Clouds without Rain (16 page)

“I know,” Branden said, and made an apologetic expression. “But I won’t take a minute of your time, and I had hoped you could let me talk to Larry Yoder. Or that maybe you would talk to me about him.”

“Civil War history?” Waverly asked, softening. “Where’d you take your degree?”

“Duke,” Branden said.

“I’m Duke medical school!” Waverly exclaimed. His posture relaxed noticeably. “Class of ’79.”

“Seventy-three,” Branden said. “You missed the big student sit-ins.”

Dr. Waverly held the clipboard flat against his chest by crossing his arms over it, and he set his feet close together, back straight, in an aloof, professional stance, like a socialite at a cocktail party, trying to impress a rival classmate. “You were asking about Yoder?” he said.

“Right,” Branden said. “Larry Yoder from Millersburg. His family brought him in Thursday.”

“Brought him in with a pillowcase full of money,” Waverly said. “Literally. Large denomination bills. Wanted to pay in advance.”

“Not surprised,” Branden said and then asked, “How is Yoder?”

“Come with me,” Waverly said and walked slowly down the hall to a door at the far end, on the right. He held the heavy wooden door open for Branden and followed the professor into a large, bright room, where intense sunlight flooded in through reinforced Plexiglas. Branden stepped to the windows to orient himself and saw heat shimmers rising from the top level of the concrete parking tower to the south. His eyes focused closer, and on the windows he saw dozens of scratch marks in the safety glass. In one place, Branden read a ragged note saying, “Joseph was here—1979.”

Close to the windows, Larry Yoder was strapped on his back into a tall hospital bed with railings, pillows arranged under his knees. Restraints made of heavy canvas were fastened to clamps under the bed, giving little freedom of movement for either Yoder’s legs or his arms. The chart that hung at the foot of his bed was lettered “SUICIDAL” in red. An IV stand stood at the side of the bed, and several bags of solution fed a line that was taped to the back of Yoder’s left hand, bruised and swollen where the needle punctured the skin.

A nurse came into the room and stood beside the chart at the foot of the bed, waiting to see if Waverly had any questions. Waverly asked, “Any change?” and the nurse said, “His legs are more restless at times.” Waverly nodded, and she left.

Yoder lay perfectly still, with his eyes open. As Waverly and the professor stepped closer to his bed, Yoder’s eyes turned in their direction briefly, and then turned slowly back to the ceiling.

“How are you feeling today?” Waverly asked, and rubbed lightly at the hairs on Yoder’s arm.

Yoder gave the slightest tilt of his head, and tears flooded his eyes and ran down his temples. Waverly moved to the foot of the bed, pulled back the light blue blanket, and squeezed gently on Yoder’s toes. He ran his thumbnail along the arch of Yoder’s foot, and there was no movement. Waverly replaced the blanket and made an entry on his chart.

To Branden he said, “I doubt if Mr. Yoder will be able to tell us much today,” and led Branden out into the hall. Waverly took his prim stance again, with his feet close together and his arms crossed over his chest, embracing the clipboard.

“Is that from his medications, or from his illness?” Branden asked.

“Most likely both,” Waverly said. “But the medication would be enough. First, he’s on Depakote for the bipolar disorder. Then there’s Ativan and Desyrel, all at the maximum dose. I wrote orders this morning for Risperdal, too—he may be somewhat psychotic right now. So I’m not expecting him to have much to say for a while. You should tell his family that it’ll take some time before we can start any psychotherapy. It might be a week or more before he even makes it out of his room for Group. Even crafts are doubtful at this juncture. Once we get him stabilized, I’ll back down the Ativan, and he won’t sleep so much. Could be a week or two.”

Branden thought about the Yoder family and about John Weaver and Britta Sommers. He looked at Yoder in his bed, frail with desperate eyes, and he remembered the burning cars at the crash scene and the twisted buggy parts scattered over thirty yards of road and field. He thought of the heavy smoke odor inside Sommers’s ranch house, and he remembered the expressions on the faces of eight Amish men who had received letters from John R. Weaver. He asked, “Did he say anything when they brought him in?”

“Not Larry,” Waverly said. “His mother told me he shot a horse.” He waited with a coaxing expression for an explanation.

