Lake News

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I don’t know. The essay didn’t mention him.”

  “He’d have told me if he knew Terry.”

  “They don’t have to know each other personally for there to be a connection,” John said, and Lily bought into it. How could she not, with him so sure? His eyes held a glow. It warmed Lily inside, warmed her until she burst into a grin. If they could prove a personal connection between Terry and the Cardinal, there would be a solid case for malice, and a solid case for malice would make her own case open-and-shut.

  She couldn’t stop grinning. Needing even more of an outlet, she locked her hands around John’s neck. “This is good.”

  He was grinning right back, straight white teeth forming a crescent in that close-cropped beard. “Yup,” he said. Before she knew what he was up to, he slipped his arms around her waist, swept her right off the porch, and whirled her around in a jubilant circle. When he set her down, he pulled her into a hug.

  Lily loved it. She couldn’t remember the last time anything had felt so good. Not even that hot bath in Celia’s jasmine oil had felt quite as fine. And it wasn’t done. When Harry Connick started in with “It Had to Be You,” John began to sway with her on the pine needles. With the night dark, the air fresh, and his body firm and supportive, she was entranced.

  Letting go was easy, because he led well. Lily had seen everything in her line of work, but John ranked with the best. He felt the beat and moved with it, holding her hand to his heart, later anchoring it at his thigh. For a while she felt the soft brush of his beard when he hummed at her ear. Then he buried his mouth in her hair, and the warmth of that was wonderful, too. They covered ground in a smooth, lazy way, at the porch now, at the lake then, and the one thing that came to her through the headiness was that every step was coordinated, his body to hers.

  Then he kissed her. It came in a space between songs and was part of the moment, all smooth and lazy, nothing to cause alarm. But it was delicious, indeed. She welcomed seconds and thirds, might even have considered fourths, because he knew how to kiss as well as he knew how to dance. But he was dancing again.

  Only it was different now. She was aware of his body in more intimate ways, aware of his legs, his chest, his belly. And her own? On fire with a sudden wanting.

  He felt it, too. Even if his body hadn’t betrayed that in such a virile way, she would have known it by the kiss he gave her when the song was done. It was deeper and more hungry. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she let it carry her away. She gave herself up to sensation and floated.

  Then something intruded. At first she thought it was the ragged breathing at her ear. It was a minute before she realized that it was a car. Seconds later, headlights cut a swath of light right past them.

  She gasped and tried to leave John, but he held her immobile against him. “Wait,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wait.”

  The car stopped. A familiar voice called from the window. “Lily?”

  “Poppy,” Lily whispered and, suddenly frightened, looked up at John. “It’s too late at night. Something’s wrong.”

  When she pulled away this time, John let her go, but he was right beside her, running up to the spot behind the Tahoe where Poppy had stopped. She had her door open, so that light filled the van. Lily’s thoughts were on Maida, but Poppy’s eyes were on John.

  “I played a hunch when you didn’t answer your phone,” she told him. “Lily didn’t have the cell phone turned on, so here I am.”

  “What’s wrong?” John asked.

  “Gus had a heart attack.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The hospital was in North Hedgeton, easily a thirty-minute drive from Lake Henry. John drove faster than was safe, but he had visions of Gus dying before he got there—dying out of sheer spite. He couldn’t let that happen. He and Gus had to talk. If the old man died on him, it would reduce much of the last three years to a farce.

  Had he been alone, he would have driven even faster, but Lily had insisted on coming, and he hadn’t been of a mind to argue. He was feeling a sense of déjà vu—unhinged, a little as he had been at fifteen when he and his mother left the lake. Then, he had hidden his fear behind a wall of bravado, but fifteen-year-olds did that, not forty-somethings.

  Lily reminded him of the here and now. She anchored him somehow.

  “I’m okay,” he assured them both every few minutes, and she would nod, or touch his arm, or say a soft “I know” in response. It worked, making him feel more in control.

  Pulling up at the hospital, John was grateful for small favors. Had he been in Boston, he’d have had to waste precious time parking. Here he left the Tahoe at the emergency entrance, took Lily’s hand, and hurried inside. As soon as he gave his name to a passing nurse, he was directed to the second floor, and once there, he made a beeline for the trio of doctors conferring at the door to one of the rooms.

  Gus was in that room, but he was outnumbered by machines. One delivered oxygen, another medication; one monitored his heart, another his oxygen level. Two others waited silently, on call. Gus, himself, was positively ashen. He was long, thin, and utterly still under the sheets—either sleeping or unconscious.

  Without taking his eyes from his father, John asked the trio, “How is he?”

  “Not good,” Harold Webber answered. Gus had been under his care since an initial attack shortly before John had returned to town. Since then, John and Harold had worked together to try to get Gus to live more gently, but it had been a futile effort, and physical lifestyle was the least of it. What physical stress they had relieved by making him retire had only heightened his emotions.

  “It was a bigger one this time than last,” Harold said quietly. “It doesn’t look good.”

  “Can you operate?”

  “Not now. He’s too weak. We’ll have to wait until he stabilizes. Then, if he agrees…” Bypass surgery was becoming commonplace, but that didn’t mean there weren’t risks involved. The last time Harold had suggested doing it, Gus had flat-out refused. That was four months ago.

