Cold River

by Liz Adair

  She continued to smile as she returned to her desk, though she cradled her aching left arm in her right hand. After glancing at her notes from the night before, Mandy first consulted the yellow phone card and then picked up the phone. She dialed a number and spoke in a pleasant voice. “Mrs. Berman? Could you bring a notepad and step into my office? Thank you very much.”

  She leaned back in the chair and swiveled around to face the window. As she visualized the conversation she would have with her secretary, her attention was caught by Vince Lafitte standing by his car, talking to a man. Mandy could see the sheen of the man’s scalp showing beneath a meager fringe of dark, combed-over hair. Vince seemed to be listening intently, frowning as he nodded. Finally, he said something and held out his hands. Just before the man handed over the briefcase he was holding, he turned to scan the parking lot, and Mandy recognized Mo Smith. As Vince put the valise in his trunk, she looked around the parking lot too, and noticed Grange’s pickup was gone.

  “You wanted to see me?” Ice crystals hung from each syllable. Mrs. Berman stood in the doorway, and her manner could not have been more frigid.

  “Yes. Thank you. Won’t you sit down?” Mandy was determined not to be deterred by a difficult staff. She had won over tougher customers than Mrs. Berman, including several older women in the district office in Albuquerque who had resented a younger woman in a position of authority.

  After Mrs. Berman settled her ample rear into a chair, Mandy leaned back and considered her for a moment, taking in the silvery hair piled on top of her head in a neat bun, the large bosom, the nondescript print dress, and the sensible shoes. Trying to keep her voice even and pleasant, she glanced at her list and asked, “Mrs. Berman, where is the first-aid kit?”

  The older lady’s eyes widened imperceptibly and she paused before answering. “Why?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Against her will, a steely edge crept into Mandy’s voice. “There may be any number of reasons why I ask the question. Is there a reason why you won’t give me an answer?”

  “Not at all. The first-aid kit is in my office in the cupboard.”

  “Thank you.” Mandy allowed her glance to stray to the window. Vince Lafitte was just pulling out of the parking lot. “Will you please make a note to get it hung in the bathroom on the wall so that anyone unfamiliar with the district office can have access to it?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Mandy’s gaze shifted to her secretary, and one eyebrow lifted slightly. She made no comment but simply waited.

  There was a long silence. Mrs. Berman’s mouth compressed into a straight line while Mandy maintained a pleasant, inquisitive presence.

  Mrs. Berman spoke first. “There are things in the first-aid kit that I wouldn’t want the wrong people to get hold of.”

  “All first-aid kits have things that, if taken by the wrong people, might cause discomfort. Ipecac, hydrogen peroxide, ammonia salts. But the benefits of having someone able to get to those supplies in an emergency outweigh the dangers, I think.”

  “It’s not that I’m thinking of. It’s the yarbs.”

  “Yarbs?”

  “Yes. I’ve got some of my best yarbs in the first-aid kit, but if they’re not used right, some can cause harm.”

  Mandy’s mind searched, trying to place this foreign word. “Would you show me these yarbs? I’d like to see what you’ve got in the first-aid kit that worries you.”

  “I don’t like other people messing with my yarbs,” Mrs. Berman muttered as she stood and marched out. She disappeared into her own office next door and reappeared carrying a suitcase-shaped basket, which she deposited on Mandy’s desk. She undid the latch then opened the kit wide, revealing the usual assortment of bandages, gauze, antibiotic ointment, and first-aid cream. In addition, there were several plastic bags filled with dried plants and four small, brown bottles.

  “Oh, I see. Herbs.” Mandy picked up one of the bottles. It had a handwritten label with a crude skull and crossbones drawn on it.

  “That’s my tincture of arnica,” Mrs. Berman explained. “That’s what I wouldn’t want someone to get hold of. It should never be taken internally.”

  “What would happen?”

  “It’s poisonous. Causes vomiting, raises the blood pressure, makes your heart race, makes you weak and trembly. Sometimes it causes delirium. That’s why I don’t like having the first-aid kit out of my sight.”

