Three Rivers (7 page)

“He pulled out the tube. No breath, no breath. He does it all the time.”

Melody twisted, struggled to wrench free of Bobby's grasp. “Let go of me!”

“Why, sis? What are you gonna do? Save him? Gonna save us all?”

“Goddamnit, Bobby!” The rattle from the next room grew louder, then seemed to wane. Melody shook against Bobby's grip like an animal caught in a trap. “Bobby, quit it. This isn't funny. This isn't a joke.” He released her and she stumbled.

“It's a funny bit,” he said. “A little bit funny.”

She ran into the living room and slipped the tube under her father's nose. His skin felt clammy and his eyes wobbled in their sockets. “It's okay, Daddy,” she told him. “It's okay.”

Bobby smirked, folded his arms across his chest.

“Shame on you.” Melody wanted to slap him hard across the face. “How could you?” And how could Mama leave Daddy here alone with you? she wondered. In Melody's mind, one thing was certain: This was all her mother's fault.

“Hey, sis, he can put it back in himself.”

Melody looked at her father. Bobby was right. Daddy wasn't paralyzed. His arms worked and the tube was fastened to the bed in such a way that it couldn't fall outside his reach.

She fell back in the chair next to the sofa bed. “You scared me half to death, Daddy.” His lips curled into a slight smile. He closed his eyes. A familiar, suffocating dread enveloped her. This was what it was like to be home.

“Just keeping you on your toes.” Her father's weak, raspy voice managed to sound mirthful.

“This is exactly why I stayed away for so long. You're not funny.” She turned to face Bobby. “Neither are you.” She stood and rubbed her head with her hands. “I'm worn out. I'm going upstairs to take a shower, see if I can find some decent clothes to wear. Then I'll see what needs to be done around the house. This place is a disaster.”

“Don't.” Her father reached out and grabbed her hand. “Sit down and tell me all about the Holy Rollers.”

She flinched. “I came home to help and you're just being mean to me.”

“It was a joke.”

“It wasn't funny.”

He kept hold of her hand. She considered walking out the door and leaving him there with Bobby. The two of them could sit around in this filthy house and make terrible jokes until Daddy died and Bobby fell to pieces. The big problem with that plan, of course, was that Melody had nowhere to go. If everything was a choice, her options were terrible.

She settled into the chair at Daddy's bedside and told him as many good things as she could remember until he released a guttural snore. She was hungry and thirsty and exhausted. Her childhood bedroom was just upstairs, the spot where she'd spent her adolescence dreaming of ways to leave. Now all she wanted was to tuck herself under the familiar quilt and sleep the day away. Instead, she stayed with her father, listening to the rhythmic
pfft, pfft, pfft
of the oxygen tank and the low rattle of his snore. She closed her eyes, just for a minute.

Melody was adept at sleeping in uncomfortable spots. That was the one thing she picked up while touring. While she never slept peacefully, she could get to sleep quickly. So when the front door opened and startled her awake, she didn't know how much time had passed and was momentarily confused about where she was. That the person coming through the door was a tall, handsome black man, confused her even further. She wiped drool from the corner of her mouth, stood too quickly, and fell back. “What? Who? What?”

The man shifted an overstuffed and scratched leather satchel from his right hand to his left. He held his right hand out to Melody, but she just stared at it.

“Who are you?” Her mouth was dry from sleep, her tongue thick and clumsy.

“You must be Melody,” the man said. “I'm Maurice.”

“Who?”

“I thought your mother would have mentioned me,” he said. “Or Bobby.”

Melody stood, determined to regain some dignity. No such luck. Her right foot was asleep and she couldn't put weight on it without losing balance. She jiggled her leg, and pinpricks surged through her ankle and lower calf. She sat again, reached down to massage her foot while craning her neck up to see the man. He was obviously no stranger to her family, but he was still a stranger to her.

“Or your father, for that matter. How you doing, Mr. Mahaffey?”

Daddy snapped his eyes shut when she glanced down. He smiled, just barely.