  “What happened?” John asked.

  “Dulcey saw lights on later than usual and went to check. She called the ambulance. It could have been worse. His brain wasn’t deprived of oxygen. It’s still functioning. He’s just very, very weak.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “In and out.”

  John tightened his fingers around Lily’s. “Can we go in?”

  Harold said, “I don’t see that it would hurt him any. He’s ornery by nature. You won’t upset him more than he’d be anyway.”

  John started forward. He was at the door when Lily pulled back. Apprehension was written all over her face. It hit him that seeing Gus had to be difficult for her—that feeling for Gus had to be even harder.

  “Maybe I should wait here,” she whispered.

  “He’s probably the last person on earth you want to see.”

  “I was thinking about Gus. He won’t want to see me. I’ll remind him of Donny.”

  It was a possibility. Selfishly, though, John needed her there. He felt empty, thinking about Gus. It doesn’t look good. They had never been at that point before. “Come with me? Please?” he asked, and she went, as he knew she would. She was a more decent human being than any Kipling, that was for sure.

  Feeling a deep fear along with emptiness, he approached the bed. He let Lily stand a bit behind him, but he kept a grip on her hand.

  “Gus?” he called quietly.

  Gus didn’t respond. His eyelids lay perfectly still.

  “Dad? It’s John. Can you hear me?” When there remained no sign of awareness, John said, “I always see him on Wednesdays. I skipped today. Figured I’d go tomorrow. I shoulda gone. I shoulda gone.” He snorted. “There you have it. My relationship with Gus in a nutshell. Forty-three years of ‘shoulda done’s.’ ”

  Lily rubbed his arm, and it settled him some. He put his elbows on the bed rail and studied his father’s face. It seemed frozen in anger, as though whatever was eating at h
is insides had such a deep hold that it shaped even the unconscious mind.

  “I haven’t a clue,” he said quietly.

  “About what?” Lily asked.

  “The anger that makes him scowl that way. I used to think it was me. Do you know, I can only remember one time in my entire life when I saw him smile in response to something I did.”

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “I went to bed with a stone. He used to carve them.”

  “Stones?”

  “He’d chisel out little faces—eyes and noses and mouths. He gave me one when I was six.”

  “For your birthday?”

  “No. He didn’t believe in birthdays. Just gave it because he felt like it, I guess. I never knew why.” He grunted. “Another one of those never-knew-why things.” He drew up two upholstered chairs that had been pushed to the wall. “Mind sitting a little while?”

  * * *

  An hour passed. A startling number of doctors and nurses came and went for such a small hospital, but then, Gus was their only patient in critical condition. As they monitored him, John kept watch, alternately sitting back in his chair, coming forward with his hands between his knees, and standing. Gus didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t make a sound.

  At one point when they were alone, seemingly out of the blue, Lily said, “All families have them.”

  “Have what?”

  “Those never-knew-why things.”

  “You and Maida?”

  “Especially.”

  “You’re lucky she’s in good health. There’s still time.” But time was running out for Gus. John felt it as keenly as he’d ever felt anything. Looking back, the signs had been there. Hell, the last few times John had seen him, Gus hadn’t moved from the sofa.

  He shoulda known.

  John was feeling a sense of futility by the time Wednesday became Thursday. Lily was curled in the chair beside his. Her eyes closed from time to time, but as soon as he suspected she had fallen asleep, she opened them and gave him an encouraging smile. She didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. She just smiled in a way that said he was absolutely where he should be.

  And she was right. Gus was his father. John hadn’t been around when bad things were happening to Donny, and he would go to his own grave regretting that. Now bad things were happening to Gus. He couldn’t not be there.

  Lily didn’t have to be there with him, though. Making her stay through the night was being selfish in the extreme.

  So the next time she closed her eyes, he touched her hand. Her eyes opened immediately. “You don’t have to stay,” he whispered. “You’re exhausted.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Take the Tahoe and go home and sleep. I just can’t leave.”

  “Would you rather be alone?” she asked gently.

  No, he would not. He shook his head.

  She smiled. Tucking up her legs, she settled into the chair.

  Watching her, John felt an incredible fullness swell his heart. That was the moment when he guessed he was in love.

  Lily dozed off.

  John might have, too, but he wouldn’t let it happen. It was the middle of the night, the room was dim, and the beep of the heart monitor was hypnotic. His eyes grew dry and gritty, a tic pulsing under one, but he refused to sleep. When an angel in scrubs brought hot coffee, he drank every drop. He kept watch on the machines and on what the nurses did, but Gus didn’t wake up.

  Lily did. She had barely slept an hour when she came awake with a gasp. Her eyes went to John, then, in alarm, to Gus.

  “He’s the same,” John said.

  She let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I dreamt it was my mother.” She bent forward and pressed her forehead to her knees, then turned so that her cheek was there and her eyes were on him.

  “Does she talk while you’re working together?” he asked.

  “Not about what we need to discuss.”

  “You mean you talk, but you don’t say anything?”

  She nodded.

