“Might as well start here.” Allison parked the Wagoneer, pulled on her poncho and started down a muddy driveway that ran between a few scraggly rows of corn and a barbwire-fenced pasture occupied by a single anorexic cow. As she walked she became aware of a sweet, cloying smell that permeated the air despite the hard rain. Like sour apples cooking, she thought.
Allison had already knocked on the front door and was attempting to peer through a rusting screen on the clouded front window when Josh caught up with her. “No one here,” she declared. She stepped off the porch and headed around back. Josh followed.
“Smells like someone’s cooking applesauce,” Allison said.
The rain had become a downpour. Allison pulled her poncho over her head and sprinted to the shed, taking shelter beneath a section of the rusted tin roof that overlapped one side. She heard noises. She peered through a gap in the planking.
There, illuminated by a single light bulb, she saw a young man holding a fly fishing rod bent double. As the quivering rod twisted and turned and the man reeled frantically, it looked for the entire world like the man was in the fish-fight of his life.
Josh pulled up beside her. “I’m not believing this,” she whispered, not moving her eye from the gap in the planks. The momentum of the fight shifted. The reel sang as yards of line spooled out. Then she caught sight of the fisherman’s prey. A large brown rat. With what appeared to be a strip of leather clenched in its jaws, it scampered across the floor of the shed, flipping and twisting like a rainbow trout on a fly as the fisherman fought for control and maneuvered to keep the line from tangling. She abandoned her peephole only after the rat darted behind a stack of empty plastic milk jugs, the lure still in its mouth.
In the next second two events occurred so closely together that even as everything turned into slow motion and she watched the earth coming up to meet her she could not tell which came first—the roar of a shotgun or the tremendous force that struck her between her shoulder blades and slammed her into the soggy ground.
She knew she was not dead when she detected again the sweet and sour smell of cooking apples, now mixed with the sharp edge of spent gunpowder. Wet spread across her shirt and jeans and she waited for the pain. She tried to move and couldn’t. Something heavy was holding her down, a feeling she’d known before but couldn’t immediately place.
She became aware of muddy black boots just inches from her face. Her eyes followed the boots up a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt and into the face of the man she had seen with the fly rod.
The weight lifted from her back and she realized that Josh had been lying on top of her. He pulled her to her feet. “You okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, performing a quick assessment of every part of her body.
The fisherman spoke. “You dang fools almost got yourselves kilt. This is private property. Who are you and what in hell are you doin’ here?”
Allison scraped mud from her poncho and jeans. “We’re looking for Ricky Scruggs. I’m his doctor. We didn’t know we were trespassing. You had no reason to shoot at us.”
“I didn’t shoot at you. You musta hit my trip wire. Rigged up to a little ol’ four-ten over there in the woods. Just birdshot but it’ll remind you to keep your distance. You’re lucky your fella pushed you out of the way. Who did you say you are?”
Josh stepped forward. “I’m Josh Gibbs. This is Doctor Wright. She’s Mr. Scruggs’s doctor and she needs to talk with him. I assure you we’re not revenuers.”
The man spit. “You don’t look the part,” he agreed. He turned to Allison. “Why do you need to talk to Ricky? Is he sick?”
“He came to see me. I’m following up.”
“Ricky’s my brother but I couldn’t tell you where he’s at now. Goes wherever the jobs take him. Sometimes we don’t see him for weeks.”
Allison pulled a card from her back pocket card and gave it to the man. “If he shows up or if you hear from him, please ask him to call me.”
“Mr. Scruggs, I have to ask you one more thing,” Josh said. “Back in the shed, you had a fly rod—”
“Rat fishing,” he interrupted. “Trout won’t bite in muddy water. Days like this, you tie yourself a piece of jerky on the end of a line—deer holds up best—and you go out to the shed or the barn or wherever there’s rats and pretty damn soon you’re rat fishing. Once them things get ahold of that meat, they fight like the devil.”
The adrenalin released by the shotgun blast dissipated by the time Allison arrived back at the Wagoneer. She realized she was exhausted, not to mention soaked, muddy and chilled.
“How did you know to push me down?” she asked as she and Josh stripped off their wet ponchos and toweled off with one of the blankets she kept in the back seat.
“I knew it was moonshine from the smell. I happened to spot the trip wire just as you were about to trigger it. How about if I drive home?”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m kind of beat.”
The mud-red, rain-swollen water of the creek had risen over its banks and lapped at the grated surface of the rusty bridge as Josh piloted the Jeep through the narrow hollow of Blood Run.
Allison grabbed a fresh blanket from the back, pulled it around herself and snuggled into the seat. Not having to drive was welcome but it felt strange. She was unable to remember the last time she had been a passenger.
Chapter Fifteen
“Care to come to my place for a glass of wine?”
“I could sure use one.” Josh looked at his watch. “Yeah, thanks. Katie’s at a pool party until nine.” He parked Allison’s car behind his Volvo in front of the clinic and handed her the keys. “I’ll run by the house, change into something dry and head over.”
Allison slid the key into her front door lock. Did she hear mewing or was it wishful thinking? Her heart pounded. She hip-checked the door.
