Devil's Claw

by Valerie Davisson

  44

  Wednesday, July 29, 2015, 7:30 a.m.

  Mr. Schofield?”

  Making her last rounds before the end of her shift, the short, middle-aged night nurse waited a minute before knocking again. It was still early. Sometimes the patients slept a lot during their treatments.

  Still, his sister had come a long way. The regular nurses didn’t arrive until 8:00 a.m. She was just a nurse’s aide, really, only authorized to call one of them if there was an emergency between midnight and 8:00 a.m.

  She knocked again, a little louder this time, opening the door slowly as she did so.

  “Mr. Schofield, your sister is here to visit you. I’m just going to turn the light on now. Be sure to close your eyes if the light bothers you . . .”

  The first thing she saw was the wide-open window and the contents of his briefcase dumped on a small chair. Some items had spilled out and fallen to the floor. A familiar odor assaulted her senses. Mr. Schofield must have had an accident. It happened. It wasn’t pleasant, but she could deal with that.

  But there was another smell, too. Vaguely metallic. She turned toward the bed.

  Madre de Dios!

  Stifling a scream, the woman crossed herself; then, trying not to step into the thick puddle of drying blood by the bed, she reached past the dead man’s ruined face and hit the red call button.

  Help summoned, she then hurried out to comfort his sister and keep her from going into that room.

  45

  Saturday, August 1, 2015

  In a town whose population doubled every summer, except among the locals, the deaths of Mrs. Houser and Jeff Larson barely made a ripple. After the storm that blew through, summer returned to Southern California perfect, in the seventies to eighties every day. Mild breezes, cranberry sunsets. Tourists filled the sidewalks, restaurants were humming, and families set up coolers and umbrellas on the beach.

  This morning, they were on their way to Jeff’s memorial service. Lowering the window on Ben’s truck to get some fresh air, Logan felt disconnected. All she saw were strangers. She loved Jasper best in the winter, when she knew most of the people she saw on the sidewalks. During the summer, every square inch seemed to be crowded with tourists who thought Jasper existed just to entertain them a few days or weeks out of every year.

  Still, she enjoyed the familiar sounds and smells of summer. Brought back memories of growing up here. Suntan oil, caramel apples, briny seaweed, all drifted in the window on waves of cumbia, hip-hop, and oldies as they drove past Main Beach.

  She thought of the conversation she’d had with Amy this morning. Over a couple of cups of coffee—Liam made great coffee and left a fresh pot before heading out early to help Amosa with the kelp beds—it didn’t take long for Amy’s feelings to bubble up and over, coming out with tears and a flood of unanswerable questions.

  “Why didn’t I realize what was going on?” Amy said. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Sadie and in love with Liam, I was completely oblivious to Jeff’s feelings. He would not have been at the center if it hadn’t been for me.” She paused to get a grip on herself. “It’s my fault, Mom! If he didn’t bring that stuff for me, he wouldn’t have been there. He wouldn’t be . . . he wouldn’t be dead . . . ,” she said, sobbing into her napkin.

  Logan understood. She was still trying to wrap her own head around Jeff’s death. He was one of the gentlest, kindest, and most talented young people she knew. Jeff’s death was a tragedy in every sense of the word.

  Helpless in the face of her daughter’s raw pain, Logan reached across and grabbed one of her hands. She was not going to let her daughter dissolve into an endless morass of guilt.

  Amy grieved when her father died, but this was different. This wasn’t just grief; it was also guilt. Oversized guilt. So much had happened. Malaria, then her harrowing escape from a murderer, followed by losing Sadie, and almost losing her own life during that summer storm at sea.

  When Amy’s tears slowed to sniffles, Logan squeezed her hands. No matter how she felt herself, it was her job to be the grown-up. Her job to comfort her daughter.

  “Honey, look at me,” Logan said.

  Amy, snuffling, gave her mother a hopeless look.

