When Crickets Cry (14 page)

"What's his problem?" one of the guys asked Davis as he pointed in the direction of Termite's cloud of dust. "You show him his reflection in the water?"

Davis shrugged his shoulders and looked square at me. "Didn't need to. I think that's what he's running from."

I PULLED UP NEXT TO THE GUIDE WIRE THAT LOOKED LIKE AN electric fence leading to Charlie's front door, but he didn't really need it.

He turned toward me. "You heard from that woman yet? The one with the little girl? I think her name was Annie."

"How'd you know about her?"

"Stitch, I'm blind, not deaf."

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I told her to call me next week and I'd take them out in Hammermill's boat."

"You think she will?"

"How should I know?"

Charlie smiled, got out of the car, and turned around, finally saying what he'd been wanting to say all day. "The Fourth is just a few days away."

"I know," I said quietly.

"Got your nerve up?"

"Working on it."

"How many years has it been?"

"You know better than that."

Charlie nodded and looked out over the lake as if he could see it. He pulled his walking stick from his back pocket, threw it like a yo-yo to extend it, and then tapped the car door. "Letters are supposed to be read, you know. That's why people write them."

"I know," I said, looking down into my lap.

Charlie smiled. "You want me to read it for you and tell you what it says?"

I dropped the stick into drive and said, "Hey, Georgia left you a nice steamy present just outside your front door. Good luck finding it."

Charlie stuck his nose in the air, smiled again, and walked off. His questions had said enough.

I pulled out of his drive and turned away from my home. Minutes later, I pulled into the hospital parking lot where one yellowish street lamp lit the entire lot. I parked off to the side and spotted a janitor wringing out a mop next to a side door. I waited until he finished, saw my chance, and slipped in behind him just before the door closed. Hospitals are busy places, and you can get by relatively unnoticed if you look like you know what you're doing. If you hesitate, they'll pounce on you.

Passing an empty lounge, I felt behind the door and found a white coat hanging on the hook. I pulled it on and found a stethoscope rolled up in the pocket. I hung it around my neck, stepped into a bathroom to slick my hair back, and walked confidently, yet not too quickly, down to Annie's door. I wanted to look busy, but not too busy. Sort of "relaxed busy."

I slid the clipboard from its sleeve and kept walking, almost as if I had been sent to pick up outgoing mail. I passed the nurses' station without so much as a hello, then turned a corner and disappeared into another bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and thumbed through Annie's chart. Three minutes of flipping pages told me all I needed. I returned Annie's folder to its hanger and disappeared out the same side door I'd come in.

Back home, I went to my closet and pulled out the old engineer's transit case stored there. When we were kids, Emma and I had found it in the attic, dusty and empty, and the leather strap used to carry it had a small cut in it. The tag on top of the wooden-hinged lid read Circa 1907. It was mostly weatherproof and offered plenty of room for the things I valued-like books.

I took out her letter and walked to the dock, holding the letter close against my chest. I placed it beneath my nose, breathed, and lied to myself for the ten-thousandth time. When I opened my eyes, I noticed I was still wearing the white doctor's coat.

n preparation for Christmas one year, I bought an old twoperson rowing shell that had seen better days. I set it up on two sawhorses in the garage and spent nights steaming and replacing the ribs, the planks on the bottom, the seats, oars, locks, anything that moved or served as a stress point. Essentially, I built a new boat using the old as a model. It was a learn-as-you-go project. I had never rebuilt a boat, but I knew a thing or two about rowing, and I thought maybe it would give Emma and me something to do that might help strengthen her heart. On Christmas Day we followed the creek down to the lake. There I blindfolded her and walked her up to the dock, where I had set the shell. On the side I had stenciled HMS Emma.

We gently set off; she'd row as long as she could, which wasn't very far, and I'd watch her back, the way her short, thin hair fell along the lines of her shoulders, and the obvious, ever-apparent struggle between her soul and the vessel that contained it.

I knew her heart was weakening. Her color and breathing told me that. Soon our rowing became more of a sketching cruise for her, and twice the exercise for me. That paid off for me, because I joined the rowing team and learned that, unlike Emma, I did not have a weak heart. My heart worked just fine. Better than most, actually. The added weight of pulling her around the lake worked wonders on my own heart and lungs, not to mention my arms, back, and legs. That spring I placed third in the one-man shell at the state finals. But while I benefited greatly from pulling her around the lake, I often looked at her back, looked inside her chest, and knew the disease was worsening.

s Emma's condition and physical appearance changed, her mom grew increasingly frustrated with modern medicine and its practitioners, which meant she was more liable to try anything. Emma and I would sit in her room and listen through the air vents as her parents whispered about her chances and, despite her dad working two jobs, the bills that kept piling up. Their twice-monthly trips to Atlanta grew less frequent, and their zeal over experimental medications waned. Having exhausted both medicine and their bank accounts, they next sought tent-revival religion.

