by Webb, Peggy
The neighborhood whispered prestige. The houses whispered money.
Although the inside of his Corvette was a comfortable seventy degrees, Paul was damp with sweat. It beaded his upper lip and ran in rivulets down the sides of his cheeks. He took a curve onto Shady Lane and slowed the car. Old brick taken from a felled Georgian mansion formed a graceful wall around the house. A Louisiana raised cottage, the architect called it, although there was nothing small and cottage-like about it. On its fine sweep of lawn behind the double wrought iron gates it had the look of a Southern plantation rich with years of good manners and good breeding.
Paul stopped the car. Like a man in a long-forgotten dream he walked slowly across the street, never taking his eyes from the front door. Any minute now a dark- haired little boy would catapult through and fling himself into Paul's arms.
His throat ached and his chest felt tight. When he reached the gate he pressed his face to the wrought iron bars and clung to the ornate pineapples at the top. He'd had the gate designed and made in New Orleans. Pineapples. The symbol of welcome.
"Welcome home, Paul," he whispered, clinging to the gate like a prisoner.
o0o
Something brought Jean out of her sleep.
She sat up on the sofa and listened. The sounds of her house slowly filtered through the Valium haze of her brain. The clock that had belonged to Paul's great-grandfather ticked in the entry hall. Air conditioning hummed with oiled efficiency. Out in the kitchen Sonny's parakeets chattered to each other. On the marble-topped table in the corner of the den, Sonny's aquarium bubbled oxygen through the clean water, although the tank had held no fish in six months.
Hairs along the back of Jean's neck stood on end. She huddled under the hand-knit afghan, a gift from Maggie.
"Sonny?" she called.
The house was quiet.
"Sonny," she whispered.
Pictures in their gilt frames stared back at her— Sonny taking his first step, Sonny with his first tooth, Sonny on his first day at school, Sonny and Paul in the boat, the three of them at the beach, Sonny on his fourth birthday with chocolate on his face.
Moving like an old and very tired woman, Jean left the sofa and crossed the large room. The white woolly afghan trailed behind her, then snagged on the corner of the piano and lay on the polished floor like a slaughtered lamb.
Holding to the furniture and the walls for support, Jean made her way to the front door. Bleary with drugs and sleep she watched the fanlight over the door waver then right itself.
She should go back to the couch before she fell.
She made a half turn, then changed her mind. Something was drawing her on, something on the other side of that door.
The brass door handle felt cold, and she hardly recognized the hand resting on it as her own. Blue veins showed through the thin white skin. Her rings twisted on skinny fingers, held in place by the knuckles that poked out like knots on a willow tree. Gone was the tan she'd once sported year round.
Gone, too, was the strength she'd always been so proud of. By the time she had pulled open the heavy door, she was drained, physically and emotionally.
Bright sun hurt her eyes. Squinting, she leaned against the door frame. There was a figure at the gate. Jean shaded her eyes.
Late afternoon sun glinted on hair as black and glossy as patent leather.
Paul.
Jean clutched her chest as time spun backward. . . .
Blood spattered Paul's white coat. Sonny's blood. Two nurses held her up as her husband bent over their son.
"Breathe, dammit, breathe." Paul's eyes were so bright and wild that she didn't dare look at him. He issued orders with machine gun precision. Nurses and interns scurried to do his bidding.
Everything was going to be all right. She kept telling herself that. Paul was a doctor. He was the best. He'd make everything all right.
Stainless steel instruments glittered in the harsh lights, and people spoke in quick, urgent voices.
"He's gone, Doctor."
"Goddammit, don't you tell me that. He's not dead. I won't let him die."
Jean moaned, leaning into the arms of a woman she didn't even know. She could see her son's still heart as Paul bent over the small bloody cavity that used to be Sonny's chest.
"Come on, Sonny. You can do it. Live, dammit! Do it for Daddy." Sweat poured down Paul's face and dripped onto his coat to mix with the blood.
