by Michael Smth
Jess ended up just warning them about speeding, of course. He led the way over to the Chandler place. Surprised Eva, to say the least.
The Conroys came to look for a place in Hooker County. Said they’d been robbed in Chicago and wanted something quieter. In fact, mostly it was Crickette wanting to be near Eva, and Max going along with it. They spent a week in the area, looking for land. In the end, they settled on a chunk of Harry Scurfman’s place. Jess told them they were asking for trouble, doing business with the ornery cuss, but they were city folks who figured what does some old horse’s neck sheriff know? They ended up paying an arm and a leg for the upper ten acres of Harry’s land south of town.
Max hired a homebuilder from Valentine to construct the exterior of a new house and workshop. At Christmastime, he and Crickette moved from Chicago. Max was a carpenter by trade, and he spent almost a year getting the interior the way his wife wanted it. When that was done, Max went back to making fine furniture and cabinetry, custom-built for rich city slickers.
One morning in the first days after the Conroys moved in, Eva showed up unannounced. She took Crickette’s coat from its vestibule hanger and handed it to her. “We’re going for a walk. If you’re here for good, there’s something you need to understand.”
They walked silently for a minute in the chilly air, then Eva stopped. “I won’t have the life I’ve built here—my family’s life—jeopardized. You and I share a black past, and that’s just where that it must remain—in the past. You’ve told everyone that we were close during the war. If what you did then were to come out, my security would be threatened. Or vice versa. People can put one and one together.” Eva stepped aggressively close to Crickette’s face. “Most of what Henri told us was merde, but he was right about one thing. He said it’s the highest virtue to be willing to do anything to protect one’s family.” She grasped Crickette’s elbow. “I would do anything. Do I make myself clear?”
Crickette jerked her arm from Eva’s grip. “Of course, dear. I wouldn’t risk hurting Max with the past either. Our secret is safe with me.”
“So we have an understanding, then.” She took Crickette’s hand and shook it. “A pact.”
Crickette nodded and they went inside.
After the sparks he’d seen between Eva and Crickette during her first visit, Jess was surprised at how close they were after the move. He commented to Crickette at Eva’s 1952 Mardi gras fête, “You and Eva seem to be gettin’ along real slick these days. What’s the secret?”
“The secret’s that we’ve made a secret pact, sheriff.” Crickette swirled the high ball in her hand. The tinkle of the ice cubes in the glass matched her giggle. “You know, to keep our secret…secret.” She winked a wouldn’t you like to know what it is wink and said no more.
Max and Crickette didn’t fit in all that well in Hooker County. Problem was, they brought a big chunk of Chicago with them and never let go. What Hooker County folks call high living. Jazzy music jumpin’ on the Victrola. Cuban cigars and gin rickeys. Clothes that care too much about how they look. That Buick convertible. And Max’s Stetson, which drew Lem Hickok’s quip, “That greenhorn’s all hat and no Hereford.”
In Sickness
Doc Fletcher never took to cars, and horseback agreed less and less with him after his lumbago set in. He decided to hire someone part-time, to visit rural patients in their homes. About that time, Eva was looking for something to do. Stan had just taken over the general store and was busy as a kid with an ice cream cone in August. Daughters Cat and Françie were in school. So, in early 1956 Eva began working for the doctor. She didn’t have medical training, but as the doctor told Stan, “Her bedside manner is a sight better than mine. She’ll be a fine go-between.” Stan figured Doc didn’t want to see Harry Scurfman so often.
Eva visited Harry’s place regularly to measure his blood pressure and check that he was taking his heart pills. She had no problems with him. Ethel Henderson, who sold Harry eggs, stopped at the store one day to tell Stan, “I think the old coot’s sweet on your Eva.”
Stan knew better. “Naw, Harry ain’t got no sweet in him.”
In April of 1956, feuding flared up between the Conroys and Harry. As Eva was taking his blood pressure one afternoon, he railed, “Them damn Conroys pulled a fast one on me when I tried to help ’em out, selling them some of my land. Dirty city slickers.”
“But Mr. Scurfman,” Eva said, “Crickette and Max paid you the price you set.” She looked sternly at Harry. “It was a rich price, too. You mustn’t speak so.”
