Pickin Clover

by Bobby Hutchinson

  He slumped back on the sofa and told himself he didn’t care. He wanted her only to leave him in peace, he assured himself. If her anger was the price, he’d pay it. But he couldn’t sit there any longer, and going to bed was out of the question now.

  He got up and rummaged around until he found his track shoes in the back of the hall closet. He pulled them on and slipped quietly out the front door.

  It was raining, not a true Vancouver downpour but a gray drizzle. The street lamps made an eerie, hissing sound; the other houses on the street were dark and silent. He hadn’t run in months, and his muscles and lungs protested before he’d gone two blocks, but he kept on, long after he was gasping for breath and soaked to the skin.

  Common sense told him this was how men had heart attacks. At the very least, he’d be miserably sore for days, exhausted when he had to leave for work in the morning, now only a few hours away. But he went doggedly on, and the physical pain brought a mental oblivion he welcomed.

  By the time Polly managed to drag herself from a drugged sleep the following morning, Michael was already gone. He hadn’t slept beside her; she assumed he’d used the spare bedroom. A sense of utter desolation overcame her when she reviewed in her mind what had happened between them. It was painfully obvious Michael wasn’t willing to do any of the things she felt wore necessary to improve their relationship. And she couldn’t go on much longer with things the way they were.

  Did that mean their marriage was over? It was the first time Polly had allowed herself even to consider separation.

  She stood under a hot shower until the pain in her head eased. She didn’t want to go to her mother’s house; she didn’t feel like celebrating with Jerome. But the hours loomed empty and aimless at home. Going to her mother’s would at least fill part of the day.

  A glance out the window confirmed that although it had rained in the night, the sun was out again. The last of the painting could go ahead.

  When Polly arrived at Isabelle’s, the extension ladder was up and Jerome was already at work, balanced on the scaffold.

  Clover pedaled a battered tricycle back and forth across the backyard. Polly smiled at her and said hi, but as usual, the girl didn’t respond.

  “Morning,” Jerome called in a cheery tone. “Thought I’d get this out of the way before we got going on that final wall.”

  “I’ll start the second coat there.” Polly pulled on her gloves and found her paint can and brush, then made her way around the corner to the side of the house where the final bit of painting would complete the job. She dipped her brush in the paint and began the long, even strokes that were automatic now. She could hear the radio in her mother’s kitchen blasting out a Western tune, and a dog down the block barked monotonously. She hoped Jerome would finish soon so he’d come and work beside her and they could talk. She desperately needed conversation this morning, something that would occupy her mind so she didn’t think every moment about her husband and her marriage.

  Cold fear filled her stomach each time she remembered Michael’s reaction the previous night. He hadn’t acknowledged a single thing she’d said; it was as if he no longer cared enough even to try to find a solution to their problems. Her heart ached in an entirely new way when she considered his indifference. What was wrong with them? Had Susannah’s death signaled the death of their love for each other?

  Sick at heart, she paid little attention at first to the sound of Jerome talking to his daughter in the kind, reasonable way he always did.

  “Clover, please don’t ride into the alley on your bike. Trucks drive there and they might not see you, okay, honey?”

  Polly went on painting, trying to stop worrying about her and Michael, thinking vaguely how much she’d love a cup of coffee. She hadn’t had any appetite for breakfast. She’d just finish this portion, she decided, then go in and have a cup of Isabelle’s strong brew.

  “Clover, get back in the yard.” Jerome’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp. “Clover, get back here. There’s a truck coming...”

  Real alarm was in his voice. Knowing he was up on the scaffold, Polly hastily put down her brush.

  “I’ll get her,” she called, but as she moved around the comer to the backyard, she heard the awful sound of the ladder sliding across the wall.

  She heard Jerome cry out, and just as she rounded the comer, the ladder hit the ground with an earsplitting clang.

  “Jerome,” Polly hollered, watching him fall, feeling as if she were trapped in a nightmare.

  He hit the ground hard, landing on his side, and he screamed, a shrill animal sound that sent shivers of horror through Polly.

