“Would it be rude if I asked to see it first?”
“Probably,” George said. “But I could look it over for you and see if it’s worth fooling with. I don’t want you accepting something that would be better off sold as scrap metal. I’ll go over right after I do my hospital visits.”
A vehicle would be especially useful in teaching Shadow. He’d like to be able to drive far out into the country, where he could train his dog with a little more freedom. Shadow was showing signs of having an especially good nose. German shepherds were a great breed for search-and-rescue teams, but that was one kind of training he’d never done. When he mentioned the idea, Doc Peggy had ordered a couple of books for him. Being able to access woods and fields were a necessity in the training.
He’d been saving up, but it was going to take a long time to get enough for a dependable car. It would be wonderful if this one was roadworthy.
Carl waited anxiously until George came back that evening.
“It’s a decent ride,” George said. “A ten-year-old Dodge truck that belonged to her deceased husband. Only eighty thousand miles, with good tires. She maintained it and had the oil changed regularly.”
A workable truck. That was better than anything Carl had hoped for.
“I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Well, that’s easily fixed. You did drive once. Right?”
“Twenty years is a long time not to get behind the wheel.”
“That needs to change.” George handed Carl the keys to his old Ford. “Let’s go. You can start practicing in the church parking lot.”
Chapter 43
It had taken two days to scrape the caked-on grease from the industrial-sized stove. They had gotten the leftover restaurant appliances cheaply, but they were paying a heavy price in labor. The walls of the kitchen needed cleaned as well. And the ceiling. And the exhaust fan. There were wooden booths to sand and repaint. Tiled floors with years of ground-in dirt to scrub off.
He was exhausted and already struggling with a forbidding sense of failure. Who was he to think he could create food appealing enough for others to want to eat—let alone food they would be willing to pay good money for? Rachel was right. He was no businessman. The only thing in his life he’d ever been good at was playing ball.
“I’m tired, Daddy,” Bobby said. “I want to go home.”
His little boy had been playing with a couple of toy cars for over an hour, which was a long time for him to be so well-behaved. It was cruel to make him stay any longer.
“I’m sorry, buddy.” Joe picked up Bobby and turned to Darren. “I need to leave. I think Bobby’s had about as much as he can take of this today.”
“Of course,” Darren said. “I’ve got this. You go ahead.”
As they drove home, Joe tried to pray for his wife and his marriage, but worries about the restaurant kept crowding in. The thing was turning into an even bigger and more overwhelming project than he had expected. In addition to trying to get the restaurant cleaned up, he’d spent most of last night trying to come up with the right blend of spices for a Vidalia onion sauce he wanted to use on one of his hamburgers. Several had been good, but nothing had been just right.
He was fighting fatigue, worry, and frustration. Opening night was a little over a month away—Darren’s overly optimistic bright idea—and they’d already sunk advertising dollars and promotions into it. They’d gone too far to back out now—although he was starting to wish he’d never heard the words “Joe’s Home Plate.”
“Can we play Candy Land when we get home, Daddy?” Bobby asked.
“Probably not today,” Joe said. “I’ve got to work on a recipe for the restaurant. There’s not much time left before opening day. Maybe Rachel will play Candy Land with you.”
“Can I have a peanut butter sandwich?” Bobby asked.
“Sure,” Joe said, distracted by thoughts of sauce and supplies and Rachel. “I’ll fix you one as soon as we get home.”
There was paperwork he needed to complete tonight as well. He had to start getting ready for the upcoming school semester. It was the end of July, so a good bit of summer was left, but he needed to start getting his players into shape soon. His coaching job might not pay all that much, but he’d been building that team for two years now, he enjoyed building it, and he thought they might actually start winning a few games soon.
Joe’s mind drifted to a million different things as he drove home. He did not notice that, in the backseat, Bobby had quietly begun to suck his thumb for the first time in two years.
Greta Johnson was probably only in her thirties, but unless one saw her up close, it would be easy to think she was pushing fifty. She wore baggy jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a gray cardigan. Her hair was stringy, she wore no makeup, and she didn’t look people in the eyes when she was talking to them.
She had brought in a calico cat she called Baby to see Doc Peggy.
Carl asked the basic question. “What seems to be the matter?”
“I can’t put my finger on it,” Greta said, staring hard at the wall. “She just seems to be ‘off.’ ”
After a few more questions, he looked into the cat’s ears, listened to her heart, palpitated the cat’s stomach, noted his evaluation on the chart, and told Greta that the doctor would be in soon. Then he excused himself and handed the chart over to Doc Peggy in the hallway.
Peggy glanced at it. “Kittens?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No,” he said. “That’s your job.”
And he went on to the next patient. There was no time to chat during clinic hours, but after hours was another matter.
In the late afternoon, once her patient visits were over and the staff had gone home, Doc Peggy liked to sit on the small couch in the break room, and allow herself to recuperate for a few minutes while she sipped a cup of green tea and ate a couple of oatmeal cookies. It was a little ritual she indulged in at the end of each day.
