(2006) When Crickets Cry (29 page)

"Why?" I asked.

"That's exactly what I asked him. You know what he said?"

I took the bait. "What?"

"He said, `Sometimes trees forget they were meant to blossom and just need to be reminded.' I looked at the three spikes and asked, `Why not ten spikes?' He shook his head and eyed the tree. `Nope, three is a good enough dose. Don't want to kill it, just remind it."'

We sat for almost thirty minutes, letting the quiet breeze filter through the trees, ruffle the cat's hair, and roll the red yarn about the back porch. He dozed once, then woke only to doze again. Finally, he began to snore quietly.

I stood just loud enough to wake him but not so loud as to startle him. He stood with me, looped his arm around mine, and we walked arm in arm to the door.

He leaned on me and I leaned on him.

I walked through the front door and turned to say good-bye, but he cut me off. He tapped his chest with two fingers. "After more than sixty years of medicine, I'm still amazed at this little thing. Fist-sized, it sits in the center of its, never stopping to take a break or even pause. So simple, yet so complex and so utterly unknown." He raised his hands in front of him, almost as if he had finished washing in the sink outside the OR and was waiting for the nurse to hold gloves while he inserted his fingers. "I have held more than a thousand hearts in my hands. Hardened arteries, plaque, small flutters, all signs of disease. To this day, I can close my eyes and run my fingers along the left and right main and tell you if there is disease or not." He closed his eyes and rubbed both index fingers along the tips of his thumbs.

He paused and blew his nose again. "In all my study, all my practice, all my teaching, I never met another doctor as gifted as you. Your skill, personality, and ethic made for a great combination, but it wasn't those things that caught my eye that day at your interview with our board."

"Sir?" I said.

"You had something very few applicants ever have."

I studied his face, not sure where he was leading.

He placed his hand on my chest, palm flat against the sternum. "If I could get away with it, I'd strap you to a gurney, charge the paddles to a thousand, and shock you until your toes curled and your hair straightened."

"Sir?" I said, confused again.

"You need reminding, son."

His wife walked up from behind, put her arm around him, and tucked herself under his shoulder. He looked tall again. He continued, "If God ever made one man to do and be one thing, it was you."

I turned, pulled my sunglasses from my shirt pocket, and slipped them over my nose. "Sir?" I asked. "What if... what if I've forgotten how?"

He shook his head. "Son, that well won't ever run dry."

aturday morning found Charlie and me leaning over a dead pig, rubbing seasoning into the meat. Three things make great barbecue: preparation, heat, and the pit itself. Our preparation involved a dry rub of our secret recipe, which is heavy on garlic salt, pepper, and cayenne. We had lit the coals about 7:00 a.m., and would add more as the day passed, but the secret for good barbecue is "low and slow." You've got to be patient, take your time, and cook the meat slowly over ten to twelve hours, depending on the size of the pig-and you've got to keep your eye on it. If you don't enjoy that aspect of it, or the constant maintenance the fire requires, you might as well not get started.

Perfectly cooked meat occurs within a rather short window. Admittedly, our best asset in this whole parade was Charlie's nose: he could smell "not yet," `just right," and "too late." He was better than one of those little white pop-up things they stick into the Thanksgiving turkey that lets you know when it's done.

We built the fire on one side of the pit, which generated heat and smoke that then wafted up and across an iron grate that held the meat before spilling out an eight-foot chimney. We controlled the airflow at two places: the door to the fire pit and the chimney. Too much airflow, and the fire would burn too fast and cause the meat to turn tough; too little, and the fire wouldn't generate enough heat and would die, causing the meat to sour.

Since Charlie couldn't see the smoke coming out, we had bought a large thermometer, secured it to the iron lid, and taken the glass panel off the front. Charlie then read the thermometer with his fingers and adjusted the flow accordingly. Because we're talking about relatively low temperatures, say between 180 and 200 degrees Fahrenheit, Charlie was allowed some wiggle room. We messed up a couple of pigs before he finally got it right, but I'm not interested in a perfectly cooked pig. To be honest, if it made Charlie happy to tinker with it, I'd eat it anywhere from raw to cremated.

CINDY PHONED IN THE MORNING AND SAID HER BOSS HAD called her in for half a day, so she'd be at the hardware store until noon. She asked me to pick them up at Annie's lemonade stand after she clocked out about twelve thirty.

I parked three blocks down the street and started a slow walk up Main. Things were quiet, including Annie. Her "Lemonaaaade! " call had been reduced to the tarnished cowbell, slow, deep, and hollow. It fit Clayton.

Annie wasn't pacing the sidewalk, soliciting customers, but sitting in her chair in the shade, wrapped in a tattered sweater that undoubtedly belonged to Cindy. I wondered if her inactivity would have an effect on people's giving. As I got closer, I could see that it had, but not in the way I'd anticipated. Her cup was spilling over.

"Hi, Annie."

"Hey, Reese," she said, jumping out of the chair and running over to hug my leg.

But still the heart doth need a language ...

She wrapped her left arm-still thick with plaster castingaround my waist and pointed toward the window of the hardware store. "Aunt Cici will be out in a minute. She's pulling some crickets for a man who's going fishing."

Since Charlie had organized our little get-together at my place, I wasn't quite sure how we'd pass the time. Hospitality just isn't one of my gifts. But Annie's comment gave me an idea.

I looked down at her. "Do you like to fish?"

"Never been."

I mouthed the words, but made no audible sound: "You'venever-been-fishing."

Annie shook her head and laughed that beautiful, tender laugh I'd begun hearing in my sleep.

"Even with all those crickets in that box at your house?"

Annie raised her eyebrows and shook her head again.

I walked into the hardware store and found Cindy leaning over the cricket box. "I'd like ... um ..." I looked down in the box. "Three dozen crickets, please."

