My back felt broken, although I knew it was only badly bruised. Its impossible to get comfortable on a stretcher. When the two uniformed fellows worked to maneuver it up the ambulance ramp, Helen disappeared momentarily. She came back with another victim-assistance quilt draped over her arm. This was a pink and green strip quilt, like something youd see in a preppy nursery. But I meekly allowed her to tuck it around home soon. A negative look passed between the two medical technicians. I ignored it.
Since there was no hospital in Aspen Meadow, the daytime emergency procedure when there was no blood, no fever, and full consciousness was to take the victim to a doctor in the mountain area who then made a medial assessment of the situation. The paramedics took me to the office of Dr. Hodges, or Stodgy Hodge, as we called him in town. In his late seventies, quick-moving, stoop-shouldered Hodges was the best diagnostician I had ever known. Unlike most of his generation, Hodges had made the transition to computers, on-line hookups, and other modern equipment with ease. But he also knew how to make his patients laugh, frequently the best medicine. When I had first visited him fourteen years ago, I had told him I was trying to get pregnant. Without missing a beat, he replied, My dear, I am too old for you.
Now an unsmiling Stodgy Hodge was waiting at his office in response to Mountain Rescues call; he dutifully opened the doors wide so the stretcher could be wheeled in. After gently poking around and trying to assess whether my kidneys had be been damaged they had not Dr. Hodges concluded from the welt on my back that Id been hit hard by a long weapon. Or, as he put it as he gave me the full benefit of his rheumy gaze above his smudged half-glasses, Somebody tried to hit a home run using your body as the ball, but it was a bunt.
Could I walk, he wanted to know. I could, I said, with more confidence than my achy body warranted. He squinted dubiously, then ordered rest at home until I felt better. No exertion. I smiled without assent as he nipped away to call in a prescription for pain pills. Helen Keene used the other line to call my house, where she got Marla, who had just arrived and would be more than willing to come get me. I checked my watch: 7:30. Monday morning. Tom Schulz had been gone less than forty-eight hours. It seemed like decades since Id left my house to snoop at Olsons. If I moved very slowly, and had Marlas help, I could do the prayer group luncheon. Correction: I would do the prayer group luncheon.
What I could not tell Stodgy Hodge or Boyd or even Helen Keene was that I also had no intention of taking it easy until the Sheriffs Department found Tom Schulz.
When I had somehow dressed myself and shuffled back out in the waiting room to sit by Helen Keene, it occurred to me that Roger Bampton might also be one of Hodgess patients. When the doctor returned bearing a sample of pain medication for me take when I got home, I decided to find out.
A neighbor of mine has mylocytic leukemia, I said. Talking was till a challenge. I tried to dispel shakiness from my voice. Helen Keene patted my arm. What exactly does that mean?
Stodgy Hodge paused and removed the half-glasses. He looked disapprovingly at the fingerprints on the lenses. It means your neighbor is a goner.
Yes, but … I shifted in the hard chair, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable, If you had a case like that, how would it present? I mean, what would make you know that was the problem?
The doctor scratched his impeccably shaven chin and replaced the glasses without polishing them. Fellow came in here once, he was like death warmed over. Looked haggard, and his teeth hurt. Hed had a temperature for three days. I ordered a complete blood workup. It came back with a white cell count of eighty-seven thousand, and lost of abnormal mylocytes. Blood cells, he added helpfully.
So you concluded he had this kind of leukemia.
Yes, but wait. He held up a gnarled hand. I put him in the hospital that day. Turned out he had a rectal abscess. Thats what was causing the temperature. Its also a major complication of mylocytic leukemia.
I held my breath and let it out. So what happened?
The stooped shoulders shrugged. He began chemotherapy in the hospital. But the disease is ninety-nine percent fatal. He sighed. I hope your neighbor has a will.
Did your other patient die?
Dr. Hodgess grim expression altered. Actually, that was the strangest case Ive seen in four decades of practicing medicine. Ten days later, the fellow was feeling better. They ran more blood tests. His white count was normal. Under twelve thousand.
