"It's a long night."
"It's complicated."
"It's simple if you want to stay here. You answer my questions honestly, the first time I ask. And don't try the charming smile with me anymore." She set her mug down hard and stared at him.
This time, it was Peter's stomach that both fell away and grew tight at the same time. Muzzy was fun and intense in her own way. She was giggly and somewhat awkward as she manically raced about running her business. But when she was dead serious, all business, he found her beautiful. The tables were turned and it was Peter who found himself a little breathless.
"Okay," he said softly. "Ask me whatever you like."
Episode Nine
"Old Demons"
Jac was in rare form, even for Jac. He refused to stay in one place long enough for Claire to get a single thing done and she was nearly in tears by lunch time. To anyone looking in the window, it would appear that he was having a temper tantrum. Only Claire could see the gleam in his eye and he yelled and banged about the house.
She had decided from the moment she found out she was pregnant that she wouldn't spank her children.
Children.
Plural.
"As if I'd dare have any more," she whispered to herself. Still, while she was raised with strict rules, she was never spanked and had no desire to spank her own child. The idea was horrifying.
Until now.
Jac tore off the sofa cushions, threw a toy at a picture frame shattering the glass and ran into the kitchen to dig out pots and pans as Claire cleaned up the mess. After taking the shards and frame outside, she returned to the kitchen to find smoke pouring out of the oven, her biscuits burning and Jac gleefully banging two pots together.
She swooped him up, took him into the living room and put him over her knee. Three swats on the bottom had him screaming as if he were being bludgeoned. She hadn't spanked him very hard, but the shock of it sent him into hyperventilating sobs. After setting him down in the corner of the sofa, she pointed a finger at him.
"Stay right there," she said.
His brown eyes were saucers, fat tears stained his cheeks. For a moment she felt sorry for him. Then she noticed that he was actually staying still.
She pulled the blackened biscuits from the oven and opened a window to let out the smoke.
She began to worry as she fanned the billows toward the window. What would Aryl think? Would he be angry at her for hitting their child?
She peeked around the corner and saw that Jac was still where she placed him, his eyes cast down, lower lip quivering. Claire could have sworn that he looked remorseful.
She pursed her lips. Or he was planning something?
She began mixing a new batch of biscuits, wishing parenting wasn't so hard. Or, more specifically, that parenting this child wasn't so hard.
***
Peter was nervous when he was told he'd be working with Ian, not Aryl.
Ian was grateful to have help and excited that he might make more that day. He was grateful for the job and not the type to complain. Still, working alone every day had taken a toll on him and financially, he was barely making it. Aryl had assured him that Peter worked hard, fast and knew what to do. He'd never been formally introduced, so when Peter arrived, Ian greeted him warmly.
"I'm Ian," he said, holding out his hand. "How are ye?"
"Peter. Doing alright. These early mornings are going to take some getting used to." To Peter, it felt like the middle of the night. It was dark and biting cold.
"Sun will be up by the time we get to where we're goin'. Glad to have ye wi' me, Peter. My wife packed some extra bread and jam, along with some scotch cookies for the occasion. They're in the wheelhouse along with some coffee. Help yourself."
Ian, like Aryl and Jonathan was friendly and gracious. Peter wasn't used to working with such people.
"I appreciate it, thanks." Peter hadn't brought a lunch of any kind and he was truly grateful. His lifestyle having been what it was, he wasn't accustomed to three meals a day. He ate more like a camel drank water. Filling up once a day, sometimes every other, wherever he managed to find it and rarely planned ahead. This morning Muzzy had made oatmeal and had some store bought bread. She offered and he ate politely. It wasn’t enough to see him through a day's hard work.
Ian looked like he wanted to talk more and Peter felt bad for him. He seemed lonely. It must have been hard working by himself all this time. It made Peter wonder why when Caleb was with them, Jonathan never sent him or Aryl over to help Ian. In reality it was none of his business and he stifled the question before it reached his lips.
