A Stranger's Wish (9 page)

I grinned. “Not if I can help it.”

As we ate our lunch, we talked about the morning’s message (he talked; I mostly listened as I hadn’t been able to pay much attention) and after that I shared how much I was enjoying my first weekend at the Zooks’. Then I found myself wanting to know more about what he was doing when not rescuing damsels in distress.

“What are you teaching?” I asked.

“A class in practical Christian living and one in night school on pastoral counseling.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“I’m opening a counseling center through the church. I like teaching, and it’ll help me until I get established, but my heart’s in counseling.”

“Like me and painting and teaching.”

“You’re a painter? I didn’t realize that. That’s great.”

“You sound like you actually mean it.”

“Of course I do. Don’t most people?”

“No. People tend to view it as a hobby at best, or at worst, a waste of time.”

“Are you good?”

I looked at him carefully and saw that he really wanted to know.

“Yes. I think I am. I may never qualify for the American Watercolor Society, but my work is good and constantly getting better. I have some paintings for sale at the Country Shop, and I’m talking with a couple of local galleries about handling some of my work.”

Clarke nodded as we rose to leave. “It’s too bad it’s so hard to make a living from things like writing and painting, but there’s no money in either unless you’re famous.”

Suddenly the nebulous wisp of recognition that had been bothering me took form. I stopped in the middle of the aisle and turned to face him.

“You!” I managed to say before he walked full into me.

The jolt caused me to lose my balance, and he grabbed me around the waist to keep me from falling. For a split-second we leaned against each other. Then he let go, casual, smiling. He seemed much less affected by our collision than I was.

“Have you any pressing plans for this afternoon?” he asked before I could say anything.

“I suppose not.”

“Want to go for a train ride?”

“Strasburg Railroad? I’ve never gone, but our kindergarten class goes there every year…are you really Clarke Griffin?”

“It’s great fun for adults too.” He grinned at me. “Yes.”

We got in the car and were quiet as Clarke maneuvered onto the road. Then we both spoke at once.

“They forgot the
J
.”

“Do you know my book?”

We smiled at each other.

“You first,” he said.

“They forgot the
J
on the cover. It just says Clarke Griffin.”

“So you do have my book,” he said with satisfaction. He tried to be casual. “Do you like it?”

“Fortunately, I can be completely honest and say yes. Of course, I’m only on page thirty-two.”

A little boy’s smile when he gets the new red bicycle he wants for his birthday had nothing on Clarke’s. I leaned back and looked at him speculatively.

“What?” he said.

“
It’s Up to You
is your first book, and it’s recently been released. Am I right?”

“How did you know?”

“I recognize the symptoms. You’re afraid to let your pride show for fear people will misinterpret it. You can’t believe you’ve actually written something that people will pay money to read. You’re afraid people won’t like it. And you’re concerned about being able to handle both the criticism and the praise.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you write too.”

“No. It’s just that I react that way whenever someone buys one of my paintings.”

We looked at each other with pleased understanding as we pulled into the parking lot at the Strasburg Railroad.

The railroad runs through the Lancaster County countryside from Strasburg to Paradise. We found seats, and while we waited for the ride to begin, we watched a young family in the seat ahead of us. The two small boys wore engineers’ hats, undoubtedly from the souvenir shop.

Suddenly the locomotive’s whistle blew, and the younger boy grabbed his mother in a panic and collapsed against her in tears. She held him gently, smiling at her husband over the boy’s head. Finally the train began to move, and the child’s curiosity overcame his fear. He settled back in his mother’s arms to enjoy the ride.

“Has your book sold well?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It’s a recent release. Too soon to tell.”

“If it’ll help, I’ll run right out and buy another copy.”

Clarke laughed. “And I’ll buy one of your paintings.”

“Bit of a financial difference.”

He shrugged. “It’s only money.”

“I’ve been working on the railroad,” I sang. I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Do you often burst into song?”

“Regularly. It’s one of my worst habits.”

“As habits go, it’s among the least offensive I’ve run into in a long time—and in my profession I run into some doozies.”

The train puffed to a halt on a siding behind the lumberyard in Paradise.

“The first lap of ‘The Road to Paradise,’” Clarke said. “Now they’ll move the engine from the front of the train to the back for the ride home.”

I leaned out the window and watched with interest as the men worked. The engine was detached from the train and steamed slowly past us on a parallel track.

“How will they turn the engine around?” I asked. “There’s no turntable or anything.”

“They don’t turn it around.”

“It goes all the way home backwards?”

“You don’t think the engineer knows about reverse?”

“But backwards the whole way?”

“It’s not like a car, you know. There’s no traffic to deal with, and you don’t have to worry that he’ll jump the tracks.” There was laughter in Clarke’s voice, but no mockery or sarcasm.

I looked at him witheringly. “Of course he won’t jump the tracks. Casey Jones would never do that.”

“Casey Jones, sitting at the lever,” sang Clarke in a loud and sound baritone. The little boys in the seat ahead turned to stare.

I laughed. “The secret is in not singing too loudly.”

After Clarke dropped me at church, I drove my buttercup car to the hospital.

