Good Hope Road (10 page)

“The doctors and nurses are with them, but there’s no room for anyone else on the helicopter,” I told her. “Just try to lie still, and we’re going to get you to a hospital as soon as possible.” I knew that would be little comfort to her. She wasn’t worried about herself, just her daughters. “Crystal and Jennifer will get the care they need at the hospital in St. Louis.” I glanced toward the doorway, where the girls’ father stood with his hands wrapped white-knuckled around the doorframe. Ashen-faced, he looked at his wife, then out the door again, his gaze following the disappearing helicopter.

Dr. Albright stood beside him, staring out the door with a detached expression, his arms across his chest. Mazelle Sibley handed him a towel from her supply box, and he casually wiped the blood from his hands, then tossed the towel on the floor, turned, and walked to the table to pour himself a cup of water.

I watched him, wondering why he left the girls’ father standing there alone, why he didn’t offer comfort. They were his kind of people—rich weekenders who built big homes on the lake and came down from St. Louis and Kansas City to play golf or ski behind boats that cost more than most of the houses in Poetry. They were wearing clothes that came from high-dollar department stores, wrist-watches that counted the minutes between glittering diamond studs, just like the one on Dr. Albright’s arm. Big gold wedding bands that said,
I have it all
, just like the one on Dr. Albright’s finger.

Why did he walk away from them and leave Doc Howard to dole out comforting words to the girls and their father?

I wondered what the Whittrocks would say if they knew Doc Howard was the town vet, not a doctor at all.
They’d probably sue, just the way they sued Mr. Potts for having his fence on their property.

Guilt needled me. It wasn’t right to think that way about these people now. They needed help, just like the rest of us. We were all the same now.

Doc Howard stood up, walked to the girls’ father, and patted Mr. Whittrock on the shoulder. Doc leaned close and said something quiet that I couldn’t hear, then straightened and frowned thoughtfully at the other doctor.

The roar of a vehicle arriving in front of the armory masked the fading sound of the helicopter. Mr. Whittrock and Doc Howard stepped back as tires skidded on the gravel outside.

I held my breath, wondering if more injured were arriving.

A teenager wearing a Poetry Pirates shirt rushed in, his face hidden beneath a ball cap.

I stood up and started toward the door. “Nate!” I heard myself say. He paused and looked at me, and I realized what some logical part of my mind already knew. It wasn’t Nate. It was one of the Warren boys. I wasn’t sure which one. He and Nate were on the baseball team together.

“Where’s the guy who’s trying to follow the LifeFlight?” he asked breathlessly.

“That’s me.” James Whittrock stepped forward, looking hopeful. “My daughters just left on the helicopter—Crystal and Jennifer. They’re taking them to St. Louis.”

The Warren boy motioned toward his truck. “Well, come on, man. Sheriff told me you need a ride. I’m gonna take ya to the hospital in St. Louis.”

Mr. Whittrock glanced uncertainly at Doc Howard.

Doc shook his head, looking grim. “Matt, the roads are impassable. There isn’t any way to get to St. Louis.”

Matt grinned, a smile that reminded me of Nate’s. A smile that said,
Don’t tell me the rules. I can do anything
. “I got four-wheel drive, a chain saw, and my four-wheeler in back, Doc. I’ll get him there.”

It sounded like something Nate would say. It was the kind of crazy thing Nate would try to do. Nate would do anything to help someone out.

Mr. Whittrock glanced at Doc, then at his wife. “I’ve got to try it. If there’s any way I can get to that hospital . . .”

“Go.” Linda bit her lip and nodded. “I’m all right.” She raised a hand and waved him away. “Go, James. Please. Be with the girls.”

Her husband nodded, rushed over to kiss her quickly, whispered something close to her ear, then ran out the door behind Matt. The engine roared, and the truck skidded away.

I looked at Mrs. Whittrock, watched the tears seep from the corners of her eyes and wet the fringes of her hair, heard the low sound of grief exhale from her like a painful breath. I felt her hand squeeze mine, and my mind traveled back to Mama, when she held my hand in the hospital and looked at me and cried.

“It’s going to be all right,” I whispered, the same thing I said to Mama back then.