  “Jerome. Jerome, oh, my God.” Polly knelt beside him.

  His face was contorted with pain and he was struggling for breath, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him. He writhed, and Polly gasped. It was obvious his right thigh bone was broken. Blood stained his pant leg.

  “Oh, my Lord, I heard the ladder go. Is he hurt bad?” Isabelle came hurrying down the back stairs.

  “Go call 911. Hurry, he’s broken his leg. And then bring out a blanket.” Polly whipped off her sweatshirt and tucked it around Jerome’s shoulders and upper body, trying desperately to remember what else she ought to do for shock.

  She was a doctor’s wife. How could she know so little first aid? The only thing she was sure of was that Jerome needed to be kept warm and shouldn’t be moved.

  Isabelle ran into the house, and Jerome somehow drew in a breath, but the sound that came from him when he released it was one of pure agony.

  He gritted his teeth. “Clover?” he managed to groan.

  “Stay absolutely still. I’ll get her.” Polly, trembling hard, staggered to her feet, then immediately saw the child, just coming through the back gate on her tricycle. Clover pedaled over to where Jerome lay, going slower and slower the closer she came, eyes riveted on her father.

  “Daddy? Get up, Daddy.” Her face contorted. “Daddy? Get up, okay?” She burst into noisy tears.

  Jerome’s face showed his torture. He tried to respond to Clover, but the effort was clearly beyond him. Polly could see him making an effort not to moan so as not to frighten his daughter, but the pain must have been overwhelming, because the sounds that escaped him were anguished.

  “Clover, honey, don’t be scared,” Polly said, trying to put her arms around the little girl. Clover struck out at her, and Polly had to let her go.

  “Don’t cry. Your daddy’s hurt his leg. The ambulance is coining right away and the men on it will help him," she babbled.

  Isabelle came hurrying back outside, a plaid blanket over her arm. “They’ll be here in a couple of minutes. They said don’t move him and keep him warm.”

  Together, she and Polly cautiously tucked the blanket around Jerome. His face was ashen and his lips had a bluish tinge, and he had black bags under his eyes, like bruises. Although his face was covered in sweat, he was shivering. Again, he struggled to speak, making several attempts before he could get the words out.

  "Take... care... of... Clover?"

  “Of course I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry about her. I’ll keep her with me, I promise.” Once more, Polly tried to put her arm around Clover, but once more the little girl pulled away. She collapsed on the grass beside her father and sobbed so hard her entire small body shook.

  “Da... ddy, da... ddy," she wailed.

  Jerome was drifting in and out of consciousness, and it seemed an eternity to Polly before a siren heralded the ambulance’s arrival. Isabelle ran to the front of the house to tell the driver he should go down the alley.

  At last, the paramedics came running, a man and a woman. “B.C. Ambulance Service. Can you tell us what happened to you, sir?" They knelt beside Jerome. When it was obvious he couldn’t respond, they asked Polly questions about how the accident had happened.

  They gave Jerome oxygen, and when they slit his pant leg Polly felt her stomach heave. The large bone of his thigh protruded from the ski
n.

  “His right wrist’s fractured, as well, and some ribs,” the female attendant said. “I’ve got them stabilized. Okay, Ed, let’s scoop and run. We’ll have you in Emergency real quick, Jerome. Just bear with us here while we get this spine board on...now onto the stretcher.”

  Jerome was quickly loaded into the ambulance.

  “Tell him we’ll bring Clover. We’ll follow in my car,” Polly told the attendants. Isabelle had lifted Clover into her arms and the girl wasn’t struggling now. She clung to Isabelle, sobbing hysterically and calling for her father.

  The route to St. Joe’s was familiar, but Polly was trembling so much, driving was a challenge. By the time she pulled her car into the parking lot, Jerome had already been whisked into the hospital.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Polly, with Isabelle and Clover trailing close behind, hurried through the wide sliding doors and into the controlled bustle of St. Joe’s Emergency.

