Both men just looked at her, not knowing where to start.
"Well, you guys are sure quiet, you hungry? You want supper? I made some venison stew, I was going make cornbread pie, but Mr. Chesley? Down the street? He shot a deer just south of town and brought by some stew meat, so I thought, boy I sure can't let this go to waste. Those deer have been bad this year, getting into most everybody's garden unless you’ve got a tall fence, and we do, so we haven't had a problem." She paused, and looked closely at the two.
"Where's David?" she asked.
"Yolanda," they both said, simultaneously.
"Where's David?" she repeated.
"I'm sorry, Yolanda," Pete said. "I'm so sorry."
"Where's David?" Her voice had risen, both in tone and volume.
Pete shook his head. Yolanda stared at him for a few seconds, and then rushed toward him, pounding his chest with her fists.
"No! No! No! No!" she screamed, punctuating each word with another blow. Then she stopped, tipping her head to the sky, releasing one long keening wail. She collapsed against Pete, sobbing into his shoulder. He held her in his arms and time stopped.
He became dimly aware of people moving around him. Two women, gently supporting Yolanda, led her into the house. Walking to a large elm in the front yard, Pete sat against its trunk, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he could see Rob Westlake helping two other men carry the body into the house. Through the large picture window he saw the silhouettes of several women inside. Around him under the tree, two groups of men had formed, their hands stuck in their pockets or across their chests. They murmured in low voices, their words indistinct. None spoke to Pete, yet he felt some comfort in their nearness. After a while his back became stiff. Standing, he walked to the front door and looked inside. David was lying out on the dining room table, covered with a blanket, his head resting on a pillow. Yolanda was in the living room, sitting sideways on a couch, her legs drawn up against her chest. She was facing a wall, oblivious to everything. There were at least a dozen women moving about house. On the kitchen table Pete could see plates heaped with food, and he could smell fresh coffee. Yolanda would not be alone tonight.
Walking to his car, several men nodded toward him and he wordlessly returned their nods.
Entering his own house that night, it was chilly and he lit some kindling in the fireplace to ward off the cold.
CHAPTER 23
The jackrabbit nibbled delicately at the tender green shoots. He would pause every few seconds, lifting his head in a quick movement, nose quivering, listening, watching. Coyotes had always been a problem and there were the foxes, hawks and owls. Three nights ago in a small canyon, a foul odor had alerted him to the presence of some new danger. Under the moon’s shadow of a rock ledge he held perfectly still and saw a mountain lion slink slowly and soundlessly down the rocky gulch, passing not ten feet away. In his two years of life, the rabbit had never seen anything like it, but sensed that if this thing caught him, he would die.
It was always some damn thing or another.
The recent rain helped tip the odds in his favor. During dry weather, he was forced to feed in the low areas where the water collected. Even when the moisture had evaporated, or been sucked into the parched earth, the grasses in the low places stayed green the longest and held the most nutrients. Unfortunately, the predators also knew this and would watch, killing the unwary, the slow, or the unlucky.
Rain changed everything. The brown land took on hues of green, like a wizened old woman becoming young again, standing straight, swinging her hips flirtatiously as she sashayed through the late summer. And the green grass was everywhere, growing furiously that it might mature and reproduce before it was consumed by the heat or the herbivores.
For the rabbit, life depended on finding food with the least possible risk. Now, he could feed practically anywhere and would not have to venture far from safety to eat. Survival was a burden, but it was better than the alternative. Any relief from the continual stress was welcome.
A breath of wind from the south brought with it the faint, yet unmistakable odor of a female jackrabbit in heat. He stopped chewing for a moment to savor the smell. Another gust, the odor stronger this time. Torn between yearning and sanctuary, he looked furtively about, and then began moving upwind towards the source of his desire.
It was always some damn thing or another.
CHAPTER 24
Summertime and the livin' is easy. Pete had slept well, woke up early and felt great. After a quick breakfast he went out to his garden, where he was surprised to find his scurvy patient from the day before. Bob Smith, a.k.a. Dr. Daniel Holtzmann was on his hands and knees, weeding around the tomato plants.