"I'm afraid it's too late, Doctor."
Paul, who was not a violent man, almost hit the senior nurse. "Goddammit, I won't let him be dead. Do you hear me? I WON'T LET HIM!"
Remembering, Jean couldn't move. She couldn't breathe.
Paul clung to the gate and watched her with piercing black eyes, eyes that used to light up every time she walked into the room. Had he come back for her, then? Had he come back to say, Let's start over? Let's go to another city and build another house and have another little boy?
"Nooo." Jean clutched her stomach, moaning.
There could be no going back for them. There could be no other child, no other Sonny.
Faint with grief and regret and Valium, Jean clutched the door frame and stared at her estranged husband. Their gazes met, and for a moment something sparked to life inside her. But it died as quickly as it had come.
Her dreams were dead. She'd buried them all in a small casket with brass handles; then she'd stood in the rain and watched men cover them over with dirt.
Across the yard Paul watched her. There might as well have been the Gulf of Mexico between them. She couldn't have taken a step toward him if her life had depended on it.
Ever so slowly he turned and walked away.
Jean went back inside her house and bolted the door.
o0o
As Paul hurried toward his car he noticed that he'd left it parked in the middle of the street. Somebody could have come along and smashed it to pieces.
Not that it mattered.
He slid under the wheel cursing the impulse that had brought him to Shady Lane.
What had he expected to find? Certainly not Jean standing in the doorway like a ghost. She had looked so thin, so pale. What was she doing to herself?
He should never have gone there. It was all the fault of that damned cake Susan Riley had given him, that chocolate icing heating up in the sun and stirring up memories.
Paul drove fast—a man with a mission. The cops wouldn't stop him. Although he hadn't practiced medicine in nearly a year, to them he was still Dr. Tyler who had saved their wives and their mothers and their sons.
He had saved their sons, but he couldn't save his own.
The lights of Sam's Place flickered up ahead, green and orange neon, the P so dim it was almost invisible. He slowed the car, almost stopped. It had been a month since he'd been inside, a month since he'd felt that destructive, reckless need to leave the safety of his own apartment and wallow in public pity.
Poor Doc. Lost his son and his wife too.
Sam had taken him home that night, taken him all the way inside and put him to bed. Even dead drunk he'd hated his weakness. Crumpled on his bed with the room swaying around him and Sam's face barely visible, he'd promised to do better.
Paul rammed his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward. Sweat poured off his face.
In the gathering dusk the city lit up—gaudy neon signs pointing the way to tee-shirt shops, discreet gaslights separating the ritzy hotels and restaurants from the cheap motel rooms and the fast food joints, fluorescent bulbs shining down on shoppers crowding the malls. Paul was aware of nothing except the smell of chocolate and his overpowering need for oblivion.
Swearing, he braked the car sharply at a corner and began to make his way back, back to Sam's Place. Tonight he had to have the company of strangers and peace at any price.
Paul parked his car on the small crowded lot and grabbed the cake box. There was a large garbage can just inside the narrow door. In the semi-gloom of the bar he lifted the lid and sta
rted to heave the cake inside.
Suddenly his hand stilled. Guilt smote him. Susan Riley had probably spent hours laboring over that cake. He could picture her as she moved about her kitchen, baking and humming.
"Damn." He couldn't just throw the cake away. It would be wasteful, even sinful in a world full of hungry people.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Joshua Jones, the neighborhood's friendly hobo, seated at the corner table, his bony fingers wrapped around a beer someone had bought for him. Although Sam didn't allow soliciting in his place, he was too tenderhearted to throw Joshua out.
Candles poked into empty beer bottles lit Paul's way as he moved toward the corner table.
"What'cha got in that box, Doc?"
"A chocolate cake." Paul placed it on the table. "It's for you."
Joshua's grin showed a front tooth missing. "Now who'd be baking a cake for me?"
"A pretty lady."
