“How’s my wife?”
“I’m great, thanks for asking.”
“No time for games, Aida. How is she?”
“She’s fine. What’s wrong?”
“Get her packed up and get down to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”
“What’s wrong? Where’s Mason?” Concern thinned her voice. “Is that him laughing?”
“How fast can you be there?”
“Legally?”
* * *
Aida apologized as she and Nadine rushed through the doors of the ER. “Should have been here sooner. What happened?”
I grabbed Nadine and hugged her tight, unwilling to let her go. “Bernard’s daughter found us at his house. Gloria, I think. Had a rifle.”
“Oh God,” Nadine said.
“Haven’t heard much from the doctors, but he was talking all the way here. That has to be a good sign, right?”
Aida sat down and folded her hands. “She shot him?”
“In the stomach, I think.”
“Are you okay?” Nadine asked.
I nodded, kissed her forehead. “Sorry about this.”
Aida stood up and cleared her throat. Beyond her brave façade, fear and worry dampened the corners of her eyes. “Let me work some nurse magic.” She moved to the front desk.
I walked Nadine to a chair, and though I didn’t feel much like sitting, took the one next to her. I held her hand and wanted to never let go. “How are you?”
“Scared.” She’d never admitted fear before. Nadine never complained, not for bumps or bruises, scratches or cancer.
“Don’t be. You’ll be fine.”
“I know that. I’m worried about Mason. What happened out there?”
How much to tell her? I wanted to keep it simple, pointed. I told her about the interview with Bernard, the race out of the back of his house, the gunfire, the riverbed, the baseball bat. I left out the part about the tornado. No use worrying her further.
She took it all in, digesting it, thinking it through. “What’s this about?”
I’d never lied to my wife, and didn’t plan on starting now. “Bernard and Mason are convinced God’s going to destroy Hailey.”
She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. “How?”
A man with a bandaged arm walked by eating a triangle sandwich from a vending machine, ham by the smell of it. My stomach growled. My eyes grew heavy. I didn’t want to talk about it, but Nadine asked.
I took a breath. “A tornado.” I squeezed her hand and laughed. “Pretty nutzoid, eh?”
She shook her head. “Connor, I have to tell you something.” Her eyebrows slouched toward her nose.
Whatever she had in mind must be more than coffee talk. I took a deep breath and slouched in my chair. “What is it?”
“There’s a reason I wanted to come see Aida. I never told you because I knew you wouldn’t believe. But you need to hear it now.” She sighed. “When I found out I had cancer, I knew it wouldn’t kill me.”
My eyes locked on hers. “How?”
She looked down at our hands, fingers woven like an Easter basket. “I did a lot of praying, and I know what I heard. You’ll think I’m crazy, though.”
“After today, I’m pretty sure I’ll buy it.”
“I knew this cancer served a bigger purpose. God would use it like a tool to accomplish something miraculous. I knew I’d have to go to Aida’s. I didn’t know why, but I knew God wanted it.”
I ran my thumb over hers. “He mention anything about tornados?”
“Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not. I mean it.”
She shook her head, wisps of her hair falling about her face. “No, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. What if it’s real? What if everything Mason said to you is true. What then?”
I considered the possibility, not from belief, but because she asked. I thought of the tornado, the articles, finding five righteous people. “If everything he said is true, we should pack our bags and get out of here quick.”
She frowned. “We can’t leave. Not now”
I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it gently. “I know.”
She put her head on my shoulder. “We still have work to do.”
* * *
Mason lay on his back covered with a thin sheet and blanket. Nadine insisted Aida sit in the only chair in the room, but Aida refused, said it was more important for Nadine to sit. Like me, Aida didn’t like sitting down when nervous or agitated.
Nadine looked flushed, with clammy skin and a wavering voice. Aida’s veneer of courage and unshakeable strength remained intact, though visible cracks spoke of its fragility.
The sedation wore off slowly, and Mason blinked, trying to open his eyes. “Aida?”
She put her hand on his forehead. “Relax,” she whispered. “You’re not as bad off as you think you are.”
He coughed and smiled. “Same old Aida.”
Someone needed to fill him in on his condition, but no one spoke. I cleared my throat and started. “Good news, bad news.”
“Bad.”
I stood at the foot of his bed, hands wrist-deep in my jeans. “You lost a lot of blood, needed a transfusion. You’ll have to stay here for a few days.”
“Good?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m starting to believe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gloria’s bullet went through your abdomen and missed every major organ. Chances of that are astronomical.” My voice surprised me. No bitterness, no anger, no irritation or sarcasm.
Nadine squeezed my hand and smiled. “Someone’s watching over you.”
He nodded. “Figured as much.” He took a slow breath. “Listen, Connor. About what I said on the way to the hospital.”
I shook my head. “Forget it. I know what you meant.”
Aida cocked her head, neck slightly bent to the right, one eyebrow up. “Do we need to give you both some time?”
“Not like that.”