  Mandy stood. “Mrs. Berman, you cannot be treating people with these things. That’s practicing medicine without a license. There are strict rules about what we can do as far as first aid.”

  The older woman grabbed the bottle out of Mandy’s hand. “I’m not practicing medicine without a license. I don’t ever do anything beyond put on a band-aid. But people know I have things that can cure, and they come to me. I tell them what to take, and they get it themselves. I don’t dispense any of my yarbs. They take them themselves.” She put the bottle back in the suitcase and began to close the lid.

  “Wait. Was there an Ace bandage in there?”

  Mrs. Berman stopped in mid-slam and looked questioningly at Mandy.

  “Um, I thought I might wrap my wrist.” After pushing the lid back, Mandy looked inside and found an elasticized bandage.

  “Your wrist is swollen.” It was almost an accusation. “What did you do?”

  “I tripped and fell. It’s nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.” Mrs. Berman snapped the lid closed and picked up the case. “Follow me.”

  Thinking the interview with her secretary wasn’t going as she had visualized, Mandy did as she was bid, tagging behind as Mrs. Berman descended the stairs and went into the kitchen. Mandy sat on a stool and allowed her secretary to apply a warm chickweed poultice to the swollen wrist, but she baulked at the brown, bitter-smelling tincture offered for pain, opting instead for Tylenol from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

  Half an hour later, the first-aid kit, complete with yarbs, was back in the locked cupboard in Mrs. Berman’s office, and Mandy was again seated behind her desk. The poultice made a lump under the Ace bandage that swathed her wrist, but the throbbing had stopped. She smiled at her secretary, again seated in the side chair, and picked up her list. “Now, about a first-aid kit in the bathroom—” Mandy began, but she was interrupted by Mrs. Berman.

  “Before we go any further, I need to remind you that you have an appointment with Nettie Maypole at eight, and one with Reuben Fellows at eight thirty.”

  Mandy frowned. “How can I have appointments with these people? What do you mean remind?”

  “I mean that they have each made an appointment to see the superintendent. You’re the superintendent, so they’re coming to see you.”

  “What about?”

  Mrs. Berman rose. “Nettie works at the high school cafeteria. That’s her pulling in right now. She’s a bit of a bulldozer, so don’t let her run over you.”

  NETTIE TURNED OUT to be more barnacle than bulldozer. No matter how many discussion-ending ploys Mandy tried, the other woman couldn’t be pried off the chair until she had an assurance of redress. Arvella Shonefeld, chief cook at the cafeteria, had hijacked Nettie’s recipe for Yum Yum Potatoes and was calling them Tarheel Spuds in the weekly school menu.

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Nettie said. She was a large barnacle, with wiry, salt-and-pepper hair, and rimless glasses sitting on a bulbous nose. “That was my mama’s recipe that I let her use. She had no business changing the name. Why, Doc McDonald was saying to me the other day, ‘Wasn’t that your mama’s recipe they was serving at the school?’ Taste don’t lie, Dr. Steamburger. Taste don’t lie.”

  To Mandy’s relief, her secretary opened the door. “Excuse me, Dr. Steenburg, but your next appointment is here.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Berman.” She stood and walked around her desk, holding out her hand to Nettie. “What is it you wish me
to do, Mrs. Maypole?”

  “I just want her to call the potatoes by the right name. No more Tarheel Spuds. I want to see Yum Yum Potatoes on the menu from now on.”

  “Well, I’m sure that can be accomplished,” Mandy said briskly. “Thank you for coming in. You people in the cafeteria do a great service to the school.”

  Nettie shook Mandy’s hand but didn’t rise. “She serves them every two weeks. They’ll be on the menu for next week.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll get back to you.”

  “The menu is printed on Friday so it’s ready to be posted on Monday.”

  “Well, that gives me a couple of days.” Mandy opened the door.

  Nettie didn’t stir. “I’m headed in to work right now. Do you want me to tell Arvella you want to talk to her?”

