“Oh please, as though it isn’t possible for a man to be amused and charmed? He has a very developed feminine side,” Corsica argued.
“No, Birdie is right,” Jessica said. “He’s covering something. It makes him come off very dorky.”
They all stopped stitching and stared at her.
“Really,” she said. “You think you have Robert Redford or Brad Pitt or something, until he opens his mouth. Birdie says it better, but what I mean is, he’s a dork. He’s not very with it. His wife, Susan? Now, she gets it. She’s totally sharp. But John? He’s pretending not to notice or take seriously the fuss all the women are making, and it makes him look stupid, but he’s not. He’s, like, way too positive. Oh, and Birdie, I’ve told you before, stop calling things that are happy ‘gay.’”
“Yes, dear, you must remind me, mustn’t you? By the way, I love what you’re doing with your hair these days. Must have Charlotte positively out of her wits.”
“She’s coping very well, actually. I’m going to shave it off soon. Maybe next week. That should put ten pounds on her.”
“Wicked, wicked girl!”
“If she wouldn’t pick on me so relentlessly, I wouldn’t do nearly as many artful things with my hair. Doesn’t she understand? My father is an artist! It’s not likely I’ll run out of avant-garde ideas! She has a nerve, too. She must never look in the mirror.”
“I know I shouldn’t be tacky and mean, but I’ve always wondered how she manages that dye job of hers,” Ursula said. “The color is rather extraordinary, but that half inch of gray at the hairline is simply remarkable. It always looks as though she did it three weeks ago.”
Philana reached across Corsica to touch the top of June’s hand. “Is that what makes your fingers tight tonight, June? The handsome new doctor?”
It was maddening, she thought, how everyone referred to him as the Handsome New Doctor. She wished her challenges with John Stone were limited to his good looks or dull personality. Even though she had trusted friends in whom she could confide, and could most often trust Elmer’s discretion if the subject was vital enough, she was keeping her own council for the time being. At least until she had a sense of whether John was worse than dorky, or whether her pregnant young patient was either a troublemaker or hysterical or both. At the moment she had utterly no idea.
“You were almost right, Philana,” June said. “I was wishing I could talk to my mother about something…about not having a child. I’m feeling such regret.”
There, she thought. That will get them off the scent.
All fingers went still and all eyes focused on her face.
“What?” June said. “I’m thirty-seven. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
Ursula swallowed. “Who do you regret not having a child with?”
“Just because I haven’t had a date in about a hundred years doesn’t mean it was my choice! There’s no one here to date, for goodness sake!”
“There are plenty of handsome young men around.”
“Oh really? They must all be healthy as horses because I don’t know any of them.”
“They happen to be, and that’s the good news,” Ursula said with a laugh. “You wouldn’t want a sick one, would you? Now let’s see, there’s Larry Richards, the vet. He’s a great guy. And so handsome.”
“He’s fifty!”
“True, he might find you too old. And how about Bill Sanderson at the Humboldt County Sheriff’s Department? We’re all crazy about him at my house. He’s available.”
“I had this teacher in high school, Mr. Larkin,” Jessica added. “What a hunk.”
“Lou Larkin’s married.”
“Not anymore. And there’s always Greg Silva.”
“He doesn’t live here anymore.”
“He visits his father every week and would probably move back in a second if he had the slightest reason to. But Jessie, what about your father? Is he seeing anyone?”
“Believe me, June wouldn’t want to get involved with my father. His art comes before everything. Sometimes it’s like talking to a brick.”
“Really? I never thought that of your dad,” Ursula said. “He always seems so articulate and funny and—”
“When he’s out in public, he can do that, but at home he’s a whole other—”
“Wait a minute,” June protested. “We’re off the subject here. I’m not having any regrets about not dating. It’s not having a child I’m lamenting!”
“Oh mercy, forgive us,” said Birdie. “Here we were thinking you’d have to do that with a man.”
“To tell the truth, I don’t think I’d want to do it that way,” June said.
