LEEPING IN WASN’T PART of the routine that following morn ing, though he could have used the rest. Paul had spent the first two hours of the night reviewing what he’d said, another several hours dreaming of how he could have handled it better, and the rest rehearsing what he’d say to make things better. Nancy had quietly cried herself to sleep, and no matter what Paul said, she wouldn’t talk. He got up before dawn, showered, dressed, and shaved. Then it came to him—breakfast in bed. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, the whole nine yards.
Opening the fridge, he examined its contents. Cold cereal and orange juice would have to do.Don’s mornings were becoming predictable. Up by six-thirty, breakfast, help Kate with the dishes, and off to work. This day Cecily didn’t show up until eight. Don waited impatiently on the front porch.
“Sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she pulled away from the curb. Don spoke above the radio. “Ralph won’t fire me unless he fires you too.”Cecily giggled. “He’d never fire me. I’m too important to the company.”
“Me, too. He can’t fire a good powder man.”
Cecily turned a bit serious. “Do you know how many of our people started off in the powder shed?”
“From what I hear, no one ever lasts.” And now Don, smiling, knew why.
She grinned back. “Jeff hired on as powder man when he was finishing up his last year in college. Ryan, the shipper? Did powders just before shipping. Rex mixed powders ten or 12 years ago. And Ralph invented the formula almost 20 years ago. The powder shed is kind of like a testing ground to see how badly people want to work.” Cecily had made her point.
“So what you’re telling me is, that if I do a good job in powders, I’ll be the new V.P.”
“What I’m saying is, Ralph was impressed by your work.”
At last they pulled into the lot. “I’ll take your lunch,” Cecily offered. Don handed it over and set out to find Jeff. It was going to be a hot one today, he thought.
Jeff was on the forklift outside the shipping door. He glanced up as Don approached, glanced at his watch, then looked back up. “We start at eight.”
“I know. It won’t happen again....What’s on the docket today?”
Jeff’s reply was terse. “A few orders, then work on inventory.” Don had already tied on his apron and headed for the shed, embarrassed by his tardiness.
Deek awoke from surgery and blinked hard several times. A few people were milling about the room, waiting expectantly, each with a different reason for speaking with him. His eyes took several seconds to adjust, and his thoughts were still vague and distant.
“Hi, honey,” said Deek’s wife Dianne, gently stroking his arm. “How do you feel?”
A frazzled woman in her early forties, her dark brown hair with wisps of mounting grey was curled under in a bit of an old-fashioned look. Cut short like it was, it revealed both unpierced earlobes. She wore faded blue jeans, thin at the knees, a cotton shirt—wrinkled from the sleepless night—and house slippers. Her face bore the countenance of a loving mother, less concerned with the things of the world, more set on sacrifice. Each shallow wrinkle, connected to the others, much like the family tree of children she nurtured in her small home.
Deek rotated his head to the side. The question echoed in his ears, sounding far off. Each person in the room waited anxiously as he spoke.
“I don’t know,” he croaked, his lips sticking together as if painted with a pasty glue. “My mouth is dry.”
Captain Bingham pressed forward. “Do you feel like talking?”
Dianne turned away, saying, “The doctor said you could have a little ice.”
As she brought it around the opposite side of the bed, Bingham bulldozed ahead. “Officer Derickson,” he said in his most official, urgent voice, “we need to talk. I need every bit of information I can get as soon as you can give it to me.”
The memories of the night before were just starting to return. He’d been shot; he could remember the burning pain as he went down; he’d drifted in and out of consciousness during the minutes after it happened. He recalled hearing that “an officer is down.” And he’d opened his eyes as the paramedics lifted him onto a gurney, and Bingham’s voice asking him questions. The last thing he remembered was seeing the IV hanging above him during the ambulance ride.
“How bad was I hit?”
Dianne, having gone to get the nurse, returned. She maneuvered around Bingham. “Excuse me,” she said, the irritation in her voice and brusque manner reflecting her dislike of the man. Deek often spoke of him in less-than-friendly terms. She, too, felt that Deek should have gotten the captain’s job. Bingham stepped aside.
“You lost a lot of blood,” she said kindly, now addressing her husband. “The bullet and a piece of the bone nicked your artery. It was a good thing Mitch was close or you would have bled to death.”
Deek scanned the other faces in the room. Mitch was standing in a corner. “Thanks, Mitch. I should have waited in the car.” Deek tried to motion with his arm as he spoke. The pain made it difficult. “I didn’t think Howard would hurt anyone.”
The captain leaned forward. “Is that who it was? Howard Reid?”
“I’m not sure,” Deek struggled to say. “Didn’t get a clear view.” “What happened?” This time the captain was unremitting.
“I made sure Maryann was safely in her car, then I got in mine....As I started for the street, I thought I saw someone in the impound.” Deek paused to take in a breath. “I took a second look and saw steam coming from the old Chevy’s hood. You know, the one we took in on DUI from Howard.” Deek stopped again to rest.
Bingham shook his head, obviously confused. “The records indicate it was driven almost a hundred miles since we brought it in. Two bottles of whiskey from the impound inventory list were not in the vehicle, either.” He then waited for Deek to continue.
“When I looked at the gate, I could see the lock was missing....That’s when I called Mitch for backup. Then I got out and crouched down by the side of the gate. I didn’t expect to see anyone. Figured they were long gone. And if they were still inside, I didn’t want them to escape....” Deek’s strength was nearly spent.
