The Healer of Harrow Point (3 page)

When I reached his office I wasn't sure what to do. I had never before just dropped by there to visit. I didn't know Dr. Banks all that well. I stood on the sidewalk and thought for a few moments, and my resolve weakened. But when I walked past the side of his office, there was Dr. Banks, standing on the cement walkway that led back to the animal runs, hosing off a pair of large wading boots.

“Thomas Singer,” he said with a crisp nod.

I was surprised he could place me so quickly.

“Hi, Dr. Banks,” I said, and because it seemed the natural thing to do, I walked over to talk to him.

He was wearing a heavy pair of weather-beaten overalls. The boots he was washing had been covered with mud and muck.

“Being a country vet,” Dr. Banks pronounced, “is messy work.”

“Do you like being a vet?” I asked.

“Yes I do,” he said. He reached over and shut the spigot off, and put down the hose. “You thinking of becoming a vet?”

I had never thought of becoming a vet.

“Maybe,” I said, because it seemed the polite thing to say.

“It's hard work,” Dr. Banks said. “It doesn't pay as well as some people seem to think, and the hours are long. But it has its rewards.”

This seemed a set piece on his behalf. I nodded, and then spoke quickly, before I had a chance to think.

“Dr. Banks, do you think someone could heal an injured animal just by touching it?”

Dr. Banks was a good man; he considered my question seriously a moment.

“The laying on of hands,” he said tentatively.

“Sir?”

“Part of the practice of medicine, the laying on of hands—touch, simple touch. You can calm an animal, a domestic animal that is used to being handled, by holding it, stroking it.”

I frowned. “I mean, take a deer, an injured deer. Could someone ...” and I simply stopped. On one level the question was consuming me, and yet I couldn't
speak the words in a plain and direct way. On another level I already knew the answer; I had seen the answer myself.

Dr. Banks, who had a tendency to do or say slightly odd things now and then, seemed to hum or sing a snatch of a tune under his breath. I got only a muffled “that's for me” at the end.

“Sir?” I was confused. I didn't know if he was making fun of me.

“Have you ever been to one of those old tent revival meetings?” he asked me. “You know, I think they still have them now and then out at Meadow Falls. And they'll have some old time healings there, in the spirit of the Lord.”

“Do you believe in that?” I asked, quite earnestly.

“These are matters you should discuss with your parents,” Dr. Banks said, picking up his boots and turning to the side door of his office. “And I have patients to see.”

“Okay, but Dr. Banks, just tell me this ...” and again I was stumped. I just stood there, frustrated, feeling that I was close to something I needed to know. My fists were clenched at my sides.

Dr. Banks stood in front of me, impatient, forbidding. With a boot in each hand he swung them together lightly, so they just tapped, once, twice. Then he set the boots back down.

“I don't know how the body heals, Thomas,” he said quietly. “I wish I did. There are things I can do for my patients, ways I can help them, but I've been around
long enough to know that most of the animals that get better here pretty much heal themselves. And then some don't, you know; they don't heal themselves, they don't get better. They just...” he waved his hand vaguely in the air. He didn't say “die.”

“And I've been to a couple of those tent meetings. Just to see, to watch. But I don't believe—”

I think I frowned. He shook his head, and continued, rapidly: “But that's not the point, what I believe. I think some of the people really are helped, really are helped to heal because they do believe. But I don't know how to make an animal believe, Thomas. It's a question I've rolled around in my head for some years. I try to be as gentle as I can with them, and confident, somehow, so they might sense that they are in good hands, but I don't know how to make them believe. So I don't know how anyone could help your deer. Not with only his bare hands.”

I nodded, slowly, solemnly.

“Does that answer your question, young man?” Dr. Banks asked me, a little sharply; but I sensed a rough kindness in his voice.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, and walked slowly away, and heard the side door of his office bang shut.

I walked down Main, looking at the sky. It wouldn't be light much longer. My pace quickened. I had about three or four miles to walk. It seemed I had more energy now, a lot more energy. I started to run, down where Main Street turned into Route 11 heading out of town. I plunged into the meadow land that bordered the
town and led out toward the woods where I had met Emma what felt like years before. I was running as fast as I could, feeling as light and quick as a fast-moving stream.

I was laughing, my eyes tearing from the cold and from the run. I circled, at a slow, dizzy trot, the base of the bramble-covered hill, deep in the woods, where Emma and I had talked.

“Emma!” I shouted. Then I bent over, catching my breath. I didn't have to shout, I thought. She knows I'm here. I was certain she would show up any moment. I was grinning. I was grateful to Dr. Banks. I felt like now I had some very specific questions that I could ask Emma.

Of course, I was wrong. For all his generosity, Dr. Banks had not left me much wiser than I had been before. But I felt that I had broken through the husk of this question that had consumed me the last twenty-four hours. I felt elated. I looked around me. The light was starting to fade; the sky above me was a lovely deep cobalt blue, edging slightly deeper and darker, second by second. A light, cool breeze wrapped through the trees. An involuntary shiver passed through me.

“Emma,” I said quietly, imploringly.

I hugged my arms around myself. I listened, strained to listen, to feel . . . something. My heart was pounding. I was too keyed up. There was nothing that I could feel. I waited another ten minutes or so, but Emma never appeared.

After school the next day I went straight out to the base of that bramble-covered hill. I had had such a clear dream the night before, of Emma leaning over the wounded deer: if anything the dream seemed sharper, more real somehow, than the event itself. I could see her, the creases in her face, a wince of pain passing through her eyes, into her neck and shoulders, then fading. There was a look in her face of deep concentration, and of peace. In the dream, which stretched on and on as if in slow motion, I stepped over to her, leaned over behind her, reached out to place my hand on top of hers. And awoke.