“I went a little crazy,” Mason said. “Wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Mason looked as pale as Nadine. She sat with her legs crossed and leaned back in the chair. Her face was thin, eyes half-closed. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms, hold her like it was our honeymoon. “You okay?”
She nodded.
Mason took a deep breath and repositioned himself in the bed. “We need to talk about the situation.”
Aida ran her hand over his head. “No code here, Mason. Connor told Nadine everything.”
“Everything?”
I nodded. “She asked. I wasn’t going to lie.” I moved from the foot of the bed to Nadine’s side. “So what am I supposed to do if you’re stuck here? Who’s going to tell me who to interview? Aida?”
“This is where it gets a little tougher. I’m not sure I know any other people I can recommend.”
“What do you mean? No other good people in Hailey?”
“There may be, but I don’t know them.”
Aida turned to me. “I know of one. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, but might work.”
Chapter 21
Sunday, September 6th
I climbed into bed, exhausted but not sleepy. I pulled the covers over me and rolled closer to my wife. I wanted to sleep, but didn’t want to close my eyes, didn’t want to spend another minute away from Nadine. And while I’d be sleeping next to her, my arms around her, feeling her frail warmth, once I fell into sleep, my mind might not be with her. So I resisted sleep and took time to memorize the Bergamot scent of Nadine’s hair, the feel of her under my arm, her unhurried breathing.
Every cell in my body felt heavy. No matter how much I wanted to stay awake all night, I needed
sleep. Fatigue set in, and every part of me ached. My head throbbed, and my stomach knotted up. When I finally decided to sleep, I couldn’t.
I kissed Nadine’s neck, drew in her sweet scent and held it in my lungs. I counted her breaths. For every three she took, I exhaled and drew in the air as she did. I continued this pattern for ten or fifteen minutes before I finally drifted off. Breathe, one-two-three. Breathe out, in, one-two-three.
I woke up with the sun, still counting one-two-three. Nadine hadn’t stirred. She must have been as weary as me, maybe more. I swung my legs out of bed, stood, and dressed myself in the half-light of the sunrise. I guessed I’d slept a few hours. That’d have to do for now.
Aida didn’t know much about the guy she wanted me to interview today, just that he was a bona-fide hero.
She didn’t have his number or address, but knew he liked Sue’s, a tiny lime-green highway café along 29. The plant workers often hit Sue’s for a quick breakfast or lunch before their shifts. I’d have to get up early to get down there before the morning shift and hope I could ID the guy by his photo from a two decade old newspaper.
“There’s a good chance he’ll want to be left alone,” Aida said as I moved toward my car. “People in Hailey value their privacy.”
“Figured that out already.” I wore jeans today, hoping the casual look would help me fit in better. I didn’t have a plan. I got the sense the populace would rather drag me into the street and beat me than talk to me.
I got in my Impala, pulled onto 29 and prayed, something I’d not done much of in my life. I prayed I wouldn’t run into any more of Bernard’s kids. I’d have to play my cards close to my chest. Gloria was rushed into surgery, and, from what I hear from Aida, had a bunch of pins put in her arms. Once the pain meds wore off, she’d be able to give a good description of me.
For now, I’d have to hope and pray a change of clothes would help. Since we took Mason’s truck, she wouldn’t be able to identify my car, but they would likely recognize it as a different vehicle. Hailey may have flourished as a stop-through and may have had grandiose visions of surviving as a nostalgia town, but of late, according to Aida, they’re not fond of visitors.
Another cold morning. When packing, I’d not planned on mornings being this cold. Nadine told me I should expect it, but for whatever reason, I didn’t listen. I wished I had. I wore one of Mason’s old jackets to keep warm. Frost sparkled like newborn sunlight in the dirt stretching from the road. After a ten minute drive, I pulled into the tiny parking lot under a sign that said simply, “Sue’s.” I must have passed this place a half dozen times now, traveling between Aida’s and the hospital, and never noticed it. Neon lights traced the letters of Sue’s sign, but I’d never seen them lit.
Sue’s only had six tables arranged in an “L” along the front and right walls and six seats at a bar. I walked in and the men, all of whom seemed to be on the down side of two hundred pounds, looked me over. They wore jean jackets; one wore a leather jacket like Mason’s. They wore blue, faded hats, pulled down to their eyebrows. The seats protested their swiveling with soulful squeals. No one smiled.
I made eye contact with each, nodded a silent greeting and sat at the table closest to the door. From here, I could monitor the coming and going of patrons.
A young waitress with a noticeable limp struggled over to me with a face that said, “Couldn’t sit at the bar?” She dropped a laminated menu in front of me and the table wobbled. I waited for a greeting, but none came. Tired of waiting and squirming under her silence, I took the initiative.
“Morning.”
“You going to order?” She tapped a pencil on a small notepad.
“What’s good?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I think I need a minute. Can I get a coffee for now?”
Rolling her eyes, the young waitress slipped the pencil behind her ear and hobbled back to the counter. I thought to ask about the limp, but figured it might be rude. I also wondered why a woman who hardly looked like she’d graduated high school would be working here. I half expected, maybe from the movies I’d seen with small desert highway cafés, the waitress would be over forty with absurdly red hair spun into a beehive, someone named Flo who smacked gum all morning.
