Down by the River

by Robyn Carr

  There was a brief silence and stillness, as though the mother was gathering her physical and emotional strength. Then with a mighty growl she pushed and birthed the baby’s head. June used a bulb suction she had in her bag to clear the baby’s nose and mouth, but it was hardly necessary. Despite the challenges the wee one had faced in childbirth, it was already grinding out that shrill, hungry wail. With one experienced finger, June eased forth a shoulder and Erline delivered a baby boy into her hands.

  “Ah, Erline, you did that like a pro. It’s a boy. I’d say about seven pounds, maybe a tish less.” She wrapped the baby in her sweatshirt, wrapped the long dangling arms around the little bundle and lay him on his mother’s abdomen. She pulled off her gloves and dug around in her bag for some clamps. She applied them to the cord, but she didn’t bother to cut it. It would be better for John and the emergency room personnel to see everything intact, provided he got here soon. She then spread her jacket over them both, covering as much of the shivering mother as she could.

  “I couldn’t find no sheet,” the man said to June’s back.

  She turned. “You have a son, sir. He looks healthy, but he has to be checked over at the hospital.”

  “We ain’t got extra money for no hospital,” he said, but he didn’t look her in the eye. He was digging in his baggy pants and pulled out a fold of bills. It wasn’t particularly thick, but as he peeled off two twenties, the stench of green marijuana, an unmistakable skunklike smell that clung to the hands and clothes and money of people who cut the plants for drying, filled the air.

  He tried to hand June forty dollars, and in so doing, looked her in the eye. His were dilated. Now she understood his lethargy, his poverty. Lots of different types grew dope in the backwoods. There were people who wanted the money involved and thought of marijuana as just another green plant. They might fill a spare room or section of garden with plants for extra cash. There were big-time growers and dealers who had camps as large as towns and fields as vast as a Midwest soy farmer, the kind of growers Jim had originally gone undercover to catch. And then there were deadheads like this one, an addict who grew pot for himself and what little cash he needed to get by on to grow a little more pot.

  “I don’t need your money,” June said. “I’m sure you qualify for assistance. And I sure don’t want any money that stinks of the plant. Put that away before you get into trouble. Has your wife been smoking?”

  “Naw, she don’t when she’s pregnant,” he said.

  “I don’t at all,” Erline insisted.

  “I seen her take a hit or two,” he said.

  “I’m only interested for medical reasons,” June stressed.

  Jim joined them. In his arms were the little girls, who were probably two and three years old. They both had blond stringy hair and were wearing cotton pants and T-shirts ill suited for the weather, and sandals on their bare feet. Jim had a fierce and unreadable expression on his face. The older of the little girls had a bright red spot on her cheek, as though she’d been slapped, and she struggled to keep back her tears.

  The man put his money away and started to reach out for the little girl. “Wouldn’t you like to see your son?” June urged, trying to distract him. She gently pulled on his arm, moving him to the back of the truck where his wife and child lay.

  Fortunately for everyone, John arrived in the ambulance and they were able to quickly load Erline and her baby into the back. June put the little girls into the front seat and told Jim, “I’m going to have to drive them so that John can attend to this patient. I’ll meet you in town a little later. Is that okay with you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Sure. You can park my truck and you and Sadie can come with us.”

  “What about him?” he asked, tilting his head toward the man with the stinky twenties.

  “I’m not too concerned about him. I’m concerned about them,” she said, tilting her head toward the ambulance.

  “Go on,” he said. “I’ll see you at the café. I’ll go take some of my medicine while you work.”

  She smiled, knowing her father and some of the locals would be waiting for him. “You’re a brave man.”

  He took off his jacket, the sleeves of which were soiled, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Is this what life with you is going to be like?”

  “Well, not really. I don’t do this on my way to work every day.”

  “But it’s going to be bizarre, isn’t it?” he asked gravely.

