Heart of the Country

  “Dad . . . ,” I said. I felt like a kid. Small and vulnerable. Unsure. “What’s this going to do to your company?”

  Dad had what I liked to call the Clint Eastwood squint. It popped up when he was trying to read a menu and had forgotten his glasses. I’d also seen it when one of his employees was babbling nonsense to him. He was never aware of how intense it made him look. And it was staring me down right now. “It’s time to go” was all he said.

  Though I was closest to the door, I couldn’t manage to even open it. Soon Ward stood there. I could see his hand against the door.

  Then it opened. The shouts assaulted us like bursts of sand in the face, blown by dynamic wind. I blinked rapidly, trying to keep my calm, but one shaky leg out of the car and I knew this was going to be difficult. Within seconds, a hand was on my shoulder, and soon I felt a body close to mine. Jake.

  I glanced back to make sure Dad followed. He slowly got out of the limo, seemingly unfazed by his age or the audience. He patted his pockets, presumably to make sure he had his glasses and his phone, then smiled mildly at everyone and dismissed questions with a flick of his wrist.

  Soon the three of us were walking side by side, pushing against the mob. Ward helped. And so did two police officers. But it was like treading through mud. We were shoved. I lost my balance, but Jake caught me under the arm. “Keep moving,” he whispered.

  I kept my eyes focused on the top of the stairs of the federal courthouse. One step at a time.

  Out of all the voices shouting at us, one filled the air, like the ocean noise of a seashell right at my ear.

  “Austin! Aren’t you worried that defending your son is going to bring down your company?”

  My heart sank, even though it was my worry too. I kept walking, but I felt Dad’s hand release my arm.

  “What did you say?” Dad’s voice growled like a menacing dog whose hair was standing straight up on its back.

  “Keep walking,” Jake said, but I couldn’t.

  Dad’s eyes were fierce as he turned to face the reporter, his neck literally stuck out, his finger pointed directly at the man who asked the question. “This is my son!” His arm shot out and he was pointing at me now. All eyes shifted from Dad to me. I felt myself stand a little taller. “My son! No stock is worth losing him.” His hand was around my arm again. “Come on, Luke. Let’s go.”

  We walked toward the imposing white stone columns of justice above us. And Dad’s hand never left my arm again.

  41

  FAITH

  I’D SAT FOR THREE HOURS watching Dad sleep, studying how often his chest would rise and fall. It was good that he was sleeping peacefully, but it was unnerving too. I was afraid if I took my eyes off him, even for a minute, he might stop breathing. Or go into a seizure. So I watched until I couldn’t watch any longer, and then I called Lee.

  “I was planning on stopping by anyway,” he’d said over the phone.

  And he did. Just as Dad was waking up, Lee pulled into our long driveway and parked his truck next to my car.

  “Lee’s here,” I said, going to the door.

  Dad rubbed his eyes. “Why?”

  “To check on you.”

  “Oh, brother,” Dad groaned. “That’s why I wanted to leave the hospital, so I wouldn’t have to endure any more of that.”

  “Don’t act like a brat, Dad,” I said in my stern voice. “It’s just a precaution.”

  Dad mumbled something I couldn’t hear as I opened the screen door for Lee. “Hi,” I said warmly. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “How’s he feeling?” he asked from the entryway.

  “Grumpy.”

  “I’ll take grumpy.” With his doctor’s bag, Lee made his way to the living room.

  “Dad, Lee’s here,” I announced.

  Dad mumbled something again, his eyes focused on an ESPN show.

  “Hey, Calvin. How are you feeling?”

  Dad’s gentle eyes had the capacity to turn sharp when he wanted them to, and let’s just say they were as sharp as Olivia’s tongue. “Well, Lee, I’ve got a tumor growing in my brain, so I’m feeling about as good as you’d expect.”

  Lee glanced at me for support. I urged him on.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m going to check your vitals, okay?”

  “It’s not my vitals that have a tumor, now is it?”