Once Carl discovered this, he made it his practice to have her favorite tea cup waiting for her, washed and dried and with a new tea bag in it. Then he would fill the electric teakettle with fresh water just before he left. The doctor worked so hard, and it made him feel good to do this small task for her.
After a couple of weeks, she had asked if he would stay for a few moments and discuss her concerns about one of her patients, an elderly dog so crippled with arthritis that it would be a kindness to put him out of his misery—except for the fact that he was loved by a very fragile, sick child.
“What would you do?” she had asked him. “What would you advise his owners?”
Carl didn’t hesitate. “I know the dog. That child is his life. He is willing to endure the pain as long as he can give the child comfort.”
She had looked at him quizzically. “How do you know what the dog is feeling?”
“I just do.”
“Pour yourself a cup of tea, Carl,” she had said. “I believe it would be helpful to discuss some of my other patients with you.”
From that afternoon on they had fallen into the habit of reviewing the day’s events after everyone else left, relaxing together in the break room, each with their cups of hot tea and her favorite brand of oatmeal cookies. Peggy always curled up on the couch with her shoes off. He always sat at the table several feet away. He cherished the ritual and was determined to make sure she always felt at ease with him.
That afternoon, as they went over their day, Peggy told him that Greta had been pleased about the probability of kittens.
“First time I’ve ever seen that woman smile.” She dipped her cookie into her tea and took a small bite.
“You know her?”
“She’s been in here before with the same cat, but yes, my daughter went to school with her.”
“She seems like a lonely person,” Carl said. “Any family besides her cat?”
“Actually, yes. She has a brother who recently moved home to live with her. I
think he’s been in and out of rehab several times. She told me she’s pleased he’s there but is worried he might relapse. They had a younger sister, Cynthia, who died a few years back.”
“The poor woman couldn’t even look at me.”
“Greta’s always been like that, even in high school. I have no idea why.”
He poured more hot water into his cup. He hated the taste of the green tea but he was determined not to show it. Diluting it helped.
“How does she support herself?”
“She runs a small day-care center in her home,” Peggy said. “My guess is that only the people who are desperate for cheap childcare employ her, but I don’t think a child would actually be in danger there. People who are good with their animals usually treat their children well, and she is always quite concerned about Baby.”
“A brother who just got out of rehab and lives in the same house as the children she’s babysitting doesn’t sound good.”
“That makes me uncomfortable too, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Carl glanced at the clock and marveled inwardly at how quickly the day had flown. It had been an especially busy day. Each day in prison had felt like a week. Here, each week felt like a day.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Peggy sounded serious.
He stiffened. He had been expecting this. She was going to ask him about the murder he had committed or his life in prison—and he didn’t want to talk about any of it. As much as humanly possible, he wanted to forget it. But this was Peggy asking, a woman to whom he would bare his soul if necessary.
“Of course.”
“Why on earth do you keep drinking that tea when you obviously despise the taste?” And then she burst out laughing at the look of surprise on his face.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to offend you.”
“Pour that stuff down the sink, Carl! Bring in whatever kind of tea you want—or coffee or whatever. I don’t care. Goodness! You’re a free man.”
He gratefully dumped the tea and then helped her lock up the office. It was time for him to rush back to the church to make certain everything was spic-and-span for the Wednesday night service.
Working with Peggy meant learning something new every day. During their late-afternoon discussions, she taught him a great deal more about animals. Seeing his eagerness to learn, she started lending him more books about animals. He had never been a reader, but he read the books Peggy loaned him. He observed closely when he assisted her during surgeries and memorized every movement and surgical tool.
Peggy said his ability to read animals was a rare gift. The more he worked with her, the more he believed that what she said was true. He could tell by a cat’s body language what sort of problems might develop during an examination. He could tell by the droop or pitch of a dog’s head whether it might be wise to wear the leather gloves or if the dog was a sweetheart and could be handled without them.
He found himself waking each morning with something he’d never felt in his entire life until now: eager anticipation of the day. He’d hurry and fulfill his few janitorial duties for the church and then jump into his truck and head over to the clinic. When he got there, he would put on the white assistant’s coat that Peggy provided.
It didn’t take long for Carl to learn exactly what to do and how to do it. As he became more skilled, the clients began to treat him not only with respect, but with deference. They asked questions and listened carefully to his answers.
He found himself instructing lonely, elderly women on how to cut back on calories and snacks for their overweight cats. Some actually did what he said and came back proudly to show him the weight their pets had lost.
He gave some of the children pointers on how to teach their dogs tricks and enjoyed their delight when they showed him what their animals had learned.
Some of the church members already had pets they brought to Doc Peggy, and when they saw Carl working there, they began to see him another light. Instead of “the ex-con janitor the church is helping out who lives in the basement,” they saw him as a professional with training and knowledge that they did not have. Some started asking him advice about their pets after services. The awkwardness of his background and past began to disappear.