"Hey, Bob. What the heck are you doing?"
"Good morning, Pete. I woke up early this morning and thought I'd try to repay you for your gift yesterday of vitamin C in the form of these luscious tomatoes. You haven’t had much time to weed and I thought perhaps it was something I was capable of."
"I won't turn down the help. Have you had breakfast?"
"I ate an extra large tomato."
"Man does not live on vegetables alone. And you can quote me on that. Be right back."
Pete went into the house, cut a thick slice of bread and slathered it with strawberry jam. Trimming the crust off from around the edges, he filled a glass with water and went back outside.
"Break time. Try some of this. Helps build strong bodies a multitude of ways."
"As I recall, it was exactly twelve," said Smith, brushing his hands on his pants as he accepted the bread.
"You have a good memory, doctor."
"Then you know what I was."
"You are a respected cardiologist."
"Pete, ‘was’ is the operative word here. And I don't know about that respected part either. I did a lot of heart catheterizations, was always busy and made some money. When the Change occurred, cardiology was not a priority. And I sure couldn't stop anyone from dying."
"Neither could anyone else."
"Pete, I appreciate what you're saying, but I'm not sure you really understand."
"Try me."
Holtzmann stared at his bread for moment, and then took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the sweet jam.
"All right. Let's say you're at a pre-Change social gathering. You strike up a conversation with the man next to you. After you've gone over the preliminaries, weather perhaps, and if the Cowboys can make it to the Super Bowl, what's next?"
"Maybe find out what kind of job he has?"
"Exactly. What kind of work he does. How he spends most of his waking hours. What kind of specialized skill he has that allows him to make his way through life. Our society demanded specialization. Mankind's knowledge had become so great, involving such an incredibly wide number of fields, that specialization had became necessary to achieve success.
"Take medicine. Seventy-five years ago, a doctor, was a doctor, was a doctor. Physicians rarely specialized. There was no need. They did it all. Now, turn the clock to the near present. Five years ago there were literally hundreds of specialties, all involving knowledge in an increasingly narrow field of expertise. There was actually a glut of physicians in the big cities, while the rural areas were underserved because a specialist had to draw on a large population to succeed. Believe it or not, there was actually a stigma attached to being a mere general practitioner. It implied a lack of ambition.”
"Doctor, I understand your point. But the medical field was ripe for this type of specialization. People recognize the need for good health. You can't do much of anything unless you've got it. There's always been a demand for people who can help others heal. It's probably the second oldest profession. And it's recession-proof.”
Holtzmann shook his head, taking another bite, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"No, Pete, you're not looking at the whole picture."
Oh geez, Pete thought. Give a malnourished physician a little food and it's like watching so
me kind of Rocky spinoff.
"Let me use another example," Holtzmann continued. "A hundred years ago, you want to build a house, you go to a carpenter and tell him what you want. He designs it, and then, with a couple of apprentices, he builds your house. Foundation, walls, roof, the interior, the whole works. What would you do five years ago? You go to an architect. He draws the blueprints. Then you hire a contractor. He gets the concrete specialists to pour the foundation, then the framing carpenters put up the walls, someone else puts in the windows and doors, the electricians wire the place, the plumbers put in the water lines, the sheet rock men put up the interior walls, you have your painters, your roofers, carpet layers, the heating and air conditioning men . . ."
"I think I understand now. Specialization as a means to survival."