Oh, wait, I said, aware that Helens eyes were on me. Surely, she was wondering, at a time like this, with my fiancé missing and my body bruised from a callous attack, I shouldnt be worrying about my neighbors health? I did hear about this. Roger Bampton, from the church, right?
You heard about it? I shouldnt be surprised, the way news travels in this town.
Yes. I guess I just didnt believe it. The office phone rang, and my next words came out in a rush. Do you think it was a miracle?
Stodgy Hodges voice rustled in a dry laugh. He let the answering machine pick up the call. Ive seen good people die, and Ive seen bad people live, he said when I looked at him expectantly. Lets say it was … unexplained. Well see how long he lives without a recurrence.
But then, how would you know when something is a miracle? I persisted. Some of the folks down at the church say Roger got better because Father Olson laid hands on him.
He shrugged. Maybe thats true.
Doctor Hodges! I cried. Either it is or it isnt!
Outside, a vehicle roared up to the curb and then stopped. A car door slammed.
Please, I begged, knowing my time was short, you saw Roger Bampton. What do you think?
He chuckled. I know he was having copies of his blood tests framed for Father Olson. When I glowered at him, he went on, I also know our church isnt the most harmonious place in the universe. So why would God choose us to do something like this? The folks at St. Lukes cant even agree on the size of pipes to use in plumbing renovation. How would they explain a miraculous healing?
My eyes still questioned him.
Stodgy Hodge, the best diagnostician I had ever know, shrugged. He said, All right, I guess I believe the healing of Roger Bampton was a miracle.
Goldy! shrieked Marla as she banged through the office door. She was wearing an enormous white raincoat over a brilliant yellow sweatsuit. She looked like a large, angry egg. Her unbrushed brown hair flew out in unkempt tendrils. She stopped and glanced around at Dr. Hodges, Helen Keene, and then gave me and my wet clothes the once-over. Went for an early morning swim, did we?
Dont start.
No wait, she said, winking at Helen Keene and throwing her frizzy mass of hair back for effect, the churchwomen wanted fish, so you thought youd throw a line into Aspen Meadow Lake. The things caterers will do for food! But then you fell in
Marla
Dont bawl out the person whos come to nurse you. She put her chunky arm around me, helped me up, and started to guide me out the door, I even have a covered cup of fresh cappuccino in the Jag for you.
Helen Keene bid me good-bye, and Stodgy Hodge placed the sample bottle of pain meds in my palm. Both knew I was in good hands.
The police tell me youve been terribly, terribly naughty, Marla chided once she had me settled into the front seat of the Jaguar. I uncapped the hot, creamy coffee she had brought and tried to sip the froth as she rocketed the sedan over the icy streets. What were you looking for at Olsons that was so important? Copies of S and M Fantasies?
I was looking for those doggone pearls that were going to be used for the womens jewelry bazaar. You said he hid things in strange places, so I just thought
Oh, excuse me, I said he hid things in strange places? So this is my fault? You think the motive was robbery. Thats the theory you risked getting killed for? If stealing
was the motive and it failed, dont you think the police would have found the pearls when they first went out there, when Olson died?
I didnt answer. We pulled up by the curb in front of my house.
Whats that supposed to be? demanded Marla.
I followed her pointing finger. Yet another crocheted afghan swung gently from a rafter on my front porch. This one was green and had a white cross at the center.
Oh, Lord, why
But my exclamation was interrupted. Julian and Arch vaulted out the front door. Their faces, full of curiosity and worry, pinched my heart. These last few days had been so hard on them.
I still dont see why you went out to Olsons before the sun was even up, Marla said with an exasperated laugh. I have plenty of pearls if you need to borrow some.
I keep telling you not to start, but you just keep doing it.
