Mid-Life Friends and Illusions

by Jeffrey Freeman

  Samuel drew a deep breath.

  The administrator, mouth open, prepared to say something, turned from the computer screen to face Samuel. “I see no harm in your discussing it with Doctor Baker.” He obviously had a quick change of mind before speaking.

  “Thank you, Mister Marsh.”

  “Not at all,” the lifeless lips replied.

  Samuel stopped, his hand on the door latch. He returned to the chair. “There is another delicate matter, if I might impose.”

  Marsh seemed to grow taller in his chair, perhaps from an inflated ego. A United States senator was about to ask a favor of him. “Yes?” he asked, his face showing signs of life for the first time in their meeting.

  “George Nixon.”

  The administrator punched some more buttons on the keyboard. He scanned the screen, toggled to the next, skimmed it, toggled again, and read down it. Facing Samuel, he raised his eyebrows silently asking, “What did you want to know?”

  “I understand,” Samuel said, “that he owed this hospital a considerable amount of money.”

  Marsh frowned, looked back at the screen, then back at Samuel. “No,” he said.

  Samuel returned the raised eyebrows questioning look.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss specifics,” Marsh answered. “However, I can tell you that Mister Nixon does not owe the hospital anything.”

  Samuel let out a disappointed sigh. “So, he paid it off.” He stood up and shook Marsh’s hand. “Thank you.”

  Marsh cleared his throat. “To be precise, Senator. He did not. We wrote the bill off as uncollectable some time ago.”

  Samuel’s surprise showed. “Really? Well, isn’t that something.” He casually walked to the door, thinking. “Thank you, again.”

  Marsh beamed.

  Samuel met Jane and Ed in the hallway walking toward him.

  “We’ve just spoken to Sara’s doctor,” Jane said. “He thinks it best if she remain overnight.”

  “I just spoke with the administrator, “Samuel said. “He said the same thing. We’ll come get her after church.”

  The three walked past the admissions desk. Jane stopped just inside the exit door. “We can’t. We have dinner. There won’t be time.”

  “We can move dinner back to six, six-thirty. Dad’ll understand,” Samuel asserted.

  They exited the hospital and walked toward the nearly empty visitor’s parking lot. “That’s fine,” Jane said. “You call Bertha Huff and explain it to her because I’m not. That woman would try the patience of Job.”

  Samuel stopped. The others walked on. He was lost in thought. They stopped, then turned to face him.

  “You’re right. Huff will think something’s up if we change plans now. What time did you tell her?” Samuel asked.

  “Two-thirty, just like Hugh suggested.”

  “So dinner and coffee over by four, we can be back here by five, five-thirty at the latest.” Samuel reached for the cell phone in his trousers. “I better call the administrator. Make sure she can be discharged that late on a Sunday.” He punched in the 802 area code and stopped, a quizzical look on his face. “What was the administrator doing here late on a Saturday night?”

  Jane made a puffing sound with her lips, a sign that she didn’t care.

  “Fur that matta, the docta,” Ed added.

  “Yes, it’s all very strange,” Jane snipped. “Can we go now? Figure it out on the way home.”

  Samuel glanced around the parking lot. “Where’s the Subaru?”

  “At home,” she replied.

  “They let you ride in the ambulance?” Samuel asked.

  “They weren’t keen on it,” Jane explained. “But there are certain advantages to being a senator’s wife.”

  “So you made a fuss and the EMTs got even by making sure everyone knew it was the senator’s daughter they were transporting,” Samuel surmised. He turned his attention to Ed. “Did you talk to the photographer?”

  “Well, he asked,” Ed explained. “What was I goin’ ta do? Deny it?”

  “No,” Samuel sighed. “Just another awkward optic. Guess we’re riding with you.

  Ed opened the passenger door for Jane. “You havin’ the sheriff and his wife ta dinna?”

  Samuel looked at Jane. “There’s enough,” she said.

  “Probably be a good idea if you were there,” Samuel conceded.

