Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans

  *Roscoe*

  “Most fatal stab wounds are located in the left chest region.” Cletus’s attention was on the shaving cream he applied to my neck and cheeks. “I read something that said once a victim acutely accumulates more than one hundred fifty milliliters of blood in the pericardial sac, death can occur at any time.”

  “Shut up, Cletus.” Duane glared at our brother.

  I was glad Duane was here, he was—by far—the best at glaring.

  “Fine, crusty britches.” Cletus mirrored Duane’s sour expression, turning back to dab more shaving cream on my neck. “I’m just saying, we’re all real lucky Roscoe is still here.” His eyes flickered to mine, moved over my face, and grew impossibly tender. “You okay there, buddy?”

  “I’m fine, Cletus,” I said, though it was hard to talk with shaving cream around my mouth.

  “I’m just saying, no one wants to hear that shit. We all know how lucky we are he’s still here,” Duane grumbled, his hand slipping over mine. He’d done this a few times, covered my hand without thinking. In a minute or so, he would probably catch himself and frown at our fingers, as though he didn’t remember reaching for me.

  “You have something interesting to discuss?” Cletus murmured. “By all means, let’s hear it.”

  “I’d rather talk about your sausage than listen to more facts about fatal stab wounds.” Beau placed the razor, towel, and bowl of water on the table over my hospital bed.

  “Are your feet warm enough?” Ashley currently sat near my feet, her hand on the blankets over my calf, her eyes soft and concerned. She’d been giving me the same soft and concerned look for the last two weeks now, since I’d been conscious enough to notice, and I didn’t mind it one bit.

  Sympathy from one’s sister is as close as you get to sympathy from your momma.

  “They should be warm,” Jethro said from his chair by the window where he was knitting me another pair of socks. Ashley had knit the first pair and he was almost finished with the second. “Wasn’t that yarn a hundred percent Shetland wool?”

  “I’d like a pair of those socks.” Cletus sniffed, putting the brush he’d used for the shaving cream back in the holder and picking up the razor.

  I shook my head, my eyes on the blade. “No. Nope.”

  He paused. “Well, I’m not asking for your socks. I’m just saying, if someone wanted to knit me socks for my birthday, I wouldn’t file a formal complaint with the knitters’ guild.”

  “Knitters’ guild?” Ashley asked, quirking a smile.

  Cletus waved his hands in the air, including the one holding the razor. “You know, the knitting peoples’ governing body.”

  Jethro grinned, sharing a quick look with Ashley. “Cletus, what exactly do you imagine knitters need a governing body for? We’re not a militia.”

  “Really?” He twisted at the waist and my eyes stayed on the blade he was whipping around willy-nilly. “Could have fooled me. Y’all are more organized than most militias.”

  Cletus returned his attention to my chin, the razor in his left hand, and I shook my head. “Cletus, I do not want you shaving me.”

  My brother’s eyebrows raised over wide eyes. “What?”

  “He said he doesn’t want you shaving him,” Duane said, his stare on me, anxious. “You in any pain? We can do this later.”

  “I’m okay,” I said, though I wasn’t really. My chest hurt. Everything hurt. I felt weak, unlike myself. Restless and tired at the same time. But none of that needed to be said. “I’d just prefer if Beau did it.”

  Cletus’s lips parted in astonishment and he blinked. “But it’s my turn.”

  “Yeah,” I drawled, “but I don’t want another Batman symbol goatee around my mouth.”

  Cletus narrowed his eyes into slits, his mouth pressing into a frustrated line, but he said, “Fine,” and handed the razor to Beau.

  Beau gave me a wide grin, his eyebrows wagging. “You trust me not to shave a symbol into your stubble?”

  “He trusts that you don’t have the artistic skill,” Cletus said flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets and adding conversationally, “For the record, I think a four-leaf clover design around your mouth would be a nice change. It has the power of symbolism. Everyone likes clovers.” He turned to Jethro. “Name me one person who doesn’t like clovers.”

  Jethro lifted his hands—still holding his knitting—as though he surrendered. “I can’t name one, Cletus. But I don’t know many people.”

