An Owl's Whisper (42 page)

“Can’t blame her for that, Stan. Way memories tore up your pa, I wish he’d buried his.”

Jess figured he wouldn’t see Crickette again, given how the visit had gone. Then that summer, he was east of Mullen one morning, out on State Route 2 looking into an accident—Bob Hawker’s pick-up had front-ended a deer. He was finishing up with Bob when the biggest Buick he’d ever seen came flying by, doing probably eighty. It was a plum purple convertible, top down. The kind of car you see in magazines. Something Clark Gable would drive. Not something that belongs around Hooker County.

Jess jumped into his patrol sedan, a ’51 Ford with a hundred horsepower V-8—a rascal that could shoot zero-to-eighty in no time flat. After flying down the hardtop, cherry top flashing and siren wailing, Jess pulled the Buick over just east of Mullen. Illinois plates. Driver and passenger lounging on white leather seats. Both wearing dark glasses.

As Jess stepped from the cruiser, the passenger stood up, took off her sunglasses, and threw out her arms. “Sheriff Jessie, I am so exciting to see you.” It was Crickette Conroy. She jumped from the car and ran to Jess. She hugged and kissed him like a long-lost brother. Maybe even a long-lost lover. It worried Jess, since by that time, the steer-sized driver was heading their way. Jess was glad to see his smile. Crickette introduced him as her husband, Max.

Jess ended up just warning them about speeding, of course. He led the way over to the Chandler place. Surprised Eva, to say the least.

The Conroys came to look for a place in Hooker County. Said they’d been robbed in Chicago and wanted something quieter. In fact, mostly it was Crickette wanting to be near Eva, and Max going along with it. They spent a week in the area, looking for land. In the end, they settled on a chunk of Harry Scurfman’s place. Jess told them they were asking for trouble, doing business with the ornery cuss, but they were city folks who figured
what does some old horse’s neck sheriff know?
They ended up paying an arm and a leg for the upper ten acres of Harry’s land south of town.

Max hired a homebuilder from Valentine to construct the exterior of a new house and workshop. At Christmastime, he and Crickette moved from Chicago. Max was a carpenter by trade, and he spent almost a year getting the interior the way his wife wanted it. When that was done, Max went back to making fine furniture and cabinetry, custom-built for rich city slickers.

One morning in the first days after the Conroys moved in, Eva showed up unannounced. She took Crickette’s coat from its vestibule hanger and handed it to her. “We’re going for a walk. If you’re here for good, there’s something you need to understand.”

They walked silently for a minute in the chilly air, then Eva stopped. “I won’t have the life I’ve built here—my family’s life—jeopardized. You and I share a black past, and that’s just where that it must remain—in the past. You’ve told everyone that we were close during the war. If what you did then were to come out, my security would be threatened. Or vice versa. People can put one and one together.” Eva stepped aggressively close to Crickette’s face. “Most of what Henri told us was
merde
, but he was right about one thing. He said it’s the highest virtue to be willing to do anything to protect one’s family.” She grasped Crickette’s elbow. “I would do
anything
. Do I make myself clear?”

Crickette jerked her arm from Eva’s grip. “Of course, dear. I wouldn’t risk hurting Max with the past either. Our secret is safe with me.”

“So we have an understanding, then.” She took Crickette’s hand and shook it. “A pact.”

Crickette nodded and they went inside.

After the sparks he’d seen between Eva and Crickette during her first visit, Jess was surprised at how close they were after the move. He commented to Crickette at Eva’s 1952
Mardi gras fête
, “You and Eva seem to be gettin’ along real slick these days. What’s the secret?”

“The secret’s that we’ve made a secret pact, sheriff.” Crickette swirled the high ball in her hand. The tinkle of the ice cubes in the glass matched her giggle. “You know, to keep our secret…secret.” She winked a
wouldn’t you like to know what it is
wink and said no more.

Max and Crickette didn’t fit in all that well in Hooker County. Problem was, they brought a big chunk of Chicago with them and never let go. What Hooker County folks call high living. Jazzy music jumpin’ on the Victrola. Cuban cigars and gin rickeys. Clothes that care too much about how they look. That Buick convertible. And Max’s Stetson, which drew Lem Hickok’s quip, “That greenhorn’s all hat and no Hereford.”

