his eyes for a moment, then turned. The doctor who had come in earlier was looking at them with one hand resting on Alta’s desk phone. Ready to call security, no doubt.

  “Dr. Stillman.” Clare could hear him forcing his voice into its normal channels. “Hi.”

  “Uh . . . hi. How’s the leg?”

  Russ looked down at his ancient jeans, as if it hadn’t occurred to him before now that there was something holding him up. “Fine. Just . . . fine.”

  “Great. Uh—” The orthopedist’s gaze strayed to Clare. He stared. “Reverend Fergusson? Is that you?”

  She smiled weakly. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Stillman.” He let go of the phone and crossed to her, peering at her patches in the same way she had seen him peering at Russ’s X-ray last year. “National Guard? Great! Me, too. What unit?”

  “Uhm . . . the 142nd Aviation Battalion.”

  “Are you their new chaplain?”

  Russ rolled his eyes.

  “No,” she said. “I’m their new Black Hawk pilot.”

  “Excuse me.” A new voice, from behind her, startled Clare. She and Dr. Stillman both turned. A very tall and very erect older woman had emerged from the hallway leading to the elevator banks. She had silver hair cut towel-dry short and the professorial air of someone who has been telling people what to do without much back talk for the past forty-some years. “I’m Paula Hodgden, from Immigration and Customs Enforcement.” She folded her hands over a clipboard. Her measuring gaze took in the whole waiting-room tableau. “Is one of you the sponsoring employer of the nonresident aliens?”

  “Oh!” The mustachioed man tore his eyes away from the Russ-and-Clare show. “That would be me. I mean, me and my wife.” He nudged the woman by his side, who was still contemplating the two of them with a look of deep amusement.

  “ICE?” Russ said. “Not to be rude, but what are you doing here?”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Russell Van Alstyne, Millers Kill chief of police.”

  She flipped her clipboard open and made a notation. “Ah. It must have been your department that handled the accident.”

  “An accident in our jurisdiction. Why are you here, Ms.—uh—”

  “Hodgden,” Clare said under her breath.

  “I received a report that a vanload of possible undocumented aliens had been in an accident.”

  Russ frowned. “Who reported it?”

  Ms. Hodgden looked at him evenly. “I don’t think you expect me to divulge that, do you? I will say it was not, as it should have been, your department.”

  Russ crossed his arms, a move that emphasized his departmental hardware and patches. “We don’t go around checking people’s papers here in Millers Kill. It’s not a damn police state.”

  Clare had to hide her smile.

  “But you and I are in the first line of defense against possible terrorists, aren’t we?” Ms. Hodgden gestured toward Clare and Dr. Stillman. “Surely, we do our job so they might not need to do theirs.”

  Russ glanced at Clare, and she knew, without a doubt, what he was thinking: This lady has read too many official government pamphlets.

  Their mind-reading moment was broken when his sister shouldered him out of the way. “Hi, I’m Janet McGeoch.” She shook Ms. Hodgden’s hand. “Is there a problem with our workers?”

  “How do you do, Mrs. McGeoch. Let me ask you, did you use a service to facilitate the H-two A permits?”

  Janet glanced at her husband. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  “It was Creative Labor Solutions,” Mike McGeoch said. “They came well recommended. We went to this seminar about getting workers, over to Amsterdam? Couple folks there had used them before. We’ve kept all the paperwork and copies of everything we signed off on.” He patted his plaid wool jacket, as if the documentation might be hiding inside somewhere.

  Ms. Hodgden made another notation on her clipboard. “Creative Labor Solutions. I’m not familiar with them. I’d like to see any correspondence you have from them.”

  “Why?” Janet said pointedly.

  The ICE agent sighed. “Mr. and Mrs. McGeoch, I suspect you’ve been stung by a not-uncommon employee scam. Obtaining an H-two A permit costs an employment service time and money, and, as it’s designed to do, retards the movement of labor from the resident country to the United States. You follow?”

  Janet frowned. Glanced at her husband. “Yeah, I follow.”