Peter began to bait new pots while Ian pulled out to sea. It was cloudy, but didn't look too threatening. He wasn't a fan of storms, snow or otherwise. While he worked, he thought of how much things had changed for him in the last few weeks. Starting with coming to Aryl for help. That was a good call. Discovering William was a lawman that could be trusted to help a fellow out was a pleasant discovery and the first of its kind in Peter's life. William had even kept him company during his week in jail and while Peter knew he was trying to get more information, he didn't press him too hard as they played cards on more than one evening. He even brought him an extra slice of pie from the diner a few times. He seemed to be more interested in turning bad men good than simply locking people up. Peter knew this was his second chance, both with William and the town. He wondered how hard it would be to keep on the straight and narrow the way trouble loved to find him.
So far all had been quiet from the house he'd worked for. William was keeping an ear out and they seemed to be laying low, deliveries had slowed. That was good. Finding a place to live was on him. Aryl offered no help with that. If Muzzy hadn't agreed to let him stay on a very temporary basis, he wasn't sure what he would have done. He could have asked Aryl if he could live on one of the boats, he figured, or in a fish shack, either of which would have been miserable.
Muzzy's questioning was hard enough. In the end he answered her with honesty, though he offered no new information. The fact that he was in prison, why he went there and that the man who tried to take her paper was his uncle, remained his closely guarded secret. Lucky for him, she asked no questions that required him to reveal those things.
He'd slept on a blanket in the corner of Muzzy's office. It was warm and comfortable enough. He'd woken up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee coming from the storeroom and decided that he liked that a lot.
***
By the end of the workday the weather turned nasty. The wind picked up and brought with it freezing rain. Aryl and Jonathan did what they could and when it became too dangerous to keep going, they headed in. Aryl ducked into the wheelhouse to warm up for a moment. He shook and blew into his hands, wishing there was a better way to earn a living. Claire's father, of all people popped into his mind. If he were sane-and had no pride-he'd ask him for a job and move back to New York or Boston, even. He couldn't quite bring himself to do that, yet. However, something the old crotchety bastard said had stuck with him and he'd been mulling over an idea these last few days.
He nudged Jonathan. "What do you think about operating a little differently this summer?"
"How so?" Jonathan asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"What if we offered recreational fishing tours for the rich folks in Boston and New York?"
Jonathan's brow furrowed as he thought. "You think we'd fare better than fishing?"
"Not sure. I don't know what the going rates are or what the demand might be." In all honesty, he hoped Jonathan would like the idea and do the research and run the numbers. That's how they had always worked. Aryl saw the opportunity, Jonathan validated it. "We could do a mix of both. Book fishing tours a couple days a week and pull in a catch the others," he suggested.
That made Jonathan's eyes light up. He nodded slowly as the idea settled over him. "We'd have to clean one of the boats up, make it presentable as a pleasant day vacation vessel."
"Arianna," Aryl s
aid.
"And we might have to provide drinks, lunch or at least snacks, but we could charge extra if we did."
"Maura would be a good one to help with that."
"We'd have to give them something for helping...let me look at some things, competition and all that. Overall, I think it's a good idea."
Aryl grinned with a hard shiver and longed for the hot days of summer.
***
It was a lucky day with a larger than usual catch of lobster. Jonathan smiled as he passed down a crate of them full up.
"We haven't had a day this good since David was with us," he said.
"Luck of the draw." Aryl didn't discount David's productivity or contribution, but he also knew not to hope for two days in a row of luck like this. The ocean gods weren't that giving.
He heaved the crate from up high and set it on the pier then reached for another.
The temperature had not broken above freezing all day and now it was beginning to snow. Both men would be glad to get home. Aryl set the second crate down and turned quickly for the third. He spun too fast and wobbled on the slick ice of the pier. His arms waved, his eyes went wide and then he went sprawling. Jonathan could only watch as his legs went out from underneath him and he landed all of his weight on his side with a thud. By the time he cried out in pain, Jonathan was on the pier leaning over him.
"You okay?" he asked, taking his arm, trying to pull him to his feet.