  “No one wants a goatee in the shape of a clover. Beards aren’t topiaries,” Duane grumbled, but gave me a small smile.

  “That is patently false, Duane.” Cletus took a seat next to Jethro. “Hair is the topiary of the animal kingdom, everyone knows that.”

  “Besides, we can’t leave a clover on his face.” Beau’s grin waned, his eyes dropping to my cheeks. “They said we have to keep shaving the whole thing off.”

  Ashley made a small sound of distress, drawing my attention. A sad smile hovered around her lips.

  “Don’t worry, Ash,” I said. “It’ll grow back.”

  She nodded, her chin wobbly. “I know.”

  “I don’t understand why he has to shave it,” Duane grumped.

  “It’s not standard practice.” Ashley sighed. “A beard or other facial hair can interfere with the fitting of an oxygen mask—which I reckon is why they shaved it off to begin with. But sometimes I’ve seen the docs ask patients to stay hair-free, especially if there’s a risk for sepsis.”

  “She means infection,” Cletus said loudly, like one of us was hard of hearing and had no idea what sepsis meant.

  Beau chuckled at Cletus and shook his head, muttering, “Thanks, Cletus,” as he picked up the razor and examined the shaving cream covering my jaw.

  The room fell silent as Beau worked slowly, gently, carefully scraping, all his focus on my face. After a time, my eyes—feeling heavy—drifted shut. My mind wandered. Invariably, as it did when given time to wander, I thought of Simone.

  A pinching ache, up and above the constant physical throb from my injury and subsequent surgeries, arrested my heart. The pain meds dulled everything, including my mind. They made my memories less accessible, a great irony now that they were all I had of her.

  The first few days after the diner were a blur. When I woke up for real, I had several new scars. The biggest one wasn’t from the knife Razor Dennings had thrust into my back, but from the median sternotomy incision down my front.

  I’d been in the ICU after that for a lot of days, wishing someone would fill in the blanks, but being told I needed to rest.

  “Later.”

  “When you’re stronger.”

  “Focus on healing.”

  It had been a novel experience, being the one who didn’t remember.

  They did tell me Simone was alive. In fact, the first words I recall anyone saying to me other than my name were, “Simone is alive.”

  Everyone said it, nurses, doctors, my family. My sister had written the words in my chart, instructing all medical personnel to greet me as follows, “Roscoe? Simone is alive. I will now be recording your vitals and asking you some questions. Don’t forget, Simone is alive.”

  Apparently, I’d flatlined early on after someone informed me that Simone had been shot. Folks were still following Ashley’s instructions even now, even here on the regular recovery floor.

  My sister, it seemed, didn’t want to take any chances.

  But now, what had once eased my mind was currently making me restless. Simone was alive, just not in Nashville, and my memory wasn’t working right. Not for the first time in the last two weeks since regaining consciousness, I promised myself I’d take several hundred pictures with her and of her when all this was over.

  We’d talked just twice over the phone, with one of my siblings holding a phone to my ear. Not much had been said other than what one might expect from two people who loved each other, were
recovering from near fatal gunshot and stab wounds, and were trying to talk with an audience.

  “I love you.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Thank God you’re okay.”

  “It’s great to hear your voice.”

  “Don’t overextend yourself.”

  “Get better soon so we can have a real conversation.”

  “Get better soon so we can see each other.”

  “Please get better soon.”

  Stunted as the conversation had been, hearing her voice made a huge difference. Nothing motivated me to get better more than thinking about being with her. I couldn’t hold her yet or kiss her, but I would. I would do whatever it took to make that happen as soon as possible.

  After being discharged from the ICU—or moved, or relocated, whatever hospital folks call it—my family finally told me the full story. Or what they knew of it. Billy knew more than anyone, so he did most of the talking.

  After he knocked out Razor, he didn’t know which of us was worse off, so he’d covered both me and Simone in ice, he’d said, trying to stop or slow the bleeding. The ambulance arrived an eternity later, but in reality it was less than five minutes. I’d had my first surgery in Knoxville, but the other two had been here, at Vanderbilt. I’d arrived in a helicopter, or so they told me.

