Just Over The Mountain (18 page)

But she had gone back to the woods with Clarence after only two brief visits to that library in Rockport.

Jurea wasn’t educated, nor would she consider herself clever, but she did have good sense and sound instincts. It took her a little while, but she knew that what June had told her was true—as long as she coddled Clarence, he would stay back in the woods. And it would be better for their whole family, including Clarence, if they lived together in town and Clarence tried the medicine and therapy again.

Charlie MacNeil thought he was coming to the forest to pick up Jurea and take her for a visit with her children in town, but Jurea was packing up the few articles of clothing she owned, waiting for Clarence. If he didn’t come back, she would attempt to write him a note.

But he came. He walked in with his rifle balanced over his shoulder, a couple of rabbits strung together and dangling lifelessly from a rope. He had trapped them; he was an excellent trapper.

“I’m glad you’re back, Clarence,” she said. “I’m going back to town. Much as I want to stay and help you figure things out, I need to go back.”

He nodded curtly and tossed his rabbits on the ground in front of the woodstove. He pulled a crude bowl from the shelf to hold the innards, drew his hunting knife from his belt and got ready to clean them on a board on the dirt floor.

“Clarence, I think you should try and show a little courage and come back to town. For the sake of your kids, who need you.”

“They’ll get over that soon enough.”

“No, I don’t think so. Just like I still feel the need to see my family though I haven’t lived with ’em in twenty years, your kids will always feel the need to have you. They won’t be with us much longer, Clarence. They’re growing up. I just can’t have them spend their lives hiding in the forest.”

He turned around and looked her in the eye. “You go on, Jurea. You go on and have a better life. I don’t need you here.” He turned back to his rabbits and kneeling, began to gut and skin them.

His words had stung, but she knew he didn’t mean them the way they sounded. He needed her, but he could exist without her help.

“Well, I need you, Clarence. I hope you decide to come back to town. Come back and go to the VA clinic and get you some new medicine and have a good life with us again. If it’s easier for you, I’ll promise not to have no more operations on my face.”

Clarence, on his knees, slowly turned toward her, looked up at her and asked, “You would do that?”

“I would do just about anything to help, except keep our family apart. If I didn’t think it would hurt the kids real bad to live back here, I’d bring ’em back. But you should see ’em, Clarence. They’re so happy going to school. They’re learning real fast and making some friends. I mean, Clarence,
you
got to go to school when you was a boy. It wasn’t a town and family and friends that made you sick, it was a war. The kids deserve our best, not our worst, fears.”

Charlie MacNeil had arrived and gave the horn on his car a toot. Jurea opened the door, waved to him that she’d heard, then went to her husband. She bent at the waist so that she might kiss him on the cheek, but he turned away from her and she was left to kiss the top of his head. She picked up her bundle and made to leave.

“I hope you get over hurting, Clarence. I hope you come back to town because that’s where I’ll be.”

Tears smarted in her eyes as she left the shack in the woods, knowing she would never return to it, hoping Clarence wouldn’t die there alone.

On Monday morning, Harry Shipton phoned both John Stone and Mike Dickson, one at a time, but had almost identical conversations with each of them. “I understand you’ve been in trouble with the missus for weeks now.”

“More like months,” John said.

“My wife
and
mother,” said Mike.

“With any hope of patching it up anytime soon?” Harry asked. He was told by each that, however hard they tried, however apologetic, the women had been offended enough to carry a grudge. “That’s a shame,” Harry said. “Well, how far are you willing to go to get back in the good graces of your wives…because I have an idea of something you can do, something we can all do together for the town and the women who have been insulted.”

Of course both John and Mike said they’d do anything. Harry was going to have some fun.

Every time Myrna Claypool looked out the window of her study into the yard around Hudson House, it irked her more. She was no longer the gardener she had once been and she was too old and frail—something she hated to admit—to put that mess to rights again. It was not as though she couldn’t afford to have a professional landscaping crew come in from one of the larger towns and make the grounds more beautiful than ever. It was the idea that this could be done to her without conscience, without substantial probable cause.

