"Could it be appendicitis?"
"The doctor ordered blood work first thing. Her white count is elevated, but not significantly. Red count was normal. EKG was within the acceptable range. She's scheduled for more tests, including an ultrasound in the morning. At the moment, she's resting as comfortably as can be expected."
"I'd like to speak to her doctor," I said.
"That's not possible. Dr. Deweese was at a stag party at the VFW when he was called, and he's gone back there. I can't page him unless there's an emergency."
Before I could argue, she hung up. I called Estelle and repeated what I'd learned, then watched a cockroach mosey across the floor while she faulted herself for everything that had gone wrong since the dawn of civilization, including Hiram's barn, Ruby Bee's abscessed tooth four years ago, and my failure to provide grandchildren.
When she ran down, I said, "I should be there in six hours or so, but I'll go by the hospital before I find your hotel. Call the desk and authorize them to give me a key to your room so I won't have to wake you."
"You think I'm going to get a wink of sleep tonight?" she said indignantly. "What do you take me for? I'll have you know that I'd have spent the night in the waiting room if they'd let me."
She was still expounding on her role as thwarted martyr when I replaced the receiver. I threw some clothes in an overnight bag, switched off the lights, and went down the stairs to my car. Only when I reached the county line did I allow myself to imagine Ruby Bee stretched out on a hospital bed, her face ashen with pain, needles in her arms and a tube in her nose.
Luckily, there was no other traffic. If there had been, I wouldn't have seen it through my tears.
7
I don't remember much about the drive from Farberville to Mississippi. I suppose I must have stopped for gas and coffee along the way, and crossed the bridge at Helena, but I was too benumbed to do much more than keep my eyes on the road and periodically search for new radio stations as I left old ones behind me.
The hospital was on the edge of town. It looked more like an elementary school than a towering medical complex, but I was damn glad to see it. There were only a few lights on inside, which was not surprising at that unholy hour. The main door was locked, the lobby dim and unoccupied. I tapped on the glass with my car key until a custodian shuffled into view and let me in.
Fifteen minutes later I was back in my car. Ruby Bee was asleep, her condition unchanged, her appearance no better or worse than I'd imagined. Dr. Deweese would be available in five hours. Hanging around the waiting room would accomplish nothing, and I needed sleep.
I headed north. The casinos were alongside the Mississippi River in a string of almost nonexistent towns. I spotted the sign for The Luck of the Draw and drove down a winding road that took me into a vast parking lot. I appropriated a space near the hotel entrance, grabbed my bag, and went into the lobby. Although it was better lit than the one at the hospital, it was not a good deal livelier. I fended off a bellman who believed with misguided optimism that he might earn a tip for carrying my bag fifteen feet, explained the situation to the very dim teenager posturing as a desk clerk, and eventually ended up with a plastic card that would allow me into Estelle's room.
I'd found the elevator and gone so far as to punch a button, when I realized I was too wound up to sleep. I was also reluctant to face Estelle and be treated to another round of self-incrimination. After six hours of time to brood, she might have regressed to the point of accepting blame for the unfortunate incident in the Garden of Eden, if not the annihilation of the dinosaurs or the Big Bang in all its cosmic splendor. Estelle is not one to take herself lightly.
It occurred to me that a nightcap might do the trick. I went to the end of the hallway and into the casino proper. It looked very much like the casinos I'd haunted a couple of times in Atlantic City. Acres of slot machines with bells and whistles promised instant wealth to players who'd long since gone to bed. Beyond them, the more sedate blackjack tables, a few sparsely populated. A group surrounded a craps table; volume indicated they were having a great time frittering away their hard-earned cash. Waitresses with skirts short enough to expose the bottoms of their buttocks glided between the tables, deftly balancing trays of drinks and empty glasses. Men in suits kept a prudent eye to make sure a good time was being had by all.
I stopped for a moment to watch an elderly woman on a stool in front of a slot machine. This was no one-armed bandit; the only thing required of her was to put a coin in the slot and push a button. She did so as if she were a robot on an assembly line, never pausing as the tumblers whirled or even glancing down when coins cascaded into a metal tray. Her face showed neither pleasure nor disappointment; she could have been feeding coins into a furnace vent. It seemed likely, if she kept up her rhythm, that her heirs would be disappointed when the will was read.
I continued in the direction of the blackjack tables. If the policy was like that of the Atlantic City casinos, drinks would be free to those who were gambling. A bit of cunning was in order. I found a table where two men were gazing intently at cards being flipped at them by a bored middle-aged woman in a tuxedo.
I sat on the stool at one end of the table and smiled brightly at them. "Is this what they call twenty-one?" I asked. "I used to play it when I was a kid, but I don't remember all the rules. Is anything wild?"
"Go play the slots," said a man with oily black hair and a cigarette dangling from his lip à la Humphrey Bogart. He scratched his fingernail on the green felt for an additional card, and then threw up his hands when the card, not to his liking, was tossed at him. "What is it with you dealers? Do you get a cut of my losings?"
I hoped he wasn't armed.
The second man, who had less hair but a kindlier disposition, nodded at me. "It's basically the same game, but it's called blackjack. In French, vingt-et-un." He nodded at the dealer. "Hit me, honey."
"Maybe I should watch for a minute," I said. "Could I possibly have a drink?"
"Drink!" yelled the dealer. She snapped down a card and waited without interest for further instructions.
A few minutes later, a waitress appeared at my side and agreed to bring me the classic Southern drink-a bourbon and Coke. When she returned, I tipped her a dollar, wished the two men luck, and slipped off the stool to walk off the soreness in my own decorously covered buttocks.
I headed in the direction of the noisy camaraderie of the craps table. People stood two deep around it, pressing against each other, cheering or groaning with each roll of the dice. At least, I thought, they were getting something for their money. When they found themselves back at work Monday morning, they could relate melodramatic tales of fortunes that had slipped through their fingers like fistfuls of smoke.
The drink was watery, but it seemed to be easing the taut muscles in my neck and back. I was beginning to feel as though I might be able to fall asleep when I saw what I dearly hoped was a figment of my exhausted mind. Surely not, I told myself as I stared at Jim Bob Buchanon as he flung dice onto the table and shouted something unintelligible.
His next remark was crystal clear, if contextually obscure. "Aw, shit! I knew I should have stayed on the hard eight."
"May I help you, miss?" asked a satiny male voice from behind me. "Would you like to sit down?"