  After Billy’s retelling, I still had more questions, but I waited until we were alone to ask them. This was no small task since my second brother was splitting his time between Simone in Knoxville and me in Nashville, apparently at my request, though I didn’t remember making it.

  One night last week, I’d finally managed to get him alone.

  “What happened to Razor?” I asked. “Is he still alive?”

  My brother nodded, saying nothing, looking at his hands. I knew him too well to let him get away with that.

  “What did you do to him, Billy?” My question was quieter this time, and I hoped it lacked any trace of judgment. Whatever Billy had done to stop Razor from killing Simone felt justified to me.

  His jaw ticked and he sighed. “I found him over Simone, about to strike, so I knocked him out. Seeing you were both in a bad way, I covered your wounds with bags of ice from the freezer and waited for the ambulance. And then I . . .”

  I waited, staring at my brother. There was more to the story. There was no way he’d only knock out Razor Dennings and that’s it. No. Way.

  Billy swallowed, frowning, his gaze coming back to mine. “I cut his palms.”

  I started, blinking at my brother. “You cut his—”

  “With his own knife, right here”—he motioned to his own hand with a finger, his voice gravelly—“severing all the flexor tendons.”

  “Shit.” I breathed out, alarmed for my brother. Could Billy get in trouble? Be arrested? I . . . I thought maybe he could. Actually, he definitely could. Razor had been knocked out, subdued. My brother’s actions weren’t in self-defense.

  “I wiped my prints from the handle and pressed his fingers to it again. I wiped my own hands off on his shirt, ’cause it was already covered in blood.”

  “What did you tell the police?”

  He shook his head, staring forward. “I told them I found him over Simone so I knocked him out and covered you both with ice. They didn’t ask about his hands.” Billy took a deep breath. Then he took another. “He’ll never hold a knife again.”

  “Or much else,” I murmured, stunned.

  And that was the last we’d spoken about it. Partially because he wouldn’t say any more, and partially because I hadn’t seen him much since. I assumed he was with Simone in Knoxville. I hoped he wasn’t avoiding me.

  Billy was struggling. Even in my diminished state, I could see my brother was going through something big. He seemed tired and was walking slow. His eyes weren’t right, dull or something, and he didn’t talk at all when everyone came to visit unless asked a direct question.

  He was wading through weighty matters and wasn’t of a mind to share them with me. I understood why, he likely assumed I had enough on my plate, but I hoped he was talking to someone.

  “When do you fly back, Duane?”

  I was brought back to the present by Beau’s question to his twin and Duane’s answer.

  “Two more days.” His voice sounded subdued. “Jess has both Claire and her momma with her, just in case the baby comes early. The sheriff and Jackson are supposed to arrive first of July.”

  “What’s the due date again?” Ashley asked.

  “June seven,” he replied. “We still got some time.”

  “It’s coming up fast.” Jethro sounded amused. “And then nothing’ll be the same.”

  “That’s what y’all keep saying.” Duane paused here a moment before adding, “I guess we should discuss plans for this summer. I talked things over with Jess. We think it would be best for y’all to come out in the fall, once the kid here is well enough to travel.”

  I didn’t object to Duane calling me “the kid.” I was too tired to object to much of anything other than Cletus carving shapes in my stubble. But I did have something to say.

  So I lifted the hand Duane wasn’t holding, indicating for Beau to stop, and blinked my eyes open.

  “What’s wrong?” Duane’s hand tightened on mine.

  I found Beau standing back, his eyes wide, staring at me like he was afraid to move. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” I swallowed before speaking again. “Billy needs to go. Now. Or as soon as can be arranged.”

  Beau and Duane glanced at each other, silently communicating something between them—as they were prone to do—while Ashley stood to come closer. Her fingers pushed into my hair and she tilted her head to the side, studying me.

  “You worried about Billy?”

  I nodded.

  The side of her mouth curved up and she whispered, “Me too.”