  He turned back to Gus. When he thought he saw the flicker of an eyelid, he came out of his chair and leaned over the rail. He reached for his father’s hand, but drew back just shy of a touch. Their relationship wasn’t physical. His voice, however, held raw urgency. “Gus? Talk to me, Gus.”

  Lily appeared at his side. “Maybe you should talk to him,” she suggested softly.

  John opened his mouth to speak, looked for words and found none, so he closed it. He was that fifteen-year-old again. It was all he could do not to squirm. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  It was like touching. “We just don’t.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  “About Gus?”

  “Yes. What do you love about him?”

  Absolutely nothing, was John’s first thought. He could more readily have said what he hated. Or what he resented. Or what he didn’t understand. There were lists and lists of all those things.

  But there had to be the other, too. If not, John wouldn’t be feeling the fear he did now. He wouldn’t be feeling the frustration or the emptiness. He wouldn’t be here at all, but would be at home, sleeping until the hospital called to say that it was done. Hell, if there wasn’t feeling, he wouldn’t be in Lake Henry at all.

  What was there to love about Gus?

  “He builds beautiful stone walls,” John said. “Has probably built hundreds of them. They’ll still be standing long after you and I are gone. I was always in awe of those walls.”

  “He’s an artist,” Lily said.

  John nodded. He imagined that the frown on Gus’s face had eased a little, and took heart from that. “He spent a lifetime working with stone. Never did anything else.”

  “How’d he learn?”

  “He never told me. He told my mom that the woods were where he did things right. He dropped out of school when he was fourteen. For months no one knew where he went during the day. Then they found him helping an old stonemason. He was doing fine, keeping out of trouble and learning a trade, so no one dragged him back to school. Huh. I missed a day of school and he hit the roof!”

  “He wanted better for you.”

  “Better than being an artist?” John asked. He couldn’t imagine that. “I could have been perfectly happy working with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Not for me or for Donny. Said we’d mess things up. He was a perfectionist. Took pride in what he built.”

  “Don’t you take pride in what you write?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then you’re like him in that.”

  John wanted to think so, but writing was different from building stone walls. Stone walls were functional and aesthetic. They didn’t have the power to ruin people. Writing did. That was the part of it that stuck in John’s craw. So maybe Terry was right. Maybe he wasn’t tough enough to hack it, if hacking it meant wielding a poison pen.

  Yes, he took pride in what he wrote. He had left Boston when that ceased to be the case. He took pride in Lake News. It was well written and served a positive purpose—was functional and aesthetic.

  It was—yes—like Gus’s stone walls.

  Shortly before dawn, Gus’s eyelids flickered and opened. John was quickly up, leaning over the bed. “Dad?”

  Gus focused on nothing at all, then on John, but if there was awareness or thought, he didn’t let on. When his eyes slipped shut, John looked at the heart monitor. The beat took an erratic turn, then steadied.

  He stepped back when a nurse arrived. She checked Gus, checked the monitors, and withdrew.

  John didn’t know whether to try to get Gus to wake up again or not. Waking up was a good sign, definitely cause for hope, but if it caused erratic cardiac activity, he could do without seeing Gus wake up yet. The lines were more even now. More peaceful.

  So he stood quietly for a time, studying Gus’s face. Many a night, as a child, he had done this while Gus slept in the big chair by the woodstove. He had been less threatening asleep than awake. Dorothy
had been calmer then, too, even affectionate, as she watched Gus and warned John to be still.

  Dawn brought a gentle, flattering light that enhanced the memory. When Lily stirred and came up to stand beside him, John said, “He really was a handsome guy. You can see some of it now.” He saw a full head of neatly cut hair, a clean shave, straight shoulders, strong hands. “My mother still talks about it. He was antisocial but handsome.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “Over a flat tire. She was driving through the hills with a friend, looking at foliage, just about this same time of year. He was a good-looking outdoorsman, who came right out of the woods to give them a hand when it looked like they’d be stranded. A month later, she came back looking for him with three tins of her mother’s coffee cake. She was infatuated. Hung around watching him work and baking him things, until he realized that she was his single best shot at settling down. He was nearing forty. She was young and pretty and eager.”

  John sighed. “I never dared mention her name, the few times I saw him after they split.”

  “You saw him here?”

  “During college. I thought he’d be proud that I’d got that far. He wasn’t. He didn’t want to look at me. So I never stayed long. I left, and then it ate at me, all I had wanted to say but didn’t.”

  A nurse came in with two mugs of coffee. She checked on Gus, adjusted the rate of a drip, and went out.

  John welcomed the warmth of the mug in his hands. Having Lily beside him was a help, but the winds of his history with Gus were cold. Oh, yeah, a lifetime of “shoulda done’s.”

  “I wanted to tell him,” he said quietly, “that I understood what happened between my mother and him. That it wasn’t all his fault. She made him out to be something he wasn’t. She was the one who went after him and then couldn’t hack it when life in the Ridge wasn’t romantic. He never made promises. She was the one with the expectations, so she was the one let down. I can’t blame him. Not for the marriage, not for the divorce. I wanted to tell him that.”

  So you have, he could practically hear Lily say. But she simply nodded and remained close.