I was happily engrossed in the climax of an episode of
General Hospital
when the phone rang. “Damn!” I reached for it.
“Hungry?”
I thought a minute.
“We have a date,” he reminded me.
“At the Blue Arrow?”
“No.” Pause. “Every now and then I like to branch out.”
He saved your life, remember?
“Okay, let's branch,” I said. “Should I dress?” In Bayfield, going out to eat was a big deal. Some women even wore skirts.
“No. The place I have in mind is very laid back.”
“Great.”
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The fact that I let him help me into his pickup shows I was still convalescing. We didn't talk much, but the silence wasn't unfriendly. He drove over long, flat roads that stretched to nowhere. South Jersey specializes in such roads. The sky stretched to nowhere, too. I'd missed the sky. It was good to be out. Out of the hospital. Out of the motel. Under the sky.
“Juri's in jail,” Tom said. “Along with Nick.”
“And ⦠the Milacs?” I spoke their name carefully.
“In custody, awaiting trial.” He cast an anxious glance my way. “You'll have to testify.”
“My pleasure,” I said between clenched teeth.
“Did you know Mrs. Milac was once a mule?”
“Come again?” I had better names for her from the animal kingdom.
“In the past, she exported drugs to various destinations in her abdomen. She packed the drugs in plastic, then placed them inside the prunes before swallowing them. The prunes helped the drugs go down easier and also helped bring them out faster at the other end.”
“Yuck!”
That explained the ugly scar on her tummy. Drug traffickers were not into cosmetic surgery. That might explain her illness, too. Crab cakes and prunes are probably not a good mix. “Dad went back to New York,” I said, changing the subject.
“And Paul went back to church.”
“You're kidding.”
“Nope. Last Sunday he took the plunge.”
“Maggie must be happy.”
“She's ecstatic. Served him roast beef on her best china, even though it wasn't a holiday.”
“What made him go back? Certainly not the return of his prodigal son!”
Without taking his eyes off the road, he said, “You.”
“Me?”
“We had a few beers to celebrate your recovery, and ⦔
“I hope it was a high-class brew.”
“Heineken. And he told me you had restored his faith in ⦔ He swerved to avoid a rabbit. “ ⦠goodness,” he finished.
I let out a low whistle.
“That bad, huh?”
Was he grinning? “Well, I never claimed to be Goody Two Shoes.” He
was
grinning. I felt a blush coming on. “Becca's back in school,” I blurted, “and on her way to becoming a famous artist ⦠or architect. Prague blew her mind.”
“And you?”
“And I'mâabout to become what I always wanted to be.”
“And that is?”
“A famous, humble country doctor.” I stole that line from Linus, of
Peanuts
fame.
“Oh, yeah.” He chuckled. “I saw your picture.”
The Bayfield Press
had dug up a snapshot of me on my bike, scarf flying. The headline read: LOCAL DOC BREAKS SMUGGLING RING.
“By the way, where are we?” I sat forward, looking around. When you're in the hospital you give up, let other people take charge. I was ready to end that.
“Don't worry.
I
never get lost.”
I let that pass. A small frame house popped up on the horizon. After a minute, we slowed and turned into the driveway. Not a driveway by suburban standards; more a hole in the tall grass.
“New restaurant?”
“Famous for home cooking.” He turned off the ignition.
“You cook?” I asked, as he helped me down from the cab and handed me my crutch.
“Every now and then.”
“What's on the menu? Venison burgers?”
“They're delicious, by the way,” he said maliciously.
I didn't respond. By now I had learned how destructive deer could be and that the county was overpopulated with them. I stared at the house. From a distance it didn't look like much, but up close I could see the work that had gone into it. There was a long screened porch. Perfectly plainâno fancy gingerbread that would need painting every other year. No porch furniture in sight, but I could imagine sitting out here in a rocker on a summer night, watching the lightning bugs bump against the screen. The floor of the porch was made of rough-hewn boards, polished, stained, and coated with something durable to protect it from the weather. A pile of cut logs was stacked in one corner. “You have a fireplace?”
“Sort of.” He opened the porch door into the kitchen. Although it had big windows, it was toasty warm. A wood stove, perched on a raised brick platform, was the source of heat. I sniffed.
“Apple wood. You can't beat it for scent.”
The warmth and the scent enveloped me. “Let's eat here.” I slipped onto a wooden chair next to a window overlooking an empty field. The field was white, althoughâto my knowledgeâit hadn't snowed. “What ⦠?
