Down Where My Love Lives

by Charles Martin

  Amos, dressed in SWAT black, looked as if he'd been up all night. The stubble on his face and head was at least a day overgrown, and his clothes were stained with salt rings where he'd been sweating. He looked tired and aggravated. He stepped up into his truck, pulled down his glasses, held an imaginary phone to his ear, and then pointed at me and drove off, quickly.

  Pastor John opened his car door and stepped in, but I waved him out and tried to break the tension that was thick in the air.

  "Pastor John!" I pointed toward Amos. "If that guy causes you any trouble, I know where he lives."

  He halfsmiled and waved. If I thought Amos looked tired, then Pastor John looked like a man who'd spent three days walking through the desert without food or water. His face was drawn and his eyes bloodshot. He tried to smile again and cupped his hand around his ear as if he were having a hard time hearing me because of the other cars.

  "You two okay?" I hollered.

  Pastor John looked toward the courthouse, brushed some pollen off the top of his car with the flat of his palm, and said, "Son, I'm looking over my shoulder. . . " He took what looked like a deep, painful breath and shook his head. Then he slid into his seat, shut the door, and drove off.

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. "What was all that about?"

  I followed his license tag with my eyes and then saw him place a cell phone to his ear. "I don't know, but evidently whatever it was didn't go very well."

  I SAT IN THE OFFICE CHAIR, MAGGIE'S HAND ON MY knee, and fidgeted. We had come to make sure the pink lines weren't lying. I slid Papa's watch from my pocket for the fourth time since we'd sat down. I eyed the face, and it told me that Dr. Frank's office was overbooked and running behind schedule. It was a twenty-one-jewel, Hamilton railroad pocket watch, and if I kept it wound, it lost only two to three seconds a month. Nanny had given it to him as a tenth-anniversary gift, and I don't ever remember a day that he didn't carry it. When he died, I thought about burying it with him, but then I wound it, heard the ticking, and thought better of it.

  Catty-corner to the hospital, the professional office building sat brimming with people. I looked out the waiting room window and across the parking lot toward the hospital. I spotted the window of Maggie's room down at the far end of the hospital and thought of all the times I had looked down from it. It didn't take me very long to realize that I liked the view from Dr. Frank's office better.

  I looked around the office and took notice of all the pregnant women and their husbands. And not just pregnant, but busting-at-the-seams, could-go-anytime pregnant. I whispered to Maggie, "Why are there so many people in here?"

  She looked up from her magazine and cocked one eye. "Why do you think?"

  "I know that. But why now? I mean, last time we were here, the place was empty. Today it's packed."

  She shook her head and put down her magazine. "You're killing me, Doc."

  "What?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Can you count backward?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, count nine months backward from June."

  I used both hands, opening each finger. Messing up once, I had to start over. "October." I shrugged.

  "Right." She closed her magazine. "What happens in October and November?"

  "Monday Night Football?"

  She shook her head and whispered, "It gets colder."

  It took me a few seconds. "Oh."

  A nurse walked into the room and called, "Maggie Styles?"

  Maggie stood up, and all heads turned toward us. I stood and reached for her hand, but she smiled. "I'll be back," she whispered. "You can't really help with this."

  She walked to the door, where the nurse handed her a small plastic cup with a screw-on lid. A few minutes later, Maggie poked her head around the corner and motioned for me to follow.

  The nurse led us to a small examining room and handed Maggie a gown. "It's less than flattering, but here ... The doctor'll be here in a minute."

  Maggie stood behind the curtain, stripped down to her birthday suit, and handed me everything but her socks. "If he wants my socks, he's going to have to ask." She came out, turned, and lifted her hair off her shoulders. "Tie me?"

  I gathered the gown around her waist and watched goose bumps appear at the base of her back, along the outline of her hips, and on the backs of her thighs. When I messed up tying the third bow, Maggie shook her head slightly and whispered, "You did that on purpose."

  Busted.