“What was that?” Birdie asked, cupping a hand over her ear and staring off into the distance. “Ah,” she said. She looked back at June. “That was your mother. Shrieking.”
Jessica howled joyously. “Oh Birdie, I love you. What did my dead mother say about my Mohawk? Did you ask her?”
“She said you were just going through a little stage, darling. Now, June—”
“I haven’t done anything, Birdie, but I’ve given it some thought. If I were to meet a man I liked, it would probably be years and years before we got to the parenting stage. Wouldn’t you suppose? And I’m not saying I wouldn’t be interested in meeting, dating and marrying someone. That would be lovely. But I don’t have to do that to be a mother. I could be a single mother. Women do it all the time. Actresses, particularly.”
“Would you want to, you know, have a pregnancy? Or would you adopt a child?” Ursula asked.
“Selfishly, I think I’d like to be pregnant, to give birth.”
“Have you run this by Elmer?” Corsica inquired.
“Not exactly,” June admitted. “But you remember when Julianna—”
“Ahh,” all the older women said, and looked back at their stitching without even letting June finish. Because of her youth and inexperience, Jessica didn’t know what had transpired, so she continued to stare at June, puzzled. But June knew what had happened. Philana, Ursula, Corsica and Birdie were all mothers, and knew the magic of holding a newborn. Added to that, the Dicksons were a storybook family—young, beautiful, strong, healthy, happy. They lived in the midst of their voluptuous orchard in their large Victorian home, nurturing each other and the children. Their lovely country home smelled of lemon polish and apple pies. They grew their own food, home schooled the kids. Grandma Dickson lived with them; Grandpa Holmes lived next door. A couple of hours in their home and all you wanted from life was to have children and polish furniture and bake.
“I think it’s a great idea, June,” Jessica said protectively. “And if you go through with it, I’ll be happy to baby-sit.”
The quilting circle always met at Birdie’s house because she and the judge lived in town and the others lived in a wide circle around Grace Valley. Also, Birdie was the senior member and was privileged to choose. As she got older, seventy now, she chose not to do too much night driving or fussing, so she picked her house and provided only the coffee; the others all brought plastic-wrapped and Tupperware-encased goodies. Afterward, it was not uncommon for June to stop by the clinic, a mere two blocks away. She’d check the messages, maybe look at charts, do a little paperwork, jot out a to-do list for the next day. Or maybe just sit peacefully in her office.
She was so proud of the place. She’d dreamed of it her whole time away at med school and during her residency. When she got back to Grace Valley she’d begun hounding Elmer. There were doctors’ offices and clinics and hospitals up and down the coast, but not much inland where they were. There were easily a dozen small towns around them, not to mention rural farms, orchards and mountain homes whose residents would find the trip to the valley more expedient than going all the way to one of the coastal towns.
These were her people; she was their doctor. She’d grown up in their homes, just as they had come to hers in times of need. She was committed to giving her life to them, so the clinic was a capital idea. Elmer
thought so, too, but he didn’t think the town could shoulder the cost, and he knew the doctors couldn’t; they might take vegetables and eggs for payment, but building contractors liked real money.
It was Myrna Claypool who’d come to the fore. She’d built the clinic and paid for it. With cash. June wanted to call it the Claypool Clinic, but Myrna refused. She said too many people already thought she was dead; it wouldn’t help things to go naming buildings after her.
Myrna might wear funny hats and write graphically violent novels, but she was from the old school and thought it vulgar to discuss money. No one had any idea how much she was worth, not even Elmer, or whether she had boundless bundles of money and chose to drive a thirty-five-year-old vehicle, or had shot her whole retirement fund on the clinic. As to that, no one knew whether her money had come from the Hudson legacy or from her books, which seemed to enjoy widespread popularity. Perhaps she had done business with one of the San Francisco banks and mortgaged the clinic; her house and land had to be valuable. Whatever her means, the clinic—ten rooms—and its accoutrements cost one-and-a-half million dollars. She had hardly blinked an eye, and she would not even discuss repayment from June and Elmer. “The town’s been good to me,” she had said, her final word on the subject.