"Exactly. But it goes deeper. Because a man becomes his specialty. His entire identity is wrapped up in what he does. Getting back to that man you met socially, you ask, ‘So, what do you do?’ He doesn't answer, ‘Oh, I'm a husband and father of three.’ He doesn't answer, ‘I look at beautiful sunsets, I find them inspiring.’ No. He says, ‘I'm the senior managing director of the accounting division of the local office of XYZ Corporation, headquartered in Bangor, Maine.’ Or perhaps he'll answer, ‘I'm the lead front-end alignment man at Smith Motors. We only work on Fords.’ Or if you were to ask me, I would have said, ‘I'm a cardiologist.’ And if you were to further question me, say, about some problem you were having in your chest, I would tell you to see a thoracic surgeon, because my practice is limited to the heart. And had you asked me twenty five years from now, I might have answered, ‘My practice is limited to the left ventricle of the adult human heart.’
"Ultimately, a man's vocation becomes his identity. There is no separation. So, if that man can no longer practice his livelihood, he becomes lost, his ego confused. He no longer knows what he is.
"Pete, I don't know what the hell to do with myself. I’m disconnected from this strange new world. I miss the way things were. People used to look up to me. I was important. Every day I made life-and-death decisions. Now I feel unfocused, useless. I'm like a piece of trash. I have no value."
Both men were silent for a minute.
"Well," Pete said, "right now you're weeding my garden so the tomato plants will be more productive. I'll eat better because of it. Yesterday you made Amy's day, telling her she was smart. I don't mean to sound patronizing, but hey. It's a pretty good start for a guy with scurvy."
Holtzmann grinned. "You're right, it does sound patronizing. So how does one make tomato juice?"
"Easy. Just squeeze 'em in some cloth. And let me show you how to make the world's best potato soup. With these new skills, you'll be able to make us both lunch."
After guiding Holtzmann through "Potato Peeling 101," Pete walked across the street to his clinic. He made a quick inventory of supplies, writing down a short list of things he'd need to pick up at the hospital. He called the S.O. for an update on the investigation of David Rodriguez's death, but the sheriff was out. He radioed the hospital to talk with Jay Flood. Nurse Williams curtly informed him that the doctor had worked late the night before, was at home asleep, and she by-God was not going to wake him up. Also, the appendectomy patient had died just after midnight and the little boy who'd been brought in the day before was starting to run a fever and if he was done talking she had quite a bit of work to do so, if he didn't mind, she was going to sign off now.
Pete grimaced at the radio the same time Amy Randolph walked in the room.
"Gee, Mr. Wilson, you do that so well. Maybe you can try it sometime when Latesha can actually see you."
"Mind your own business, girl. How are we doing for office forms?"
"Well, we were running short, so earlier this week I made more. I need new carbon paper, though. This stuff's pretty much used up."
"I'll add it to my list. Don't make plans for lunch. It's going to be catered today." He told her about finding Dr. Holtzmann in his garden.
"That's cool," she said, nodding. "I'll bring some fresh bread. We're baking today," she added, by way of explanation. Amy lived two blocks away with three other women. Their popular baked goods were sold and traded in the neighborhood.
The screen door opened and then closed softly and Pete looked up to see his AIDS patient, Jason Owens. The man nodded as he entered, keeping his eyes downcast.
"Morning, Jason. How can we help you?"
"Throat hurts. That gargle helped. Can I get some more?" His voice was subdued and raspy.
"You bet. Give me a minute to make some up. How are you feeling otherwise?"
"Tired all the time, but I can't sleep. Not hungry, but I feel sick to my stomach. Ache all over, like the flu."
Pete reached over and felt the man's forehead.
"No fever. Jason, are you still living with your friend?"
"Yeah. T.J.'s still putting up with me."
"Here," he said, filling out a prescription and handing it to Jason. "Have him stop by Holman's and get this filled."
Jason looked at the slip at the slip of paper.
"Hashish? As in ‘hash’?"
"That's right. I'm thinking regular old, plain Jane marijuana would probably help with some of your symptoms, and you can buy that anywhere. But with your throat as raw as it is, hash would be more concentrated, less irritating, and you wouldn't have to smoke as much. Use a water pipe to cool down the smoke. Here's some of that gargle solution. You might also try some warm mint tea two or three times a day. It'll help soothe your throat and maybe settle your stomach. Come back in a few days and let me know how you're doing."