  Sunday morning in St. Pierre started well enough, sunny with a few grey clouds drifting overhead. By afternoon the clouds had joined, casting an ominous feel to the day. Samuel, still dressed from church, white shirt, tie, blue sports coat, gray slacks, stood on the back stoop looking up. The air was warm and humid. If it had been colder, the sky would have been a harbinger of snow.

  “Strange weather,” he said, stepping back into the kitchen. “Not cold enough for a fire, I don’t think. Might not draw well.” It would not bode well if he were to light the fireplace only to have smoke drift into the room. Opening the sunporch door might be enough to insure a good draw up the chimney but why risk it, he thought.

  He inhaled deeply. The smell of warm squash overpowered the boiling potatoes and green beans. The empty gravy boat sat expectantly near the stovetop.

  “What time is it?” Jane asked, bent over the open oven door checking the large tenderloin steak on the broiler pan.

  “Two-fifteen.”

  “Perfect,” she said, standing up, smoothing her bib apron around her fall print skirt. “Fill the water glasses.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “Please,” she added.

  “Absolutely.” It was clear to him that she wanted everything to be perfect, to go perfectly, and was therefore somewhat preoccupied but that was no excuse for poor manners in his estimation.

  Samuel carefully filled the crystal goblets from a large crystal pitcher. The set had belonged to Jane’s grandmother. He took great care not nick any of the glasses or to spill a drop on the polished dining room table.

  The large oval table did not go perfectly with the décor of the room. It was heavy, made mostly of oak with other woods used at strategic places. It sat on a large pedestal shaped like four massive, lower-case letter “b’s” set back-to-back. There were casters on the pedestal but the table did not move often for fear of damaging the oak flooring. On the under side was a steel slide, rusty in spots, that allowed the table to be pulled apart to insert one or two leaves depending on how many guests were expected. It took two people to pull the ends apart and shove them in again. It was handcrafted, that was obvious. But he wasn’t sure who had first purchased it or commissioned it. It had always been in his dining room from the earliest he could remember. For a reason known only to kids, he had always liked sliding down in his chair to put his feet on the pedestal. For reasons known to parents worldwide, it was his mother that had always admonished him to sit up.

  Jane placed a small bouquet of dark red and yellow fall flowers in a cut-glass vase in the center of the set table. Only the fine china and sterling silverware would do for Sunday dinner guests. It was expected of any worthy household in St. Pierre.

  A loud knock on the kitchen door momentarily startled her. “Your father’s here,” she announced.

  Samuel reached for the door knob just as the door swung open.

  “Am I late?” Hugh asked.

  “No, right on time,” Samuel answered. “Come in.” Before he thought, he added, “You didn’t dress?”

  “Didn’t think I had to in my own house,” Hugh answered. “Strange weatha,”

  “Must have something to do with global warming,” Samuel speculated. “Speaking of strange, what was that with ‘The Force’ and Star Wars stuff?”

  Hugh grinned. “Sara here?”

  Jane came in. “No, she can’t abide Missus Huff. Hello, Hugh.” She immediately went to checking on the mashed potatoes and vegetables.

  “Afternoon, Jane,” Hugh said. To Samuel he said, “I seen those movies. Bought the whole collection last winta. Thought it w
as goin’ ta be ‘nother heavy one.”

  “Who knew?” Samuel stated more than asked. “Hardly any snow until February. After the year before…”

  Hugh cut him off. “Got snowed-in twice that year.”

  “You must have been bored silly to spend money on that junk,” Jane called over her shoulder.

  “Well, after seven years.” A vacant look came into Hugh’s eyes. “It gits lonely.”

  “If you wanted company why didn’t you come to the sugar-on-snow?” Samuel asked.

  “Started to. Got interested in the Patriots’ game. Figured I’d make the second seating. It would have been your mother’s choice. But by then, I’d had a couple beers.” Hugh clasped a hand on Samuel’s shoulder and said somberly, “Getting’ old, son. Sentimental.” Then the humor flashed back to his voice. “So I said to heck with it and had a couple more.”

  “Some days, Hugh Winters,” Jane half-scolded, untying her apron.

  “You got me,” Samuel conceded. “But Henry? How did you know?”