Aryl let out a screaming growl and pulled away. He rolled to sitting, holding his left arm.
With his eyes squeezed shut he rocked silently for a moment. When Aryl opened his eyes, he could see he was in intense pain.
"I think I broke it," he growled, his eyes flashing. If true, both men knew how devastating this would be.
***
Jonathan sat in the waiting room of the small doctor's office. Nicholas Foley, educated, privileged and rather handsome in his late forties, worked out of his home. Relatively new to the area, he couldn't yet afford to buy or even lease a building and hang a shingle. Times were hard as more and more people were doctoring themselves and half of the patients that came to him wanted to barter for his services.
As he inspected Aryl Sullivan's upper arm, already swollen and coloring part way down, he prayed this would be a paying customer. He had enough chickens to last him until retirement.
"It would appear you’ve broken it. That’s the bad news. It’s a clean break, that’s the good news, halfway up your humerus. A hard fall on the ice...pretty common winter injury." He sat down in a chair, his long limbs folding up like a pelican. His eyes were compassionate.
Aryl sighed heavily. Until the moment Dr. Foley said the words, he'd hoped and prayed fervently that it was just terribly bruised. He began to panic about providing for his family and didn't hear all of what Dr. Foley said. Something about having to set it, healing time of two months, not using it and he'd have to cast it.
Dr. Foley opened the bedroom door that served as an examining room and called for his wife. Aryl heard Jonathan ask about him.
"Call him in," Aryl said, adjusting on the table without jostling his arm too much. Jonathan stepped in a moment later with deep concern.
"It's broke," Aryl said.
Jonathan nodded, thinking rapidly, worried deeply.
Mrs. Foley walked in, equally as lanky as her husband, a waif of a woman.
"How are you?" she asked politely as she carried supplies to Dr. Foley's table.
Aryl was in pain and that alone made him foul. Before he could bark something to the tune of 'How the hell do you think I am?' in reply, he just looked away. Jonathan watched her as she began mixing plaster of paris with water in a large bowl.
"Might I get your assistance?" Dr. Foley asked Jonathan. He nodded and moved to Aryl's side, having no idea what he was needed for.
From a locked black cabinet, Dr. Foley pulled a small, amber bottle. He put it in Aryl's good hand.
"You might want to take this. Setting a bone is terribly painful. This will help."
Aryl stared at the bottle. "What is it?"
"Morphine. One bottle, one dose."
Aryl sat perfectly still.
"It's okay," Jonathan whispered. "Different reasons. You need this."
Dr. Foley eyed each of the men, but especially noted Aryl's reluctance to take the medicine. He'd treated enough World War One veterans to spot a recovered addict when he saw one. The fear in his eyes was one he'd seen before.
"We can try it without," he said, gently taking the bottle from Aryl's hand.
Aryl nodded quickly, seeming to be relieved of it and the decision gone.
"Lay back on the table," Dr. Foley instructed. Jonathan waited to be useful.
Aryl's arm was cocked at an odd angle against his side. Dr. Foley took his wrist and began to straighten the arm. Aryl winced, puffed his breath and growled. Jonathan put one hand on his shoulder.
"That's good," Dr. Foley said, glancing up. "Put one hand on each shoulder and hold him down."
Jonathan grimaced. Hadn't his friend been through enough pain? Aryl stared at the ceiling with fierce determination as his arm was slowly, painfully pulled straight. Dr. Foley put one hand above and one hand below the break. He nodded at Jonathan to put pressure on Aryl's shoulder.
Dr. Foley began to pull and twist on the arm. Jonathan could hear the bone grinding end to end as it was being manipulated and felt a wave of nausea. Aryl screamed without pride. Dr. Foley stopped. Aryl gasped for air, blinking hard, disbelieving the intensity of the pain.
"I haven't got it, I'm afraid. Are you sure you don't want something for the pain?"
Aryl clamped his lips together. Finally he gave a quick nod. Dr. Foley returned his arm to a comfortable enough position on the table and brought back the bottle of morphine. His wife had finished mixing the plaster and was now laying out strips of cotton bandages.