Melody was furious. Why did her family persist in keeping secrets from her? First her father's illness and now this strange man. She hadn't been home a full day. What other surprises were they hiding? She found her voice. “What in God's name is going on here? Who are you? You can't just barge in here without even knocking. It isn't right.”

“I'm the nurse from the hospice center.”

Melody stared. That explained nothing.

“Maurice? I'm here to take care of your father?” He clearly thought she should know him.

“
I'm
here to take care of Daddy,” Melody said. “It's the whole reason I'm here.”

Maurice knelt beside the bed. He listened to her father's heartbeat and pulled a syringe from his satchel. He looked comfortable, as if he'd spent a lot of time at the house, and with her father.

“Just how long have you been coming here?”

“Three weeks,” Maurice said. “And don't worry, there's plenty for you to do. I'm only here to make sure he isn't in any pain and to switch out the oxygen tanks. I told Mrs. Mahaffey that if she was going to leave, someone would have to be here to help out. We help people stay comfortably with their families. The family members have to do their part.”

Melody heard the disapproval in Maurice's voice. “I'm perfectly capable of handling things,” she said, though she didn't feel at all capable.

“Good.” Maurice filled a syringe and thumped it with his middle finger. “I know this isn't easy.”

Growing up, Melody's family never had domestic help. Mama did not allow strangers in the house, said they would snoop and pry. Mama was always hiding something.

“What is that?” She pointed to the syringe.

“Pain medicine.”

“I thought you said he wasn't in pain.”

“Well, he will be if he doesn't get his medicine. You call the shots now, though. Want me to skip it?”

The man was rude. Melody couldn't imagine her mother put up with such insolence.

“You can't talk to me like that.” Melody's voice shook. “You don't know Mama. You don't know me.”

“No, I do not.” Maurice worked his jaw around as if to swallow something bitter. “All I know about your mother is that she up and left her dying husband. All I know about you is that you're an Elvis fan.”

“What?” The man was crazy. “What does Elvis have to do with anything?”

“Your shirt,” Maurice said as he plunged the needle into her father's arm.

Melody looked down, realized she was still wearing the extra-large T-shirt she'd bought at the train station. “You know I'd be happy to call the hospice center and have them send over someone with less attitude.”

“Good luck,” Maurice said. “Before me, there were three other nurses and none of them lasted more than two days. I'm your last option. If you fire me or if I quit, Mr. Mahaffey will have to spend the rest of his days in a hospital and he seems particularly dead set against that. Pardon the phrasing.”

“No goddamned hospitals!” her father barked.

Bobby ran into the room, heavy footsteps banging against the wood floors. “Maurice. Maurice!” He grinned wildly.

Melody shushed him, but he didn't acknowledge her. He threw his arms around Maurice, who didn't flinch or push him away, but embraced him.

“Hey, there.” They hugged like brothers who hadn't seen each other in a year. Melody could not have been more shocked. How had her brother, her difficult and damaged brother, become so friendly with this stranger? And why did Maurice allow it? It was unprofessional, wasn't it? But why should Melody care? She did care. She stood watching them embrace and she felt alone. No one had pulled her that close since the humiliating encounter with Chris.

They parted and Maurice smiled at Melody. His teeth were beautifully white.

“Sorry to get off on the wrong foot.” We can go over everything that needs to be done whenever you're ready. I'm here twice a day, midmorning and early evening. Sometimes I stop in again late at night just to be sure he's sleeping okay.”

Bobby grinned. “Sometimes he sleeps here.”

“Well, it's such a long drive.”

“Oh, for heaven's sakes, it's fine.” Melody rubbed her eyes with her palms until she saw stars. She smelled something ripe and unpleasant and realized it was her. She stank. She was exhausted. She was sick of dealing with this man. He had a job to do and she would let him do it. “If someone had just mentioned you before you walked in the door, I wouldn't have been so startled. I'm not sure why you were such a big secret.”

Bobby laughed, then tapered off into giggles.

She sighed. “I'm just worn out. I need a shower and a long nap.”

“We can go over things when I return this evening.”

