Nobody's Child

by Austin Boyd

  Laura Ann took one last look back at Sophia, her tight pink T-shirt under the orange life jacket a contrast in cultures.

  Sister.

  Laura Ann counted the seconds after she passed the big sycamore before she dug her paddle in on the right side. Pulling it toward the canoe, the bow jerked right toward the oncoming rush of water that poured over the logjam at the neck of The Jug. Her throat tightened, gooseflesh rising on her arms. This was more than she’d gambled for. No time to check Sophia, she dug in again, fighting the onslaught that hit the canoe like a mini-tidal wave.

  The boat pitched and, behind her, Laura Ann could feel Sophia lean into the wave just like she’d taught her. The boat shot left, headed for the trees on the downstream side of the pool below The Jug Store. Any other day, that bank offered a gentle beach, rest, and protection. Today, it represented death.

  Water sluiced through the trees on her left like seawater through a whale’s baleen, a rushing tide of foaming brown that slammed into trunks submerged twenty feet underwater. She could never navigate that minefield, sure to hit a tree sideways, flip, and spill them both into the torrent. The smack of a head against wood, or a baby crushed against a limb, and a life would end there.

  Acid jumped into her throat as she dug in on the right side again, yelling, “Right! Right!”

  Behind her, Sophia jammed her paddle in the water, forcing the boat toward the current with a hard stroke, then pulled with the paddle once more. Laura Ann caught a quick glimpse of people gathered at the store, pointing down. She lowered her eyes back to the water, her tormenter — and her grave, if she did this wrong.

  “Don’t try anything stupid,” Ian warned her when he visited yesterday. “I can handle things for you in town.”

  “If I do need to go, I can do it myself.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Laura Ann.”

  “I’m not stubborn. I’m independent.”

  I’m going to eat those words.

  Dirty foam splashed over them as the canoe crossed the swirling pool, bucked by the current that rushed toward them on the right. She caught a brief glance of the towering logjam, through the ridge cut, and shivered.

  “Straight ahead!” Laura Ann yelled, digging her oar in to haul the boat forward. Like swimming at an angle across a rip tide, their next move would take them across the current, to the safety of the far bank. Laura Ann dug her paddle in deep and pulled with her back and legs, desperate to propel the boat forward out of this misery. Working together, they pushed the boat across the center of the current and toward less turbulent waters near the far bank.

  “Left!” Laura Ann screamed, realizing too late that their combined heaves were more powerful than she’d needed, the boat darting across the water to impale itself in a vertical bank. She flipped her paddle to the left, pulling toward the bow. Behind her, Sophia matched her moves. The boat spun on its axis, assisted by a strong upstream current. Half a minute after they entered the whirlpool, they shot downstream, caught in the flow toward Middlebourne. They were through.

  Guiding the craft to the right, along the bank below the edge of Route 18, Laura Ann heard horns. One honk, then many, from cars and trucks blaring away up at The Jug Store. For the first time that day, she allowed herself a grin. The old men at the bar in The Jug Store would chew on that story for a few years. A girl, and some woman wearing a pink top, shot the rapids at The Jug whirlpool during the worst flood on record. And they lived to tell about it.

  It was a stupid move. She should have refused Sophia’s request, no matter how dire her situation. Her heart pounding, she chided herself for letting stubborn pride get in the way, silently sure she could do this. Chiding herself for endangering Sophia — and the baby. Nevertheless, facing heavy odds, they’d won. She turned and flashed a smile to her newbie canoe partner. She and her sister had won.

  Chew on that, Uncle Jack.

  “I mean it, Keester,” Laura Ann said, wishing he’d move on. “We like to walk.”

  “No can do,” the older man said, wiping his brow. “Got that canoe out of the creek for you, little lady, and I’m a’ gonna get you to town. Right thing to do.”

  Giving up, Laura Ann extended a hand. “Thank you. For asking the guys to help us.”

  “‘Tweren’t no trouble, Miss McGehee. Five of us, it took, but she’s outta there, and the suitcase too. We’ll set ‘er upstream of the jam and she’ll be awaitin’ when you comes back.”