She felt the cat swish through her ankles as she reached for the light switch.
“Hippocrat . . .” The word died in her throat. Her ex-husband lounged in her easy chair chewing a fat cigar. Her stomach dropped.
“Good evening, Allison,” Vince Bludhorn said smoothly.
“How’d you get in? What do you want?” He’d knocked her off balance for a moment but now she was angry.
“Is that any way to treat the rescuer of your beloved cat? Hippocrates would be in the gas chamber by now if it weren’t for me.” Bludhorn inspected his stogie. “You really are an irresponsible person, Allison. Someone found him wandering in traffic and took him to the pound. He was on Death Row.”
Bludhorn hoisted the cat by the scruff of the neck. “Fortunately, they found his microchip and notified his rightful owner. We enjoyed getting reacquainted, didn’t we, big boy?” Hippocrates hissed and bolted.
Allison felt rage transforming her—face contorting, her blood pressure reaching the roof. “He belongs to me,” she said tightly.
“That’s not how his microchip reads. It would be an interesting legal question—”
“Get out!” She was shaking.
“As you wish.” Bludhorn lifted himself from the chair. “It’s not in your nature to be caring, Allison. We both know you only think of yourself. But at least attempt to be responsible. Act like an adult. Lock your door. And don’t leave your pet out. I hear people sacrifice ’em at Halloween, especially black cats like Hip.”
The screen door closed behind her ex-husband. Allison scooped up Hippocrates and collapsed onto the couch, her emotions ricocheting between hate, self-doubt, relief and fear. Had she really been so careless as to leave Hippocrates out when she went to work? Is it possible she had left her front door unlocked? She’d never be able to forgive herself if anything happened to Hippocrates. Maybe she was what Vince said. Selfish. Irresponsible. A bad cat mom.
The alternative explanation was just as distressing. Vince had kidnapped her cat and
had broken back in to return him. Why?
That was no mystery. So he could demonstrate in some twisted way that she was still dependent on him. So he could show her that he still had access to her whenever he wanted, that despite their divorce, he was still in control. So he could make her feel terrible about herself.
And it had worked. Here she was questioning her competency and her very security. If she’d been careless with Hip, she hated herself for that. If Vince was responsible, she hated herself for once again being sucked into playing his game, for letting him continue to push her buttons. The sound of Josh’s car in the driveway didn’t end her self-torture.
Josh took in the details of Allison’s living room—a couch with a floral print, a glass-topped wicker coffee table, a stack of DVDs and a large TV that could be hidden when the armoire was closed, a series of pastels depicting river scenes. “Nice place,” he called. He focused on the book shelves. The books a person read revealed so much that Josh felt that looking at someone’s book shelves was almost as voyeuristic as peeping though the keyhole of their bedroom door. Allison’s reading, he decided, was remarkable for the areas in which she concentrated—medical texts, not surprisingly, a large collection of paperback bodice-rippers featuring rugged men rescuing/seducing/ravaging passionate women, and several shelves housing what had to be every self-help, esteem-building book ever written, including, improbably, Self Esteem For Dummies.
“Red or white?” Allison yelled from the kitchen.
Josh’s cell phone rang. His stomach dropped. Fear closed in, an on-rushing train that could not be avoided. He knew the verdict even before the doctor said, “It’s cancer. I’m sorry.”
Josh felt the blood drain from his head. Everything in his experience as a skeptical journalist and a burned widower had told him to expect this. He had tried to prepare himself but, in the background, still part of the picture, there had always been hope. Now, the worst had happened. Prayers had not mattered. Once again. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“One hundred percent. The very good news is that we caught it early and it’s treatable. The scans show that it hasn’t spread.”
Suddenly, he was exhausted. He felt as if he’d been cast into the Ohio and was being swept downriver by forces beyond his control like just another piece of driftwood. Resistance was futile. It will be what it will be. He sagged onto the couch. “What’s next?”
“A surgical biopsy so we’ll know if we have a chance to save the leg. If there’s no chance, we amputate and we’re done. She’ll be cured. Cancer-free. If there is a chance, she’ll get her first round of chemotherapy.”
“When?”
“A week from Wednesday. I want our top pediatric surgeon handling this.”
“How about after soccer camp?”
“No.”
“The only reason we diagnosed this now is Katie happened to need a physical. We could have gone weeks before finding it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Her leg could break and complicate the treatment. In kids, these things normally present when the limb breaks because the bone has been weakened by the disease.”
“Then you know how to deal with it.”
“We’ve already had this discussion. The answer is no.”
Josh turned to Allison as soon as he hung up. He felt scared and alone—he and his daughter versus The Rest of The World. “It’s just what you said it would be. But I still don’t know about that guy. He’s willing to put treatment off a week so he can have the doctor he wants but not long enough so Katie can go to camp. Her heart’s set on this. And if, God forbid, she should lose her leg, this will be her last chance to play.”
Allison settled beside him. She couldn’t imagine Josh’s burden. She’d had enough trouble making good decisions for her own life, much less someone else’s. “There’s something to be said for having the right doctor and for acting quickly,” she offered.