Someone was going to pay for this, but she wasn’t quite sure who it would be.

Her attorney, John Cutler, was positioned in the sunroom, using the coffee table as a desk. He used his cell phone while Myrna used her house phone. They were working on separate research projects, either of which could bring this mystery to a close. Myrna was
trying to find out what Paul Faraday really had to do with the discovery of the bones, and Cutler was trying to get information on what had become of Morton Claypool.

Myrna peeked into the sunroom to steal a look at Cutler. His name was John, but she addressed him as Cutler because she liked the sound of it. He had corrected her a couple of times, then let her be. He was a rumpled mess, and June thought they should hire an older, more experienced lawyer, but after having a brief conversation with him on the phone, Myrna knew he was exactly what she wanted. He was a little socially inept but very bright. And most important, he was perfectly willing to do things her way. At her age, after all the years of independence—virtually from the age of fourteen—it wasn’t likely she was going to be ordered around by anyone.

Cutler scribbled something on a yellow pad and simultaneously looked up to see Myrna peeking in. He lifted his eyebrows and inclined his head in a gesture that meant she should enter. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he said into the phone. “Mrs. Claypool, we have something important. Your husband took retirement from Sandfield Office Supplier. He was sixty-two and his retirement income from them was very modest, but he continued to pay into his social security for five years after the last time you saw him.”

“Well, that old dog. I always suspected another woman. Where was the old coot?”

“That’s a problem. He had his check sent to a post office box.”

“So I wouldn’t find him, I suppose.” She tapped her pen idly on the rim of her glasses. “I should have thought of social security. He’s either dead or collecting it now.”

“There’s the problem. They don’t have records of either.” At her alarmed look, he said, “Now, that doesn’t mean anything, Mrs. Claypool. He could have stopped paying in because he had no further income. His pension with the office supplier dried up when they went bankrupt. The pension fund, like the rest of the company, was mismanaged.”

“Oh my! I wonder, did they let Morton run the place for a while?” she asked facetiously.

Cutler ignored her sarcasm. “He stopped paying into social security. He didn’t file for receipt of social security, which could have been because he didn’t need it. Not everyone collects, you know.”

“Now, why in the world would Morton stop paying in and fail to collect, unless he was dead?” she wanted to know.

Cutler shrugged. “He could have married a rich woman. He could have left the country. In fact, he could have died out of the country and been unidentified. There are a million possible explanations. I just want to be sure we can prove he wasn’t buried out there,” he said, giving his head a jerk toward the window.

“My dear Cutler, if he were out there, don’t you suppose he’d have been found by now?”

He grinned, then asked, “How are you doing on your detective work?”

“Not nearly as well, I’m afraid. Mr. Paul Faraday is a true-crime writer and stringer for the San Jose paper. I gather from some of his interviews that he fancies himself a screenwriter as well, but hasn’t had any success. Obviously he’s targeted me for a story, but I can’t understand why.”

“Your books, Mrs. Claypool. I’m afraid you might have set yourself up for this investigation.”

“Oh, so everyone says. But then answer me this, Cutler. The ADA, Ms. Glaser, she’s a bright woman, isn’t she?”

He nodded. “Some say she’s brilliant.”

“Why does she go along with this—this warrant, this collection of evidence, based on Mr. Faraday’s flimsy and concocted story?”

“She must believe he’s on to something. The bones were found to be those of a male, approximate age of sixty, dead twenty years. That fits a certain bill.”

“Then there’s only one explanation,” she said. “Mr. Faraday didn’t get them here.”

T
hough the people in the clinic had every reason to feel the weight of grief after what had happened to Justine, June was ready to move forward with optimism. She had a quiet and serene acceptance of her life, her future. She watched from the café as Rob Gilmore used a rented cherry picker to string colored lights up Valley Drive, and saw with some melancholy Sam and Standard Roberts erecting Justine’s booth in front of her flower shop. The dried wreaths and arrangements she had spent late summer making would be sold after all.

