Claws and Effect (8 page)

14

“Mom!”
the animals cried when Harry bounced through the back door of the post office.

“Hi,” she called out.

“Oh, Harry, I'm so glad you're here. Look.” Miranda handed her an envelope, opened. “Susan left this for you. She forgot to give it to you at the breakfast.”

Harry checked the addressee, Mrs. Tucker. “H-m-m.” She slid out the letter and read it aloud:

“Dear Susan,

As you know, I will be running for the office of mayor of our great town of Crozet.

I need your support and the help of all our friends. I hope that you and Harry will throw your weight behind my campaign.

My top two priorities are keeping Crozet's rural character intact and working closely with the Albemarle Sheriff's Department to decrease crime.

Please call me at your earliest convenience.

Yours truly, Marilyn Sanburne.”

Harry rattled the paper a bit. “Call her? She can nab any of us in the street. Waste of postage.”

“It is rather formal but I don't think staying neutral is as easy as you do. And if we waffle too long we will gain her enmity,” Miranda sensibly said.

“The thing is, did Little Mim get the support of the party?” Harry was surprised that Little Mim would write Susan. It seemed so distant.

“No. Not yet. Called Rev. Jones. He's on the party's local steering committee. He said that yes, they voted to support Marilyn at their monthly meeting, which was Saturday. They wouldn't make the vote public until the state steering committee gave them the okay. Herb said they would probably hear from them in Richmond today. He didn't anticipate any problems. After all, Jim Sanburne, as a Republican, has run unopposed for nearly twenty years. The Democrats ought to be thrilled with their candidate. Not only is someone challenging Jim, it's his own daughter.”

Mrs. Murphy rubbed against her mother's leg.
“We checked in your mailbox, Mom. You only have bills.”

She reached down, scooping up the beautiful tiger cat. “Mrs. Murphy, you are the prettiest girl.”

“Ha,”
came a croak from Pewter, reposing on her side on the small kitchen table in the rear. She wasn't supposed to be on the table but that never stopped her.

“Jealous.” Harry walked over to rub Pewter's ears.

“I'm not jealous.”

“Are, too,”
Murphy taunted her friend.

“Am not.”
Pewter stuck out her amazingly pink tongue, hot pink.

Murphy wiggled out of Harry's arms, pouncing on Pewter. They rolled over and over until they fell off the table with a thud, shook themselves, and walked in opposite directions as though this was the most natural event in the world.

“Cats.”
Tucker cocked her head, then looked up at Harry.
“Mom, I don't like these chain letters. Something's not right.”

Harry knelt down. “You are the best dog in the universe. Not even the solar system but the universe.” She kissed her silky head.

“Gag me.”
Pewter grimaced, then turned and walked over to sit beside Mrs. Murphy, their kitty spat forgotten as quickly as it flared up.
“Obsequious.”

“Dogs always are.”
Murphy knowingly nodded, but Tucker could have cared less.

Within the hour Coop drove up and ducked into the front door of the post office just as rain began to fall. “Is this weather crazy or what?” she said as she closed the door behind her.

“Find anything out?” Miranda flipped up the divider to allow her in the back.

“Yes.” Cynthia stepped through, removed her jacket, and hung it on the Shaker peg by the back door. “Crozet Hospital is in turmoil. Jesus, what a petty place it is. Backstabbers.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that. I guess a lot of businesses are like that.” Mrs. Hogendobber was disappointed. “No suspects?”

“Not yet,” Coop tensely replied.

“Oh great. There's a killer on the loose.”

“Harry.”
Mrs. Murphy spoke out loud.
“You humans rub shoulders with killers more than you imagine. I'm convinced the human animal is the only animal to derive pleasure from murder.”

As though picking up on her cat's thoughts, Harry said aloud, “I wonder if Hank's killer enjoyed killing him.”

“Yes,” Cooper said without hesitation.

“Power?” Harry asked.

“Yes. No one likes to talk about that aspect of murder. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. No one has the right to take another human life.”

“Miranda, people may read their Bible but they don't follow the precepts,” Cooper told her.

“You know, the post office is in the middle of everything. Action Central, sort of.” Harry's eyes brightened. “We could help.”

