Daddy is in the hospital, Phillip Blake and I are talking and texting like we’re a couple, and I suddenly think of Luna, the waitress in Arkansas, and what she said when she insisted on handing over her tips. She pushed the wad of cash into my hand and said, “Honey, even if you don’t need this money right now, just take it, because in a minute, or a day, everything you thought you knew about your life could unravel like an old pair of socks. You never know when you’re going to need a little extra something to darn the holes.”
I reach down and pat the pocket in the front of my jeans. Having the money isn’t so important—I have enough of my own to make my way—but her priceless wisdom just makes me smile.
chapter forty-five
“YOU look different.”
Ben is staring at me even though he should be paying attention to the road.
“I’m still me,” I say.
He shakes his head like he’s stumped, then turns and finally faces the direction a driver ought to face. Forward. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
I pull down the visor anyway to see if something is off about my appearance. After all, it’s Ben telling me this, the guy whose wife divorced him for not noticing her makeover.
But I look like I always do: plain, pale, determined, and wrestling with uncontrollable hair. I try to smooth it down on the sides a bit, slap my cheeks to give them a little color. There’s not much I can do without a shower and makeup, so I just pop the visor back up.
“So, truckers, huh?” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Yep, all the way from New Mexico.”
The previous day of my life is a blur. Saying good-bye to Blossom, hopping from vehicle to vehicle, meeting the three drivers. I probably didn’t sleep but two or three hours because of all the things I was thinking about: how I will retrieve my car, all the conversations about Roger, wondering about his friend’s daughter and whether she knew about the ashes, worrying about Daddy.
“Did you take any drugs?”
“What?”
“Drugs? I heard truckers are the best dealers in the country.”
I have not heard this.
“Nope, not the ones I rode with. Straight as arrows, these guys.” And I think I must remember to get Tony’s address so that I can write him a thank-you note.
Ben nods. “Prostitutes?”
“What?”
“Did you see any prostitutes?”
I roll my eyes. “I’d have to say no to that question as well. No prostitutes, no drugs, just twenty-four hours of bad country music.” I pause. “Make that fourteen hours of country music and ten of Ray Charles, T-Bone Walker, and the Drifters.” Milton had a collection of CDs like I have never seen before.
Ben nods, appears a bit disappointed. He speeds down the interstate, changing lanes, as we head toward the hospital.
I feel like I have seen nothing but highway and scenery out windows for months; but it really hasn’t been that long.
“So, tell me about Dad,” I say, wondering what Ben can tell me about what occurred before the heart attack.
He turns to me again and shrugs. “Nobody really knows what happened.”
“Sandra said he was at a town council meeting?”
“County commissioners,” he says, correcting me. “They were voting on changing the name of the park. The county got a big gift from a corporation doing some business here, and the commissioners thought putting the company’s name on the park sign would convince them to bring all the jobs to Clayton.”
“Let me guess—Reynolds?”
“That’s the one,” he replies. “They’re expanding, and they like what Johnston County has to offer.” He smiles and it sounds like he’s reading a press release.
Big Tobacco, I think, my father’s nemesis.
“I don’t know why O.W. is still convinced that cigarettes are bringing down our society.”
I start to explain about my mother and her cancer and the tobacco; but it doesn’t matter because there’s no logic to my father’s obsession with these companies. Even without a connection between brain tumors and smoking, he refuses to let go of blame.
“He’d just like his hometown to be known for something more than growing tobacco,” I explain. “He thinks we sell ourselves short by catering only to those companies.”
“Well, those companies are what’s keeping our town’s economy going,” Ben responds. “And if he wants to keep the paper, he needs to start writing some supportive stories.”
I look over at Ben. “Why? What’s going on with the paper?”
He won’t face me. “Everybody knows what’s happening to small-town newspapers, Al.” He shrugs. “I’m just saying if he’d do a little more to show gratitude for the businesses still operating in our county, he wouldn’t be so nervous every month trying to pay the bills.”
I don’t reply.
“Tobacco is still lucrative and all those companies have diversified. It wouldn’t hurt Oscar to write about the good things they do.”
The thought of Oscar Wells involved in crony journalism or writing positive-slanted feature stories about Big Tobacco almost makes me laugh. He’d let go of the Times and News and go to work for the News and Observer out of Raleigh before he’d do that.
Ben is still talking. “They give a lot of money to the schools and the parks in the towns where they are. Shoot, they just built a four-million-dollar sports complex in Winston-Salem and gave tons of money to the college for a new library. Think about what they could do for Johnston County.”
“You sound like you’ve been drinking some tobacco-flavored Kool-Aid since I’ve been gone.” I pause a second and then lean toward him and whisper, “Are you taking bribes from Virginia Slims?”
He takes his hand off the steering wheel and waves me off. “I smoke cigars, Al. If I was writing puff pieces for bribes it would be for Gurkha. Now, I’d sell my soul for a year’s supply of a box of their Beauties.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply. “Just tell me what happened at the meeting where he had the heart attack.”
