Skip Rock Shallows (12 page)

Tern Still walked with Lilly toward town. If she went to the ends of the earth, he would follow. Leaves rustled in a slight breeze and chased the heat of the day away. Birds quieted, except for the rain crow whose high, lonesome call foretold a coming storm. He hadn’t been so comfortable in another person’s silence since his mother died.

He remembered as a little boy walking with his mother to a neighbor’s springhouse to draw drinking water. The neighbor had built a well over a never-dry spring, and hand over hand, his mother hauled water to the surface in a bucket attached to a long rope. Tern would carry one small tin bucket home, and she would carry two wooden ones. They made a game out of who could go the farthest without spilling a single drop. Almost always, about half a mile from home, they’d rest a spell under the shade of a tree. His mother would take a tin cup from her apron pocket and offer Tern a sip of the cold water. To him, it tasted as sweet as the nectar from the trumpet of a honeysuckle vine.

His mother made each trip seem like such an adventure; it was only in looking back that he saw how her shoulders sagged under the weight of those buckets. Once he’d spied a perfect robin’s egg lying in their path. When he’d handed it to her, she laughed with delight as if the blue egg were an unopened gift. Days later, a tiny bald and ugly creature pecked its way into the world from the tea towel nest in back of the cookstove’s warming oven. She’d taught him to soak segmented night crawlers in milk before dropping bits of worm into the always-open mouth of the nestling.

The day they released the robin to live its own adventure was the last time Tern remembered crying. He wanted to make it a pet, but his mother said it went against nature to pen a wild thing up. She’d pulled him to her and dried his cheeks with the palms of her work-worn hands. “Don’t be a-spilling tears, Son,” he recalled her saying. “This old world’s full of woe, but it’s pretty all the same.”

Funny, he’d only seen his mother in tears one time, though he supposed she could have been in tears daily. She was carrying the last child she’d ever have, his brother Lorne Lee, but she was ill, and for reasons unknown to him she had to go away. She sobbed and sobbed into the knit shawl she’d pulled up over her face. Fourteen at the time, Tern thought he was a man, and so in perfect imitation of his father, he’d stood on the porch and watched her go. He never even told her good-bye.

The thing he most remembered was how cold and silent the house felt in his mother’s absence. He’d steeled his heart against his sorrow, but now, in Lilly’s presence, he allowed himself to feel a mustard seed of joy. The hard line of his mouth relaxed. He felt like he was finally home.

Lilly stopped and lifted a sprig of false sweet william that grew in bunches beside the road. “Aren’t these the toughest flowers ever?” The lavender-blue blossom rested in her palm. “It takes a knife to cut one, but they last a long time in a little water.”

Tern agreed it was so and resisted the urge to pull the whole bunch out of the ground for her. Every so often she’d comment on some little thing: a red-winged blackbird flitting from branch to branch, a terrapin retreating into its shell, a single tree frog’s peep. It made him happy to think she was as much in touch with the natural world as he was.

Her fall in the river, just as he was leaving his favorite reading spot, was surely a sign. His resolve to make himself known to her was being rewarded. He gathered his courage. Now was the time. But his mouth was dry as a lizard on a hot rock and his tongue was thick with unsaid words.

Night had fallen before they rounded the last bend in the road to the clinic. Good—it would be easier if she couldn’t see the desperate need he was sure was stamped across his face. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off. He watched as she paused to straighten her skirts and pin an errant lock of hair into place. If he were blessed enough to witness those deeds a thousand times, it wouldn’t be enough. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

Lilly turned and touched his arm. The innocent contact nearly took him to his knees.

“Thank you again, Mr. Repp. It was very thoughtful of you to see me home. I’ll be on my way now.”

He took a deep breath. “Lilly, I have something to—”

A commotion from near the clinic where a throng of people gathered cut him off. Laughter, the
bang, bang, bang
of firecrackers, and the clanging of pots and pans set up a racket. It put him in mind of a shivaree, but he didn’t see a bride and groom.

“What in the world?” Lilly said.

“I don’t know, but it sounds like New Year’s Eve.”

“There she is!” someone shouted, pointing their way.

