The Conveyance

by Brian Matthews

  Dad hated the clinic. He told her the work was beneath them, when, in fact, he meant it was beneath him. He had chosen his career for the prestige. Seeing his wife find joy in being a simple family doctor vexed and perplexed him.

  Theirs wasn't a happy marriage, for obvious reasons. I was surprised they'd gotten together long enough to have five kids.

  Their dispute came to a head when Mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Dad's unwavering faith in specialists was put to the test, and the specialists were found lacking.

  He took her death hard. Not simply because she was gone, but because everything he had worked for, everything he had believed in, had failed him. He became angry and sullen and, finally, depressed. In the weeks following Mom's death, his depression worsened. All we could do was watch helplessly from the sidelines. Doc Vader would never tolerate interference from his children.

  The hospital’s chief of surgery urged him to take a bereavement leave, to get away from the stresses of the operating room. Dad flat-out refused. He equated taking the leave with a public display of failure, an indication that he wasn’t coping, that he wasn’t perfect. In his stubbornness, he failed to see the leave as an integral part of the coping process.

  Then one day, not too long after the funeral, he was the surgeon on-call when rescue workers rushed a young boy into the ER. The kid had been involved in a head-on collision, a nasty accident that killed his parents. The force of the impact had caused a tear in his aorta—a small wound, barely a pinprick, but it would kill him if it wasn’t immediately repaired.

  Dad performed the surgery, an operation he should’ve been able to do in his sleep. Midway through the procedure, though, he started arguing with the nurse anesthetist. It was a minor thing, something to do with a fluctuation in the boy's blood pressure. When the nurse questioned him about it, Doc Vader lost it—he began yelling at the man, calling him a "dumb son of a bitch" who should "let those who know better run the goddamned operating room." In the middle of his rant, Dad jerked his head up, probably intent on further reprimanding the nurse, and when he did, his hand—the one holding the scalpel—moved. Not much, but enough. The blade sliced open the boy's aorta and he bled out in less than a minute.

  Dad shouldn't have been working. He was still grieving. The review board came to the same conclusion and found him guilty of negligence by not taking the necessary leave.

  Fines and a suspension followed, as did a civil suit.

  Last I heard, Dad was living somewhere in California with a woman half his age. He no longer practiced medicine.

  The light changed and Toni hit the gas.

  We crossed a bridge, a narrow two-laner with steel guardrails. There was a blue SUV parked off to one side. A man leaned into the rear hatch. When he emerged, he was holding a fishing rod, a creel, and a pair of neoprene waders. He was older with gray hair and tanned skin. He waved as we passed.

  I returned his wave. "The natives seem friendly enough."

  "You were expecting cannibals?"

  "It's a thing with small towns. Isolation makes them suspicious of strangers."

  "It's a tourist town. They thrive on strangers. Besides, we're ten miles outside of town. The guy was probably from Battle Creek or Portage."

  "Did you see the decals on the window?"

  "I was too busy driving."

  "There were two. One was a POAM sticker, the other a black badge with EPD written across in yellow." Frank had a POAM sticker on his car. It stood for Police Officers Association of Michigan. "I bet EPD stands for Emersville Police Department."

  Toni eased up on the accelerator. "Was I speeding?"

  "I think he was more interested in the trout than you. He's probably waist deep in that stream by now and praying the brownies bite."

  She looked sheepishly at me. "Pretty silly, huh?"

  "Yeah, pretty silly."

  We traveled the rest of the way in silence.

  Eventually I saw a tall, broad sign next to the road. As we drew near, the words on it became clear.

  WELCOME TO EMERSVILLE

  LITTLE CITY OF WONDERS!

  "You found it," I said.

  "Was there ever a doubt?"

  Toni slowed the car as the speed limit plunged. We passed a newer-looking gas station. A Ford pickup sat at one of the pumps with a burly man in jeans filling the tank. His dark eyes followed us as we drove, his expression as muddy as his pickup.

  "That's more like it," I said. "He could give Clint Eastwood squinting lessons."

  "Maybe we made his day."

