For the Rest of My Life

by Harry Kraus

  She shook her head and changed her tactic. “We’re in a rut.”

  He grunted.

  She chose her words carefully, tiptoeing around his abuse so as not to anger him again. “We always make love in the morning.”

  He raised his eyebrows and stopped chewing. He leaned forward as Lena formulated her next sentence.

  She listened to him swallow. Why did beer drinking always have to be so noisy? “You go out with the guys. You party. We fight and go to bed mad.” She bobbed her head. “Then in the morning, you feel bad, beg my forgiveness, and we make up.” She smiled to herself, glad to have avoided the word drunk and the straight-ahead accusation of his violent temper. She had said “we” and not “you.” With Billy Ray, she couldn’t be too careful.

  Billy smiled back. He thought she was smiling at him. “So just what are you suggesting?”

  “Why don’t you skip the first part, and let’s get right to the makin’ up part?”

  He crushed the aluminum can in his fist and pulled off his shirt. He stood and closed the distance between them in one step. “You’re crazy, baby,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “My kind of crazy.”

  She gave him her best stiff-arm to his bare chest. “Not so fast.”

  His eyes squinted.

  “Not here.” She smiled. “I’m not ready.” She pointed toward the bathroom. “I want you to draw me a warm bath and wash my hair.” Billy Ray loved washing her thick blond hair. And she loved how distracted he became every time he tried. “I need you to help me so I won’t get my stitches wet.”

  Billy Ray grimaced. “We shouldn’t do that. The wound could get some infection or something.” He kissed her neck. “Besides, we don’t have time.”

  She pushed him away again. “Help me, honey. I still have blood caked in my hair. I feel gross.” She lifted her hand. “Help me up. Watch out for my ankle.”

  He assisted her to her feet, then quickly lifted her into his arms. She clutched her arms around his neck. He was strong. The years may not have been kind to his knees, but he still had the upper body of an athlete.

  He carried her from the couch, but instead of turning left into the bathroom, he turned right into the bedroom.

  “Not here, silly. You can’t wash my hair in here.”

  He nuzzled her hair. “It’s fine, baby. You don’t need to worry. I like it.”

  He laid her on the bed.

  “No, Billy Ray.”

  He pouted. “Some things can’t wait.”

  She lifted her hair from her collar and flung it from side to side.

  “Some things are worth waiting for.” She teased him with a kiss on the nose before drawing back again. “Bring me my crutches so I don’t have to hop to the bathroom.”

  He leaned forward, ignoring her request. “You’re so beautiful. I just—”

  A horn blared, stopping Billy in midsentence. He cursed and slapped the bedspread beside Lena. It was Eddie. The tinny sound of his car horn was unmistakable.

  Anger flared in his eyes. “I told you we didn’t have time!”

  She started unbuttoning her blouse. “Tell him you got a better offer. Tell him to go without you.”

  He huffed. “I can’t.” He stood up. “Where’s my bowlin’ shirt?”

  “Don’t go, Billy.”

  “Shut up!” He grabbed his shirt from the closet floor and stomped from the room.

  Lena hopped after him, pain shooting through her ankle with every bounce. “Don’t drink, honey. You promised you wouldn’t do this again.”

  He took a step toward her and she shielded her face with her arms.

  He softened his voice and touched the back of her arm with his hand. “Don’t you believe me? How about a little faith in your husband?”

  Lena began to cry. She tried to hold back, but once the tears started flowing, she just couldn’t stop. She dropped her hands and pressed her closed fist against her mouth and stared at the man she used to love. She shook her head in disgust at her own gullibility. Why didn’t she see him like this before? I’m not the first woman he’s hit. The thought erupted like a sailfish breaking the surface of the ocean, free in the air before it realizes it has left the safety of the water. Her question came out in rhythmic sobs. “Wh–why did R–Rachel leave?”

  His face blanched.

  “D–did you hi–hit her too?”

  She shielded her face again, expecting a slap which never came.

