“The herbs. They poisoned you both.” He took the glass from her. “I can’t do much about the child now, but I can help you.” He set the glass to the side and pulled a pillbox from his rucksack. “This will help the pain and cramping.” He handed her a chalky tablet and the clear glass.
She drank them down together and swore water never tasted so sweet.
“Now eat something or that’ll tear a hole in your stomach.” He passed her the bread.
It melted in her mouth, and she was thankful to find comfort in familiar tastes.
“The pain should be better in a few minutes, but the bleeding could go on for a while.” He sat on the ground beside the makeshift bed and studied her thoughtfully. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Ha.” He scratched his head. “Just a kid.”
“I am not,” she contested and sat up the best she could.
Doctor Meriwether pushed a hand through his wavy hair, and it fell back like apple tree leaves shifted by the breeze. “When I was seventeen, I was mucking the stalls of my daddy’s barn, still wet behind the ears with a milk mustache. You’re too young to be mixed up with all this—war and these fellas,” he said, reminding Elsie that Robby waited outside.
Sweat trickled between her breasts. “With respect, Doctor, I have lived through more than you could ever imagine. I thank you for your help, and if I may ask for one more kindness: do not tell him. Please.” She looked to the door.
Doctor Meriwether followed. “Oh. I see.”
“No one can know.”
Their eyes met and held. The moth overhead pattered against the bulb. He smiled sympathetically, and she knew he’d keep her secret.
“I’m sure he’s eager to know how you are.” He stood.
Surprising them both, Elsie grasped his hand. “Thank you.” She didn’t want to let go, and he didn’t pull away. His fingers in hers felt as natural as her own body. She released before she grew too accustomed to his steady pulse.
Doctor Meriwether opened the door. “Alive and kicking,” he announced.
Robby came in rubbing sweat from his temples. “She okay?”
Elsie didn’t flinch. She trusted the answer before it was given.
“The little lady just needs rest and good food. You boys here will have to do without her pretty face for a week,” said Doctor Meriwether.
Robby patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll cook up some chicken noodle soup ASAP. And uh—” He turned them so their backs were to Elsie. “Command might get the wrong idea so … I was hoping this could stay between us. Patient-doctor confidentiality and all.”
Doctor Meriwether slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “I am well aware of the rules, Sergeant.” He turned to Elsie. “Stay off your feet until the cramping stops. Tonight and tomorrow, rest,” he instructed. “You’ll need to drive her home after you close up the kitchen,” he told Robby. “I’ll be around if you need me.”
The light of his eyes shimmered, and her breath caught. She wanted to follow him. She didn’t care where. But the tenderness of her belly and the moistness of her skirt shamed her still.
Chapter Forty-two
EL CAMINO VILLAGE APARTMENTS
2048 EL CAMINO REAL
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
MAY 5, 2008
After a long Monday, Reba sat on the balcony with a full glass of cheap white wine, a can of tuna, and two buttermilk biscuits baked from scratch the day before. The recipe was called “Shoofly Biscuits.” Deedee had clipped it out of one of Momma’s southern hospitality magazines and mailed it with the note:
There’s a lot of wisdom in that old song. I can’t help smiling when I’m eating these. Thought I’d share. Skip to my Lou, my darlin’.
Reba was willing to give anything a shot. The little blue devils of April had matured to full-grown doldrums come May.
She sipped her wine. “Freelancers have to understand that a deadline is a deadline,” she explained. “When they’re a day or two late, it means I have to cram all my work into the week before it goes to press, so there’s bound to be oversights.” She pulled the crusty top off a biscuit and threw it over the balcony railing to Shrimp. “I’m not superwoman! And where was Leigh? Shouldn’t she be double-triple-checking all our work before it goes to press? Isn’t that the job of an editor in chief? No, no, she’s too busy shaking hands and going to luncheons at Chez Panisse Café. Meanwhile I’m editing these ignorant, fluff-ball pieces about celebrity diets, fashion footwear, and restaurants using organic butter! Where are the real stories about real people?” She took a bite of bread, pulling hard with her teeth. “Hmm … a little dense. What’d you think?”
Shrimp had finished the biscuit and had proceeded to sniff the ground for misplaced crumbs.
“Of course you like it. You lick your balls too.” She ripped off another piece and tossed it over. “What was I saying?”
It was her fourth glass of wine. The day had been particularly hard: Leigh had admonished her in front of the whole office for allowing the May issue to be published with the profiled celebrity chef’s name incorrectly spelled; Riki hadn’t returned her call from over a week ago; Deedee e-mailed that she’d met an attorney named Davison and though she’d never ascribed to it before, she now believed in love at first sight; and to top it off, her kitchen sink had a leak that flooded the linoleum with an inch of standing water. She was convinced the cosmos was out to get her, so she prescribed herself a bottle of wine and escaped to the balcony.
“The take-home message for you, my little friend, is work sucks, love sucks, life sucks. I was better off in El Paso.” She set the glass down and forked tuna from the can. “By the way, where are your people? You live alone over there? No, somebody’s got to be cleaning up after you. Lord knows I feed you.” She retrieved her glass to wash down the fishiness. “God, I hope I can’t get sued for feeding the neighbor’s dog. Hey, how about you run some laps round the balcony. Work off those biscuits. Can’t have you getting tubby—like that guy who sued McDonald’s for making him fat. I’m no McDonald’s.” She nodded to herself.
The night sky was coppery from the city lights. Artificial white, yellow, and orange stars globed together around the bay. She missed the moon, among so many things in El Paso.
“Here.” She threw Shrimp the rest of the bread and listened to him lick and chew. “Glad somebody’s enjoying those things. I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe I overmixed or maybe I didn’t mix enough. Who knows!”
Suddenly, Shrimp came to attention on all fours, ears perked high, tail lifted like a radio antenna. The sliding glass door on his balcony slid open and a man walked out from the dark apartment. Shrimp scurried to him doing crazy eights between his feet.
“Hey, Jerry-G, looks like you already got dinner.” The man held a bowl of kibble in his hand. A half-eaten crust lay beside his wing-tipped shoe.
“Crap,” Reba whispered to herself and gulped the last of her wine. “Uh, hi,” she said as she rose from her rickety lawn chair. “I’m Reba. I just moved in—well, back in February—so I can’t really say just. But considering we’ve somehow managed not to meet until now, I might as well have just moved in. But your dog and I are old friends. I kind of got the impression that he’s alone a lot too, so I thought we’d keep each other company. Anyhow …” She took a deep breath. “Hi, neighbor!” She stuck her hand across the divide. It looked more like a wobbly butcher’s knife than a welcoming hand.
He laughed, set the kibble on the ground, and flipped on his balcony light. “Reba, you said?” He shook. “Jase DeLuca.”