She looked up at me, rested an elbow on top of the box, and said, "You're kidding, right?"

"No," I said, studying her face, "should I be?"

Cindy stuck her hand back in the box and started chasing crickets. "It's just that these things don't always sit still while you try to lasso 'em."

I looked into the box again and then out the window at Annie. This time I whispered, "I want as many crickets as will occupy her, you, Charlie, and me for most of the afternoon."

Cindy smiled, nodded, and handed me a tube made out of wire mesh and capped with two cardboard ends. "Here, hold this."

I held the tube while she wrestled the crickets. Every so often, she'd hold up her hand, I'd lift the lid, and she'd drop in a few before the others crawled out. It was a delicate dance, but we managed not to get out of time, and I never stepped on her toes. I paid, she clocked out, we moved Annie's stand inside and stashed her money in the store safe, then walked toward the truck.

I held the door while they climbed in. When I got in myself, Cindy looked at me and asked, "Your wife teach you that?"

"Teach me what?"

She elbowed the door. "To hold the door. Every time we go anywhere with you, you're always holding the door. I'm not sure if I'm beginning to like it or if there's something wrong with me. I'm thinking about racing you to the next one."

I thought for a minute and realized that maybe, somewhere in the residue of what was once me, I wasn't all that different from Annie. Maybe my inner emotions still had expression, still made it to the surface and bubbled out. Maybe I wasn't dead after all.

"Yes, I guess she did. I've never really thought about it. And no, I don't think there's anything wrong with you."

Cindy smiled, and Annie inched closer to me, rubbing her shoulder and leg against mine.

Because it wasn't too much out of the way, we detoured past the marina, where I found Termite pumping gas for the weekend warriors. He looked disgusted.

"Hey, Termite."

He almost stood up but caught himself before seeming excited to see me. Instead, he nodded that cool-kid nod that says, I'm doing just fine here on my own private island, and I can do with or without you. Your presence doesn't change things a bit.

Termite wasn't a very good liar. He was in bad need of some friends. "What time you get off?" I asked.

"Couple of hours."

"You got dinner plans?"

He looked at me suspiciously and even took a step back. "Why?"

I shook my head and smiled. "You really don't trust people, do you?"

"Nope." He looked around the marina and waited for me to carry the conversation again. He spun his Zippo lighter across the thigh of his cut-off jeans, spending energy and time.

I obliged him. "Because Charlie and I are cooking a pig, and we're having a few folks over. Thought you might enjoy it."

"What time?"

"Whenever. Nothing's too formal. It'll be ready whenever you get there. If it's not, it will be soon enough."

Termite looked out over the marina again. "I might stop by for a few minutes."

"Well, if you can fit us into your busy social schedule, drive north to the bridge and then turn back six houses. We're on the southeastern side. You'll smell the fire."

Ajet Ski was parked nearby, painted in flames. Down the side someone had airbrushed The Rocket.

"That yours?" I asked.

He nodded.

"You build it?"

He nodded again.

I patted him on the shoulder, which caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise like a pit bull's. "See you, Termite."

He looked toward my car and saw Cindy and Annie. He said, "Hey, Doc, they be there?"

His question stopped me. I turned around. "What'd you say?"

"I asked if those two would be there."

"Why'd you say `Doc'?"

Termite shrugged and stuffed his lighter back into his pocket. "Dunno. Guess 'cause you're always checking on people, and you remind me of this doctor I had back home."

I looked at the car then back at Termite. "Yes, they'll be there."

"Okay." Termite nodded almost to himself. I drove out of the marina parking lot, and Cindy asked, "Wasn't that kid in The Well the other night? Sitting at the bar by himself?"

I nodded. "Termidus Cain is his name."

"What?"

"Uh-huh, that's why he goes by Termite."

"I'm not sure which is worse."

"He's new around here. Running from something. Needs some friends and maybe a hot meal too. Besides," I added, pointing my thumb over my shoulder and out the back window, "I was hoping he might bring his jet Ski."

Cindy looked as if she wanted to say something, but let it go. We drove the last few miles in relative silence.

We pulled off the hard road, down the gravel drive, and back into the woods where my house sat tucked into the edge of the lake. Charlie was sitting next to the fire, snoring, when we drove up. His chair was leaning against a tree, his Atlanta Braves baseball cap covered his eyes, and Georgia lay at his feet, her nose pointed toward the pig.

The girls changed inside while Charlie and I fed more coals to the fire. I had raked the beach below my house and placed two beach chairs facing southward along the lake.

Cindy saw the setup and made a beeline for the beach, her flipflops smacking her heels as she walked across the cool sand. She wore a two-piece suit. The bottom looked like a normal girl's bathing suit while the top looked more like a tank top. If she were tanning, she wouldn't have to put lotion on her stomach or back, because they were covered. When she spread her towel across the seat, I saw a four-inch, horizontal scar just above her belt line. About where her kidney was. Or used to be.

Annie skipped down to the beach wearing a little girl's twopiece. It was a mixture of orange and green neon colors and was too big, hanging loosely about both her hips and chest. It looked like one of those suits little girls wore when they wished they were more grown-up.

Her chest incision had healed well. Staple holes dotted the sides of the scar, which was red and raised somewhat. But for the most part, Annie had not scarred badly. Which was good. And the fact that she wasn't afraid to let the world see it meant she hadn't scarred too badly on the inside either. Both would make the next surgery less difficult for whoever did it-cutting her open and sewing her up would take less time, not to mention the fact that she'd be less conscious of it for the rest of her life.

Cindy read while Annie began working on a sand castle, but her energies were low. So I set up an umbrella, and she napped for a couple of hours while Cindy finished a novel.