The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice (209 page)

She groomed carefully and chose a good dress she hadn’t worn in a while. When he picked her up he was wearing a tweed jacket, wool slacks, lightweight black hiking boots, and a heavy down jacket, the hill country dress-up outfit. They went to an inn on the Mohawk Trail and took their time over wine before ordering. She had become unaccustomed to alcohol; the wine relaxed her, and she discovered he was an interesting man, a good conversationalist. For several years he had spent three weeks annually working in Guatemala with children who had been traumatized by the murders of one or both of their parents. He asked insightful questions about her practice in the hills.

She liked the meal, the talk about medicine and books and movies, enjoying herself enough so that when he took her home it felt natural to invite him in for coffee. She asked him to light the fire while she started the coffee.

When he kissed her, that somehow felt natural too, and she enjoyed the experience. He was a good kisser, and she kissed him back.

But her lips became like wood, and very soon he stopped.

“I’m sorry, Ken. The timing is very wrong, I guess.”

If she had hurt his ego, it didn’t show. “Do you give rain checks?”

She hesitated too long, and he smiled. “I’m going to be in this town a lot in the future.” He held up his coffee mug to her. “Here’s to better timing. After a while if you would like to see me, let me know.”

He kissed her on the cheek when he left.

A week later he came up from New York for three days over
the Christmas holiday, with another man and two very attractive women, both young.

When R.J. passed them on the road in the Explorer, Ken honked his horn at her and waved.

R.J. spent Christmas Day with Eva. She had made a small turkey at home, and she brought it over with the side dishes and a chocolate cake, but Eva derived little enjoyment from the meal. She had been told that in two weeks she would be transferred to a nursing home in Northampton. R.J. had gone there to check it out. She had told Eva it was a good place, and the old woman had listened quietly and had nodded her head without comment.

Eva began to cough while R.J. was cleaning up after their meal. By the time the dishes were put away, her face was hot and flushed.

R.J. had had sufficient experience with influenza so that it was an easily recognizable enemy. It had to be a flu strain not included in the vaccine Eva had received.

R.J. toyed with the idea of sleeping in Eva’s apartment or of getting one of the local women to stay the night.

But Eva was so frail. In the end, R.J. called the ambulance and rode in it to Greenfield, where she signed the papers admitting Eva to the hospital.

The next day, she was glad she had done so, because the infection had impaired Eva’s respiratory system. R.J. ordered antibiotics in the hope that the pneumonia was bacterial, but it was a viral pneumonia, and Eva sank rapidly.

R.J. waited in the hospital room. “Eva,” she said. “Eva, I’m here with you.” She drove back and forth between Woodfield and Greenfield and sat by the bedside holding Eva’s hands, feeling the old woman’s life wind down and saying good-bye to her without any more words.

R.J. ordered oxygen to ease her labored breathing, and toward the end, morphine. Eva died two days before the new year.

The ground in the Woodfield cemetery was hard as flint, and a grave couldn’t be dug. Eva’s casket was placed in a holding vault.
Her burial had to await the spring thaw. There was a memorial service at the Congregational church, sparsely attended because in ninety-two years not many people in town had known Eva Goodhue very well.

The weather was beastly, a series of what Toby called “three-dog days.” R.J. had not even one dog to cuddle with against the cold, and she saw the spiritual danger of unremitting gray skies. She took responsibility for herself. In Northampton she found a teacher of viola da gamba, Olga Melnikoff, a woman in her seventies who had spent twenty-six years with the Boston Symphony. She began to have weekly lessons, and now in the still, cold house at night she sat and clamped the great viol between her knees as if it were a lover. The first strokes of the bow gave off sonorous bass vibrations that thrust their way deep into her body, and soon she was lost in the exquisite business of making sound. Mrs. Melnikoff started her on the basics, grimly correcting the way she wanted to hold the bow, ordering her to repeat the musical scale again and again. But R.J. already was a musician of piano and guitar, and soon she was doing exercises and then a few simple songs. She loved it. Sitting alone and playing, she felt that she was accompanied by the generations of Coles who had made melody with this instrument.

It was a time to spend wood on the fire and stay in bed nights. She knew the wild creatures must be suffering. She wanted to leave hay in the woods for the deer, but Jan Smith dissuaded her. “Deliver them from our kindness. They’re best off when we leave them completely alone,” he said, and she tried not to think of the animals and birds during weather when tree trunks cracked open from the cold like pistol shots.

The hospital announced that any doctor with a modem could access a patient’s chart in a few seconds and could give the nurses instructions over the telephone instead of making the long, slippery drive to Greenfield. There were nights when she still had to go to the hospital in person, but she invested in the equipment and was thankful to embrace some of the technology she had left behind in Boston.

The great blazes she built nightly in the fireplaces kept her
warm despite the winds that shook the house on the verge. She sat by the fire and went through journal after journal, never quite catching up but making great inroads on her medical reading.

One night she went to the closet and took down David’s manuscript. Seated by the fire, she began to read.

Hours later, suddenly conscious that the room was cold, she stopped to rebuild the fire, to use the bathroom, to make fresh coffee. Then she sat and read again. Sometimes she chuckled; several times, she wept.

The sky outside was bright when she was through. But she wanted to read the rest of the story. It was about farmers who had to change their lives because the world had changed, but who didn’t know how. The characters were alive but the manuscript was unfinished. It left her deeply moved but wishing to scream. She couldn’t imagine David would abandon such a book if he were able to complete it, and she knew he was either gravely ill or dead.

35

H
IDDEN
M
EANINGS

January 20.