  “Some so-called employment agencies try to make a deeper profit by charging clients the cost of fully legal H-two A employees and then supplying undocumented nonresident aliens instead.”

  “You mean, like a dealer selling a dime bag for a full ten bucks, but giving his customers baking soda?” Russ said.

  Ms. Hodgden raised her eyebrows. “That’s not how I would have put it, but yes.”

  “And we got the baking soda?” Janet looked from her brother to the ICE agent. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

  “Two of the three men who were admitted here had forged H-two A permits. Not, I should add, very good forgeries, either.”

  “Oh, shit,” Mike McGeoch said.

  Janet reached behind her and squeezed her husband’s hand. “And the third?”

  Ms. Hodgden consulted the clipboard. “Amado Esfuentes. His employment authorization documentation is correct.”

  “Well, there! There’s nothing to say the rest of the men don’t have the right papers, too.”

  “Mrs. McGeoch.” The agent’s voice had the professional sympathy of someone used to telling the same bad news, over and over again. It reminded Clare of her insurance adjuster. “Properly documented migrant workers don’t usually flee after being injured in a car wreck. Yes, it’s possible the two who were unable to run away were the only two undocumented aliens, but it’s not likely.”

  “What about this Amado guy?” Mike sounded hopeful. “Why would he have papers and the others not?”

  “In all likelihood, Esfuentes has worked in the U.S. before. That makes it easier for him to obtain an EAD on his own, rather than through an agency. It’s not uncommon for an experienced guest laborer to serve as a sort of leader or guide for work gangs from his village. I’d be willing to bet everyone in that van tonight came from the same hometown.”

  “An experienced worker? The one with the broken arm?” Russ shook his head. “I spoke with him. He was barely out of his teens.”

  Dr. Stillman, who had been listening at the edges of the discussion, broke in. “I agree with Chief Van Alstyne. He’s twenty-one, tops.”

  Ms. Hodgden made a well, what can you expect? gesture. “These people go to work when they’re thirteen or fourteen. You can’t rely on age as a guide.”

  “These people?” Clare propped her hands on her hips. She opened her mouth. Russ laid a hand on her shoulder. She shut up.

  “What does this mean for us?” Janet asked. “Bottom line.”

  “It means the two undocumented nonresidents will be returned to their country of origin.” Ms. Hodgden looked back down at her clipboard and frowned. “I’m having some difficulty locating one of them,” she admitted. “No one here seems to know where they’ve placed him. Sloppy work for a hospital.”

  Clare studied her boots.

  “What about the money we’ve paid to Creative Labor?” Janet asked. “What about us having enough hands to manage our herd?”

  “Whether you can recover the fees paid to the agency is between you and that agency.” Ms. Hodgden gave the McGeochs another professionally sympathetic look. “My suggestion would be to contact another, more reliable service and have them get started fulfilling your labor needs.”

  “Another six weeks!” Mike McGeoch jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at his boots.

  “In the meantime, your other employees’
papers will be examined as soon as they—ah, turn up.” She gave Russ a look indicating this was his responsibility. “Mr. Esfuentes can remain in this country legally, so long as he is employed.”

  “Employed by us,” Janet said.

  “Yes.”

  “As in, paid, and everything?”

  Paula Hodgden pierced her with a gimlet eye. “Mrs. McGeoch, one of the reasons we have work permits is to prevent employers from exploiting employees from another country.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant”—Janet splayed her hands wide—“he’s got a broken arm! On a dairy farm, that makes him about as useful as . . . as . . .”

  “Teats on a bull?” Russ offered.

  Janet slugged his arm. “How long is he going to be laid up?” she asked Dr. Stillman.

  “Four weeks in the heavy cast and another four in a lighter version. After that, another few weeks in a removable brace, just to ensure he doesn’t reinjure it. No weight-bearing exercise for the first month and very mild exertion for the second.”

  “Mild exertion? What’s that mean?”

