Close to the Broken Hearted

by Michael Hiebert

  Miss Sylvie held the baby tightly against her chest. Amazingly, the baby still appeared to be asleep. Miss Sylvie had her head tucked against the baby’s cheek and tears spilled from her eyes. At first, I couldn’t figure out why she was so upset. Then I realized she was overwhelmed by all the singing. I came to this conclusion on account of I felt the very same way, only not quite to the point of tears. But there was something very emotional about it all.

  The tall black woman wearing a yellow summer dress standing in the pew behind her leaned ahead and put her lips close to Miss Sylvie’s ear. The woman had black curly hair and wore glasses. Raising her voice loud enough for Miss Sylvie (and me) to hear her over the singing, she said, “Go ahead, child, it’s okay. Cry. Cry, and let the blessed sing for you.”

  That moment felt almost magical to me. Time seemed to stop as something caught in my throat, and for an instant I did feel something like tears stinging the back of my eyes.

  I thought later that maybe God really had been there in that church that day with all of us. At least in that moment He was.

  CHAPTER 26

  Me and Dewey were out in my backyard again, thrusting and parrying and swinging and blocking with our swords. We were sure getting a lot of fun from these wooden toys me and Carry had so simply constructed. I was so glad I had come up with the idea to make them now. And Dewey’s invention for holding them around our waists had turned out to be brilliant. We virtually took them with us everywhere we went. Folks around town were getting used to seeing us with swords dangling from our hips. It was like we were real knights.

  Today was particularly fun. The day was sunny, but not too hot, and there was a sweet smell in the air; I think it was the neighbor’s magnolias from next door. The scent just made everything that much more perfect. And Dewey had yet to whine even once about me hurting his hand or anything.

  Truth was, he had gotten so much better with his sword that I didn’t hit his hand anymore. He had a good block and was able to see my moves coming and counter them or step out of their way before they could do any damage. It made me wonder how good we’d be with real swords. I hoped one day in the future, when I had money of my own, I might go back to Disney World so I could buy myself one of them real swords. Then I wouldn’t need to go through my mother at all. Lots of things would be much easier when I got older.

  Dewey had just come at me with a series of slashes and swings that had forced me almost all the way across the yard when Carry stepped out the back door and stopped us mid-play. I didn’t realize right away what was about to happen, but when I did, a darkness passed over my heart. For I suddenly recognized what she had in her outstretched hand. She wiggled it at me from the porch: a brand-new bottle of bright pink nail polish that glistened even brighter and looked even sharper than it should have under all this sunlight.

  “Oh, Abe,” she sang out with chimes in her voice. “It’s time to come inside for a bit.”

  I stared at her, my heart jackhammering like the foot of a rabbit thumping the ground. Then I looked at Dewey. I didn’t know what to do. This was the last position I wanted to be stuck in. Dewey could not find out what terrible fate had befallen me. He would never let me forget this as long as we both were still alive.

  “Abe,” she sang out again. “Remember your word? It’s been a week . . .”

  I let out a deep breath. “Dewey . . . I have to go inside for a while.” I wanted to get in the house before Carry said too much. I jogged over to the porch where she stood and carefully placed my sword up against the outside wall of the house.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Dewey asked from the backyard, his sword pointing at the ground, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “You paintin’ your sister’s nails, Abe?”

  There was a question I wasn’t about to answer straight out. “I just have to go inside.”

  “But why?”

  “To do something . . . chores.”

  “What kind of chores?”

  “Not very fun ones.”

  “How long will you be? Should I just wait out here?”

  I took off my shoes and followed my sister into the house.

  “Yes,” I called out over my shoulder. “Wait for me. I’ll only be fifteen minutes!”

  “More like twenty-five!” Carry shouted from the living room. “He’s doin’ a proper job!”

  I felt my face cycle through ten shades of red. I wished Carry would just shut up. She’d already done enough damage. There was no way I would ever live this down. My only hope was that somehow Dewey was simple enough that I could cover up the truth. But if Carry kept on talking, that would be near on impossible.

  CHAPTER 27

  Leah sat at her desk making phone call after phone call to different psychologist offices in and around Satsuma, looking for anybody who knew anything about a psychologist with the last name of Langdon or Langwood or anything sounding like it. She wasn’t having much luck. She was beginning to wonder if Sylvie had made the name up.

  Truth was, she didn’t rightly know what help some psychologist Sylvie saw while still back in school might be to her anyway, especially given that Sylvie said she’d only seen the man three or four times over a handful of months. Leah wished she was seeing somebody now. Somebody a lot more often than just three or four times in as many months. The girl needed someone to help her, someone who knew what he was doing.

  Obviously, Tom Carson had known that too, despite Sylvie not taking him seriously on account of what he did to himself.

  Leah started pondering that. From what she’d heard about Tom Carson he was a very proud man. It would’ve taken a lot for him to admit his daughter was in so much trouble she might need professional help. And professional help would require money. There was no way, being a cattle farmer and all, that Tom Carson had a medical plan. So, him telling Sylvie she should go see someone meant he must’ve had plans to further mortgage the farm just to pay for her expenses. Takes a mighty strong man to do something like that.

