Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (8 page)

In the months that followed, he couldn’t recall being afraid in those moments, the feeling of weightlessness as the car’s wheels left the ground, or even the impact of the car smashing into an apple tree. When the blackness finally released him and Luther clawed his way back into consciousness, what he found was something that he could never forget.

Wiping blood from his eyes, through a haze of booze mixed with pain Luther saw Donnie. He was wedged into a space between what remained of the door and dashboard. Donnie’s body resembled the destruction of the car; mixed among the twisted metal and shattered glass of the automobile were pools of blood, broken bones that protruded through skin, and a low, insistent sobbing.

“Donnie?” Luther asked, instantly more sober than he had been in years. “Oh, Jesus, Donnie!”

By the time the sheriff arrived, Luther had struggled out of the shattered driver’s window and was sobbing, his hands shaking uncontrollably. Eventually, with the help of the fire department, Donnie was freed and rushed back to Longstock, clinging to life…

He died a few hours later, just as the sun rose over the eastern horizon.

Luther had no idea how the whiskey bottle had gotten into his hand. The last thing he remembered was standing in the kitchen before the empty icebox, thinking about the night Donnie had died, and then…After all of the years that liquor had been his closest companion, he was surprised to find that now, suddenly and surprisingly, he was disgusted by the sight of it; it was as if he were holding a poisonous snake, a serpent that coiled around his arm, its fangs sunk deep into his flesh, refusing to release him from its grasp. With a shudder, he threw the bottle, shattering it against the wall.

It was then, just as the last fragments of glass fell to the floor, that Luther understood how wrong he had been: he had been wrong to spend so much of his life drunk, wasting years he could never get back; he had been wrong to agree to let Donnie come along that fateful night; but worst of all, he had been wrong to accept the blame for what had happened, to believe that Donnie’s tragic death had somehow been his fault.

Hurrying into the living room, Luther swiped at the rubbish that littered the fireplace’s mantel, sending most of it crashing to the floor. The only object that was spared his wrath was a photograph, his dearest possession. In it, Donnie was perched on the hood of a car, the very same automobile they had crashed. He was much younger, but Luther could still easily recognize his brother’s easy smile, the tuft of his brown hair that never seemed to want to lie down, and the mischievousness in his stare. In the photograph, Donnie had so much to look forward to, so much to
live
for, that it nearly broke what little remained of Luther’s heart.

“And it was all taken away from you…,” he mumbled, tears welling in his eyes.

There was no denying that the accident had caused Donnie’s injuries and, for that, Luther was undeniably to blame. But when the sheriff had taken Luther’s brother from the wreck, Donnie
had been alive
. In the end, the final responsibility for what had happened lay in Longstock, with the man who had been trusted with saving Luther’s brother, with the man who had failed in his duty.

The man to blame for Donnie Rickert’s death was Dr. Samuel Barlow.

And he’s gonna pay for what he did to Donnie.

C
HRISTINA AWOKE WITH
a start. Blinking rapidly, she shielded her eyes from the bright rays of light that streamed into her room as the sun began to peek over the horizon. For a brief moment, she was unsure of where she was; absolutely nothing looked familiar, but it was then that she remembered her new home, her new career, her new life.

And that new beginning has already brought me unexpected problems…

It had taken her hours to fall asleep. She had run the rest of the way back to her apartment and begun pacing the floors, back and forth, over and over, trying to put her talks with Tyler and Holden Sutter out of her mind. Unfortunately, that had proven easier said than done; even as she paced, she had rubbed her forearm where Tyler had grabbed her. Finally, sometime just after two o’clock in the morning, she had drifted off, still dressed in her clothes. Now, she felt exhausted, bone weary, but she knew that she had no choice but to rise and go about her day.

“Charlotte would call you a baby if you did otherwise,” she told herself.

From below, the smells of the bakery rose to greet her: the sweet, unmistakable aroma of freshly made bread, rolls, and pastries. Faintly, Christina could hear the sound of someone whistling. On any other morning, Dr. Barlow would certainly have been right about one thing; her apartment’s location was better than any alarm clock.

Occasionally stifling a yawn, Christina washed and dressed. The lure of the bakery eventually proved to be too much; back at her kitchen table, she ate a delicious blueberry muffin still warm from the oven, washing it all down with a cup of the black coffee the bakery sold. When she had finished washing her dishes, she stood before her dresser mirror and took a long look at herself.

“You’ve definitely looked better, but you
have
looked worse…”

With her black hair pulled back and wearing just a touch of makeup, she wondered if her fatigue was evident; she hoped the bags under her eyes weren’t
too
obvious. Still, she
was
excited. Tilting her head to the side, Christina smiled. While yesterday had introduced her to many new things, both good
and
bad, this early morning felt like yet another start, one she desperately wanted to make the most of.

Because she had set out a bit early, Christina decided to take a closer look at Longstock before walking the short distance from her apartment to Dr. Barlow’s office. Strolling beneath the flapping red, white, and blue American flags that flew from almost every building, she glanced into store windows, nodded to the friendly men and women she met, and listened intently to the sounds of activity and conversation that filled the morning.