I was determined to see her again. I waited in the woods until dark, frustrated, angry even when she did not show up, but determined to walk, walk, walk the base of that dull, scraggly little hill day after day until
she appeared. I was there the next day, too, but by then my anger had faded, to be replaced, finally, by a long sorrow that left me sitting on a rock, the same rock she had sat upon days before, to catch her breath after lugging me through the woods. I was quiet, near tears. I wanted with all my heart to see her again.

The next day was Friday, and my father and I drove down to Parker's in my dad's old pickup truck. I was very happy. Somehow I couldn't be with my father and worry about seeing Emma at the same time. The truck was a great, noisy, smelly monster of a vehicle, as old as my father, or nearly so. He kept the cab clean, but still it smelled of oil and gas. The old, broad vinyl seat had a strange plastic musty smell of its own. We rocked and bounced down the road, unable to talk except by shouting, so we barely talked at all. It was okay, though. My father would look at me and grin now and then, that was all. In some ways that was all I needed in the world.

Parker's was a great old place. It was a country store of the old fashioned type, carrying just about everything a rural community could need. Parker's was in a cavernous old building that disappeared back from the road in various additions that had been tacked on over the years. The store was at a crossroads of sorts, just off the highway, and there was a little diner in the front, over on the side, where truckers would regularly stop and eat. Behind the diner was the general store proper, with groceries, lumber and hardware, toys and sporting goods. Some of the stock was so old it looked
as if it hadn't been touched in years: Honus Wagner baseball bats, a faded red sled with rusted rails. You half expected to come upon a bottle with a shrunken head in it. Parker's was a great place for a kid just to wander around and look at stuff: a cheap beginner's banjo, a fat laughing china Buddha, enormous beer steins with different famous buildings molded into the glass—one the Eiffel Tower, another the Taj Mahal.

I walked and walked, picking stuff up, having a fine time, but eventually I made my way up front and found my dad in the hardware section. He was getting some clips to hold together part of a wire fence he was putting up at the base of our garden. My mother kept a vegetable garden, but the deer were getting into it worse than ever that year, so my father, in what little spare time he had, was going to put up a taller wire fence to replace the short cross board fence that even I could step over.

“Hey sport,” he said to me. “See anything you just got to have?”

I shook my head. “No sir,” I said, “'cept we have to get our pie.”

He laughed. “No, we can't forget that. Here you go, then.”

He handed me the bag of clips and he hoisted up some other things that he was going to buy, a heavy mallet and some pointed metal stakes for the fence, and we headed up toward the front of Parker's.

After my dad paid for everything and we took it all out to the truck, we went back inside to the diner. We
settled into a booth and ordered burgers and cokes and two big slices of banana cream pie. The pie came on dinner plates, each slab a good three inches high. The banana cream pie was my favorite part of going to Parker's. I suppose it was the sort of pie only a child could love, but my father always made a sizable dent in his, too, before letting me finish his piece.

There were six or seven men in the diner that evening—truckers, mostly. I recognized a couple of them. My father might have known all of them, I imagine. We greeted each other and the talk flowed pretty easily. My father told them about the fence he was going to put up, and the trouble we were having with the deer.

“Those sons a' bitches will flat destroy a garden, won't they?” one fellow said.

“Well, they will,” my father agreed.

“Better make that fence high,” another man continued. “They'll hop right over it.”

My father nodded.

“I know something that'll work better than a fence,” the first man said. He held up his hands like he was holding a rifle. He crooked his finger and made the slightest little “click” sound with his tongue. Then he grinned at me.

“You going hunting this year, young fella?” the second man asked me.

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly.

“First day of hunting season is his birthday,” my father said.

“Is that so?”

“I gotta be on the road,” the first man said, shaking his head. “Hate to miss the first day.” He looked at me and sort of bugged out his eyes and cackled. “But I'll be right on their asses the day I get back.”

My father smiled. He reached over a bit suddenly, almost awkwardly, and patted me on the upper arm. I was looking past him, out of the window, looking out at a wide, empty field across the road from Parker's, part of someone's farm that seemed to stretch back for miles. For a moment, for just a moment, I felt so sad and distant.

“How's your pie?” my father asked.

“The best,” I said, pulling my attention back inside.

“I think I'm going to need some help here,” he said, and nudged his plate toward me.

“Okay,” I said, and glanced past his shoulder out the window again, not consciously really, and saw, for just a fraction of a second, the figure of a large woman striding along the edge of that distant field.

“I . . .” I think I was about to say, “I have to see something,” but even that would have taken too long. I bolted from the booth and out the front door of Parker's, which brought me only twenty paces or so from the highway. A tractor trailer hurtled past in a roar of noise and swirling dust. I ran quickly to the left, trying to get the same angle I had had from the diner window. I looked out across the highway to the great, empty, rolling fields, one folded in behind another, for miles back to the base of a distant mountain range. Beautiful, vast, and empty.

The next morning was Saturday. I had made some excuse for my strange behavior the night before, and everything was fine between my father and me. He had to work that day, another twelve-hour shift, so I left the house early, right after breakfast, and headed straight out into the woods to the bottom of that same forsaken little hill, determined to stay there all day if I had to. I hadn't been there three minutes when I heard the sound of footfalls through the leaves, and Emma appeared from around the west edge of the hill.

“Good morning, Thomas,” she said.