Where Dolphins Go

by Webb, Peggy

  "You're pissing your life away with the bottle," Luther had said.

  "I can't stay, Luther." Paul held out his trembling hands. "Look at me. If I stay here I'll start killing people instead of healing them."

  "Then get your act together." Luther stomped around Paul's office, scowling at the medicals texts and the framed certificates. "We've built one of the best practices in the state. You can't throw that away."

  "I'm not throwing it away. I'm just leaving for a while."

  "How long?"

  "I don't know."

  "Dammit, Paul ..."

  "I'm sorry, Luther. I know this looks cowardly ..."

  "Damned right. I never figured you for a coward."

  "I have no other choice."

  "A man always has a choice."

  "Look, Paul ..."

  "Luther . . ."

  They spoke at the same time, then looked at each other, sheepish.

  "You first," Luther said.

  "I'm doing a little research."

  "On what?"

  "Stroke rehabilitation." Luther raised one eyebrow. Paul knew he would ask, and not only ask but hammer away until he had the truth. "It's a favor for a friend."

  He shelved the book he'd been reading, then turned back to his partner. His long absence had destroyed the easy camaraderie that once existed between them. The day Paul left, Luther had been forced to assume the full burden of their practice. A medical partnership was very much like a marriage: its success depended on two people working together.

  The leather mate to the desk chair squeaked as Paul sat down, suddenly overwhelmed by what he was about to do. Coming back meant taking risks. Coming back meant holding the lives of others in his hands. Coming back meant bearing the responsibility . . . and the guilt.

  "You're working late," he said to Luther, avoiding the question that burned between them.

  For a moment Luther looked as if he would take the bait, as if he would enter into an idle conversation about why he was working late and forget the important issue. Then his nose got redder, a sure sign of anger.

  "You have the gall to say that to me. I'm working late because I'm the only damned one of us willing to work, partner."

  "I'm sorry, Luther."

  "Sorry won't cut it this time, pal. You were sorry six months ago when you left. I want more than your apologies. I want to know when you're going to pull your

  self together and get your ass back down here where you belong."

  "How does tomorrow sound?"

  "And another thing . . . tomorrow?"

  "If I heard myself correctly, that's what I said."

  "Well, I'll be damned."

  "I'm overwhelmed by your enthusiasm."

  "It's taking a while to sink in."

  "I'm scared as hell about this. My hands shake so badly, I don't know if I'll ever pick up a scalpel again." Paul leaned forward in his chair. "Listen, Luther. I don't want to be a drag on this partnership any longer."

  "You were grieving."

  "I am now. When Sonny died I wouldn't allow myself to grieve."

  "I wish I could tell you I understand, but I don't. Not really. I see death every day, but until it touches my life I'll never understand it."

  Paul left his chair and stood looking out the window. Death had touched him, had stolen the most precious person in his life. And now he was ready to fight back. He would do everything in his power to keep the Grim Reaper away from his patients.

  "We can have our lawyers get together and dissolve this partnership," he said, his back to Luther.

  "Is that what you want?"

  "I thought it might be best."

  "For you or me?"

  He turned to face his partner. "For you."

  "Don't do me any favors, pal."

  "Then I'll assume we still have a partnership unless you decide otherwise. If you do, let me know and we'll start the necessary legal work."

  "Don't hold your breath." Luther started to leave Paul as abruptly as he always left his patients.

  "I see your famous bedside manner is still intact."

  In the doorway to the long hall that connected their offices, Luther spun around.

  "You're not a patient, even though you do look like hell."

  "I'm watching my girlish figure."

  Their laughter dispelled the tension. Luther walked to Paul and put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Welcome back."

  "Did I tell you that I'll be taking every Wednesday afternoon off?"

  "That's just like a doctor. I'm not even going to ask who she is."

  Paul didn't tell Luther that she was a little boy named Jeffy. It was late, and Luther probably had at least one surgery scheduled for Thursday morning. There would be plenty of time for explanations now that he was back.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jo Lisa had forgotten how hot Biloxi could be in mid- July. When she stepped off the bus, the heat combined with the high humidity nearly took her breath away.