  I said nothing, pulled fresh paper out of the roll on the table where her bottom would be, and then helped her step up onto the examining table. I stood alongside, holding her hand and looking at the stirrups folded out of sight. Maggie saw me staring and leaned over. "Hey, you in there?"

  Busted again.

  I had a few things on my mind. First, there was the physical side. Given what her body had endured both in delivery and in the atrophy of the coma, could Maggie handle the next eight months and what they led up to? Second, could she handle it emotionally? Eight months is a long time to wonder if those will be your last months on earth, and if you'll be leaving your widowed husband to raise an only child alone. Or, even worse, just alone. Maggie was strong, but was she that strong? I had my doubts. Both about her and about me.

  Which brings me to my last issue. While I was uncertain about Maggs, I was relatively certain about myself. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was going to suffer hell until I knew the answers to the above.

  While the knot in my stomach grew and ground against my nerves, the door opened and Dr. Frank walked in wearing an exasperated face. Given the state of the waiting room and all the hormones that came with it, I'd have looked that way too.

  He sat down on the rolling stool and scooted up to us, taking in and then letting out an enormous breath. "Hey, guys. How're you two doing? You holding up?" He shook my hand and put his other appropriately on Maggie's knee.

  We nodded.

  "I guess I don't need to tell you what you already know."

  Maggie tilted her shoulders. "So those little sticks really are telling the truth?"

  He nodded. "They usually do."

  She looked at me. I scratched her back and looked at him, not wanting Maggie to see into my eyes.

  "Hey, it's a walk in the park from here," he said. `Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Your body will take care of the rest."

  I never knew that one man's words could be so prophetic.

  He inserted the earpieces of his stethoscope and spoke while he listened to Maggs's heart. "You picked out names yet?"

  "Haven't gotten that far."

  "You've got time." He paused and moved the stethoscope to her back. Maggie breathed deeply without being told. He examined her back and the muscles in her shoulders that had returned over the last year. "Maggie, you really are healthy. Whatever you're doing, keep it up, because you're looking great."

  The nurse came back in and helped him slip his hands into two whitish rubber gloves that each made a distinctive smack as he pulled them tight. Maggie lay back on the table and placed her feet in the stirrups while the nurse covered Dr. Frank's fingertips in jelly.

  I held her hand, noticed that Maggs had painted her toenails bright red sometime between last night and this morning, and then watched her wince as he examined her.

  "I won't lie to you; you've got some pretty good scar tissue that will take some stretching." He pulled off his gloves, pitched them in the trash, and helped Maggs sit up. "So as the baby grows, understand that it will feel different from last time. Little aches and pains that will make you wonder. But that's normal. So take a deep breath"-which Maggie did"and start painting the nursery."

  He followed the nurse to the door and stood in the doorway, smiling at us. "I'm excited for you guys. I've been waiting for this day."

  Maggie was beaming.

  "But take it easy. No marathons. Just live your life. Get as much rest as you want, eat right, and make sure you take enough time for each other." He pointed at me. "Go on a date
every couple of days, like it or not."

  Maggs squeezed my hand. "We can handle that."

  The nurse reappeared over his shoulder and looked at Maggie. "I forgot to weigh you. Come see me when you get dressed."

  They shut the door, and Maggie wrapped a bear hug around me. We stood in the doctor's office several minutes just holding each other. Maybe everything was going to be okay. Maybe I was just being a little paranoid. Maybe ...

  A few minutes later we walked out the door, and Maggie headed toward the nurse and the scale.

  Seeing his moment, Dr. Frank tapped me on the shoulder and motioned me around the corner. "You want it sugarcoated or straight?"

  I looked down the hall toward the sound of Maggie laughing with some nurses. "Straight up."

  He lowered his voice. "Sometimes, when women who've suffered some type of trauma become pregnant, their bodies will reject it."

  I leaned in closer, and he put a hand on my shoulder.

  "If so, it's got nothing to do with you two. It's the body's natural reaction to protect itself. Honestly, I'm amazed it let you get this far this soon. But that is one strong woman. I know I'm not telling you anything you don't know, but the next few weeks are critical. No bumpy tractor rides, no car wrecks, no scary movies, no nothing that will shock her system and make it unconsciously want to shut down and protect itself."