  Leslie Yates was the nurse on triage, and Polly raced over to her, grateful to see someone she recognized. As quickly and clearly as she could, Polly explained what had happened and asked if Leslie knew Jerome’s condition and whether Michael had been notified.

  “Mr. Fox told the paramedics that Dr. Forsythe is his family physician, so we called his office immediately and he’s on his way. Dr. Brulotte and the trauma team are with Mr. Fox in room two. Sit down over there—” she indicated a waiting area “—I’ll have someone come and tell you how he’s doing.”

  Polly and Isabelle sat. Clover had stopped crying, and Isabelle set her on a chair between them. Polly could see by the stain on the child’s overalls that she’d peed herself, and her small face was a study in misery. Wanting to comfort her, Polly tried to take her hand, but Clover yanked it away.

  Polly felt immense relief when she saw Michael come striding in. She got up and half ran to him, all their differences forgotten in the face of this calamity. He caught her in his strong, capable arms and held her close for a moment. Held tight against his solid, familiar body, she realized she was still trembling.

  “He fell, Michael.” The words came tumbling out. “Jerome...he fell off the ladder and his leg, his thigh—the bone’s broken really bad. There was blood coming out. And his wrist—it’s broken, too. It was awful. He looked...he sounded...” Her voice broke and she fought the tears that threatened.

  “Easy, love. Calm down. He’s in good hands here. Hello, Isabelle. Hi, Clover. I’ll go right now and find out exactly how he is.” Michael eased Polly into a chair. “I’ll be back in a short while.”

  He hurried off, and it seemed to Polly they waited interminably. It was a nurse, not Michael, who finally came out of the treatment room and over to them.

  “Jerome’s stable now. He’ll be going up to surgery in a moment. Dr. Forsythe is talking with the ER doctors. He said to tell you he’ll be here right away. Jerome has a compound fracture of the femur, a fractured right wrist and several broken ribs.”

  Michael walked over just then. “They’ve taken him up to surgery. He’ll be there for at least a couple of hours.” He crouched so that he was at Clover’s eye level. “Your daddy’s getting all fixed up, but it’s going to be a while before you can see him. Right now, how about a treat? You’ve been a very brave girl, and I’ll bet you’d like some ice cream.”

  Clover nodded, slid off the chair and took Michael’s hand. They headed off toward the cafeteria.

  “It sounds like Jerome’ll be in hospital for a while,” Isabelle commented. “Who’s gonna take care of Clover?”

  “I promised Jerome we would.” Polly turned to face her mother. "Will it be okay if she stays with you, Mom? You get along with her, and she knows you better than she does me.” It was the best and most logical solution. After all, Isabelle had spent time with Clover during the painting of the house, and Clover knew Isabelle and responded to her.

  “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish,” Isabelle exclaimed in an irritated tone. “Of course I feel sorry for Jerome and for Clover, goodness knows I do, but I certainly can’t have her staying with me."

  “Why ever not?” Polly could feel her temper rising, and she made an effort, futile though it was, to control herself. “Mom, that kid calls you ‘Auntie.’ She likes you. She certainly makes it plain she has no use for me. And I know Jerome doesn’t have anybody else who’d take her, his relatives are far away and he hasn’t lived in B.C. long enough to make friends. Would it be such a sacrifice to keep her for a few days?”

  Isabelle’s chin went up and she cast a defiant look at her daughter. “I shouldn’t have to explain anything, but if you must know, I have a new friend who sleeps over most nights. Of course Eric is a perfect gentleman, but I certainly can’t have Clover around. You can understand that.”

  Being directly confronted with her mother’s sex life was disconcerting and embarrassing. “Eric?” Polly sputtered. “Who’s this Eric?”

  “His name is Eric Sanderson. He’s a retired businessman.”

  “Where’d you meet him?” Polly realized she was beginning to sound like a suspicious parent, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “At the park two weeks ago, when I took Clover over to play. He goes there to play checkers.”

  “Two weeks ago?” Polly blurted. “You met this guy two weeks ago and you’re going to bed with him already?”

