Out Of The Deep I Cry

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “That sounds wonderful, dear. I’m sure it will cheer him up,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Do keep in touch, won’t you?”

  The two women exchanged hugs and Clare shook Mrs. Rouse’s hand.

  Outside, on the top of the steps, they paused to pull on gloves. “You ought to encourage her to get him to see a doctor,” Clare said. “Stable people suffer from depression, too. And he was acting very oddly in there, you have to admit. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to curl up and die or come out fighting.”

  Mrs. Marshall clutched Clare’s arm against icy slips as they descended the steps. “Maybe,” she said.

  “You sound doubtful.”

  At the walk, Mrs. Marshall let go of Clare and snapped open her clutch to retrieve her keys. “We’re from another generation, dear. We don’t go popping off to get mood-altering pills whenever life hands us a setback.”

  Clare rolled her eyes.

  “I will check in with Renee when they get back from Phoenix.”

  “Thanks.” Clare fished her keys from her parka pocket. “Let’s hope it starts.”

  “Oh, I think it’s warmed up.”

  “Yeah. It’s twenty degrees instead of fifteen.” Clare walked Mrs. Marshall around the snow piled against the curb to her Lincoln and held the door open as the elderly woman got behind the wheel. “What was that remark about you not knowing your mother?” she asked.

  Mrs. Marshall pursed her lips. “My mother, because of several tragic events over which she had no control, was the subject of all sorts of gossip over the years. I’ve already heard every variation of her supposed secrets. I don’t need to sit around and have Allan Rouse repeat old stories.” She started up her car. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  “I’ll be there.” Clare shut the Lincoln’s door and walked to her Shelby. Thankfully, it started.

  On the drive back to St. Alban’s, she passed the clinic. It looked vaguely accusing to her in the hard-edged morning light. For the first time, she noticed the carving in the granite lintel over the door giving its original name: THE JONATHON KETCHEM CLINIC. She wished Mrs. Marshall hadn’t interrupted Allan Rouse. Maybe the older woman had already heard it all, but for her own peace of mind, Clare very much wanted to know what the clinic had meant to Jane Ketchem.

  Chapter 9

  NOW

  Clare didn’t have cause to drive into Cossayuharie much, so she was worried she’d go right by Debba Clow’s place. Narrow roads ran like cow paths around rolling hills and pastures in Cossayuharie, most of them unmarked and all of them passing clapboarded houses and dairy barns, until all at once the driver ran out of fields and was in the sharp switchbacks of the mountains.

  “Don’t worry,” Debba had said over the phone. “It’s impossible to miss our house. We have purple shutters.”

  Cresting a large hill, the written directions pinched between her hand and the wheel, Clare saw the Clow residence where Debba had promised it would be, straddling the road at the bottom of a narrow valley. Debba had underreported the impossibility of missing it.

  It was shaped like the typical Cossayuharie farmhouse, an overlarge, under-maintained structure that had started life as an 1850s four-up-four-down and had shotgunned backward through an 1870s parlor, an 1890s kitchen, and a 1920s extra bedroom. However, the Clow farmhouse also had the less typical 1960s addition of a rotting psychedelic bus in the side yard, multiple 1970s solar panels, something that looked like a steppe-dweller’s tent, and a paint job that defied categorization. The purple shutters were the least of it. As Clare shifted into neutral and let the Shelby roll downhill-her personal gas-saving technique-she could see yellow-and-black checkerboards over the chimney bricks, door lintels encrusted with D-I-Y mosaics, and painted jungle vines flowering up the front porch posts. The porch stairs were colored like Easter eggs and embellished with stencils of what proved to be, as Clare pulled into the dooryard, farm animals. She could make out pink pigs on the lavender step, brown cows on the yellow.

  Clare got out of her car, crunching and slipping in the poorly plowed drive. Across the road from the house, an enormous barn had been partially gutted, its old doors widened into something resembling a municipal garage. There were two purple buses parked inside. She shook her head. She couldn’t wait to see what Karen Burns, whose brick town house was straight out of Traditional Homes magazine, would make of the Clow place.