There was something about the fall that seemed to wash the land clean; the sunlight filtered through colored leaves was like a kaleidoscope on the ground and streets. The air was snappy and made one think of soups and hot bread. The chopping of wood for winter fireplaces had commenced. It made one want to nest.

“I need to see you after your last patient, if you have some time,” June said to John.

“I’ve had my last,” he said. “I’m leaving in about a half hour.”

“My office,” she said, leading the way. She sat behind her desk, feeling awkward.

“What’s up?” he asked, entering behind her.

“Close the door, please.”

He hesitated, then did so.

“This is a medical matter, John,” June said, folding her hands on top of her desk.

By the solemn look on her face, John was made more than a little uncomfortable. “Am I sick?” he wanted to know.

She rolled her eyes. “John, I’ve been fighting a case of the flu for about two months now,” she said.

“Hmm,” he answered. “Fatigue, nausea, aching…? We should start with some blood work. It could be a simple case of iron deficiency. With your diet, I’m frankly surprised you haven’t been anemic before—”

“I don’t know when my last period was,” she said. “But I’ve been alternately crying and biting people’s heads off for a good six weeks.”

“Oh,” he said, then had the good sense to shut up.

“I’m thirty-seven…almost thirty-eight, I didn’t think I’d ever have a child, and now I find myself a geriatric pregnancy. I need a good OB-GYN and you’re the best I know.”

“Well, then,” he said. “I’d be honored. Go ahead to exam one and I’ll get Susan.”

“I’m not ready to share this with Jessie,” June said.

“You can have your chart, lock it in your file cabinet
if you like. But before we make any diagnosis, we examine. Besides, we’re done for the day. I’ll go ahead and send Jessie home.”

A short time later, June assumed the position. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling, excitement or dread. It certainly wouldn’t be dread at having a pregnancy, but at having one accidentally and being left to hope the gentleman wouldn’t be too upset. In her entire experience with Jim, she’d never seen him upset about anything. Of course, she had to wonder when he’d return, and what she’d tell people if she began to show before she had a partner.

“It’s not Chris Forrest,” she said suddenly, forcefully.

Susan, who’d been at the counter compiling her chart information, looked over with a curious frown. John peeked over the sheet that covered June’s knees. He lifted his eyebrows; he had not been about to ask. “Obviously,” he said.

“It’s not,” she said more sanely.

John pulled out the speculum and stood over her. He palpated her uterus. He did this thoughtfully, she decided, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. Then he looked at her. “That last period, whenever it was, could it have been a lighter than usual one?”

She shook her head. “Can’t even remember. I pay no attention.”

“You don’t keep track? At all?”

“Periods have never been a problem,” she said.

“So uneventful that you don’t even know you’re having them?”

“Well, I…”

He snapped off his gloves and said, “Congratulations. You’re definitely pregnant.”

“Whew. I thought so. Damn. Talk about a surprise.”

“Oh, your surprises are just beginning. We’ll need an ultrasound, but it looks a little more advanced than you’re prepared for. I don’t think you’re going to be able to keep this quiet for long, June.”

She sat up, bracing on her elbows. “Well, how long?”

“You might be able to keep it to yourself till the harvest festival this weekend. You’re about four months. Haven’t you felt anything?”

“Like…?”

“Fluttering?”

“Oh Jesus! I can’t be that far along!”

“Can’t you figure it out? By when you had… contact.” He didn’t want to say relations because, for all John knew, this could be a donor baby.

“Maybe…but… Oh, I don’t know!” June fell back onto the exam table and felt the emotion begin to well up inside her. As often as it had happened lately, she was beginning to recognize the phenomenon very well. Tears spilled over and splashed down her cheeks. She pulled a trembling hand to a nose that was beginning to redden. John reached out to help her sit up and Susan aided from behind, pushing gently on her back. She sat on the edge of the examining table with a bare bottom and a paper sheet covering her and wept. “I’m not too old, am I?”

