The Delta Factor (12 page)

He passed a final pine grove, and suddenly the Pharmacon facility loomed up like a burnished copper space station. He pulled into the parking lot, unfolded himself from the Jag, and stretched before walking up to the entrance. When the first set of bulletproof doors glided shut behind him, the only sound he could hear was the air conditioning's constant sigh and the reception guard's metallic voice through the speaker system. The outside world was suddenly a thousand miles away.

Cliff gave his name and was pointed toward a leather bench running down the hall's opposite side. He declined to wait there and asked instead to be let back outside. The doors glided open and he escaped into the brilliant afternoon sunlight. He much preferred to bake outdoors than feel he was seated in a carpet-lined petri dish.

Deborah came out and greeted him with a hug and the words, “Hot enough for you?”

“Better than sitting in there under the gun.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, taking him by the arm, “but you should see what the treatment does for salesmen. An hour of waiting out there, and they'll agree to just about any deal.”

He allowed her to lead him over to her jeep. “Where are we headed?”

“I want to stop by and check on something,” she said, “then we'll swing back and collect your car. I'm cooking dinner for you at home tonight. I invited Blair, but she's got some family emergency and has to drive to Norfolk. So it'll just be you and me.”

“Sounds great,” Cliff said, trying to hide his disappointment.

Deborah patted his arm. “She said to tell you she's sorry and she'll be back tomorrow. Brace up, Junior. She was as broke up about it as you are. More.”

“Really?” The thought cheered him.

Deborah started the Cherokee and gave Cliff her lopsided grin. “Not falling off the deep end, are we?”

They drove along a pretzel of narrow country roads. “The distance we're covering is only a mile or so as the crow flies,” Deborah explained, “but to get there we've got to cover about five times that. You get off the main roads in this area and you're entering a time warp. Nobody's in enough of a hurry to feel the road's got to go in a straight line.”

“What's that?” Cliff pointed to smoke scarring the otherwise blue sky up ahead.

“I'm not sure.” Deborah searched through the windshield. “It looks like Hank is burning some fields. They better not be ours.”

“Hank works for you?”

“Hank Aaron Jones is a local farmer. If you'll take some friendly advice, don't ask him about his name. And yes, he works for us. In a way. He grows crops under our direction.”

“
The
crop?”

Deborah nodded distractedly, her concentration focused on the blackened field. “What on earth is that man doing? That's not even his land.”

As they approached, Cliff saw that Hank Aaron Jones wore a heavy towel wrapped tightly around his mouth and nose. He spotted Deborah's Cherokee and waved them toward his own drive. The fire was almost out. Hank stumped across the smoldering field, crossed the road, and stepped up to the jeep. “Morning, Miss Debs.”

“Hank, what in the world?”

“Bought me some more land. You said you wanted me to put in another fifty acres.”

“Yes, but not for another month or so.”

Hank shrugged. “Feller was ready to sell. I bought.”

“But those fields look ready to harvest.” She shielded her eyes and looked out at the golden acres. “What is that, rapeweed?”

Hank nodded. “It was, yes ma'am.”

“You bought the field closest to your own a few weeks before harvest and burned up the crop? Why?”

Cliff pointed out beyond the still-standing fields to where a group of people milled about. The sound of rock music drifted in the still air. “What are all those tents over there?”

“Oh, excuse me,” Deborah said. “Hank, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Cliff Devon.”

“Howdy.”

Cliff accepted a hand as firm as aged teak. The man smelled of smoke and hard work. “Your neighbor having a party over there?”

“You'll have to go ask him about that.”

Deborah's confusion deepened. “I thought you told me you and your neighbor were old friends. Isn't that the one you asked if we could use some of his fields?”

“Times change,” Hank Aaron Jones replied, biting off the words. “Right now, ma'am, the only thing Jude Taylor and me got in common is a prevailing wind. You had something special you wanted to talk about?”

“No, I just wanted to show Cliff what we're growing here.”

