Barring any more rain, the field should be ready in a couple of weeks for a nice winter garden. He’d put in some cold crops like collards and kale, spinach and garlic and onions. Maybe a few rows of overwinter parsnips and carrots. He’d plant winter wheat over the rest, good fodder for next season.
He removed the lid from the char jar, swirled the black grit. Little wisps rose like steam. He bowed his head, gave a thought to his mysterious friend who had sacrificed his life for the fields, then sprinkled the dust into a bin of his finest black compost. He worked them together with the shovel and wet the pile from a bucket of standing water, let it glisten in the midafternoon sun, thinking There, I’ve buried you. Back where I found you.
There was nothing to find. No one would be the wiser.
18
It began two weeks ago with Sandy’s father complaining about a pain in his jaw. She convinced him to see the dentist, who prescribed an antibiotic for an abscessed tooth. The discomfort remained, so he saw his general practitioner several days later. Sandy thought it must have hurt him terribly, for her father, a former doctor himself, was stubborn and had always rejected medical attention. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen a doctor in twenty years, two of them last week.
The general practitioner diagnosed strep throat and prescribed more antibiotics. She visited her father several days later on a Saturday, only to find him in worse shape. He complained of dizziness, nausea, intense pain in his face, neck, and shoulders. Concerned to find him alone in such a weakened state, she insisted they go to the emergency room, and again she was shocked when he did not resist.
The ER doctor told them it was a serious bacterial infection and insisted he get more rest, sending them away with prescriptions for stronger antibiotics, pain pills, an antidepressant. Sandy sat with him over the weekend, and when she returned on Monday afternoon, he was severely disoriented. In between vomiting, he kept shouting nonsense—“Joggers are stealing my mail!” and “Did you take my tuxedo? I’m not paying the late fee!” She took him directly to the emergency room, pleading that the staff keep him and run tests, anything but send him home with more prescriptions.
And now here they were, her father off in a shallow coma. The latest in a battery of tests and diagnoses suggested encephalitis caused by West Nile virus. It was a rare infection linked to the virus, but all signs pointed to it. This was the hospital’s first case, the doctor told her. Research was limited, but he thought they could get a handle on it.
She felt ill herself, not from any virus but from stress and lack of sleep. It reminded her of when her mom died of a stroke, impossibly young at forty-five. The life support machines helped her hang on for a few days at the hospital in Jackson where her dad practiced. It took several colleagues to convince him to let her go.
Months before the stroke, her mom had begun losing her mind. Little things at first, and then erratic mood swings, bizarre behavior way out of character. It annoyed them before they realized it was serious, but then it was too late. She hated for Jacob to experience this slippery slope toward death, his father losing his mind too. The boy just seemed bored. He watched mindless cartoons on the hospital TV while his little leg flopped off the side of the chair. To him this was probably just another gloomy detour. He didn’t understand the severity of this, only yearned to watch giant robots shooting at each other. Seeing her son absorbed in the terrible cartoon with its outdated art and revolting dialogue created a displaced sadness that made her grieve for him too.
A nurse arrived, another one she hadn’t seen before. Was it such a large staff or an inordinate turnover rate? This one was sullen and hefty and came awkwardly with her cart to check the patient’s vitals. She seemed put out by their presence. Sandy didn’t want Jacob to be here. Hanging out in hospitals could crush the boldest of spirits.
He had a four-day weekend next week. The school called it “Fall Break,” though actually it was a two-day teacher training seminar that all instructors were required to attend. She would have to find something to do with Jacob. She’d just assumed her dad would watch him, but certainly not now. Even if he made a sudden miraculous recovery, he would be weak for a while. She couldn’t afford a sitter right now. She’d begun to rekindle relationships with her old church friends, but Jacob hadn’t connected with their kids and it was too soon to ask such a large favor. She was estranged from everyone, which she blamed on Jay. He’d plucked her up young, isolated her from everyone, tamed her instincts, and then released her back into the wild.
The job then would fall to Jay. He was the father after all. It certainly wasn’t ideal. Based on her visit, he barely seemed capable of watching the dog, and the house appeared to be a less healthy environment than the hospital. Also, it bothered her that he had not made contact since their visit almost a week ago. She’d given him gas money, but still he had made no attempt to see Jacob. Maybe bringing the boy to his father would wake him up, make him realize what was at stake.
The boy barked out a raspy cough. “Jacob, honey, are you okay?” Sandy said. “Do you need something to drink?”
“Yes,” the boy replied.
She caught the nurse’s eye. “Is there juice available for him?” Sandy asked.
The nurse blinked and mumbled something that implied, Yeah, but you know I’m a nurse, right? Not a waitress?
“I can pay for it,” said Sandy, who didn’t wish to offend. “Thank you so much.”