June sat at her desk. The folder she looked down at was John Stone’s employee packet and contract. If he had compromised the integrity of the clinic or any of the patients, he would live to regret it. This was her silent oath.
She closed the file before she got too stirred up. When she looked up, she almost jumped out of her skin.
A bearded man stood in her office doorway. He leaned on a gun that was almost his height, as if it were a staff.
“Jesus, Cliff,” she hissed. She fell back into her chair to catch her breath. It was only Cliff Bender, a farmer and woodsman she’d known her entire life—which might be the same length of time he’d grown that matted beard and worn those filthy overalls.
“Little jumpy tonight, Doc?”
“You better not have tracked dirt in here, Cliff. I don’t get the floor washed again till Friday night.”
His boots were a sight, but he turned one foot up and peered at the bottom. “I reckon I wiped ’em good enough.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s the toe. Again.”
“Shoot. I thought we had it licked.”
“I’m thinkin’ about loppin’ it off, save us both some time and trouble.”
June laughed. “Don’t get drastic, I still have a little fight left in me. Go on, you know what to do.”
He gave a nod, turned and went to the treatment room down the hall, where he would soak his infected toe. June had told him on previous nocturnal visits that she wasn’t about to touch that filthy foot. He would take off the old boot and sodden sock, roll up the crusty pant leg and soak his foot in a basin of soapy water—just as he’d done before. Then she would deal with the toe.
Cliff was diabetic, and just getting him on an insulin schedule had been challenge enough. Helping him take care of his body’s special needs was going to be the end of everyone in the clinic. He’d smashed his toe uprooting a stump a few months ago and he just couldn’t beat the infection. Lopping it off might indeed be the final answer.
As June put away John’s folder, she thought about the irony of the day. Here was Cliff Bender, a farmer they were all so used to he didn’t even frighten children, but damned if he didn’t look like a psycho. He had beady eyes and was always sneaking up on her. That big old gun was not for show, he’d shoot a trespasser in a heartbeat. He had no family, and worked a small piece of land at the base of the mountains. He might be scary looking, but he had never given anyone in Grace Valley any cause for concern. Cliff was safe as a puppy.
But was the handsome and charming new doctor someone to worry about?
Jesus, she thought in frustration, even I’m thinking of him as the Handsome New Doctor!
June gave Cliff twenty minutes to make sure his foot was clean. Then she slipped on gloves and trimmed back the nail and any necrotic flesh. She lectured on cleanliness, soaking, resting, and all of it. He wasn’t likely to take her advice any more seriously than in the past, but she was honor-bound as a doctor to push the issue. She then gave him a butt full of antibiotic, being every bit as careful as she would if he were a small child. He complained bitterly just the same. She packed up a parcel of Epsom salts, salve, sterile gauze and tape, and six brand-new pairs of socks.
“I think we’d have fewer problems with this toe if you’d just invest in a pair of new, waterproof boots, Cliff.”
“I’d hate to do that, Doc. These are just now broke in good.”
“Well, I tried. Come on, I’ll let you out the back and clean up.”
“You want me to hang around a little? Till you get your stuff put away?”
She looked at him in confusion.
“Seems like maybe you’re a little het up.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I was. I was worrying about…a patient. But I’m fine. I’ll just lock the door.”
“Must be a bad patient if you’re lockin’ doors now.”
“I should have had it locked before. Then you wouldn’t scare the pants off me.”
As she opened the door and held it, he gave a slow, deliberate look at her bottom half as if to check for pants. And she laughed. There was a lot of character to the old coot.
“You ought to have a dog, Doc. To look after you now and again. Keep you safe from scary old codgers like m’self.”
“Go on, now. And keep that foot as dry as possible, you hear?”
“Yes’m. I’ll do that.”