  “All right. We’ll take you up on that ride,” she said, gripping Keester’s hand with all the strength she could muster. “But only as far as Main Street.” She turned to her left. “This is my friend, Sophia. She came to visit but her car is stuck at my place.” She nodded in the direction of the truck bed. “Her suitcase. We’re going to get her headed home today.”

  Keester tipped his hat, a John Deere ball cap with a dark stain of hair oil about the headband. “Pleasure. Reckon you wouldn’t be drivin’ outta there anytime soon.” “I reckon,” Sophia replied.

  Laura Ann smiled, suppressing a laugh. Country lingo sounded funny in Sophia’s city mouth.

  “Alrighty then. Hop in, little ladies, and we’re off.”

  Keester Bays loved Red Man. Empty pouches of the famed chewing tobacco littered his truck, and a baseball-size wad of tobacco distended Keester’s right cheek. Only Keester could stuff an entire pack of Red Man into his mouth at one time. The sickly sweet odor of tobacco spit blew through the truck while they drove with the windows down, headed a couple of miles into town.

  “So, Keester, what’s got you and all those boys up at the store so early this morning?” Laura Ann shouted over the wind noise.

  “Road’s out,” he answered, turning his head to spit.

  “Road’s gonna be out a long time, Keester,” she said, squeezing Sophia’s shoulder. “Are those guys at The Jug Store going somewhere, or just hanging out?”

  “Hangin’ out.” He said it like “hangin’ out” during a major disaster was all in a day’s work.

  “From out of town, huh?” Keester asked, leaning in Sophia’s direction. “What brings you to these parts?”

  “My late husband, bless his soul,” Sophia said, slipping back into her country role. “He loved these parts. Miss McGehee did us a big favor once. My James passed more than three years ago, and I got mighty lonely. So I came to pay a visit.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Miss.”

  Laura Ann choked, squeezing back another laugh. She ducked her head, then turned to face out the open window and feigned a cough.

  Well done.

  “We’re getting off at the bank, Keester. Thanks for the ride,” Laura Ann said, glad they’d made it to town without a severe grilling. Or a proposal.

  The truck slowed and pulled into a parking place. Laura Ann clambered out, followed by Sophia. “Gotta run, Keester. Say hi to Mrs. Bays.”

  “Aren’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” Keester asked, looking back at the suitcase in the truckbed.

  “Nope. I’ve got it,” Laura Ann replied. Before Keester could unlatch his seat belt, she’d placed a foot on the bumper and launched herself into the bed. She handed the travel case over the side to Sophia, then leapt out.

  “Bye now,” Laura Ann said, careful not to touch the driver’s side of the truck, draped in a windblown covering of dried brown spit. “Thanks again for the ride.”

  Keester shrugged, then touched the bill of his hat in a sort of mountaineer salute, and drove away.

  Laura Ann waved, glad she’d escaped without more questions, then turned to Sophia. “I need to go in the bank for a while. To make a deposit and check on the mortgage.”

  “Is there a problem?” Sophia asked, rummaging through her purse for her phone.

  “The flood. Fifty stools are due in New Martinsville in seven days. I can’t drive them out.” She took a deep breath, trying to swallow her stress on the steps of the one place that could sink her. “No stools means no money.”

  Sophia put out a hand toward
Laura Ann. “I understand.”

  “Anyway. I came to find out what the bank’s grace period can do for me. I’ll be about ten minutes.” She looked down at Sophia’s phone as its screen sprang to life. “I know you have some calls to make. Try the Enterprise dealer in New Martinsville. That’s the only car rental in the county. We can get you a taxi that far.”

  Sophia nodded, a strange resignation in her eyes. “Thanks. I’ll stay out here and watch the bag.” She looked down at her phone. “Got a signal!” she said, smiling.

  At the top of the steps, Laura Ann looked back. Sophia stood on the sidewalk, the phone to her ear. Moments later, Sophia buckled at the knees, sinking down to sit on a low brick wall that flanked the bank’s steps. One hand on her belly, the other to her ear, she bent over in a strange pose of concentration.

  Or perhaps some unspoken pain.