  She slipped and slid past Karen’s Saab and climbed the stairs to the front door, which was painted to resemble an underwater scene. She pressed the bell-a turtle-and stared at an octopus waltzing with a mermaid while she waited.

  “Hi! You must be Reverend Fergusson.” The door was opened by a woman in her late forties or early fifties, with the lean, weather-beaten face of someone who spends most of her time outdoors and active. “I’m Lilly Clow, Deb’s mother.” She took Clare’s hand and combined shaking it with pulling her inside. “It’s colder than a Norwegian well digger’s you-know-what out there,” Lilly said. Deb’s mother looked vaguely Norwegian herself, dressed in an embroidered sweater with her gray hair hanging in long braids. “Thanks for coming out.”

  “Thanks for having me,” Clare said, shucking her coat. “It’s quite some place you have here.”

  “Yeah, it’s wild, isn’t it? The kids love it. The paint fumes are probably destroying whatever brain cells I have left, but what the heck. C’mon back to the kitchen, it’s warmer. Deb and the lawyer are meeting there while I ride herd over the kids in the playroom.” Lilly led the way through a room that was either a living room or an artist’s studio, and another that was either a dining room or a craft shop.

  “Reverend Fergusson’s here,” Lilly announced as they entered the kitchen. Karen and Debba looked up from their seats at a scrubbed pine table and greeted her distractedly.

  “We’ve got some nice herbal tea already made up,” Lilly said. “Or I could offer you some juice, or some bottled water.” The table was set with three mugs and a honey jar that had all the earmarks of someone’s first pottery project. A more professionally made teapot sat on a woven mat in the center of the round table.

  “Coffee?” Clare asked.

  “Sorry, no coffee. We have some chai tea in the fridge if you want caffeine.”

  “Ah. Thanks, I’ll just help myself to what’s here.”

  “Okeydokey. Me and Raffi will be entertaining the kids if anyone needs us.” Lilly opened a door in the back of the kitchen. Clare caught a blast of “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” before it latched shut.

  She pulled out a chair-mercifully unpainted-and sat down. Karen had a yellow legal pad in front of her and had been jotting notes. “Have I missed much?”

  Karen shook her head. “No, we were just going over the terms of Debba’s divorce decree.” The lawyer picked up her mug and took a drink. When she put it down, Clare noticed that, despite the mug’s lumpy and uneven edge, Karen’s lipstick was unsmudged. There were women who always looked perfect, Clare reflected, and then there were the rest, who had mystery stains on their blouses and unevenly-bitten-off fingernails. Being in the same room as Karen Burns always reminded Clare that she was one of “the rest.”

  “So he’s been paying his support on time, and using his visitation schedule,” Karen was saying.

  “Yep,” Debba said. “Although only with Whitley. When we went through mediation, he said he didn’t feel competent to meet Skylar’s special needs.” Her voice made it clear what she thought of this excuse.

  Karen pulled a document toward her. “That fits in with the motion his lawyer’s filed. He states”-she riffled through the pages until she reached a spot marked with a sticky-“ ‘The minor Skylar has been diagnosed with autism and requires highly specialized care and teaching which Ms. Clow is unable and unwilling to provide. Petitioner would enroll his minor son in a residential educational facility in order to maximize the child’s emotional, physical, and intellectual development.’ ” She squared the document and placed it next to her legal pad. “He’s o
bviously going to make an argument that you’re retarding your son’s development by keeping him at home.”

  “That’s not true! Mom and I both work with Skylar all the time! Plus, he gets all sorts of services through early-childhood intervention. He has occupational therapy and speech therapy twice weekly. His therapists will say I’ve been providing a rich educational environment for him to develop in.”

  “Are they specialists in autism?”

  “No, but-”

  Karen raised her hands. “I’m not trying to argue with you, Debba, I just have to let you know what we’re facing here. I’ve dealt with some of the people in the early-childhood intervention program, mostly through my volunteer work at our church.” She nodded toward Clare. “We sponsor a mentoring program that hooks up teen mothers with older women. I’m sure everyone who’s a part of your son’s team is caring and competent. But now he’s six, and it’s almost time for him to be enrolled in school.”