  Or someone who could directly identify with her situation.

  The thought struck Leah like lightning hitting an oak tree. What if that was where Tom Carson’s money had been going? What if all that time since his son had been killed, Tom Carson had been seeing some sort of therapist and paying the bills by mortgaging the property?

  It made sense. And it was easy to find out.

  She made a quick call down to the station in Mobile. Officer Mindy Wright answered the phone.

  “Hi, Mindy, it’s Leah Teal, up here in Alvin.” Leah had met Mindy quite a few times. The Mobile department often threw summer functions and invited all the officers from the small outlying towns to bring their families down and participate. It was a highlight of Abe’s summer. The last one had only been just over a month or so ago, around the end of June. “I need medical records for a Mr. Tom Carson. Used to live up here. He passed away in 1980. Owned the Carson Cattle Ranch.”

  Mindy said she’d have to get them from the public records office, but it shouldn’t take more than a phone call.

  “That’s why I’m callin’ you.” Leah laughed. “I have to write letters and jump through hoops for anythin’ out of there. Then I gotta wait a week.”

  “That’s crazy,” Mindy said. “I can have ’em for you probably within the hour. I’ll just fax ’em on up to you.”

  “Thanks. Oh, but . . . we don’t have a fax right now. We had one, but it kinda broke. So can you just call me with the information? I only want a few items.”

  “Sure. What’s your number?”

  Leah gave her the number.

  She hung up the phone and started remembering exactly what it was that Sylvie told her that her pa had said:

  He was the one always askin’ me if I was okay. Kept askin’ if I needed to talk to somebody about it. Like a professional. Like a shrink or somethin’. He told me that could really help.

  Now that she played it back in her mind, Leah thought it was an odd thing for Tom Carson to say unless he
knew from his own experience how much it could help. No, the more she thought about it, the more this made sense. It fit with the money being spent. Medical bills weren’t cheap, especially if medication was involved.

  It had been just forty minutes since Leah called down to the station in Mobile when her phone rang. It was Mindy Wright with Tom Carson’s medical records.

  “Okay, what do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Did the man ever go see a psychologist or a therapist of any kind on a regular basis?”

  “Leah, he saw the same doctor every Tuesday and Thursday week in and week out from the fall of seventy-one right up until he died. It doesn’t look here like he missed too many days at all.”

  “Where was that doctor?”

  “It was a Dr. Lisa May Turner. She was right down here, in Mobile.”

  “Does the report show if he was on any medication?”

  “Yep. She prescribed an assortment of different things, none of which I can pronounce. Looks like she changed it up every six months or so at the beginning and then every few years later on.”

  “I don’t suppose you got an address for this Dr. Turner?”

  “One sec, let me see if she’s still doin’ business here in Mobile.” Leah could hear Mindy typing on her computer. They had a much bigger database then the Alvin department. It was controlled by something called a mainframe. “She is. Dr. Lisa May Turner, psychiatrist. You got a pen handy? I got a phone number and an address for you.”

  “Yep, shoot.” Leah jotted down the information as Mindy relayed it. When she was done, Leah said, “Thanks a million. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me a sack race next year. You bowed out this time round.”

  “That was on account of my daughter and them boys, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember,” Mindy said. “Have a great day, Leah.”

  Leah lifted the phone and dialed the number she’d written down on the paper in front of her. A young woman answered. “Dr. Turner’s office.”

  “Hi, this is Detective Leah Teal. I’m with the police force up here in Alvin. I was wonderin’ if it would be possible to speak with Dr. Turner.”

  “I’m afraid she’s with a patient right now. Can I get her to call you back?”

  Leah left three numbers before hanging up: her office number, her home number, and her car phone number.

  Hopefully, she’d be able to convince the doctor she was who she said she was over the phone, otherwise she would have to drive down and show her badge to get any information due to doctor/patient privileges. She figured worst case she could always just get Mindy to go question the doctor for her. She’d actually pretty near got all the information she really wanted to know anyway, other than the actual cost of each of Tom Carson’s visits and the price of his medication.

  The only other thing Dr. Turner would be able to tell her about the man was that he suffered from depression, but Leah had already figured that out in 1980 when she found his dead body swinging from the bough of that oak tree in his back ninety. After all, despite her recent suspicions, they had ruled it a suicide.

  CHAPTER 28

  Leah didn’t hear back from the psychiatrist until after she got home from work that night. It was a pleasant enough evening. The sky was still a nice dark blue, just beginning to get a touch of color in the gloaming, and the weather was pleasant.

  Caroline was out with friends, but due home sometime in the next hour. Leah’s daughter had been much better lately about coming home when she said she would. This made Leah happy. Leah’s plan was to fix her kids a decent meal tonight—something they didn’t get nearly often enough. On the menu was chicken-fried steak, potato salad, and greens, a favorite of both Abe and Caroline.

  Abe and Dewey were out in the front yard playing with their swords, making all sorts of racket. Leah closed the door when the phone rang.

  “Hi, this is Dr. Lisa Turner,” the woman said. She didn’t sound as Southern as most folk down in Mobile. “I’m looking for Detective Teal.”