“Medically, what’s another week? She’s thirteen years old. She’s going to have one helluva rough time. I don’t want to risk her life but I do want Katie to have this chance to go to camp.”
Allison nodded.
“I can’t make this decision alone. Allison, if she were your daughter, what would you do?”
“I believe in my heart that this is going to work out fine for Katie. And I believe in what Dr. Pepper advises. Maybe there is a way to work in both. Isn’t there a short session and a long session? Have you thought about sending her to camp for just the first ten days?”
Chapter Sixteen
Since the trip to Columbus Josh had dodged Katie’s questions—and avoided reality—by explaining that no one would know anything until they got the results of all the tests. Only when he collapsed into bed Wednesday night could he focus on how to tell his daughter she had cancer.
Experience, he realized sadly, made it harder, not easier. Cancer had killed Katie’s mother, his wife. His past hopes and prayers for defeating it had never been answered. The doctor’s assurances of “I think we got it this time” had never been met. Nothing had ever worked out. It had never been okay.
By the time he fell into a fitful sleep, he hadn’t thought of a way to say it that would lessen Katie’s fear.
He struggled the next day at the office. Usually, he thought long and hard about which stories to place where, striving to find a balance between the important and the interesting, the long and the short, between “good” news and “bad.” Today, he found it impossible to care.
Writing headlines—a task he was quite good at and usually enjoyed—proved to be impossible. Each time he would start to read a story, his mind would wander and he would have to start over. At noon, Maude Furbee, the newspaper’s bookkeeper, office manager and enforcer of deadlines since before Josh had thought about the profession, informed him that production could wait no longer. She ejected him from his seat in front of his computer and wrote the last headline herself—“Hoarse Play”—above a story about the upcoming River Days Hollerin’ Contest.
“Okay?”
“Great,” he said. “That does it.”
He was first in the pick-up line at 3:15 p.m. Katie threw her backpack in the backseat, slammed the door and instantly apologized. He regretted the times he had scolded her for that.
Katie kissed his cheek and buckled herself in. “Did you bring my flute? It’s the last lesson before camp.”
“Not today. We need to talk.”
He picked the spot beside the river—picnic tables, a few benches and an asphalt path along the bank—that had become Sharon’s and his refuge in the hard months. They had cried there, cursed there, prayed there. They’d found solace in the slow movement of the water, comfort in the river’s permanence. It would outlast them all.
More than once, Sharon had raised the subject of her looming mortality and given thanks her husband was a kind, loving man, fiercely protective, who would cocoon their daughter against cruelty and nastiness. She had it backwards, Josh thought. Sharon was the strong one. Even as cancer and chemo ravaged her once strong and glowing body, even as she was broken, she was the strong one. It was she who comforted him.
He and Katie sat on a picnic table bench watching the muddy water. For a moment it seemed that time had looped back on itself. Josh took a breath. “The doctor says your leg has a bone disease. It’s something they can treat.”
“How?”
“It depends. Maybe surgery. Maybe just medicine.”
“Like chemo?”
He felt a shock. He had not been able to plunge the knife, had not said the word “cancer.” But she already knew. His stammers merely confirmed it.
Katie sprang from the table and stalked down the path by the riverbank. Josh hurried to catch up.
She whirled to face him “Cancer?” she shouted. “I have cancer?” She picked up a stick and helicoptered it over Josh’s right shoulder. �
�No. I can’t. No way.” Her expressions mirrored her thoughts: anger, bewilderment, defiance, denial.
She ran. Josh chased her briefly but she pulled away.
In time, he returned to the picnic table. A line from a hymn by Isaac Watts played in his head. “Time like an ever-rolling stream bears all her sons away . . .” Wives, too, Gibbs thought sadly. And daughters. Alone, he allowed himself to cry.
He waited for her a long time and then, suspecting she might have run there, he drove home. He found the house locked, the lights off, the mail unretrieved. He called Katie’s name. He checked downstairs, then up. He felt a flutter of fear and then an idea came to him. Yes. Of course.
It was dark when he pulled off a dirt road about four miles from town and parked the Volvo by a cast iron fence on a high bluff overlooking the river. A full moon had risen over the Ohio hills, its reflection painting a wide, shimmering path of white light on the dark water. Josh opened a latch on the fence and walked quietly among an army of gravestones and their long shadows cast by the moonlight.
Katie sat with her knees to her chest, her back propped against a simple granite marker. He sat beside her, careful to respect the wilted, brown flowers he had left last week. And the previous week. And every week since Sharon had been laid to rest. Zinnias, when the season allowed. Her favorite kind.
He locked his arms around his daughter and pulled her close. Her head rested on his shoulder and he inhaled the familiar scent of her. They sat without speaking until Katie asked softly, “Daddy, how did I get it?”
It was a question that had yet to occur to him. Why would a thirteen-year-old get bone cancer? Why would a thirty-four-year-old woman get breast cancer, for that matter? Did anyone really know? That made it more of a question for God than for scientists or doctors.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
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