Black Beans & Vice (20 page)

"Thank you for coming tonight," James began. "I always suspected that Mrs. Waxman was friends with half of Quincy's Gap,
but it wasn't until this evening I realized it was true. We have all
benefited from her wise, patient, and generous spirit. She's treated
every student and every patron in this library with respect, dignity,
and equality."

Mrs. Waxman honked into her tissue, allowing several members of the audience to wipe their own moist eyes and exchange
nods of agreement with their fellow townsfolk.

Turning to Mrs. Waxman, James concluded his brief speech.
"Teacher. Librarian. Friend. You have left your mark on many,
many people. Now thanks to my father, Jackson Henry, you can at
least take a moment of your life in Quincy's Gap with you when
you join your sister in sunny Arizona. Godspeed, dear Mrs. Waxman. You will be sorely missed."

The Fitzgerald twins reacted immediately to their boss' signal
-a slight dip of the chin after uttering the last word. In perfect
synchronization, they whisked the white cloth off the surface of
the painting, beaming as they witnessed Mrs. Waxman's reaction
to her gift.

The guests broke into spontaneous applause as they gazed at
the work of art. A portrait of Mrs. Waxman, it depicted the older
woman in her familiar place behind the information desk. For
years she had reigned over that small territory, squared in by four
equal countertops displaying the monthly staff picks and the latest
book club reads.

Every evening, she'd put her dinner in the break room and
then organize the stacks of bookmarks, recommended reading
flyers, and piles of free magazines and community newsletters located on her countertops.

Jackson had included her regular workspace in his painting,
but what he'd captured best was the joy Mrs. Waxman felt in helping another person. He had positioned her standing at a slight
angle and her face, gently etched with wrinkles and laugh lines,
was focused on a young girl of about ten years of age. The girl had been painted in profile with her hands held out in order to receive
the book Mrs. Waxman was presenting. Her young face was filled
with gratitude, as if she understood that the librarian was offering so much more than a simple book. The painting showed Mrs.
Waxman in her element-every fiber of her being was invested in
opening up new worlds to her young patron. Passion shone from
her eyes like a beacon.

"It's wonderful!" Mrs. Waxman cried, her lips trembling. She
allowed James to put an arm around her and squeeze while she
struggled to keep her emotions in check. "Your father is a maestro!
How can I ever thank him?"

Knowing that Jackson was bound to be hiding in James' office,
James promised to lead Mrs. Waxman to him before he grabbed
Milla and made an escape. "Now that the food portion of the evening is done, there's a good chance he's hanging out in the van. He
likes to sit in the den and watch game show reruns before he goes
to bed. He says they settle his stomach."

Mrs. Waxman laughed. "His habits must have served him well.
Look at the man! He's fit as a fiddle. Not only is he thin, but it must
take a great deal of energy and concentration to produce paintings
like his, so he's strong as well. James, your father is as sharp in the
mind as he is in the body" She patted his hand. "You've got some
good genes going for you, my boy."

James tried not to frown. "I think I take after my mother. As
you can see, the only thin part of my body is my hairline and as far
as possessing any artistic ability, I can't even draw a stick figure."
He smiled, not wanting to spoil a second of the Guest of Honor's
special night. "There's just more of me to love," he joked and excused himself to go off in search of Jackson.

Tracking down his father took longer than expected. Everyone
wanted to comment on how much they admired Jackson's work
and James found himself conversing briefly with several guests
about their own art. Before he knew it, he'd received commitments
from three artists willing to display their watercolors, engravings,
and textile pieces on the walls in the Tech Corner.

When he finally reached the circulation desk, he stopped again
in order to praise Fern for her wonderful idea. "Our library gallery
is going to be a hit! Well done."

"I'd like to be included as a local artist too," Fern added with
a trace of shyness. "I think I told you that I was a freelance photographer, but my passion is nature photography. I have a whole
series of color photos that I took in the Great Smoky Mountains
National Park. I framed them myself."

James put a hand on Fern's shoulder. "Your work will be displayed first. This was your idea and it would be a wonderful way to
introduce you to our community. We could post a short bio and,
if you have a website or an email where folks can buy prints from
you, that might help you with your long-term goal of renting a
house."
"

I don't have a website yet," Fern answered, her entire being
sparkling with enthusiasm. "But maybe I could build a simple one
over the weekend."

"If you need any help, Scott's quite adept at that sort of thing."
James suggested slyly and headed for his office. The moment he
stepped inside, he knew something was wrong.

Jackson was seated in one of the office chairs facing the desk.
His shoulders were slumped and he didn't look up when James
approached. Milla was squatting on her heels, a hand on each of Jackson's knees as she spoke to her husband in a voice riddled
with worry. When James entered the room, she shot him a fearful
glance and then turned back to her husband.

"Your left side? Does it hurt?" She asked Jackson.

"What is it?" James' eyes darted back and forth from Milla to
his father. "Pop?"

Jackson tried to wave him off. "It's nothin'. My leg's gone to
sleep-probably from sittin' around this damned place all night."

James looked closely at this father's face. "But you're not experiencing any pain or discomfort?"

"Nah," Jackson answered, but suddenly his gaze seemed to lose
focus.

Brushing aside the apprehension blooming in his mind, James
gently lifted his father's left hand. "Can you squeeze my fingers,
Pop?"