  She claimed her bag, then went to a vending machine for a cola and a pack of nabs. The last time she'd eaten was somewhere in Texas. She ate quickly, glancing over her shoulder every time she heard footsteps. Biloxi was Deep South, a place where people were always spotting somebody they went to school with or somebody they were kin to or somebody they loved to hate—and then taking great pains to make contact.

  But nobody called to her. Nobody knew she was home. Nobody cared.

  That was fine with Jo Lisa. She hadn't come home to revive old friendships. She'd come home to save her sister.

  The bitter irony of her situation nearly choked her. Or perhaps it was the cola. Even coming out of the machine, it was only passably cool.

  She finished the drink quickly, then got the telephone book and scanned the pages. She knew where her mother lived—the same old rat hole she'd been in when Jo Lisa had left. It wasn't her mother she'd come to see; it was her sister. Who knew where the last three years had taken Susan?

  Jo Lisa's hand shook when she saw the address. It was the same, the same as it had been five years earlier when Brett had carried his bride over the threshold, the same as it had been four years earlier when they'd all waited in the cramped den, holding back their tears and fixing their mouths in a smile when Brett and Susan brought Jeffy home from the hospital, the same as it had been three years earlier when strangers had come to inform Susan they'd found Brett's car.

  Gripping the telephone book so hard her knuckles ached, Jo Lisa closed her eyes. She didn't need any of this. She should never have come back.

  The phone book swung on its chain and whacked the dingy wall when Jo Lisa released it. She would get a return ticket and go back to L.A. Back where she belonged.

  "Jo Lisa? Is that you?"

  She intended to keep walking, but the speaker put a hand on her arm and detained her.

  "I said to Mama, 'Look over yonder. I do believe that's Jo Lisa Markham.' Didn't I say those very words, Mama?"

  Martha Claire Tigrett Moody stood beaming at her, her smile as artificial as her eyelashes. Two snot-nosed brats hung onto her coattail, and the third rode proudly in the womb that preceded her.

  Mrs. Tigrett stood beside her married daughter, careworn and tight-lipped. If her daughter had said any such thing to her, she wasn't going to be the one to tell it.

  "Hello, Martha Claire."

  "My, my, Jo Lisa. What brings you home after all these years?"

  Frost was warmer than Jo Lisa's eyes as she stared at her old high school classmate. She harbored the insane hope that silence would stop Martha Claire.

  "We used to hear such glowing reports about you, about how you went off to Hollywood to be a movie star while the rest of us were slaving away at college.

  What was that tiny part you played once? Some kind of monster in a black lagoon? Or was it a space alien? I can't seem to remember. Do you remember, Mama?" Martha Claire turned to her mother while her children stared, bug-eyed, at Jo Lisa.

  "Well, neve
r mind. It's been so long ago since you've done anything, who can remember? My, my. You haven't changed one little ole bit, Jo Lisa."

  Jo Lisa shifted her bag from one hand to the other. "Neither have you, Martha Claire. You're still the same vicious bitch you always were."

  "Cover your ears, children," Martha Claire said as Jo Lisa walked off with her head high and her suitcase bumping her legs.

  She'd come home to see her sister, and all the Martha Claires in the world weren't going to stop her.

  o0o

  The parking slot at Blake Medical Center still had his name on it.

  Paul eased his Corvette to a stop, then sat in the car until his queasiness passed. Today of all days he needed to be in top form, for inside the giant medical complex were people who would be scrutinizing him and his work for the next two years, watching every move he made to see whether he would succeed ... or whether he would fail.

  He'd seen Bill early that morning to tender his resignation, knowing he would receive his friend's blessing. Paul had offered to give two weeks' notice, but Bill had scoffed at the idea.

  After he left the Oceanfront Research Center, he drove to his office and spent the rest of the morning and the early afternoon studying current patient records. He'd been safe in his office, hidden.

