As Good As Gone (9781616206000) (23 page)

But Ann fights off sleep and struggles to open her eyes. Ah, that's why everything turned white—her grandfather had been standing between Ann and the window, and he has now stepped back, allowing sunlight to rush in and fill that open space. Ann can see that her grandfather, having gotten what he wanted, is ready to be on his way.

He nods in the direction of the boy who fell from the truck. “I'll ask about another room for one of you.”

“It's okay,” Ann says. “I don't mind.” The truck itself could drive through the room, and she'd sleep right through it.

“I'll check back later,” her grandfather says. He takes his leave then by reaching out and touching Ann tenderly on the arm, the arm that is, of course, encased in plaster.

MARJORIE HAS TO BE
careful.

If she forgets to use her arms to raise herself from the mattress or twists too hard to one side, she receives a sharp pain at her surgical site that's like a hook's barb pulling at her flesh. And ever since she opened her eyes after the surgery, a headache has been waiting for her. If she so much as looks too quickly to the side, the constant quiet throb at the back of her head springs forth and pushes out every other thought.

So when the door opens and Bill peers in, Marjorie barely turns in his direction and even the smile she gives him is cautious and tentative.

“How are you doing?” he whispers. Visiting hours aren't until afternoon, but Bill has somehow found a way around hospital regulations.

“All right. Tired. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“We were afraid you were going to do exactly that.”

“That must be why someone's coming in every half hour to stare at me.”

He starts to sit down on the edge of the bed, stops himself, and instead settles for gently patting and stroking her forearm. His caress seems less like what passes between a man and a woman and more like the way an adult would touch a child.

“A hospital's no place to catch up on sleep,” Bill says. “We have to get you home where we can really baby you.”

“Believe me, once I finally leave here, the last thing I want is someone doing things for me.”

Bill clears his throat, and his hand stops moving on her arm. “I talked to Dad this morning.”

Marjorie's abdomen clenches, bringing her a strengthened current of pain.

“Did he call you or did you call him?”

“He called me. Us.”

“During the day?” Her hand drops to her abdomen as if she has to protect the surgical site from anything Bill might say.

“The kids are fine,” he rushes to say, “but Ann had a little accident, and she had to spend the night in the hospital.”

“An
accident
? What—?”

“A broken arm. Nothing serious. A broken arm and a bump on the head.”

Marjorie hasn't moved her head, but the pain surges forward anyway, washing her vision with darkness. “But the
hospita
l
! Bill, what happened?”

“That's still a little murky. She fell. Someone was after her—or she
thought
someone was after her—and she took a tumble.”

“Oh, my God, Bill! Someone was
after
her? Who—?”

“Easy. Take it easy. That's not for certain. Dad said Ann's going back and forth on that point.”

Marjorie puts both hands on her abdomen. “You have to go, Bill.
Now
. You go there and see how she is and try to find out what happened.”

“Dad's there, Marj. He's on top of the situation. And Dr. McKee's the doctor who's looking after her, so you know you've got nothing to worry about on that score.”

Not only does his statement fail to reassure her, she has to fight to keep from saying, This is why I didn't want to leave my children with that man!

“I'll call tonight,” Bill says, “and talk to Ann myself. In the meantime”—he begins to caress her arm again—“I'm staying put. I'm not leaving Missoula. This is where I belong.”

She knows he's worried too, and that's the reason for the awkward, unconvincing smile he's been wearing since he entered the room. But she has to make him understand. She closes her eyes, so she won't see her next words register on his face.

“No,” she says as forcefully as she can. “This
isn't
where you belong. You need to be with our children.”

Marjorie's command, however, has no effect. The touch of his hand on her arm tells her he's still there. She reaches across and pushes his hand away and then opens her eyes. His face is tormented with fear and bewilderment. And then it's she who understands.

“I won't die,” she says. “Don't worry. I won't die while you're gone.”

Relief spreads across his features. “Promise?”

“I promise. Now get going. And call me.”