"James!" Jackson's voice seemed to come from a long way off.
He reached out with his right hand, clumsily feeling for his son's
shoulder. "I can't see you!"

"Call 911!" James urged Milla and then captured his father's
panicked hand in his own. "It'll be all right, Pop. Hold on. We're
going to get you help."

James listened as Milla spoke to the emergency operator. He
knew the call would be routed to the fire station across the street
and that an EMT could be in the room in less than five minutes.

Those minutes were the longest of his life. As James held onto
his father, trying not to concentrate on the frailty of his weathered
hand, the left side of Jackson's face slowly drooped downward and
a line of spittle leaked from his open mouth.

"Pop?" James tenderly shook his father. "POP!"

A black pulse of fear throbbed in James' chest. Milla had left
the room to wait for the paramedics in the lobby and, alone in
his office with his unresponsive father, James struggled to keep
his voice calm and even. "Don't leave me, Pop. Hang on. I'm right
here with you. I won't let go." James had to stop speaking because
his throat swelled tight with emotion. He refused to give way to
despair, so he inhaled a deep breath, choked back the terror, and
continued to repeat the words, "It's okay, I'm right here," over and
over and over again.

He barely noticed when one of the EMTs placed a firm hand
on his shoulder and eased him away from his father's unresponsive form. James stepped back, listening to a blur of muted speech,
a blood pressure cuff inflating, a stethoscope shimmering on the
pale flesh of Jackson's chest, a light darting across a pair of unblinking blue eyes.

With infinite care, the paramedics lifted Jackson onto a stretcher.
They placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and James
couldn't tear his gaze from the device, for it seemed to rob his father
of a future that spoke of strength and independence.

James followed the uniformed men as they wheeled his father
through the lobby past rows of silent and sympathetic faces. When
the Fitzgerald brothers detached themselves from the rest of the
group, asking if they could help, James realized that he couldn't
just race off after the ambulance. It was one of the hardest things
he'd ever had to do, but he paused and took a moment to think.

"Francis, can you and Scott tidy up the library and handle all
the opening duties in the morning?" He removed a set of keys
from his key ring and handed them to Scott. The twin gazed at them wide-eyed and then closed his fist around the brass keys with
reverence.

"Don't worry about the library, Professor. We'll run this place
just like you would." Francis promised.

James clenched his lips together so they wouldn't tremble and
gave each brother a pat on the arm. "Please ask Willow to do the
same at Quincy's Whimsies. And give Mrs. Waxman a hand loading her painting into the car. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye," he added as he turned toward the doors leading outside.

Tormented by the unwelcome thought that the portrait of Mrs.
Waxman might be Jackson's final painting, James jogged toward
his truck. He tried to hide his misery beneath a facade of resolve
and hope as he opened the passenger door for his stepmother.

"He's strong," Milla stated firmly as James got in beside her and
sped off behind the ambulance, the strobe of red lights bathing the
white hood of his Bronco in an eerie glow.

No one spoke on the way to the hospital. Milla's hands were
clasped and her eyes were shut, and James suspected she was deep
in prayer. He also made silent appeals to the Almighty until they
reached the hospital complex.

In the emergency room waiting area, James completed the
stacks of paperwork given him by the triage nurse, and then asked
Milla to buy two cups of coffee from the vending machine down
the hall. He knew that they were likely to spend most of the night
in the waiting room and hoped that the hot brew might take an
edge off the shock.

They hadn't spent long in the bucket-like chairs when another
nurse asked them to follow her deeper inside the hospital. Within
another smaller waiting area, this one offering padded chairs, an attractive female physician in royal blue scrubs met them with a
kind smile. She introduced herself as Dr. Frey and after shaking
hands with James and Milla, gestured for them to take a seat.

"It appears that Mr. Henry has suffered a stroke," she stated
and James appreciated that she broke the news with gentle directness. "He's been stabilized and we're sending him for an MRI. We
should know more after those results come back." The doctor went
on to ask Milla questions about Jackson's health history and then
left to check on Jackson and her other patients.

Time crawled. Doctors, nurses, and family members passed
through the waiting room in an endless parade. James looked
at every person dressed in blue scrubs with hopeful eyes, keenly
watching their faces in case they had something to impart, but
they all walked by, focused on other patients and tasks. It took
over an hour for Dr. Frey to return with the MRI results.

She carefully reviewed what the test had shown and then advised them to go home and get some sleep and return during visiting hours in the morning.

When James started to protest, Dr. Frey touched his hand.
"Your father is currently sedated. It would be best if he weren't
stimulated. I know it's hard, but you'll do him the most good by
being here fresh and bright-eyed first thing tomorrow."

The doctor's words were delivered with such sincerity and concern that James and Milla felt compelled to heed them. James led
his weary stepmother back to the Bronco.

"I'm going to stay with you tonight," James assured her as he
pulled into his driveway. It felt like midnight although it was only
half past ten. "Just give me a minute to grab a few things."

Inside the house, the darkness seemed to close in on him. James
turned on every light he passed, grabbing the portable phone off
its cradle as he headed down the hall to his bedroom. As he shoved
his toothbrush and some clothes in a duffle bag, he dialed his exwife's number.

"Jane," he croaked when she answered. "Oh, Jane." And then he
let the tears come.