Out Of The Deep I Cry (12 page)

“Hah,” Debba said.

“Regardless, unless Debba wants to give up custody, she needs to figure out a way to counter his position. I think the first thing will be to find another M.D. who’s willing to state that the kids are in excellent health and that Skylar’s doing well under the current program.” Karen jotted a note on her legal pad. “Are you sure Dr. Rouse will back your husband instead of you?”

“It’s that son of a bitch’s fault I’m in this mess,” Debba said.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Would you consider changing your position and getting Whitley immunized?”

“No.”

“What about at a different venue?” Clare asked. “Someplace where you could feel sure that the vaccinations were mercury-free?”

“No.” Debba thumped the table. “It’s not just the mercury, you know. We’ve been letting the medical establishment put living viruses in our bodies for years now. Look at the unexplained rise in autoimmune diseases and asthma. Were you aware that while the flu vaccination rate went from thirty-five to sixty-five percent, the mortality rate from flu has increased a hundredfold?”

Clare lifted the teapot. “Couldn’t that reflect the fact that there’s a lot more old people around than there used to be?”

“Let’s stay on point, people.” Karen tapped her mug handle with her pen, a risky move in Clare’s mind. “Debba, I need a list of everyone involved in Skylar’s care.”

Clare breathed in a cloud of fruity steam as Debba gave Karen the names of therapists, counselors, special-ed techs, and relief caregivers. She thought about her conversation with Laura Rayfield, the clinic’s nurse practitioner. It was one thing for Debba to risk everything to protect her children from harm. But if there was no real harm? Should she be counseling Debba to give up her crusade against vaccinations? And what could she say to persuade her? Debba’s beliefs about the evils of immunizations had the strength and conviction of religious faith. How would I react, Clare wondered, if someone tried to persuade me that God was a figment of my imagination, and that I should stop wasting my time with all those silly rituals?

“Clare?”

She jerked her attention away from the mug of tea. “Hmm? I’m sorry, what?”

“Would you be willing to testify about the incident at the clinic?” Karen asked.

“Testify?”

“As to how Debba was distraught but not violent.”

I used to come out to her place when she and her husband were married. They got rowdy with each other all the time.
She could hear Russ’s words as if he were sitting in the kitchen next to her.

“I can certainly testify that she put the stool down and didn’t offer any violence toward anyone after I got there,” Clare said carefully. She looked at Debba. “I can’t say what’s happened in the past. I don’t know if you’ve had any other incidents.”

Debba shook her head, sending her spiraling curls bouncing. “No. I’ve picketed the clinic lots, and I admit Rouse and I have had some shouting matches, but never-no. I was just pushed over the edge that day when I got the letter from Jeremy.”

Clare’s heart sank. Debba wasn’t going to rise to the bait and spill all about her history of marital violence. She reached for the honey bowl and unenthusiastically spooned some of the drippy stuff into her tea. Now what? She had always kept whatever Russ had told her in strictest confidence.

No, that wasn’t true. She had blabbed private information to a reporter, on camera. In her defense, it was because she thought lives were at stake. But she had been wrong, and she had regretted it.

She sipped the tea, wrinkling her nose at the taste. It would have been greatly improved with a shot of bourbon. Better still, go straight to the bourbon and skip the tea. Karen was going on about financial and medical records, and Debba was taking down what the lawyer recommended. Considering the emphasis Karen was placing on past behavior, how important would those fights loom? They must have taken place over six years ago, if Russ was right, and they had stopped brawling when Skylar arrived. Clare took another sip. The tea didn’t improve with familiarity. Would Debba’s ex-husband even dare to bring up the matter? It would reflect as badly on him as on her. More.

“Mamamamamama,” a small voice wailed from its playroom exile.

The door at the back of the kitchen opened. Lilly poked her head in. “Sorry, Karen, but your little one is getting pretty fretful. Do you have-”

Cody Burns broke through the line and pelted across the kitchen floor for his mother, who scooped him up onto her lap. He turned his face into her shoulder and clutched at her with the arm that wasn’t holding Squeaky the Squirrel.