Jason walked to the door, hesitating as he opened it.
"Sorry about the other day," he said.
"So am I. We were both pretty stressed. Back to square one?"
Jason nodded and eased out the door.
"What was that all about?" Amy asked.
"Mind your own business, girl," he repeated. "You don't have to know everything."
Morning clinic was slow. Pete used the time to collect herbs for drying. He exchanged batteries from his house to the clinic for recharging and then swept and mopped the clinic floor, which had gotten dirty from tracked in dirt and mud.
"You act like you actually enjoy sweeping," said Amy, raising her feet as he moved the broom under her desk.
"It's gotta be done. But I'll be honest with you, Amy," Pete said in a conspiring whisper, "it's the mopping that really turns me on."
"You're a sick man,” she said, shaking her head and grinning. "When will lunch be ready?"
"Hopefully pretty soon. I'll go see how the chef's doing. Why don't you bring over some of that bread you've been peddling and we'll see if you still deserve bragging rights."
"We don't have to brag about our bread, our customers do it for us."
"Yeah, I know, I've talked to both of them."
Amy shot him with a rubber band as she walked across the room and out the door. Pete quickly mopped and then walked across the street to his house. The smell of potato soup filled the air. Daniel Holtzmann was in the back yard, ministering over a medium sized pot of boiling liquid.
"Smells good, if I do say so myself."
"Beginner’s luck," Pete said, blowing on a spoonful and burning his tongue in an effort to taste it. "I think it's ready. Let's take it inside."
Amy had come over with a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The three of them sat down and began eating. Pete turned on the radio just in time to catch the news.
"This is KAMR, Amarillo," Larry Maxwell intoned. "Twelve noon and time for the news. Brought to you by Hastings Bar and Grill. The best food in town and in the center of Amarillo's adult entertainment center, that's Hasting's, at I-40 and Georgia."
“‘Adult entertainment center’? It's across the street from a whorehouse," said Amy, disgustedly.
"Sshhh!" said both men.
"In the news, area residents are mourning the violent deaths of two local people. The b
ody of twelve year old Laura Benchly was discovered yesterday morning in a house in the southwest part of the city. According to a report by acting coroner Peter Wilson, the girl had been beaten, raped, strangled and then stabbed sometime the night before. She had last been seen playing basketball at Westover School. A full investigation has been launched by the sheriff's department and Sheriff Rob Westlake says there are similarities between this incident and the murder of Susan Shupe, whose body was found earlier this week near Canyon."
The sheriff's voice came through the speaker, and Pete could visualize the DJ pushing the "play" button on his cassette player.
"We believe both girls were killed by the same person, a man familiar with the area and who sometimes travels by horseback. With the public's help, this department is confident it will apprehend the individual responsible for these deaths."
"Yeah, right," said Pete.
"Sshhh!" This from Amy and Daniel.
"Laura Benchly is survived by her foster parents, Frank and Betty Crenshaw." Larry continued. "Graveside services will be held at the Hollywood Road cemetery at four-o'clock this afternoon."
The cemetery was a former wheat field that was the scene of mass burials three years before. A windmill at the site provided water for travelers and shade trees.
"In other news, Sheriff's deputy David Rodriguez of Canyon was found dead with a single gunshot wound to the head. The body was discovered in the former probation building in the 200 block of South East Third by River Road deputy Frank Klein. An investigation is underway. Sheriff Rob Westlake indicated the wound may have been self-inflicted. David Rodriguez is survived by his wife, Yolanda, and daughter Desiree. Graveside services are set for ten AM tomorrow at the Dreamland Cemetery in Canyon. More news, after this."
"That's bullshit," Pete said. "David was killed."
"How do you know?" Daniel asked.
"Too many inconsistencies," he said, explaining the contortions David would have had to go through to commit suicide. "And why would he do it there, of all places? Why was there no note, no explanation? The day before the guy was acting like a newlywed. It doesn't add up."
After the End: Survival Page 14