  “Daddy, please. Lee is here to help.”

  “Fine,” Dad sighed. “Do what you must. But hurry up about it.”

  “I just want to get a good look in your eyes,” Lee said, pulling out a small light from his bag. He sat down in front of Dad, on the ottoman that Dad usually used for his feet.

  “You’re blocking the game,” Dad said. Whined, really.

  “I just want to look . . . Can you look here in my light? . . . Right here in my light . . .” Lee put his flashlight down. “Calvin, I can’t get a good look when you watch the TV.”

  “Come on, Daddy. Help him out.”

  Dad huffed and stared right into the light. As Lee checked him, Dad said, “Doctors don’t usually make house calls, do they?”

  “Not usually,” Lee said, studying his eyes.

  “And you’re not a cancer specialist. You’re an ER doctor.”

  Lee glanced above the light. “Yep.”

  “So who exactly are you calling on?” Dad asked.

  Lee sort of froze. So did I. Then I rushed to Lee’s aid. “Dad, he’s just coming by to help us out.”

  “Hm. You done?” he asked Lee.

  “Close enough. You look pretty good, Calvin.”

  “Great. Then leave me be.”

  Horrified at the way Dad was acting, I escorted Lee to the door. I lightly touched his arm. “I am so sorry. I’m not sure what has gotten into him.”

  “It’s okay,” Lee said. He opened the door and walked out. I followed him.

  “Is it the tumor making him act like this?”

  Lee laughed as he threw his bag through the window of his truck. He turned to face me, leaning against the door. “No. He’s just trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me? From what?”

  “Me.” Lee studied the ground. So did I. I think we were staring at the same spot.

  “That’s . . . that’s silly.”

  “No. It’s not.” He looked up at me. Stood upright and took a step closer. My heart was pounding out of my chest. “Dads know these things about their daughters. They have a sense of when they’re vulnerable.”

  At the word vulnerable, I shivered. I felt myself wanting to be held. Like he was a magnet, I stepped closer to him. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to think about him touching my face, stroking my hair. Then I opened my eyes, which had filled with tears, and found Lee’s.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Shh. It’s okay. You didn’t . . . I was the one who . . .” He took a deep breath and pulled something out of his pocket. He handed me a small business card.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the name of the doctor you need to get in to see in New York. Dr. Joseph Sinclair, at Sloan-Kettering. He’s the best in the world at these types of cancers at the base of the brain.”

  I stared at the card. Blinked at the address.

  Lee continued, “I’ve made some calls to my professors back at Columbia to see if I can get him in, but I haven’t heard back, and truthfully, that route is a long shot.”

  “Okay, well, thanks for trying. Hopefully this doctor here can—”

  “Faith. Listen to me. He won’t have a shot without Sinclair. It’s stage IV. It’s on his brain stem. Sinclair is your only hope.”

  Lee’s words hit my heart hard, a sucker punch straight into my soul. “But . . . how do I . . . ?”

  “Your in-laws, Faith. They’re pretty connected in those circles.”

  “My in-laws?”

  “They’re probably your only shot at getting in. You should call Luke.”

  “Lee, I
haven’t talked with him in . . .” It felt like forever.

  “I would take your dad now, to New York, and stay there until they can get him in to see Sinclair.”

  “But . . .”

  “If you don’t, your dad will likely die. He doesn’t have much time.” Lee opened his car door. “I won’t stop trying to make phone calls either. Hopefully something will work.”

  I backed up as he started his truck. “Okay, thanks.”

  “Go to New York. Call Luke.”

  He drove off. I stood there in the dust of his truck, choking on my new reality.

  42

  OLIVIA

  HARDY WATCHED ME walk from room to room, from chair to sofa, from front door to back. He sat at the kitchen table, observing restlessly. Finally he threw down his hat. “Olivia, what? What is this? You’ve been scurrying round here like a scared squirrel, saying ‘She can’t handle it’ over and over again. Who can’t handle what?”

