He nodded, and the nurse stuck a thermometer in his mouth. He had never been sick a day in his life. That’s what good hard work did for you. Until this complete disintegration of his body. Now nothing worked right. His one hand tried to keep at it, but the rest of his body had gone kaflooey.
She pulled the thermometer out of his mouth and looked at it. “Normal.” Then she leaned in close to him, and he could see that she was young and pretty. “Do you want anything?”
He wanted so much. But he shook his head. Better not to try.
“Oh, look who’s here. Your wife.”
For a crazy moment, he thought Florence had finally come to get him. He felt as though he was waiting so hard for her. But then he saw that it was Patty Jo. Could get a little snappy sometimes, but she had been there for him.
“Hi, Walter.” She sat down in front of him and talked loud. Patty Jo had always had a voice on her, and since his stroke, she insisted on shouting at him.
He nodded to her.
“I had a visitor yesterday. That daughter of yours.”
Margaret and Patty Jo had never gotten along. Or at least not after he had married Patty Jo. He wasn’t sure why. Patty Jo had explained to him that Margaret was jealous, thought she could keep her dad to herself. “You spoiled her, Walter. It’s your own fault.”
Somehow so much was his fault. Patty Jo delighted in pointing out his mistakes. But she had helped him out so much when Florence died. He didn’t know what he would do without her.
Patty Jo tapped him on the knee. “Margaret is trying to tell me what to do, Walter, and I don’t care for her tone. She seems to think she knows better than me. I’m your wife, after all. I make the decisions. She can’t seem to understand that.”
Walter felt very tired. The world seemed to twist and tilt on its own. Then he wanted to close his eyes and make it go away.
“But she said you could write, Walter. That’s such good news. Can you show me how you can write? Would you write your name for me?”
She put a pen in his good hand.
“Can you sign your name, Walter?”
He nodded.
“Let’s try a practice run.” She put a paper under the pen and he wrote his name. He couldn’t see it, but he remembered how to do it. You don’t forget how to write your own name.
She looked at it and said, “Walter, you have to concentrate. That looks like a kid in kindergarten did it. Just a big, jumbled mess.”
He tried again. He was doing the best he could. Margaret knew how to help him do it.
Patty Jo looked at his signature. “Not good enough. I guess I shouldn’t have believed Margaret when she said you could write. She thinks you know what’s going on, but you don’t. I can go ahead and sell the farm without your signature. She won’t be able to stop me.”
Walter was so worried about the farm. His old friend Edwin had come in and told him that Patty Jo was going to sell the farm. Now she’d said it too. She shouldn’t do that. They needed to keep the farm. The farm was his. He would be going back to the farm as soon as he could. He had lived there all his life.
He grabbed Patty Jo’s arm and tried to ask her about the farm. His mouth moved and sound came out, but it was as bad as his writing, all jumbled.
She took his hand off her arm. “I know, Walter. I’ve asked the nurses to keep Margaret away from you. I think she upsets you too much.”
His Margaret. The sweetest girl in the world. She had such beautiful blue eyes. Like her mother. He needed to close his eyes.
Patty Jo leaned in and whispered to him, “You won’t be in here much longer. I’ll take care of you.”
He hoped she was right. All he wanted to do was go home.
CHAPTER 5
After school, Meg ran to the barn and sat on the top bar of one of the old stalls. Harvey watched her from his stall as she watched him. It was a comfortable viewing, each of them patient and curious. Meg felt as though she were drinking the animal in.
Harvey would be going home tomorrow, and she might never be friends with an elk again. From the first moment she had seen the elk, there had been a connection between them.
She had a cut-up apple in her pocket. She watched him wrinkle his nose as she offered him a piece.
“Do you smell it?” She hopped down and came closer to him. He was safe in the stall, so she didn’t need to worry about him running away, but she did move as slowly and carefully as she could so as not to spook him. She could smell him. He gave off a forest odor that was a mixture of goodness and grossness: rotting leaves, wild plums, muck stewed in tree hollows.
Meg had cut the apple into six pieces. She knew he was fully capable of eating the whole apple by himself, probably in one big bite, but she wanted to dole it out so that she could watch him and so that he really knew where the apple came from. That it came from her. Maybe he would always remember her when he ate apples.
She held the first piece up to his nose to allow him to sniff it. She held her hand flat. She didn’t want Harvey to accidentally nibble at her fingers. He lifted his lips back, if that’s what they were called—the rim of his mouth around his teeth. He had big teeth. They looked like petrified wood, but lighter. He pulled at the apple section with his lips and sucked it into his mouth.
In school she had told her friends that they had an elk staying at their house.
“Aren’t you scared of it?” Miranda Wales asked.