  He looked down the hall to where Maggie was stepping off the scale. "If you've ever protected her," he said, looking back at me, "now is the time to do it."

  I shook his hand. "Thanks, Dr. Frank. We appreciate you. We'll keep you posted." When I turned and walked down the hall, the sweat cascaded down my back.

  EVERY MORNING WHEN MY GRANDFATHER WOKE, he'd sit on the edge of the bed and run yesterday's sock between his toes like a shoe shine. Once his toes were clean, he'd walk to the window and look out across the fields. Then he'd walk to his dresser, pick up his pocket watch, and wind it. He'd wind it slowly, adding tension to the spring with every turn, always stopping just one turn shy of too much. That was the trick. Too much and it would lock up, seizing internally, and that meant a trip to the watchmaker, but after years of practice, Papa had the feel for just right.

  Maggie and I walked out of the doctor's office, underneath the magnifying glass and across the parking lot. Her face shining like a glow plug and her feet barely touching the ground, she bounced as she walked. Except for the long hair, she reminded me of Julie Andrews dancing atop the mountain at the start of The Sound of Music. And when she pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and smiled at me, she looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I opened the van door and she climbed in, bouncing up and down on the springy seat like a puppy in the window of a pet store. Only then did she remind me of Papa's watch spring. Problem was, I didn't know where she stood in relation to too much.

  Maggs put her feet on the dash, tucked her knees tight into her chest, smiled, and began pointing her finger. That meant we were going in search of something to eat. When we got there, her stop-sign hand would let me know.

  Her finger led us to the drive-through window at Dairy Queen, where I ordered two large vanilla cones dipped in chocolate. Maggie wanted hers covered in sprinkles, so I passed it back through the window and shrugged, and the guy doused it with rainbow sprinkles.

  Licking circles around our cones, we rolled down the windows and headed toward home. Maggie finished her ice cream before I'd eaten half of mine. She took a deep breath and slid her sunglasses up over her head, pulling her hair back behind her ears. "I think we can let the cat out of the bag now."

  "You sure?"

  She patted her stomach. "Well, pretty soon it's going to become obvious."

  "Okay."

  "Ooooh," she said, sitting up quickly and pointing at the grocery store, "pull in here."

  I did as directed and parked in the fire lane while Maggie ran in, smirking. Minutes later, she ran out laughing, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. That's my Maggie, just cracking herself up.

  "What's so funny?"

  She pulled out a notepad, wrote "Guess what?" on the top piece of paper, and then pulled a baby bottle from her bag. She unscrewed the nipple, slid the note inside the clear plastic bottle, and screwed the nipple back on. She held it up, triumphant. "The message in the bottle."

  I looked at the bag. "How many of those you get?"

  She shook the bag and what must have been a dozen bottles. "Enough."

  First, we pulled into Bryce's and parked at the gate. If he was around, we knew he'd want to know. Besides, Maggie really wanted to tell him. She grabbed a bottle and held my hand, and we tiptoed up the drive. The woods were quiet, and it was cooler beneath the tall canopy of oak arms that had overgrown the cracked drive up the hill to Bryce's compound. Where the limbs shadowed us from above, the roots had broken the asphalt and turned most of the hardtop into what looked like a road map of the United States.

  When we cleared the trees, Maggie took in a deep breath and said, "Holy smokes! You weren't kidding. What happened?"

  I shrugged. "No idea."

  We searched the grounds, even the obstacle course, but found no fresh evidence of Bryce. Maggie looked around, shaded her eyes, and pointed atop the second screen. "You ever see that before?"

  I looked up, and my eyes widened. The second screen had been rebuilt, larger than an IMAX screen-probably seventy feet tall. Erected across the top was, for lack of a better term, a crow's nest. Fed by a ladder and a metal walkway, it looked large enough for one man, and because of its position atop the hill on Bryce's property, it would give anyone up there a rather advantageous view of Digger.