“If it’s such a rich price, how come they tromp all the way here from Chicago to get it? Huh? Explain me that! And then that big lug goes out and steals my idea for a mail alarm. Steals it big as shit. My one chance to make the big time. I’d like to—”
“Carrying on so! How can I measure you properly?” Eva unsnapped the blood pressure sleeve roughly and shoved it in her bag. “Maybe you’d prefer I don’t come anymore?”
Harry’s eyes darted back and forth like a little boy caught cheating by his teacher. Air hissed in and out of his nose, but he said nothing.
Eva stood and snapped her bag shut. “In that case, I’ll speak with Doctor Fletcher.”
“That quack! He’d like to leave me on my own, even sick as I am.” Harry squirmed. “Aw, you don’t have to say nothin’ to him—I’ll keep my trap shut.”
When Stan heard from Ethel Henderson that Harry was hitting the hooch pretty hard, he worried about Eva. Over dinner one night, he said, “All that boozin’. Look honey, I know you gotta visit the old rascal regular. Just please don’t take no chances around him.”
Eva stopped cutting her pork chop in mid-slice. “I do worry the drinking hurts his heart. And his anger! He mutters that Max steals his idea for the mails. Any idea what this is?”
Stan laughed. “Way I heard it, Harry rigged a second flag on his mail box, a yellow one that springs up when the mail carrier puts his delivery in his box. With binoculars, he sees the raised yellow flag and knows the mail’s there. Told Ethel he figured on getting’ rich on the idea, but he never did nothing with it, far as anyone knows. Nothin’ other than save an extra hike to the road.” Stan put down his knife and fork. He sipped his milk. “You know Max’s driveway hops a hill out to the county road, so they didn’t have line-of-sight to their mailbox. Well, Max is pretty handy—rigged hisself up a switch on the box and an electrical loop that lights a bulb in the house when the mail comes. Maybe he did get the idea from Harry. Anyway, it griped the old geezer, and Max’s wires were cut once. Uncle Jess warned Harry, that tamperin’ with the mail’s a federal crime.” Stan grinned. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but the wires ain’t been cut since.”
“Hmm.” Eva touched her napkin to her lips. “I’ve worried about his threats—at Doc, at Max, at Jess. Especially since Harry hasn’t kept his promise to stop. They must be careful.”
“Don’t worry ’bout Harry. Not for Uncle Jess anyways. He can take care of hisself. As for Max, Harry’s rantin’ is about like a rattler threatenin’ a bull buffalo—not much of a match-up.” Stan scratched his chin. “Still, even a busted clock’s right twice a day. I’ll mention to Uncle Jess to keep his eyes open.”
Max had bigger things than Harry eating him the summer of 1956. Crickette had been feeling poorly. From Max’s comments, it sounded like gut problems. Eva flew to her side like a sister. “Whenever she isn’t visiting Doc Fletcher’s patients,” Max told Jess, “Eva’s over at our place, cooking, Hoovering, polishing, and caring for Crickette.”
Eva worried. “Crickette doesn’t like seeing doctors,” she told Stan. “She fights going in, no matter how Max pleads. No matter how bad the pain is.”
But by early November, suffering had worn her down, and Max called Jess for help. “Eva’s finally talked Chérie into seeing Doc Fletcher. I need to get her to the office, but my truck’s broke down. Any way you could give us a lift this early afternoon, pardner?”
“Happy to help,
but my damn shoulder’s acting up. Carrie can drive us.” The Garritys took Crickette and Max into town. Eva met them at the office. She and Crickette were in Doc’s exam room for quite a while before Doc called Max in. Five minutes later the Conroys came out arm-in-arm, each supporting the other. Jess knew by the gray of their faces that the news wasn’t good.
Carrie went to Crickette. Max patted his wife’s hand, and he shambled over to Jess and leaned full on his shoulder like he couldn’t support himself. “Not good, partner,” Max whispered, “looks like woman’s cancer.”
