Authors: Creston Mapes
Wait up.
Who was he kidding?
Did he really expect Claire Fontaine to fall in love with a middle-aged grease monkey like him? Lord, she was beautiful—way out of his league. Being with her was like being in the winner’s circle at Talladega. Nothing topped it.
Claire was something special. She was always so interested in Travis, in everybody. Her life was like a bonfire. She wasn’t ashamed about how much she loved God, but wore it right on her sleeve. She brought God up in conversations naturally, the way Travis would mention Daddy or NASCAR.
Travis smiled. He could see himself taking Claire to church every Sunday for the rest of their lives.
Holy smokes … you’re getting way too far ahead of yourself.
Claire had been upset with Travis after everyone left the night before. She was worried about his family’s safety and begged him to get the police more deeply involved. She didn’t think Demler-Vargus was going to pay them and simply walk away.
It might seem weird to most folks, but Travis had a strange feeling Claire got insights directly from God. She had a wisdom about her that he trusted.
That’s what was keeping him awake.
Even if the payoff did happen as planned, Travis wrestled with accepting it, keeping mum, and letting his neighbors continue to suffer.
He was counting heavily on the stories Jack and Derrick would write to expose Demler-Vargus for their wrongdoing—after his family got their payment, of course.
He heard a noise.
In the house?
Yes.
Travis got up and felt for the small flashlight by the clock. He turned it on and headed down the hall.
Yes, it was coming from Daddy’s room.
He went in, partially covering the flashlight, but his father wasn’t in his bed.
The sound of coughing, bad coughing, more like heaving, came from the bathroom.
Travis’s heart broke. He stood for a second, debating whether to go in. Daddy was proud. He wouldn’t want any help for a coughing spell.
But this was more than a cough. Daddy was retching.
Travis stood there a second longer, took a deep breath, and went in. The night-light revealed his father on his knees at the toilet in his flannel pj’s. He looked so fragile. One arm lay across the tank, and his head against that.
“Daddy,” Travis whispered, not wanting to scare him. “You okay?”
His father flushed the toilet.
Something dark swirled in the bowl and disappeared.
“Was that blood?” Travis said.
“Hand me a towel.”
Travis grabbed one and gave it to him, and his father wiped his mouth, his forehead.
“You want some water?”
“I’ll git it.” Daddy worked his way to his feet and crossed to the sink. He ran water, took a swig, swished, and spit. It wasn’t clear. And there was blood on the towel. “This happens.” He leaned on the sink with both hands. “I’m all right. Comes with the territory.”
“Daddy, we need to take you to the hospital.” Travis began readjusting his day, thinking which cars could wait a day, which ones he could give to Bo …
His father shook his head and leaned over the sink on his forearms. He coughed violently, his old frame teetering, his pajamas looking three sizes too large.
Travis noticed a smattering of blood in the sink, just before his father turned on the water and splashed it away.
“I’m okay. Give me a minute.”
“I’m afraid you might have what Momma had,” Travis whispered. “You need to get looked at.”
“They would’ve spotted it when I was just in,” Daddy said. “I know something’s wrong. Heck, nobody lives forever—not down here, at least.”
The thing was, his father despised hospitals. He was afraid that once he went in he’d never come out. He was old-fashioned to the core—a typical codger who’d rather live richly on his own land for a day and die with his greasy coveralls on than live for a month trapped in some hospital, being kept alive by medicine and machines.
He turned on the water again, leaned over the sink, and splashed water on his face, then patted it with the towel.
“I know you don’t want to go,” Travis said. “But I want you to. Will you let me take you if I promise not to let them keep you?”
Daddy looked Travis in the eye and put a hand on his shoulder. “Have I ever told you what a fine son you’ve been, Travis?”
It hit him like a two-by-four. Travis’s nose tingled, and tears filled his eyes. It was one of those talks that could only happen in the dreamy predawn hours. “Thank you.” He dropped his head, not wanting his father to see his tears.
“It’s okay, son.” Daddy patted his shoulder. “We’ve had a darn good life, haven’t we?”
Travis nodded, still looking down.
“God’s been good, all these years.”
Travis looked up at him. “We still got time.”
Daddy nodded. “Sure we do. And when my time runs out, that’s just down here. I’ll be alive and well, just somewhere else, on another shore …”
“Somewhere good.”
“That’s right.” Daddy patted him again. “Somewhere far better than here.”
“Will you let me take you in?”
“I like Claire. She reminds me a’ yer momma.”
Travis laughed, and a few more tears snuck out.
Daddy chuckled. “I’ll go, under one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You won’t let them keep me overnight.”
“Only if it’s an absolute emergency.”
Daddy stared at him. “All right.”
“How ’bout you get dressed. We’ll get in there early. In and out.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
“Good.” Travis started to leave. “Then you can buy me a biscuit and gravy.”
“Travis.”
Travis stopped and turned around.
Daddy extended his arms. “I love you, son.”
His father felt so light and slender in Travis’s arms. And he never talked like this.
Did he know his time was coming?
Travis held the embrace, even after his father relaxed.
“I couldn’t have a better father,” Travis said. “I love you too, Daddy.”
[line space]
It was barely starting to get light outside when Claire showed up at the hospital with three cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and a bag of plain and powdered doughnuts. They’d put Daddy in a room on the fourth floor, and he’d been in and out for tests since Travis got him there.
He was gone for more tests now, and Travis and Claire stood at the window in his room, watching a light snow fall on the silhouetted landscape below.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“He’s getting weak.” Travis shook his head. “It hurts. I know it must bother him to feel so frail.”
