"You need to get a thorough checkup. I'll call Dinky Barlow."
Dinky Barlow was an internist at the hospital. He was unbelievably thorough.
"Honey, I'm fine."
"I'm the doctor." He tried to sound humorous.
"Probably need a B-12 shot." She smiled weakly. It would never do to tell Bill what was off was their relationship. They rarely communicated other than simple facts-like bring home milk and butter. Bill, like most doctors, worked long hours under great stress. He never quite adjusted to his patients dying, feeling in some way that it was a blot on his skills.
Marcy needed more. Bill had nothing left to give her.
Then again, he didn't look inward. As long as supper was on the table, his home kept in order and clean, he had nothing to complain about.
His silence, which Bitsy and Chris interpreted as hostility in their friend's marriage, was really exhaustion. He had little time for chatting up his wife and none for her girlfriends, whom he thought boring and superficial.
Bill flipped open his mobile phone, dialed, made an appointment for his wife, then flipped the phone so it shut off. "Next Tuesday. Eight-thirty A.M. Dinky's office."
"Thank you, honey." She hated it when he managed her like that but she said nothing, instead changing the subject. "You didn't want to go to Charlie Ashcraft's funeral?"
He swirled his chair to speak directly to her. "Marcy, the last place I ever want to go is a funeral," he ruefully said. "Besides, he was an empty person. I've no time for people like that."
"But doesn't it upset you just a little bit that someone in your class was killed? Murdered?"
"If it were anyone but him, maybe it would." He sat up straight. "You know what gets me? Death is part of life. Americans can't accept that."
"But Charlie was so young."
"The body has its own timetable. In his case it wasn't his body, it was his mind. He brought about his own end. Why be a hypocrite and pretend I'm upset? As I said, my dear, death is a part of life."
"But you get upset when a patient dies."
"You're damned right I do. I fight for my patients. I see how much they fight. Charlie squandered his life. I wish I could give my patients those hours and years that he tossed aside." He glared at Marcy. "Why are we having this argument?"
"I didn't think it was an argument."
"Oh." Confused, he slumped back in his chair.
She continued watering, moving to the boxwoods, which were far enough away to retard conversation.
16
The 1958 John Deere tractor, affectionately known as Johnny Pop, pop-popped over the western hay fields.
Bushhogging was one of Harry's favorite chores. She would mow the edge of the road, all around the barn and then clear around the edges of her pastures and hay fields.
The hay needed to be cut next week. She'd arranged to rent a spider wheel tedder to fold the freshly cut hay into windrows. Then she'd go back over the flattened, sweet-smelling hay with an old twine square baler.
Hard work in the boiling sun, but Harry, born to it, thrived.
Today she chugged along in a middle gear, careful not to get too close to the strong-running creek.
The horses stayed in the barn during the day in the summers, a fan tilted into each stall to cool them and blow the flies off.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were hanging out at the spring house. The cool water running over the stones produced a delightful scent. The mice liked it, too.
Tucker, sprawled in the center aisle of the barn, breathed in and out-little no-see-ums rising and falling with each breath-like an insect parasol opening and closing.
Harry loved this patch of Virginia. She had great pride in her state, which boasted two ancient mountain ranges, a rich coastline fed by three great rivers, and a lushness unimaginable to a Westerner. But, then, the Westerner was freed from the myriad gossamer expectations and blood ties inherited by each Virginian. So much was expected of a Virginian that ofttimes one had to escape for a few days, weeks, or years to rejuvenate.
A poplar tree downed in an early-summer storm loomed ahead. Harry sighed. She had to cut up the big tree, then drag the sections and branches to those places in her fence line that needed repair. Poplar didn't last as long as locust, but still, it was for free, not counting her labor.
She cut off Johnny Pop and dismounted. The spotted tree bark remained home to black ants and other crawlies. Although flat on its side, roots exposed, the crown of the poplar was covered in healthy green leaves.
"Life doesn't give up easily," she said aloud, admiring the tenacity of the desperately injured tree.
She bent over the creek, cupped her hands and washed her face. Then she let the tumbling cool water run over her hands.
It suddenly occurred to her that her feelings about Charlie Ashcraft as an individual were irrelevant. The swiftness of his end sobered her. Security was a myth. Knowing that intellectually and knowing it emotionally were two different things.
She shook her hands, enjoying the tingling sensation. The sensation of death's randomness was far less pleasant.
"Given the chance, I'll fight to the end. I'll fight just like you." She patted the thick tree trunk before climbing back onto the tractor.
17
"Smells okay." Tucker twitched her nose.
"You rely on your nose too much. You have to use your other senses." Pewter sat impassively on the sofa, watching Tracy Raz carry a duffel bag over his shoulder.
"Think this will work?" Tucker, also on the sofa, asked.
"Yep." Mrs. Murphy, alertly poised on the big curving sofa arm announced, "Tracy Raz will be a godsend."
"'Cause of the money? Mom's new truck payments don't leave much at the end of the month." Tucker, conservative about money, fretted over every penny because she saw Harry fret. A rent check of five hundred dollars a month would help Harry considerably. Tucker was grateful to Mrs. Hogendobber for sitting down both Harry and Tracy Raz to work out a fair arrangement.
"That, too, but I think it's going to be great for Mom to have someone around. She's lived alone too long now and she's getting set in her ways. Another year and it'd be-concrete."
Pewter and Tucker laughed.
Harry led the athletically built man upstairs. She walked down a hall, the heart pine floor covered with an old Persian runner, deep russet and navy blue. At the end of the hall she opened the last door on the right to a huge bedroom with a full bath and sitting room. "I hope it suits. I turned on the air conditioner. It's an old window unit and hums a lot but the nights are so cool you won't need it. There's always a breeze."
Tracy noticed the big four-poster rice bed. "That's a beauty."
"Grandmother gave it to Mom as a wedding present. Grandma Hepworth was raised in Charleston, South Carolina."
"Prettiest city in the country." He walked across the room, turned off the air conditioner, and threw open the window. "The reason people are sick all the time is because of air-conditioning. The body never properly adjusts to the season."
"Dad used to say that." Harry smiled. "Oh, here are the keys although I never lock the house. Let's see, I'm usually up by five-thirty so I can knock off the barn chores. If you like to ride you can help me work the horses. It's a lot of fun."
"Rode Western. Never got the hang of an English saddle." He smiled.
"I can't promise meals. . . ."
"Don't expect any. Anyway, Miranda told me you eat like a bird."
"Oh, if you don't shut your door at night the animals will come in. They won't be able to resist. Any magazines or papers you leave on the floor will be filed away-usually under the bed. If you take your watch off at night or a necklace of any sort put it in your bureau drawer because Mrs. Murphy can't resist jewelry. She drags anything that glitters to the sofa, where she drops it behind a cushion."
Mrs. Murphy, curiosity aroused, followed them upstairs. "I resent that. You leave stuff all over the house. With my system everything is in one place."