The men stood silent, one not knowing what to say and the other having said it all. The women sat in the corner, their heads together. The air in the room was thick and dark as January sky when Eva emerged from the exam room. She stood straight as a Sioux in the saddle. As strong. She brought everyone together and took charge. “From Crickette’s symptoms, Doctor Fletcher fears for ovarian cancer. He’s spoken to a surgeon in North Platte who will make an exploratory surgery in early December. Until then, I have a prescription for pain medicine. I’ll be in your house whenever I can, Max. Carrie, if you’ll help with the girls, I know Stanley can manage at home.”
Eva took Crickette’s hands in hers, and she peered into her eyes, and she wouldn’t speak until her sick friend peered back. “Sister, you must be brave. Remember the dark days we escaped. We can do it again, but only if you keep your courage.”
Crickette’s stare was blank, but she swallowed hard and nodded.
On December 9, Jess drove Crickette, Max, and Eva to the hospital in North Platte. The cruiser covered the sixty-eight miles down there in under an hour. They met Dr. Blanchard, the young female surgeon who’d operate on Crickette. Afterward Max said, “Dang, ya know she-docs exist—I read in Look Magazine about one curing blind kids in India—but ya don’t figure on seeing one with your own eyes.”
During the surgery the next morning, Jess watched Max pace back and forth like an animal in a cage. Waits at the medic’s are always tough. Bein’ a lawman, ya have your share. There’s boredom, and that’s the easy part. Bein’ helpless is worse. It works out in the end sometimes, like with Stella Purcell when her horse fell on her, and it don’t sometimes, like when Billy Foster shot hisself. Either way, the waitin’s always tough.
It didn’t work out for Crickette. Dr. Blanchard appeared, still in her surgical gown, and took Max away to talk in private. A tall, gray-haired woman waiting out her husband’s gall bladder surgery shuddered as she watched them walk in silence down the hall.
The diagnosis was cancer. Cancer of the ovaries. Bad cancer. Lots of it. The surgeon told Max that Crickette had three months. Three hard months.
Jess drove back home that afternoon. Eva and Max stayed the two days until Crickette was discharged. Stan brought them back in his Plymouth.
Once Crickette was back at home, Eva was with her almost round the clock, especially the week after surgery. At first, Crickette seemed much better. And there was the holiday season. Like a January thaw kindles hope for an early spring, those days buoyed everyone’s spirits. They dared wonder if maybe the she-doc could’ve been mistaken.
In mid-January, Jess got an emergency call from the Conroy place. Eva was on the phone. “Sheriff Jess, you must come quick. Max makes a big walnut desk for a doctor in Broken Bow when it falls on his foot. A very heavy desk. We can move it but the foot is very bad. Very purple under the skin and very much swelling. Can you come?”
“You’re saying a desk fell on Max?” Jess asked.
“Yes, it fell on his foot. The desk. Please come, Jess.”
“Be right over.”
Eva waited at the house with Crickette while Jess drove Max to Doc Fletcher’s. Doc did his exam, took X-rays, and plastered the leg half way up to the knee. He told Jess, “Darn desk done some damage. Film shows it busted up some of them foot bones pretty good. Old hoss’ll be crippled-up for a while.”
On the drive back home, Max seemed oddly cheerful. “I’ll tell you, Pally, I’m glad for this.” He tapped the cast. “Desk coming down on my foot—sure it’s bad luck. But I figure if I use up what bad luck Chérie and me got coming, there’ll be only good luck left. And that’s what we’ll need to beat that poison chewin’ her insides.” He forced a smile at Jess.
Jess looked at the man next to him in the front seat—a fella he’d always seen as a giant. But not now. Though he was acting brave, Max looked small, like a broke poker player sliding his grandpa’s pocket watch into the pot, drawing to an inside straight. “Well Max, I hope so. If I could chip in some of my own good luck to you two, I’d sure do it.”
The First Day of My Life
The Saturday after Max’s injury, January 19, Crickette phoned Eva and demanded she come right away. Eva left her daughters with Carrie and drove to the Conroy place. As she pulled up to the house, Crickette burst through the doorway and stumbled to the truck. Tears streaked her face and she bent over in obvious pain.
Eva leapt from the truck and put an arm around her friend. “It’s bad today, isn’t it? Come, let’s get you inside, poor thing.”
Crickette twisted away. “Not there. Need to talk. Where Max can’t hear.” She pulled on red mittens and clutched Eva’s arm. “In the workshop.”