“No, you don't.” Cooper's chin jutted out.

“Yeah.”
Mrs. Murphy fluffed her tail.
“A little skulking about is good for a cat.”

“Which cat?”
Pewter grumbled.

Cynthia Cooper waggled her finger at Harry and Miranda. “No. No. And no.”

15

A meeting that evening brought together the faithful of St. Luke's Lutheran Church, presided over by the Reverend Herbert C. Jones. While Harry considered herself a lapsed Lutheran she adored the Rev, as she called him. She liked that the Lutheran church—as well as the other churches in the area—hummed, a hive of activity, a honeycomb of human relationships. If someone was sickly, the word got out and people called upon him or her. If someone struggled with alcoholism, a church member who was also in Alcoholics Anonymous invariably paid a call.

The other major denominations, all represented, cooperated throughout major crises such as when someone's house burnt down. It wasn't necessary that the assisted person be a member of any church. All that mattered was that they lived in Crozet or its environs.

Reverend Jones, warm and wise, even pulled together the Baptist and Pentecostal churches, who had often felt slighted in the past by the “high” churches.

Mrs. Hogendobber, a devout member of the Church of the Holy Light, proved instrumental in this new area of cooperation.

Tonight the meeting concerned food deliveries and medical services for those people unable to shop for themselves and who had no families to help them. Often the recipients were quite elderly. They had literally outlived anyone who might be related to them. In other cases, the recipient was a mean old drunk who had driven away family and friends. The other group involved AIDS patients, most of whom had lost their families, self-righteous families who shrank into disapproval, leaving their own flesh and blood to die alone and lonely.

Harry especially felt a kinship with this group since many were young. She had expected to meet many gay men but was shocked to discover how many women were dying of the insidious disease, women who had fooled around with drugs, shared needles, or just had the bad luck to sleep with the wrong man. A few had been prostitutes in Washington, D.C., and when they could no longer survive in the city they slipped into the countryside.

Harry, well educated, was not an unsophisticated person. True, she chose country life over the flash and dash of the city, but she hardly qualified as a country bumpkin. Then again few people really did. The bumpkin was one of those stereotypes that seemed to satisfy some hunger in city people to feel superior to those not in the city. Still, she realized through this service how much she didn't know about her own country. There was an entire separate world devoted to drugs. It had its rules, its cultures, and, ultimately, its death sentence.

Sitting across from her in the chaste rectory was Bruce Buxton. Insufferable as he could be, he gave of his time and knowledge, visiting those that needed medical attention. How Herb had ever convinced him to participate puzzled her.

“—three teeth. But the jaw isn't broken.” BoomBoom Craycroft read from her list of clients, as the group called their people.

Herb rubbed his chin, leaned back in his seat. “Can we get her down to the dentist? I mean can she get away from him and will she go if you take her?”

BoomBoom, becoming something of an expert on domestic violence, said, “I can try. He's perverse enough to knock out the new teeth if she gets them.”

Bruce spoke up. He'd been quiet up to now. “What about a restraining order?”

“Too scared. Of him and of the system.” BoomBoom had learned to understand the fear and mistrust the very poor had of the institutions of government and law enforcement. She'd also learned to understand that their mistrust was not unfounded. “I'll see if I can get her out of there or at least get her to the dentist. If I can't, I can't.”

“You're very persuasive.” Herb put his hand on his knee as he leaned forward in the chair a bit. His back was hurting. “Miranda.”

“The girls and I”—she meant the choir at the Church of the Holy Light—“are going to replace the roof on Mrs. Weyman's house.”

“Do the work yourself?” Little Mim asked. Though an Episcopalian and not a Lutheran, she attended for two reasons: one, she liked Herb, and two, it irritated her mother, who felt anything worth doing had to be done through the Episcopalian Church.

“Uh—no. We thought we'd give a series of concerts to raise money for the roof and then perhaps we could find some men to donate their labor. We're pretty sure we can come up with the money for materials.”

“Here I had visions of you on the roof, Miranda.” Herb laughed at her, then turned to Bruce, moving to the next topic on the agenda. “Any luck?”