“Certainly not! You’re in excellent health, despite your crappy diet, and you’re as fit as a racehorse.”

“Racehorse?” she choked. “That’s nice, John.”

“Just be glad he didn’t say broodmare,” Susan interjected, getting herself a glare from John. “Well…” She shrugged.

“By the way, I don’t mean to make so many assumptions,” John said. “Of course you have options.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m thrilled,” she said, but tears ran down her cheeks. She wished she could tell them that she cried because there was no one to share her excitement with, and she didn’t know when there would be. In fact, though she didn’t think it likely, it was possible she could get all the way to the delivery alone.

And there was also the chance that when she told Jim, he’d be less than pleased and would leave her to have a family on her own. Would he? He could. But would he?

Susan was hugging her, telling her she’d be a wonderful mother. John was asking if there was anything he could do for her. She said yes—prenatal vitamins and a night off.

June and Sadie went home. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone home from the clinic at a reasonable hour to spend an evening relaxing by herself. The best she could do was rush home at six on Tuesdays for meat loaf with her dad, but she always felt as if she was on the run. On this night, this very special night, she wanted to celebrate what she’d done. She was having a baby. She would love to have spent this time with family—her dad, her aunt, maybe the Toopeeks—but there was no way she could keep her news inside if
she did. And she needed a little time to figure out how she was going to tell them…and tell them
soon.

She warmed herself some chicken noodle soup, remembering not so very long ago when she’d come home to find Jim, injured from his flight from the bad guys. She’d warmed soup for him that night, but he’d fallen asleep before he could eat it, so she had put it on a tray and, while she watched him sleep, she had eaten his soup.

Until he was home from this assignment—home
free
—she wouldn’t tell him about the baby. She’d keep it under wraps until she could get an ultrasound and learn exactly when this baby would come. Then she would have to tell those closest to her. But she would not tell Jim until he was safely home. It was the only kind and sane thing to do. She couldn’t have him upset or worried while undercover.

The early-October night was crisp and shivery, so she built a nice cozy fire. She drank tea, reclined on the sofa and smoothed her shirt over a belly that had seemed to grow since John examined her at four o’clock. She waited patiently for movement, but it didn’t come. She talked to the baby. “If I can take Sadie with me everywhere, I can take you. I don’t know what kind of work your daddy is going to do—maybe he’ll be one of those stay-at-homes… No, I don’t see him as a stay-at-home. Frankly I’ll be happy if he stays
around.
” But there were plenty of excellent people in Grace Valley for child care, including Elmer.

The phone rang and she thought it might be Elmer or Myrna, or even John or Susan checking on her. In
fact, she found herself wishing for the latter so she could talk a little about having a baby. If it’s Elmer, she told herself, take all traces of motherhood out of your voice!

But it was not Elmer.

“Hi, gorgeous. I miss the hell out of you.”

Him.

“I want to be with you more every day,” he said.

“Jim!” she said, breathless. “I’m pregnant!”

The Forrest twins were not happy in their new digs. Their new house was barely habitable and their dad was completely inept at those homey little touches. Oh, he was a good enough carpenter and handyman, but life had gotten real rugged since moving out of their grandmother’s house. While they were relieved to be free of Grandma Birdie’s nagging, life was more comfortable than this in the jail.

Chris had picked up a couple of cots, blankets and some kitchenware at the army surplus in Rockport and borrowed a card table and chairs from Bob Hanson. When they asked what they were supposed to do for a TV and stereo, he told them to read. He was in a badass mood.

“You’re uncomfortable?” he asked them. “Live with it. If you hadn’t been so damn ungrateful and insolent at your grandparents’ house, you might still be sleeping in a soft bed and eating a hot meal!”

“Hey man, she had us
arrested!
” Brad protested.

“You stole from her!” Chris yelled back.

“We did not!” Brent insisted.

