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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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The day continued to be beautiful. It was hard to leave it and go inside the hospital. As I was about to knock on the door of my first patient, I noticed my hand. Horrors! Black ink under every fingernail! I rushed to the rest room and scrubbed until the nails were clean. It took awhile; it isn't easy to remove printers' ink without a solvent. As I came out of the rest room, I ran into Barry.
“How'd it go?”
“Uh …” At first I thought he was referring to the print job. “Okay … I think. Thanks again for all your help.”
“No prob. Your friend Carl is in big trouble.” He smiled gleefully.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Seems he left a hemostat inside a bank president.”
“No kidding!”
“Sometimes things work out for the best.” He winked.
“You've made my day.”
Fueled by the good news about Carl (but not about his patient), I did my rounds quickly and efficiently. With any luck, Carl might even be suspended. I chortled.
Sally Raymond, my favorite nurse, stopped me in the hall. “What's so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” I chortled again.
“So you've heard the news, too?” She began to giggle.
There we were, two professional women, giggling like two school girls in the hospital corridor over the misfortune of a colleague. The tears were streaming down our faces when one of the senior doctors paused beside us. “It must have been a good one,” he said half-reprovingly.
“Oh, it was,” I said, wiping my eyes.
Pulling ourselves together, Sally and I went our separate ways.
 
 
I decided my upcoming dinner engagement warranted a change of clothing. I stopped at home and donned a skirt, blouse, and sandals for the occasion. Then I remembered. I was due for an archery lesson. I couldn't miss another one without raising Tom's suspicions. I glanced at the clock. If I hurried, I could just make it and get the wine, too. I tore off my dinner party attire and put on a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. So much for gracious living!
As I thumped down the iron staircase, I caught sight of Maggie. She had just pulled into the parking lot and was getting out of her ancient Ford Escort. She was burdened down with her usual assortment of tote bags and stray packages. Her whole body conveyed defeat and dejection.
“Hey, Mag!” I called.
She looked up and gave me a wan smile.
I hurried over. “How is he?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“It was one of his bad days,” she said. “He had nothing to say.”
“I'm sorry.” Maggie's son, Nick, had been sentenced to life in prison for a series of heinous crimes. While in prison, he had experienced a miraculous conversion, which Maggie accepted without
question. But I, and a few others, including her husband, Paul, had reservations. Maggie was returning from her weekly visit to the prison.
“Want to talk?” I asked. Even though I was strapped for time, I couldn't bear to leave my friend when she was so down. Her normal personality was upbeat and feisty, but the ordeal with her son had taken its toll. It was like watching a sunflower fade and wilt in slow motion.
I led her over to a weathered bench behind the motel. There had once been two benches and a table there, but that was long ago, during the motel's heyday. She settled her belongings between us.
“What's all that?” I asked, searching for something to say.
“Oh,” she said, and shrugged. “I took him a sweater and a cake, but he didn't want the sweater and they wouldn't let him have the cake.”
“Probably thought there was a file in it.” My feeble attempt at humor fell flat. I tried to think of something to cheer her up. “Well, Mag, you knew there would be days like this. You just have to put it out of your mind.”
“Easy for you to say,” she snapped.
“Maggie, you can't spend your life mourning your son. You have a husband, a business, a life of your own. You have to move on.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I know, Jo. If only I could forget how it used to be. When he was little, he used to bring me wildflowers … .” She turned away to hide the tears.
I patted her arm, at a loss for words. My mind was a blank. After all, what did I know? I had never had a child, let alone one who had shamed me to the core of my existence. The most banal clichés came to mind. “Tomorrow will be better.” It wouldn't. “Time will heal the wound.” The hell it would. “Life must go on.” True, but so what? Hey, she was beginning to depress
me.
I rose and pulled her to her feet. Looking her in the eye, I said,
“You can't keep this up, Mag. You have to get a new attitude. You're only fifty years old. You have years ahead of you. You can't waste them on”—I almost said “a worthless punk”—“on painful regrets. We all wish some things were different. I have regrets, too.” I had never told Maggie my regrets—the reason I had left Manhattan and suddenly shown up at this mangy motel in south Jersey. Was this the right time?