  I shook my head and shrugged. I didn't know much about military tactics or training, but judging from the level platform, and the length of it, the ladder leading up the side, and the idea that high ground is best, I started putting two and two together. Given Bryce's history, or what little I knew of it and the mystery that surrounded it, compounded with the stories I'd heard from Amos that rose out of his SWAT sniper training, I started to wonder. But I said nothing to Maggie.

  Thinking he'd return to his trailer sooner or later, we left the bottle hanging from a string on the front door. We walked back down the hill, underneath the tentacled arms of the oaks and beneath the shade of the canopy. While our feet crunched dried acorns, I had a strange feeling that just because we hadn't seen Bryce didn't mean he hadn't seen us. This wasn't something I knew but rather something I felt-kind of like static electricity.

  One question kept popping up across the backs of my eyelids: Why? I had now been here twice and was pretty sure Bryce knew about both trips, but he hadn't showed. Granted, Bryce had never been a very social person. He prized his own company, avoided most other human beings on the planet, and had no real friends to speak of. But for some reason, all that had changed when it came to Maggie and me. Especially Maggie. In fact, he'd made efforts to see us when he didn't have to. All that, coupled with the sight of Bryce's compound, put a wrinkle in the center of my forehead that Maggie would have seen had she not been working on her note to Amos and Amanda.

  We headed toward home and pulled into their drive, and my giddy wife hopped out and dropped a bottle in the Carters' mailbox. She climbed back in, propped her feet up, and kicked the dashboard.

  "What'd the note say?"

  She smiled and leaned her head back. "Dylan's got a secret."

  AT 11:00 PM I HEARD A FAINT TAP ON OUR BEDROOM window. When Amos is your neighbor, you learn to live with these things.

  I looked out the window and saw him motioning me toward the front porch. Given Maggs's little gift we left in the mailbox, I'd been expecting a visit. I covered Maggie, who had been asleep since a little after nine, and stepped into my jeans. Blue hopped off the end of the bed and followed silently behind.

  When I slid open the door, Amos was sitting on the porch railing, looking out over the corn. He didn't look at me, and when Blue brushed up alongside the railing, he didn't
seem to notice. From the side, his face looked thin, and his eyes were sunk back in his head. He pointed at the cotton. "It's pretty in the moonlight."

  I nodded and moved around the side where the moon lit the sweat on Amos's face and shone off the badge that hung on a chain around his neck. He looked tired. His waist was hung with all sorts of police paraphernalia: a SureFire flashlight, black, nonreflective; handcuffs; a retractable baton; his Kimber in .45 auto; several clips; and a few other odds and ends that I couldn't place.

  I spoke softly. "You been up awhile?"

  He nodded. "Couple of days."

  "You want to talk about it?"

  Amos shook his head. I walked inside, grabbed two cups and the pitcher of sweet tea out of the fridge, and returned to the porch. Pouring a glass, I handed it to him and sat on the railing next to him. Blue hopped up on the swing and pointed his nose at us.

  "Thanks." Amos wiped his face with the fat of his palm and looked up at the ten trillion stars looking down on us. Then he looked at me. "You still got Papa's Model 12?"

  I nodded.

  "You remember how to ... ?"

  Amos trailed off, and I nodded again.

  "You might think about ... keeping it handy."

  Papa's Model 12 was a pump-action Winchester twelve-gauge with a thirty-inch barrel and a full choke. The longer barrel and full choke gave it a tighter pattern at longer distances-good for shooting geese, turkey, or deer. According to Amos, it was reliable and gained in popularity with inner-city gangsters in the 1940s and 1950s. Starting in the '60s, law enforcement adopted it to clear houses and hallways, and in Vietnam, marines and Rangers alike used it in the tunnel networks.

  What had started out as a hunting shotgun evolved rapidly into a rather potent self-defense weapon. The only difference between theirs and mine was that most of them had cut twelve inches off the barrel so the pattern spread more quickly. The sound of the pump action sliding a round into the chamber is definitely distinct. If you were breaking into a house and heard that sound somewhere in the darkness around you, it'd get you to thinking.