“They're back.” Tom came to look. “Snow geese. They were feeding here yesterday, but I thought they'd gone south.”
“I thought they were seagulls,” I admitted. I still had a lot to learn.
“Want to see something spectacular?”
“Not if it means getting up.” I was surprised how tired I was after spending a day doing nothing.
He grabbed both my hands, pulled me up, and half-dragged me to the base of a flight of crooked stairs. The steps were stained and polished like the porch. He half-pushed me up them.
“How old is this place?” My voice sounded hollow in the stairwell.
“Not old. 1892. It was a tenant farmer's house. Story goes ⦔
I didn't hear the rest. I had reached the top.
There was only one room up here. Large and square with huge windows on all sides. It was like standing in the cabin of a ship. But instead of blue water, I was surrounded by white fields. The winter brown of the fields was completely hidden by the snow geese. As we watched, the geese rose as oneâin a single white sheet.
I gasped, “How do they do that?”
“Fly?”
“No, smart guy. Take off all together.”
“Nothing to it. The head goose gives a toot. A kind of bugle call.”
I continued to stare at the geese trailing south in a V. The last
rays of the sun caught their white underbellies, illuminating them like strings of Christmas tree lights. Then they were gone. The field was brown again and twilight wrapped the house in violet.
“What are you thinking about?”
“The Chrysler Building.”
He laughed.
“No, seriously. Every night at this time, its lights come onâsix jagged arcs. When I'm in Manhattan I try to find a spot where I can see it. After the Twin Towers went, it became an evening ritual. I used to check every night to make sure it was still there. Forty-second and Fifth is the best view. But Thirty-fourth and Lex'll do.”
“I thought the Empire State was the big attraction.”
“For tourists. The view
from
the Empire State is good. But the view
of
the Chrysler Building is better.”
“Homesick?”
I looked at him. “I guess I am.”
“Why did you leave?”
I glanced at him sharply.
His return glance was equally sharp.
I turned away with a shrug.
He grabbed my shoulders.
“A child died. It was my fault.”
His hands dropped to his sides, but he held my gaze. “What happened?”
I told him about Sophie.
He walked over to one of the big windows and stared out. There was nothing to see now but darkness. With his back to me, he said, “We all have something.”
I waited. But he offered nothing more.
“My boyfriend told me it wasn't my fault. That I should forget it.”
“Your boyfriend was wrong. There are some things you never forget. You carry them to the grave.” He went on in a dull tone. “You may bury them for a while, but they'll jump out at you when you least expect it ⦠.”
Like when I saw Becca jump on her bike, grinning back at me. Sophie. Becca.
“ ⦠and the older you get,” Tom continued, “the more of this baggage you carry around.”
This wasn't what I wanted to hear. But I suspected he was right. And I sensed he was speaking from experience. Someday maybe he would tell me about his baggage.
“That's why people are bent over when they grow old,” he added.
“No, it isn't. They have osteoporosis.”
His laugh broke the somber mood. “Are you still taking Becca to New York?” he asked.
“Sure. As soon as I can walk.”
His gaze strayed to my feet, encased in a pair of oversized bedroom slippers. He looked away. “May I come?”
“Have you ever been?”
“Once. Class trip.”
“What did you see?”
“The usual. Empire State, Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge.”
“What did you like best?”
“The bridge. No contest.”
“You can come.”
I turned, scanning the simple room. Whitewashed walls. A couple of rag rugs. A bureauârescued from a flea market, probably, and redone, carefully, lovingly. A small table with a single lamp. And a mattress tossed in the corner, covered with a worn patchwork quilt that looked like the real thing. Bachelor quarters, country style. “Is that where you sleep?”
He nodded. “Like to take a nap?” He looked concerned.
For answer, I shuffled past him, dropped onto the mattress, and stretched out, facedown.
“Like it?”
“Too hard.”
“Not for a bowman.” He slid his full length down beside me.
I looked up. “Did you hear what happened to the bowman?”
“No. What?”
“He got fired.”
“Why?”
“He was caught knapping.” I giggled.
My reward was a quick smack on the butt. Next thing he knew, I had him pinned to the mattress in a hammerlock.
“Hey! I thought you were convalescing?”
“You should see what I'll do to you when I'm fit.”
“I'd like to.” He grinned.