"No," he said quietly. "No, I didn't know."
Beyond the window, the river ran high and muddy and swift after the night's storm. From over toward Salisbury lightning cracked the sky in two. The clouds seemed lower, the mist thicker, the air heavier. Another storm was brewing, and Matt felt it both within and without. He thought it would be best to leave before either storm could break.
Matt left a gentle kiss on his unsuspecting mother's cheek and left the room, back to the hall, through the lobby to the front door and beyond, where big splats of rain were beginning to fall hard on the conc
rete steps and thunder began it
s rumble from somewhere down the road. That the weather matched his mood was not lost on him. He unlocked the truck and hopped in, and without his customary greeting to Artie, drove off, hoping to sort through it all between now and Wednesday, when he'd be back for the story hour. He and Delia Enright had things to talk about.
A
s if he hadn't had enough on his mind, Matt would take one more hit that Sunday afternoon.
He'd arrived home a little before one, with enough time to take a shower and change before driving over to Doc Espey's. He stood beneath the blast of a relentless st
ream of hot water, hoping to burn
out the chill and clear his head. He'd been caught off guard by the sight of Ally's birthday cake on his mother's lap, caught even more so by die news that Delia had arranged for a night nurse to watch over his mother.
He was to
rn
between gratitude for her kindness and anger over her presumption. Generally confused, he thought thi
s
was not the time to call Laura and try to discuss the situation. He was afraid of what he'd say.
And besides, he'd be spending the next few hours with Doc Espey, and didn't want to spoil it by getting into a yelling match with Laura, and that's just what would happen if he confronted her right then. He needed time to mull it over, time to sort it all out. Better to set it aside, and see what was on Doc Espey's mind.
In retrospect, a shouting match with Laura might have been easier to take than Matt's meeting with his old friend.
"Matthew," Doc Espey had said when he entered the room, "come and sit. No, not that chair." He pointed to one closer by. "Come sit by me."
Matt sat where he was told.
"Turn that light on, son," the old vet instructed. "It's so dark in here, what with this storm. Would you like anything? Tea? Co
ffee? Eva is in the kitchen…
"
"No, I'm fine, thank you." Matt's eyes narrowed. There was the slightest air of unfamiliar formality that caused a faint tickle of suspicion to run up his spine.
"Out to see your mother today, were you?''
"Yes."
"Is she any better?"
"No. No, she's not." Matt leaned back in the chair and said, "I think we're at the point where we're just beginning to understand that, with Alzheimer's, you don't get better. You only get worse."
"I'm sorry, my boy. I really am so sorry. It isn't easy watching someone that we love grow old." Espey shook his head slowly. "And it's not easy to accept certain things about ourselves as we get older, Matt. It's not easy, growing old."
Matt watched the old man's face, and his chest constricted. Something was about to be said that he wasn't going to like, any more than he liked finding out that Delia Enright had taken it upon herself to hire a nurse to care for his mother.
"The rain. The cold. The dampness." Doc leaned back in his chair. "All of it takes its toll, you know.
When you get to be my age…
" He waved his hand vaguely, and appeared to be struggling with his words.
The old doctor met Matt's eyes, and he smiled. "You know," he said, "I'm trying to look for an easy way to say this, but I can't. So you'll just have to forgive my bluntness, Matthew. I've decided to move to Arizona to be closer to my sister. Eva an
d I will be leaving June first."
Surrounded by the silence that followed in the wake of his announcement, the old man watched the face of the younger as the words sank in.
"You're leaving…
"
"Yes, son. It's time," Espey said quietly.
Matt stood and paced, wound tightly as an old watch, his mind reeling.
"Have you changed your mind about Shawsburg? You know that my first choice would be to him my practice over to you."
"Thank you, Doc.
I appreciate that. I like Shaws
burg, and I've really enjoyed working here. I'm grateful for the opportunity, but it's always been my dream to open a clinic at Pumpkin Hill."
"I know that, Matt, but I wanted to give you the choice, in the event that you'd changed your mind."
"Thank you, but no," Matt said quietly, "I haven't changed my mind."
"I had a feeling that you'd say that," Espey nodded slowly. No surprises here. "I have had an offer from Greg Dannon to buy the practice."
"Then, by all means, you should sell it to him. Greg's a good vet. He'll serve the community well."
"That's what I thought."
"How soon
…"
Matt could barely get the words out.
"Well, he said he'd send one of his assistants out to take over as soon as we signed the deal and he could get some equipment ordered."
"What equipment could he possibly need?" Matt frowned. "There's nothing here that's more than two years old, and everything is state of the art."
"I'm selling him the building and the practice, but not my equipment." Espey leaned forward. "The equipment goes with you, to Pumpkin Hill."