Claire covered one of Travis’s hands with hers. “He still seems strong. And he gets around really well for his age.”
“Nothin’s ever gotten him down. He’s like an old Ford. Low maintenance. Just keeps truckin’. You just expect him to start up every mornin’.”
There was a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” Travis said.
“Good morning.” A short, thin doctor in a white lab coat walked in, clutching a clipboard. He introduced himself as Dr. Richard Beezenhour.
Of course Claire offered him a doughnut, which he kindly refused.
“I just wanted to give you an update on your father’s condition,” the doctor said. “And I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, fire away,” Travis said.
“I see from his records he’s been in and out quite a bit lately.”
Travis explained the background, which Beezenhour cut short.
“How long has he been coughing up blood?”
Travis looked at Claire and back at the doctor. “Golly, I’ve only known him to do it a couple times. ’Course, he might be keepin’ it from us. He told me this morning it does happen from time to time.”
“Well, the good news is, I think the blood your father brought up this morning was simply an irritation of the throat, caused by the violent coughing.”
“Thank God for that,” Travis said.
“What concerns me, however, is what’s causing that cough.” Beezenhour adjusted his stethoscope.
“He’s been coughing more lately,” Travis said.
“That was my next question. His recent CAT scan was clear. He’s got some minor blockage in his arteries, but his blood flow is adequate, and, at his age, it’s nothing I would be concerned with.”
“That’s all good,” Travis said.
“Now, I saw in the records from his initial visit that your family was concerned about the effects of living near the Demler-Vargus plant.”
Travis and Claire nodded, and Travis told the doctor about his mother’s symptoms and passing. He started off on a rabbit trail, but Dr. Beezenhour corralled him.
“The reason I ask is because I’ve done extensive research on the dangers of synthetic chemicals used in manufacturing,” the doctor said. “I’ve had some papers published; it’s kind of a hobby for me. I’ve been studying it for years. Your father told me he’s experienced some headaches lately, a bit of dizziness, some confusion.”
“’Course he don’t say nothin’,” Travis said. “We’ve noticed he’s slowed down. You know he’s had breathing issues. He gets tired real easy. There have been a few instances of short-term memory loss.”
“Right now I’m checking his kidney enzyme functions and doing some more blood work.” Beezenhour had a habit of blinking repeatedly. “We’re also checking his urine, because it can tell us if there is something present in his system called Fenarene. That’s actually a synthetic chemical used extensively in the manufacturing of resins, plastics, fiberglass, and such. If it is present, these tests will tell how his body is breaking it down.”
“Thank you for being on top of this,” Claire said. “It’s wonderful we’ve found you.”
“Yes, indeed,” Travis said. “Now … I kind of promised Daddy if he came to the hospital, I’d make sure he didn’t have to stay the night or anything. When do you think he can go home?”
“Sometimes Fenarene affects the central nervous system, so I want to keep an eye on him for a little while at least, do some observation. Let me get some more of the tests back, and we’ll talk then.”
“This Fenarene, Doc, does it kill you?”
Beezenhour hugged the clipboard to his chest and grimaced. “I wish definitive proof existed one way or the other. Some epidemiologic studies suggest there is an association between Fenarene exposure and an increased risk of leukemia and lymphoma.”
“Momma died of lymphoma!” Travis said.
“Yes, I read that in your father’s history.”
“She didn’t even work in the plant. Daddy either.”
“Don’t have to. Ambient air in urban locations can contain Fenarene.” Beezenhour scratched his thinning brown hair. “Of course, indoor air is the principal route of exposure, but your folks have lived near that plant so long … it makes me wonder.”
“Well, you keep wonderin’, Doc, ’cause we sure could use some proof.”
They shook hands, and Dr. Beezenhour headed for the door. “We’ll have your father back here in a few minutes. I’ll follow up after I’ve reviewed everything. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”
“Doc.”
Beezenhour stopped and turned to face them.
“What if you do find this Fenarene in Daddy? What then?”
“Then we see what it’s doing to him, and how his body is handling it—or not.”
Chapter 23
Jack sat numb in his car early Tuesday morning outside Farley’s Home Store in Pell Town, watching quarter-sized snowflakes blanket the empty parking lot while he waited for the manager to arrive. His mind was on overload. He was going to be a father, and he wasn’t right with God—or Granger Meade. He and Pam were at odds, and she and the girls could be in danger. Yet he knew Demler-Vargus was dirty and that he was probably the one person who could stop them from unleashing further damage.
He started the car, turned the heat up, and hit the wipers. The snow blurred the windshield and was getting so thick in the air it looked like a massive pillow fight with feathers galore. He had to set his priorities and attack one thing at a time. His plan was to knock out the robbery story Cecil had given him so he could finish preparing for his interview with the CEO of Demler-Vargus.
His phone rang. It was Claire. Travis had asked her to call Jack to give him an update on Galen and the tests a Dr. Beezenhour was running to find any trace in him of a synthetic chemical called Fenarene. Although Jack hated that Galen was back in the hospital, he considered that Dr. Beezenhour just might be the godsend for which they’d been waiting.
An old brown Mazda with no hubcaps silently glided across the vast parking lot like a sleigh floating across a field.
“Claire, I’ve got to run. Give Galen my best, and tell Travis I’ll be in touch. We’re getting closer.”
The car slightly skidded to a halt. Jack scribbled some notes as a tall bald man with black glasses got out.