“No,” Meg explained, remembering what the vet had told her. “Elks that have been bottle-fed are one of the tamest animals there are.”
“You going to kill it and eat it?” Ted Thompson asked. He thought he was so smart.
He actually was pretty smart. That was one of the things she liked about him. And she liked the way he wore his watch. He wore it turned over, so the face was on the underside of his wrist. When he looked at it, he had to turn his wrist. Then time seemed his very own secret.
“No way,” she said.
“But you kill and eat all those pheasants.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“They were raised for that.”
Meg wondered what Harvey had been raised for, why the Reiners had elk. She knew that sometimes people raised animals just to let them loose and hunt them. The English did things like that on their grand estates.
She fed Harvey his next piece of apple. He sucked it up faster than the first. Maybe they hadn’t been feeding him enough.
“Harvey, who shot you?” she said out loud.
Harvey shook his head.
Meg laughed. “You don’t know? You didn’t get a chance to see them?” She gave him another slice of apple. “My mom will find out.”
Harvey stood still, then looked over her shoulder.
Meg whirled around and saw her mother standing by the barn door. “How’s he doing?”
“Good,” Meg said. “You want to feed him some apple?”
“No, but I’ll watch you do it. Then you need to come in for dinner.” Her mother walked up closer but stayed behind Meg.
“I’m going to miss him, Mom.”
“I think I will too.”
“We need to have either a new kid in this family or a dog.”
Her mother gave a yelp of a laugh. “You don’t want all the attention focused on you?”
“Not particularly. I want someone else for me to think about and worry about and fuss over.”
“Well, Rachel will be just up the street.”
“That is so cool, I can hardly believe it.”
“Will that do for the moment?”
Meg felt as though it was a trick question. “How about a horse? To keep Aunt Bridget’s horse company.”
“We’ll see.”
“Did you find out who shot Harvey?”
“No.”
“Then how can we send him back there? What if they do it again, only this time they don’t miss?”
“It’s not up to us. Mr. Reiner, his owner, is willing to take that risk. I’ll keep a close eye on him and that property.”
“Mom, because you’re a deputy sheriff, I always know all the bad things happening in this county.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t know.”
“Sometimes I wish you didn’t too. Do you want me to stop telling you?”
“No. I guess I just wish they would stop happening.”
Her mom picked up a slice of apple. “Okay. Let me try.” She held it out and tensed up as the elk’s nose came down and sniffed her hand.
“Don’t drop it, Mom.”
Then Harvey gently picked the apple slice off her hand.
“Bad things won’t stop happening, Meg. But things really aren’t so bad. You never know how they’re going to turn out. If Harvey hadn’t been shot, you never would have met him.”
Meg nodded. “I never would have had the chance to feed a real elk a piece of apple.”
Claire sat outside on the front porch and watched the sun set. She could hear Rich banging around in the kitchen. On her way home from work she had stopped and bought a pizza. A farming couple baked them in an outdoor wood-fired oven, and she had ordered one covered with end-of-the-season tomatoes and grilled peppers. Stopping to get the pizza counted as having made dinner, so according to their home-management agreement, Rich had to do the dishes. Meg had emptied the dishwasher and then run upstairs to do her homework.
But now Claire wanted Rich to stop fussing around in the kitchen and come sit next to her to watch the sun slip away. She felt incredible happiness, tinged with sadness. Sadness that this sliver of time would not last, that this moment of her life too would end.
As if he’d read her mind, Rich slammed open the door with his hip and brought out the garbage.
“Come and watch the sun set,” she said.
“Let me put this in the garbage can.”
“This is only going to last another moment. Can’t you stop and watch it?”
He must have heard something in her voice because he threw the garbage bag down the stairs and came and sat next to her, leaning into her side.
“The days are getting shorter,” Claire said, as if it explained her need for him.
“It happens every year.”
“I know, but every year I regret it.” She reached out and took his hand. “I’m happy.”
He smiled over at her. “I’m glad. So am I.”
“It scares me.”
“You, the big tough cop?”
“I’m a marshmallow.”
He dipped his head and kissed her lightly. “I like marshmallows.”
“We’ve been living together for over a month.”
“Yeah, it’s been great.” Rich squeezed her shoulder.
“We haven’t had a fight yet.”
“Do you think we’re overdue?”
“I just wonder what it will be about.”
“The dishwasher disagreement doesn’t count?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“The pizza was great,” he said.
“Changing the subject?”
“I don’t feel like we need to rehearse our first fight. It will come in its own good time.”
“How was your day?” Claire asked.
“Busy. Loaded up another truckful of pheasants. Three more to go. How about you?”