Before Bruce could give his report they heard the door to the rectory open and close. Larry Johnson, removing his coat as he walked from the hall to the pleasant meeting room, nodded at them.

“Late and I apologize.”

“Sit down, Larry, glad you could make it. Bruce was just about to give his report about the hospital cooperating with us concerning our people who can't pay for medical services.”

Larry took a seat next to Miranda. He folded his hands, gazing at Bruce.

Bruce's pleasant speaking voice filled the room. “As you can imagine, the administration sees only problems. Both Sam and Jordan insist we could be liable to lawsuits. What if we treated an indigent patient who sued, that sort of thing. Their second area of concern is space. Both say Crozet Hospital lacks the space to take care of paying patients. The hospital has no room for the non-paying.”

Little Mim raised her hand. Bruce acknowledged her.

“While I am not defending the hospital, this is true. One of my goals as a board member and your next mayor”—she paused to smile reflectively—“will be to raise the money
privately
for a new wing to be built.”

“Thank you.” Herb's gravelly voice was warm. He was amused at her campaigning.

“It is true,” Bruce agreed, “but if we could bring people in on the off hours, before eight
A
.
M
. or after three
P
.
M
., we might at least be able to use equipment for tests. I know there is no way we will get hospital beds. Which brings me to the third area of concern voiced by the administration, the use of hospital equipment. The increased wear and tear on equipment, whether it's IVAC units, X-ray machines, whatever, will raise hospital operating costs. The budget can't absorb the increases.” He breathed in. “That's where we are today. Obviously, Sam and Jordan don't want to give us a flat no. They are too politically astute for that. But there is no question in my mind that they evidence a profound lack of enthusiasm for our purpose.”

The room fell silent, a silence punctuated when the door to the rectory was again opened and closed. The sound of a coat being removed, placed on the coatrack was heard.

Tussie Logan, face drawn, stepped into the room. “Sorry.”

“Come on in. We know your time isn't always your own.” Herb genially beckoned to her. “Bruce has just given us his progress report.”

“Or lack thereof,” Bruce forthrightly said. “Tussie, you look tired.”

Bruce slid his chair over so she could wedge in between himself and BoomBoom.

“One of my kids, Dodie Santana, the little girl from Guatemala, had a bad day.”

“We're sorry.” Herb spoke for the group.

“We'll do a prayer vigil for her,” Miranda volunteered.

“Thank you.” Tussie smiled sadly. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“I'm glad you did.” Larry lightened the mood. “It means I'm not the last one to the meeting.”

“Back to business then.” Herb turned to Bruce. “Can we get access to the hospital's insurance policy?”

“Yes. I don't think Sam would refuse that,” Bruce replied.

“But who would understand it?” Larry said, half in jest. “I can't even understand the one Hayden and I have for the practice.”

“I believe Ned Tucker will help us there.” Herb watched as both Cazenovia and Elocution paraded into the room. “Harry?”

“I'll call him.” She volunteered to ring up Susan's husband, a man well liked by all except those who crossed him in court.

“Bruce and I have spoken about this,” Tussie joined in, “and—there's no way to delicately put this. Jordan Ivanic fears poor patients will steal—not just drugs, mind you, which would be most people's first thought, oh no, he thinks they'll steal toilet paper, pencils, you name it.”

“He said that?” Harry was upset.

Cazzie jumped in her lap, which made her feel better. Elocution headed straight for Herb.

“Yes. Flat out said it.” Tussie tapped her foot on the floor.

“My experience is the biggest thieves are the rich.” Bruce rubbed his chin, perceived the frown on Little Mim's face, and hastened to add, “Think of Mike Milken, all those Wall Street traders.”

“Well, I think I'd better call upon Sam and Jordan.” Herb petted his youngest cat, who purred loudly.

“Meow.”
Elocution closed her eyes.

Bruce said, “I've been able to secure the cooperation of at least one physician in each department. Our problem now is convincing Sam Mahanes to use a portion of the hospital, even a room, to initially screen these people.