  "Funny. Real funny."

  "You should see me when I'm on a roll."

  "Croissant or bagel?"

  She laughed. "Stick with the shrink stuff, mister. Adam Sandler you ain't."

  "Thank God."

  The city of Emersville fleshed out. Retail stores populated the outer edges—two car dealerships (one Chevy, one Ford), a pharmacy, a grocer, bait and tackle shops (a requisite for every small town north and west of Detroit), a dry cleaner, and several other necessary but thoroughly mundane businesses.

  I made a clucking noise with my tongue. "I don't see anything special. Certainly nothing that stands out from any other town."

  "Wait until we get to the city center. Kerry said all the cool stuff was there."

  Not likely, I thought.

  The residential district was more upscale. Nice, in fact, with well-maintained homes and, in a few cases, white picket fences. Two women in light jackets walked a Yorkshire Terrier and chatted animatedly. Another woman jogged past them, headed in the other direction, her ponytail bouncing with each step. They nodded to one another as they passed.

  "What do you think now?" Toni said.

  "Okay, the homes are nice. But I still don't understand the allure of this place."

  She turned a corner, we hit the central part of Emersville, and I had to eat my words.

  The town opened up. Businesses loomed on larger parcels of land, giving the impression that the city had somehow grown, that it occupied more space than it actually did. Gone were the utilitarian stores of the suburbs. Here the shops (some would call them boutiques) appeared more inviting, the buildings rendered in warmer shades of brown and green. The old-time quaint vibe was so strong I found myself searching for a wooden Indian standing in front of a five-and-dime.

  What shocked me most, though, was how new everything looked, as if this part of town had sprung up overnight. Buildings had fresh coats of paint. Sidewalks and roads seemed freshly poured. There was no wear or tear, no graffiti, no litter.

  “This looks a little too perfect,” I said.

  Toni pointed. "See, there's the coffee shop."

  The place was called Black and Brewed, and it was massive. Two stories tall with an open roof where patrons could sit under wide umbrellas and sip espresso, the brick and steel edifice took up most of a city block. Heavy metal guardrails ran the length of the roof line. Tinted windows like great dark eyes glared out from beneath scalloped awnings.

  The word formidable sprang to mind: Fort Knox for Generation C. Why any business would want to project that kind of image baffled me.

  A line of customers trailed out the door.

  I checked my watch. "It's four in the afternoon."

  "Coffee's big business here." Toni pulled into an open spot near the far end of the street.

  I climbed out of the 4Runner, my muscles stiff and sore, my knees popping like firecrackers. I stepped onto the sidewalk. Toni met me there. Her hand slipped into mine.

  "Where do you want to start?" she asked, dashing any hope I had that this would be a quick, get-in-and-get-out operation.

  "Well, we've got the coffee shop. There's a Dairy Queen and a restaurant, if you're hungry. Something called Lost Desires." I checked out the other direction. "Not much this way. Mostly a bed and breakfast and a—"

  I stopped, the rest of the words stuck in the back of my throat, choking me. The hairs on my arms rose in a terrified wave.

  My dr
eam from last night, it returned with a crash, threatening to overwhelm me. Vague images of something sickly green and glowing. Mist hanging low on a lake. Water. Suffocating water. And...and....

  I began to tremble.

  "Brad, are you okay?" Toni's voice sounded distant, as if it had travelled from a distant place and time. She shook my shoulder. "Hey, say something. You’re scaring me."

  "I—oh, Jesus—look at that." I pointed over her shoulder.

  She turned to look. "You mean the motel?"

  "Yes, the motel."

  "What about it?"

  "Look at the sign."

  "I don't get it. What's wrong with the sign?"

  I glanced fearfully over her shoulder. The motel stood two blocks away, an old fashioned, one story structure stretching from a corner office to the end of the block. Each room had a brass number on its door. A large marquee loomed over the office, midnight blue with bright white lights spelling out its name.

  Star Fall Motel.

  To complete the picture, the sign had several shooting stars streaking across the background, their long comas trailing behind them like fiery tongues.