“We haven’t gotten anywhere on what happened to the elk. It’s frustrating. The crime scene doesn’t make sense. No blood. Makes me wonder if they let him loose, then followed him and shot him in the woods. Not very logical, but criminals often aren’t that smart. All I can figure is it was intended as a message to Reiner.”
“Not a very clear one.”
“No. Not yet. And that’s what worries me. I’m afraid we haven’t seen the last of this.”
“Did you do any checking on Margaret’s situation with her stepmother and Walter’s farm?”
Claire knew Rich was fond of Walter Tilde. They were in a wood-carving group that met every Wednesday night. “I made some calls. It’s hard to know where she stands legally. Because Patty Jo has power of attorney, Margaret has to prove that Patty Jo doesn’t have her husband’s best interest at heart. How do you prove that? And in the meantime, Patty Jo is going to sell the farm. Margaret might not have anything to claim if she doesn’t try to fight this woman soon. I’m going to call her first thing tomorrow and get her moving.”
“Sounds like you worked hard.”
“Running in place is what it felt like.”
The phone rang, and Rich rolled over to look at the clock. Two in the morning. Must be for Claire. He nudged her. She moaned.
“Claire. Phone.”
She uncurled and sat on the edge of the bed. The phone rang again. “Hello?” Her voice sounded full of sleep. “Huh? Rich? Wait a minute.”
Rich sat up and turned on the light. Claire covered the receiver with her hand. “It’s for you. Some woman. She sounds drunk or something.”
Rich took the phone, totally puzzled at who it could be. A drunk woman? He hoped it wasn’t his ex-wife, but they hadn’t spoken in years. “Hello?”
“Rich, it’s your mother.” The voice that was saying this was one he had never heard before. So slowly and flatly was this woman talking that it sounded like a record that someone was playing at the wrong speed.
“My mother?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice.
“I know it’s late.”
He started to recognize his mother’s voice as his mind sped up the voice of the speaker. “Mom? What happened? Why are you talking so slow?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I don’t know, Rich. I don’t feel so good.”
“What’s the matter? Tell me.”
“I woke up and I couldn’t move my arm. I’m drooling. I never drool.”
He was afraid he knew what had happened to her. The knowledge shot through him like a jolt of electricity. He was an hour away from his mother. She needed help immediately. He had to get her off the phone. “Mom, you need to hang up so I can call 911. Then I’ll call Mrs. Swanson.”
“No, don’t bother her. It’s too late. I’m fine.”
“No, you need help. Can you hang up, Mom?”
“Yes, I can do that. But . . .” Her voice quavered in a way he had never heard before. “Rich, I wish you would come. I’m scared.”
“I’m on my way. Let me make these two phone calls, then I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Good, I’ll see you soon.” He hung up the phone.
Claire whispered, “Rich, what’s going on?”
“It’s my mother. Let me do this.” He dialed 911. “This is for Rochester, Minnesota. My mother lives there. Can you connect me?”
The call went through, and a woman answered. He gave his mother’s name and address. Then added, “I think she’s had a stroke.”
Claire stood up and pulled her bathrobe on. She went downstairs, and he heard her starting coffee.
Rich called Mrs. Swanson. She was an eighty-year-old woman who lived next door to his mother in an apartment. She answered the phone after three rings. No hello, just “Yes, who is this?”
He told her who he was. “My mother’s not feeling very good. I’m worried she’s had a stroke. I called the ambulance. Can you go sit with her?”
“Of course. I’ll go right over. Those strokes are nasty things. I’ll just walk right over in my bathrobe.”
“Thank you. I’ll go right to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry.”
After he hung up the phone, he shucked off his pajamas and grabbed the jeans he had worn the day before. A clean flannel shirt and socks and he was down the stairs.
Claire handed him coffee in his thermos cup. “Piece of toast?”
He waved her off. “I’m not hungry. Thanks.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, you’ve got a full day. You’ll have to get Meg off to school.”
“Call me as soon as you know anything.”
“I will.”
“I’m so sorry, Rich. I hope she’s okay.”
“I do too. She won’t be able to stand it if she isn’t.”
Claire laughed, then looked like she might cry. She put the back of her hand to her mouth. “Be careful. If a cop stops you, tell them what’s happened and they might escort you part of the way there.”
He kissed her and grabbed his jacket and was out the door.
The cool September air hit his face. No moon showed, and the stars were smeared across the sky. He wiped the dew off his car window with the back of his sleeve. He climbed in, started the motor, took a sip of coffee, and pulled out of the driveway. There would be no traffic at this time of night.
The dashboard clock read 2:20.
As Rich turned onto Highway 35 and headed south, he wondered what had happened inside his mother’s brain. How would he find her when he arrived?