Julian and Arch insisted on knowing everything that had happened. I gave a few brief details and concluded with the fact that I had not found Tom Schulz. Also, Id been slightly hurt in the process. Marla settled me in a chair I refused to go to bed with an electric heating pad wedged against my back and a fresh mug of cappuccino. She took down the newly donated afghan while I dutifully took a pain pill with a glass of water. It was a mild muscle relaxant that I knew would still allow me to function, especially after the double dose of caffeine Marla had just given me.
She said, Im taking Julian back out to get the Rover so the guys can go to school. Can I trust you? Her eyes challenged me to protest. I wasnt sure I had the strength.
Ill stay with her, Arch piped up. I learned CPR in Scouts. He gave me one of his goggle-eyed looks and a full, beneficent grin. Marla laughed while Julian, mute and anxious, stared at me as if I were an apparition. He could not seem to believe I was alive. I knew better than to try to explain my motivations to him in his present emotional condition.
Whats the deal with that knitted thing on the porch? he demanded. I think its pretty weird that someone keeps leaving stuff for you, and you dont even know who it is.
Someone at church, I said casually. I brightened. I probably wont get up when you get back. Hope your classes go well today. And then I remembered again the importance of this week to Julian. Would the college admissions or rejections come this day? Id become so preoccupied with my own crises that I hadnt been very sympathetic. Good luck, I added lamely.
Dont worry about me, he ordered impatiently, then hustled off with Marla. Well be back fro you in forty minutes, he warned over his shoulder to Arch.
Arch did not move from the kitchen table. You just got one call this morning, he announced to me, as if anticipating my first question. They want you to set up at the church around eleven-thirty. Should I phone and say you cant come?
No, I have to go. Maybe you could put some water on to boil the pasta. Then if you dont mind, you can scoop out the cookies. I made two kinds. They are recipes of Toms.
He gave me a solicitous look, then retrieved my pasta pot. So, out at Father Olsons, he said conversationally, was it really scary? I wish I knew who clobbered you. That is so gross.
It went too fast for me to be scared. But I was wondering if youd hand me that pile of exams over there, please. I readjusted the heating pad and felt the medication kick in. My head felt light, and the sharp pains in my back ebbed to a dull ache as I started flipping through the pages the diocesan office had sent me to read.
Did the robber-guy take much? Arch asked as water gushed into the pan. He heaved it over to the stove with a minimum of sloshing.
Hold on. I ripped open the envelope containing the candidates names coded to their exam numbers. As I suspected, candidate 92-492 was identified on the master sheet as Mitchell Hartley. I put in a call to Boyds voice mail; after the fiascos at Brio Barn and Zeldas, the last thing I was going to do was have the cops go scoop Hartley up. Besides, the police already had checked the conference center, where Hartley was staying, for Tom. When I got off the phone, Arch was looking at me quizzically.
What was your question, Arch? Oh. What did the robber steal. Some church vessels. But not a whole lot more that I could tell. For a reason I cant figure out, the robber or somebody dug up the area around where Olsons body had been, and put a cross there.
Really? Wow, Ive heard about that kind of thing on Stories of the Weird.
What kind of thing? Normally, the fact that Arch had a fascination with the Weird meant that he knew statistics on UFOs, extraterrestrial explanations of Stonehenge, and metaphysical theories on Jimmy Hoffas disappearance that were nothing the FBI would investigate. And of course, Chimayó. I said, You heard about robbers digging up dirt?
Oh, no, he replied in his you-are-so-unsophisticated tone. Okay, look. If the blood of a martyr falls to the ground in a certain place, people believe you have to dig up the bloody dirt … sorry, Mom, he added when he saw my expression. He gestured broadly. Then they pour holy water, or just plain water maybe, over the dirt, and the dirty, bloody water that comes out has magical healing properties.
Oh, please
Im just telling you.
Thanks. The cookie batters are in two covered bowls in the walk-in. Next to the shrimp.
He frowned at my incredulity and emerged from the walk-in refrigerator balancing the butcher paper-wrapped shrimp on top of one of the bowls. I bargained with myself: I would stay seated and try to work. If the back pain became unbearable, Id send the food over to the church and go to bed.