  She stood on her toes and kissed him. “For a flexible guy like you, it should be a piece of cake.” Then she jogged to the driver’s side of the ambulance and jumped in. She pulled away with lights flashing.

  Jim looked at the father, who stood and stared, dumbly, at his jacked-up truck. “What do you say we throw your tire in the back here and I’ll give you a lift into town. Maybe you can get it fixed, get your truck running and go to the hospital.”

  He shrugged. “I should just get the tire fixed and head out on my own. I never did think it was a good idea to have all them kids.”

  “You think anyone would come looking for you?” Jim asked, one brow lifted.

  The man scowled and slowly, without much enthusiasm, rolled the heavy tire toward the pickup. Jim, impatient, picked up the tire and pitched it into the bed of the truck. When the man got to the passenger door he stopped, looked at Sadie and said, “I’ll ride in the back. I’m not much for dogs.”

  Just as well, Jim thought. Sadie’s not much for idiots. But all he said was “Suit yourself.”

  Two

  Even though Grace Valley had grown from a population of around nine hundred to more than fifteen hundred in the past ten years, things were actually very slow to change. In fact, Valley Drive, the street that ran down the middle of town, had only seen a few minor improvements. There were just a half dozen businesses, including the police department, the church and the clinic.

  Sam Cussler’s garage sat at the far west end. He’d owned it for forty-five years. It was weatherworn the day he signed the deed and he’d never seen the need to prettify it. Sam, twice widowed, worked harder at fishing than at pumping gas. And in Grace Valley, typical of small rural towns, most people kept their own vehicles running, so Sam wasn’t called upon to do much mechanical work. In fact, he’d usually leave the pumps on and townsfolk would write him their IOU and slip it in his mail slot. He’d go around town and collect when the fish weren’t biting.

  Down the block was the police department, set up in a three-bedroom house and run by Tom Toopeek and his young deputies, Lee Stafford and Ricky Rios, all lifetime residents. Tom had been brought to Grace Valley by his parents when he was a mere tot and had spent his childhood as one of June’s best friends. Tom’s six siblings had left Grace Valley to make their marks on the world. Tom not only stayed, but he built his house onto his parent’s original cabin and added five of his own children to the mix. Lee and Ricky were handpicked by Tom as soon as the town could afford deputies. They were sent to a police academy, after which Tom personally trained them to adopt his philosophies in how best to serve a small town.

  Also on Valley Drive was a flower shop, closed for the time being because its owner, Justine, Sam’s late wife, had recently passed on. There was George Fuller’s café, open for service every day of the year including Christmas, a bakery run by Burt Crandall and his wife, Syl, the clinic and the Presbyterian Church, which boasted a new pastor, Harry Shipton, who was considered to be a breath of fresh air. Behind the café and church a riverbank as wide as a football field sloped gently toward the Windle River. Most town gatherings were held there—such as the Fourth of July picnic or the Harvest Festival. George Fuller had built a couple of brick barbecues and people would bring blankets and lawn chairs.

  There was a post office out on Highway 482 and a seasonal farmer’s market set up to the south. The schools—elementary, middle and high school—were located between Grace Valley, Westport and Rockport because students from other small tow
ns were bussed in, according to need.

  Grace Valley was just one of dozens, perhaps hundreds of small towns that speckled northern California from San Francisco to the border of Oregon. And while they had many similarities, they also each had a special and unique personality. The major industry was the land—farming, fishing, logging, vineyards, ranching—and the beauty that brought both tourists and transplants from the urban sprawl. Along with tourists and transplants came inns and bed-and-breakfasts, specialty shops, the occasional restaurant or tasting room, but these were commonly near the highways and not in the heart of town.

  Industry didn’t bring the new folks to town, but rather entrepreneurship supported by those new folks and new tourism. Once someone realized several artists and crafts artisans had relocated to the peace and beauty of the valley, a gallery would suddenly appear. After a rash of tourists were noticed poking around the little towns, a few bed-and-breakfasts sprang out of refurbished old houses like spring tulips. As vineyards expanded their crops, tasting rooms would emerge. And as traffic along the highway increased, so did the number of quaint restaurants.

