by Penn Gates
The teacher’s lounge is finally quiet and Lisa collapses gratefully onto the couch, which protests with a sigh of air expelled from the cushions. Lisa sighs, too, as this bloody day finally ends.
“Frau Doktor,” Janet whispers in the dark. “Was everything going all right with that poor woman and her baby?”
Lisa considers pretending she’s already asleep, but Janet needs to know that a stranger’s pregnancy did not end in tragedy. “Mother and child both doing great,” she says aloud. “But I had to do a C-section.”
“I - I do not know what that is,” Janet says.
Oh God, Lisa thinks. I don’t know if I’m up for a long explanation. Aloud, she says, “The baby was turned around, feet first - and he was large. Nix had been in labor for a long time, and it didn’t seem wise to test the limits of her endurance - so I removed the baby surgically.”
There is no immediate response from Janet, and Lisa tenses, before the girl asks, “So, Nix - this is the name of the mother? I have not heard that one before.”
“It is kind of odd, isn’t it?”
“Did you - see George? I am hoping he is well.”
Lisa realizes she hadn’t thought of George Shirk - not once - when she was at the St Clair farm. But apparently Janet had.
“I did not,” she says flatly, “But I met his sister, Margaret. She helped me with the surgery - she’s quite knowledgeable.”
“I know Margaret well,” Janet says quietly. “I had been looking forward to seeing her again before—”
“There’s no reason why you can’t,” Lisa answers. “She doesn’t strike me as - well, being judgmental like her brother.”
Lisa is surprised by Janet’s quiet chuckle in the dark. “I have told you that Mr. Shirk was always thinking that George was touched by the Lord. But it was plain to me that it is his daughter whose hand is being guided by God.”
“Amen to that,” Lisa says fervently. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
CHAPTER 17: Another Chance
Still feeling slightly drunk on a cocktail of stress and exhaustion the next morning, Lisa retreats to her safe place and studies a microscopic world that makes sense to her. It proves difficult to hold on to her focus. After awhile, she stops pretending that she’s actually getting any work done and straightens up her work station instead.
During the endless months of searching, she’d never once thought of the elusive senior survivor as an individual, only a vessel of genetic material. But Nix St Clair is a real human being, and so is her husband who had trusted Lisa with the lives of his wife and child. In light of that trust, what Holden did still seems like betrayal - even if he was doing it for the mission.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. Holden never hesitated. He’d kept his eye on the ball and tried to secure what she needed in her search for a weapon against Geezer. Unwillingly, Lisa admits to herself that the intense pressure she’d felt to get it right during the C-section was not the reason, but an excuse, for forgetting to obtain a blood sample. Still - Hatfield will never trust either of them again.
Lisa’s head begins to ache unbearably. Even with a self-contained system which not only filters the air but keeps it at a constant temperature, the small space is stuffy after an hour or so. And recycled air is like a recycled thought - stale and increasingly useless. Oh, come on, she thinks wearily. Her head hurts because she’s never before had to deal with the gray area between practicing medical ethics or saving countless lives.
A pounding on the side of the lab interrupts her. Whatever problem is knocking is a welcome change from fighting with herself. She opens the door to Holden, who’s wearing an expression she can’t quite decipher.
“A brand new problem just wandered into town, dragging a little red wagon full of plastic bags.” He grins. “A genuine bag lady - can you believe it?”
There’s something about the way he says it that’s almost teasing. Her father used to do that to her when she was very young. Guess, he’d say - Guess what I’ve got behind my back.
Lisa is in no mood to play games. “That kind of problem is your department,” she says irritably. “Don’t give her anything to eat unless she asks. In fact—” she says, snapping her fingers, “Point her in the direction of the St Clair place. They have more food than we do.”
“I’m pretty sure she already knows how to get there,” Holden smirks. “She says her name is St Clair - and she claims to be Nix’s mother.”
“T-that w-would mean she’s - old,” Lisa says. “That’s a fifth survivor!” She pinches the skin on her wrist to remind herself to stay professional. “Where is she now?” she asks, forcing herself to speak normally.