"That's very kind of you," Matt said softly. "But I'm afraid I'm just not in a position to buy the equipment any more than I could afford to buy the practice."
Matt thought of the many thousands of dollars the vet had spent on the latest X ray equipment, CAT scans and lab and surgical equipment. If would take Matt years to be able to afford such tools. His heart sank. He'd have to go work with another vet for a while.
He'd been saving money, but he was far from being able to afford to open a clinic of his own.
"
The best I can afford right now might be a few of the examining tables," Matt tried to force a smile.
"
Matt, I'm not offering to sell you the equipment," Espey told him gently. "I'm giving it to you."
"
Doc, you don't just give away thousands of
dollars' worth of equipment…"
"I replaced everything over the past few years with the thought that one day you'd take it with you when you left."
"Doc, I couldn't accept it…"
"Oh, but I'm not giving you a choice, son. It's what I planned all along. Think of it as my last gift to you, Matt."
Matt raised his eyebrows.
"
Doc, you've given me so much over the years. There's no need for you to give me anything more."
"I appreciate that you feel that way. I do. But this isn't negotiable. All of the equipment, all of the supplies, will be loaded on a truck and delivered to your farm. It's already been arranged."
For the second time that day, Matt was caught up by emotions that conflicted and collided.
"I don't know what to say," he whispered.
"There's nothing you need to say."
Eva appeared in the doorway with two cups of tea.
"Ah, you're just in time, my sweet," Espey beamed. "Matt and I could use a little refreshment."
"
Will you stay for dinner, Matt?" She asked as she placed his cup before him.
"
Yes, of course he'll stay," the old vet answered fox the younger one. "We have a few more details to
discuss, and I want him to read the results of the research project that Denton faxed down from the University of Pennsylva
nia yesterday. Did I show you
my new fax machine, Matthew? It wor
ks on my computer, look here…"
Later, his head still reeling, Matt drove over rain soaked streets to his little rented house at the edge of Shawsburg. He parked in the driveway and unlocked the front door with little thought to his actions. He fed the dog, then slipping the leash onto Artie's collar, went back out the same way he'd come in.
Over the past few hours, the temperature had risen and the rain had settled to a steady, fine drizzle. Fog was growing from the warming pavement like mushrooms in a dank cellar. Matt walked past the closed and shuttered shops, past the library and the fire house, past the town's one funeral home and the community swim club, which wouldn't open for another month. Few cars passed and no one else, it seemed, had ventured out on such a night. The fog grew along with the silence, and soon the only sounds Matt heard were his own footsteps and the scraping of Artie's claws on the sidewalk. He lost track of how long he had walked, and where. It was almost midnight by the time he arrived back at his own front door, his thoughts no less jumbled than when he'd set out.
The red light on his answering machine flashed once, twice, three times. His beeper hadn't gone off, so he knew there were no animal emergencies. So, he felt he could ignore his machine. He walked past it into the kitchen and turned on the light. There was no one he felt like talking to, no one whose voice he
wanted to hear. His nerves were stretched to their limit and his emotions had been beaten raw.
He took a beer from the refrigerator and went back into the living room and turned on the television. Sorting through his stack of Sherlock Holmes videos, he found the one that matched his mood.
The Hound of the Baskervilles.
He slid the tape into the VCR and settled back, hoping to lose his inner turmoil somewhere amidst the mists that drifted across the moors surrounding Baskerville Hall.
fifteen
A
fter Sunday's storms, Monday's warmer temperatures and sunny skies were welcomed. By Tuesday afternoon, the mercury in the thermometer that was nailed to the side wall of the farmhouse had risen all the way to seventy-eight degrees. It was spring and it was warm, and Georgia's thoughts had turned to planting. A trip into Tanner's for pig chow had resulted in her purchase of several flats of cool weather vegetables: three kinds of lettuce, some spinach and some Swiss chard. First, she thought as she unloaded the plastic trays from the back of the Jeep, she would have to decide where to plant them, then take an hour or so to do the actual planting. For years she'd watched old Tom Larson, who often helped her mother with the gardening back in Westville, and he'd always made it look so easy.
Inspecting each of Hope's old garden locations, Georgia decided that the best place for the vegetable garden might be the larger garden behind the
barn
where it was sunny all day. Now all she had to do was
turn the soil over, and she could stick the little plants right into the ground. She grabbed a shovel from th
e wall inside the barn
. Matt had said he'd help, but, she knew, after the way he took off the other day, best not to count on
him.
She'd start today, and she'd do it herself. How hard could it be to plant a few flats of vegetables?