  And now there was nowhere left to hide.

  The hospital corridors resonated with familiar sounds —the squeak of rubber wheels on polished tiles as gurneys were wheeled by, the electronic swooshing of the elevator door, the quiet clatter of dinner trays being delivered at an hour when civilized folks were barely dreaming of eating, the comforting footfalls of nurses as they hurried by on crepe-soled shoes to answer calls of distress.

  Paul saw a lot of unfamiliar faces as he walked through the long, gleaming hallways. Change. It was inevitable. There were familiar faces, too, and somehow those gave Paul comfort.

  When he reached the conference room, he took a deep breath, then pushed the door open and went inside. Five men waited for him, doctors whose incomparable skills and unblemished reputations had, over the years, garnered each of them the title of Chief of Staff. He stood facing the credentialing committee.

  They didn't make it easy on him. One alcoholic doctor slaying patients on the table was all it took to blacken the name of a hospital and the reputations of the medical staff who practiced there.

  One by one, the committee grilled him, upbraided him, lectured him.

  After it was all over, he drove to his apartment to change for dinner. Bill and Maggie were taking him out for a celebration.

  o0o

  By the time Jo Lisa reached Susan's house, the sun had transformed the water from placid blue to rose gold, while giant oaks were casting purple shadows across the deserted streets and modest houses in her sister's quiet neighborhood.

  The taxi rolled to a stop, but Susan never looked up. She was on her knees spading dirt. Pots of red flowers sat all around her, and nearby a small boy sat in his stroller.

  Jo Lisa set her suitcase on the sidewalk and stared from the shadows of a tree. An outsider looking in. It seemed to her that she was always watching her family from afar.

  The little boy spoke. Her nephew. "Mommy, can I plant one?" His voice was thin and slightly slurred.

  The stroke. Her mother had written to her about it.

  "Of course you can, darling." Susan gently lifted her child from the stroller, then guided his frail hands toward the fragrant, fertile earth.

  Jo Lisa ached with such longing and tenderness and regret that she had to catch an overhanging branch to keep from falling to the ground.

  "What have I done to you?" she whispered.

  It was not too late to run. Even now, with her suitcase practically in Susan's door, Jo Lisa could still walk away.

  At the precise moment she thought of flight, her sister turned around. Trapped, she waited under the tree watching Susan's face reflect all her emotions—disbelief, then uncertainty, and finally acceptance.

  "Jo Lisa." Susan came toward her, trailing dirt and red flowers all the way to the tree. "I can't believe it's you."

  Warily, they watched each other, sisters who had once been best friends, strangers because of three years of separation.

  "If you don't want me here, Susan, just say so and I'll shag my fanny out of here so fast, you'll choke on my dust."

  Slowly Susan reached out her hand. "Welcome home, Jo Lisa."

  Chapter Twelve

  Susan didn't quite know what to do with this sister she hadn't seen in three years, this brittle woman she didn't know anymore.

  So she cooked. That was the Southern way—to busy yourself with the preparation and serving of food so you didn't have to think too much.

  "Fried chicken?" Jo Lisa prowled around the kitchen, poking her nose into pots and pans. "Shit, Susan. You act like I'm company."

  Thank goodness Jeffy was playing with his toys in the next room and didn't hear. Susan cast around for a safe topic.

  "How long are you staying?"

  "As long as I'm in the mood."

  "What about your job?"

  "It'll wait."

  "Are you still singing at that terrific little jazz club?"

  "No. The only time I hit the high notes now is when I’m having sex.”

  What was wrong with Jo Lisa? How could she expect Susan to reply to such outrageous nonsense? She turned her back and plunged her hands into the chicken batter.

  "God, it's hot here." Jo Lisa got an ice cube and ran it down the side of her throat.

  Susan turned up the heat under the skillet and threw the first pieces of chicken in. The sounds of sizzling meat filled the silence.