“I took her to the cafeteria - I wanted eyes on her. St Clair or not, she seems a little - uh - light-fingered.” His eyes involuntarily flick toward her chest. “Don’t let her see that ring.”
In the cafeteria, the St Clair woman sits holding court at a school lunch table, surrounded by a half dozen fascinated soldiers. Lisa immediately sees her resemblance to Nix. Under the aging skin is the same classically beautiful bone structure - but St Clair Senior has iron gray hair which cascades over her shoulders in a tangled mass of curls. Lisa has a flash of intuition - that wild mane is the reason Nix keeps her own hair short and spiky.
Their visitor is dressed in a vintage gown that had once been ankle length. Now the hem of it is in shreds and streaked with grass stains and old mud. A paisley shawl is draped around her neck. She looks like nothing so much as a gypsy fortune teller. No wonder Holden thinks she might be light-fingered.
“That is Cindi Lou St Clair,” Holden says under his breath. There’s something strange about the woman - dangerous in a way he can’t quite figure out. He wishes he didn’t have to put Lisa anywhere near the old witch - but she’s a goddamn St Clair! And a second chance!
Closer to her now, Lisa sees that the irises of Cindi’s eyes are unusually large - not brown, but an impenetrable black. They remind her of the bright, malicious stare of a crow intent on an object it wants to steal.
And at the moment, that would be the rapt attention of every man in the room. Lisa recognizes the type. They see other women only as potential rivals. She brushes the thought aside. It doesn’t matter what kind of person the elder St Clair is. Here is another anomaly. Perhaps fate has finally given her the opportunity to study the Hamlin phenomenon for real.
Cindi Lou laughs coquettishly at some comment made by Private Diggs, famous for having never met a woman he didn’t like. The extreme variety of his romantic conquests is legendary, and is still a favorite topic when the guys think she can’t hear them.
“Fuck,” Holden mutters under his breath. “Cougar alert.”
He steps past Lisa. “Who’s on sentry next? Your shift started ten minutes ago. And you, Baxter - aren’t you on KP tonight? Move your ass - or I’ll barbecue your carcass for supper myself.”
As the men scatter in all directions, Cindi Lou remains seated, staring into space. She takes a deep, satisfied drag from a cigarette she’s cadged from one of the soldiers.
“Ms. St Clair,” Holden says to get her attention. “Dr. Terrell needs to speak to you.”
The bright bird eyes are turned on Lisa. “Who are you?” Cindi Lou asks with an undercurrent of hostility. Her voice is deep and rough, like a rock star’s - ruined now, but still able to mesmerize.
“I just told you, lady,” Holden says in exasperation. “Are you deaf, or what?”
“A lady doctor?” the woman asks, feigning surprise. “That would never have happened in my day.”
“Oh bullshit!” Lisa snaps. “You’re old - not ancient. There were plenty of opportunities for women when you were young - you just didn’t take them.”
“You have no idea how many opportunities I seized,” Cindi Lou purrs. “More than you, I’d bet.”
“I think you’ve made your position clear - as it applies to more than a career,” Lisa says bitingly.
Holden gives Lisa a start
led look. He’s always shielded her from the squad’s coarse language and obsession with sex without a second thought. It’s how he was raised. But of course she wasn’t raised in a convent - and he’s impressed with the way she just threw this nasty old woman’s words back at her without getting her hands dirty.
Cindi Lou bristles. “Listen, you bi—”
“That’s enough,” Holden says forcefully. “You’re our guest - at the moment - but that can change right now if you don’t mind your manners.”
“Will you be locking me up? Handcuffs, maybe?”
Lisa can’t hide her disgust. “Please - get her away from me, will you?”
“What would you like me to do with her?” He struggles to keep a straight face.
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” she says sweetly.
Holden grips Cindi Lou’s shoulder. “You - come with me.”
“I just might come—”
“Don’t!” Holden and Lisa snap in unison.