“I misdiagnosed a child and she died,” I blurted. “She was seven years old. Do you think I'll ever get over that?”
Maggie drew back in order to see me better. “So that's why you're here,” she said slowly.
“No. That's not why I'm here. It's why I came. I'm here because I fell in love with this place. I found work I enjoy. And I've made some wonderful new friends.”
“Oh, Jo, I'm so sorry. I knew there was something, but …” She was a foot shorter than I was, and when she hugged me, her arms reached only to my waist.
“Never mind. I'm dealing with my regrets. And I want you to deal with yours.”
She nodded. “You're right. I'll start now. Would you like a piece of cake?” This time, her smile was not wan but held a glimmer of the spirit she'd had before her son was sentenced to life in prison.
I laughed and glanced at my watch. “Oh god. I'd like to, but Tom's expecting me for an archery lesson.”
This was all right, because Maggie had romantic designs for Tom and me.
“Oh, you run along,” she urged, and gave me a little shove.
 
 
When I drew into Tom's driveway, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low on the horizon. I was half an hour late. The time I'd spent with Maggie, plus getting the wine, had taken longer than I'd expected. Bayfield was not known for its wine cellars. I'd
found a small liquor store in the back of Bridgeton that had a couple of half-decent bottles, but it had taken awhile.
Tom strolled onto his porch.
I shut off my motor. “Sorry I'm late,” I said sincerely. “Do we have time for a few shots?”
He scanned the horizon and nodded. He had the tackles all ready on the porch.
 
 
“No,” Tom said. “You have to plant your feet apart and look at that tree over there.” He pointed to a sycamore in a grove of trees near the road.
I followed his gaze.
“That's better. Now take the bow and place your right index finger and the one next to it under the string and draw the string into the notch.”
He was teaching me how to nock. In layman terms, nocking is hitching your string to the bow. Unfortunately, my mind kept wandering. I noticed, for example, that the two fingers he was telling me to use were the same two that Max had injured, and I added archery to the list of things he wouldn't be able to do if my surgery proved unsuccessful.
“Jo, you're not paying attention.”
“Sorry.”
“Try it again.”
This time I did it right, and Tom decided we could go on to the next step: drawing, holding, and aiming.
“Hook the end of the first three fingers of your right hand under the string and at the same time lightly clasp the arrow behind the feathers … . Good. Now turn your head and face the target.”
I actually got off a few good shots—even came near the bull's-eye once. Tom was satisfied. The sun was sinking as we walked back to the house.
“Time for a beer?”
I glanced at my watch. It was only five o'clock. But I didn't want to mix beer and wine. “Make mine a Coke,” I said.
When we had our drinks, we sat in two wicker chairs and enjoyed the sunset.
“No two are ever alike,” I commented banally.
“Like snowflakes,” he replied, underlining the banality.
“Yeah, exactly.” I took a swig of Coke.
“What've you been up to?”
I hesitated. “Working,” I said.
“Any interesting cases?”
I yearned to tell him the whole story. It was probably safe now. But something stopped me. Loyalty to Max? I wasn't sure. “Nah. Same old routine. Oh, one nice thing happened.” I told him about Carl.
He laughed halfheartedly. The layman never appreciates doctor stories when they involve doctors' mistakes.
“I suppose you've been too busy to hear about the gangster that was dropped in our midst.”
“I heard.”
“Did you hear they ID'd him?”
I looked up.
“He was a Philadelphia printer … .”
I swallowed.
“And he had a sideline.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Counterfeiting.” He scanned my face for a reaction, then went on. “Seems there's a printer living a stone's throw from where the body was found. At the old Wister place. Rumor is there might be some connection.”
“Huh.” I put down my Coke.
“Heck, I'm surprised you're not working on the case by now.” Tom chuckled.
I smiled weakly and stood up.
“Another early night?
“'Fraid so.”
“When's our next lesson?”