Once Bill is out the door, Marjorie closes her eyes again, hoping she can sleep. It would be the perfect way to hurry through the hours it will take Bill to drive to Gladstone. Like a child on a long car trip, she'll doze off and not wake until someone is carrying her into her home. But she knows sleep isn't likely to come, not with concern for her daughter pressing down on her.

CALVIN HANGS UP THE
phone and crushes out his cigarette. He can't figure that son of his. Bill doesn't seem any more upset to learn that his daughter broke her arm than he would have been if Calvin told him she has a cold. But maybe having two of his girls in the hospital is just too damn much. Bill can only deal with one at a time, and Marjorie is first in line. And maybe Bill feels that Ann's trouble can wait. He might be right. Maybe it can. But Calvin doesn't have anyone ahead of her in line.

The ashtray is full. A few of the butts are Calvin's but most belonged to Beverly's boy. My God, you wouldn't think he was here long enough to smoke that much. Especially since he finished off the ham in that time as well.

Calvin carries the ashtray to the garbage, but he stops before dumping the ashes. In the garbage sack is an unfamiliar ball of crumpled yellow paper. Calvin takes it out and smooths open the page on the counter. As soon as he sees what's on the page he realizes this must be from the novel Adam is writing.

Calvin reads a paragraph:

Matt Sloane held his .45 out at arm's length and aimed carefully at the mounted warrior. He pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger tenderly. In the next instant, the Indian fell from his horse, immortally wounded, at least two hundred yards away in the distance.

Calvin shakes his head in disgust. It's a good thing this page ended up in the garbage. And Adam believes that a .45 could be fired with accuracy at that distance? Maybe Calvin should take the young man out in the country and let him fire a pistol, let him feel it buck in his hand. You'd be damn lucky to hit a horse at twenty yards.

But Calvin never did that with his own son. Why would he do it with Beverly Lodge's boy?

LAST WINTER, REVEREND INGVALDSEN
asked Bill and a few other men to come to his office after their monthly meeting, an early morning gathering called the Men's Breakfast for Lutheran Members of the Mission. The breakfast was an opportunity for men in the congregation to meet in the church basement, eat pancakes and sausage or bacon and eggs, drink coffee, smoke, and discuss upcoming projects, often having to do with raising funds or improving church attendance. Fifteen to twenty men could usually be counted on to attend the breakfast, but only five of them were invited to the minister's office.

“I'm a little concerned about some of the younger fellows,” Reverend Ingvaldsen said to the group of men. “I know we've got them in the fold, so to speak. A few of them were at the breakfast this morning. But that doesn't necessarily mean we have them on the right path. I see them struggling, trying to do right by their jobs, their families, and their faith. It's too much for some of them. They feel overwhelmed, and when that happens, they start staying a little later at the office. Or they stop off at a bar when they should be on their way home for supper. And when they are home, they're short-­tempered with the wife and kids.”

Bill didn't know where Reverend Ingvaldsen was headed with those observations, but Bill agreed that yes, it sometimes took a while before a man found the right balance point for his life.

“So my notion,” the minister said, “is that some of us older gentlemen might take the younger husbands and fathers under our wings, so to speak. Give them a little guidance. Help them learn from our experience. If you're agreeable, I'll assign each of you a couple of the younger men.”

Upon hearing Reverend Ingvaldsen's plan, Bill's first reaction was that if someone had been available to counsel Bill's father after his wife died perhaps Calvin Sidey wouldn't have gone off the rails and abandoned his children, his job, and his home. But immediately following that thought was Bill's realization that if someone, if
anyone
, had tried to give his father advice on how he should live his life, that person might well have gotten knocked on his ass for his efforts. For his part, Bill had no desire to act as counselor or guide or what-­have-­you for anyone. He didn't have all the right answers for himself, much less for someone else.

Nevertheless, when Pastor Ingvaldsen looked at him, Bill readily agreed to participate in the program.

Another of the men asked what they might actually do with their young charges.

From his hesitation, it was apparent that Reverend Ingvaldsen hadn't given much thought to the practical application of his plan. “Well,” he said with a smile that was supposed to be knowing yet came off as evasive and patronizing, “we never go wrong when we pray together.”