Branden offered nothing, and Waverly added, dubiously, “She told me he shot a horse and killed several people. Sounds a bit extreme for your neck of the woods, but if that were true, I’d need to know it.”

Branden looked back into Yoder’s room and studied the small, pathetic form that was laid out in the bed. He turned slowly back into the hall, letting the door close softly. He faced Waverly and said, “I think he probably did, Dr. Waverly. Shoot a horse, that is.”

21

Saturday, August 12
4:45 P.M.

 

 

AT AKRON Children’s Hospital, Branden parked in the outdoor lot on Bowery Street. He climbed one flight of stairs to the skyway over Bowery, and entered the hospital near the main reception counter. On the right-hand wall in the corridor outside the burn unit, he saw a display of fifty or so fire department arm patches, and opposite that, the outside counter for the unit. He asked about Robertson and was told to lift the receiver on a phone at the end of the hall. At the phone, he explained the nature of his visit, and a nurse from inside the burn unit emerged and instructed him to wash his hands and put on a bright yellow paper gown and mask, each of which fastened in back with tape strips.

Inside the burn unit, Branden found Melissa Taggert in a white doctor’s coat, standing next to the central station outside Robertson’s room.

Branden walked directly to her and asked, “What’s his condition, Missy?”

“It’s worse than I originally thought,” she said, eyes weary and bloodshot. “They’ve run some cultures and found out he has a yeast infection. Which means they’ve switched him to amphotericin. Then last night he grew confused. Became restless. His temperature dropped, and so did his blood pressure. Also tachycardia, which means he’s getting worse. Some vital organs might become involved, if the infection takes hold. Any way you figure it, Mike, he’s worse. Much worse than we realized.”

Inside Robertson’s room, Branden found the big sheriff on a large air bed, with three IV poles holding five IV pumps on the left side, at the sheriff’s head. Several monitors crowded on stands on the right of his bed. Robertson lay on his back. The edges of white thermazine and gauze bandages showed under his back and arms. The tube from a Foley catheter ran out between his legs, and there was a CVP line in his chest, with four ports. An arterial line ran from his arm to a blood pressure monitor. Branden read the labels on several of the bags that were piped to the central line and saw morphine, lactated Ringers, and ativan. The blinking monitors and pumps kept up a steady chorus of low beeps and clicks in what was otherwise a dim and silent room.

Branden took Bruce Robertson’s big hand and gave a gentle squeeze. Missy Taggert watched from the foot of the bed as Branden pulled a chair closer with the point of his foot. He sat down still holding to Robertson’s hand, and said, “Bruce, it’s Mike.”

There was no response, and Taggert’s eyes dropped. She nodded sadly to the professor and turned slowly to leave the room. Branden saw in her expression the same sorrow and helpless despair that he had seen in Caroline’s eyes after her miscarriages. Limitless grief, mixed bravely with determined self-control.

He spoke again to Robertson, again without a response. With the sheriff’s large hand cradled in both of his, the professor leaned over beside the bed, thinking. Also praying.

In time, Robertson stirred in his bed, lifted his head weakly, and gave the professor’s hand a squeeze. He said, “Hey, Mike,” with effort, and lay back on the pillow. “If you don’t let go of my hand, people gonna think we’re dating.”

Branden gently eased his hand away and said, “Looks like you’ve pretty well done it this time, Sheriff.”

Robertson’s eyes spoke of pain and exhaustion. Tears formed in them, and he tried to raise a hand to dry them. He failed in the task, and, as a line of tears streamed down his cheeks, the sheriff said, “They keep putting drops in my eyes.”

“I’ll tell them to stop,” Branden said, and cleared his throat with difficulty.

Robertson rolled his head slowly from side to side and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he whispered, “Still there, Mike?”

“Still here,” Branden said, and, “You need to rest.”

“Seems like I need to pay more attention to Missy Taggert.”

“She spoke to you?”

Robertson nodded weakly.

“She told me she was going to do that, before they flew you up here.”

“Got my first ride in a chopper and can’t remember a thing,” Robertson complained, and fell silent. When he spoke again, it was in a softer voice. “Seems I need to let Renie Cotton go.”

“It’s time, Bruce. Renie’s been gone a long time, now. If you can do it, Taggert’s a fine woman.”