  “This is not your fault. Boys get crushes, and yes, he was there, but not just to bring your things. He brought his own laundry back, too. You are not responsible for his being attacked. That man—whoever attacked Solange and killed Jeff—he is responsible, not you. I wish I could make life nice and neat for you, honey,” Logan said, “but the truth is life is messy. We just have to learn to live with things we can’t change. You’re a good person. You need to remember that.”

  The principal was organizing this memorial to help the students deal with the unexpected death of a young friend. Even though school was out for the summer, most students were local. A large turnout was expected. Amy and Liam were already there, saving them seats.

  Ben parked and Logan brought herself back to the present. They walked inside, found Amy and Liam, and took their seats.

  The principal did a good job, Logan thought. After welcoming everyone, he highlighted Jeff’s character as well as his talent, focusing on the importance of taking advantage of every moment we have, developing the gifts we’ve been given, overcoming our weaknesses, to make the world a better place. They played one of the songs from the fund-raising album, then turned the time over for anyone who knew Jeff to come up and share their thoughts about him. Brandon, although he had to stop once to get control of himself, captured Jeff’s personality best, including sharing a funny story about his best friend’s first surfing lesson.

  Logan left the public speaking to the students but went up after the service to give her personal condolences to the family.

  Liam went with Ben to pull the car around. Logan stayed with Amy. She wanted a few minutes alone with her to make sure she was doing OK. They found a side gate open and sat at one of the lunch tables in the quad.

  You couldn’t hear the ocean from here; the only sound was an oriole warbling his heart out in a stand of eucalyptus trees that ran along the edge of the basketball court. A soft breeze scattered a few dry leaves across the blacktop.

  Logan wasn’t sure how to start the conversation, but she didn’t have to worry. Amy started it for her.

  “Mom, do you believe in heaven?” Amy asked. “I mean, we didn’t go to church or anything, but . . .”

  Logan thought about what to say. Personally, she had more questions than answers, but she didn’t want to burst any spiritual bubbles Amy had, if they gave her comfort. She knew a lot of the service workers in Africa must be sponsored by churches. Maybe Amy had picked up some nascent religious beliefs. As always, though, Logan opted to tell her daughter the truth and respect her right to make up her own mind.

  “I may not believe in God and hell and heaven in the traditional sense, but I think there’s a balance. Light and dark, good and evil—I think somehow things are made right, although not always in the time or way we want or expect. Call it karma or whatever, but I think there are very real consequences to our actions, especially our intent. Jeff was a good person and did good things. Wherever or whatever heaven is, I’m sure he’s smack dab in the middle of it. Probably playing his guitar.”

  Amy smiled.

  “And that man,” Logan added, “. . . that man, whoever he is, is responsible for his evil acts. He will not get away with this.”

  “I still feel bad, Mom,” Amy said, rubbing a spot on the table with her finger.

  Logan waited a minute before answering, not wanting to disregard her daughter’s feelings, arranging her words carefully. “We all make mistakes, Amy, but your intent matters. You are the best human being I know—you’d never intend to harm anyone. That counts, Amy. You just have to believe that.”

  Amy nodded, drying her eyes before they walked to the front of the school, where Be
n and Liam were waiting in the car. If not completely appeased, she was at least calmer and more relaxed. In time, Logan hoped, her daughter would accept her frailties and mistakes.

  God knew Logan was still learning to accept hers.

  46

  Saturday, August 1, 2015

  Released from intensive care several days ago, Solange was doing well and due to go home soon, according to Gina. Hopefully, she was up for a short visit. After dropping Amy and Liam off, Ben and Logan continued north past Jasper to Hoag Hospital.

  “Hello, beautiful,” Ben said, bending to kiss Solange’s forehead, handing her a cheerful arrangement of yellow daisies and roses.

  “Ahh, Ben! Merci bien . . . très jolie!”

  Talking sounded painful. She barely spoke above a whisper.