“We just got in that saw you wanted, Raymond!”

“…never had a pie that good in my whole life, I swear to you…”

“…and then the poor little fella fell asleep in my arms. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!”

For a moment, everyone was so pleasant and welcoming, so
homey
, that Christina felt as at ease as she did back in Minnesota.

Rounding the corner at Main Street, Christina took her first good look at Dr. Barlow’s medical office. The building was older, a squat single-story that had been built of weathered brick. It was pleasant on the eye, both clean and well kept. A single, large window looked onto the street, with the doctor’s name painted in large, white script on the glass. Two pots of geraniums sat on the brick ledge that jutted out from beneath the window, basking in the morning sun. Loud, off-key singing floated out of the open door of the shoe-repair shop next door, a man’s tenor occasionally punctuated by the pounding of a hammer.

This was the place where Christina would work as a nurse. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.

The inside of Dr. Barlow’s clinic was nearly as bright as it was outside; sunlight streamed into the small waiting room, washing over the chairs lined up against one wall. Potted plants added a touch of color. Posters, one an advertisement for the virtues of vaccinations, hung on the walls. Just opposite the door was a worn, oak desk; sitting behind it was a middle-aged black woman who smiled broadly at Christina as she entered.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” the woman said with a slight southern accent, “but Dr. Barlow isn’t here just yet. Until he arrives, why don’t you tell me what’s botherin’ you?”

“No, I’m not…I’m here because…,” she answered, stumbling out of nervousness. “My name is Christina Tucker. I’m Dr. Barlow’s new nurse.”

“Oh, my goodness gracious!” the woman exclaimed, coming from behind the desk and hurrying across the waiting room.

Even as she was taken by the arms and greeted with a broad smile, Christina would not have been able to say what had surprised her more, being mistaken for a patient on her first day in the office or meeting a black woman in almost all-white small-town Wisconsin.

The woman introduced herself as Callie Davis. She had been working for Dr. Barlow for almost seven years, ever since she and her husband, Abraham, had come north from Alabama in search of work. They certainly hadn’t intended upon staying in Longstock, but one day became two, which became a month, then a year, and so on; Callie understood it to mean that the Lord had had a plan for them all along, and who was she to contradict His instructions?

“I should’a known better the moment you walked through that door!” Callie laughed; it was so infectious that Christina couldn’t help smiling. “The doctor told me I should expect you this mornin’, but I must not a’been as awake as I should a’been.”

“But how could you have known?”

“Honey, the chances of someone steppin’ through that door that I don’t know by name are ’bout the same as a pig goin’ next door to Mr. Gabrielson and askin’ him to cobble together a pair of shoes!”

Even if Christina were deaf, she would have immediately understood that Callie Davis was a chatterbox.
She never stopped talking!
Though her hair was a salt-and-pepper that leaned more toward white than black and she had crow’s-feet that creased the corners of her eyes, Callie had an exuberance about her that made her seem far younger than her years.

Christina took an instant liking to her.

“Now be honest with me.” Callie smiled. “Wasn’t yo surprised to come in that door and find a colored woman sittin’ here?”

Christina reddened a little but nodded. “It wasn’t what I expected,” she admitted, but quickly added, “I hope you don’t think that I—”

“You don’t have to worry.” Callie smiled, placing her hand on Christina’s arm. “It only takes one look at yo to realize there isn’t a hateful bone in yore body. I can’t say the same ’bout some people livin’ here in Longstock.”

“Is it
that
bad here?” Christina asked, knowing that the trouble Callie faced was very different from what she had experienced with the Sutter brothers.

“It was much worse in the beginnin’, back in the days after the good doctor saw fit to hire me. Grown men would step back out the front door of this place to take another long look at the writin’ on the window, in case they’d made a mistake and walked in the wrong place. Made me wish there was a photographer beside my desk just so I could remember all those shocked faces. One time the doctor was stopped comin’ out of church and asked to let me go, but he’s a stubborn one and he told me to sit tight. Through it all, I just kept smilin’. Things were easier for Abraham, workin’ as he does for John Marston makin’ furniture, because there weren’t many people who
had
to see him. For me it’s different. Folks get sick no matter what color they are. But by and by, as the years went along, most people got used to me bein’ here. However, some of the folks that call for Dr. Barlow to come visit
them
when they’re sick do so just so they don’t have to deal with me.”

“But that’s terrible!”

“What’s worse is that they’d rather lie there sicker than a dog than let go of the prejudice they’ve held on to for so long.”

“Anyone who feels that way gets exactly what they deserve.”

“Even though I’m the object of their scorn, I try not to hold it against them. I pray for them and hope they someday realize we are all God’s creatures, black or white,” Callie said.

Listening to Callie speak of the hardships she had faced reminded Christina of the men she had cared for at the Army hospital. On the inside, past whatever color their skin happened to be, they were
all
flesh and blood, fragile enough to have been broken. Each of them faced a choice: to try to be whole again or to give up and wallow in his pain and suffering. Whichever road they took was their own decision. Memories of Holden Sutter’s anger returned and she found herself wanting to talk to him again, to battle his stubbornness as Callie had battled the racism she faced, and to beat it back with kindness.