Hank lifted his face as though tasting the air. “I guess that'll be okay. Y'all excuse me, I gotta make sure the fire stays out.”

They watched him fit the towel back over his face and stride away. Deborah asked, “What was that all about?”

“If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was testing the wind,” Cliff answered. “He reminds me of how a sailor looks when he's worried about a storm.”

She watched the farmer stamp around his smoldering new field. “This doesn't make any sense. None at all.”

Cliff followed Deborah's jeep a long winding route away from Edenton. Each turning led them onto a narrower, more rural road. Eventually she pulled onto a small graveled track and stopped. She stepped out as he pulled up beside her and said, “I'd like you to see my place for the first time on foot.”

“Fine with me.” He looked around as they crunched down the gravel. Here and there small country houses emerged from the pine groves. Small front gardens shone like new pennies in the afternoon light. “Why out here, Debs?”

“Cash,” she replied simply. “Same as the car. I wanted a place, my own place, with a view that would stay good and fresh for all my remaining days. And I needed it bought and paid for.”

“I think I see,” he said slowly.

“I can't afford the risk of loans. I need everything I own to be free and clear of any debt. Just in case.”

“Hey there, Miss Deborah.” An elderly black man with a face as seamed as a freshly plowed field walked over. “How you doin'?”

“Fine, Reuben. Is that daughter of yours feeling better today?”

“Yes ma'am. She's had herself a right peaceful night. Looks like that fever's done broke for good.”

“You be sure and let me know if you see any of those symptoms I told you about.”

“Surely will, Miss Deborah. Can't thank you enough for all you done.”

“It was good to have a chance and repay you, at least in part.”

“Shoot. Ain't done nothin' ‘cept be a neighbor.”

She smiled. “I'd like to introduce an old friend of mine, Cliff Devon. Cliff, this is Reuben Haskins. He lives down the road a ways.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The old man nodded briefly in Cliff's direction but kept his gaze on Deborah. “Anything you need, Miss Deborah, you know where to come.”

“Thank you, Reuben. Give my best to Hannah.”

“Surely will. You take care, now.”

Deborah watched him amble away and said, “That man defines what a giver should be.”

“He didn't have much time for me,” Cliff observed.

“Black people in these parts don't pay much attention to their first impressions of a white person.”

“Are all your neighbors black?”

She pointed away from the direction Reuben was walking. “Down that side road is pure country. A couple of fishermen, two brothers who own a local gas station, some I haven't met yet. You learn that out here. Some people just want to keep to themselves, and it's best to let them be.” Her eyes remained on the elderly black man in his well-worn overalls. “Some of the black families won't have anything to do with me. But most of them are coming to be good friends. You know what brought about the biggest change?”

“I can't imagine.”

Deborah returned the waves of three children carrying poles and scampering down the road on muddy feet. Two were black, the other a tow-headed white boy. “I had a bad attack a few months back. First time my legs ever gave out completely. Couldn't get up my three front stairs. Reuben's sister happened by and found me sprawled on the ground. She managed to carry me inside and settle me in my chair. The next day Reuben came over and built me a ramp.”

She squinted and looked into the sunlight. “These people understand tragedy. I've discovered that since coming to live here. The good sorts of country people have a deep understanding of suffering, and they respond to it in others.”

“It sounds like you've made a home for yourself, Debs.”

“I'm working at it. I'm still the outsider, and there are still a lot of invisible fences. But I'm in no hurry. I've got time to learn their ways.” She grasped his hand and led him forward. “Let me show you around.”

Immediately beyond the windbreak of pine, the water fanned out on two sides. “This is Edenton Bay,” she explained. “Same as in town. It opens into Albemarle Sound, part of the Inland Waterway.”

The house rested on a point shaded by cypress and pine and elm. Wisteria climbed in untrimmed abandon over the pumphouse and other outbuildings. The loudest noises were the wind and the katydids and the birds. The town of Edenton was the only break in the forest lining the distant banks.

“This is fantastic,” Cliff breathed.