  “Sienna, the boys, and I were still planning to fly over mid-June. We could bump it up, take Billy with us, if y’all think he needs to get out of town,” Jethro offered, and this was good news. Sienna would charter a private plane to fly her family. Taking Billy along wouldn’t be any extra fuss and made sense.

  “Claire is with Jess? Right now?” This question came from Cletus. He was somewhere on my left but I was suddenly too tired to turn my head.

  “That’s right,” Duane confirmed. “She’s not doing any shows this summer, but arranged for a studio in Rome to work on her next album.”

  It made sense that Claire would be present when Duane and Jessica’s baby was born. Not only was she a good friend of Jessica’s, but she was also the twins’ half sister.

  Five years ago, it had come out that Darrell Winston and Razor Dennings’s old lady, Christine St. Claire, had messed around while Razor was in prison for a short stretch. Beau and Duane were the result. We’d all believed our momma—Bethany Winston—was their biological mother. Instead, our momma had adopted them, raised them as her own, and never whispered a word to the contrary.

  When the truth had been revealed, by Christine St. Claire in a perplexing and weak attempt to extort money out of Beau, the situation had been both sour and sweet.

  Sour because Christine St. Claire wasn’t a person anyone would want as an acquaintance, let alone a mother.

  But sweet because Beau and Duane had gained a sister. Claire McClure—Christine and Razor’s only child together—was a wonderful person. I wasn’t related to her by blood, but I’d come to enjoy a connection with the tough and funny redhead. She lived in Nashville most of the year, doing her thing as a country music superstar, and we’d made a point of getting together once a week—for dinner, or a hike, or to see a movie—whenever she wasn’t touring or out of town for other work stuff.

  We’d even been linked romantically by a gossip magazine a few years ago, which had given us both a good laugh.

  “This idea has merit,” Cletus said thoughtfully, and I imagined he was giving the room his somber nod. He was entirely too fond of giving folks what
he called his somber nod.

  I’d already closed my eyes again, my mind wandering as I half-listened to their conversation.

  “The more I think about it, the more I like it.” Jethro sounded closer. “He’s been working nonstop. When’s the last time he took anything resembling a vacation? I can’t remember.”

  “Hasn’t the general assembly already adjourned for the summer?” Ashley asked. “I’m sure the Paytons wouldn’t mind giving Billy a leave of absence from the mill.”

  The Paytons.

  Again, the pinching ache. God, how I missed her. I knew she was recovering, needed rest, which only frustrated me. I wanted to be there, taking care of her, but I couldn’t even shave my own face.

  Abruptly, I became aware of silence and the cooling shaving cream still on my face. Duane’s hand slipped from mine. My siblings had ceased their chatter, which meant they thought I was asleep or trying to go to sleep. Maybe they were even tiptoeing out of the room. I wasn’t ready to sleep, not even a catnap. I wanted to stay awake for as long as possible so I could rest deeply later rather than the insufficient dozing of the last few days.

  So I lifted the hand Duane had been holding and cleared my throat. “Y’all, I’m not tired. Just resting my eyes.”

  Fingers slipped into my grip, but they weren’t Duane’s. They belonged to a woman—I could tell because the palm was soft and small and uncallused—but the hand wasn’t Ashley’s either.

  Lifting my eyebrows, I forced my eyes open, blinking until the room came into focus, and with it the woman next to my bed.

  Simone.

  My mouth parted and I stared, but I didn’t blink again, afraid she’d disappear or that I’d wake up from this dream.

  Her smile was huge, bigger than I’d ever seen it, but tears spilled down her cheeks into the happy brackets around her mouth. “Hey there, handsome,” she said, amber eyes shining as they moved over my face.

  “Are you real?” I whispered, but then quickly added, “If you’re not real, don’t answer that.”

  She laughed, sniffed, and sighed, pressing the palm of my hand to her heart. “I’m real.”

  “Hi, Roscoe,” someone said from the foot of my bed, and I reluctantly swiveled my attention to the new voice. Mrs. Payton stood there wearing a small smile. Next to her was Mr. Payton, his arm around his wife.