  My dream. Stars falling. Stars falling.

  I swallowed. My spit burned like acid going down.

  Toni moved to block my view, her face etched with concern. "Brad, honey. You're freaking me out."

  "I had a dream last night,” I said. “Several, really, but I don't remember much about the others. The one that stood out involved stars...stars falling through a night sky. They fell and fell, and I fell with them. I fell for what seemed like years." My eyes found hers. "I cried out for you. I remember screaming your name, over and over, but I couldn't hear my voice. I couldn't hear anything. There was nothing. I think that frightened me the most. I was completely alone."

  As I talked, a car rolled slowly by—the pickup we'd seen earlier at the gas station. The driver stared at us, his eyes now hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. When he saw me staring back, he quickly accelerated and was gone.

  I returned my attention to Toni. "Pretty stupid, huh. Letting a dream bother me that much."

  "Everyone's entitled to a nightmare now and then." She cocked her head to one side. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"

  "It was silly, a fragment of an image. I didn't fully remember it until I saw the sign."

  "Let’s forget the motel for now," Toni said. “How about we get a cup of coffee?”

  "Sure, sounds great."

  We walked toward the coffee shop. For some reason, I felt an urge to glance over my shoulder. It was strong, powerful: a pressure, like someone poking a finger into the back of my brain. It was so compelling I almost stopped and turned. But I resisted. I kept my face forward. I didn't want to see the sign again, stupid as it sounded.

  The sun had fallen, lengthening the shadows. Cool air swept in, carrying the clean smell of pine and water. There was probably a lake nearby. No surprise. Michigan was full of them.

  We came to an intersection, waited patiently for a car to pass, and crossed.

  The stores here had a definite touristy feel. We passed a bakery called Patty's Pastries, the display window filled with an assortment of decadent confections. Next was the five-and-dime I'd looked for earlier, sans the wooden Indian. It did, however, have a penny press in front—an old fashioned, crank-style machine where you put in a penny and it pressed the coin into a smooth oval. Pretty stupid, if you asked me.

  We ignored the penny press, not sparing it a second look, and arrived at the trinket store, Lost Desires.

  The building had perfect cedar siding and a wood awning stained dark walnut. Iron coat hooks were nailed to the support poles. A water barrel sat at the far end with a downspout ending just above its surface. There was even a horseshoe nailed above the door; like everything else here, it looked brand new. All the place needed was a wagon wheel bolted to the storefront to complete the western theme.

  Toni stopped. "This place looks cute."

  "Absolutely," I said, straight-faced. "As adorable as it gets."

  "Sorry, I know you don't like this kind of thing."

  Her admonition, however gently delivered, stung. We were here because of me, though I had insisted we go more for her sake than anything else. Now I was acting smug and trite. Talk about being off your game.

  "Want to take a look inside?"

  "Would you mind?"

  "Of course not." I opened the door. "Ladies first."

  "Why, thank you, sir," she said, and scooted inside.

  As expected, the typical tourist trinkets filled the first few shelves. To my surprise, I also saw a section of pottery pieces, most of which looked Native American, and hammered copper sculptures, tall and graceful and sweeping. As we wandered through the store, we found shelves of hand-painted ornaments, laminated jewelry boxes, hand-blown glass baubles, and other collectibles. Surprisingly, one section contained an assortment of toys, dolls, and games that would make a child quake with excitement. I picked up a Monopoly box, the surface worn smooth by years of handling, and lifted the lid.

  "Damn," I said softly.

  Toni stepped closer. "What is it?"

  "The game. See the black border on the box? And there are two patents listed, with no copyright. It's a Black Box Number Five edition, released in 1935. Very rare. Looks like it has all the pieces too."

  "You're the game junkie, not me. Is it worth much?"

  I turned the game over and showed her the price tag.

  "You're kidding," she said. "Who’d pay that much for a game?"

  A woman stepped around the end of the aisle. She was slender as a willow, her silver hair done up in a bun, and wore clothes nearly as old as the Monopoly game. "Not as many as I would like, I'm afraid.”