“I’m sick of your double entendres already,” Lisa adds, “And I just met you.”
“Threesomes are better,” Cindi Lou says immediately.
Lisa closes her eyes to block out the sight of that leering face.
“Don’t disappear,” she hears Holden warn her. “I’ll be right back. We got stuff to talk about.”
True to his word, Holden reappears within a few minutes, carrying two tin mugs of coffee. He hands one to Lisa and drops into a chair with a groan. “God, I need this,” he mutters, taking a healthy gulp.
In Lisa’s opinion, coffee should always be drunk in heavy mugs and tea in cups. And nothing should ever be served in metal. She sips delicately and wonders why it hasn’t occurred to her to check the cafeteria shelves for cups or mugs. Why do I never think of the most obvious solutions? Because complexity is so much more challenging? She smiles as she remembers what Winston Churchill had called unnecessary complexity: a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
She drains the last of her coffee - and wishes she hadn’t. She’s not sure what to do about the grounds that were in the bottom of the cup and are now in her mouth. She swallows.
“What are you making a face for? I haven’t said anything yet.”
“But you’re about to,” she says as she tries to remove a bit of coffee grounds from the tip of her tongue.
“We need to let the folks at St Clair farm know about our visitor,” he says, trying to tear his eyes away from her mouth. “My gut’s telling me that woman is big trouble.”
“I doubt Hatfield’s forgotten your attempt at blood smuggling.”
“You’re right - he’s not gonna welcome me with open arms - but the guy’s military. Whatever happens, it’ll be a measured response. The thing is - I think they need to know Cindi Lou is prowling around. That woman’s big trouble.”
He gulps the rest of his coffee and rises. “Might as well get it over with - I’ll go out and tell him now.”
Lisa is ashamed at the relief she feels that he hasn’t asked her to accompany him - but, nervous or not, she has a responsibility to her patients. “I’ll come with you.” She laughs nervously. “What’s the worst that can happen? A measured response - right?”
ON THE DRIVE TO THE St Clair place, Lisa tries to distract herself from the butterflies in her stomach by focusing on the tender green of new leaves against the deep blue sky. The wildflowers growing along side the road are a blur of frothy pink at the speed their traveling. In a world of dull uniforms and institutional beige, the profusion of color has an almost psychedelic effect on her.
It’s not until Lisa feels the truck turning, that she forces herself to pay attention to what comes next. The place looks different in daylight. The house is large, and seems even larger, perched as it is on top of the hill that splits the sunken drive in two. As Holden veers to the left, she sees an impressive old barn and other outbuildings beyond the house.
Holden stops abruptly next to the side porch of the farmhouse. “You stay here,” he tells Lisa. “Until I check things out.” He squints at some kind of shed with its large wooden doors flung open.
Before the corporal finishes speaking, Hatfield appears out of the dim interior of the shed, hands hanging loosely at his sides. He reminds Lisa of a gunfighter - although there’s no gun in sight. Her heart begins to beat faster.
“Holden - wait,” Lisa says, but he’s already out of the truck and striding toward Hatfield.
Lisa watches their body language as the two men speak to each other. Whatever is being said, it doesn’t look like an exchange of pleasantries. After a minute or so, Hatfield stops talking and strides toward the truck. Holden is right behind him, like a guard dog nipping at his heels.
Hatfield gestures at Lisa to roll down her window. “You can go on in,” he says coolly. “Nix has been wonderin’ when you were gonna show up.”
CHAPTER 18: Dry Rot On The Family Tree
Lisa can’t resist glancing once more at the two men standing in the driveway. They’re talking again - which seems like a good sign - but there’s no guarantee that the tension between them won’t escalate into violence. When she steps inside the house, she begins to worry instead about the kind of welcome waiting for her.
For late April, it’s quite warm in the sun, but the large common room with the brick floor is pleasantly cool. These old houses were constructed much like sailing ships - designed to withstand any weather nature could throw at them. She has a moment’s homesickness for Boston. What does it look like now? The grand old city stood its ground for centuries, but will it survive Geezer? Will anything, in the end?