One day Carl caught a glimpse of himself in a store window, and for a moment he didn’t recognize himself. He was standing taller, with his shoulders squared back. Strange how a job and a little self-confidence could make a man walk differently.
Although Doc Peggy took care of people’s smaller house pets, she also dealt with farm animals as well. That meant sometimes she had to go out in the middle of the night to some farmer’s barn. Often that barn was Amish, with no electric lights. Because Carl was always available and willing to help, he often accompanied her, sometimes if only to hold the large flashlight while she and the owner worked with the animal. He soon began to see why the good doctor had dark circles beneath her eyes—but each time he went with her, he learned something new.
It was the richest, best time of his life. He was drug- and alcohol-free. Had faith and conviction. Was making friends. Working hard at a job he loved but also enjoying his non-working hours because he had Shadow as a companion.
He’d even started a little bank account. With his history, it was hard to walk into a bank for the first time, but he did it. He kept reminding himself that he was there to put money in the bank, like a normal citizen. Even better, it was money he himself had earned with honest work.
He could afford a small apartment now, but his needs were so basic that it seemed unnecessary. A bed, a TV for a few programs at night, a kitchen, a bathroom…it was all there in the basement. The church building had actually begun to feel like a home to him. In the mornings, he often sat for a few moments in the silence of the sanctuary, watching the sun stream through the gleaming windows and giving thanks for this second chance—this resurrection of the soul.
He often contemplated how God had somehow managed to braid the bitter ends of his life together to create this new beginning for him. With all his heart, he wished he had not pulled the trigger that long-ago day, but he was in awe of the generosity of a God who had given him a good life in spite of his former actions and choices.
Neither Rachel nor Anna had been back to the clinic since he started working there, and he was grateful. Rachel’s icy stare had the power to mentally put him right back inside the prison, where he was nothing but scum, instead of a contributing member of society.
He understood why she hated him, and he didn’t blame her. But since he couldn’t go back and change what he’d done, he was determined to try to stay out of her sight.
There was one problem with this plan. He wanted to visit Bertha to thank her for those letters she had written him…but to do so meant risking the possibility of running into Rachel.
He had not gone to see the old Amish woman before now because, well, he didn’t feel worthy. Yes, he was out of prison, but for the past two-and-a-half months he felt like he carried it within him. Until he no longer felt worthless, he had not wanted to face the woman who helped save his sanity by sending letters of forgiveness and asking her cousin, George, to visit him.
Now, with a respectable job, a driver’s license, and money in the bank, Carl thought he might be ready to go talk to her. He daydreamed about pulling up in front of her house in his shiny truck with his handsome dog beside him, wearing nice clothes, and showing Bertha the letters he’d saved.
She deserved to know what her forgiveness had meant to him. He looked forward to telling her that her great compassion had changed his life.
And next week, that exact thing would happen. George had talked with her about him, and she had said she would be happy to meet with him.
Carl hoped she was as kind in person as she had been in her letters. If this visit turned out well, it was going to mean everything to him. He knew and accepted the fact that he was a bad man, but with God’s help, he was beginning to hope tha
t maybe even a bad man could still do good things.
Chapter 44
Bertha was on the back porch leaning over the wringer washer when Rachel and Bobby arrived at Sugar Haus. It was a clear, hot, summer day—perfect for drying clothes—and Rachel was not surprised to find her aunt doing laundry.
Bertha held up a finger when they came up the steps, indicating that they should wait while she ran the last sheet through the wringer. The gasoline-powered motor of the old Maytag made it impossible to hold a conversation. Bobby watched, fascinated, as the rubber wringer flattened and squashed wash water out of the sheet as the fabric snaked into a basket.
Bertha switched off the motor and said very formally, “It is so nice of you to come to visit.”
Rachel heard the rebuke in Bertha’s voice. “I don’t want our difference of opinion about Carl Bateman to damage our relationship, Aunt Bertha. I came to apologize.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Bertha wiped her wet hands on her apron. “Especially since he’s coming to visit soon.”
“Excuse me?”
“George called this morning to ask. Of course I said yes.”
“You gave him permission to come here? To our home? Why?”
“Because he asked.”
“I’m really struggling here, Aunt Bertha. It seems like everyone in the county is fine with Carl Bateman except for me.
Bobby tugged at Rachel’s hand. “Can I go play?”
“Of course you can.” Rachel was so distracted by her aunt’s revelation that she barely noticed Bobby as he ran off into the house. “What is that man trying to prove by asking to come here, Aunt Bertha?”
“He’s not trying to prove anything.” Bertha nested the laundry basket against her hip and started walking toward the clothesline as Rachel followed. “George says Carl just wants to thank me for the letters I wrote to him all those years.”
“What? Wait.” Rachel stopped and stared at Bertha. “What letters?”
Rachel's Rescue Page 18