Just then a short man, egg-bald, dressed in casual slacks and shirt, came into the room. “This man was seriously injured,” he said in disgust. “I want everyone out but the immediate family.”
“I’m Captain Bingham of the Mapleton—”
“I don’t care who you are,” interrupted the doctor, “this man is my patient and he needs rest.” His point made, he picked up Deek’s chart and began to browse through it. Mitch and several of the other visitors, already outside the door, waited to see how the captain would react. Despite his six-foot-one, 290-pound frame, he hadn’t remotely intimidated the doctor. He swallowed hard, then turned sharply and followed the others out of the room.
“Nurse, why did you allow those people in? I left strict instructions this man was to be left alone.” The doctor didn’t give time for an answer before he reopened the chart and asked Deek how he felt.
“I’ve been better,” he whispered, his lips sticking together.
The doctor braced himself as if he were lecturing in front of a class. “You’re a lucky man. The bullet entered your abdomen, perforated the lower intestine in six different places, struck and broke the number five transverse process of your lumbar vertebrae. A small fragment of the vertebra ricocheted off the bullet and nicked your ileal artery. Five minutes longer and you would have bled to death. You may lose the feeling and movement in your legs for a day or two, but I’m confident it won’t be permanent. The spinal cord was bruised from the blow, but it doesn’t appear to be seriously damaged.” Deek struggled to stay awake. “I’ll check back in a few hours, after you’ve had a good rest. We’ll check your reflexes then.”
He hung the chart back on the hook at the foot of the bed and left the room. Deek drifted back to sleep.
Paul carried the breakfast tray—that looked suspiciously like a cookie sheet covered with a dish towel—to the bedroom. On it was a small, carefully arranged bouquet of flowers, picked from in front of the apartment.
“Nancy,” he cooed, “how’d you like some breakfast?” She stirred but didn’t answer.
“Nance...Nancy.” He placed one side of the tray on the edge of
the bed and reached out to awaken her. Startled by his touch, she sat up swinging. The sudden tug of the blanket catapulted the tray off the bed and onto the carpet. Orange juice, milk and fragments of Raisin Bran were also slopped on the corner of the bed.
Nancy scowled wearily. “What was that?”
Paul smiled sheepishly. “Breakfast on bed?”
“What?...I was having a dream.”
Paul bent down to rescue the bouquet of flowers. He brought it
up, dripping with milk and orange juice, then picked a piece of cereal off one of the petals and popped it in his mouth. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for last night.”
Nancy’s scowl faded as she gave them a guarded sniff. “They smell really nice.” She cupped her hands under the blossoms to catch the dripping liquid. “Mmm, just like orange pansies.”
They both smiled. Then she patted the side of the bed, and said, “Sit down a minute....Paul, let me explain why I was so upset last night.” She went on to explain that she needed a little compassion and understanding when she was trying to express her feelings. She didn’t want Paul to defend Melvin—or anyone else who might have been outside. Nor did she need to hear that what she was thinking or feeling was “probably nothing.” What she did need to hear were the words, “I’m sorry,” or “How can I help?” or “Can I hold you?” Paul needed a little tutoring in how to treat his new bride.
“I’ll speak to Melvin, if it’ll make you feel better,” he told her. “No, maybe it was my imagination.”
“Just as I thought.” The words had formed themselves in his mouth
“You didn’t hear a word I just said!” screamed Nancy, rolling off the bed, stomping into the bathroom and locking the door behind her. Paul blotted up the mess on the floor, took the tray to the kitchen and returned to scrub the carpet. It took only a minute to remove the bed covers, which he dragged to the furnace room and stuffed in the washer. The water coursing through the pipes as Nancy showered, vibrated through the apartment.
Paul glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty. If he left for class now, he’d have time to pick up his books for tomorrow’s classes. He scribbled a note and left it on the table:
Dear Nancy,I’m sorry I stuck my big foot in my mouth—again. Stick with me, I’m a slow learner. I’ll be back from classes by three. I put the bedding in the washer. Please start it when you get a chance.
Love & Kisses, PaulHe was halfway out the door when Melvin greeted him, his voice like a squeaky hinge. “Good morning. I was just coming down to tell you I need to fix the leaky water heater in the furnace room, if that’s okay.”
Paul was caught off guard. “I’ll—I’ll tell Nancy.” He went back inside and shut the door.“Nance?” Paul rapped on the bathroom door and tried to enter. Locked. He could hear the shower still running. She must be unable to hear him over the sound of water on her shower cap, he thought. He went to the kitchen and wrote.
P.S. Melvin will be coming in today to fix the water heater, and the phone will be installed this afternoon.No sooner had Paul driven away than Melvin, a small toolbox in his hand, returned to the apartment, bounding down the stairs two at a time like a teenager. He knocked lightly on the door, took the keys hanging from the chain at his side and pulled them from the spring coil. He knew by heart which key it was that unlocked the door. He let go of the keys and they recoiled, jingling as they came to a stop at his belt. Entering the kitchen, he read the note. The water was still running in the bathroom on the other side of the thin wall as Melvin entered the utility room. With a few quick turns of the wrench, the leak appeared to stop—then he settled down to watch.