“I wish I knew how to change people’s minds,” Christina said.

“If you ever figure it out, make sure and tell me, hear?”

While they waited for Dr. Barlow to arrive, Christina was pleasantly surprised when Callie began to sing. In the beginning it wasn’t much, little more than whispering, but as the song continued, her voice kept growing stronger until it had filled up the waiting room. It was a rich, delicate melody about a gypsy whose wanderings had never brought her to a place she could call home. But what amazed Christina was that Callie was so at ease, so natural, that it seemed she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing.

“That was truly beautiful,” Christina said when Callie finished.

“Thank you, darlin’.”

“And it was certainly better than anything I’ve heard in a long time.”

Callie nodded, a faraway look crossing her face, before she suddenly asked, “Do you have a man?”

Completely taken aback, Christina stammered, “I…I d-d-on’t…Why do y-you…?” all the while turning beet red with embarrassment.

“I bet you think I’m bein’ nosey.” Callie laughed.

“I thought we were talking about singing.”

“Singin’ gives me joy.” She smiled. “I was taught by my momma, just as she’d been taught by hers. I sing when I wake up in the mornin’ and right before I go to sleep at night, when I’m walkin’ to work and even when I’m settin’ food on the dinner table. There’s only one thin’ I love more than singin’.”

“What’s that?”

“Abraham.” Callie beamed, her smile as bright as the sun. “From the first moment I laid eyes on that man, I knew he was goin’ to be mine. He’s hardworking, kind, and willin’ to do his share of the cookin’. Unfortunately, there is one thin’ he is not.”

“He’s not a good singer?” Christina asked.

“You’re close.” Callie sighed. “If my Abraham had the voice of a brayin’ mule that’d just stepped on a nail, I would be understandin’.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“The problem is that Abraham
will not
sing.”

“Never?” Christina asked.

“Not once.”

“Even if you ask him to join you?”

“If I were to get down on my hands and knees and beg him for one note, I swear that man would not let out a squeak.”

“That’s…that’s just…”

“Strange is what it is,” Callie said. “But what’s
truly
odd is that he
likes
music. He listens to records and to the radio. He’ll whistle; he’ll snap his fingers; he’ll cluck his tongue. Whenever
I
start singin’, Abraham stops what he’s doin’ to listen. But the man
will not sing
!”

“Is it because he’s shy?”

“That man doesn’t have a shy bone in his body.” Callie laughed.

“It looks to me like you have a mystery on your hands.”

“The reason I asked you if you had a man was that, if you did, maybe you might’ve had some idea what I could try, some way to persuade him.”

Romantic involvement had never been something Christina had been particularly good at. She’d had flirts and crushes, pursuits that had come to nothing and others she later wished hadn’t. There were dates to the movies and dances, occasionally a chaste kiss, but what there had
never
been was the possibility of something
more
.

It pained Christina to admit it, but when Charlotte had first met her future husband she had felt a slight sting of envy. When she left for nursing college and later headed off to the Army hospital, she hoped to meet the man of her dreams, but here she was, in Longstock, still waiting for him to appear. So far, the only eligible men she’d encountered were Holden and Tyler Sutter, and neither of them seemed suitable to be
anyone’s
husband.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help,” Christina replied.

“Well, when you do meet a nice man,” Callie winked, “find out if he can sing before you give him yore heart.”

When Dr. Barlow arrived at the office, he looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. His hair was a rat’s nest of curls and tangles, his glasses were a bit off-center, whiskers peppered his cheeks, and there were bags under his eyes. His clothing was equally sloppy, with his jacket slung over a wrinkled shirt that was missing a button. One hand clutched his medical bag as the other brought a cup of coffee up to his lips. “I’m not late, am I?” he asked, but when he turned his wrist to look at his watch he spilled some of his drink on his shoes. “Damn it all!”

“You’ve still got a couple of minutes to spare,” Callie told him.

“I was early,” Christina explained.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with getting a head start,” the doctor explained as he shook coffee from his shoe. “Come back to my office and we can get started.”

Dr. Barlow led the way past Callie’s desk and down a narrow hallway to the rear of the building. Doors lined both sides of the hall; through one, Christina observed an examination room, with a table, several chairs, and a bureau full of medical instruments and jars, housed behind glass doors.

At the end of the hallway, the doctor opened the door to his office and turned on the light. Christina stifled a gasp of surprise; the inside of the room was a near-exact copy of Holden’s. Stacks of medical tomes were piled on the floor, cluttered up chairs, and leaned against walls. Open books, folders, and half-scribbled notes were scattered over every remaining surface; some had even been tacked to a lampshade on his desk. With a quickness surely the result of much practice, Dr. Barlow weaved his way among the stacks, skipped over a column that had slid into his path, and dropped into his desk chair. With a frown, he quickly slammed shut one of the desk drawers while trying to find a place for his coffee.