I thought about all the times I had passed those fancy houses on the lake, and hated those people with their money and their brand-new cars and their attitudes. I realized now how wrong that was. It seemed back then that they were so different from us, but now I could see the thin line that separated us—just houses, cars, clothes. All things that could be swept away in an instant.

Mrs. Whittrock pulled her hand away, pressing her palms over her face and closing her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, but I doubt she knew why I said it.

I stood up and walked to Caleb’s cot not far away.

He smiled at me, looking sheepish. “Sorry for all the drama.”

I slid my hands into the pockets of my jeans. It felt strange to be there talking to him. Caleb, the class clown, the chubby kid who made fat jokes so people would like him, talking to Jenilee, the invisible one who never said anything, so they wouldn’t notice her at all.

“It’s all right,” I said finally.

He had kind eyes, hazel with gold flecks in the middles. “Thanks for helping me. I really thought I’d make it all right. I haven’t passed out like that since I lost all that weight after the car accident last December.”

“You should be more careful the next time.”
Geez, what a stupid thing to say. The next time . . . what?

“I guess I should. Anyway, thanks.” Self-consciously, he pulled the cuffs of his denim shirt over the burn scars on his lower arms.

“You’re welcome.” Silence fell between us. I turned away, so he wouldn’t think I was looking at the scars. “You probably better get some rest.”

“Oh, I’m all right. I’m going to get up in a minute and see what I can do to help.”

“Well . . . take care . . .” I searched for something to say. What did you say to someone with whom you’d just shared some of the most horrible moments of your life, yet whom you didn’t know at all? “I mean . . . be careful, all right?”

“I will. You too.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and crossed the room to the door. Standing on the loading dock, I watched heat waves rise from the pavement of the parking lot as the morning sun began to warm up.

Just like any other morning
.

I watched absently as Nolan Nelson, the high school principal, set up a makeshift soup line at the corner of the asphalt.

“. . . beans and ham,” Mr. Nelson’s voice boomed through the still air, seeming out of place, too loud for this day of stifled sobs and hushed realities. People in the parking lot looked up as he stirred an enormous black kettle on the tailgate of his pickup and spoke with one of the sheriff’s deputies.

Mr. Nelson’s voice drifted over the murmur of other voices the same way it drifted through the halls at school. The familiarity was comforting. “Figured I’d better make use of all that firewood the storm delivered to my place,” he said. “Not much else left. I had some beans down in the cellar, and everything that used to be in my smokehouse landed on my living room floor, so I scrounged up a ham, washed that old kettle in the front yard, and started cooking. I can’t vouch for how it’ll taste. I haven’t cooked over an open fire since Boy Scouts in 1959.” He filled a bowl and gave it to the sheriff’s deputy, then filled two more and started handing them out.

I had never liked Mr. Nelson until that day. He and I were always crossways about school. He hassled me about being gone so much and talking about leaving school early. He told me that if I’d just apply myself, I could have the grades to get a scholarship to college, instead of barely scraping through high school.

“You’re a smart girl, Jenilee,” he’d say. “You like to read, you like to learn. You’re interested in science, and you’ve learned so much working at the vet clinic. There’s no reason why you couldn’t pursue that, pick up your grades and aim for a scholarship. Med school. Vet school. Whatever appeals to you. You have the ability, but you have to put in effort.”

I’d tell him I didn’t have time to study because I was busy taking care of Mama and Nate, and working to help keep the farm going. I’d look at the floor and tell him I didn’t give a crap about school, which wasn’t really true, and I couldn’t imagine what I would do with a scholarship—that I was going to have to quit the vet clinic to go to work writing invoices at Bell’s construction company, because the money was better. He’d shake his head and look at me as if I were no better than dirt, and tell me there wasn’t any future in that, and I should go to college, and blah-blah-blah.

I had to give Mr. Nelson credit for determination. He’d even suggested that we get a nurse to come out and look in on Mama, so that I could be in school more of the time. I told him we couldn’t afford a nurse, and Daddy didn’t want one around anyway, but Mr. Nelson insisted on talking to Daddy about it. I couldn’t hear what was said when Daddy met him at the yard gate, but it ended with Daddy yelling, and Mr. Nelson leaving in a hurry. That was the end of that. The principal was not a big man, and, like everyone else in town, he knew Daddy’s reputation. I think he was glad when I finally graduated, and the only Lane he had left to worry about was Nate.