Ben takes the exit and continues to head in the direction of Rex Hospital. “I don’t really know. I got the call after he collapsed.”
“Was he there alone? Didn’t James William go?” I thought he had let the young sportswriter take some of the political stories.
He shakes his head. “Dixie was there,” he answers and says nothing more.
“Oh.” It’s not particularly odd that the administrative assistant was with my father while he was covering a local story; but it seems a little odd the way Ben has just clammed up. “She called you?”
He nods. “They sent an ambulance and just took him straight to Rex.” He says this as we are arriving at the parking lot of the hospital. “He stood up to say something and then just fell back. He stopped breathing for a few minutes but Doc White immediately did CPR and got his pulse going again in less than a couple of minutes.”
For a second I am very grateful that Dr. White, a retired physician from the area, decided to run for a seat on the county commission.
Ben pulls into a parking spot and stops the engine. He turns to me. “He’s going to be okay, Al,” he says reassuringly, and I reach over and squeeze him on the arm.
“Thanks for meeting me and bringing me over here,” I tell him. Then I let go of his arm and glance in the backseat at Cass. “And thanks for taking him home; poor guy, he’s exhausted.”
“Not a problem,” Ben says. “Your key still in the same place?”
I nod, knowing he’s been in a few times when I needed something and didn’t have time to go. “Frog planter by the back door.”
He’s staring at me again. “You sure you didn’t do something different to your hair?”
I open the car door, shaking my head. “No, Ben, it’s the same
.” And I thank him again, though not before wondering exactly what it is that he’s seeing.
chapter forty-six
DADDY is still in the intensive care unit of the hospital. He’s hooked up to monitors and IVs, has a catheter, and is getting oxygen; but he is off the ventilator and breathing on his own. There have been no complications from the surgery and his vital signs are stable. I am told that he will likely be moved to a cardiac step-down unit later today or tomorrow, where he will stay for three to four more days and then be released.
He was sleeping when I arrived, but I spoke to the nurse, who gave me a complete rundown of what has happened and how he is doing; and I have been sitting by his bed for about a half hour just watching him, trying to decide whether I should punish myself more for not knowing this was going to happen or for not being here when it did.
He looks small and pale, resting against the stark white sheets and pillow on the hospital bed. There are bruises up and down his arms and his face is puffy, swollen, which the nurse has explained is not uncommon after heart surgery. He twitches a bit as he sleeps; and I wonder if he’s dreaming, writing news and commentary, or if it’s simply all the drugs that are pumping through his system.
As I stare at my father, I see him in a light I have never seen before. He is vulnerable and without expression; I realize how much he has aged over the years. Wrinkles across his forehead, lines around his mouth, thinning hair, prominent blue veins on the tops of his hands. Without my knowledge, and certainly without my consent, my father has gotten old.
In my mind’s eye, he is still a young man, ordering folks around, laughing at ridiculous jokes, trying to teach me the news business. In my mind’s eye, he is tall and carries himself like a soldier or an athlete, strong and unwavering. But now I see that he is not that man, hasn’t been that man in years. I simply chose not to notice.
“Hey.” He wakes up, startling me. He tries to sit up a little. He glances around like he’s disoriented and starts moving around in his hospital bed.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I ask, nervous that he’s going to pull out an IV line. “Just lie back. You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine,” he says, his voice hoarse and ragged.
“You need some pain medicine? Are you hurting?”
“No, I was just looking for . . .” He pauses, turns back to me, shakes his head, confused. “Never mind.”
I smile at him. “Hey,” I say and place my hand on his arm.
We just look at each other for a few minutes, both of us glad to see the other, it seems.
“Welcome home, Al,” he says, his voice still raspy.
I pull my hand away. “You know, if you wanted me to come home you could have just asked. All this wasn’t really necessary,” I say, teasing him.
He clears his throat, tries to cough, reaches up and holds his chest. It’s obvious that he’s in pain. I watch him and can’t help but cringe, thinking of how it must feel to move when you have just had your ribs sawed in two. “Can I have some water?” he asks.
“Sure.” I reach for a pitcher on the bedside table next to him and pour him a cupful. I hold it so that he can take a sip with the straw.
He raises himself up, drinks a few swallows, and then pulls away, lying back down against the pillow. “That’s good,” he tells me. He closes his eyes and I think he might be going back to sleep.
I hold the cup in case he wants a little more.
“When did you get back?” he asks with his eyes still closed.
I glance up at the clock behind his bed. “Little less than an hour ago.”
“You drove all the way from New Mexico?”
I shake my head. “It’s complicated,” I answer. “I left Faramond in Amarillo; I rode home with truckers.”
He opens his eyes and blinks a few times like he’s not sure he recognizes me. “You can explain that later.”
I smile as I put the cup back on the table. “Okay,” I say.
There is a pause.