  “Every time you think his ghost shows up, you two get a look about you.” Hugh pointed an index finger, moving it back and forth from one to the other. “I knew the minute I saw you at the restaurant.”

  “That’s not possible,” Jane scoffed.

  “I was right wasn’t I?” Hugh asserted. A grin lit up his whole face. “Don’t tell Sara, though. By God, that was too much fun.”

  “So you really don’t believe in spirits?” Samuel asked.

  “Just a lot of hogwash,” Hugh declared.

  “I’ve read that some people are more susceptible than others,” Samuel countered.

  “Susceptible to being bamboozled,” Hugh retorted.

  A light rap from the front door caught their attention.

  “Got to use your facilities,” Hugh said and made for the upstairs bathroom.

  Olin and Bertha Huff in their Sunday best arrived precisely at two-thirty. Samuel greeted them, ushering them into the living room.

  Jane walked in from the kitchen. “Bertha, Olin,” she cooed, “so glad you could make it.”

  “It’s not often we get invited to dine at the top of the hill,” Bertha replied. Whether it was sarcasm or just her blunt way of speaking, it was impossible to distinguish. She rarely smiled. Her face was more manly than feminine but she had maintained a slender figure. Everyone in town figured it was the latter that had attracted Olin to her; it certainly wasn’t her personality or her cooking.

  “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to fix the gravy.” With that, Jane smiled and hurried back to the kitchen.

  “Can I get you something before dinner?” Samuel offered, breaking the moment of awkwardness.

  “Not fur me,” Huff answered quickly.

  “What did you have in mind?” Bertha asked.

  “Wine? A highball?” Samuel responded.

  “On the Lord’s Day?” Bertha sounded shocked. “No, thank you.”

  “Coffee then, or tea?” Samuel suggested.

  The sound of the outside kitchen door banging shut caught their attention. A moment later, Ed appeared in the dining room doorway. “Not late am I?” he asked.

  “No, right on time,” Samuel said, thankful for the interruption.

  Ed stuck out his right hand, holding the left behind his back. “Olin, good ta see ya.” They shook.

  “You know Bertha,” Huff stated rather than asked.

  “Course,” Ed replied, nodding in her direction.

  Bertha gestured at the sunporch. “Do you mind?” she asked Samuel.

  “No, please,” he said, happy to watch her walk out and close the door behind her.

  “Kinda muggy out there,” Ed said, setting the camera he had been concealing on the mantel. “You reckon there might be a beer in the fridge?”

  “Ah, sure,” Samuel said. “You sure you don’t want something, Olin?”

  Huff shook his head. Samuel walked to the kitchen. It was going to be a long hour or more.

  Minutes later, Jane placed the filled gravy boat on the table. “I think we’re ready,” she proclaimed. “Sam, would you bring the steak?”

  Huff waved at his wife, catching her attention. The others took seats around the table while Samuel went for the platter of red meat, it’s odor blending with the mashed potatoes, green beans, and squash placed strategically around the table.

  Jane popped up. “I forgot the rolls,” she announced and promptly disappeared into the kitchen.

  Samuel picked up the platter of steak. She shot him a look that could kill before secretly downing a half-glass of merlot.

  He preceded her into the dining room, carrying the steak like a trophy from the hunt. She plopped down a basket of hot Parker House rolls and slid into her seat next to the head of the table.

  Samuel picked up the carving knife and fork. “I suppose we should wait for Hugh,” he said with a grin. “But it’s his bad luck to be late.” He began slicing the meat into more or less equal portions.

  The sound of the upstairs toilet flushing barely preceded a growling, “Couldn’t wait two minutes?” Hugh stomped down the stairs.

  Jane rolled her eyes, embarrassed by sound of the toilet at the dinner table.

  Ed and Huff started to stand.

  “Sit,” Hugh said, waving at them. “Bertha, how are ya?”

  “Fine, Mister Winters. Good to see you again,” she answered, casting a critical eye on his corduroys and sweater.

  “Jane, everything smells delicious,” Hugh said as he sat opposite Samuel.

  The meal passed in relative silence save for the clinking of silverware on china. Jane went to make coffee in the kitchen.

