Why did I feel so good? I tried to analyze it. First off, I hadn’t received any calls from my patient during the night, so I assumed he was okay. And, to my surprise, I realized I was looking forward to running this print job. I hadn’t run a press for years, but I wasn’t worried. Some things, like riding a bicycle or ice skating, you never forget. If the job went okay, I’d call Dad and brag a bit.
I decided to take a peek in the barn before I went to see my patient. When I stepped into the old building, the aroma of wood smoke was replaced by the more pungent smell of ink, ink solvent, and oily machinery. Beneath all that lay the more delicate scent of newly cut paper. Funny how scents evoke memories more strongly than even sights and sounds. There was a neurological reason for this, but it escaped me. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and could see my dad’s print shop down to the smallest detail: the battered presses, folding machine, and paper cutter, the tall type cabinet with its small square drawers full of lead type and old cuts, harking back to his letterpress days. My favorites were a little girl in a Queen Anne dress, a horse and carriage, and a soldier in an old-fashioned uniform.
Dad’s shop was also a museum—full of memorabilia that he had collected over the years, some of it dating back to the days of Benjamin Franklin. A Chandler Price platen press gathered dust in one corner. Other corners hid cartons of wood type for posters, discarded rollers, composing sticks, chases, and piles of furniture—those bits of wood you put around the type to make it fit snugly in the chase before printing.
Max’s equipment was a little more up-to-date. He must have entered the trade when photo offset was in full swing. But even he was behind the times. I didn’t see any computers or a camera. Maybe they were in the house. He could set his text by computer, and if he had an offset camera, he could make negatives of the pages, burn them onto the plates, and print them on the Multi. Even now, it wasn’t cost-efficient to print long runs on a computer printer. For runs of over a hundred, the printing press was still the way to go.
Time to stop reminiscing and check on my patient. As I approached the house, Lolly came out to greet me. She was wearing a different housedress. This one bore pink primroses instead of blue butterflies. I wondered where she found such large sizes in Bayfield. There was no Wal-Mart nearby. “Nice dress,” I said.
She blushed and ran her hand down the front of her skirt.
“How’s your dad?”
“Good. He wants to see you.”
I followed her into the house and was surprised when she headed toward the parlor instead of the stairs. “Didn’t he sleep in his bed?”
She turned and spoke in a whisper, “Yes, but he came down early. He doesn’t like it up there.”
I lowered my voice. “Why not?”
“Ever since Mommy’s been gone, he doesn’t like to sleep upstairs.”
“I see. Where does he sleep?”
“In the den.”
“Where’s that?”
She pointed down the hall. “That’s where the TV is.”
“Why doesn’t he stay in there, then—instead of that musty old parlor?”
“He doesn’t want you to see it.”
“Why not?” I was exasperated.
“’Cause it’s a mess. And he won’t let me clean it.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Well, maybe this is your chance to clean it, while I’m examining him. If you work fast.” I winked.
She grinned, happy to be part of a conspiracy, and lumbered off.
While I examined my patient, I heard the clank of bucket and mop. Max heard it, too.
“That girl’s always cleaning,” he grumbled.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” I said quickly. “It helps you and gives her something to do.”
He didn’t answer.
I put my stethoscope and other equipment away and changed gears. “Now, about this print job …”
“There’s nothing to it. The plates are already burned. All you have to do is put them on the press, ink up, and run the job. The paper’s already cut in the cabinet. Do you want me to—”
“No way!” I shuddered. All I needed was to have some ink or ink solvent find its way under his dressing. “If I have any questions, I’ll come ask you,” I said.
I found the plates easily. Just two—one for the outside cover, one for the inside. Like he’d said, it was a simple job. I was hooking the first plate onto the drum when I saw the top roller—still loose and bloodstained. The horror of the past twenty-four hours rushed back to me. Was that all it had been?
I scrubbed the roller clean with solvent and replaced the three screws I’d removed the day before. I had trouble finding the ink can, but I finally discovered it in a cabinet in a dark corner of the barn. I inked up the press and ran a few test sheets on scrap paper. They looked okay, but to be on the safe side, I decided to take one in to Max for his approval.
I was whistling as I came in the door. Lolly was nowhere to be seen. I glanced in the parlor. The sofa was empty. The pillow and afghan had fallen to the floor. I went back to the hall and stood listening. I could hear the murmur of voices at the other end of the hall. TV voices. I followed the sound and came to a door that was half-open. I knocked. “Max?”
The TV went dead.
“May I come in?”
He grunted.
I stepped into a comfortable space with a sofa, a soft chair, and a TV console at one end, a desk with a computer at the other. The room was immaculate. Lolly had done her work well. Max was lying on the sofa.
“I wanted you to check this out.” I handed him the sheet I’d just printed.
He studied it carefully under the lamp. “A little too light here.” He pointed to a line of type at the bottom.
It was a little too light, but for a school program, I would have let it go. Max was a perfectionist. “I’ll take care of it. What were you watching?”