“Hey, little boy. What’s the matter? Are you a sleepy baby?” Karen looked up at them. “I think we may be running into nap time. Can we continue this another time?” She sniffed. “Whoo. We need a diaper change before beddy-bye. Lilly, where’s the bathroom?”

Clare put the lumpy mug down. She couldn’t tell Karen what she, in confidence, had been told by Russ. Nor could she let Debba know she had some private police information about the artist’s past. “Debba,” she said, after Karen had slung her baby bag over her shoulder and followed Lilly down the hall. “I’d love it if we could take some time, just the two of us, to talk about how this is affecting you. I can see you have a terrific support person in your mother, but sometimes it helps to let your feelings out with another person.”

Debba pushed her cloud of hair back with both hands. “Funny you should mention that. I’ve just been thinking, lately, how stressed I’m feeling. And I think part of it is, I’m trying to be real strong and upbeat for my mom. She has enough to deal with without worrying about me. I have to tell you though, I’m not particularly religious.”

Clare laughed. “If the only people I talked with were particularly religious ones, I’d have a lot of free time on my hands.” She stood up and dug into her skirt pocket. “Here’s one of my cards, to trade for yours. It’s got all my numbers on it, although you’ll take your chances if you try to reach me by cell phone.” She made a face. “I got one last winter after I was in an accident, but I didn’t realize that all these mountains mean I can only get a signal if I’m headed down the Northway toward Saratoga.”

Karen toted Cody back into the kitchen. “Oh, cell phones are useless around here. You should do what Geoff and I did, get a satellite phone. It’s a little more expensive, but it’s worthwhile. So reliable.”

Clare caught Debba’s eye. They both bit back grins.

“Clare, will you hold Cody while I get my stuff together?” Karen thrust the baby into Clare’s arms. Cody drew back, eyeballed her, recognized a face he knew, and promptly butted his head against her shoulder. Karen and Debba had put their heads together over their calendars and were trying out different dates and times for their next meeting. Cody stuck his thumb into his mouth and began to rhythmically squeak the squirrel.

The weight of him always surprised Clare, the solidity and size of him. Somehow, she always expected the fragile, kitten-sized bundle she had first seen, the awe-inspiring, panicky thought she had first had: This baby’s life is in my hands. She wondered if this was what motherhood felt like. She wondered if she would ever know.

There was a tug on her skirt. She looked down to see a tiny girl, with kinky blond hair identical to Debba’s, staring at her. “Hi,” the girl said. “What’s your name? My name is Whitley. I have a rat. Do you want to see?”

“Whits, Reverend Fergusson doesn’t want to see your rat,” Lilly said from the playroom door. “Be polite and say hello.”

“I did,” Whitley said. “What’s that thing around your neck? It’s not a turtleneck shirt. I have turtleneck shirts and they’re soft and squishy. Sometimes they have flowers on them.”

“You’re right,” Clare said. “This is called a clerical collar. I wear it so people can see that I’m a priest. Kind of like a police officer wearing a badge. If I weren’t holding Cody, I could show you where it fastens and unfastens in the back. It’s not even really attached to my shirt.”

“Neat,” Whitley said. “Put the baby down and show me.”

“Whitley!” her mother said, reaching for her.

“You have quite a conversationalist there,” Clare said.

“Yeah, it’s a shame she’s so shy and retiring.” Debba’s face softened. “And here’s my boy.”

The child who followed Lilly into the kitchen was clearly Whitley’s brother. They had the same fair skin and finely etched features. But where the little girl’s brown eyes were direct and penetrating, her brother’s wandered, sliding away from faces, seeming to track dust motes in the air. He walked hesitantly, moving his arms back and forth like a child trying to feel its way through a dark and featureless landscape. Debba knelt down and circled her arms around the boy, holding him loosely, anchoring him in space. “Sky, this is Reverend Fergusson. Can you say ‘hello’?”

He was a beautiful boy. He fastened his eyes on the table, not like a kid disobeying his mom, or like a shy child. It was as if, Clare thought, he didn’t even see her.

“When we meet somebody new, we say ‘hello,’ ” Debba went on. “Can you say ‘hello’?”