  She backed up and looked between her hands. One beer must not be enough to make you break a promise.

  The gravel in the driveway began to crunch. Eddie must be in a hurry. It sounded like he was turning his Ford around.

  Billy Ray raised his index finger and stabbed it in the air toward Lena. “Don’t you leave, baby. I’ll find you.”

  She hopped back another step to the wall and sank to the kitchen floor. “I’m not leavin’, Billy Ray. You are.”

  “Don’t ever mention that woman’s name again.”

  Lena looked down as Eddie beeped his horn again and the screen door slammed behind Billy Ray. The engine revved, gravel danced against the metal garbage cans, and Eddie screamed his favorite adjective as they headed out.

  “William Raymond,” she whispered, “don’t forget my flowers.”

  John Cerelli sat quietly in the corner booth at Fisher’s Cafe, sipping a chocolate malt alone. This was their booth, the one he always shared with Claire. Today, he was supposed to be here with her, staring into her eyes, watching her as she shared the joy of her diamond ring with the other regulars in Fisher’s Retreat. It was funny how he’d dreamed of this day a thousand times—dreamed of listening to Claire as she told the story of his proposal to Abby the waitress, of sharing quick kisses with her as she leaned across the table to squeeze his hand or to accept a gentle swipe of his hand as he brushed away her fresh tears. She would giggle as Abby would scoot in the booth beside her and compare the diamond she wore to Claire’s.

  Instead, John sat staring at the backwards writing on the front window, the writing that proclaimed the name of the little eatery to those passing on the street: “efaC s’rehsiF.” His life seemed mixed up and a little backwards now. Like the life which he’d imagined for so long was suddenly revealed as the silly dream it really was.

  John spun the little ring box on the table in front of him and sipped the malt. Mr. Knitter had made it just the way he always did. Extra malt, laced with a ribbon of fudge syrup, and topped with a swirl of whipped cream and dotted with shavings of imported Swiss chocolate. But even his favorite beverage seemed flat without good company. He looked around at the regulars. Mike and Larry Martin were sitting at the bar talking about some Little League catastrophe. Mike’s team had been robbed again by a nearsighted umpire. The mayor was sitting at a table reading the paper. Old Doc Jenkins was looking at a girl’s throat and telling a mother not to worry. It seemed that even though he’d tried to retire and give the business to Claire, the Apple Valley locals couldn’t leave him alone.

  He sighed. If Claire was here, their booth would have been alive with visitors. Everyone was so proud of the first female to break out of the Valley doldrums and go to Boston as a new doctor. There were always women dragging their daughters up to meet her, asking Claire to tell them to study their math and science. Men would come by and slap John on the shoulder and wink. The old ones would smile at him. The young ones wouldn’t meet his eyes. The body language was clear. John had stolen their strawberry-blond prize. The brightest, most beautiful woman in the world walked in on his arm, and every man paused to take inventory of his thoughts: jealousy or joy, but not much in between.

  But there was none of that now. Without Claire, they left John alone. Even Abby, who was normally talkative and friendly, had barely left a greeting beyond, “What’ll it be?” And so he sat in silence and contemplated his next move. He had planned for today for weeks. He had prayed, sought advice, and prayed some more. He hoped his plan had originated in heaven. He want
ed to spend the rest of his life with Claire McCall, but because of the rocky way their first engagement ended, John sensed at a deep level that he’d only have one more chance to get it right.

  And so he prayed. And planned. Today was to be the day. D day for Claire was to be engagement day for John. But Claire, beautiful and spontaneous Claire, proved herself to be true to form and acted in a totally unpredictable way.

  John sighed at the memory of Claire’s flight from the genetics clinic. It’s not as if getting a revelation of the future wouldn’t freak out most normal people. But Claire was far from normal. She was a rock, the doctor who’d brought light to the Apple Valley, dispelling the myth of the Stoney Creek curse and standing strong when she’d learned she was at risk to inherit its madness. She was resting confidently in God’s loving sovereignty, ready for the future, come what may. And John wanted to be there with her.