Sitting at home, warming the air with music, R.J. struggled with the feeling that tonight was special: a birthday? some kind of anniversary? And then she had it, a message from Keats that she had had to memorize for sophomore English Lit.

St. Agnes’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass
,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold
.

R.J. had no idea how the flocks were doing, but she knew that the creatures who couldn’t be in a barn must be doing miserably. On several mornings a pair of large wild turkeys, females, had moved slowly over the snow-covered fields. Each successive snowfall had frozen with an icy crust, forming a series of impermeable layers. The turkeys and the deer couldn’t dig through them in order to reach the grass and plants they needed for survival. The turkeys made their way across the mowing like a pair of arthritic dowagers.

R.J. wondered if the Gift worked with animals. But she didn’t have to touch them to know the turkeys were close to death. In the orchard they gathered themselves and made weak and unsuccessful efforts to flutter up into the apple trees to get at the frozen buds.

She could stand it no longer. At the farm store in Amherst she bought a large sack of cracked corn and threw handfuls of the feed over the snow in several places where she had seen the turkeys.

Jan Smith was disgusted with her. “Nature managed nicely without human beings for millennia. So long as man doesn’t destroy the animals they do fine without our help. The fittest will survive,” he said. He was even scornful of bird feeders. “All they do is allow a lot of people to see their favorite songbirds up close. If the feeders weren’t there, the birds would have to move their asses a little in order to live, and it would do them good to work harder.”

She didn’t care. She watched with satisfaction as the turkeys and other birds ate her largesse. Doves and pheasants came, and crows and jays, and smaller birds she couldn’t identify from a distance. Whenever they had eaten all the cracked corn, or when it snowed and covered what she had last thrown, she went outside and threw some more.

Cold January became frigid February. People ventured outside wrapped in a variety of protective layers, knit sweaters, down-filled coats, old fleece-lined bomber jackets. R.J. wore heavy long underwear and a woolen stocking cap that she kept pulled over her ears.

The lousy weather brought out the pioneering spirit that had drawn people into the mountains in the first place. One morning during a blizzard R.J. staggered through drifts to make her way into the office, where she stood, covered with white. “What a day,” she gasped.

“I know!” Toby said, her face glowing. “Isn’t it
marvelous?”

It was a month for warm and hearty meals shared with friends and neighbors, because winter stayed forever in the hills and cabin fever was ubiquitous. Over bowls of chili at Toby and Jan’s house, R.J. talked about American artifacts with Lucy Gotelli, a curator in the museum at Williams College. Lucy said her lab had the ability to date objects with comfortable accuracy, and R.J. found herself describing the plate found with the baby’s bones in her pasture.

“I’d like to see it,” Lucy said. “There was a Woodfield Pottery here in the eighteen hundreds that turned out serviceable, unglazed dishware. Perhaps they made your piece.”

A few weeks later, R.J. brought the plate to Lucy’s house.

Lucy examined it with a magnifying glass. “Hey, looks to me like a Woodfield Pottery product, all right. Of course, we can’t be certain. They had a distinctive marking, a merged
T
and
R
in black paint on the bottom of every piece. If this plate ever had the marking, it’s been worn away.” She looked curiously at the seven surviving rusty letters on the face of the plate—
ah
and
od
, and
o
, and again
od
, and picked with a fingernail at the
h
. “Funny color. Is that ink, do you think?”

“I don’t know. It looks like blood,” R.J. ventured, and Lucy grinned.

“Nah. I guarantee it ain’t blood. Look, why not let me take this to work with me and see what I can come up with?”

“Sure.” So R.J. left it with Lucy, even though she was curiously reluctant to give up the plate even for a short time.

Despite the cold and the deep snow, there was a scratching at the door early one evening. And another scratching. To R.J.’s relief, when she opened the door, instead of a wolf or a bear, the cat walked in and ambled from room to room.

“I’m sorry, Agunah. They’re not here,” R.J. told her.

Agunah stayed less than an hour, and then she stood before the door until R.J. opened it and let her out.

Twice more that week she came and scratched on the door, searched the house disbelievingly, and then departed without deigning to look at R.J.

It was ten days before Lucy Gotelli telephoned, apologizing for the delay. “I’ve done your plate. Nothing to it, really, but we’ve had one minor crisis after another at the museum, and I wasn’t able to deal with it until day before yesterday.”

“And?”

“It
is
made by Woodfield Pottery, I detected the latent mark
very plainly. And I analyzed a bit of the substance that formed the letters on the top surface. It’s casein paint.”

“All I remember about casein is that it’s a milk component,” R.J. said.

“Right. Casein is the chief protein in milk, the part that curdles when the milk sours. Most of the dairy farmers around here made their own paint in the early days. They had plenty of skimmed milk, and they let the curds dry and ground them between stones. They used the casein as a binder, mixing it with pigment and milk and egg white and a little water. In this case, the pigment used was red lead. The letters are printed in red barn paint. A very bright red, actually. Turned into rust by time and the chemical action of the soil.”

All she’d had to do was place the plate under ultraviolet radiation, Lucy said. The porous clay had absorbed paint, which fluoresced under the ultraviolet, absorbing energy and remitting it right back.

“So … were you able to detect the other letters?”

“Yes, certainly. Got a pencil handy? I’ll read them back to you.”

She spelled them out slowly, and R.J. wrote them on her prescription pad, and when Lucy had finished talking she sat and looked without blinking, almost without breathing, at what she had written:

ISAIAH NORMAN GOODHUE
GO IN INNOCENCE TO GOD
Nov 12, 1915