  "Are you the owner?" Toni asked.

  The woman nodded. "Annabelle St. Crux."

  "Pleased to meet you. I'm Toni Jordan, and this is my husband, Brad."

  I held out the game. "Where did you find this?"

  Annabelle's smile widened, revealing small teeth stained a dingy brown. "Garage sale, if you can believe it. The owner practically gave it away."

  "Nice find." I eyed the box a final time and set it back on the shelf. "Quite a collection you have here."

  "The toy section is my favorite."

  "Is there a demand for high end toys?" I asked.

  Annabelle caressed the Monopoly game with a thin, shaking finger. "Like I said, not much. I sell maybe a piece or two a month. People mostly go for the everyday trinkets near the front. Tourists are all the same." She took in the bruises on my face. "You look awful. Are you all right?"

  I smiled. "A little sore, but I'll live."

  "I thought this town was some sort of antiquing mecca," Toni said.

  "There are enough shops to keep you busy," Annabelle said, "but we only recently started building our antiquing reputation. I suspect Shipshewana still gets a majority of the hardcore collectors."

  "Have you been here long?" I asked.

  "Two years this November," she said with a sigh. "They haven't been easy years either. Starting a new venture like this never is. I hope to turn a profit with the fall shopping season. My seed money is dwindling rapidly."

  "We're hoping to find gifts for our family," Toni said. "Christmas presents and such. Our friends were here a few weeks ago. They bought a doll, possibly from you. Yarn for hair, white button eyes. Blue dress."

  Annabelle nodded. "I remember them. A pleasant woman. Her husband was big, kind of direct."

  "Kerry and Frank," Toni said. "Kerry suggested we visit. She loved this town."

  "A charming woman. I hope she's enjoying the doll. It's very special."

  "Special?" I said. “In what way?”

  "I'm sorry, I meant the doll is special to me. I make them myself and consider them all special." Stepping over to the collection, Annabelle picked one up, a classic Raggedy Ann, and hugged it to her chest. "I love my dolls. I name each one, you know. This is Thumbkin. She's one of
my favorites."

  "Thumbkin," said Toni. "As in the nursery rhyme?"

  Annabelle yawned, her jaw stretching to the point where the joints popped. "Pardon me. I haven't gotten much sleep lately. Where was I? Oh, yes. Thumbkin. When I first held her, the name popped into my head. It's been that way for each member of my little family." She returned Thumbkin to her spot. "Were you looking for anything particular?"

  "I'm a child psychologist. Dolls are part of my therapy routine. How would you like to see one of your family help a troubled child?" I picked up Thumbkin. "This one, perhaps. If you don't mind parting with her?"

  "I wouldn't have her out if I didn't want to sell her." Annabelle took the doll from me. To Toni, she said, "And what about you? Were you looking for something specific? Perhaps a gift for a son or daughter? We have an assortment of toys. I wouldn't recommend the Monopoly game, of course. That's more for a collector, not a—" She frowned at Toni. "Is there something wrong, dear? You've gone pale."

  Toni had indeed turned pale, and her lower lip began to quiver.

  "Why don't you go look for something for your parents?" I gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I'll join you in a moment."

  "Excuse me," she said to Annabelle and hurried off.

  Annabelle watched her go. "What did I say?"

  "It's not you. We've been trying to start a family, without much success. Your comment about children struck a nerve. She'll be fine in a few minutes."

  "Poor dear. I didn't mean to upset her."

  "It's not your fault. You didn't know." I gestured to the toy collection. "You seem fond of toys. Do you have children?"

  A sadness came over her, and she shook her head. "Kids never worked out for me. I never married, so I never had the opportunity. I guess that's why I enjoy my dolls. They're surrogates. I care about them as much as I would my own children." She held up Thumbkin. "Thank you for giving her a home."

  "More office than home, but at least she'll be with kids."

  "Better than spending your life on a store shelf." She made a dismissive gesture. "I've taken up enough of your time. You're here to shop, not gab with an old biddy. Let's go see if your wife found anything."

  It turned out she had. We met at the counter near the cash register.