  Mandy’s smile turned brittle. “Thank you, no. Mrs. Berman will arrange an appointment for me. I know you don’t want to infringe on someone else’s time. It was nice to meet you, and we will be in touch.” She said no more, but stood expectantly, waiting for Nettie to rise.

  When she didn’t, Mandy called, “Mrs. Berman?”

  Her secretary came out of her office.

  “Would you tell my next appointment that I can see him now? Mr. Fellows, was it?”

  Nettie snorted. “Good luck with him!”

  Mandy was beginning to think she was going to have to forcibly remove Nettie. Considering she was about a third the size of the cafeteria worker, she had her doubts about being able to do so and wondered if Mrs. Berman’s job description included such things.

  It wasn’t until Reuben Fellows appeared on the landing that Nettie finally gave up her chair. “All right, then.” She stomped out with hunched shoulders and a scowl on her round face.

  Mandy judged Reuben to be about her own age. He was short and stocky and sat uneasily in the side chair, glancing now and then through the door as if checking that the coast was clear for his retreat. His complaint, which he had a hard time voicing, was that he was never assigned to drive the bus on athletic or band trips. It was always Harvey or Les who got those assignments, and though Reuben and the other drivers had asked to be given a turn for the extra work and money, it had not happened. Reuben had been elected to come and talk to the superintendent.

  “Who makes the assignments?” Mandy asked.

  “Harvey,” Reuben said bitterly, clenching the baseball cap he held in his lap.

  “I see. Tell me what you expect of me.”

  “Talk to him. He needs to make it fair for all concerned. We all have families. Some of us are just getting by, and he goes out and buys a boat. It doesn’t need to be that way.”

  “I see.” Mandy pulled her notepad over and found a pen. “What is Harvey’s last name?”

  “Berman.”

  Mandy looked up. “Is he related to—”

  “Her son.”

  Mandy wrote the name and put down her pen. “I will definitely look into this. It’s in the district’s best interest to have our transportation people work together in harmony, since you get the students safely to and from school. I want you to know your work is appreciated.” She stood. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Reuben stood as well. “That’s it? ‘I’ll get back to you?’”

  “You asked me to talk to Harvey. I have said I will do that.”

  “What’s wrong with hauling his sorry… Pardon. What’s wrong with calling him in right now?”

  “Well, I would imagine he’s driving the bus right now, picking up students. Or am I wrong about that?”

  “School starts at eight.”

  “Nevertheless, I would rather speak to him at another time. I assure you, I will get back to you before the end of the week.”

  “There’s a band competition the end of April. Four buses will be going. I’d like to be one of the drivers.”

  “Before the end of the week. I promise you.” Mandy held out her hand.

  Reuben hesitated just a moment and then took it in his, briefly.

  “I’ll hold you to that.” His exit was similar to Nettie Maypole’s— shoulders hunched, brows down, almost stomping.

  Mandy shut the door behind him, reflecting that her people skills seemed to be slipping. She returned to her desk, sat, and turned to face the windows, watching as Reuben stalked out to a yellow bus and got in. As he exited the parking area, she saw him wave to Grange Timberlain, just entering. She grabbed her notepad and wrote next to Reuben’s name, “Talk to Grange about this.”

  A knock at the door made her turn her head, and a tall young man waved through the glass at her. “Come in,” she called.

  He did so, introducing himself with a lopsided smile. He was very dark, with brown eyes behind rectangular glasses, and a five o’clock shadow. “I’m Oscar, computer tech for the district.”

  “Hello, Oscar. You’re very young to be a computer tech.” She got up to give him room to work.

  “I’m a senior,” he said as he turned on her computer.

  “Where? Is there a school nearby?”

  Oscar laughed. “Right down the road. North Cascade High School.”

  “You’re still in high school?”

  “Yep. Dear old Inches.”

  At Mandy’s quizzical look, he explained, “North Cascade High School. NCHS. We call it Inches for short.” Turning his attention to the computer screen, he clicked on an icon and worked intently for a moment at the keyboard, then gave the chair back to her. “If you’ll enter your password, you’ll be in business.”