“Stay for dinner,” Bobby said. “Melody's a good cook.”

“I don't want to be any trouble,” Maurice said.

“No trouble.” That was a lie. Melody hadn't managed to feed herself in a solid day, and she was in no mood to whip up a feast for company. She doubted there was anything worth cooking in the house, and the kitchen was filthy. A trip to the store would chew up half the day. She gave up on the idea of a nap, hoped a shower would be enough to revive her. Like it or not, Maurice seemed to be a part of things here. Bobby liked him, and her father seemed comfortable with him. If anything, Melody felt like the outsider. Besides, what Bobby said was true. She was a good cook. She hadn't prepared a whole meal in years, but she didn't for a second believe she'd lost her touch in the kitchen.

 

Chapter Eight

Obi prided himself on being strong and independent. Other men needed women to care for them, but those men were weak. A man who couldn't cook for himself or dress himself or acquire the things he needed was no man at all in Obi's mind. And yet, when in trouble, he ran to his mother. She was not an ordinary woman, but she was a woman nonetheless. He swallowed his shame and tried to take comfort in the joy that Liam expressed upon seeing his grandmother.

Liam snuggled on her lap. Morning sun shone through the windows in defiance of gray clouds gathering on the horizon. Obi sipped a strong cup of hot coffee, grateful for the bitter jolt and the comforting weight of a porcelain mug in his hands. The light of day and the retelling of last night's events left him feeling sick and exposed.

Pisa ran her fingers through the boy's hair as she talked. Her given name was Sally, but for years she'd called herself Pisa. It was an old Chickasaw name and she thought it lent her more credibility than an ordinary American name. Pisa's home smelled sweet, a mixture of fruit and sugar, clove and sage. She turned berries into jams and jellies that she sold at a roadside stand for far more than they cost her to make. Her primary business, though, was as a spiritual guide and a healer for white women. Pisa claimed to have cured more than a few people of diseases doctors couldn't touch. Pisa arranged for the women to sweat in a lodge, ingest hallucinogenic plants, and walk in circles for a day or more before being delivered to her. She then sat with the women and revealed a bit of their future, though never too much. She told them just enough to satisfy their craving for knowledge but not enough to terrify them or keep them from coming back. She made them gifts of healing herbs and she chanted over them in a language they didn't understand. For all this spiritual fulfillment, she charged them what she knew they would pay. The women who came to her were wealthy and bored, so Pisa had plenty.

“This is big trouble,” she said.

“I know, but it was just an accident.”

“There is no such thing. You have to hide for a while. You need to get off the river and go somewhere safe.”

“Can't we stay here?” For the first time in years, Obi wanted to sleep under his mother's roof, just for a night or two until he figured out a plan.

Pisa wouldn't allow it. “Once they figure out who you are, they'll come here looking for you. It's too easy to track people nowadays. The girl will identify you. She'll describe your truck, describe Liam, describe you with that cut on your face and someone along the river will point the finger at you to avoid any trouble for themselves.”

Obi remembered the look in Samuel's eyes. No one on the river owed him a thing, and they had their own secrets. They wouldn't want the law poking around. But he also remembered the look in the girl's eyes when she said she would be in trouble with her father. She seemed more worried about that than about the boy on the ground.

“Maybe she won't tell anyone,” he said. “She was young and scared. She wasn't supposed to be there.”

“What about the other boy? The one who ran away?”

His mother was right. His only hope was to hide and wait for things to pass, hope that things would pass. It was like facing the social worker all over again. It was like that time when Liam was a baby and they'd almost lost him, only this was worse because back then Obi hadn't understood how much he loved Liam. The thought of losing him then was scary, but the thought of losing him now was unbearable. He would do anything to protect Liam, even if they had to run forever, even if he had to kill twenty men. He'd hurt Liam once. He wouldn't do it again.

To this day he was ashamed of how he'd hurt his son, of how his temper got the best of him. It was Eileen he'd been angry with, but it was Liam who suffered. In the end, it made Obi a better man, a stronger man.