Joshua snorted. "I ain't seen no pretty ladies since Buck was a calf." He slapped his thigh and laughed some more. "Tell me, Doc, how come this pretty lady got us mixed up and give my cake to you?"
"She was blinded by kindness."
Joshua slid the cake box closer and lifted the lid. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled.
"Ain't that heaven?" He poked one finger in the cake and came up with a gob of icing. His eyes rolled back in his head as he stuck his finger in his mouth and licked off the chocolate. "
Want some, Doc?" He dug out another glob and offered it to Paul.
"No, thank you."
"You look like you could use a meal."
"I'm not hungry." Paul began to inch away. He hadn't intended to get into a conversation.
"I'll have Sam send you a fork."
"Much obliged, Doc." Joshua dipped his dirty finger into the cake once more. "You tell that pretty lady next time you see her that old Joshua said she makes the best golderned cake this side of the Pearly Gates."
"I'll do that," Paul said, knowing he wouldn't. As he hurried toward the bar, regret filled him. He should have taken at least one bite of Susan's cake before he gave it away. She was bound to ask how he had liked it. And even if she didn't ask, she would be expecting him to say something about it.
The next time he saw her he'd say it was good. If he saw her again. Maybe he'd get lucky and she wouldn't come back.
Paul slid onto a stool, hooked his feet over a brass rail, and leaned his elbows on the wooden bar worn smooth by years of use.
"Evening, Sam."
"Evening." Sam didn't look too happy to see him.
"The usual."
"I didn't expect to see you tonight, Doc." Sam mixed a double scotch on the rocks and handed it to Paul. "I thought you were going to ease off a bit."
"This is my first."
"For the day?"
"For the evening."
Sam polished the bar with a cloth that had strings hanging from the edges, going over and over the same spot.
"I guess I ought to be minding my own business." Sam's face always got a pinched look when he was working up to one of his lectures.
"Then do," Paul said. He was in no mood for a lecture.
"You saved my kid."
Paul didn't want to be anybody's hero. Especially not tonight.
"That's what you paid me for."
Sam didn't flinch. He had heard worse. Shaking his head sadly, he rubbed at a water spot on the bar.
"You're one of the kindest men I know, Doc. It breaks my heart to see you doing this to yourself."
"I used to think kindness was necessary in the world we live in." Paul downed his drink and passed the empty glass back to Sam. "I don't believe that anymore."
For a moment Sam looked as if he were going to refuse to refill the glass. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he mixed the drink and handed it to Paul. "I'll have Danny take you home tonight. He'll take good care of you."
Danny was Sam's son, a big strapping boy of seventeen. Once Paul had saved Danny, and now Danny would save him.
For a moment he watched the dark amber liquid swirl in the glass; then he lifted it to his lips.
Chapter Six
Saturday evening Susan sat on the floor with Jefiy's favorite books spread around her. She'd made a small nest of sofa cushions for Jeffy, and he was propped up nearby.
"See the frog, Jeffy." She pointed to a colorful illustration in a book called Tommy, the Hopping Frog. "Say frog." He stared blankly at her. "Come on, sweetheart, you can do it. Say frog." She smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "Do it for Mommy, sweetheart."
Nothing. Not even a flicker in his eyes.
Susan wrestled with a crushing sense of defeat. If she gave up, they were both sunk.
She turned the page. "Look at this picture, Jeffy. There's the little frog with a new friend, Susie the duck. Can you say duck, Jeffy?"
He stared at the page. The sound of neighborhood children at play drifted through the open window.
"Tattletale, tattletale, Joanie is a tattletale."
"Cut that out, Ross, or I'm telling."
"Tattletale."
"I'm telling!"
Susan went to the window and looked out. Children frolicked in their yards, strong sturdy children with healthy hearts. Before his stroke Jeffy had played with them. He hadn't romped and run, but he had stood on the periphery calling in his high, bright little boy's voice, "Throw me the ball, Ross. Throw it to me."
And now he couldn't even speak.