  The orthopedist shrugged. “He could pick up a couple of books. His clothing. For most of my patients, it means you can start to perform normal household functions for yourself.”

  “We don’t need someone for normal household functions,” Janet said. “We need someone who can unspool thirty pounds of hose and pitch manure and drive a stick-shift truck!”

  Stillman shook his head. “You’re talking early July before this young man will be cleared for that sort of work.”

  Janet McGeoch’s eyes met her husband’s, and Clare could see them speaking to each other without a word, in the way of long-married couples. Mike nodded.

  Janet turned back to Paula Hodgden. “I’m sorry, but we just can’t afford to keep him on the payroll for two months or more.”

  “I understand. I’ll arrange for him to return with the other two.”

  “Wait!” The word was out of Clare’s mouth before she had a chance to stop it. “What if he gets a job?”

  Paula Hodgden looked at her and then at the rest of them, clustered among the JFK-era chairs of the ED waiting room. Clare could see her assigning everyone a status—employers, investigating officer, treating physician, and . . . woman in a grungy undress uniform.

  “I’m sorry,” the agent said. “You are . . . ?”

  “The Reverend Clare Fergusson, rector of St. Alban’s Church.”

  Ms. Hodgden’s eyebrows went up. She looked at Russ.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She really is.”

  Dr. Stillman grinned. “I can vouch for her authenticity, too.” He glanced toward the admissions desk. “But that’s all I can do. I see Alta’s waving me down. Excuse me, folks. Reverend.”

  Clare raised her hand in something that might have been either a wave or a blessing. Then she zeroed in on Ms. Hodgden again. “What if this Amado had a job for the next two months? A legal, paying job? Could he stay then? And work for the McGeochs after his arm healed?”

  Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “What are you thinking of?”

  “We need an interim sexton at the church. Mr. Hadley had open-heart surgery in March, and he hasn’t been able to perform his duties since then. He’s going to come back this summer, we think, but in the meantime we’ve been plugging the hole with volunteers. This guy could take the job.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “It’s perfect.”

  “Wait just one minute—” Russ began.

  “What do you think, Ms. Hodgden? Would that be legal?”

  “Well . . . if you’re willing to fill out the paperwork.”

  Clare turned to the McGeochs. “Would you consider taking him on when he’s recovered?”

  Janet and Mike gave each other another speaking look. “Okay,” Janet said.

  “Clare. For chrissakes, you’re going off half-cocked again.” Russ shoved his thumbs under his belt and tightened his hands over his rig. “He could be anybody. He could be wanted in three countries, for all you know.”

  Paula Hodgden shook her head. “Mmm, no. In order to obtain an H-two A permit, the applicant must have no criminal record in either the originating or the host country.”

  Russ glared at the ICE agent, then returned his attention to Clare. “He’s not going to be able to do custodial work with a bum arm. And what if he boosts the silver and takes off?”

  “Most of Mr. Hadley’s work is stuff like vacuuming and polishing the woodwork. You can do that with one arm as well as two. As for the silver, I keep it locked away except when it’s in use.” She let her usual light Virginia accent deepen into molasses. “I am a Southerner, after all. We know how to preserve our silver from depredation.”

  “Where’s he going to stay? Hmm? Are you going to pay for a room for him?”

  She bit her lip. As much as it galled her to admit it, she hadn’t considered that issue.

  “You see?” Russ went on. “You can’t—”

  “There are two extra bedrooms in the rectory,” she said, thinking out loud.

  “No.” The word was like a lodge pole driven into the ground. Immovable. She looked up at his grim face.

  “No,” she agreed. “That’s not the best idea, is it.”

  “Why can’t he stay in our bunkhouse?” Mike’s voice startled her. She had tuned the rest of them out. She looked at the dairy farmer. “Well, it’s not a—you know—western-style bunkhouse.” He smiled shyly. “It’s the original house on the property. Way back from the road, down by the stream. Hadn’t been lived in by anything but squirrels and chickens for the last hundred years, and let me tell you, it was a job making it habitable again.”