  There were those whose income did not come from the town or the land. Myrna Hudson Claypool was a very successful novelist and Sarah Kelleher was just one of several well-known artists. And then there were rich folk who built between the shadow of the mountains and the vast beauty of the Pacific Ocean just because they could.

  But there were others who came to the valley not so well fixed. With growth came opportunities in construction, logging and farming, and with opportunity came people in search of work. Or people passing through on their way to the cities in search of a paycheck because their seasonal work had dried up in some other town. It was an unfortunate fact that plenty of people sought work of an illegal sort, poaching fish or wildlife, or growing marijuana. The draw to such professions would be the promise of easy money.

  The young man in the back of June’s truck, huddled against his flat tire, was just such a case. His name was Conrad Davis, and by the looks of him, it would appear the money hadn’t come as easily as he had hoped. Jim was in a hurry to get this young man’s tire fixed and send him on his way. After working undercover for the DEA all these years, his nose was good and his instincts better. This guy had a thin, hapless, no-account look about him, but Jim sensed there was something more going on. Conrad was slow moving, which could be accounted for if he was high, but he had an angry grimace on his face that belied pot smoking. Potheads were usually lackadaisical, not ill-humored. Jim suspected there was more at work than just marijuana. Maybe he was going up and down…a little pot, a little crystal meth.

  Jim pulled into the gas station. He hadn’t spent enough time in and around Grace Valley to know that there were more than the usual number of cars present on Valley Drive, mostly around the café. The garage door was open and Jim spied a tall, tanned and formidable man inside. Though his hair was completely white, his shoulders were broad and his face had a youthful appearance. He held a broom in one hand and a fishing pole in the other, as if trying to decide which to employ. As Jim got out of the car and walked toward him, the man retired both against the wall.

  “I figured this for a busy day,” Sam said. “Busier than usual.”

  Jim stuck out his hand. “I’m Jim Post. I’m…ah…”

  “Sam Cussler,” he said, taking the hand. “I know who you are, son. More or less.”

  The pieces fell into place immediately. June had related many stories about the town and its people. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Cussler.”

  “If you’re going to stand on ceremony, it’s going to take us a long time to get around to fishing. You do fish, don’t you, son?”

  “Whenever possible, Mr…Sam.”

  “Good. There’s a need for that around here.” Sam peered past Jim to spy Conrad struggling to get the heavy tire out of the back of the truck. “He’s a tad puny for that big old thing, ain’t he?”

  Jim had almost forgotten about Conrad. He moved quickly to get the tire from him and rolled it toward Sam. “I was coming into town with June this morning when we happened past this young man and his family and their disabled truck. The missus was having a baby. June delivered the baby, took the young woman, baby and two little kids to the hospital and left me with him…and the flat.” Jim glanced over his shoulder at Conrad, who stayed close to the truck. He leaned back against it, his hands plunged into the pockets of his baggy pants. “The tire isn’t all that’s flat,” Jim said, transferring the tire into Sam’s hands.

  Sam intercepted it with a low whistle. “Looks like he drove on it a spell.”

  “He need a new one?”

  “Very likely. I can try to fix it, but I wouldn’t guarantee anything.”

  “Any chance you can just sell me a new one? I’ll cover the cost,” Jim said. He didn’t want the kid flashing any of his drug money around town. He just wanted him taken care of and out of there. “I’ll get him back to his truck.”

  “Now, don’t worry about that, son. I can take him. I imagine you have people to meet at the café. And this is my living, even if I don’t do it often enough to pay taxes.”

  Jim peered down the street. “Are there usually that many people there for breakfast?” he asked.

  Sam grinned broadly. “Not hardly.”