  "You want to know what I do now, Susan?" Jo Lisa moved close and held the ice cube to her red lips, sucking with deliberate smacking sounds. "I have all of Hollywood at my feet. While I'm onstage, they're drinking Jack Daniels and taking bets on who'll catch my panties."

  "Why are you acting this way, Jo Lisa? Are you trying to shock me?" Susan covered the skillet, then washed and dried her hands. "I'm a grown woman, and far more worldly wise than you seem to think."

  "Are you, Susan? Are you worldly wise?"

  “Yes."

  "What about Paul Tyler?"

  "What about him?"

  "Are you sleeping with him?"

  "No." But not because she didn't want to. "How did you know about him?"

  "Mother." Jo Lisa made herself a glass of ice water, then unfastened the rhinestone buttons at the top of her blouse and held the cool glass next to her skin. "Stay away from married men, Susan. They'll break your heart."

  Susan stood in the kitchen staring at her sister. For some reason she felt a crazy urge to laugh.

  “For your information, he’s getting a divorce.”

  “Big deal. My advice still stands. If you’re smart, you’ll take it, kiddo.”

  "You know that old saying—there's no use locking the barn door after the horses are already out? It's too late for warnings, Jo Lisa."

  Her sister said a string of words Susan was grateful Jeffy didn’t hear. But she didn’t want to make a scene about it. Jo Lisa was volatile and unpredictable. She’d use any excuse to turn tail and run. And there was no telling how many years she’d stay away this time. Susan had to walk a line between firm and cautious.

  She got a long-handled fork and stirred the chicken. "Set the table, will you, Jo Lisa? We're going to have a civilized meal . . . just the three of us. And I'll thank you not to use vulgar language in front of my son. This is my house, and when you're here you'll abide by my rules."

  Jo Lisa stiffened as if she'd been slapped, then slowly a grin spread across her face. She fastened the top button on her blouse, then held out her hand to her sister.

  "Truce, Susan?"

  Susan took her sister's hand. "Truce."

  o0o

  Saturday nights were made for couples. Two at the movies sharing the same popcorn box, two at dinner holding hands across a candlelit table, t
wo in the car sitting close and knowing it was a prelude to intimacy.

  Such thoughts coming so suddenly upon Jean as she sat at her easel confirmed her hope that she was finally coming back to life.

  "I'm going to be all right." She gripped the brush and spoke with determination. "I'm going to be all right." After all, she was a Beaumont, and no Beaumont for six generations had let life whip him.

  She picked up her palette knife and spread swaths of paint on canvas, then tilted her head back to view her work. It wasn't great, but it wasn't bad, either.

  The phone rang, and she thought about letting it go. She didn't like to be interrupted while she worked. On the third ring, she padded barefoot into the hallway and picked it up.

  "I thought you might not be home."

  "Paul!" A wave of loneliness and nostalgia hit her so hard, she had to lean against the wall. "How are you?"

  "I'm better, Jean. And you?"

  "I'm painting again."

  "That's good."

  Jean cradled the receiver under her chin. One of the things she'd loved most about Paul was his voice. She twisted the cord slowly around her finger, watching the way it circled her flesh.

  "Jean ... I'd like to come over ... if you don't mind."

  "When?"

  "Is tonight okay?"

  "Tonight's fine, Paul."

  "See you in a little while."

  She stood in the hall staring at the telephone as if it might suddenly come to life and tell her what to do. What should she do? Dress for Paul? She was wearing black stirrup pants and a white oversized poet's shirt. Speckles of yellow and purple paint dotted the right sleeve.

  If she dressed he might think she was expecting something from him. Was she?

  Lowering her head into her hands she breathed deeply. She hated the feeling of confusion.

  In the end she decided to go on with her painting.

  She jumped when the doorbell rang. Nerves. She used to be as unflappable and unsinkable as Molly Brown. But that had been before the tragedy.

  She pulled open the door.

  "Hello, Jean." Paul took her hand. A polite stranger. "You look good."

  "So do you." She smiled at him. A gracious hostess.

  Inside they sat on chairs facing each other, as stiff as strangers.