Рита Браун - Pawing Through The Past

"I didn't know they'd done that." Rick remembered picking up what was left of Tim after he spun out on a nasty curve coming downAftonMountain . He turned too fast on Route 6 and literally flew over the mountainside. He raced stock cars on weekends, was a good driver, but never saw the black ice that ended his life.

The flags fluttered. "It's nice that his family remembered him as he lived. He'd love this."

"They keep him covered in flowers," Cynthia remarked. "I hope someone loves me that much."

"Someone will-be patient." Rick smiled as he flicked open his small notebook with his thumb. "What do you think, Harry?"

"I'd question whoever isn't here and should have been."

He smiled again. "Smart cookie."

The crowd was dispersing from the gravesite.

"Let's forgo the reception. This is hard enough for Linda Ashcraft without two cops at the table." Cynthia headed toward her own car. They hadn't taken a squad car, and since the body was carried directly from the church to the cemetery there was no need for a police escort. Rick and Cynthia were uncommonly sensitive people.

Moving at a slow pace, Miranda, choir robe folded over her arm, and Susan came over the rise. They waved to Harry, who waited at the back church door.

Miranda exhaled, focusing on Harry. "I'd like a word with you." The two walked under the trees as Miranda encouraged Harry to take in a boarder, namely Tracy.

15

Like many doctors, Bill Wiggins, an oncologist, was accustomed to getting his way. "Stat" was his favorite word, a word meaning "immediately" in hospital lingo.

Sitting on his back deck surveying his green lawn, not one dandelion in sight, he also surveyed his wife.

"Marcy, you've lost a lot of weight."

"Summer. I can't eat in the heat." She watered the ornamental cherry trees at the edge of the lawn.

"You need to get a thorough checkup. I'll call Dinky Barlow."

Dinky Barlow was an internist at the hospital. He was unbelievably thorough.

"Honey, I'm fine."

"I'm the doctor." He tried to sound humorous.

"Probably need a B-12 shot." She smiled weakly. It would never do to tell Bill what was off was their relationship. They rarely communicated other than simple facts-like bring home milk and butter. Bill, like most doctors, worked long hours under great stress. He never quite adjusted to his patients dying, feeling in some way that it was a blot on his skills.

Marcy needed more. Bill had nothing left to give her.

Then again, he didn't look inward. As long as supper was on the table, his home kept in order and clean, he had nothing to complain about.

His silence, which Bitsy and Chris interpreted as hostility in their friend's marriage, was really exhaustion. He had little time for chatting up his wife and none for her girlfriends, whom he thought boring and superficial.

Bill flipped open his mobile phone, dialed, made an appointment for his wife, then flipped the phone so it shut off. "Next Tuesday. Eight-thirty A.M. Dinky's office."

"Thank you, honey." She hated it when he managed her like that but she said nothing, instead changing the subject. "You didn't want to go to Charlie Ashcraft's funeral?"

He swirled his chair to speak directly to her. "Marcy, the last place I ever want to go is a funeral," he ruefully said. "Besides, he was an empty person. I've no time for people like that."

"But doesn't it upset you just a little bit that someone in your class was killed? Murdered?"

"If it were anyone but him, maybe it would." He sat up straight. "You know what gets me? Death is part of life. Americans can't accept that."

"But Charlie was so young."

"The body has its own timetable. In his case it wasn't his body, it was his mind. He brought about his own end. Why be a hypocrite and pretend I'm upset? As I said, my dear, death is a part of life."

"But you get upset when a patient dies."

"You're damned right I do. I fight for my patients. I see how much they fight. Charlie squandered his life. I wish I could give my patients those hours and years that he tossed aside." He glared at Marcy. "Why are we having this argument?"

"I didn't think it was an argument."

"Oh." Confused, he slumped back in his chair.

She continued watering, moving to the boxwoods, which were far enough away to retard conversation.

16

The 1958 John Deere tractor, affectionately known as Johnny Pop, pop-popped over the western hay fields.

Bushhogging was one of Harry's favorite chores. She would mow the edge of the road, all around the barn and then clear around the edges of her pastures and hay fields.

The hay needed to be cut next week. She'd arranged to rent a spider wheel tedder to fold the freshly cut hay into windrows. Then she'd go back over the flattened, sweet-smelling hay with an old twine square baler.

Hard work in the boiling sun, but Harry, born to it, thrived.

Today she chugged along in a middle gear, careful not to get too close to the strong-running creek.

The horses stayed in the barn during the day in the summers, a fan tilted into each stall to cool them and blow the flies off.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were hanging out at the spring house. The cool water running over the stones produced a delightful scent. The mice liked it, too.

Tucker, sprawled in the center aisle of the barn, breathed in and out-little no-see-ums rising and falling with each breath-like an insect parasol opening and closing.

Harry loved this patch of Virginia. She had great pride in her state, which boasted two ancient mountain ranges, a rich coastline fed by three great rivers, and a lushness unimaginable to a Westerner. But, then, the Westerner was freed from the myriad gossamer expectations and blood ties inherited by each Virginian. So much was expected of a Virginian that ofttimes one had to escape for a few days, weeks, or years to rejuvenate.

A poplar tree downed in an early-summer storm loomed ahead. Harry sighed. She had to cut up the big tree, then drag the sections and branches to those places in her fence line that needed repair. Poplar didn't last as long as locust, but still, it was for free, not counting her labor.

She cut off Johnny Pop and dismounted. The spotted tree bark remained home to black ants and other crawlies. Although flat on its side, roots exposed, the crown of the poplar was covered in healthy green leaves.

"Life doesn't give up easily," she said aloud, admiring the tenacity of the desperately injured tree.

She bent over the creek, cupped her hands and washed her face. Then she let the tumbling cool water run over her hands.

It suddenly occurred to her that her feelings about Charlie Ashcraft as an individual were irrelevant. The swiftness of his end sobered her. Security was a myth. Knowing that intellectually and knowing it emotionally were two different things.

She shook her hands, enjoying the tingling sensation. The sensation of death's randomness was far less pleasant.