Lilly was pulled away from him by Landis Blair’s son. The boy grabbed her hand and towed her toward a bonfire that was shooting merry sparks into the night sky. Someone struck up a tune on a fiddle. Tern spied Darrell Tippen sitting on the clinic porch with his leg propped up on an overturned bucket.

Ned Tippen walked a donkey right past Tern. The donkey’s ears protruded from a straw hat. Was this some kind of nightmare?

A woman he thought was Darrell’s mother yelled over the donkey’s sudden bray, “We surprised you, didn’t we, Doc? We’ve been working on this all week. Ever since Ned here told us who you really are.”

From what he could see, Lilly looked stunned. She fingered a strand of pearls at her throat.

Tern hung back with Apache. The crowd meant her no harm, and it didn’t look right, him being with her as dark fell. The last thing he wanted was to stir up gossip. He’d watch the fun and wait his turn. Maybe after the folks finished whatever they were celebrating, she’d let him walk the rest of the way home with her.

Darrell beat on the upturned bucket with the bowl of a long-handled ladle. “Listen up!” he said. “Ned’s got an announcement—just in case there’s one of you been hiding under a rock the last few days.”

“All right, folks,” Ned said, beaming. “You all are going to be proud to know that our own Doc Corbett is a Tippen cousin! She’s a true-blue mountain gal. Her daddy is a Pelfrey and my mother, God rest her soul, was a Pelfrey. I know you’re all here to make her purely welcome.”

Darrell’s mother circled Lilly’s waist with one arm. “That’s why we called you all together. We wanted to surprise the good doc here. You all treat her like family—or you’ll answer to me!”

As folks reacted to the news, the donkey Ned held by a lead shook his head like a dog with a bone. The straw bonnet popped off one long ear and slid down over the donkey’s face. He bared his yellow teeth and nibbled on the rim.

“My beautiful hat,” Lilly cried. With a laugh, she pulled it away from the donkey and set it on the crown of her own head.

Tern marveled at her aplomb as people clapped and hooted.

“We’ve arranged to have Slow Poke here—” Ned indicated the donkey—“in service anytime you need a ride. It won’t be so far to the ground next time you get thrown.”

Tern knew some people were reserving judgment until they saw if Lilly could take a joke. It was the mountain way to laugh at your own self as hard as you might laugh at others. She didn’t fail the test. Quick as a cat’s sneeze, and with a boost from Ned, she was sitting sidesaddle on the animal’s back. The Blair boy led the donkey through the crowd. His sister—Tern couldn’t remember the girl’s name—skipped behind, carrying an umbrella as bright as a daffodil against the dark sky.

Mr. James stepped out then. After helping Lilly down from the donkey’s back, he turned to face the audience. “You all know we got off to a rough start with the doc here, her being a woman and all, but I do believe we’re of a like mind now. Anybody who feels different, speak out once I’ve finished my piece.” He turned to Lilly. “What I’m beating around the bush about, little gal, is that we’re proud you came. You’ve turned out to be a right good sawbones. If things was different, if the power was in our hands, we’d ask you to stay on.”

People were smiling, and heads were nodding.

Lilly’s hand was at her throat again. She worried the strand of pearls as if it were a rosary. You’d have to be blind not to see the confusion on her face. Tern held his breath against her reply. He prayed she’d say yes.

Suddenly a man Tern had not noticed before strode out of the shadows. Decidedly a stranger, he was well dressed in a high-buttoned navy-blue frock coat and linen trousers. Tall and thin with ginger-colored hair and a clipped mustache, he held a black bowler at his side. With a tidy gesture, he nudged a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

“Dr. Corbett, I presume?” he said in a familiar way.

Lilly’s eyes widened with surprise. “Paul,” she squealed as she flung herself into the man’s open arms. “Am I glad to see you.”

Obviously no stranger to Lilly, the man lifted her off the ground and spun her in circles. She was laughing when he put her down. “Gracious,” she said with a smile, “forgive my lack of manners. Mr. James—everyone—this is Dr. Paul Hamilton, my fiancé.”

Tern’s heart plunged with the sickening speed of a runaway elevator. Well, that was that. It was almost with relief that he faded into the night. His secret was safe; he’d never have to take the chance of being rejected by Lilly.

His heart turned hard as stone. Soon enough he’d finish his assignment in this desolate place. He couldn’t wait to be shut of it.