  “I’m home schooling him.”

  “Which is a perfectly valid choice. But look at it from a judge’s perspective. You’re going to provide at-home schooling, which many people still see as inferior to ‘professional’ schooling. You don’t have an educational degree, do you?” Her voice raised hopefully.

  “I never went to college.”

  “Hmm. Not good. So you’ll have Skylar at home, and he’ll be eligible for special-education services, but you’ll be hauling him back and forth to the school for those. The judge will be comparing that to the glossy, professional gleam of a special school.”

  “An institution!”

  Karen took another drink. “We can’t afford to put special-ed institutions on trial, Debba.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “One thing would be to find out what your ex really wants. Lower support payments? Different visitation? Maybe he’s tired of paying his half of Skylar’s non-covered medical expenses.”

  “Maybe he’s sincere,” Clare said.

  Debba and Karen looked at her.

  “Maybe he really believes that Skylar needs something different now that he’s reached school age. Maybe he’s worried about Whitley not having been vaccinated.”

  “Hah,” Debba said.

  “Regardless, unless Debba wants to give up custody, she needs to figure out a way to counter his position. I think the first thing will be to find another M.D. who’s willing to state that the kids are in excellent health and that Skylar’s doing well under the current program.” Karen jotted a note on her legal pad. “Are you sure Dr. Rouse will back your husband instead of you?”

  “It’s that son of a bitch’s fault I’m in this mess,” Debba said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Would you consider changing your position and getting Whitley immunized?”

  “No.”

  “What about at a different venue?” Clare asked. “Someplace where you could feel sure that the vaccinations were mercury-free?”

  “No.” Debba thumped the table. “It’s not just the mercury, you know. We’ve been letting the medical establishment put living viruses in our bodies for years now. Look at the unexplained rise in autoimmune diseases and asthma. Were you aware that while the flu vaccination rate went from thirty-five to sixty-five percent, the mortality rate from flu has increased a hundredfold?”

  Clare lifted the teapot. “Couldn’t that reflect the fact that there’s a lot more old people around than there used to be?”

  “Let’s stay on point, people.” Karen tapped her mug handle with her pen, a risky move in Clare’s mind. “Debba, I need a list of everyone involved in Skylar’s care.”

  Clare breathed in a cloud of fruity steam as Debba gave Karen the names of therapists, counselors, special-ed techs, and relief caregivers. She thought about her conversation with Laura Rayfield, the clinic’s nurse practitioner. It was one thing for Debba to risk everything to protect her children from harm. But if there was no real harm? Should she be counseling Debba to give up her crusade against vaccinations? And what could she say to persuade her? Debba’s beliefs about the evils of immunizations had the strength and conviction of religious faith. How would I react, Clare wondered, if someone tried to persuade me that God was a figment of my imagination, and that I should stop wasting my time with all those silly rituals?

  “Clare?”

  She jerked her attention away from the mug of tea. “Hmm? I’m sorry, what?”

  “Would you be willing to testify about the incident at the clinic?” Karen asked.

  “Testify?”

  “As to how Debba was distraught but not violent.”

  I used to come out to her place when she and her husband were married. They got rowdy with each other all the time. She could hear Russ’s words as if he were sitting in the kitchen next to her.

  “I can certainly testify that she put the stool down and didn’t offer any violence toward anyone after I got there,” Clare said carefully. She looked at Debba. “I can’t say what’s happened in the past. I don’t know if you’ve had any other incidents.”

  Debba shook her head, sending her spiraling curls bouncing. “No. I’ve picketed the clinic lots, and I admit Rouse and I have had some shouting matches, but never-no. I was just pushed over the edge that day when I got the letter from Jeremy.”

  Clare’s heart sank. Debba wasn’t going to rise to the bait and spill all about her history of marital violence. She reached for the honey bowl and unenthusiastically spooned some of the drippy stuff into her tea. Now what? She had always kept whatever Russ had told her in strictest confidence.

