“Sorry,” she mutters.
“Second, don’t say ‘condoms,’ either.”
“You want me to say…”
“No! Don’t say either and just let me talk.”
“Fine.”
Why does every conversation with her have to end in an argument where I am the inevitable loser? Even when I pull rank and
win through sheer force of will, she wins because I can’t stand to have her mad at me. And boy, can this kid hold a grudge.
“My point is, most of those girls probably would feel the same way you do if they were in your shoes. Have you gotten close
enough to them to befriend them? Ask their stories? The fact is, maybe they don’t deserve your disdain. Birth control, even
‘condoms’ aren’t fail-safe. Believe me, I know.”
“Oh, gross, Mom.”
“Well, you brought it up.” Sort of. “So, answer me. Have you bothered to try to get to know even one of them? It might do
them a world of good to have someone to talk to.”
“No. I’m not a counselor.”
“No one said you have to be. How about being a friend?”
She gives me a twist of a smile. “You want me to hang out with pregnant teens? Aren’t you worried I might catch something?”
Yeah, maybe some sense! But I refrain from vocalizing my smart-alecky reply.
“Besides, all I’m allowed to do is clean toilets and sort through the baby clothes. People give a lot of junky clothes to
the place just because the girls who go there can’t afford to buy baby things.”
“Sounds like that might be an issue with you.”
“It is. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I still think those girls are stupid, but the babies shouldn’t have to wear clothes with
barf stains just because their moms are poor.”
“I agree.”
Causes. The first sign a person is truly learning to think about someone or something other than themselves. It’s a step in
the right direction.
“Are you thinking of doing anything about it?”
“Me?” She gives a short laugh. “What can I do? Take my college money and spend it all on baby clothes?”
Not while there’s breath in my body. I look askance at her and smile. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Or do nothing. It’s
really up to you.”
She’s reflective as we pull alongside the theater and I think I might actually have gotten through to her for a change.
Watching traffic go by always calms me for some reason. The whoosh, the flash of color. I don’t know. Who can really understand
the intricacies of the mind? Ari and I are sitting here, Ari reflecting—not telling what she’s thinking—me watching cars,
when suddenly there goes a truck I recognize all too well. A 1980-something Chevy with the broken words MIL ’S C NTRA TING
on it. I catch a flash of red as he passes. I’d know that red cap anywhere.
I give a sudden gasp and Ari sits up straight, her defenses on high alert. “What’s wrong?”
“I just saw Milt’s truck.”
“Milt who?”
“The contractor who swindled us out of ten grand.” Keeping my eye on the black smoke coming from the exhaust pipe of that
truck, I nod.
“The dead guy?”
“He’s not dead, Ari. I saw his cap. It’s too much to be coincidence. This guy is obviously better than anyone could have imagined.
Good enough to fake his own death.”
“Call the police, Mom!”
“Ari, get out and wait for Shawn. I’m going after him.”
“I’m coming, too.”
“No. I don’t want to take any chances you might get hurt.”
She obeys instantly because she and I both know how I drive when I’m anxious or in a hurry.
“Be careful.” She slams the door and I peel out. Horns honk all along the street as my tires squeal. I weave and bob in and
out of traffic. “Drat you, Milt. I’m catching up with you.”
Just when I think I’m going to lose him, I hear the delicious roar of a train. I can make out the cab of his truck two vehicles
behind the front car and at least six in front of me. I slam the SUV into park (we’re stopped anyway—it’s not like I’m blocking
traffic). I fling open my door and run past two minivans, one Dodge, one Ford, a Camry, a PT Cruiser with a wood-grain strip
down the side. I’m getting closer, hoping the train is good and long. I pass a little convertible, and finally a Taurus.
I am reaching for the handle before I even get to the truck. In a flash I swing the door open. “All right, Milt. Where’s my
money, you jerk?”
“What the—?”
My eyes widen and my jaw drops. This enormous fellow isn’t Milt. Not even close. “Lady, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I… I thought, well, this is Milt’s truck.”
“Milt was my dad.”
“You mean he really is dead?”
He nods as sadness creeps into his eyes. “He died of a heart attack a few weeks ago.”
Mortified, I step back. “I’m so sorry.”
“You say he owed you?”