  She sat and did so. “Okay. Now I want to make sure that the calendaring program is up and running.”

  “Calendaring program?”

  “I want Mrs. Berman to have access to everyone’s schedules so she can arrange appointments and meetings. Is that already set up?”

  “Nope. That will take me a little while to work out. Do you have something else to do so I can have your desk for ten minutes or so?”

  Mandy hesitated, but the note she’d written by Reuben’s name caught her eye, and she said, “Yes. I’ll be next door at Mr. Timberlain’s.”

  She picked up the notepad then walked past Mrs. Berman’s small office to Grange’s slightly larger one. It had a multi-paned door similar to her own, and she noticed again the room’s untidiness. Three filing cabinets, piled high with books and arranged along the wall, encroached on the door’s ability to open all the way. Boxes covered every other available surface. Seated at his desk with his back to the door and his forearms resting on the desk, Grange studied a document spread out in front of him. His shirt pulled tightly over his broad shoulders, and she could see the muscular definition of his back. His dark hair curled a bit over his collar.

  There was no response to Mandy’s first, hesitant knock, so she tried again. As he straightened and turned, she saw the good side of his face first, and she had the impression— more a physical reaction than a thought process— that he was an extremely handsome man. As he faced her full on, the expressionless half was so jarring that the feeling fled, and Mandy had to force herself not to look away.

  He stood and opened the door, but said nothing.

  “Oscar is working at my desk. I thought, if you had time, I could confer with you about some district business. Do you mind?”

  Still not speaking, Grange shook his head and looked around his untidy office for a place for her to sit.

  As he moved boxes to free up the side chair, she examined the room. Two objects hanging on the wall next to the door caught her eye. One was a framed diploma from Central Washington University, with “Frederic Granger Timberlain” written in gothic script. The other was a picture of a young woman with sable curls and brown eyes, dressed in walking shorts and hiking boots. She stood on a rock with the sky as a background, and she laughed as she looked down at the picture taker. Mandy touched the corner of the frame to straighten it.

  “Who is that in the picture?” As Mandy asked the question, Grange invited her to
sit, but before she could repeat her question, Mrs. Berman sailed in, crowding the area with her girth.

  “Tea time,” she announced, a steaming cup in each hand.

  Mandy put up her hand in refusal. “I’m really not a tea drinker.”

  “You’ll drink this,” Mrs. Berman insisted. “It’s comfrey. Also called knitbone. I don’t think you’ve broken anything, but it couldn’t hurt.” She turned to Grange. “And here is yours. Do I have to stand here and make sure you drink it?”

  One side of his mouth curled into a smile. “No, Edith. I’ll drink it. Or, at least, if Dr. Steenburg will drink hers, I’ll drink mine.”

  Mandy took a tentative sip. “It’s really quite nice. It even sounds nice. Comfrey. Mmm.”

  Mrs. Berman nodded her approval and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

  Grange raised his mug. “Mine, on the other hand, is called skullcap and tastes like it.”

  “But you did promise.”

  In answer, Grange took a sip. He grimaced, and the sight of his face was so comical that Mandy laughed.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “No, that’s all right. What happened to your arm?”

  Mandy tried to ignore the surreal, periodic wink on that half-frozen face. “I fell. It was a stupid thing to do. It may be a bit of a sprain. I was looking for an Ace bandage, and the next thing I knew Mrs. Berman had me in the kitchen and was putting this mass of wet weeds on my arm, all the while assuring me she never treated anyone with her yarbs unless they asked.”

  “Does it feel better?”

  “That’s just the thing! It does. How do you account for that?”

  “She knows her stuff.” Grange took another sip and set his cup down. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to you about the people who came to see me this morning.”

  “I saw Reuben. Who was the other?”

  When Mandy told him it was Nettie Maypole, Grange turned away. She couldn’t see his expression, but she thought she heard a chuckle.