  Admittedly, my legs were tired and so was my finger, for the number of times I’d twirled and untwirled my hair. I sat at the table with him. “Faith.”

  “Faith can’t handle your dad being sick?”

  “Don’t know about that one yet,” I said, thumping my fingers against the table. “But I was thinking about having Faith take Daddy to the doctor’s appointment this afternoon with that oncologist.”

  Hardy looked genuinely confused. “But why?”

  “I know, I know,” I said, irritated that he wasn’t following my train of thought, even though I wasn’t really even giving him a track. “But see, Faith doesn’t believe in herself, Hardy. She’s lost her marriage and her dream and her sense of—what do you call it?—self-worth.”

  Hardy was nodding. Sort of blankly.

  “She’s just this tiny scared mouse. She even nibbles like a mouse. You watch her eat and it’s like she thinks the corn on the cob is going to jump right off that plate and beat her to a bloody pulp.” I sighed as I looked at Hardy’s poor, confused face. “She’s a smart girl. She can handle taking Daddy to the doctor.”

  Hardy studied his calloused hands. “But can you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I barked, even though I knew exactly what it was supposed to mean. And it wasn’t even supposed to be an insult, but everybody knew I was easily insulted. Even me. I let myself calm down a little. “I know. That’s why I’ve been pacing this floor like you the day Nell was born.”

  “I think you’re right,” Hardy said. “I think she can handle it. And I think it’d be good for you, too. To let go a little.”

  Hardy, I knew, was a wise man. He let me talk a lot and rant and rave and do what I do, but when the time came to speak the absolute truth, Hardy was there.

  “Maybe I should send a tape recorder with her. We got one around here?”

  “Nope. Wouldn’t be a good idea if we did.”

  “Right.” I put my elbows on the table, folded my hands, rested my chin there. “Okay, so our cover is going to be the kids have the stomach flu.”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything less and she won’t believe I can’t go.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I can’t go. I have to let her do it.”

  “Yep.”

  “Nell! Vic! Get in here!”

  The girls scurried in from their bedroom. I felt both of their heads. “Burning up, the two of you.”

  Vic felt her own head. Nell piped in, “You can’t feel your own fever.” She looked at me. “But I don’t feel sick.”

  “You look pale. You feel pale?”

  Vic felt her skin again. “A little. What’s pale?”

  “It’s when all the color drains from your face,” Nell said. “Like the time you asked Mom what fornication was in front of the preacher.”

  “Okaaay . . . let’s forget that for now and get you two some chicken noodle soup. I have to go check on Grandpa.”

  “I want to go!” Nell declared, which of course I predicted.

  “Not with a fever, honey.”

  “I don’t even feel sick.”

  “By night’s end, you two will be puking your guts out.”

  “Cool,” Vic whispered.

  “I got the soup,” Hardy said, raising an eyebrow at me. What? He knew by now my child-rearing tactics were unconventional. But I didn’t want this coming back to bite me. Faith had to believe this was her journey. Destiny. Fate. She was into all that stuff, but it had to be authentic.

  My cover would be that I was starting to feel nauseous too, blah blah blah. I wasn’t going to have to fake the paleness. I was sure that at the moment I had to tell her she was on her own, the color really was going to drain from my face.

  I grabbed my purse and walked outside. Funny, I did feel nauseous, too. Could I really let the fate of my beloved father rest in the hands of my totally screwed-up sister?

  I guess this was what the pastor was referring to all those times he talked about a higher calling. The higher road. Here it was. And it hurt like heck.

  43

  LUKE

  THE DAY FAITH LEFT, I was sitting on our couch, slouched and uncomfortable in my own clothes. I could hear the hangers clanging against one another as she pulled clothes off them. Her shoes clicked against the wood floors of the bedroom. But there was no other sound.

  I sat there fuming. My bitterness was combustible. For better or worse. For better or worse. It kept going through my mind, the day we married, how she looked me right in the eye and told me she’d stick by me. For better or worse. And now she wanted to walk out on me? Fine. Fine! Do it.