  No, that wasn’t true. She had blabbed private information to a reporter, on camera. In her defense, it was because she thought lives were at stake. But she had been wrong, and she had regretted it.

  She sipped the tea, wrinkling her nose at the taste. It would have been greatly improved with a shot of bourbon. Better still, go straight to the bourbon and skip the tea. Karen was going on about financial and medical records, and Debba was taking down what the lawyer recommended. Considering the emphasis Karen was placing on past behavior, how important would those fights loom? They must have taken place over six years ago, if Russ was right, and they had stopped brawling when Skylar arrived. Clare took another sip. The tea didn’t improve with familiarity. Would Debba’s ex-husband even dare to bring up the matter? It would reflect as badly on him as on her. More.

  “Mamamamamama,” a small voice wailed from its playroom exile.

  The door at the back of the kitchen opened. Lilly poked her head in. “Sorry, Karen, but your little one is getting pretty fretful. Do you have-”

  Cody Burns broke through the line and pelted across the kitchen floor for his mother, who scooped him up onto her lap. He turned his face into her shoulder and clutched at her with the arm that wasn’t holding Squeaky the Squirrel.

  “Hey, little boy. What’s the matter? Are you a sleepy baby?” Karen looked up at them. “I think we may be running into nap time. Can we continue this another time?” She sniffed. “Whoo. We need a diaper change before beddy-bye. Lilly, where’s the bathroom?”

  Clare put the lumpy mug down. She couldn’t tell Karen what she, in confidence, had been told by Russ. Nor could she let Debba know she had some private police information about the artist’s past. “Debba,” she said, after Karen had slung her baby bag over her shoulder and followed Lilly down the hall. “I’d love it if we could take some time, just the two of us, to talk about how this is affecting you. I can see you have a terrific support person in your mother, but sometimes it helps to let your feelings out with another person.”

  Debba pushed her cloud of hair back with both hands. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve just been thinking, lately, how stressed I’m feeling. And I think part of it is, I’m trying to be real strong and upbeat for my mom. She has enough to deal with without worrying about me. I have to tell you though, I’m not particularly religious.”

  Clare laughed. “If the only people I talked with were particu
larly religious ones, I’d have a lot of free time on my hands.” She stood up and dug into her skirt pocket. “Here’s one of my cards, to trade for yours. It’s got all my numbers on it, although you’ll take your chances if you try to reach me by cell phone.” She made a face. “I got one last winter after I was in an accident, but I didn’t realize that all these mountains mean I can only get a signal if I’m headed down the Northway toward Saratoga.”

  Karen toted Cody back into the kitchen. “Oh, cell phones are useless around here. You should do what Geoff and I did, get a satellite phone. It’s a little more expensive, but it’s worthwhile. So reliable.”

  Clare caught Debba’s eye. They both bit back grins.

  “Clare, will you hold Cody while I get my stuff together?” Karen thrust the baby into Clare’s arms. Cody drew back, eyeballed her, recognized a face he knew, and promptly butted his head against her shoulder. Karen and Debba had put their heads together over their calendars and were trying out different dates and times for their next meeting. Cody stuck his thumb into his mouth and began to rhythmically squeak the squirrel.

  The weight of him always surprised Clare, the solidity and size of him. Somehow, she always expected the fragile, kitten-sized bundle she had first seen, the awe-inspiring, panicky thought she had first had: This baby’s life is in my hands. She wondered if this was what motherhood felt like. She wondered if she would ever know.

  There was a tug on her skirt. She looked down to see a tiny girl, with kinky blond hair identical to Debba’s, staring at her. “Hi,” the girl said. “What’s your name? My name is Whitley. I have a rat. Do you want to see?”

  “Whits, Reverend Fergusson doesn’t want to see your rat,” Lilly said from the playroom door. “Be polite and say hello.”

  “I did,” Whitley said. “What’s that thing around your neck? It’s not a turtleneck shirt. I have turtleneck shirts and they’re soft and squishy. Sometimes they have flowers on them.”