His gaze was still on the table. “H’lo,” he said, still ignoring Clare. He tapped the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other and circled them around.

“Sure, you can draw. Get up on your chair.”

Skylar headed for where Clare had been sitting, and she jumped out of his way. He climbed into the seat while his mother laid a stack of blank papers and a pencil in front of him.

With fierce concentration he bent over the paper. “Whatcha drawing, Scoot?” his mother asked, although it was obvious. Under Skylar’s pencil a bus was emerging, startlingly accurate and in perfect perspective.

“Grammy’s bus,” he said. “The tires, the windows, the door, the lights…”

“Mmmm. I like your busses.” Debba stroked his hair while the boy finished one picture, thrust the sheet away, and started another. The second bus was identical to the first. Clare watched Debba’s hand, rising and falling, like a benediction said over and over. What was it like to love that fiercely? How much would you be willing to pay to make your child healthy, wealthy, happy, wise? What would you do to protect your child? As she watched Debba reach over and slide a box of crayons toward Skylar, tempting him with color, she knew the answer:
anything
.

Dead and gone. Niels Madsen contemplated the phrase as he turned the pages of the Ketchem file. It implied first the one, then the other. Turning that natural order around was going to be difficult. He squared the papers within the green baize folder and pressed the yellow button on his intercom.

“Miss McDonald, will you send in Mrs. Ketchem now?”

A moment later, he heard the tack-tack-tack of heels on wood, and his office door opened. He stood up, came around his desk, and crossed to greet her.

“Mrs. Ketchem.” He shook her hand, gesturing to one of two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.” He studied her from beneath half-closed eyes as she sat down and smoothed her dress over her knees. His awareness of fashion didn’t extend much beyond an approving nod at his wife’s purchases and an occasional groan of pain when he got her bills, but even he could tell Jane Ketchem’s brown wool dress was several years out-of-date. Her shoes, polished to a shine and neat below her crossed ankles, were worn at the heels.

“Can I have Miss McDonald get you some coffee?” he asked, seating himself behind his desk.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Beneath her hat, he could see the gray threading through her glossy brown hair. They had met a few times over the years-he had drawn up the papers when she and Jonathon bought their farm and had advised them when the Conklingville Dam project was buying them out. Jane had had a fresh farm-girl sort of beauty in her younger days, the kind that should have aged into plump cheeks and soft jowls by now. But the events of her life had laid waste to that softness, and the forty-one-year-old woman looking calmly at him from across his desk was drawn, sharp. Someone he didn’t recognize.

He folded his hands. “What can I do for you today?” he asked, redundantly, because he knew what she must be here for, had known it as soon as his secretary had shown him the name in his appointment calendar.

“I want you to have Jonathon declared legally dead.”

“It’s been seven years now, has it?”

“It has.” Her face was still calm, but he could see her hands tightening over her purse, the leather also polished but worn, like her shoes.

He leaned forward. “I don’t want to offend you, Mrs. Ketchem, but if we’re going to pursue this, we’re going to have to touch on some personal matters, so I’m just going to jump in with both feet.” He softened his voice. “Are you in financial straits? Because-”

“The life insurance company went under. Yes, I know. I got your letter, and another one from them, and I certainly haven’t forgotten either. No, I’m not facing the poor farm.” She glanced down at her out-of-date dress. “Though I suppose that’s another thing folks in this town like to speculate about. Truth is, I’m keeping a Scotsman’s grip on whatever comes in. I want my daughter to go to college.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A laudable ambition.” He touched the file on his desk. “You do realize that if we petition the court of probate to rule Jonathon dead, it won’t be cheap. My retainer alone is one hundred dollars, and there may well be expenses and fees beyond that, depending on how long it takes.”

She nodded. “I know. I asked your secretary what your price was when I asked to see you.”

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Ephraim Ketchem going to join in the petition? To help you with the cost?”

“No.” Her face softened a fraction. “They’d just as soon go on hoping he’ll turn up one day. The good Lord knows I can understand their feelings. There’s nothing hurts as bad as the death of your child, and if they can keep on pretending he’s alive…” She shrugged. “It’s a comfort to them.”