  I didn’t know if she wanted me to try to stop her or not. But if she did, my pride kept me from saying anything.

  And she was gone. Just like that.

  “Luke, snap out of it!” I looked up to find Jake snapping his fingers in front of my face.

  “Sorry.”

  “You have to focus, okay? You’ve got to hold it together in there.”

  “I know. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Push it all aside. Right now, right in that room, that’s all that matters.”

  Dad stepped up. He had his game face on. Stoic. Bigger than life. Powerful. Behind him was the family attorney, Cecil Yates. “It’s all going to be all right. I’ve always looked out for you. Always will.”

  “So you’re clear on what you’re supposed to say?” Jake asked.

  “He’s clear,” Dad said, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Right, Son?”

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  Jake looked the most self-assured, like he didn’t doubt his plan for a second. Suddenly the heavy door in front of us opened. One of the prosecutors for the SEC stood there with his hand on the door, looking pleasant and professional. “Gentlemen, come on in.” Like it was a typical business meeting.

  Dad went first, followed by Jake. I was stepping forward when my cell phone rang.

  And it was Faith’s ringtone.

  Jake turned, stared at me as I pulled out my phone. “Put it away,” he growled.

  I looked at the caller ID to verify. It was her. Now? Now? My thumb hovered over the green button.

  Jake threw his hands up and gave the prosecutor a mild glance. “Luke, it can wait. I promise. Whatever it is. Whoever it is.” We locked eyes, and he knew in an instant who it was.

  “You have to get this in order,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He was right, of course. What would I say to her at this very moment, anyway? I hit Mute and slid the phone back in my pocket.

  But my heart broke. She finally called, and I was up to my eyebrows in this mess. I couldn’t even take her call. I sat down between Dad and Jake, across from three prosecutors, two men and one woman. All three of their faces were sober and stern. I put my hands under the table.

  A man with a bald head, whom I recognized as Wright, opened a folder and began to speak about a plea deal. I heard about every fifth word, as my mind just kept flashing to Faith, over and over. My cell phone had vibr
ated in my pocket, indicating she’d left me a message. My heart tingled with anticipation. Was she calling to tell me she wanted a divorce? Or to tell me she wanted to come home?

  Finally I focused on the prosecutor, who was mostly spouting off legal mumbo jumbo. He was just finishing up formally offering me the plea deal. He looked up, smiled pleasantly, and waited.

  “No,” I said. Small word, but I’d had to practice the response a lot this morning.

  “No?” he asked, glancing at his female colleague.

  “No.”

  “You’re saying no to a plea.”

  “That’s correct,” I said, taking a deep breath. It reminded me of the scene in one of the Indiana Jones movies, where he had to take the first step and believe the bridge was there even though he couldn’t see it. Dad and Jake told me this was what I had to do, but it felt like I was stepping off a ledge.

  The smirk on the prosecutor’s face said I was about to take a free fall.

  “I didn’t commit a crime.” I said it firmly, like Jake told me to.

  The prosecutor looked at Yates. “I hope you’re not giving him this advice.”

  “You guys aren’t exactly leaving him many options, are you?”

  The prosecutor’s nostrils flared. “We’re giving him a great option. Cooperate and he’ll get a plea. No time, probation, lose his broker’s license for five years.”

  Dad leaned forward, put his hands on the table, and folded them together. “Full immunity and he tells you everything you want to know.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Carraday, this is one of the greatest cases of criminal fraud in American history. No one gets immunity on this one. Not even your son.”

  Then something happened in that room. Nothing palpable. But the entire mood shifted. Yates looked at Dad. Dad looked at Jake. Jake looked at the prosecutor. And there was an unbearable silence that I thought might resemble what happens right before the guillotine drops.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Jake said in that authoritative voice he tried often on me, “we’d like to speak with you in private.” Except he was saying this to the prosecutor.