“Really, Lilly, a donkey?” Paul Hamilton asked as he held one elegant hand over his nearly empty coffee cup.

Lilly shook her head the tiniest bit, hoping Paul would catch the signal and Myrtie James would not. Of course he didn’t understand the significance of the donkey or the test she’d passed at the celebration last evening. So giddy with delight at him surprising her there, she hadn’t thought to explain. It was difficult enough to justify to him why she hadn’t known he was coming or why she’d let his letter become mouse fodder and why she was living in a shack in back of a shack.

Myrtie picked up a squat pitcher. “More molasses?”

“No thank you,” Paul said.

Myrtie hovered at his side. Paul had barely touched the pancakes or the thick-sliced bacon on his plate. “Can I fix ye something else?” she asked.

Paul seemed to notice her for the first time, though they’d been sitting at her table for the better part of an hour, long after Mr. James had left for the mine. “Perhaps a coddled egg and a slice of wheat toast?”

“Coddled?”

“Never mind, Myrtie,” Lilly said. “I expect Dr. Hamilton’s never had blackstrap molasses on his pancakes before. It takes a little getting used to. Don’t you think?”

Myrtie removed Paul’s molasses-soaked plate. “I’ve got just the ticket,” she said, marching to the stove.

“You better hope it’s not pickled pigs’ feet,” Lilly murmured.

“Pickled what?”

Lilly laughed. It was rare to see Paul confounded. “Pigs’ feet. They’re yummy. Pour a little molasses over and it’s better than chocolate ice cream.”

“I never heard such,” Myrtie said, sliding a fresh plate of pancakes and bacon in front of Paul. “Dr. Corbett’s pulling your leg. Nobody eats pigs’ feet with molasses. Here. I made you the special syrup my mommy used to make for me.” Myrtie tipped a small saucepan. Thin, maple-colored syrup streamed over the flapjacks.

Paul forked up a bite. “Very good. Excellent. You’d think this syrup was from Vermont.”

Myrtie beamed. “Ain’t a thing but brown sugar melted with a dollop of butter.”

With knife and fork Paul set about slicing the thick jowl bacon. His knife grated against the plate. “I’ve met my match,” he said.

“Watch and learn, Paul.” Lilly picked a piece of bacon from her own plate and bit off the end.

“You’ll make an excellent surgeon, my dear girl,” he said. “Nothing stymies you.”

They laughed and teased their way through the rest of the meal. Lilly hadn’t realized until now how much she’d missed him and how long it had been since she’d laughed at anyone but herself.

“Come,” she said as soon as they finished. “I want to show you the clinic.”

Dogs sniffed Paul’s ankles and raced circles around them, kicking up clouds of red clay dust.

“So much for the shoe shine at the station,” Paul said. “I should have saved my money.”

Lilly saw the town as Paul must have seen it. Tiny, weatherboard houses set cheek by jowl. Washtubs and stacks of kindling wood on front porches. Wide-eyed, barefoot children hiding behind their mothers, the women and old men eyeing him with the same suspicion that she had endured just weeks before.

“Poor Lilly,” he said. “A rose among thorns. Boston will be better suited for you.”

Paul knew she’d been raised in the mountains of eastern Kentucky, but the only kin of hers he’d ever met was her aunt Alice, cousin Dodie, and uncle Benton—and Benton Upchurch owned a bank. Aunt Alice’s house was a mansion compared to the shanties they were passing. He seemed to have forgotten that her mother ran a midwifery clinic on Troublesome Creek and that she, Lilly, had fallen in love with the practice of medicine there. She might not want to live in the mountains, but she’d always have an affinity for folks living just this side of poverty. If he tried to put her on a pedestal, she’d jump right off.

Before she could explain, thunder rolled across the top of the mountains and fat drops of rain plopped into the dust at their feet. The storm that had threatened since last evening was coming on strong.

Paul pulled her close under the protection of a large black umbrella. He was always prepared.

“Those are nasty-looking clouds,” he said. “Let’s run for it.”

Once inside the clinic, Lilly made a quick visual inspection. Shipshape as always; Ned never left it less than perfectly tidy. She knew if she opened any door or drawer, it would be perfectly stocked.