The Reverend Jim Tubalo was a self-proclaimed healer who traveled the Southeast with a three-piece suit, shiny watch, long white hair, longer purple bus, and a "whatever you can give" attitude toward finances. He, his entourage, and their tents made a biannual "here for three nights only" run through town, and Emma's parents had us out the door before five. Opening night found us front and center with Emma's mom leading her to the head of the line. I was scared, but I followed-to protect Emma from both her mom and the guy with the white hair.

Under the bright lights, loud music, and louder screaming, Rev. Jim laid hands on Emma and promptly scared her half to death. He gripped her by the shoulders, then started screaming into her ears and smacking her on top of the head with his Bible. This went on for about thirty seconds while Mrs. O'Connor held Emma's arm and Mr. O'Connor tried to figure out if this was helping or hurting matters. The preacher went to hit Emma on the head one last time when her dad, a rather big man himself, reached up and took hold of his arm.

"Sir, I don't mean any disrespect, but you hit my daughter one more time with that Bible, and I'll make you eat it."

Rev. Jim closed his eyes, raised his hands, and screamed, "Thaaaaaank yooooouuuuuuu, Jeeeeeeeeesus! She's healed." He paraded around the stage looking like he was trying to scrape bubblegum off the bottoms of both his shoes while the congregation clapped and music blared.

He looked at Emma's mom and dad and said, "The Lord has spoken to me." He nodded, shook his head, humming to himself, and then turned back to Emma's folks. "He just told me your little girl's healed. The infirmity, the vile sickness, has left her body."

Emma's dad gently took her hand, said, "Come on, darling. I'm sorry," and led us off the stage while Rev. Jim reported to the congregation that there'd been another healing.

We sloshed through the parking lot, which smelled a lot like a cow pasture, and loaded up in the back of the O'Connors' block long station wagon, where Emma and I got caught in the cross fire of her parents' heated conversation. Her mother was trying to convince her dad, who wasn't buying the whole parade, that the man really could heal people.

Her dad listened and then looked in his rearview mirror. "Honey, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying the Lord can't or doesn't heal people, but if and when He does, I'm not sure He wears a three-piece suit and a shiny watch, or asks for a whatever-you-can-give-thousand-dollars when he's walking out the door."

Her mom looked incredulous. "He didn't ask you for a thousand dollars!"

"Right back there." Her dad pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "That nice man who helped us to the door said, `Rev. Jim's regular fee is a thousand dollars, but feel free to give whatever you can. Two thousand is fine too."'

Her mom got real quiet, and I nodded because I had heard him. Emma too.

Emma spoke up. "Mama, God doesn't need the Reverend Tubalo to heal me. He can do it whenever and wherever. I know that."

Her mom glared toward the backseat and pointed her finger at both of us. "Don't you two take his side. Y'all shush."

I could feel the fabric of her family coming apart at the seams. Emma held my hand and swallowed her pill. By the time we got home, she was sleeping with her head in my lap. Her dad led her upstairs, put her into bed, tucked her in, and got ready to clock in at the bank downtown where he served as the weekend night watchman. Her mom checked on Charlie and started a pot of coffee.

I watched from behind the bushes as Mr. O'Connor drove off to work and Emma's mom walked back in and wiped away her tears. I walked around back, climbed the magnolia tree in the dark, straddled the limb outside Emma's window, and watched her sleep under the moonlight.

About midnight I crept to the window, slid it open, slipped inside, and stood next to Emma's bed. Watching her breathe, I knelt and placed my hand over her warm heart. It was pounding, struggling, and working almost twice as hard as mine.

"Lord, I'm not too sure about tonight, and I really don't think that Jim fellow has any kind of special deal with You. But I know the people in this house are running out of ideas. So, what I'm trying to say is ... if You're all out of options, then let's give Emma my heart. It's a good strong one."

The moonlight bathed her with a bluish hue, making her look even more cold and sickly.

She opened her eyes and looked at me, and I saw the tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. One hand came out from under the covers, and she curled her right index finger.

I knelt by her bed. She pulled me close, where her breathing swept across my cheeks, and then slid her hand across mine.

"You can't give what you don't have."

"But-," I protested.

She shook her head and put her finger to my lips. "You already gave it to me."

harlie and I spent Monday putting the final touches on Hammermill's Greavette. Hammermill was chomping at the bit to get her in the water, and called three times from Atlanta to check on our progress. We polished the topside and ran our fingers over the smooth surface just admiring her beauty. We wanted a day with her to ourselves because she was our best work yet. We had replaced the keel and ribs with white oak, attached a deep red mahogany skin with stainless screws, and then brushed on almost fifteen coats of spar varnish. She was gorgeous. The guys at Blue Ridge Boat Werks, who in truth can run restoration circles around us, would salivate at the sight of her.