  “This is Leah Teal. Thank you for takin’ the time to call me back.”

  “Absolutely no problem at all. What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I’m hopin’ you can give me information on a patient you had from late 1971 until 1980. A man by the name of Tom Carson.”

  “Tom Carson. Let me think. You’re asking me to remember a long way back. Let me check my files; can you hold on a sec?”

  “Certainly.”

  She came back on the line momentarily. “Oh, yes. Mr. Carson. I remember now. What, exactly, did you want to know?”

  “Can you tell me what you were treatin’ him for?”

  There was a silence on the other end. “Normally, Detective Teal, this would fall under privileged information. But—am I to assume this is a criminal investigation?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And the man did commit suicide.”

  “Yes, he did. I handled the case.”

  “Then I think I can make an exception. I treated him for depression. He was actually diagnosed in 1973 with major depressive disorder.”

  “What medications was he taking?”

  “Oh, let’s see. A number of things. We kept trying different combinations of tricyclic antidepressants and MAO inhibitors. There’s always a lot of guesswork with psychotropic drugs until you find things that work for patients. Generally, it’s not one single drug but a combination that does the trick. Once Prozac came on to the market, he went straight on to that.”

  The medications didn’t mean much to Leah. She only wanted to know one thing about them. “Were they expensive?”

  “I’m a doctor, Detective, not a pharmacist. But I can’t imagine they were cheap, especially not back in those days.”

  “So . . . around twenty-five dollars a month?”

  The psychiatrist laughed. “Probably closer to two hundred. And like everything else they would’ve gone up in price as time went by.”

  “Can I ask you how much your rates were back when Mr. Carson started seeing you?”

  “Um, let me check if I have that on file. Yes, it’s right here. Two hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

  “And he saw you an hour every Tuesday and an hour every Thursday?” Leah was astounded by the amount of money they were talking about.

  “No, he came for two-hour sessions on each of those days.”

  “And, like everything else, did your rates also go up in price?”

  “That’s very likely.”

  “I see. Thank you, Dr. Turner, I think that’s all the information I need.”

  Leah hung up the phone thinking, Become a doctor, Abe. Geez. Did I ever go into the wrong field.

  Me and Dewey were outside in my front yard, battling away with our swords as we usually were these days. The evening was getting on, and I figured in a few more hours there’d be swarms of lightning bugs out here flying between the bushes that were planted around my bedroom window. They always seemed to gather there on nights like tonight—nights when the sky had those red streaks through it, like it was beginning to get now.

  “I’m gonna slice your hand off,” Dewey said, stepping and swiping at me with his blade.

  Normally, I’d have stepped back, but lately I’d gotten better at blocking his blows. Both of us were getting mighty good with our swords. Pretty soon we’d be as good as real knights, we were sure.

  The big floppy flowers from the neighbor’s magnolias next door filled the evening air with their sugary aroma. They always smelled stronger at night, but tonight they seemed unusually strong, for some reason. Bits of fluff from the cottonwood trees floated in the sky around us as we parried. It was certainly a good thing I didn’t have hay fever like Luke Dempsey at school. Luke couldn’t go out of doors from most of the late spring months right through to October on account of all the cotton in the air.

  Just then, a beat-up old station wagon turned off the road and into my drive. I turned to look at it just as Dewey came in with ano
ther swing. Because I wasn’t looking, he got me on the back of the hand.

  “Ow, Dewey! For cripes’ sake! I wasn’t even lookin’!”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  I held my hand up over my eyes and squinted into the windshield of the station wagon where the low sun was reflecting off the glass. My heart nearly leaped out of my body. “Do you know who that is?” I whispered to Dewey.

  He came up beside me, lowering his sword. “No, who?”

  “Preacher Eli!”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  We waited, watching as the car door opened and, sure enough, out stepped Preacher Eli in his cowboy boots.

  “It is!” Dewey whispered.

  I shushed him.

  Preacher Eli was wearing a white dress shirt with a vest over the top and had his hair combed nice and neat. It looked like he’d just shaved his face. Walking right past, he gave us barely a glance before heading up the porch steps to the door and knocking.

  My mother opened it. From the look on her face, she was obviously just as surprised as we were to see Preacher Eli show up at our house. I didn’t even like knowing that he knew where I lived, him being a killer and all. My mother didn’t look like she wanted to invite him in, but he seemed determined. Finally, she did. To me, she looked frightened.

  “See?” I said to Dewey after the door was closed. “My mom’s startin’ to see things my way. I knew she would. I told her that man was up to no good. Did you see her face? She don’t trust him.”

  Dewey shrugged. “Looked to me like she just invited him into your house. I don’t think she looked untrusting.”

  “You don’t know my mom.”

  He didn’t have a reply to that.

  After a while of staring at the house, we went back to our sword fighting.

  Leah brought Eli Brown into the kitchen; looking at the steak sitting on a plate waiting to hit the frying pan, she wondered how late her dinner was going to wind up being. “So, Mr. Brown,” she said after showing him to one of the kitchen chairs and taking the one beside it. “Where’s that grandson of yours? What’s his name? Leland?”