  But somewhere, something hadn’t gone like he’d planned. And now he wasn’t sure if Claire would ever return to the clinic for her test results. But John needed to know. More accurately, he needed Claire to know. She needed to know so he could give her a ring with a promise she could trust. Without it, John feared the foundation of their engagement would soon fatigue and crack.

  “Girl troubles?”

  He looked up to see Abby McAllister. She was a young woman, a curly brunette with Mediterranean blood and a sharp tongue. She was a fixture at the café. Everyone around knew her story. She worked to sup port her husband, an ex-policeman who’d been crippled by a gunshot wound to his neck.

  He tapped the felt box on the table and smiled at himself. “I guess it’s pretty obvious, huh?”

  “I know a little about women.” She peeled off his bill from the pad in her hand and let it float to the table.

  When he didn’t respond, she slid into the booth opposite him. “That’s your second chocolate malt. If I did that, I’d hit two hundred in record time.”

  “Grampa Cerelli says men will be happy if they have plenty of pasta, red wine, and a full-figured woman.”

  Abby laughed. “So what’s up, Cerelli? You in here to drown your sorrows in chocolate?”

  “It’s the Italian way.”

  “Get serious.” She put her hand over his and squeezed the ring box through his fingers. “Claire troubles?”

  He nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say. The thoughts made his heart ache and his voice thicken. “Claire’s a real gift, the Valley’s little gem.” He looked away. “She’s so unpredictable, Abby.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid my prize is getting away.”

  Abby released his hand. “Can I give you advice?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  “I’ve got Italian blood too, you know. Momma’s advice comes with every meal.”

  John smiled and kept quiet.

  “I used to think Nathan was my prize. But I didn’t know what real love was until I learned that marriage isn’t about getting things smoothed out for us. Marriage is an invitation to come and die.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. It sounds like everyone’s heart’s desire.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, John. What I mean is that love is all about putting someone else’s wants and needs above your own. It’s about dying to yourself.” She paused before continuing with her voice just loud enough for him to hear above the background chatter. “Maybe you should worry less about her being your prize and try being hers.”

  He checked his watch and nodded. “You’re handing out more than just good malts today.” He slid out of the booth and shoved the ring box in his pocket. “I’ve got to run. I promised Claire I’d pick her up after work.”

  He turned to leave and felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m a small-town waitress, Bub. The advice comes free, but the malts are three bucks apiece.”

  He felt his cheeks flush. Claire was distracting his thoughts again. He pulled a ten from his wallet and handed it to Abby.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Keep the change. The malts were fine as usual,” he said. He touched her arm. “But the advice is worth . . .” He paused and smiled before continuing. “Well, maybe twice that.”

  Abby smiled and swatted his back with her hand.

  He turned and walked away, still feeling the sting on his shoulder a minute later when he buckled the shoulder harness of his Mustang.

  Dr. McCall enjoyed a steady pace of patient problems through the afternoon. There was nothing else so memorable as little Stevie’s purple tongue or as hectic as the schedule of her predecessor, Dr. Jenkins, but continuous enough for Claire to lose herself in her work and forget about the cloud for a few hours. And fortunately, her focus on the problems kept her from snapping at Lucy or another patient after young Brittany had ignored Claire’s treatment recommendations.

  Claire’s head sagged as she recalled the patient encounter with a twinge of remorse. I shouldn’t have let my problems make me jump on my patients or dear Lucy. She retrieved Brittany’s chart from the stack on her desk and copied down her address and phone number, before scribbling an apology to her nurse for her eruption.

  She checked her watch and sighed. Everyone in the clinic was long gone. Closing time was an honored ritual, and unless you showed up after four-thirty unconscious or bleeding, you were likely to be greeted by a recommendation to reschedule or head to the E.R. in Carlisle. And even so, it often took Claire until five-thirty or six to see the poor working souls who trudged in under the four-thirty wire.