Months ago when he'd first had the stroke, Dr. Free lander explained what had happened.
"It's not that he's lost the ability to speak, Susan. His first garbled attempts at speech scared and depressed him, so he quit trying. His speech will come back if he tries. The same is true of his motor movement. If he tries, Susan, he'll walk again."
Leaving the window, she sat down beside her son and picked up another book.
"This one has trees and flowers and birds and all the things you love, Jeffy." She pointed to a rose. "See the pretty rose. Can you say rose?"
Outside her window a brash young teenager called to his girlfriend, "Hurry up, Martha. We'll be late to the movies."
Jeffy stared at the picture of the rose, then looked up at Susan. A tiny tear formed in his eye and trickled down his cheek.
She pulled him into her lap and cradled him close. "You're going to talk again, sweetheart. I promise you."
o0o
It was Wednesday and Susan would be coming.
Paul turned on the radio and made himself a pot of coffee, then tried not to think about why a woman he barely knew was his first waking thought.
"Well, fishing fans," the disc jockey said, "you'll be glad to know that this is a great day to take to the sea. The sun is shining, the fish are biting, and WOWL is here bringing you the best in Country hits. And now here's Garth Brooks with his latest . . ."
Paul flicked the radio off and sat hunched over the table with a cup between his hands. He really ought to eat something.
There was an empty box of Nabisco shredded wheat in his cabinets and half a pack of oatmeal. He forced himself to eat the oatmeal, then went into his bedroom to dress.
The blue shirt was already half over his head when he changed his mind and reached for the white.
You look exotic in white, Paul, Jean used to say. Mysterious. Sexy.
He flung the white shirt onto the bed and put the blue one on.
What was the matter with him? A scarecrow trying to look sexy because Susan Riley was coming to the center. He must be losing his mind.
o0o
"You like her, don't you, Paul?"
"Who?"
"Susan Riley."
"What makes you say that?"
"That's the third time you've gone to the window," Bill said. "She won't be here until four."
The last time Paul had looked, it was five minutes till four. Turning toward Bill, he strived for nonchalance.
"I was just checking on Fergie. He seemed restl
ess this morning."
"That's because Martha calved last night. Fergie's a father."
In the dolphin pool Fergie set up a commotion. Paul turned back to the window and saw Susan Riley at her car, bending over her son.
“Then I’d better get out there and see about him.”
Who was he trying to fool? As hurried toward the pool, keeping Susan in his peripheral vision, he hoped he looked as if he were going about business as usual..
"Something wonderful is going to happen today, Jeffy,” he heard her say. “ I just know it is."
For a moment Paul was caught up in her bright expectations. And then he remembered what happened when life got too good.
Today, no matter what happened he wouldn't get involved.
o0o
Big sometimes scared Jeffy. Big rooms. Big people. Big dogs.
But not that big fish. It smiled at him. And talked to him.
He was glad Mommy brought him here. He smiled last week to tell her. He hoped she understood.
The big fish jumped in the water. His face got wet. He liked that. The fish was playing with him. He wished he could get in the water and play with the fish. If only he could ask his mommy.
She was squatting beside him, making up a funny story about the fish called Fergie. He loved his mommy's stories.
The man who fed the fish wasn't talking, but he was watching and listening. Maybe he liked Jeffy's mommy's stories too.
The big fish threw a ball to Jeffy. He tried his best to catch it, but his hurt hand and arm wouldn't move.
"Did you see that?" his mommy said. "I think Jefiy tried to move his left arm."
The man called Paul didn't say anything.
His mommy bent over him. "Catch the ball, Jeffy. You can do it."
The big fish threw the ball again, and his mommy lifted his arms, but they weren't quick enough. The ball landed by his stroller with a wet plop.
"That's all right, sweetheart. We'll catch it next time."
Mommy threw the ball back to the fish. The man didn't move. He didn't say anything. Would he send them away and not let them come back? Jeffy wished he could tell them how much fun he was having.