She pulled up alongside her father and grabbed his hand and clutched it dearly. When they left Jay, she went straight to him, and he took them in, cooked for them, cleaned up after them, gave her money, took Jacob to the park and the grocery store, picked him up from school. He gave her time and space to process her decision and to plan their life from here. He made them so comfortable that it began to unnerve her. She felt like a child running to Daddy for consolation. She loved and resented him all at the same time, even got snippy with him a few times, but he took it all in stride. Always the patient one.
Finally, she decided she would have to move out and tackle this on her own if she was to preserve any self-respect. “Stay here and save up some money,” her father had insisted, but she demurred. It was his own self-reliance and determination that had rubbed off on her, and possibly Jay’s stubborn independence she was trying to uphold. What kind of mother would she be if she just freeloaded off relatives? She didn’t want Jacob to believe this was how to deal with trouble.
They’d been in the rental a little over a month before her father fell ill. It was such a shitty little hovel, the grime of previous owners etched into every stitch of the place. She’d killed dozens of cockroaches already, overcoming grave fear. And they had only one bed, a twin she bought for Jacob, while she slept on the couch. The refrigerator rattled and whined like an old propeller engine. The hot water took five minutes to heat and then grew tepid in five more. She’d made due with less than luxury before, but there was something especially depressing about having to submit Jacob to it, even though he probably didn’t care. He was confused and sad, a bright light going dim. She was so pissed at Jay.
She accepted her share of the blame. It was her troubles that had stressed her dad and aggravated his sickness, made her less attentive and slow to respond to his symptoms. The doctor’s confidence that he could rout this aggressive virus and that her father would make a full recovery had begun to diminish. Now he hinted about the possibility that her father’s mind would not make it all the way back. Fevers and ailments often singed delicate parts of the brain, causing strange, unforeseen side effects. Strokes would be more likely, restriction of movement, blindness. “Your father is very sick,” he’d said. She’d detected the slightest hint of uncertainty in his eyes, a waver in his voice, as if he were confessing, I’m in over my head, help me.
The nurse scuffed in with juice, dropped it on the rolling bedside tray, and slunk out.
“Thank
you!” Sandy called, overzealous, borderline facetious.
Sandy punctured the foil lid with a straw four times too deep for the shallow cup of liquid. She handed it to Jacob, who slurped it up instantly and asked for more. “In a bit,” she replied.
“Mah-um,” he whined.
What would they do if her father died? Move back into his house, she imagined. Worse yet, and she hated to admit it, what if he regained consciousness but had no faculties? Would she ever see him as a burden, his sagging, whiskered hobo face and adult diapers that needed frequent changing? How would she manage it, how would she afford it? Was she truly thinking so selfishly? Breath left her. She felt light and flaming inside. Her eyes welled, she gasped for air.
Just then someone knocked on the door. She stood up, hoping it was the doctor with good news. A balloon and bouquet appeared, followed by Danny Shoals, sporting a look of practiced concern. “Anybody home?” he inquired with a tender grimace.
Sandy flushed red. She looked at Jacob, who recognized the deputy and brightened instantly. His posture changed, becoming more erect and obedient.
“I’m so sorry,” he said with longing. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, then set the balloon and flowers on the bedside credenza. He walked around the bed, opened the blinds a twist, and slapped five with Jacob. “What’s up, big’un?” he said, squatting down to greet the boy. “You been working on that swing?”
Jacob wagged his head and grinned shyly.
“I brought something you might like,” Shoals said, digging in his pocket. He retrieved a Swiss Army knife, not one of the little ones with five or six features, but a fat one with a host of flip-out devices.
“Maybe your mom will let you go down to the courtyard and cut something with this. There’s plenty of cool features on this thing. Look, there’s a screwdriver, wire cutter, toothpick. Flashlight!”
“Whoa!” said Jacob, wide-eyed. He looked up at the deputy with stunned gratitude. Shoals turned to Sandy and winked.
“That’s too much,” she said, still in shock at his arrival.
“Nah,” said Shoals, waving her off.
“No, really. We can’t accept that gift. It’s too much.”
Shoals walked over and leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s nothing, really. We confiscate stuff like this all the time.”
“Is this a drug dealer’s knife, probably stolen in the first place?”
He chuckled, shook his head. He knelt down and demonstrated some of the knife’s features to Jacob. “You can pick your way out of handcuffs with this,” he said.
Sandy watched him intently, his gestures full of purpose. He believed with every fiber of his being that he belonged here, that he could bring comfort where no one else had.
“How did you find us?” she asked.
He came close, patted her arm. “I hear things, I act.” She drew away unconsciously.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
“You want me to sit with him while you go down and get some chicken strips or eggs or something?” He pulled out his wallet and turned to Jacob. “Hey, bud, you want a honey bun? Maybe some juice?”
The boy wagged his head. “Mom, can I have some candy?”
“What’s a matter, you don’t want a honey bun?” said Shoals. “Come on, I’ll walk down with you.” He turned to Sandy. “Is he old enough to go down by himself?”
Another nurse came in, nodded at Shoals, and smiled awkwardly. “Everything okay?” she asked, though it sounded to Sandy like It’s getting a little crowded in here.