“Yes, you did,” Chris accused. “You know you did.”

“Hey, Dad, she was just hallucinating. It’s probably that blood pressure medicine she takes or something!” the other twin claimed.

“She doesn’t take medicine, but you’re going to take yours. I want you home after school. I want all your clothes folded up in neat little piles. I want the trash hauled out to the end of the drive—it only gets picked up once a week. I want your homework done so you can help me tonight. As soon as I get the baseboards finished, I get carpeting, so you’ll have to help. And I’ll bring dinner home.”

“You don’t believe us, do you?” Brent wanted to know.

“No. I don’t believe you. You’ve been lying to me for a long time and I’m done being your patsy.” And with that, he left for work.

Brent and Brad were steamed. They’d spent a whole night in that poor excuse for a jail before their dad could convince his old pal, Chief Toopeek, to let them out. And all this over a few bucks that their grandparents didn’t need anyway.

School sucked, too. They weren’t sure if someone was talking trash about them, someone like Johnny Toopeek, or what, but there were fewer people interested in hanging with them than before. They were potential football stars, but the girls hung around the varsity guys, the goody-goodys, and the only people they had to eat lunch with were losers who smoked under the bleachers and were just about flunking out.

They didn’t even talk about it long. Most of their decisions, like stealing eggs or taking Grandma Birdie’s cookie-jar money, they came to impetuously.

“Who’s she think she is? God?”

“Grandma God?”

“What’s a couple bucks? Ought to show her real stealing.”

“Take the jewels. Or the car.”

“Yeah, the car. That big old Plymouth.”

“Think she’d miss it?”

“She hardly drives it. She walks everyplace in town she can.”

“I could drive that big old Plymouth,” Brad said.

“Yeah, but you couldn’t steal it. You don’t know how to hot-wire nothing.”

“Don’t need to hot-wire nothing. I know where the key is—on the peg right inside the back door.”

And that’s exactly how petty thieves and vandals became car thieves. They got such a rush out of planning to steal their grandmother’s car, to show her, to get even with her, that they never even discussed what they were going to do besides drive it. They didn’t talk at all about the possible consequences, such as, if you could spend a night in jail for stealing seventy dollars, what could happen to you if you stole a
car?

Football practice lasted till five and there were two buses for kids who stayed after for sports. One dropped kids in town, the other dropped them on the west side, which was where the twins should be going. Instead of taking the school bus to their new but unfurnished
house, they jumped on their old bus, as if they were going to their grandparents’ home. They walked casually to the Forrest house, book bags slung over their shoulders. The sun was setting earlier and earlier as fall deepened, and dusk would soon be falling.

Brent stood in the driveway holding both book bags. Brad sashayed up to the back porch and peeked in. Birdie was in the kitchen, chopping something, getting dinner ready. The news was on in the living room and it was turned up loud to be heard in the kitchen. She moved back and forth, from the kitchen counter to the living room, to catch a little piece of the news. On one of her trips to the TV, Brad slipped a hand through a barely opened screen door and lifted the car key off its hook. He then sashayed confidently back to the yellow Plymouth.

The twins exchanged grins. This was too easy. They looked around; there was no one on the street. Birdie was in the kitchen, in the back of the house, and wouldn’t even hear the engine start. Brad got behind the wheel and Brent threw their bags into the back seat. He started the car, put it in Reverse and hit the gas. The car jerked into high speed and they blew the garbage cans all over the street.

“Way to go, dipshit!” Brent said.

“It wasn’t my fault, man!”

“Who’s driving, dickhead?”

They looked behind them. They had hit the cans so hard they’d flown down the street and emptied in the process. There was trash everywhere and the cans lay on their sides, badly dented.

In that moment they became acutely aware of how little time and energy they’d spent on planning for contingencies.

“Let’s go then, dumb-ass!” Brent ordered.

And Brad, who had never actually driven a car before, spun out and laid rubber all the way out of town. West. Toward home. Though they had no idea what they were going to do.