With Eva’s support, Crickette hobbled the forty feet to Max’s workshop. She turned on the light and lurched to the office area in the corner. She pulled her coat tight around her and fell into the swivel chair.
Eva put a hand on Crickette’s shoulder.
Crickette looked up with fire in her eyes. “The damn pain medicines don’t work,” she snarled. “I can’t go on.”
“I’ll speak with Doc Fletcher. Perhaps a different—”
Crickette knocked Eva’s hand away. “Nothing works. Did you hear me? I can’t go on.”
When Eva put her hand back on her shoulder, Crickette burst into sobs. She reached up to touch Eva’s cheek. “What can I do? Max can’t have the truth. I have to tell him I’m OK. And he believes it.” She shook her head and put her arms around Eva. “He still believes I won’t die.” Eva rubbed her back. “But I must. Can’t go on with this great insect gnawing on me, sucking out my life. I’d kill myself but for Max. His brother Lenny made a suicide after the war. Since then Max goes on and on, crying that now good little Lenny is damned to hell.” Crickette clutched Eva’s sleeve. “When I die, he mustn’t think it was me.” She kissed Eva’s hand and fell to her knees. “And he wouldn’t, if you could…”
Eva recoiled. “If I could do what? Help you die?”
“Yes…help me. I have a plan.”
Eva stepped backward. “I don’t want to hear it. I won’t.”
Crickette slipped back into the chair. “Remember telling me Henri said that killing for your family is a virtue? Well, you’re about to be virtuous, for I learned something from Henri, too. When you’ve got a knife to someone’s throat, they do what you want. Let me be clear, Eva. The knife I hold is our little secret, and your family is the throat. I mean it. You’d better ask yourself how much Stanley and your two little darlings matter. What would they think—what would everyone think—if they knew what you were? What you are?”
Eva glared, and her lip trembled. But she didn’t step away.
Holding her abdomen, Crickette leaned back. “I want it done in a flash. No lingering. No mistakes. You used to be good with a shotgun. Remember hunting at the Ducoisie farm? In 1944? You never missed.” She winced at a stab of pain. “Listen, I’ve thought of everything. If a killer doesn’t exist, no one pays.” Crickette ignored Eva shaking her head. “What if we go together for the mail today and mention seeing a stranger on the road? And what if I go again for the mail on Monday and you are waiting with Max’s little shotgun? A twitch of the finger, and I’m free. It’s that simple, that good. You’ll be free, too. Free to keep your secret buried forever. Imagine—your family, safe from the knife at their throats. Our feeble sheriff could search all he wants for a phantom stranger, but in the end he’ll
fail. Max keeps his illusion. Sure he suffers—but it’s over quickly and he doesn’t watch me shrivel in agony for months and then die anyway.”
Eva stood stone silent.
Crickette closed her eyes. “Think about it.” She pulled herself to her feet and shuffled toward the door. “But think quickly,” she rasped, “I don’t have much waiting in me.” On the way to the house, she took Max’s shortened shotgun from the shed, wrapped it and some ammunition in a blanket, and put it in the bed of Eva’s truck.
An hour later Crickette and Eva walked to the postal box for the mail. When they returned Max was sitting at the table. Crickette handed him the mail and poured a cup of coffee for herself and one for Eva. Max was shuffling through the envelopes when Crickette said, “Funny thing, cold as it is—there was a stranger walking up the road today.”
Max slit open an envelope with his pocketknife. “Hmmm?” He unfolded a statement and grimaced. “Damn electric company’s eating us alive.”
Eva returned early the next morning. She pulled Crickette aside and told her, “I’ve decided. Get your coat. We can talk outside. I left the engine on so the truck would be warm.”
Through the kitchen window, Max watched them walk together to the truck. He watched Eva help his wife into the cab. And for a few minutes he leaned on the kitchen sink, forgetting his throbbing foot, watching the truck. He watched, though he could barely make out the women’s silhouettes through the GMC’s steamed-up windshield and the billowy cloud of exhaust that enveloped the truck. He forgot his pain and watched because he was happy thinking Crickette had Eva to talk to. Since she’d gotten sick, he never knew what to say.