Once she had chopped up the soil and tucked in her new plants, she mused as she walked to the field behind the ba
rn
, she could just throw seeds in for the other vegetables she wanted to grow. Pleased with the thought of having several months of eggplant parmigiana and zucchini bread made from her own crops, she began to whistle.
She stood at the edge of last year's garden, envisioning the yield come July and August. Mentally, she placed her selections in neat rows. Zucchini there, broccoli there, maybe some cantaloupe here. Green beans and sugar snap peas
…
pole or bush? And she could put in several rows of carrots and lots of tomatoes, there was so much room.
Acres
of room. Today she would dig it all up. Tonight she would sketch out where she would plant everything. Tomorrow she would put the new plants in the ground and go back to Tanner's to buy seeds for everything else.
Optimistically, she broke ground for the little trench she'd use as the border for her garden.
"
Marigolds," Georgia said aloud to Spam. "I read in one of Hope's journals that if you plant lots of marigolds around the perimeter of your garden, they will keep out deer and rabbits. I think I'll plant marigolds in this little trench." She paused and looked down at the pig that was now rolling in the
dirt she had loosened. "Unfortunately, I'm not sure how effective they are on pigs."
This will be so much fun, she was thinking at three in the afternoon.
By three thirty-five, she recognized the task for what it was.
Backbreaking.
Georgia slammed the tip of the shovel into the ground and leaned upon it's handle.
"Spam, I love you for the porcine cutie that you are, but right now I'd have to admit that I'd be tempted to trade you for the first mule that came strolling by." She momentarily went cross-eyed watching a line of sweat roll down her nose. "Oh, my kingdom for a tractor!"
The tractor! Yes, of course! The tractor! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner?
"Because I foolishly thought that digging a few hundred square feet of dirt would be a walk in the park." She said aloud. "Come on, Spam. There is a better way
…
"
Dragging the shovel—which now weighed close to thirty or forty pounds, she was certain of it—she returned to the ba
rn
, Spam grunting a protest at having had her little siesta in the sun disturbed. Georgia walked around first one, then the other tractor, then hoisted herself onto the seat of the smaller of the two.
Hope had driven it all the time. Laura had driven it, too. Why couldn't she?
First, of course, she would have to figure out how to turn it on.
She tried to recall what Laura had done the day she
had started up the equipment. Somet
hing with this switch here…
The rattle and roar of the engine startled her, and she drew her hand back as quickly as if she had touched a hot wire. The seat wobbled under her rear end and the whole machine sort of shook.
Spam bolted for the door.
Georgia placed her hands on the steering wheel and braced herself against its vibrations. Turning the stiff wheel first to the left, then to the right, she leaned over and watched the movement of the big front tire as it responded to the wheel in her hands.
I think I
could drive this thing,
she nodded.
And Laura did say that I could use whatever was here
…
She studied the pedals near the platform beneath her feet.
That
must be the fuel pedal, and
that
must be the brake. Which means
this
would be the clutch.
Testing each of the foot pedals tentatively with her sneakered feet, she repeated aloud, "I can drive this thing."
The large first floor of the barn
held little more than the tractors. She looked over her shoulder. A small plow was attached to the back of the tractor, but other than that, there seemed to be little that could get in her way. She depressed the clutch, which was slightly stiff, then moved the gearshift back and forth, confirming the gears. From neutral to drive. Did this thing have different speeds? She leaned closer to inspect. The small letters at the base of the stick shift spelled out, "first, second, third, fourth, reverse."
Just like that ancient Mercedes sports car that Mom used to have, she mused.
If I
could drive that, I
can drive this.
She downshifted into first g
ear, and stepped on the gas.
"Holy mother!" she yelled as the tractor lurched forward toward the back wall of the ba
rn
. She hit the brake, bringin
g the machine to a sharp stop.
Well, it had been a while since s
he had driven that car…
She pulled forwar
d a few more feet, more slowly
this time, then stopped it again. Start, then stop.
Start, then stop. She made a slow arc around the inside of the ba
rn
. Once. Twice. Three times, then pulled the tractor back to where it had been.
What, she wondered, controlled the plow?
She tested this lever and that until she found the one that lowered and raised the plow blades.
She began to whistle again, the theme song from
Oklahoma!
coming to mind.
"Tomorrow I will plow up that little bit of field, Spam." Georgia announced as she hopped down from the tractor, "just like Hope used to do."
Confident that she was up to the task, and knowing somehow that Hope would have been proud, Georgia turned off the light and headed to the house to sketch out her garden plan. Matt Bishop could stay in Shawsburg. She wouldn't need his help.
M
att had rescheduled his Wednesday afternoon appointments so that he'd be able to leave the clinic no later than one. Unfortunately, a Pekinese with skin allergies
arrived—unannounced—at twelve-
forty-five, and kept him till close to one-thirty.