  The dawning came slowly. Jim was going to get a looking over. “Hmm,” he said. “Well, much as I’m excited to meet everyone, I promised June that I’d take care of this young man personally, and if I start breaking promises now, I suppose she’ll have second thoughts about me.”

  Sam’s brows drew together in question. He’d known June all her life and he seriously doubted there was any truth to what Jim said. Sam figured there was something more to it. Probably something more to this young man. “You don’t want to keep ’em waiting long,” Sam advised.

  “I’ll make it a quick trip and get right back to town,” Jim promised.

  “Whatever you say, son,” Sam said, taking possession of the tire and rolling it into the garage.

  A half hour later Jim was tightening the last lug nut on the tire at Conrad’s truck. The tire he’d just put on for the kid was the best one on the truck; Sam had sold him a retread at a good price. He straightened and stretched his back. Without a jacket in this cold, damp morning, it hadn’t taken long for Jim to stiffen up.

  Sam would have done this, and likely he could have held his own. But Jim was watching the kid the way a cop watched a suspect. He might be puny, but if he had a handgun stashed in the back of his truck, size would be irrelevant. He didn’t want Sam to be robbed or hurt—or both.

  “Thanks, man,” Conrad said. “I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, kid. You know the way to Valley Hospital in Rockport?”

  “I haven’t decided if I’m going there yet,” he said. Then he smiled a crooked, insincere smile. His teeth were nasty.

  Jim took a breath for patience. “Wherever you go, make sure you don’t end up back here. Got that?”

  “Oh, man, I sort of like it here. People are real friendly.”

  “That could change in a heartbeat, man.”

  Jim got in June’s truck before he said or did anything more, leaving the kid standing beside his pickup. He made a U-turn, heading back to town, and thought that maybe retirement wasn’t going to be as dull as he feared. Especially around here.

  John admitted mother and baby to the maternity ward and nursery. June made sure the little ones were settled in a safe play area in the social services department at the hospital while they waited for their father. The staff was on alert. If the father didn’t show up or appeared impaired in any way, the social worker was prepared to put the children in emergency foster care.

  That settled, June and John began the drive back to Grace Valley.

  “Is he here to stay? Is he going to make an honest woman out of you?”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you? Yes, it appears he’s here for good.”

>   “That’s a relief. Is he going to make an honest woman out of you?”

  “Did you know I’d been thinking about having a baby, anyway? On my own? Because not only was my clock ticking, but my calendar pages were flipping like mad. Though I admit I’m a hopeless romantic. I like it far better this way, which as you know was totally unplanned.”

  “Okay, I’m going to go ahead and pretend I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer the M question. But don’t think I’m going to be the last one to ask.”

  “Believe me, I don’t kid myself about anything anymore.”

  “How is it you never mentioned him?” John asked.

  “Hmm. That’s a little complicated.”

  “I’m sure it is, but you might want to come up with an answer for that one. It might take peoples’ minds off the other question. Go ahead. Practice on me.” He looked over at her, a curl from his usually perfectly coiffed blond hair dangling onto his forehead.

  “Well, we didn’t spend as much time together as my condition would suggest.”

  He whistled. “Good job, June. You couldn’t get any more vague than that.”

  “Okay, look. I met him last…I don’t know…early in the year. It might’ve been around the same time you moved to town. He came into the clinic after hours with a friend who had a minor injury. They were in the area for something or other. Camping or hunting, whatever. I patched up his friend and just a few days later he showed up at my house on a Sunday afternoon to thank me. We sat on the porch, drank iced tea and fell in love.”

  “Aw,” he said, stringing it out musically. “That’s sweet.”

  She did her best to ignore him, discovering she did indeed need a rehearsal. “When he was in the area, which wasn’t all that often, his stay was really brief. And you know, we don’t have any hotels or inns in town. Once he had a room over in Westport at that place by the steakhouse….” Lying but not lying, she found, could be a little fun. Like playing chess, you have to remember where all the pieces are.