  “Your mortgage is due on the first, Laura Ann. In four days. Beyond that, the bank has the option — but is under no obligation — to extend you a grace period.”

  Matt Parker, a persnickety loan officer prone to the repetition of simple facts, sat behind a broad desk without a single sheet of paper on it. Just a computer screen and keyboard. In all her days working with this bank, the only one in town, she’d never seen him handle a piece of paper.

  “I know it’s due on the first, Mr. Parker. What I’m here to ask is when does the grace period end? When is the last day that I can pay without penalty? Thanks to the flood, I can’t get my stools to New Martinsville. I’m here to do some advance planning so that I pay on time.”

  “That’s distressing to hear, Laura Ann.” He turned to his computer. “But it confirms our analysis.”

  “Distressing?”

  “Yes. All of our loans are subject to federal audit. With your father’s death — I’m sorry, of course — “ “I’m sure.”

  “Yes. Well, with his passing, we’re very concerned about your ability to pay. Surely you can understand.”

  “I appreciate your sympathy, Mr. Parker. But let’s get to the point.”

  “Point? Certainly. We’ve rated your loan recently and it’s been downgraded to what the banking industry terms ‘doubtful.’ “ He stared at the screen like it was some kind of friend, never making eye contact with her. “We’ve recently been required to put up a financial reserve as collateral against your debt, Laura Ann. If you miss a payment, we may have to call the loan.”

  “On what grounds?” The voice came from behind her. Familiar strength.

  Sister.

  Laura Ann turned, Sophia pulling a bag as she settled into the chair next to her. She took the seat as Mr. Parker looked up. She had her smile back. The woman who deflated on the bank steps had fled, the old Sophia returned.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Parker said, his eyes darting between the two women. “Have we met?”

  “No.” Sophia unzipped her purse, rummaged for a moment, and produced a business card. “My name is Sophia McQuistion. I’m a tax attorney from Pittsburgh. And a friend of Laura Ann’s.”

  Attorney?

  Laura Ann’s mouth fell open, but she felt the touch of a hand on her knee as Sophia shot her a quick wink.

  Sophia gave him just a heartbeat to review the card, then launched the question again. “On what grounds has your auditor downgraded this loan?”

  “I’m sorry Mrs. — Mrs. McQuistion. We’re not authorized to discuss that with outside parties.”

  “Fine. I know the game, Mr. Parker. So, let’s speak in the hypothetical. A ‘doubtful’ loan is rated an ‘8’ on the auditor scale, and represents debts for which the bank has demonstrable evidence that there will not be repayment. Sixty to ninety days of past-due accounts, or loss of revenue to repay.” She paused, watching him. “Am I correct?”

  He shrugged in silence.

  “Has Ms. McGehee missed a payment?”

  “That’s not in question.”

  “Yes, it is. You put the issue in play with that comment about the ‘doubtful’ rating. I repeat, Mr. Parker. Has my client missed any payments?”

  “Your client?” Mr. Parker stiffened, his face sour. “No. She has not.”

  “So. If she’s not delinquent, one of the two key provisions for this rating, then I conclude that you have downgraded her account for reasons of questionable revenue. But you’d have to show proof of that to an auditor, wouldn’t you? Proof, it seems, you may have fabricated.” She looked at Laura Ann, then continued. “When is the next payment on this note due?”

  Mr. Parker took a long breath, then turned to the computer screen. “Due in four days. On the first.” He exhaled a long breath, then added, “Overdue on the fifteenth. About three weeks.”

  While he searched his screen, Sophia reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook.

  Laura Ann’s heart skipped. “No,” she said, reaching across the gap between them to lay a hand on Sophia’s check. “I can do this. Please.”

  “I know you can,” Sophia said. “This is not a loan. I’m buying your stools.” She turned toward Mr. Parker. “Let’s be doublesure that some overzealous bankers don’t arbitrarily downgrade a reliable loan.” She held Mr. Parker’s eye with her last comment, and he winced.

  In the silence between Laura Ann’s amazement and Mr. Parker’s discomfort, she filled out the check and signed it with a flourish, then handed the paper to the banker. He refused to touch the check. Sophia laid it in front of him, then stood, pulling on Laura Ann while stuffing her checkbook in her purse.

