The Will
Page 43
They found Harris inside, talking with a nurse at the entrance station of the psychiatric ward. The doctor looked up, saw them, and answered their question before they had even asked it. “He’s doing remarkably better.”
Henry relaxed. “That’s good news.”
“He wasn’t responding to what we had him on, so I put him on Cloza-pine. It’s helping.”
“Is he lucid?” Henry asked.
“He’s not out of the woods yet. But he’s doing well. I had what amounted to a fragment of a real conversation with him last night.”
“You’re kidding.”
Harris smiled. “Know what we talked about?”
“What?”
“General George Custer. And you.”
“Me? What did he say?”
“Not a lot. But I made sure he understood what you had done for him.” Harris turned, leading them down the hospital corridor. He stopped in front of a door. “He’s not alone,” he said, smiling. “He’s got a guest.”
Harris pulled open the door, and Henry saw Ellen sitting in a chair across the room from Raymond, reading a book. “He’s resting,” she said, looking up. “We were talking, and he just nodded off.”
Raymond was sleeping sitting up, his back propped up with pillows. Harris walked around the bed and picked up Raymond’s arm. At his touch, Raymond’s eyes fluttered open. “Junior Henry,” he said. “The mighty arm of the Lord.”
Henry smiled. “Hello, Raymond. How are you?”
He spoke lethargically. “Brain pumped full,” he said. “We’ll see what we see.”
Amanda walked up and touched Boyd’s arm. “Hello, Raymond,” she said. “It’s good to see you.”
Raymond nodded. “Raymond Boyd,” he said quietly. “That’s who I am.”
“You can’t imagine how good it is to hear you say that,” Henry said.
A nurse entered the room and nodded to Dr. Harris. “I’m just checking his drip,” she said, crossing to Raymond.
“All right, Raymond,” Harris said, intervening. “We can talk later. If you’re resting, we’ll leave you to it.”
Harris gently prodded Henry and Amanda toward the door, but Raymond’s voice stopped them. “Junior Henry?”
Henry turned around and Boyd looked into him the way he had when Henry had been just a boy, watching the rituals and sermons to the air.
“Knew your father,” Boyd said. “He was a good man.”
“Thank you, Raymond.”
“You’re his son.”
Amanda took Henry’s hand, and they left the room, Ellen sitting quietly, watching Raymond settle back into sleep.
They walked down the hallway and Henry asked Harris, “Can those two possibly have a future?”
“Together?” Harris shrugged. “Who knows? Her concern is real. She’s hardly left the hospital.”
“Where else would she go?” Amanda said. “She’s a stranger in her own town now.”
Harris nodded. “It’s healing her to be with him. I don’t know if they need to be together like you meant it. But for now, she’s finding herself again.”
Henry stuck out his hand. “Thanks. For everything.”
“You’re welcome. Best case I’ve had this year. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Henry and Amanda walked out of the hospital together, winding their way through the parking lot toward his car. The sunlight was bright, and the sound of traffic filled the air around them. An ambulance sat in the emergency entrance, its rear door left open. They were back in urban life. “So where to?” Amanda asked. “Tomorrow life will start happening again. We have tonight.”
Henry stood by his car, staring at her face, every cell in his body leaning toward her. But he resisted the temptation to press her to him, enjoying the delicious anticipation of feeling her body again, the sensation still too new to take for granted. He thought for a moment, wondering what beginning would lead inexorably to the conclusion they both wanted so much. “I have a suggestion,” he said at last. “Dinner for two, at Skunk Pepper’s. We’ll call ahead, and have him put the Cristal Roederer on ice.”
She smiled and kissed him full on the mouth, her lips covering his with sweet, feminine warmth. “Perfect,” she said.
From the Author
The town of Council Grove does exist, although not precisely as I have described it. Significant liberties were taken, both in geography and in citizenry. No disrespect is intended to the fine people who live there.
Custer’s Elm still stands, although it’s only a smaller, misshapen caricature of its glory days during the Indian wars. A lightning strike forced it to be cut back. I like to think the lightning was sent by Crazy Horse, just to make sure nobody else gets comfort from the tree that shaded Custer’s men. If you look carefully, it’s still possible to see the huddled ghosts of the doomed mercenaries on their way to their deaths.
My grateful thanks are extended to the coincidentally named Boyd Brown, a retired oil wildcatter, from whom much information was gained about drilling and geology generally. Any technical errors are entirely my own. Also thanks are due to all at Jane Dystel Literary Management, especially to Jane and Miriam. “No, Jane, it’s not too early to call.” A special thanks to Jake Morrissey at Scribner for his conscientious editing and friendship.
God, inscrutable and mysterious, brought us all together.
For more information or to contact Reed, please visit:
www.reedarvin.com
About the Author
Reed Arvin is a respected Nashville-based music producer and award-winning composer who has worked with Amy Grant, Michael W. Smith, Rich Mullins, among many others. He is the author of a previous novel, The Wind in the Wheat, an inside look at the music business. Born in Kansas to parents who are lawyers, Arvin now lives and works in Nashville.