  “Honey.” Janet laid her hand on her husband’s arm. She smiled apologetically to Clare. “We have the house all cleaned and repaired for the new hands. He would be welcome to stay there, but I’m afraid he’d have no way of getting to work.”

  “No, no, that’s what makes it perfect.” Mike beamed at Clare. “The lady who bought the Petersons’ house, the house across the road? She works at your church. Her name’s Elizabeth de Groot.”

  Clare felt her jaw unhinge. She stared up at Russ. “My deacon lives across the street from your sister?”

  He shrugged. “I told you it’s a small town.”

  The agent held up her clipboard. “This is all very interesting, but perhaps, while they hash out the housing arrangements, I might have a word, Chief Van Alstyne?” She retreated toward the admissions desk.

  Russ looked at his sister, then at Clare, then back to his sister. “Don’t agree to anything,” he said to Janet. “You have no idea what you’ll be getting into.” He stalked off like a mood-reversed Cheshire Cat, leaving his frown hanging in the air between them.

  “I can get Elizabeth to carry Amado back and forth if you’ll let him live in the bunkhouse,” Clare said, hurrying to close the deal before Janet decided to take her brother’s advice.

  “What do think, honey?” Janet asked her husband.

  Mike shrugged. “Not like it’s going to be too full now, is it?”

  “Okay, then.” Janet held out her hand to Clare.

  “Great.” They shook. Janet laid her other hand atop Clare’s, trapping her in a warm grasp. “Honey?” She kept her gaze on Clare. “Could you go get me something from the cafeteria? I’m starving.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” Mike bumped off down the hall. Leaving Clare alone with Janet McGeoch, née Van Alstyne. Clare swallowed.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Janet’s eyes were the same blue as Russ’s.

  Oh, God. Better take the bull by the horns. “I bet you have,” Clare said. “Some of it’s probably even true.”

  Janet nodded. Released Clare’s hand. “I have to apologize to you.”

  Now that was surprising. “To me? Why?”

  “When my mom told me about you and Russ, I sort of mentally cast you in the role of bimbo home wrecker. You know, the much-younger seductress who wears
Victoria’s Secret thongs and nails the middle-aged idiot by massaging his ego. Among other body parts.”

  Clare thought she might spontaneously combust from the heat in her face.

  “But it’s pretty obvious you’re not like that.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “No. No thongs.”

  Janet smiled slyly. “And I don’t see you spending a lot of time massaging my brother’s ego.”

  Clare laughed. And then Janet surprised her again by catching her in a hug. “My mother likes you,” she said in Clare’s ear, “and I think I like you, too.” She moved a little way apart, creating a space between them. “And if you can rescue my brother from this pit he’s dropped himself into, I swear, I’ll love you forever.”

  VII

  It was close to midnight, and he was halfway back to his mother’s house, when Russ realized he hadn’t thought of Linda in hours. Since . . . since when? This morning? This afternoon? Panic, like a meaty hand, gripped his throat. Since before stopping at the liquor store. He hadn’t thought of her once since then. He had forgotten to remember. He steered the pickup to the shoulder of the road and got his four-ways on before the tears blinded him and he buckled over, hacking, the steering wheel cutting a groove in his forehead. He wept for his wife, and for forgetting, and for all the things he had loved and damaged.

  PENTECOST

  May

  I

  Her car gave out on the Schuylerville Road. At night, of course. At least five miles from the Stewart’s on Route 117. No, Stewart’s didn’t have a garage, did they? Just pumps.

  Hadley tipped her head back against the seat and breathed slowly and deeply. I am not going to fall apart. She was going to count her blessings. It was a 45-degree night in mid-May, instead of a 15-degree night in mid-February. The kids were safe at home, hopefully, please God, not harassing their great-grandfather into complete exhaustion. She was—her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of anything. She tried again. It was—

  Nope. That was it. She ran out of blessings after two. She opened her purse and dug out her cell phone—prepaid, thirty cents a minute—and dialed home. It picked up on the fourth ring.