“The Morning Show.”
“Any news?”
“Not a thing.”
“Where’s Lolly?”
“I sent her to her room.”
“What for?”
“She disobeyed me. She had no business cleaning this room.”
“Oh … that’s my fault … but”—I paused, looking around—“she did a nice job.”
“That’s not the point. I told her to leave this room alone. This is my turf. She has no business fooling around in here.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh? She was only trying to help.”
He turned on me. “Listen. When it comes to Lolly, you mind your own business. What do you know about retarded kids?”
“She’s not retarded. She has learning disabilities. Actually, she’s quite capable—”
“‘Quite capable’! Do you know what her IQ is?”
“I can guess. About eighty or ninety. But that’s irrelevant.”
“Mind your own business. She has to be disciplined. I’ve never laid a hand on her. And I never will. But we have certain rules and she has to abide by them. The counselor told me that.”
He’d consulted a counselor? Good for him. “You’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t have interfered. I’ll go do this job now.”
As I turned to leave, Lolly came in.
“What are you doing here?” Her father looked at his watch. “Your hour’s not up yet.”
“I heard the lady, and—”
“My name’s Jo.”
“Go back to your room,” Max barked.
“But …” She was on the verge of tears.
“Now,” he said firmly.
Eyes brimming, she turned to me.
“I’m sorry, Lolly. I didn’t know the rules. Do what your father says.”
She went.
When I had printed the programs and stacked them in a box, I went in to ask Max about delivery.
“Lolly will take care of that.”
“But does she have a license?”
“She’s done it for years. She knows the roads. There’s no traffic.
And she’s careful.”
“What if something happened, like a deer—”
“What if the sky fell, Doctor? Everything’s a risk.” His tone was bitter.
I let it go. “How’s your hand?”
“Okay.”
“Any pain?”
“Not much.”
“Take those Percocets. I have plenty. Don’t be macho.”
He didn’t answer.
“Well, I’ll be going.”
“When will you be back?”
Did I detect a hint of anxiety? “Tonight. Around six o’clock.”
He looked relieved. Then he blurted, “Want to have a bite with us, then?”
My face must have been a picture, because it was the first time I’d heard him laugh. It was a nice sound—low and rumbling.
“Er …” I stuttered, “but who’s going to cook?”
“Cook, schmook. Lolly can fix something.”
“Well … okay. Can I bring dessert?”
He shook his head. Then his face lighted up. “How about a bottle of wine?”
Had I heard right? “White or red?”
“Since we don’t know what Lolly’s serving, maybe you better get both.”
I gave him a thumbs-up.
CHAPTER 15
The day continued to be beautiful. It was hard to leave it and go inside the hospital. As I was about to knock on the door of my first patient, I noticed my hand. Horrors! Black ink under every fingernail! I rushed to the rest room and scrubbed until the nails were clean. It took awhile; it isn’t easy to remove printers’ ink without a solvent. As I came out of the rest room, I ran into Barry.
“How’d it go?”
“Uh …” At first I thought he was referring to the print job. “Okay … I think. Thanks again for all your help.”
“No prob. Your friend Carl is in big trouble.” He smiled gleefully.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Seems he left a hemostat inside a bank president.”
“No kidding!”
“Sometimes things work out for the best.” He winked.
“You’ve made my day.”
Fueled by the good news about Carl (but not about his patient), I did my rounds quickly and efficiently. With any luck, Carl might even be suspended. I chortled.
Sally Raymond, my favorite nurse, stopped me in the hall. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” I chortled again.
“So you’ve heard the news, too?” She began to giggle.
There we were, two professional women, giggling like two school girls in the hospital corridor over the misfortune of a colleague. The tears were streaming down our faces when one of the senior doctors paused beside us. “It must have been a good one,” he said half-reprovingly.
“Oh, it was,” I said, wiping my eyes.
Pulling ourselves together, Sally and I went our separate ways.
I decided my upcoming dinner engagement warranted a change of clothing. I stopped at home and donned a skirt, blouse, and sandals for the occasion. Then I remembered. I was due for an archery lesson. I couldn’t miss another one without raising Tom’s suspicions. I glanced at the clock. If I hurried, I could just make it and get the wine, too. I tore off my dinner party attire and put on a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. So much for gracious living!
As I thumped down the iron staircase, I caught sight of Maggie. She had just pulled into the parking lot and was getting out of her ancient Ford Escort. She was burdened down with her usual assortment of tote bags and stray packages. Her whole body conveyed defeat and dejection.
“Hey, Mag!” I called.
She looked up and gave me a wan smile.
I hurried over. “How is he?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“It was one of his bad days,” she said. “He had nothing to say.”
“I’m sorry.” Maggie’s son, Nick, had been sentenced to life in prison for a series of heinous crimes. While in prison, he had experienced a miraculous conversion, which Maggie accepted without question. But I, and a few others, including her husband, Paul, had reservations. Maggie was returning from her weekly visit to the prison.