  Today, she was finished by five, and the staff had disappeared at light speed, enjoying a rare opportunity to spend a Friday night eating with their families. But this was Claire’s quiet time, the time she spent reflecting on the day’s problems and hitting the books to review the latest treatments. The certificate on the wall over her desk stated the fact: She was licensed to practice medicine and surgery in the Commonwealth of Virginia. Licensed to practice, but not board certified in anything. If she was to ever get admitting privileges to a reputable hospital, or be hired by a large clinic to practice outpatient medicine, she would need to be boarded. But that required more years of residency. Two more years if she wanted to sit for the Family Practice boards, and at least four more to sit for the American Board of Surgery exam.

  Her level of experience was barely adequate to serve in the clinic, but Dr. Jenkins had searched high and low for an adequate replacement. Board-certified family practitioners were taking higher-paying city jobs, taking monetary rewards far above what a town like Stoney Creek could afford. But Claire had agreed to come, mostly to fill in until a permanent replacement could be found. Her roots from the small town gave her an inside understanding of the patients’ rural mindset. But mostly, Claire had agreed to set aside her residency dreams for a time in order to reconnect with her father, and help her mother fight the illness that would soon demand his life. She’d come home to heal, to restore the relationship with the same man whose erratic temper and enthusiasm for the bottle had driven her from home.

  As a result, Claire had learned to stand on her own feet the hard way. She was toughened by life, unlikely to bend under the rigors of rocky situations or surgical training demands. Yes, Wally’s behavior had sent her away, but the result was a better woman, fiercely independent with the discipline to delay gratification of long educational goals. But this return to Stoney Creek was also about learning to lay aside her own independence of self, to trust in someone beyond her own strength, to find solace in a loving God, and to put her family in front of her own life. On most days, her sacrifice felt right. On others, she fought the temptation to run back to Boston with the grit of a foot soldier.

  Claire looked at a note on the desk. A call from Ginny, her genetics counselor. She probably wanted to follow up with Claire, see if she wanted another counseling session. Claire frowned, crumpled the paper, and tossed it in the can beneath her desk.

  She had just opened her medicine text to read about hypercalcemia when her cell phone chirped. Her phone was pink,
hinting at the feminine side she sought to keep in the often manly world of medicine.

  “Hello, Dr. McCall.” She waited. “Hello?”

  Claire looked at the digital readout of the incoming call. The number was local, one she didn’t recognize.

  The line went dead, leaving Claire staring at the phone, her mystery caller upset or in trouble. Or perhaps it was just a prank. She scribbled the number on a prescription pad. She didn’t give her number to many people. Mostly she used it to stay in touch with John. Often they’d talk three or four times a day just to stay in touch.

  There was a knock coming from the back door. It would be John, pounding to break her concentration from her studies.

  “Coming!”

  She opened the door to see John holding a bouquet of red roses.

  “Cerelli!” She accepted the flowers and planted a kiss on his mouth.

  She searched for a vase, while telling John of her mysterious phone call, and finally settled on a near-empty Tupperware tea jug in the refrigerator in the staff lounge.

  “Why don’t you call the number?”

  It was the obvious solution. “But what’ll I say? Hello, I’m just calling to find out who you are.”

  “You’ll know what to say. You always do.”

  She shrugged. “Cursed with the gift of gab, I guess.”

  Claire picked up the phone and dialed the number and listened. “Nobody’s home.”

  John rubbed his hands together. “Or they’re dead.”

  “That’s not funny!” She held up her hand suddenly. Someone was picking up.

  It was a man’s voice. “You’ve reached the Chisholms’. Leave us a message after the beep.”

  John held up his hands. “Well?”

  Claire pressed a red button to terminate the call. “It was an answering machine. A man’s voice. Definitely local. Very country.” She imitated it. “‘You’ve reached the Chisholms’.’”

  “So, who are they?”

  She thought for a moment before the answer clicked. “Lena Chisholm. I gave her my cell-phone number yesterday.”