"The best laid plans," he muttered to Artie as he arrived home and stripped for a quick shower. The
peke had shed loose fur all over him, and he needed to be rid of it.
Finishing in record time, he pulled on a short sleeved olive green shirt and a pair of jeans, and whistling for Artie—who'd been lounging on the sofa, moving only when he heard Matt's footsteps drawing near—headed off for Riverview.
He still had no idea of what he was going to say to Delia, but he figured it was time. He wasn't even certain of how he felt about her anymore.
On the one hand, he had been touched almost to tears that Delia had taken the prized piece of Ally's birthday cake not for herself, but for Charity. That small act had spoken volumes to Matt of Delia's kindness, of the generosity of her spirit.
That she had taken it upon herself to hire a private duty nurse to care for his mother,
that
was something else entirely.
He had deliberately not mentioned it to Laura, though he wasn't exactly sure why he had avoided doing so. Maybe because Delia was, after all, Laura's birth mother, she might feel obligated to defend her, to explain on her behalf. Matt wanted to hear it from Delia herself why she felt she was entitled to make such a decision. If Delia had conferred with Laura first, Laura may have chosen not to discuss it with him for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that she might have been afraid he'd tell where Delia could put her money.
Or, on the other hand, maybe Laura was feeling a little bit tom between the two women. It was, he concluded, a complicated situation.
The visitors lot was almost filled when Matt arrived
at Riverview at three-twenty. Even so, there was no way to have missed the Mercedes sedan. It stuck out from between a Honda and a Subaru station wagon like a red rose in a vase full of white carnations. He parked the truck, gave a verbal reminder to Artie about minding his manners, and went into the nursing home.
The hall leading to the dayroom was quiet, and the soles of his Nikes squeaked softly on the tile floor. As he approached the room, the sound of a woman's voice became audible. He paused in the doorway and took a look around. There were twenty or thirty residents gathered around the chair where Delia sat, her glasses perched on her nose, her legs, in tailored navy blue slacks, crossed at the knee. Her voice was clear and animated. Matt took a step inside and listened as she read from the hardcover book which she held open with both hands:
" 'The bucket that had hung from the frayed rope was gone, the rope cut cleanly. She leaned over the edge of the old well, wondering if the wooden bucket had fallen down, down, down past the old stone walls.'
"
"When I was a little boy, we had a well on our farm," an elderly man sitting to Delia's left interrupted her.
"So did we," another nodded.
"I lived on a farm, once." It was Charity's voice. "And we had a well. My father covered it up when my sister Faith fell in and drowned."
Matt's chest constricted. That his mother would remember that! Charity could not have been more
than six or seven at the time her older sister had died. It had been years since she had talked about Faith.
"The water in our well was very cold," the old man continued as if he had not heard. "It was sweet
to drink on a hot summer day…"
"Faith had yellow hair," Matt heard his mother say. "The yellowest hair I ever saw. My mother used to braid it in two fat plaits. On Sundays she let us wear ribbons in our braids, me and my sister Faith and my sister Hope."
"Faith, Hope and Charity," an old woman seated next to Charity said in the kind of loud voice used by people who are themselves hard of hearing. "That was in the Bible."
"Now, do you want to chatter," a gentleman wearing a blue cardigan sweater and a slouched straw hat stood up, "or do you want the book lady to read a little more?"
"Oh, read more, please!"
Delia shifted slightly in the chair, gave everyone a few seconds to reposition themselves, then continued on with her reading.
Matt sat down on a chair just inside the door, studying the back of Delia's head. Several times she had raised a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed it slightly, as if to rub away some stiffness, but she kept reading until the clock in the hallway chimed four bells. She had been interrupted several more times by members of her geriatric audience when their memories had been jogged by something she read, but she never seemed to mind. She simply waited patiently until they were ready for her to continue. Then she would read some more until
someone else had a flash from the past and spoke up to share it.
When the bell rang, Delia finished the sentence she was reading and closed her book, saying,
"
And that's all till next week."
Several in the group groaned their displeasure that reading time was over for the day, but most simply nodded. The aides stood and prompted everyone to
"
Thank Mrs. Enright."
"
Thank you, book lady,"
several said as they passed Delia on their way out of the room.
Charity wheeled herself past Matt without looking at him.
He stood and leaned against the wall, debating whether or not to speak with Delia now, or if perhaps he should wait for her by her car.
He had taken too long to decide. Delia turned toward the door unexpectedly. If she was surprised to see him, she hid it well.
"
Matthew," she greeted him with a even smile.
"Mrs. Enright." He nodded to her.