“How are you feeling? Is it bad?”
“It’s no walk in the park, that’s for sure.” He manages a wink.
“So, Daddy, what happened? Have you been having problems and just didn’t tell anybody or did you get so mad at the commissioners you blew a gasket?”
He closes his eyes again, blows out a breath. “I wasn’t really sure what it was,” he replies. “I’d been feeling, I don’t know, funny for a couple of weeks, thought it was just nerves or my pressure; I didn’t know.”
Nerves? This doesn’t sound like my father at all. “What’s that about?” I ask him.
He looks at me like he wants to tell me something but then turns away. “Just the usual stuff,” he tells me, not at all convincingly.
“What is it, Dad? Is there something wrong at the paper? Are we in trouble?” I do not understand what has him upset enough that he would have a heart attack.
He slowly shakes his head, closes his eyes. “The paper’s fine,” he answers.
“Then what?” I want to know.
And it seems like he’s going to answer, when there is a knock at the door.
I hear the familiar voice. “You feeling better this afternoon?” And Dixie sticks her head in. When she sees me the expression on her face changes just a bit and I think that either she’s picking up on the same thing Ben seemed to notice, that I’m different somehow, or she just wasn’t expecting to see me.
“Al, hey, I’m surprised to see you.” She walks in but remains standing at the door.
“Hello, Dixie.” I get up to give her a hug. “I hear I owe you quite a lot of gratitude.”
She pulls back a little and shakes her head. Her face flushes. “For what?”
“For staying with Dad when Sandra went home, for being with him at the meeting when this happened. You have really gone far and beyond your job responsibilities.” I pat her on the arm. “Thanks so much. And look, I know he feels the same way I do—let us pay you for all of this time you’ve spent helping out.”
She shakes her head, waving away the suggestion with her hand. “No, I wouldn’t take any money for this.” And I watch as she glances around me to get a look at Dad. She smiles.
I turn to my dad and he nods and then there’s this sort of awkward pause in the conversation.
“Well, we can talk about that later; but since you’re here, I think I’ll run down and get a bite to eat.” My stomach has been rumbling since I arrived; I haven’t eaten since Arkansas. “Hopefully, the food here isn’t as bad as it’s rumored to be in hospitals.” I turn to my dad. “You want anything? Magazine? Soda? Typewriter?” I grin.
He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he replies.
“Okay, how about you, Dixie? Want a cup of coffee or something?”
She’s still watching Dad and then turns to me. “No, I’m fine, too.”
I look at Dixie and then at my father and I have the weirdest feeling that I am missing something. I stand watching for a few minutes, shrug, and then head out the door.
I’m halfway down the hall when I figure out that I’m not that hungry after all. I need to talk to Dad.
After returning to his room and pushing open the door, I see Dixie leaning over, kissing my father, and I practically fall back into the hallway.
“Wow, I did not see that coming,” I say, sounding exactly like Blossom when she discovered the romance between Tony and her grandmother. Except it’s not true. Not really. I saw it coming from miles and miles away, but I wasn’t paying attention.
chapter forty-seven
“WHO else knows about this?” I ask.
I am alone with my father. Dixie left so that we could have this conversation. She looked every bit as embarrassed as I did to find out about the two of them in this way.
I stood at the door staring at them for a few seconds, trying to wrap my head
around what I was seeing, trying to make it into something else—a friendly hug, a shared whisper, anything but what it actually was—and then the nurse came and I just left. I found my way to the cafeteria, even though my appetite had deserted me, and bought a bag of chips and a candy bar as I was not exactly in the mood for the healthy kale options they were offering. I tried to text Blossom to tell her what I had seen, but she never texted back so I took my chips and chocolate back to a half-empty waiting room and ate them while watching an afternoon soap opera on the television there.
When I got back to Dad’s room in the ICU, Dixie had gone. Frankly, I’m so confused I don’t know what is best. I don’t even know why it matters who knows.
Dad shakes his head. “We haven’t told anybody,” he answers. “But I think Ben and James William figured it out.”
So that was why Ben acted so strangely when he drove me to the hospital, and why he wouldn’t look me in the eye when I asked him why Dixie was at the commissioners’ meeting. And if Ben knows, Dad is right, James William knows, too.
“When did this start?” I have taken the seat by the bed again.
He slowly reaches behind him for the pillow, rearranges it slightly. He grimaces and I stand and move closer, adjusting it so that it gives him more support. “That good?”
He nods. He takes in a breath. “Not long after she came to work at the paper,” he finally answers. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen between us; we just immediately had this connection.”
I think back. That was more than a year ago.
“You’ve been having an affair with Dixie for a year?” I return to my seat, plop back down.
“Technically, Al, it’s not an affair since neither one of us is married.”
He’s got me there, but it just feels so inappropriate, my father and Dixie Weston, involved with each other.
“She’s—” I try to recall how old Dixie is, try to remember what was written on her application when she came to the paper.
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