But before she could answer, her husband brusquely put down the phone. “He’s not having a good morning,” he said to her, interrupting us as though he had been in our conversation all along. He was looking straight at his wife. “The new doctor is going to see him at one-thirty. I better get up there now.” He regarded me for a long, awkward moment. Then he said, “What do you want here, old man?”
“James!”
“Hold on, Annie. I’d just like to know what he wants from us. It can’t be an accident that he’s come today. Your buddy Mr. Finch at the bank didn’t ask you to drop by, did he?”
It was a strange notion, and I had no reply.
“Well, you can tell him anyway he’ll have the whole place soon. Lock, stock and barrel. We wish we could sell it, but do you know what the place is worth? I bet you have an idea.”
“I can’t say, Mr. Hickey.”
“Sure you can’t. You only say nice things, I guess. Should I tell you? About two-thirds what you sold it to us for. I’d have to find another hundred grand to clear the mortgage, after selling it. So it looks like foreclosure instead.”
“He’s not in the least at fault, James,” Mrs. Hickey scolded. “So just please shut up now.”
“This isn’t blame, dear. I’m not blaming anybody,” Mr. Hickey replied. He was regarding me with much umbrage. “This is just information. Mr. Hata appreciates knowing what’s happening in his town. We don’t need a mayor because we have Mr. Hata. I’m sorry—Doc Hata. I never understood why you’re called that when it’s obvious you’re not a doctor.”
“I don’t refer to myself as one.”
“That you don’t. That’s true. But you seem to like the title. And I think it fits you, too.”
Mrs. Hickey said, “Sometimes I despise you, James.”
“Sometimes I despise me,” her husband replied, suddenly looking hurt. He stared down at his feet. Then he tried to embrace her, but she turned away. “Oh, hell with it,” he said, snatching his windbreaker from the rack on the wall. “Hell all.” He marched out, leaving the door wide open.
Mrs. Hickey gathered herself and shut the door behind him. She was quite angry, though it was clear she was also deeply embarrassed and sorry for me. I told her she shouldn’t worry about my feelings being hurt, for it was obvious her husband was under a terrible strain. Mrs. Hickey thanked me for my kindness, and though I assented, I didn’t truly feel that it was kindness, on my part. Not really at all. It was an understanding, if anything. For I should say that I know from experience that the bearing of those in extreme circumstances can sometimes be untoward and even shocking, and we must try our best to understand what is actual and essential to a person, and what is by any indication anomalous, a momentary lapse that is better forgotten than considered time and time again, to little avail.
Mrs. Hickey asked if I might stay and talk a little while, and I was glad to. She told me more about her son. It was true what I’d heard, that his heart was congenitally diseased, and he was now in urgent need of a transplant. He was on the national registry, of course, and because of his age and condition almost at the top of the list, but the dysfunction had accelerated, and the doctors now told them that he was in real danger, that it was coming down to a matter of months, if a suitable donor wasn’t located. This besides the fact that after two and a half years, they were almost out of insurance.
I had also visited on the day they were to inform the bank what their decision was about refinancing their mortgage, which was six months in arrears. Business wasn’t booming, given that the local economy was in recession (which seemed to befall the area, unfortunately for the Hickeys, a short time after they bought my store), and that Sunny Medical Supply now had to compete with a franchise of a large regional supplier, which had opened in the neighboring town of Highbridge.
And yet with all this negativeness, Mrs. Hickey was still cheerful, joking and kidding and trying to put the best face on things, telling me how she took strength from Patrick, who never once complained about sleeping at the hospital, or eating the food. I had never actually met the boy, though I thought I could see him easily in his mother, whose sanguinity and resolve I admired without bound. I pictured him with her fair coloring and giddy spray of freckles, and the same sea-blue eyes, and then, too, possessed of the odd calm that very young children can sometimes have, even when they understand that dark fates may be near.
Eventually some customers came in, and I urged Mrs. Hickey to attend to them, while I should be getting on home. But before I could leave the store she had come over to see me out.
“Would you like to come see him sometime?” she asked me. “We take shifts, so you wouldn’t have to worry about James, if you came when I was there. I could call you from the room.”
“I’d be very happy to meet him,” I said. “Anytime you wish to call me.”
Mrs. Hickey seemed pleased, and she stepped outside. It was a social custom, strangely enough, that she’d picked up from watching me years before, the polite duty of a host or proprietor in bidding a respectful goodbye. It brought a warm feeling to my chest to have her come out accompanying me. But the customers were still inside, and I asked her please to go back and attend to them. I very nearly bowed, as if that might convince her, but then she did go in, and I’d already turned down the street when she called out to me once more.
“I just remembered,” she said, her face brightening as she approached me. She was holding a dusty box, the kind photographic paper comes in. “I was cleaning out the storeroom last week, and I found this in an old briefcase. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but look inside. There are all kinds of neat pictures in there.”
I could hardly remember leaving anything personal behind in the store.
“I noticed there’s a young woman in many of them,” Mrs. Hickey said. “She’s very pretty. She’s in quite a few, with you. Is she a relative?”
“Yes,” I heard myself reply, accepting the box from her. “You must be talking about Sunny.”
“Sunny? Did you name the store after her?”
I said, “I suppose I did.”
“Where is she now?”
“She came from Japan,” I said, “many years ago, and stayed for some schooling. She went back.”
“Well, she’s certainly lovely. She must be a grown woman now.”
“Yes,” I said, taking my leave. “I haven’t seen her in quite a long time. But thank you.”
“Will you call about our walk?”
“Yes.”
“And Patrick, too?”
“Yes.”
Before she could say any more I quickly made my way down Church Street, following it to the traffic square where it meets River and then Mountview, which is the street I live on. As I climbed the gentle rise of the old road, I wished that I hadn’t spoken inaccurately about Sunny to Mrs. Hickey, but the moment, like so many others, passed too swiftly, as I didn’t feel I could explain things without further complication and embarrassment. I went the half-mile to the road’s crest, where the house I bought nearly thirty years ago stands amid a copse of mature elm and oak and maple. Inside, the house was warm and lighted. As usual I’d left the lamps on in the hall and kitchen, and I turned them off before going upstairs. I often prepared myself an early dinner of soup noodles or a casserole of oden with rice, but I decided to go straight up to my bedroom and read. It wasn’t until the middle of the evening that I stopped, when it occurred to me that I should at least have a snack, so that I wouldn’t toss in my sleep or wake up famished. I put on my robe and went out to the stairs, but instead of descending, I wandered down the hallway, to the far door, to the room where Sunny once lived.