“Locals call this a shotgun house,” she said. “One room opens directly into the next. It was built by a fisherman back in the twenties.”

“How did you find it?”

“I bought it from his daughter, who wanted to move into the city. She's a nurse at the hospital where I go for treatment.”

“Treatment?”

“They take my blood pressure, thump my chest, give me a shot of vitamins, and let me know they are there if ever I need them.” She walked toward the stairs, whose sides were now sloped for her wheelchair. “Come on, I want to show you inside.”

The house was a long wooden tunnel separated into five rooms—kitchen, parlor, bath, and two bedrooms. Each room shared walls with its neighbors. The outer shell was nothing more than plywood and big windows. A broad screened porch, as large in floor space as the entire house, formed a generous “L” around two sides. The porch had two daybeds to sleep on when the nights were balmy, and a large hickory-slat swing cushioned by a riot of floral-print pillows.

Cliff walked into Deborah's bedroom, spotted the bed's occupant, and cried, “Hairball! Is it you?”

“Now don't you start,” Deborah warned.

But Cliff was already down on his knees, stroking the cat. “I tell you, Debs, this animal has a terminal case of the warm-and-fuzzies. Might be nearing time to put it out of its misery.”

“I happen to be very attached to my pets.”

“A matched pair of neutered power puffs,” Cliff said, smiling as the cat started purring like a tiny outboard motor. “Overweight, declawed, lazy, and dumb. This how you like your men?”

“You should know,” she said, walking out. Over her shoulder she said, “You can take the back bedroom.”

Dinner that night was a comfortable affair. Music was supplied by a serenade of cicada tenors and full bass bullfrogs. The wind sighed through the pines like an orchestra of strings, and the waves counted time upon the bulkhead.

Cliff sighed his contentment, declared, “That was a fantastic meal, Debs.”

She beamed. “It really is nice to have the chance to cook for you. I'm sorry it didn't work out last weekend.”

“Me too.” He laid the cutlery out in very neat lines, deliberate motions matching the line of his thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” Somber now. Sensing what was to come.

He took a breath, asked, “Are you taking Pharmacon's new experimental drug yourself?”

“Yes.” Simple as that. Despite the fact that doing so was professionally unethical. Between them, there were no secrets.

“And you haven't noticed any difference?”

“It's not like that with MS,” she replied. “First of all, nobody is absolutely positive that a virus is the cause. It may be a virus that attaches itself only to those who are genetically disposed, or the disease may be entirely genetic. Even if we had proved it is a virus, which is my guess, there's still no way of telling what course the disease would have taken with me if I wasn't on the drug.”

“I think I see.”

“Maybe I would have already slipped into the more extreme disabilities. Maybe I would be completely bedridden. There's just no way of telling. But if you're asking why I haven't had a complete remission, I don't have an answer for you.” She stood and began gathering plates. “Why don't you go sit on the swing. I'll put the coffee on and join you.”

“Can I help?”

“Tomorrow, yes. We'll work out a system. But for tonight, you're my guest, so go make yourself comfortable.”

When Deborah returned she served coffee, then set a high-back chair where she could watch both him and the dwindling sunset. Together they watched the gold-streaked glory fade to ever gentler pastels, the day content with its work and bidding this corner of the world a fond farewell.

“I've sat out here captured by sunsets that ended two hours earlier,” she said quietly, “and listened to a thousand angels sing a hymn to the passing day.”

Cliff searched the dark, trying to fathom how she could speak with such peace. “Don't you ever grow angry at how life's treated you?”

“Less and less often,” Deborah replied. “I don't like plugging up the eyes and ears of my heart any more than I absolutely have to. Anger is too expensive an indulgence when you've learned what beauty the moment can hold.”

“Maybe for you,” Cliff said. “If something like that happened to me, I'd have lost it completely.”

“I almost did,” she admitted. “Anger comes in various stages. I learned that in my dark days. That's what I call them now, how I remember them. They were filled with the worst kind of anger—helpless, endless silent screams. There's no kind of fury worse than hopeless rage.”