“I'll call you.”
“Right.”
He skipped his usual good-bye kiss.
Despite the two bottles of wine tucked in my saddlebag, my mood was sober as I chugged up the drive to the farmhouse. The archery lesson had reminded me once more of the importance of right hands—and the possibility that Max might never be able to use his again. Also, the news that the fellow found up the road had been a printer was not encouraging. Could there be a link? Was Max into counterfeiting, too?
As usual, Lolly came to greet me. She was more bubbly than ever, and delicious aromas drifted to me from the direction of the kitchen. She was wearing an apron that barely covered her vast bosom and she brandished a slotted spoon in one hand.
“What are you making?” I asked, sniffing.
“Surprise!” She grinned.
I really did not think she was capable of cooking anything more complicated than steak or eggs. I doubted if she could even read a recipe. I followed her back to the kitchen. To my amazement, the table, which had so recently served as my operating theater, was set with place mats, silverware and a spray of fall wildflowers.
“How beautiful!” I exclaimed
For a minute, I was afraid Lolly was going to rise like a
balloon—with pleasure. But she kept her feet on the ground. I set my brown paper bag with the wine on the table. She took out the bottles and started to put both in the refrigerator. I stopped her. “The red doesn't need to be chilled.”
She looked puzzled.
“That's supposed to be served at room temperature.” I took the red from her and put it back on the table.
Lolly went to the cupboard and removed two wineglasses. They were dusty, so she washed them.
“Can I help?” I asked.
She shook her head. Then, changing her mind, she brought me a corkscrew.
“Can you tell me what we're having for dinner?” I needed to know, in order to decide which wine to open.
She frowned, not wanting to spoil her surprise.
“Never mind,” I said hastily. “We'll wait and open it when dinner's ready. I'll go check on your dad.” I left. Lolly, like most cooks, worked best without too many distractions.
The TV was on, but Max wasn't watching it. He was sprawled on the sofa, his eyes glued to the den door. At first, I thought it was me he was waiting for so expectantly. But as soon as I came in, he said, “Did you get the wine?”
I smiled. “You're not eager or anything?”
“It's been a long time,”
“Oh?” Was I leading a reformed alcoholic back to his evil ways? “How come?”
“Lolly has no ID. She can't buy alcohol.”
I stared. “You mean you can't leave this place even to go to a liquor store?”
He didn't answer.
This man might as well be living on a desert island, I thought. What was he afraid of? I suddenly saw the body down the road in a different light. Could it have been a warning to Max?
“So, how long has it been since you had a drink?” I asked.
He closed his eyes, calculating. “About six years.”
“Holy mackerel! You can have my share.”
He shook his head. “No fun drinking alone.”
“Let's see your hand.”
He held out his hand and I began to undo the dressing. As I unrolled the bandage, revealing the two damaged fingers, I drew a sharp breath. The index finger was slightly swollen.
He had noticed my alarm. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing.” I took some iodine solution from my kit and painted the wounds, hoping it was just my imagination. I slid on a sterile glove and prodded the finger gently. Max winced.
“That hurt, didn't it?”
He shrugged. Translation: a lot.
“You may have some infection. I'm going to give you another antibiotic.” I dug a syringe from my bag and removed the plastic wrapper. When I was poised to give him the shot, Max asked, “Whatever happened to pills?”
“This is quicker.” I slipped the needle in and withdrew it.
“Is it that bad?”
Fortunately, I didn't have to answer, because Lolly appeared in the doorway.
“Dinner is served.” She bowed slightly.
I was wafted back to the first time I'd cooked dinner for my dad. I was about nine at the time. I had served burgers and ice cream. He had raved about both, even though the burgers were raw and the ice cream was soup because I had put it out too soon. He swore it was the best meal he'd ever eaten.
As we trooped after Lolly toward the kitchen, tripping over cats in the hallway, I had a strange sensation, as if I was leading a double life—one with Max, Lolly, and the cats, the other with Maggie, Paul, and Tom. The question was, Would the two ever meet?
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
12.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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