“He, uh—was supposed to fix my roof.”
The train is still chugging by, but I can see the end in sight.
“I better get back to my car. The train’s about over.”
The man strokes his sandy-colored beard. “Meet me at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I’m getting take-out for my crew’s lunch. We’ll
settle this.”
I nod and slink back to Darcy’s SUV just as the train clears the track and the crossing gate lifts.
At KFC, Milt’s son is getting out of his dilapidated truck by the time I pull into a parking space. I can barely look him
in the eye. This man looks a lot like Tim Allen in
The Santa Clause
, during the period where he was gaining weight, but his hair wasn’t white yet.
I hold out my hand. He takes it grudgingly. “Mr. Travis, I am very sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“How about just telling me your name and we’ll get this straightened out.”
I spend a few minutes explaining about the tornado, the estimate (minus the desperate need for me to avert my gaze every time
his dad bent over), the deposit. Phone calls. Going to the police. All of it.
“I didn’t call you back, but we did send a check back to you with a letter of explanation and apology that we couldn’t do
your roof. At the time we didn’t have the manpower.”
“I never received the check.”
He nods. “It was returned to us. We stopped payment.”
“Sorry. The apartment I moved into had trouble getting my mail to me.”
Sweat is beginning to bead across his forehead and he seems to be a little breathless.
“I’d better let you go. Can I give you my address so you can send me the check?”
He shakes his head.
“No? What do you mean, no?” I’m bristling and just about to tell him off again when he reaches back into his truck and grabs
a business checkbook. “I can write you one right now.”
I suck in a breath of humid eighty-six-degree June air. “Oh.”
“I need to see your identification first.”
I go to my SUV, grab my purse, and pull out my wallet. I leave my driver’s license in the wallet, but hold it out.
With a nod, he hands me the check. I tuck it in my wallet. “Thank you. And please accept my condolences on your father’s passing.”
Mr. Travis is sweating profusely now and seems to be breathing a little too heavily. His face has gone white and I’m not sure
he’s all that focused.
“Are you okay?”
Suddenly, he clutches his chest and hits the ground.
From the corner of my eye I see someone running toward us. “Call 9-1-1,” I command.
I drop to my knees beside him. He’s not breathing!
CPR, I know. You can’t be married to a doctor for eleven years without learning basic life-saving techniques. I begin compressions
and mouth-to-mouth. Frantically, over and over.
“Jesus, please touch Mr. Travis! Don’t let him die in the parking lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken.” I don’t know why I said
it. It just seemed so unfair for a fat man to die that way. Like it was just inviting uncouth, so-called comedians to make
light of a man’s death just because of the irony.
I breathe a sigh of relief as finally, after what seems like hours, his chest begins to rise and fall. I sit back, holding
his hand. Exhausted from my efforts. I hear applause and look up. That’s when I notice that a crowd has formed around us.
Poor Mr. Travis.
The paramedics arrive—sirens and lights—and give me an “Atta girl,” before telling me to get out of the way. I do so. I stand,
and hang back, but I don’t want to let him go. I’m wondering, does Mr. Travis know Jesus? How is it possible that a man almost
died right in front of me and the last Christian he would have seen was someone who yelled at him over money his dead father
owed her?
I step forward as they load him in and the door is closed. “What hospital are you taking him to?”
“St. John’s.” The paramedic is a young woman who can’t be bigger than five foot two and looks about the size of a ten-year-old
boy. She gives me a gentle smile and pats me as she walks by to climb into the passenger side. “Ma’am, this man would be dead
if you hadn’t known to do CPR. You saved his life. You did good. Don’t look so sad.”
I’m that easy to read?
I need to call his family. Is his mother still alive? How would she hold up, this woman who lost her husband only a few weeks
earlier? Without even feeling guilty, I look around his pickup. The only thing I see is a cell phone. I wonder . . .
I snatch it up and open the contacts list. I see “Mom” and I see “Tom.” Otherwise, everyone has first and last name, and I
figure those aren’t people who are particularly close to Mr. Travis. I press the button for “Mom.” After six rings, there’s
still no answer.
Next I try Tom. On the fifth ring, he picks up. “Hello?”
“Uh, hello. Are you a friend of Mr. Travis?”