  “Oh, phooey. Don’t be so old-fashioned,” Isabelle snapped. "It’s not as if I’m going to get pregnant. And even if it wasn’t for Eric, I’m not up to caring for a child full time at my age. I raised you and Norah. I would say I’ve earned my freedom. I’m sorry, but she’ll have to go home with you, Polly. I could maybe still take her to the park some afternoons, but she absolutely can’t stay with me. It’s out of the question.”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe how selfish you are, Mother.” The words were out before Polly could stop them. “That kid hates me. You’re the one who’s made a fuss over her every single day.”

  Polly took a shuddering breath and said what she’d always held back. "But then, you didn’t make time in your life for Susannah, either, so why the heck should I think you’d do it for a stranger?”

  Isabelle flinched, but she straightened her shoulders and gave Polly a scathing look. “Don’t you speak to me in that tone, miss. Why, it’s...it’s partly because Clover reminds me so much of Susie that I’m fond of her. You seem to think you’re the only one who misses that dear girl. She was my granddaughter, Polly, and I loved her, regardless of how much time I spent with her.”

  “Clover reminds you of Susannah?” Polly was aghast. Comparing the two girls was preposterous. How could her mother even think a thing like that, much less say it? It...it was a sacrilege. All of a sudden, Polly was furious with Isabelle. She knew if she tried to say anything more to her she’d end up screaming accusations, making a terrible scene, and this wasn’t the place.

  Michael worked here at St. Joe’s, she reminded herself. She couldn’t embarrass him in front of the staff by yelling at her mother.

  Where was Michael, anyway? Where had he disappeared to with that child, just when Polly needed him? She couldn’t bear to sit beside her mother one more instant.

  Finally she saw him, making his way slowly back along the hospital corridor, Clover clinging to him with one hand and holding an ice cream cone with the other. On legs that felt shaky Polly jumped up and hurried toward them, struggling for control. She was on the verge of tears again, but this time they were angry tears at her mother’s insensitivity.

  “Well, Clover,” she managed to say in what she hoped could be mistaken for a cheerful tone. “You’re going to come and stay with Michael and me for a while, at our house, until your daddy’s better. Isn’t that nice?”

  Michael shot her a surprised look, but the murderous expression on Polly’s face must have warned him not to question her further.

  “Don’t want to.” Clover scowled and her mouth bunched up, but she didn’t cry. It was obvious she wasn�
��t any more in favor of this plan than Polly was.

  “I think we’ll go home right now, have a bath and get some fresh clothes on, okay?” The child reeked of urine, and her face was streaked with tears and ice cream. Her nose was running; her pale eyes watered; her thin muddy-blond hair straggled out of cheap plastic hair clips and into her eyes.

  She looked like a ragamuffin, Polly concluded. A mental image of Susannah imposed itself between Polly and this unattractive child. Beautiful, exotic Susannah, with her thick dark curls, her cat’s eyes and amazingly long lashes, her tawny skin, her long graceful child’s body... A new wave of fury spilled through Polly as she regarded Clover. How could Isabelle think for an instant that this homely little girl was anything like Susannah?

  Michael once again crouched so he was at Clover’s eye level. “Clover, the doctors are taking good care of your daddy here. What you can do for him is go home with Polly now so Daddy doesn’t worry about you, okay?”

  Clover eyed him and at last nodded reluctantly.

  “Good girl.” Michael stood and put an arm around Polly’s shoulders. “Jerome’ll be in surgery another couple of hours, and I have to get back to the office, patients were lined up three deep when I left. The staff here will call me and report on Jerome’s condition as soon as he’s done, and I’ll phone you and Clover.” He bent his head and brushed her mouth with his, then affectionately rubbed a hand across Clover’s head.

  “This little girl needs a nap, she’s been yawning. It was a pretty upsetting morning for her.”

  And what about me? Polly squelched the thought, embarrassed at being so immature.

  “I’ll try to get home early, Pol, and give you a hand.”

  “Please, please do, Michael.” The rest of the day stretched ahead of Polly like an eternity. She’d be trapped at home with this contrary child, subject to her needs, her demands, her sullenness.