Paul paced the small outer room, then strode into the surgery. He stood with folded arms and looked about. Lilly pointed out the gas-driven autoclave and the levered operating table underneath a perfectly positioned lamp. “I did my first reconstructive surgery here, Paul. I’m sure I told you all about it in a letter.”

Paul stroked his pencil-thin mustache. “What, pray tell, happened to the patient?”

Lilly’s temper flared. “The young man was sitting on the porch last evening. He will soon be walking without a crutch.”

“Darling girl, I’ve upset you. I wasn’t questioning your expertise, just your working conditions.”

“This is quite modern for the area, Paul. Frankly, I was surprised to find it thus.”

“I suppose, but there’s need for much improvement. What’s on today’s list of things to do?”

“Wait out the rain, then make some house calls. You may need to change your shoes,” she teased.

Paul opened his arms. “Come here.”

She gladly acquiesced. “I’ve missed you so.”

“And I you,” he said, tipping her chin. His kiss was gentle, without demand; his embrace warm and safe. She might stay there all day.

“I’ve something for you.” Paul extracted a small velvet-covered box from his jacket pocket. “Mother insisted you have it.”

He opened the box to reveal a beautiful pearl ring set with a glittering diamond on either side. She held out her hand and he slipped the ring on.

“There,” he said. “I couldn’t be happier.”

Lilly kissed his cheek. “It’s lovely, Paul.” She put her hand to her throat. “Look how it matches Aunt Alice’s pearls.”

He opened his arms again and she nestled close.

“Mother is thinking of a spring wedding,” he said against the top of her head.

“Umm, maybe late May. Lexington is beautiful then.”

“Are you set on Lexington? Mother was hoping for Boston—so many friends and business acquaintances, you know.”

A frisson of disquiet altered Lilly’s mood. Paul must have forgotten they’d already talked about the matter. She didn’t expect his family to travel to Troublesome Creek—to do so would be difficult—but she would not ask hers to go to Boston. That would be unfair. Lexington seemed the best compromise.

As the outside door opened, they stepped apart. Ned shook his rain slicker and deposited a stack of mail on Lilly’s desk. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.” He stuck out his hand. “Hey, Dr. Hamilton, good to see you again. Hope the boardinghouse met your expectations.”

“It was fine, Ned. Thanks for recommending me to Mrs. DeWitt. I should have made reservations.”

“No need. I can always rustle you up a bed somewheres.”

The men talked—Ned offering Paul a tour of the mine, Paul asking polite questions. Lilly sorted mail. There was a letter from her mother and one from her twin sisters. Molly and Mazy would take turns, one writing in blue ink, the other in black. She would set them aside for later and enjoy them with a cup of tea. With a thumbnail under the flap, she pried a business envelope open.

The room had darkened with the rain, and so she stepped to the window, scanning for the heart of the matter.

. . . an interesting proposition,
she read in Dr. Coldiron’s bold script.
One you should carefully and prayerfully study. Whatever your decision, I remain your devoted teacher, Dr. John Coldiron.

The men’s voices faded in the background. Rain tapped against the windowpane as if begging to be let in. Lilly’s shoulders sank under the weight of the letter. Dr. Coldiron posed a question she did not want to consider. A board of men at her alma mater was offering to extend her stay in Skip Rock, Kentucky. The need was great, the letter said, and they hoped she would say yes to their offer. Of course, they understood she would need expanded facilities, a house of her own, and an assistant or two. Further down the road, they hoped to send qualified residents to intern at the clinic under Lilly’s direction. Her commitment would be for five years, and she could handpick her replacement. The salary he quoted was not considerable, but it was adequate.

A knot the size of a green apple formed in the center of Lilly’s stomach. She wished the letter had never come. She wished Ned had dropped it in a puddle of rain. It would be hard enough to leave the people she had become close to—Ned and Darrell, Armina and Aunt Orie, the Blairs, Myrtie and Mr. James—without them knowing she was willingly leaving.

Folding it precisely, she slid the missive back into the envelope and tapped it against her chin. How interesting; even a week ago there would not have been this quandary. The folks at Skip Rock would have helped her pack her bags, they were so anxious to see the back of her. But now . . .