  A nurse followed them into the room, thoughtfully bringing a vase.

  “Five minutes, guys. Her throat needs to rest. Don’t let her do too much talking.”

  “Bouffhh,” Solange said, rolling her eyes and shrugging her shoulders in a typical French gesture.

  Reaching up to hug Ben, kissing both his cheeks, she croaked, “I’m fine!”

  Patting the bed next to her for Ben and indicating a chair for Logan to pull up.

  “Logan,” she said, looking directly into her eyes. “Thank you, and your friend . . . for . . .” She started coughing, and Ben got her a glass of water from her bedside table.

  Logan demurred, saying truthfully that all they had done was call 911. She was just glad Solange was OK. She didn’t mention Jeff’s death. She wasn’t sure if anyone had told Solange about it yet. Apparently, no one had, because she didn’t seem to know anything about that or Amy being chased into the ocean with Otter 1, the storm, or any of the events after her attacker left her on the floor to die.

  “I hear your daughter is engaged. It is Amy, correct? Please congratulate her for me . . . ,” Solange said, taking another sip of water from the glass Ben had refilled.

  Logan, happy to have a chance to end the visit on a lighter note, shared the engagement-announcement beach picnic, then acknowledged the nurse’s time-to-leave signal at the door. Which was a good thing, because as much as she seemed to want to talk, Solange’s voice was giving out.

  Solange said Gina was planning on driving her home tomorrow when her doctor gave the final OK. Logan offered to give her a day to settle in; then she would bring dinner over. Monday, if that was OK with her.

  Solange graciously accepted. Logan knew she could probably just order something in but was glad Solange allowed her to do this small thing. The tiny sculptress intimidated her, but in the few conversations they’d had over the last year, she discovered a person she’d like to get to know better.

  The only dish Logan knew how to make was roast chicken and a salad, but Ben promised to whip up something for sides and dessert before he left for work or give her something to take from his stockpile in the freezer. She hoped he’d make his fabulous flourless chocolate cake with raspberries on top. She loved that cake.

  All Logan had to do was show up on Solange’s doorstep Monday evening, food in hand. Solange said not to bother with wine, she had a late ’90s bottle of Domaine aux Moines Savennieres from Roche aux Moines.

  Of course she did.

  Logan’s mouth was already watering.

  47

  Sunday, August 2, 2015

  Paper or plastic?”

  Logan wondered how many times a day the cashier had to ask that question.

  “Paper, please,” Logan said.

  She forgot again. Amy had given her three burlap, recyclable grocery totes with leather handles, but did she ever remember to take them out of the trunk? Noooo!

  Back home, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything, Logan hauled the two bags onto her kitchen counter and started to unload. Chicken? Check. Butter? Check. Lemons? Where were the lemons?

  Ben had planted some rosemary for her, which had turned into a bush on the side of the house, so she had plenty of that.

  Just as she was putting the last of the salad makings into the fridge, her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse and put it on speaker while she folded the bags.

  “Hello?”

  A clear, commanding voice said, “Logan, glad you picked up. Rita Wolfe here.”

  “Rita.” She quickly looked at the clock. Ten thirty. “Good morning, good to hear from you.”

  Why would Rita Wolfe, the principal of the New School up near Portland, Oregon, be calling her? She could still picture the wiry woman, the spitting image of Amelia Earhart if she’d survived to age gracefully.

  She’d visited the New School last year while doing some research for Fractals. Friend and retired school nurse Glenda had invited her. Their computer instructor, Huey Le, had a sister whose mother-in-law had been killed in the explosion across the street from the hotel Logan had been staying at. She wondered how he and his sister were doing.

  Rita got right to the point.

  “Have an opening, Logan. Music and math. Think you’d be perfect for it,” she said.

  Logan didn’t know what to say. She was flattered, of course. She admired Rita and everything she was doing at the New School.