“Mr. Everett Geohagan?” I asked the woman at the desk in case he’d been moved to a regular room.

“Coronary care, fourth floor, room 410.” She looked up from her computer screen. “No visitors.”

I went up to the fourth floor anyway, hoping that if I appeared assured enough, they would think I belonged there. The doors to the unit parted just as I arrived, and a weeping woman walked out. I slipped in.

My stomach was queasy as I searched for Mr. Geohagan’s room. I expected someone to grab me by the shoulder at any minute, a scary proposition for a rule-keeper like me.

“And just what are you doing here?” this mean person would yell at me. “Don’t you understand what Family Only means? Get lost! And don’t come back!”

But no one paid any attention to me even when I went into the room where Mr. Geohagan lay with tubes and wires fettering him to several machines. I was comforted by the steady patterns on the screens recording his heartbeat and other functions.

His eyes were closed, his face was pale, there was a slight purplish discoloration about his lips, and he looked what my grandmother would have called “peak-ed.”

He must have sensed my presence, because his eyes snapped open.

I smiled. “Hello.”

“Kristie Matthews,” he said in his whispery voice.

“You remembered!” I was pleased.

“Of course I remember. How could I forget the girl who’s been nice enough to call to see how I’m doing?”

“They told you?”

“It’s supposed to make me feel good.”

“The first time I called, I had an awful time.” I took the chair beside his bed.

Mr. Geohagan smiled, and his eyes moved to my cheek. “How’s your dog bite?”

“It’s going to be fine,” I said, automatically reaching up to the bandage. “It’s certainly nothing compared to your problem.”

He emitted a burst of air, which I took to be a laugh. “My health is the least of my problems.”

I blinked. It seemed to me that not much could be worse than some sort of coronary difficulty. The old ticker stops ticking, and it doesn’t matter about any of the other important things.

A nurse came in and started when she saw me. “You can’t be here,” she said.

“My niece,” Mr. Geohagan managed, and I smiled.

She shook her head. “Only immediate family. Parents, spouse, children.” She looked at me. “You’ll have to go. He’s too weak.”

“I am not.”

But clearly he was.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back,” I said.

And I did go back three days later, when they moved him to a regular room. He was still weak, but he was appreciative of my visit.

“I don’t want to talk about me,” he said when I asked how he was doing. “Tell me about you. What do you do?”

“For a living? I’m an elementary school art teacher.”

“Those children are lucky to be taught by someone like you,” he said kindly. “I know you’re very good. You certainly took charge of me last Saturday.”

I thought about my near panic and shook my head. “It was all a front.”

“Isn’t that what teaching sometimes is? Acting like you’re the authority when you’re not certain you’re even marginally qualified?”

“I think it’s a lot more than that, but you’re right about needing to be the authority. Kids need the structure that a firm but kind authority gives, though there are some kids who challenge you all the time.” Kids like Nelson Carmody Hurlbert, stepson of the candidate for U.S. Senate. He seemed to think that his high profile stepparent exempted him from following instructions and obeying rules. I finally managed to disabuse him of that idea, but I suspected that next week, when I saw him, I’d have to go through it all over again.

“Tell me about your students. I imagine you are looking forward to seeing them again.”

And so I did, starting with dear Nelson himself. What I had feared would be an awkward visit passed quite easily. In too short a time Mr. Geohagan became visibly weary, and I knew it was time to go.

“I mustn’t wear you out,” I said, rising.

“No one as delightful as you could do that.”

I grinned at the gracious compliment. “By the way, here’s your key.” I held it out to him.

“Keep it,” he wheezed genially. “I’ll be here for a while yet. You just hold on to it until I need it again.”

“Shouldn’t I give it to your wife or someone in your family? Or someone here at the hospital?”

“No,” he said quickly. “
You
are its keeper.”

I frowned.

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” He shook a finger in my direction. “I’ll tell you when I want it back.”

“Okay.” But I wasn’t happy and I didn’t understand.

“By the way, would you be willing to mail a letter for me?” He turned toward his night table.

I saw a couple of business envelopes resting there and recalled seeing them in his pocket Saturday. I reached quickly for the top one to save him the movement. “This one?”

I glanced at it and saw the addressee was Adam Hurlbert. “Hey, he’s my favorite candidate too. That Nelson kid I was talking about is his stepson.”

“I’m afraid it needs a stamp.”

“No problem,” I assured him. “I just bought a book of stamps the other day. In fact, they’re still in my purse. I’ll mail it on my way home. And if there’s anything else I can do for you, just ask.”

“Thanks.” He fell back on his pillows exhausted, and I left quickly. I dug out a stamp and mailed the letter at the sideways strip mall in Smoketown on my way home.

I spent the evening doing my final preparations for the beginning of school next week.

7

I
set my easel by the great sugar maple in the front yard, its massive canopy providing protection from the strong early September sun. My bag with its brushes, paints, pencils, paper towels, and assorted paraphernalia rested against the leg of my collapsible stool.

I took a large sheet of composition board and placed it on my easel. Then I taped a piece of heavy textured paper to it, working flat as watercolorists do. I hummed to myself as I took a plastic bottle from my supply bag and went into the farm house to fill it with water.