Джеймс Паттерсон - The Midwife Murders

“That’s a first,” Mom says.

I’m not amused.

Well, actually I am, but I’m not about to laugh.

Then she adds seriously, “Listen. It’s not entirely Balboa Littlefield’s fault. It’s a problem only because weak folks like Cabot—”

“Oh, please, Mom. Don’t. Just don’t.”

And she stops. At least for a few seconds.

Born and raised here, she has lived on hope and prayer all her life. She has watched the opioid epidemic grow bigger and uglier every month of every year. My brother is just one of so many folks in Walkers Pasture who chew OxyContin like breath mints. Mom knows all this, but she still has nothing but hope and prayer.

My mother kneels on the floor and begins petting The Duke. Then she talks to him. This isn’t the first time she’s used this dog-and-lady trick.

“Funny how fancy-ass people from New York can be just as dumb and stubborn as folks from a pissant little town like Walkers Pasture. Yep, they find it easier to blame their problems on other people. Now, I’m not saying that Balboa Littlefield is a fine upstanding citizen. Recently I heard him referred to as ‘an A-one asshole.’ And I sure do agree with that description. I think Balboa is evil incarnate. But the people who buy drugs from him are just as much to blame, especially if they’ve been helped by other people, like the drug users whose Mom and Daddy paid for treatment center visits over and over again, especially the mom whose knees hurt from praying and never got those prayers answered. We can bitch and carry on about Balboa himself, but because someone asks you to sin, it doesn’t mean …” And then she stops. Her words turn to tears.

I kneel down beside her. I hold her shoulders. She stops crying.

“Are those butter beans all shelled, Lucy?”

That’s Big Lucy.

CHAPTER 41

“YOU GOT A TAPEWORM inside you, bro?” Cabot asks Willie as my boy shovels in his third helping of honey-baked pork shoulder.

“Maybe I do,” Willie says. Willie’s voice is sharp and high-pitched. Cabot slurs his words. He’s not drunk, but he sounds like he is. I don’t think Willie notices his pronunciation, but I’m sure Big Lucy does. Cabot squints his eyes shut and open, then shut again, then open.

“Open your mouth real wide,” Mom says to Willie. “I’m gonna check for a tapeworm.”

Willie obeys. He stretches his mouth open.

Then Mom becomes a serious detective, looking inside her grandson’s mouth. “No!” she declares. “No. No tapeworm in there, just a pile of teeth and a very large tongue.”

Willie, laughing, goes back to his pork shoulder, and I wonder if anyone else notices that Cabot’s question about the tapeworm is the first time during supper that he has even spoken. Cabot has eaten almost nothing, only a few sweet bites of Mom’s ridiculously delicious Strawberry Jell-O and Red Cabbage Salad. (Don’t judge it until you’ve taken a taste.) The only person quieter than Cabot is my father. He sits with his head bowed. He eats nothing.

“You look so tired, Mom,” I say.

She shakes her head back and forth. “No. I’m too excited having you and Willie here to be tired. But … soon as Willie finishes eating his pork—assuming he doesn’t want a fourth helping—I’ll start getting Daddy washed and into bed.”

“I’ll help you,” I say.

“No need to,” Mom says. “We’ve got our system, and to be honest, I think Daddy would be embarrassed.”

“Would you be angry if I asked him, Mom?”

“Of course not,” and I know she is telling the truth. I lean in toward my father.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to help Mom when it’s time for your sleep, Daddy?” I ask.

But he stares at me blankly. Yes? No? I don’t care? Daddy says nothing.

Mom feeds Daddy a tiny forkful of the butter beans and rice. For a moment I think I see a spark of pleasure in his eyes. She holds a Flintstones juice glass to his lips, and he takes a sip of a little red wine mixed with ginger ale.

He still doesn’t say a word.

Mom looks away. Her own eyes sparkle. I used to think she had a talent for holding back her tears. Now I see she has a different talent, a talent for making her eyes sparkle when the tears come.

Supper ends with the predictable, adorable, inevitable question from Willie.

“Hey, Grandma, how come Mom never makes a supper that tastes as good as yours?”

Hmmm. Visions of Lucky Pot must be dancing in his head.

“Well, you best ask your mom, but my guess would be that she’s working her backside off to earn a living so you can have the finer things in life,” says Mom.

Willie smiles. Then he says, “I think you might be right, Grandma.”

My mother laughs, then says, “You are a clever little faker, Willie boy.”

“It runs in the family,” I say.

“Well,” says Big Lucy, “I’ll take Harold to our room, and I’ll leave you all to the cleanup.”

“I’ll start,” says Willie as he pops up from his place. Then he looks over at his uncle Cabot, who has his eyes closed, sleeping like the anonymous passenger next to you on a long airplane trip.

“I see you lost Cabot already,” says my mother with a laugh as she wheels Daddy toward the little bedroom right off the kitchen.

I shake my head, and Willie says, “I’ll let Uncle Cab sleep. He’ll need all his energy for our big video game rematch.”

I take the platter of shredded pork shoulder into the kitchen. I know my mother will repurpose it once, if not twice, during the week. Tacos? Noodles, pork, and American cheese casserole? I spoon it into a Tupperware container.

Willie walks in with four glasses. He holds them cautiously with the fingers of his left hand. And he balances four dinner plates waiter-style on the inside of his right arm. Amazingly, he doesn’t drop anything.

“Let’s not try that again, buddy. Okay?”

“Don’t be a-scared, Mom. I’m good at this.”

“Did you just say ‘a-scared’?” I ask with a touch of mock shock. “You’ve been in Walkers Pasture less than one day and you’re talking like a West Virginian.”

Then, from the dining room, we hear a thud, a big loud clump of a noise, the sound of something or someone falling. It is followed within only a second by the sound of china and glass crashing. Both Willie and I rush the few feet into the dining room.

Cabot is on the floor, motionless. The boy is clear out of it.

Willie and I quickly roll Cabot over onto his back. Willie is frightened. I am, too.

“I don’t think Uncle Cab’s breathing, Mom.”

I have a rule with Willie: I never lie to him. Never. Ever. And right now I’m thinking maybe it’s time to break that rule. I change my mind.

“No, he’s not. Go to the side pocket of my suitcase. Get the med-emergency package,” I say. Meanwhile, I begin thumping Cabot’s chest. By the time I begin CPR, my mother is standing over me. She’s holding a nasal spray.

“Here’s his Narcan,” Mom says. “He’s OD’d. It’s happened before.” She holds Cabot’s head and squeezes the naloxone into his right nostril. It should work. But it doesn’t. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” she yells. “Cabot. Don’t run out on me. Not now, baby. Not now.”

Willie is back. He’s barely controlling his tears. He’s holding a syringe. And I am now holding the injection version of naloxone.

“Help me get his jeans off.” I’m practically yelling. Within seconds the waist of Cabot’s jeans is pulled down to his knees. In the next three seconds I notice so many things—his scrawny thighs, his filthy white jockey shorts, the dry brown scabs on his bloody knees.

I quickly push the syringe into his left outer thigh. Silence. Three seconds come across like three hours.