  Rita was creating just the kind of school Logan wished they had down here, but it was just an hour or so outside Portland. Oregon. A thousand miles away. From Ben. From Amy. From everything she was building here. She didn’t know if Amy and Liam were going to stay or go back to Africa. They could move back to Scotland to be with Liam’s family, for all Logan knew. You couldn’t plan your life around your kids.

  Taking a job at the New School would also mean leaving her new home. Not just the house she bought and fixed up, but the new life she’d forged for herself here. Friendships, Tava’e’s. Where would she get her cinnamon rolls?

  Besides, bless his heart, even though the funding for Fractals was up in the air, for now, Greuger hadn’t pulled the plug. They were still exploring all other avenues for money while Mrs. Houser’s family decided whether they were going to fulfill their recently deceased mother’s financial commitments.

  Jeff’s death affected everyone in the Fractals family, teachers and students. The thought of going back into the recording studio without him seemed impossible. The program would come to a screeching halt if Mrs. Houser’s family didn’t come around or they couldn’t find a new donor in the next few weeks. Salaries had to be paid, including hers, and the school district was refusing to put any money toward the program.

  She’d exhausted all her financial resources buying and restoring her beach home and converting the garage to her office/studio for Fractals.

  Maybe she should consider Rita’s offer.

  Being as honest and straight as Rita, Logan thanked her for her offer and explained her situation. If the funding for Fractals came through, she was staying put. If not, she would call her back and see if the job was still available.

  As much as she hated to let go of the security of a backup job offer, it was the right thing to do. She took a deep breath and told Rita to keep looking so she could be fully staffed when school started in September. As much as she wanted to hedge her bets to make sure she had a job in the fall, she would just have to risk it.

  Rita appreciated her honesty and told Logan to let her know if she changed her mind.

  Logan put the folded bags in the recycling bin Amy and Liam had thoughtfully provided.

  Why did life have to be so complicated? Just when things were starting to come together.

  Logan looked around her tiny living room and took a deep breath. Nothing to do and nowhere to go right this minute. Ben was at work. She’d cleaned house early this morning to work off stress. Tomorrow she was meeting Bonnie to do some legwork on wedding venues for Amy. She didn’t have to roast the chicken and take it over to Solange’s until tomorrow afternoon/evening. She co
uldn’t make any funding phone calls for Fractals until tomorrow morning.

  Good. She needed some alone time, some total distraction. She walked over and retrieved her violin case. Nothing could drag her mind off the worry wheel and fill her with joy like music.

  Her fingers itched to play, and Bella was happy to oblige.

  48

  Monday, August 3, 2015

  Logan kicked off her shoes and headed into the kitchen. Shopping was exhausting. And they hadn’t even been successful in finding a wedding venue for Amy. The places they’d seen so far were either too expensive or too elitist for Amy and Liam’s taste. Amy was fine with getting married on the beach, but they needed a permit and there wasn’t any parking. She wouldn’t be surprised if they decided to elope.

  She sighed. This was turning out to be a tougher job than she’d expected. Making her tried-and-true roast chicken for Solange was at least something she knew would turn out right. She set the oven to preheat at 425.

  Generously slathering the chicken in butter, stuffing it with cut lemons and sprigs of fresh rosemary, Logan popped it into the narrow oven and went upstairs to shower. She hadn’t had time to do much laundry lately but found a pair of linen pants she’d worn running the other day and a sleeveless white blouse to go with. Letting her hair down from a scrunchie, she finger combed it away from her face and loose around her shoulders and wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. The sun had dusted her nose, cheeks, and shoulders with freckles and burnished her natural waves with glints of copper. A dusting of bronzer and some lip gloss made her green eyes pop. She was good to go.

  Refreshed and dressed, she padded into the kitchen. The savory aroma enveloped her and made her mouth water. Opening the oven door a few inches, she peeked inside. Skin was crisping up nicely and smelled heavenly.