With infinite care, I leaned over to preheat Toms over. An arrow of pain shot up my spine: I decided I could live with it. Arch took out measuring spoons and the two of us scooped mounds of luscious-looking dough onto the buttered cookie sheets. Working with Arch in this way reminded me of the last time wed cooked together, when Tom, Julian, Arch, and I had laughingly patted out silky discs of focaccia with garlic and pine nuts. Dont think about it, I ordered myself.
Arch placed the sheets in Toms oven and drained the pasta wheels. Soon the kitchen was wrapped in a scent as rich and sweet as any country inn. I breathed the heavenly aroma in deeply: it was another gift from Tom, his memory, his recipe. Toms cookies emerged as golden, moist rounds delicately fringed with brown; Arch and I each took one. As before, buttery lemon flavor melted over the crunch of almonds. They were out of this world.
Those churchwomen are so lucky, Arch said with undisguised envy. Outside, the whine of Marlas and Julians vehicles announced their return.
Try a Canterbury Jumble.
He palmed one and patted me on the shoulder, then picked up his bookbag and trundled out. I glanced at the clock: 8:50. The boys wouldnt be too late for school. When I was going through the divorce from The Jerk, a therapist had told me that during a time of crisis, staying on schedule with a childs normal events was essential. Missing school, delaying mealtimes, getting to bed too late, would all say to Arch that his world was falling apart. The last thing I wanted was for my son to feel that chaos was taking over. Even if it seemed that way to me.
Marla traipsed in, took one look at my anguished expression, and popped a warm cookie in her mouth. I did the same, and tasted the warm chocolate oozing around the rich crunch of macadamia nuts and sweet, chewy raisins and coconut. Marla raised one eyebrow at the assembled ingredients on the counter. Tell me how to fix this shrimp, she said dejectedly, trying without success to conceal her distaste for cooking. It wasnt the first time I had been reminded what a good friend she was, but tears smarted in my eyes as I set about instructing her in boiling the prawns.
An hour and a half later, and with periodic pauses in her clumsy culinary activity to massage my back, Marla had finished putting together the womens luncheon food. The medley of succulent shrimp, sweet peas, and tender pasta lay under a blanket of wine-and-cheese sauce, awaiting only heatin
g in one of my large chafing dishes, the kind used by caterers; a hotel pan. An inviting bowl of purple radicchio, dark green oak leaf lettuce, pale nests of chicory and baby romaine leaves glistened under plastic wrap next to a jar of freshly made balsamic vinaigrette. The cookies lay in alternating rows on a silver platter. To go with the main dish, Marla had thawed homemade Italian breadsticks taken from my freezer. When she had laboriously transported everything out to the van, she nipped over to her Jaguar and brought out a garment bag. Within ten minutes, she emerged from my bedroom, wearing a lovely wool dress the color my mother called dusty rose. With a monumental sigh, she collapsed on one of the kitchen chairs.
Shrimp on Wheels
5 ounces pasta wagon wheels (ruote)
salt to taste
1 quart water
1 tablespoon crab-and-shrimp seasoning (crab boil)
ź lemon
ž pound large deveined raw shrimp (Easy-Peel)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons minced shallot
2 tablespoons flour
1 tablespoon chicken bouillon granules, dissolved in ˝ cup water
1 cup milk
˝ cup dry white wine ( preferably vermouth)
2 tablespoons best-quality mayonnaise (such as homemade)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup frozen baby peas
Preheat over to 350 . Butter a 2-quart casserole dish with a lid; set aside.
Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water for 10 to 12 minutes or until al dente. Drain; set aside.
In a large frying pan, bring the quart of water to a boil and add the lemon and the crab-and-shrimp boil seasoning. Add the shrimp, cook until just pink (about one minute), and immediately transfer with a slotted spoon (leaving the seasonings behind) to a colander to drain. Do not overcook. Drain, peel, and set aside.
The Last Suppers gbcm-4 Page 21