Now, I watched Mr. Nelson serving food, holding hands, smiling and asking after people. I thought about him cooking on a campfire outside of his fallen-down house and taking the time to bring food when he could have been sifting through his house trying to salvage his possessions, as people in town were now beginning to do. I couldn’t help thinking that maybe I should have listened more to him and less to Daddy.

When Mr. Nelson had served all his beans, Mrs. Gibson arrived with her daughter-in-law and began dishing up chili from the trunk of Janet’s car. From the backseat, Janet handed out blankets, towels, and coats. I felt guilty for not bringing things from our house. Old habits die hard, and I wasn’t used to thinking about what other people needed. We Lanes were usually pretty busy just trying to get by.

Mr. Nelson walked over and gave Mrs. Gibson a hug. “Lordy, look at that fine batch of chili. I’ll tell you what, if that chili would have come here first, I wouldn’t have been able to give away my beans.”

“Oh, Nolan, cut that out. It’s just plain old chili, but it’ll feed people.” Mrs. Gibson backhanded him halfheartedly, and he ducked aside.

I crossed my arms over myself, wishing I could be like they were—part of things, close with other people, inclined to help when people needed it. I wished I wasn’t standing there worrying about what Daddy would do if I went home and got things from the house and gave them away to people.

Mrs. Gibson saw me watching and scooped up two bowls of chili, then started toward me, limping just a little. “Oh, Jenilee Lane, it’s good to see you here,” she said, handing me one of the bowls. “I was sure worried about you last night.”

“I’m all right.”

She smiled again, a fluttery smile, like she had a butterfly caught in her teeth. “We got over to Weldon and Janet’s all right. No damage over at their house.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wished she would walk off so I could go back into the armory and not have to remember yesterday. “I’m . . . um . . . sorry about your house.”

She shrugged and set the other bowl of chili on the steps, then turned around to lean against the cement dock beside me. “Don’t matter. I wouldn’t care if I lost a hundred houses, so long as all the kids are all right. I’ve lost things in my life, and I’ve lost people. I’ve come to know it’s the people that matter. Anyway, there are lots of folks worse off than me. It’s good to remember that.”

“Um-hmm,” I said, looking at the chili and feeling a lump in my throat. I didn’t think I could eat anything.

“How about your brothers? Have you heard any news?”

I shook my head, setting the chili on the armory steps. “I better get back in there with Doc,” I said, feeling tears start to prickle.
It doesn’t help anything to cry.

She reached across the space between us and took my hand in hers, then covered it with her other hand. “You’re a brave girl, Jenilee Lane,” she said, just as she had the day before. “You done a brave thing saving me and Lacy yesterday. I want to thank you for that. Not everyone would of done it. Who’d of thought that—”

She stopped, and our eyes met for an instant. I looked at her gray hair, coming out of its bun in curly wisps, and her face, wrinkled from years in the sun, and her eyes, blue-violet behind her eyeglasses. Her breath seemed to be caught behind the overhang of her chest, hiding the rest of what she was going to say—the part she thought she maybe shouldn’t say now, after everything that had happened. What she would have said a day ago, without a second thought.

I pulled my hand out of hers and turned away, muttering, “I better go help in the armory. I’m not really hungry.” Rushing up the steps, I left her.

I knew if she looked at me, really looked at me, she would see the truth—that I wasn’t anything like her and Mr. Nelson, Weldon and Doc Howard. I was only there because I was afraid to be anywhere else, because I didn’t want to be alone. It hadn’t occurred to me to bring blankets, or cook food, or search our cabinets for medicine and bandages.

But I imagine, deep down, she knew all of that about me, just like everyone else did. They knew we Lanes didn’t do anything just to be charitable, and I was still Jenilee Lane, a grown-up version of the little girl they all whispered about behind their hands.
Poor little thing doesn’t have any upbringing. Her mama’s been sick since she was just little, that farm’s falling in around their ears, and that father of hers, well, he’s . . .
The descriptions would vary. They called him everything from a no-good drunk to a criminal.