  “Deposit it, Mr. Parker. To the credit of Laura Ann McGehee’s mortgage. Consider it an advance payment — and a sign of her reliable income stream.” She turned, grabbing the suitcase, and gestured with a move of her head for Laura Ann to leave. Sophia stared Mr. Parker down for a long moment.

  “We’ll return in one hour for the receipt.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “That lawyer lady bailed her out.”

  “Drug money?”

  “Not drugs. Men. The paying kind.”

  Her ears tuned to the loud conversation of two patrons at the pizza parlor, Laura Ann shoveled in another bite of Auggie’s Old Fashioned sausage and mushroom. The little restaurant was packed for lunch, most of the people showing the effects of the flood. Muddy clothes, water stains on their pants, or knee-high rubber boots — coping with a tragedy that decimated the lower half of town.

  Laura Ann dabbed at some pizza sauce on her chin and rolled her eyes.

  “What?” Sophia asked in between bites.

  Laura Ann nodded her head in the direction of the window, an older woman seated with a man about the same age, both of them outfitted in waders. The woman droned on in a voice loud enough to hear across the crowded room.

  Laura Ann whispered, “Don’t you hear what they’re saying about us?” She wagged her head in the direction of the rude lady at the window.

  “Every word,” Sophia replied.

  Laura Ann smiled, cocking her head to one side. “You don’t show it.”

  Sophia shrugged. “I’m an attorney. And a good poker player too.” She shook her head. “Don’t let it bother you. They’re just jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Laura Ann asked, polishing off the last bite of her pizza.

  “No one’s talking about them,” she said with a big smile. “So they yap about other people just to get noticed.”

  “That’s sad,” Laura Ann replied. The pizza, mixed with a stomach full of stress, soured in her gut. She waited for Sophia to finish her last bite, then gathered her things and stood to go.

  Main Street of Middlebourne resembled the hybrid of a gold rush town and a national disaster area. Heavy equipment moved into town on lowboys towed behind big tractor rigs, all of them funneling in from the direction of Sistersville on the only passable section of Route 18. State emergency vehicles, news vans, and a Salvation Army food truck belched exhaust as they clogged the town’s main artery. Mud tracked everywhere … red clay slinging off tires and flat chunks of mud squa
shed on the pavement like earthen cow pies. Up and down Main Street, people moved fast, a hive of bees determined to shovel out of yet another flood. A community knit together by dogged West Virginia determination.

  “Does it bother you?” Sophia asked after lunch when both were out of earshot of Auggie’s. “All that talk?” The two wove their way down the crowded sidewalk, loaded with groceries, two bags of jeans — and a receipt from the bank. A three-quarter mile walk lay ahead of them, headed out of town to the Par-Mar gas station, and the cab stand for the town’s part-time taxi.

  “Sure it bothers me,” Laura Ann replied. “Especially now. With Daddy gone.”

  “Is that typical? These rumors?”

  “Folks gossip. You’re a new face and they probably wonder what you’re up to, spreading business cards around town and all.”

  “We saw a banker, Laura Ann. That’s hardly newsworthy.”

  “It’s big news for some. Uncle Jack’s friends love salacious rumors. They’ll probably label you as loose money from out of town.” She chuckled. “Maybe a brothel madam who runs her business out of local farmhouses.” She moved aside as a loud truck rumbled by. “Other than my uncle’s friends, most people will simply wonder why you’re here. Distrust runs high after a flood. Real estate deals, rip-offs, carpetbaggers. Uncle Jack will be busy trying to scam something in this, you can be sure.”

  “You’ve mentioned him a couple of times. Never positive.”

  “Nothing good to say.”

  A diesel pickup zoomed past headed through town, then screeched on the brakes. The driver slammed the mud-spattered red truck in reverse and zoomed back, weaving and erratic.

  “Hey there, L.A.! Need a ride?” A young man in a soiled green Marshall University ball cap pulled alongside her. He matched their stride, driving in reverse, his huge muffler belching black and loud.

  Laura Ann cringed, shaking her head while she pressed forward. “No thanks, Tommy.”

  “Long walk home, babe.”