“I’m his brother. What’s going on?”
“He collapsed at KFC. They’ve taken him to St. John’s hospital here in town.”
“What? Who did you say this is?”
“Claire Everett. I was with him in the parking lot when he collapsed. I found his cell phone in the seat of his truck. I didn’t
mean to snoop, but I wanted to let his family know as soon as possible.” So he doesn’t die before the hospital gets around
to notifying anyone that he’s been brought in.
“Thank you, Claire. I appreciate it.” He pauses. “It’s going to be three hours before I can get back to town.”
“Is there another family member I can call?”
“Mom never hears her phone.”
“I tried to call her first.”
“Claire, I hate to impose. But can you please go by my mother’s house and tell her about my brother? I’ll be there as fast
as I can make it.”
“I’d be happy to.” I walk to Darcy’s SUV as he gives me directions to his mother’s house.
My own cell phone is ringing when I get back inside the SUV.
“Mom?” Ari’s angry tone responds to my greeting. “Were you planning to leave us sitting outside the theater all day?”
“Listen, Ari. There’s been an emergency. Ask John to take you home or call Darcy. I’ll explain later.”
“There’s no way Dad will let Darcy drive now that she’s past her due date.”
“Ask John then,” I snap.
“Are you okay? What’s the emergency?” The worry in her voice warms me and quite frankly gives me hope that all is not lost
in our relationship.
I relent and give her a quick rundown.
“Wow, Mom. You’re a hero.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Seriously. They should write about you in the hometown-hero section of the newspaper.”
“Okay, thanks for the vote of confidence. So, you’ll get a ride for you and Shawny?”
“Yeah, I’ll get Tinker Bell—I mean Peter Pan—home safely.”
I hear the grin in her voice. The brat. She and Tommy have been calling Shawn “Tinker Bell” since he went to the first audition.
“Be nice.” We say good-bye and hang up as I turn off the main street into a residential area.
The streets are becoming unfamiliar as I enter an older section of town. Not torn up. Just old. Like a good wine. The houses
are well taken care of, but were obviously built years ago. Most are redbrick and two-story. Nice lawns stretch yard to yard
and I even see a few garden spots. Sprinklers chigger away here and there. I have to smile. Don’t they know it’s politically
incorrect to water your lawn when it’s so hot? Some people think we’re in for a water shortage.
Finally I come to the right address and pull into the drive. A row of shrubs fences in the yard and a ceramic rabbit sits
just off the driveway. When I ring the bell, a yippy dog starts barking its head off.
“Cricket! Stop that. Stop that right now!” I hear, just before the door opens a crack.
“We don’t buy anything from door-to-door salesmen.”
“No, ma’am. I’m not here to sell you anything.”
“Well, I have a church already.”
This is a relief. Maybe her son is a Christian after all.
“Your son Tom asked me to come over.”
The door flies open and she unlocks the screen. “What happened? Is my Tommy okay?”
“Yes. It’s your other son.”
“Timmy? What’s happened?”
“Well, he collapsed in the parking lot at Kentucky Fried Chicken. They’ve taken him to St. John’s.”
“Oh. Oh my goodness. I have to get there.”
“I’ll take you.”
She gives me a wary look and I don’t blame her. How many news reports focus on the victimization of the elderly? I show her
Timmy’s cell phone. “This is Timmy’s. Do you want to call Tom and confirm?”
She takes it and does just that. When she’s done, she nods at me. “Please wait here while I go get my purse and change out
of my slippers.”
I get her to the hospital fifteen minutes later. And within ten more we’re speaking to a cardiologist. “We’ve stabilized him,
and we’re waiting for some test results. My guess is that we’re looking at bypass surgery.”
“Oh, my poor boy. I just can’t bear it. First Milt and now our son.” Tears form in the faded gray eyes. I slip my arm around
her.
“Are you a family member?” the doctor asks.
“No. I was just there when he collapsed. I notified the family.”
“You’re the one who gave him CPR?”
I nod, keeping my focus on Mrs. Travis, whom I’m afraid might pass out.
“Mrs. Travis,” the doctor says, “if it weren’t for this woman, your son wouldn’t have made it to the hospital. Someone was
looking out for him that she was there at the right time.”