Lisa finds Margaret in the kitchen, standing at a scarred wooden table bleached white from years of scrubbing. She appears to be up to her elbows in bread dough. At the old wood stove, a younger Mennonite girl stirs a pot. Lisa recognizes her as the girl with the tray the night of the surgery.
“Dr. Terrell - it is pleasant to see you again,” Margaret says, breathing hard as she pummels the dough into shape. “Our patients are doing very well,” she adds.
“That’s a lot of bread,” Lisa blurts while Margaret divides the dough into a dozen loaves set to rise. She flushes. “I’m sorry - it’s nice to see you, too, and I’m happy to hear there have been no problems.”
“Is that the lady who cut Nix’s stomach open to get Davey out?” calls a small black boy sitting on a chair pushed against the wall.
Margaret pointedly glances at the old cuckoo clock on the wall and then stares sternly at him.
“What?” he asks, trying hard to look innocent. “I only have a minute - one minute - before my time-out is all done.”
Lisa can see that Margaret is having a hard time not smiling. “Martin, can you tell me what lesson you have learned today?”
“Don’t push girls down in the dirt,” he answers promptly.
“Be trying one more time to answer my question.”
“Don’t push anybody down,” the little boy says in a sudden burst of inspiration.
“That is much better,” Margaret tells him. “Instead of sitting for the last minute, you may take the doctor upstairs to see Nix - then you can go find the Apostles and Lizzie.”
“Yippee!” he screeches like fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Who are the Apostles?” Lisa asks, thinking about this family’s eldest brother and his strong religious ethic.
“They are my twin brothers, Peter and Paul - they are called this because of their names, not because they are saints,” Margaret laughs.
“How is George?” Lisa asks before she can stop herself.
Margaret tries not to smile. “He is well,” she says briefly, then takes a deep breath. “I would very much like to know how Janet is doing - when perhaps you have time to tell me.”
“I’ll be glad to. She remembers you fondly.”
Margaret’s eyes fill with tears. “ Das ist gut,” she mutters under her breath. Aloud, she says, “Mary, come say hello to our new friend.”
&nb
sp; Lisa watches the girl move unwillingly from the stove. Her cheeks are red, but whether from the steam of the cooking pot or shyness Lisa can’t tell. She looks down at her sensible shoes and mumbles, “Hello.”
“When are you going to see Nix?” Martin interrupts, dancing around. “I need to get outside.”
“I am sorry, Frau Doktor,” Margaret murmurs. “I am making introductions, and yet I have not introduced you to your guide.” She points toward the impatient boy. “This is Martin, Nix’s foster son, who came with her from the city.”
Martin surprises Lisa by executing an old-fashioned bow. “How do you do?” he says loudly.
“Well done,” Margaret tells him with a smile. She turns back to Lisa. “Nix has told us that she could have never made the dangerous journey without Martin’s help.”
“Then I’m in capable hands,” Lisa smiles. “Please, Martin - lead the way.”
Lisa dutifully follows the hyperactive kid. In the world before Geezer, some school counselor would have recommended doping him up on Ritalin. And in that world, she thinks, I probably would have thought it was a good idea. In this one, he just seems like a normal little boy.
After thundering up the stairs, Martin gets a grip on his enthusiasm and taps very lightly on the door. He looks back at Lisa. “In case the baby is asleep,” he whispers loudly.
“What do you want, Martin?” Nix’s voice calls from the other side. “I’m busy.”
Martin takes a deep breath for maximum projection, but Lisa interrupts him before he can deliver his answer at full volume.
“Back downstairs you go, young man. Did you forget about the - uh - Apostles?”
“I didn’t forget!” he screeches. Without another word, he clatters down the stairs.
“Who the hell is out there?” Nix’s voice sounds impatient this time.
“It’s Dr. Terrell - I’m here to check your incision - and the baby.”