  Hugh wiped his chin on the linen napkin. “Come by the office on my way out. Only Betty and maybe one or two others were there.”

  “Well, it’s Sunday,” Ed said.

  “Might have somethin’ ta do with this,” Hugh countered. He pulled a folded newspaper from his back pocket and handed it to Ed. “Page four.”

  On page four, Ed saw the picture of Samuel and the caption, “Senator Slides.” Without reading further, he passed it to Samuel like a hot potato.

  Samuel saw the byline first—Sara Winters. The article was a description of the accident. He read the important part out loud. “The Senator claimed his chief of staff, Howard Mills, was at the wheel when the car careened down I-89 narrowly avoiding sliding off the bridge into the White River. Sheriff Art Lampson confirmed Senator Winters’ account. However, when this reporter arrived on the scene, the Senator was standing on the driver’s side of the car and Mr. Mills on the passenger side, no doubt the result of confusion and shock following the traumatic incident.”

  “Where is Sara?” Hugh asked.

  Jane set an apple pie on the table. “Sorry, it’s store-bought. I didn’t have time to bake one.” She looked at the voiceless faces. “What?” she asked of everyone. “What did I miss?”

  Samuel cleared his throat. “Sara’s not here,” he answered Hugh. He handed Jane the paper.

  “Well, there’s nothing sharper than a serpent’s tooth like an ungrateful child,” Bertha proclaimed. Her phraseology was confused but not her intent to inflict injury.

  Hugh broke the uncomfortable silence. “Good thing not many people hereabouts subscribe to the “Valley News,” Hugh postulated, “otherwise there might not be anybody at the office.”

  “It’ll get around,” Ed said. “Can’t help but hurt in the poles. Jeez. Sara.”

  “You think the other papers will pick this up?” Samuel asked.

  “Doubt it,” Hugh said. “Last week’s news. Nobody got hurt.”

  “Word of mouth,” Ed added.

  “Ayaught,” Hugh agreed. “That and Jack Thomas’ people. Where’d you say the pie come from?”

  “Dwight’s,” Jane answered, still scanning the article.

  “Well, then, same as homemade,” he said.

  She handed the paper back to Samuel. “I’ll get the coffee. You thin
k of what you’re going to say to your daughter.”

  Coffee and pie were quickly finished. Bertha led the exodus. A step behind her, Olin whispered to Samuel, “Sorry.”

  “So much for trying to counter rumors,” Hugh said after their departure. He followed them out.

  “That woman’ll be on the phone for Olin can shut of the engine,” Ed declared. He picked up the unused camera from the mantel. “Nother lost optics.”

  As soon as the rumble of Ed’s pickup faded, Samuel said, “Let’s go get her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The only sound in the Subaru on Sunday’s ride to and from the hospital was road noise and the fluctuating hum of the engine. It was as chilly inside the car as out.

  Monday morning dawned perfectly in St. Pierre, though colder than the day before. The crisp, invigorating morning mist gave way to the warming sun rising in the east revealing the last of the fading red and yellow maple leaves. At that moment, everything seemed right in the world. Samuel stood solitarily on the sunporch soaking in the natural wonder and the aroma of fresh coffee drifting from his mug.

  Not so in Washington. The weather was overcast. A few large raindrops fell sporadically, like slow moving like green grapes squeezed from their skins. They were large enough and random enough that Howard felt it was possible to step out of their descent if one had the time to devote to their contemplation; he did not. He was on a mission—uncover the true Beth Ware.

  Jean was at her desk when he entered the office, shaking the light rain from his overcoat. “Beth in yet?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered. She looked at the wall clock. Seven forty-nine. “It’s early.”

  Howard nodded, hung up his overcoat, and sat at his desk pretending to study the first file he pulled from his in-basket.

  The two other staffers filtered in before eight.

  At eight-fifteen, he stared at Jean until he caught her eye. “Is she usually this late?” he asked.

  “You know she’s not,” was her curt reply.

  At nine o’clock he asked, “Do you have her home number?”

  “It’s in the computer,” she said and went about her work.