“He did voice one other small concern.” Bruce's voice was filled with sarcasm. “And that is the paying patients. He didn't feel they should be around the charity cases. It would engender hard feelings. You know, they're paying and these people aren't. So he said if we could find space and if we could solve the liability problem, where are we going to put people so they wouldn't be visible?”

“Ah.” Herb exhaled.

Miranda shifted in her seat, looked down at the floor, took a deep breath, then looked at the group. “Bruce, you weren't born and raised here so I don't expect you to know this but sequestering or separating the poor gets us awfully close to segregation. In the old days the waiting rooms in the back were always for colored people. That was the proper and polite term then, and I tell you no white person ever went through the back door and vice versa. It brings back an uneasy feeling for me and I expect it does for those of us in this room old enough to remember. The other problem is that a goodly number of our people are African-American or Scotch-Irish. Those seem to be the two primary ethnic groups that we serve and I couldn't tell you why. Anyway, I think Sam needs to be—” She looked at Herb and shrugged.

“I know.” Herb read her perfectly. After all, Sam was a Virginian and should know better, but one of the problems with Virginians was that many of them longed for a return to the time of Thomas Jefferson. Of course, none of them ever imagined themselves as slaves or poor white indentured servants. They always thought of themselves as the masters on the hill.

The group continued their progress reports and then adjourned for tea, coffee, and Miranda's baked goods.

BoomBoom walked over to Harry. “I'm glad we're working together.”

“It's a good cause.” Harry knew BoomBoom wanted to heal the wounds and she admitted to herself that BoomBoom was right, although every now and then Harry's mean streak would kick up and she wanted to make Boom squirm.

“Are you going to work on Little Mim's campaign?”

“Uh—I don't know but I know I can't sit in the middle. I mean, I think Jim's a good mayor.” She grabbed another biscuit. “What about you?”

“I'm going to do it. Work for Little Mim. She's right when she says our generation needs to get involved and since Big Mim will sit this out we won't offend her.”

“But what about offending Jim?” Harry asked as Cazenovia rubbed her leg.

“Some ham biscuit please.”

Harry dropped ham for the cat.

“He won't be offended. I think he's going to enjoy the fight. Really, he's run unopposed for decades.” BoomBoom laughed.

Bruce, his eye on BoomBoom—indeed, most men's eyes were on BoomBoom—joined them. “Ladies.”

“Our little group has never had anyone as dynamic as you. We are so grateful to you.” BoomBoom fluttered her long eyelashes.

“Oh—thank you. Being a doctor isn't always about money, you know.”

“We are grateful.” Harry echoed BoomBoom's praise minus the fluttering eyelashes. “Oh, I heard about the chicken blood on the blade. I'm sorry. Whoever did that ought to be horsewhipped.”

“Damn straight,” he growled.

“What?” BoomBoom's eyes widened.

This gave Harry the opportunity to slip away. Bruce could tell BoomBoom about his experience and she could flirt some more.

“Harry.” Herb handed her a brownie.

When his back was turned from the table, both cats jumped onto it. People just picked up the two sneaks and put them back on the floor.

“M-m-m, this thing could send me into sugar shock.” She laughed.

He lowered his voice as he stood beside her. “I'm very disturbed by Sam's attitude. I think some of the problem may be that it was Bruce who asked. Sam can't stand him, as you know.”

“He'll talk to you.”

“I think so.” He picked up another brownie for himself. “There goes the diet. How are things with you? I haven't had any time to catch up with you.”

“Pretty good.”

“Good.” His gravelly voice deepened.

“Rev, do me a favor. I know Sam will talk to you—even more than he'll talk to Rick Shaw or Coop. Ask him flat out who he thinks killed Hank Brevard. Something doesn't add up. I don't know. Just—”

“Preys on your mind.” He dusted off his fingers. “I will.”

“I asked Bruce before the meeting started what he thought about Brevard,” Harry continued. “He said he thought he was a royal pain in the ass—and maybe now the hospital can hire a really good plant manager. Pretty blunt.”

“That's Bruce.” Herb put his arm around her reassuringly, then smiled. “You and your curiosity.”

Tussie, her back to Herb, reached for a plate, took a step back, and bumped into him. “Oh, I'm sorry.”