June locked the clinic’s back door and went to clean the treatment room. She chuckled as she did her chores. There had been no discussion of fees and there wouldn’t be any invoice. She didn’t ever charge Cliff. He would find any figure unreasonable, and would argue and grouse and threaten to lop off the toe. Truth was, he probably had a pile of money stashed at his house. Elmer remembered Cliff had once had a lot more land than he currently did, and Lord knew he wasn’t wasting money on clothes or boots. Sometime in the next couple of weeks June would find vegetables or eggs or some slaughtered animal on her doorstep. Vegetables could be washed and eggs cracked, but she was never sure about meat. Elmer always threw it out, so she did, too. Elmer said it could be roadkill, coming from Cliff. Once, when Cliff was hunting wild pig, he’d come upon a mother and ten piglets. He said he just couldn’t kill a mama pig and leave those babies without anyone to take care of them. So he’d killed the piglets. Such was a woodsman’s logic.
It was nearly eleven when June was leaving the clinic. As she opened the back door she found herself face-to-face with two enormous men in plaid flannel shirts, jeans and long, heavy, fake beards.
“Clinic is closed, gentlemen,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Ah, we’re going to have to keep it open awhile, Doc. Got us a little problem here,” the nearest one stated.
“I said—”
“We just need you to take out a bullet, Doc. Won’t take you five minutes.”
“Okay, let me just make a quick call to—”
“To Chief Toopeek? I don’t think so.” And with that, he pulled out a very mean looking gun and pointed it at her. “Like I said, this shouldn’t take long.”
“And like I said, come on in, boys.”
Ten
June’s patient sat on an examining table with his shirt and fake beard removed—an absolute necessity if she were going to treat his injury. She cleaned, anesthetized and numbed the area of his shoulder where the bullet had entered. Unmasked and irritable from pain, he reminded her of an ornery, oversize two year old. And thus her fear began to yield to annoyance. How dare they abuse the privilege of medical care!
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather lie down?” she asked him tersely.
“Ummff,” he grunted, looking away and remaining upright.
His
partner sat on the stool in the treatment room, watching.
“You might as well take your stupid beard off, too,” she said to him. “It’s not as though there’s going to be a lineup.”
“You never know,” he said.
“Fine, suffer. See if I care. But put that stupid gun away. I mean, really. Look at you, look at me. You think I’m going to make a break for it or something?” She then tapped the injured area of the man’s shoulder with a scalpel. “Feel that?” Again he grunted. “Okay then, here we go…” She opened the area with her knife and held up a gauze wipe as the fresh red blood flowed down the man’s chest. She reached deeply into the fleshy wound with a hemostat, and her patient moaned loudly. “You make as much noise as you want…but just don’t move. Just about have it, hang in there….” The moans became louder and the blood flow thicker. “Touching it, touching it, ahh….” And despite his loud growl of pain, she pulled forth a slightly squashed bullet. With one hand she put pressure on the wound, while with the other she turned the clamp to and fro, looking at the bullet. “Good deal. It’s in one piece.”
Behind her there was a loud thump. She and her patient turned as one to witness the huge, gun-toting bearded man lying on the floor. He had fallen right off the stool in a dead faint and his big ugly gun had slid across the floor out of his reach.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she muttered. She gently pushed on her patient’s chest. “You’re going to have to lie down now, pal. I have a lot of sewing to do here and it looks like I’m also going to have to make sure that big dope who brought you in didn’t crack his head open.” She sighed deeply. “You know, you didn’t have to put on such a show about it. All you had to do was ask me to get a bullet out for you,” she said peevishly. “This isn’t Oakland. People accidentally shoot themselves all the time around here. Why, just last fall Rob Gilmore shot himself in the butt, or so he says. If you ask me, he was probably being his usual asshole self and Jennie shot him. Which she should have years ago. But for now, just relax a little…” All the while she talked, she gently eased the big man back. Uncomfortable and weakened, he offered no further resistance. “Here,” she said. “Press down on this gauze.” She positioned his fingers on top of his own wound.