Aryl didn't look at Jonathan standing over him. He simply drank from the bottle put to his lips until it was empty.
At first he felt nothing.
Within a few moments a warm tingling sensation came over him. He relaxed his head, fixed his eyes on a small crack in the ceiling. Jonathan was putting too much pressure on his shoulders and it should have hurt, but it didn't.
Soon the deep aching throb in his arm began to subside and the voices of the doctor and his wife became distant, echoing.
Then he was floating, warm...happy. He closed his eyes, barely conscious of the doctor pulling his arm outright again. He let out a long deep breath.
He heard a voice. It wasn't in the room, but one he recognized regardless.
Welcome back, my friend. Isn't it better here? Remember this? No pain, no worry, no fear. It's always been better here.
***
Claire was with him when he woke up. His head came up with a start. After a second or two he got his bearings, found Claire's face and relaxed. His arm ached and felt heavy. Looking down he found it in a thick plaster cast from armpit to below the elbow. He moved his fingers and it sent pain shooting up his arm.
"The doctor said don't move even your fingers for a few days," Claire said, stroking his hair. "And you'll have to be careful with the cast. It's not fully cured."
The weight of his situation hit him again; the injury, the inability to work, the overwhelming worry over what they were going to do. He couldn't look at Claire. To see the fear in her eyes too would be too much.
"You can't get it wet," she continued. "I guess I'll have to sponge bathe you."
She was grinning, but her eyes were filled with tears.
"I'll figure something out, Claire," he said quietly, staring at the ceiling.
"I know. I know you will," she whispered.
Outside the examining room Dr. Foley and Jonathan were finishing up a long conversation revolving around Aryl's history.
"I normally give something for pain for the first few days. Under the circumstances, I'm not sure that's a good idea."
Jonath
an agreed, not wanting to tempt Aryl any more than necessary. On the other hand, he hated to think of his friend suffering.
"What if you gave Claire the medicine. She could dose it out to him as needed."
Dr. Foley nodded. "I could divide it into smaller doses as well. Just enough to take the edge off. It wouldn't put him to sleep like this dose did."
"I'm glad it put him to sleep," Jonathan said, thinking back. Watching and hearing Dr. Foley set Aryl's arm was one of the most sickening things he'd ever seen. Even under a heavy dose of morphine Aryl groaned deeply and tried to roll off the table.
"I'll pour off a few doses. Can you see that Mrs. Sullivan gets them in private?"
"Yes, I will."
Mrs. Foley approached with a smile, holding out a piece of paper. A bill for services rendered. "We'd be happy to take payments," she said. Payments were better than chickens.
"No, no, I'll pay it now," he said, digging out his wallet. The last thing Aryl needed was debt. So much for their bountiful catch.
Dr. Foley's eyes lit up. "Oh? Wonderful. I'll stop by in a couple of days to check the cast and see how his pain is. Free of charge," he added quickly.
***
By evening everyone had heard about Aryl's injury and they began arriving to see what they could do. Jonathan had returned after going to pick up Ava and the children. They sat at the table with Claire, going over numbers.
"If we all pull together I'm sure we can cover your most basic expenses until Aryl's back to work."
"He says he'll be back in a week," Claire said.
"Wishful and stubborn thinking," Jonathan said. "Six weeks if he's lucky."
Claire, who was already awash with worry, slumped. Of course she didn't want to rush Aryl back to work too soon and risk permanently injuring the arm, but she didn't want to starve to death and be thrown out of their rental in the snow, either.
"I could try to sell more paintings," Claire suggested, knowing it was a weak hope at best. The winter market hadn't exactly been a boon and in the last few weeks there had been a few vendors decide it wasn't worth their time. With less merchandise, the customers had begun to dwindle taking with them what little money they had. The women had discussed scrapping the idea all together and making the most of the more established summer market.
Purling Road - The Complete First Season: Episodes 1-10 Page 22