Instead, she tottered over with a mug and a pitcher of creamer. I glimpsed her nametag as she dropped the coffee on the table: Veronica.
“Like the comic?” I smiled.
“Huh?”
“Veronica. Like Betty and Veronica?”
Nothing.
“Archie and the gang?”
Nothing.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”
She sighed. “Know what you want yet?”
I didn’t, but didn’t want to say as much. “Kielbasa and eggs sound good.” They didn’t. They sounded greasy and too heavy for this early in the morning.
“Hope you got medical.” She tottered back to the counter. “Carl! Pig in a tube and wreck the eggs!”
I pulled out my notebook and jotted down some loose thoughts, sketches even.
Veronica called from the counter. “You a cop or something?”
I set my pen down, leaned back in my chair, and shook my head. “No. Why?”
She nodded to the men at the bar. “Don’t get a lot of love for cops in here.”
“Any particular reason?” I took great pains to remember to smile, to look as unthreatening as possible.
“A whole lot of ‘em.”
“All right.” I took a deep breath and decided to trust God. “What about reporters?”
I heard a fork clank and the man on the far left squeaked around. He stood up and looked irritated. “Whatcha reportin’, son?” He asked in a voice stiff as ceramic. He cracked his neck and walked closer to my table.
Remaining polite became perceptibly more difficult. Massive amounts of caffeine and the lack of consistent, uninterrupted sleep made me irritable and agitated. I didn’t have a problem being polite to Veronica because she was young. This gentleman, however, aggravated me. Still, I swallowed my emotion and answered simply. “Kind of a retrospective, where-are-they-now piece on the towns along 29. Nostalgia-driven prose. You know how it is.”
“That so?”
I couldn’t decide if he was having a bad hair day or a bad hair generation. I hadn’t seen a mullet that bad since the seventies. Cordiality strained my nerves. “Yes.”
“And what if we don’t want a piece done about us?”
He leaned in, hoping to intimidate me; I wouldn’t allow it. “I’m not doing the piece on you, sir. It’s on the town.”
He leaned his impressive weight on the wobbly table and brought his face so close to mine I could smell his Marlboros. The long back of his hair fell over one shoulder. Concentration proved difficult when faced with such an awful haircut. “And if we don’t like the idea?”
“I’m not trying to make trouble. But you sound like a man with secrets.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Secrets is just that.”
I felt more like fight than flight. I wanted to say something to antagonize him, to dig like a spade in soil, but I understood how counterproductive and unwise a choice it would be. I prayed again, this time for peace, for a cool head and the right words.
“Sounds like your secrets are pretty heavy. Ever think about how you’d feel if you told someone?” I spoke quietly, hoping the other men at the bar wouldn’t hear us.
He sat at the table and shouted to Veronica without breaking eye contact with me. “Bring me my coffee, sweetheart.”
A short, bitter laugh. “Get it yourself, Tyler.”
“You want a tip?”
“One minute.” I stood up, took his coffee from his place and brought it back to him. He looked at me quizzically, and I though
t of Aida’s look in the hospital last night. Clearly Tyler wasn’t used to people doing kind things for him. This might be an advantage.
Realizing his surprise, he pulled his jaw up and set it tight again. He pulled his lips thin. “Secrets is secrets. That’s how they have to stay. Otherwise they ain’t secrets anymore.”
I thought about making a remark, a “Thank you, Plato,” or “What fortune cookie did you find that in?” I wanted to call him Confucius, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “If you let those secrets sit too long, bury them in the shadows, they start to fester and poison you. They make you sick, like eating raw chicken. Know what I mean?”
“But if you tell them,” he countered with his wit as sharp as an overcooked noodle, “then it won’t be a secret anymore.”
I rubbed my temples. His logic was as bright as his fashion sense. My anger subsided, and my irritation resurfaced. “Why’s it so important? What are you afraid of?”
His teeth grit. “I ain’t afraid of nothing.”
The men at the bar watched us, listening. Veronica sat on the counter. The lower part of her left leg had an awkward bend, like it’d been broken and never set.
I leaned forward and kept my voice low. “If you don’t want me to do this piece, you can call my editor.”
I slipped him a business card, hoping he wouldn’t call my bluff. He flicked it back at me. “How ‘bout I make sure you never write it? How about I break something real important?” His blue eyes glanced down at my hands. He excelled as a bully, but I’d had more than my share of run-ins with overly-big and overly-dumb bullies. It took more than threats to rattle me.
He flicked the card back so quickly—could he even read? “Why don’t you read what I have so far? You’ll see I’m not in the business of airing people’s dirty laundry.”
He cursed at me. “I won’t read anything you’ve written. Get this, little man, we don’t like outsiders. You take your pen and your paper and get out of here before you end up hurt.”
I crossed my legs. “I got kielbasa coming. Let me pay for your breakfast, and we can call it even?”
He laughed. “Like I need your charity.”
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 16