“Want to talk?” I asked. Even though I was strapped for time, I couldn’t bear to leave my friend when she was so down. Her normal personality was upbeat and feisty, but the ordeal with her son had taken its toll. It was like watching a sunflower fade and wilt in slow motion.
I led her over to a weathered bench behind the motel. There had once been two benches and a table there, but that was long ago, during the motel’s heyday. She settled her belongings between us.
“What’s all that?” I asked, searching for something to say.
“Oh,” she said, and shrugged. “I took him a sweater and a cake, but he didn’t want the sweater and they wouldn’t let him have the cake.”
“Probably thought there was a file in it.” My feeble attempt at humor fell flat. I tried to think of something to cheer her up. “Well, Mag, you knew there would be days like this. You just have to put it out of your mind.”
“Easy for you to say,” she snapped.
“Maggie, you can’t spend your life mourning your son. You have a husband, a business, a life of your own. You have to move on.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I know, Jo. If only I could forget how it used to be. When he was little, he used to bring me wildflowers … .” She turned away to hide the tears.
I patted her arm, at a loss for words. My mind was a blank. After all, what did I know? I had never had a child, let alone one who had shamed me to the core of my existence. The most banal clichés came to mind. “Tomorrow will be better.” It wouldn’t. “Time will heal the wound.” The hell it would. “Life must go on.” True, but so what? Hey, she was beginning to depress me.
I rose and pulled her to her feet. Looking her in the eye, I said, “You can’t keep this up, Mag. You have to get a new attitude. You’re only fifty years old. You have years ahead of you. You can’t waste them on”—I almost said “a worthless punk”—“on painful regrets. We all wish some things were different. I have regrets, too.” I had never told Maggie my regrets—the reason I had left Manhattan and suddenly shown up at this mangy motel in south Jersey. Was this the right time?
“I misdiagnosed a child and she died,” I blurted. “She was seven years old. Do you think I’ll ever get over that?”
Maggie drew back in order to see me better. “So that’s why you’re here,” she said slowly.
“No. That’s not why I’m here. It’s why I came. I’m here because I fell in love with this place. I found work I enjoy. And I’ve made some wonderful new friends.”
“Oh, Jo, I’m so sorry. I knew there was something, but …” She was a foot shorter than I was, and when she hugged me, her arms reached only to my waist.
“Never mind. I’m dealing with my regrets. And I want you to deal with yours.”
She nodded. “You’re right. I’ll start now. Would you like a piece of cake?” This time, her smile was not wan but held a glimmer of the spirit she’d had before her son was sentenced to life in prison.
I laughed and glanced at my watch. “Oh god. I’d like to, but Tom’s expecting me for an archery lesson.”
This was all right, because Maggie had romantic designs for Tom and me.
“Oh, you run along,” she urged, and gave me a little shove.
When I drew into Tom’s driveway, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low on the horizon. I was half an hour late. The time I’d spent with Maggie, plus getting the wine, had taken longer than I’d expected. Bayfield was not known for its wine cellars. I’d found a small liquor store in the back of Bridgeton that had a couple of half-decent bottles, but it had taken awhile.
Tom strolled onto his porch.
I shut off my motor. “Sorry I’m late,” I said sincerely. “Do we have time for a few shots?”
He scanned the horizon and nodded. He had the tackles all ready on the porch.
“No,” Tom
said. “You have to plant your feet apart and look at that tree over there.” He pointed to a sycamore in a grove of trees near the road.
I followed his gaze.
“That’s better. Now take the bow and place your right index finger and the one next to it under the string and draw the string into the notch.”
He was teaching me how to nock. In layman terms, nocking is hitching your string to the bow. Unfortunately, my mind kept wandering. I noticed, for example, that the two fingers he was telling me to use were the same two that Max had injured, and I added archery to the list of things he wouldn’t be able to do if my surgery proved unsuccessful.
“Jo, you’re not paying attention.”
“Sorry.”
“Try it again.”
This time I did it right, and Tom decided we could go on to the next step: drawing, holding, and aiming.
“Hook the end of the first three fingers of your right hand under the string and at the same time lightly clasp the arrow behind the feathers … . Good. Now turn your head and face the target.”
I actually got off a few good shots—even came near the bull’s-eye once. Tom was satisfied. The sun was sinking as we walked back to the house.
“Time for a beer?”
I glanced at my watch. It was only five o’clock. But I didn’t want to mix beer and wine. “Make mine a Coke,” I said.
When we had our drinks, we sat in two wicker chairs and enjoyed the sunset.
“No two are ever alike,” I commented banally.
“Like snowflakes,” he replied, underlining the banality.
“Yeah, exactly.” I took a swig of Coke.
“What’ve you been up to?”
I hesitated. “Working,” I said.
“Any interesting cases?”
I yearned to tell him the whole story. It was probably safe now. But something stopped me. Loyalty to Max? I wasn’t sure. “Nah. Same old routine. Oh, one nice thing happened.” I told him about Carl.
Sleight of Hand Page 5