Bill couldn't imagine himself asking another man to pray with him, but he said nothing. He had signed on to the minister's program, and he'd follow through the best he could.

Reverend Ingvaldsen gave each of the men in his office a name written on a folded slip of paper. On Bill's was Gary Graber's name. Gary was a twenty-­five-­year-­old sales representative for Graber Dairy, a business that had been in the family for almost as long as Gladstone had been in existence. Gary worked for his father, and Bill had to wonder why the senior Graber wasn't a sufficient role model for his son. Bill knew Ralph Graber and thought highly of him. He was an astute businessman, a civic leader, and a good family man. Of course he didn't attend Olivet Lutheran Church, and perhaps that was the crucial point for Reverend Ingvaldsen. As it was, Gary belonged to the church because of his wife, the former Rose Hailey. Rose's family lived on Fourth Street not far from the Sideys, and when she was in high school, only a few years earlier, she babysat Ann and Will on a few occasions. Gary and Rose had two children, the son that Rose had been pregnant with when the couple married, and a baby girl.

Unfortunately, Bill did not hold Gary in the same high regard as he held Gary's father. Gary had always struck Bill as cocky, irresponsible, and selfish, a young man who'd done nothing to deserve his privileges yet was perfectly willing to take advantage of them. But perhaps Gary was trying to change. He was a regular at church services as well as at the Men's Breakfasts, though he never made any positive contribution to those meetings. Nevertheless, Bill was determined to try to do what Reverend Ingvaldsen asked of him.

The first opportunity Bill had to talk to Gary came about a week later. On a bitterly cold February day, Bill was exiting the courthouse when he saw Gary standing outside Ressler's Cafe. Bill called out Gary's name, raised a hand in greeting, and jogged across the street to meet the younger man.

In spite of the cold, Gary's overcoat was open, he was gloveless, and smoking a cigarette. “Want to sell me a house?” Gary said with a smile as Bill approached. “Or buy mine?”

Bill was oddly breathless, but he doubted it could be from merely running across the street. His nervousness about talking to Gary must have caused the condition.

“I'm wondering,” Bill said, “if you'd have a little time for me. Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee?”

Gary leaned back from Bill as if he'd just proposed something distasteful.

“Just a little friendly chat,” Bill said, smiling awkwardly.

“What the hell. Sure. Maybe I'll even let you make it something stronger than coffee.” Gary looked up and down the street. “But not today. Rosie's picking me up. She has the car today. She had to take the kid to the doctor.”

A sick child. Here was a subject, with its accompanying worry and tension, that all fathers could relate to. Bill felt as though he'd discovered a way to talk to Gary. “Is it Jimmy?” Bill asked. “Or the baby?”

Gary shrugged. “She took the both of them in. But it's Jimmy who's sick. Or Rosie thinks he is. Nothing but a goddamn cold, if you ask me.”

“Well. Women. They worry.”

Gary continued to look up the street. “Huh? Oh yeah. No shit. One of them so much as sneezes, Rosie's ready to call the doctor.” He glanced at his watch. “Where the hell is she?”

And just like that, she appeared, coming around the corner in their big brown Oldsmobile. She pulled into the diagonal parking place near Bill and Gary, and before he walked over to the car, Gary gave Bill a big grin, as if he believed that his impatience had been sufficient to make his wife materialize.

Rose opened the driver's-­side door and started to get out, but Gary, with a brutally swift hand gesture, signaled for Rose to stay in the car and slide across the front seat. The baby must have been lying there, because Rose hesitated and fussed with a bundle. Jimmy wasn't visible, but he could have been lying across the backseat. If he were sick, that would make sense. Rose must not have moved fast enough for Gary's liking, and he shoved her with such force her head jerked to the side. But she finally moved to where her husband wanted her, and as Gary turned around in order to back the Oldsmobile into the street, Rose looked right at Bill and gave him a tiny, tentative wave. On this day of low, leaden skies, Rose Graber was wearing sunglasses.