“I’ve always liked her,” Robertson said quietly. “A lot.”

“I know.”

“You knew.”

“I knew. I wouldn’t say it was obvious, but I knew.”

“Great. Now I suppose you’re gonna tell me Missy knows, too.”

“I think she does, Bruce.”

“I always thought Renie would be the only one.”

“Kinda gives you something to look forward to.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Mike.”

Branden didn’t respond.

Robertson squeezed his eyes shut and said, “It’s obvious, Professor. She wouldn’t have told me anything of the sort, if she thought I was for sure gonna make it.”

“Stop being a knucklehead, Bruce.”

“A knucklehead.”

“Right. You’re a giant knucklehead, and you’re gonna pull through just fine.”

Robertson smiled.

22

Sunday, August 13
3:45 P.M.

 

CAL Troyer and Bishop Andy Weaver sat in the afternoon heat on the deacon’s bench on the bishop’s front porch, pondering the troubles J. R. Weaver had dropped into the laps of eight district families before he died. They had been sitting there since the big meal the women had served following church services. Several men stood on the porch, listening, sometimes commenting. Others sat in small groups on chairs in the shade under trees. There were three men on hay bales beside the barn, where the roof overhang provided some shade. Among the older men, a few had lit pipes, and several of the younger men smoked cigarettes. A gang of young boys scampered out of one red barn and into another, shouting boisterously in their game of tag. A small group of girls, perhaps nine or ten years old, stood nearby, laughing, taunting, and making open sport of the boys. Older boys stood here and there, vests undone, talking with men, mostly about farming. One couple, a boy and a girl about sixteen, tried to slip unnoticed behind the house and were immediately set upon by younger children, teasing them mercilessly. A woman wearing a white apron over a dark plum dress came out onto the front porch drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She spoke briefly to the bishop and took his coffee mug back into the house. An elder and his wife waved from their buggy beside the fence and then climbed in and started slowly down the gravel drive, headed home.

Cal was saying, “I don’t know what to tell you, Andy. It could be anybody’s kids mixed in with this.”

“It’s hard to imagine there are youngsters like that around here,” Andy said morosely.

“They’re probably not Amish.”

“I have to assume that two of them are Amish. Or at least that they could be. The people have been asking.”

Andy took a toothpick from his shirt pocket and began working it silently between two front teeth. He thought for a while and added, “They are common thieves, nothing better. Robbers, but the masks make it so much worse than folk realize.”

“It’s not your fault,” Cal said.

“It falls under my authority,” Andy said. “You know the
Ordnung.
”

Cal nodded his understanding. The
Ordnung
spelled it all out. Even bishops had little choice, it seemed. “How many buggy robberies have there really been?”

“I know of nine, starting with John R. Weaver.”

Cal whistled. “Does the sheriff know about all of those?”

“No, only four.”

“You should tell the professor,” Cal said and pointed to the small truck coming down the lane. Weaver put his finger to his lips to tell Cal to keep silent about the boys.

Branden drove slowly up to the house, raising as little dust as he could. He stopped a dozen-odd yards from the house to let the dust settle and climbed out of his air-conditioned cab into bright afternoon sun.

As he climbed the porch steps, the men who had gathered around to listen to Cal and the bishop departed quietly, some into the house, some onto the lawn. Branden pulled a wooden chair up backwards in front of Cal and Andy and sat down, legs straddling the seat, arms resting on the back.

Cal said, “Do you know, Mike, how many buggy robberies the sheriff knows about?”

“Four, maybe five,” Branden said. To Andy, he asked, “Have there been many in your district?”

“Can’t be sure,” Andy said, holding his toothpick between his teeth. “They’ve been mostly to the north, up around Wines-burg.”

“They dress Amish, but I doubt they actually are,” Branden said.

“Small comfort,” Andy said flatly and eyed Cal sideways.

After a quiet interlude, the bishop remarked, “Larry Yoder’s parents should not have been seeing him, much less taking meals with him. That only encourages a person to continue a sinful lifestyle. But those are just the rules, the
Ordnung.
Eventually, I’ve got to get the people back into the scriptures. That’s the real crisis of leadership. Getting at the scriptures on which the
Ordnung
is based.”