“We’re all good, Belinda,” Shoals called, jovial and loud. “What’s Randall up to?”
“Oh, nothing. Just working,” she said with a drawl and a grin.
“Y’all taking good care of the professor here?”
“We’re keeping an eye on him,” she said, a bit uncertain, a bit flirtatious.
“A’ight then, be good.” He said it as a dismissal, which the nurse heeded.
“Hey, can I have a honey bun?” Jacob asked Sandy.
“You bet, little man, in just a second,” Shoals replied. He looked at Sandy, who was horrified into silence. She had a disturbing vision that the three of them were a family. He misjudged her look and touched her shoulder, bent down to eye level.
“Hey, look, I know it’s tough to see him like this, but everything’s going to be just fine. I saw Dr. Pete down the hall and he said your dad’s a fighter.”
She felt aggravated by his simple assurance, yet part of her believed him too. “They don’t even know what’s wrong,” she lied.
“Oh, they will, don’t worry. Sometimes it takes a few days, but the tests match up and they nail it down. Then they’ll shoot him up with the right juice and then problem solved.”
He took her hand and stared at her father for a long moment.
“I’ve seen folks worse off than him turning cartwheels out of here in a week’s time,” he said, gripping her hand.
Disgusted by his presumptuous familiarity, she released his hand and walked to the other side of the room. She wanted to tell him to leave, but there was something in his positivity that she needed. And she didn’t want Jacob to see her behave rudely in the face of kindness. There was also something inside of her, something that repulsed her, that made her want to throw her arms around him and bawl.
“Hey, bud, you wanna go for a ride in the squad car?” he asked Jacob.
Jacob whirled around toward Sandy. “Ooo, can I? Please.”
“No, honey. We have to go home pretty soon.”
“Come on, let him ride,” Shoals insisted.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Mah-um.”
“Come on, little pecan Sandy.”
That corny endearment put the nail in the coffin. She led him aside. “Danny, it’s incredibly thoughtful of you to drop by, but we really need to deal with this privately. I just met you. You’re sweet, but I really can’t do this with you.”
He grabbed her hand again, cocked his head, and spoke gravely. “Hey, I hear ya. I’m only sorry there’s not someone more familiar to be here with you. You’re a strong woman, but this aint easy. I’ve been here, wondering if my dad is going to make it back. Sometimes they don’t. It’s okay to need somebody to prop you up, even if it’s just a quiet stone wall to lean against. I’m here, don’t be shy to ask.”
He patted her on the back like a pal and raised his trigger finger to Jacob. “Be good, big’un. I gotta run catch some bad guys. Rain check on that squad car ride. And you help your mama, now, you hear me?”
She knew it was impossible, but Sandy thought it would be best if she never saw him again.
PART
III
Leavenger climbed into Hilltop Grocery on his crutches. The tinkling bell announced his arrival. The woodsman made a point to stop by midafternoon two or three times a week to catch up with the retirees who sought habitual relief from their lives in this dank outpost. His skin was too thin today to sit with the old heels, but he took the risk knowingly, in need of human contact. The scars were making inroads, and he didn’t know how to handle the emotions this exposed. The pills, which he took more frequently than ever, numbed only so deep. He was a creature of the external and needed simple cruelty, even if it was self-inflicted.
He gave Fletcher the shopkeeper a gruff hello, and the old clerk grunted and rattled his newspaper in reply.
“Lookee what crawled out of the shit ponds,” one sipper cried in greeting a
s the embattled woodsman dragged himself to the table. “I thought I flushed you last week.”
“Don’t you mean scraped out of your Pampers?” countered another.
There were four of them, all looking like they’d just fallen out of beds or climbed out of graves. It had been ages since any of them had seen a comb or a bar of soap. One had a sick bucket at his feet. They were all blind to themselves, each guilty of his own prejudices.
“Don’t you never bathe, Leavenger, or you scared to go near water anymore?”
The laughter was implicit, for they rarely cracked a smile. Anything clever heard here had been said countless times before.
Leavenger poured himself a cup and took a pained seat. The coffee, famously bad, tasted like it had been steeping all day in a rusty skillet.
“If I had as much money as Leavenger, I believe I’d be up in some sweet cooch instead of sitting around with these bums.”
“Only way that’s gonna happen is if you come back in the next life as a tampon.”
“Sign me up.”
“You got your government check this month?”
“They aint mailed em out yet, I don’t reckon.”
“Jim Boise got his disaster money. He said thanks but no thanks, now I gotta do this shit again next year. Sumbitch wants to go bankrupt.”
“Leavenger, what do they pay you to limp around and drink beer? Shit, I’ll pull my britches down right here and y’all can beat my ass with a hot iron for that deal.”
“I guess his modeling career didn’t take off.”
“I might buy me a new shirt at least if I was on the government tit.”
“He says the only tit he’s on is your wife’s,” cried another, making up for Leavenger’s silence.