The words of Mr. James came back to her:
“If things was different, if the power was in our hands, we’d ask you to stay on.”
Thunder boomed and shook the room. With the tip of one finger, she traced a raindrop down the windowpane. She would have to tell Mr. James about the offer, but first she needed time to think. Her answer was obvious—no way was she staying on. For though she had much regard for the people and though the place was rife with opportunity to practice her skills, she did not feel at home here.

There was something about this place—something dark and brooding that stirred old fears and tainted her emotions like ink spilled on a tablecloth. And if she stayed, there would of necessity be more forays inside the mine. Just thinking of the claustrophobic trip in the number 4 mine to rescue Darrell Tippen made the knot in her stomach tighten.

“Hey, Doc, did you see the package?”

Lilly held up a thick manila envelope and noted that the return address was from Massey’s Pharmaceuticals in Lexington. When she tore it open, an amber-colored bottle tumbled out onto the desktop. “Looks like we’ve got Aunt Orie’s medication. How soon can we get up there?”

Ned opened the outer door. Black clouds swirled ominously in a strangely greenish sky. Forks of lightning sizzled dangerously close, and sheets of rain pounded down. “We ain’t going nowhere fast.” He unhooked his slicker from the coatrack and put it on. “I’ll be back when this lets up.”

He started across the threshold, leading with his strong leg to the first step, retaining balance with his peg. The steps were slick with rain, and his good foot shot straight out. He grabbed the doorframe with both hands. The wooden peg popped off his stump and he went down. “Jiminy whiskers,” he yelped.

Paul grabbed him under the arms and hauled him back inside. Ned sat down heavily on the straight-backed chair just inside the waiting room door. Resting his palms on his thighs, he doubled over in pain. “Just give me a minute.”

Paul was already kneeling. “Might I have a look at this?”

Ned’s mouth was a thin straight line, and his face was drained of color, but he nodded.

Lilly grabbed bandage scissors and a packet of gauze soaked in carbolic lotion. Ned had wrapped his stump with a figure-eight bandage made of a strip of sheeting three inches in width. The end of the dressing had been torn into a Y, which was fastened with a knot. She snipped the knot and rolled the bandage tightly as she unwound it. Ned had probably washed and reused it a dozen times already.

Her eyes met Paul’s when she revealed the below-the-knee amputation. “Ned, do you feel feverish?”

Ned flexed his knee, wincing slightly. “No. I’m fine. It’s just been a mite red the last couple of days. It’ll heal right up.”

“My good man, you’ve developed an abscess,” Paul said with authority. “See how the wound has burst open with infection?”

The clinic walls shuddered in a sudden howling wind. Rain leaked from the ceiling in a steady
plop, plop, plop
onto the floor. “I should get a bucket,” Ned said.

“Goodness, Ned, I’ll get it.” Lilly searched under a shelf in the storage room, found a gallon tin, and put it under the leak.

“There’ll be another over yonder by the desk.” Ned pointed to a brown stain on the ceiling. “You might as well move the trash can under there.”

Lilly wanted to wrap her arms around Ned. She wished she could contain his suffering as easily as the bucket contained the dripping rain. “I’ll get a thermometer.”

“How long has it been since your surgery?” Paul asked.

“Three years ago, May 15. Me and the boys was shoring up the roof in Number 4.” He held his thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart. “We was that near done.”

He shook his head as if he still could not believe his luck. “Elbows—do you know Elbows? He was outside loading a cart with more timber planks when he seen a swirl of leaves shoot out the mouth of that old widow maker. He said the mule hauling the cart was fractious—that was his first sign. Animals have a sixth sense about such things. Anyways, he grabbed the mule’s harness and ran for his life. They was three men killed that day, and seven kids lost their daddies.” He ran his hands down his thigh and lifted the stump. “See, this ain’t nothing.”

“Comparatively thinking, I suppose not, but there’s no need for undue suffering.” Paul stood with crossed arms, surveying the situation. “There is a need for reconstructive surgery. This was finished with a bread loaf flap—much used during the war, but no longer in favor. I believe I could fix you up with a proper closure, which would allow use of a modern prosthesis.”

Ned’s hands gripped the chair seat. “Them’s big words, Doc.”

Paul waved his hand as if chasing the words away. “Simply put, you need surgery and a decent prosthesis—sorry—decent replacement of that ghastly peg.”

“How long are we talking about?”

“Do you mean how much time from surgery to replacement?”