In Sickness

Doc Fletcher never took to cars, and horseback agreed less and less with him after his lumbago set in. He decided to hire someone part-time, to visit rural patients in their homes. About that time, Eva was looking for something to do. Stan had just taken over the general store and was busy as a kid with an ice cream cone in August. Daughters Cat and Françie were in school. So, in early 1956 Eva began working for the doctor. She didn’t have medical training, but as the doctor told Stan, “Her bedside manner is a sight better than mine. She’ll be a fine go-between.” Stan figured Doc didn’t want to see Harry Scurfman so often.

Eva visited Harry’s place regularly to measure his blood pressure and check that he was taking his heart pills. She had no problems with him. Ethel Henderson, who sold Harry eggs, stopped at the store one day to tell Stan, “I think the old coot’s sweet on your Eva.”

Stan knew better. “Naw, Harry ain’t got no sweet in him.”

In April of 1956, feuding flared up between the Conroys and Harry. As Eva was taking his blood pressure one afternoon, he railed, “Them damn Conroys pulled a fast one on me when I tried to help ’em out, selling them some of my land. Dirty city slickers.”

“But Mr. Scurfman,” Eva said, “Crickette and Max paid you the price
you
set.” She looked sternly at Harry. “It was a rich price, too. You mustn’t speak so.”

“If it’s such a rich price, how come they tromp all the way here from Chicago to get it? Huh? Explain me that! And then that big lug goes out and steals my idea for a mail alarm. Steals it big as shit. My one chance to make the big time. I’d like to—”

“Carrying on so! How can I measure you properly?” Eva unsnapped the blood pressure sleeve roughly and shoved it in her bag. “Maybe you’d prefer I don’t come anymore?”

Harry’s eyes darted back and forth like a little boy caught cheating by his teacher. Air hissed in and out of his nose, but he said nothing.

Eva stood and snapped her bag shut. “In that case, I’ll speak with Doctor Fletcher.”

“That quack! He’d like to leave me on my own, even sick as I am.” Harry squirmed. “Aw, you don’t have to say nothin’ to him—I’ll keep my trap shut.”

When Stan heard from Ethel Henderson that Harry was hitting the hooch pretty hard, he worried about Eva. Over dinner one night, he said, “All that boozin’. Look honey, I know you gotta visit the old rascal regular. Just please don’t take no chances around him.”

Eva stopped cutting her pork chop in mid-slice. “I do worry the drinking hurts his heart. And his anger! He mutters that Max steals his idea for the mails. Any idea what this is?”

Stan laughed. “Way I heard it, Harry rigged a second flag on his mail box, a yellow one that springs up when the mail carrier puts his delivery in his box. With binoculars, he sees the raised yellow flag and knows the mail’s there. Told Ethel he figured on getting’ rich on the idea, but he never did nothing with it, far as anyone knows. Nothin’ other than save an extra hike to the road.” Stan put down his knife and fork. He sipped his milk. “You know Max’s driveway hops a hill out to the county road, so they didn’t have line-of-sight to their mailbox. Well, Max is pretty handy—rigged hisself up a switch on the box and an electrical loop that lights a bulb in the house when the mail comes. Maybe he did get the idea from Harry. Anyway, it griped the old geezer, and Max’s wires were cut once. Uncle Jess warned Harry, that tamperin’ with the mail’s a federal crime.” Stan grinned. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but the wires ain’t been cut since.”

“Hmm.” Eva touched her napkin to her lips. “I’ve worried about his threats—at Doc, at Max, at Jess. Especially since Harry hasn’t kept his promise to stop. They must be careful.”

“Don’t worry ’bout Harry. Not for Uncle Jess anyways. He can take care of hisself. As for Max, Harry’s rantin’ is about like a rattler threatenin’ a bull buffalo—not much of a match-up.” Stan scratched his chin. “Still, even a busted clock’s right twice a day. I’ll mention to Uncle Jess to keep his eyes open.”

Max had bigger things than Harry eating him the summer of 1956. Crickette had been feeling poorly. From Max’s comments, it sounded like gut problems. Eva flew to her side like a sister. “Whenever she isn’t visiting Doc Fletcher’s patients,” Max told Jess, “Eva’s over at our place, cooking, Hoovering, polishing, and caring for Crickette.”

Eva worried. “Crickette doesn’t like seeing doctors,” she told Stan. “She fights going in, no matter how Max pleads. No matter how bad the pain is.”

But by early November, suffering had worn her down, and Max called Jess for help. “Eva’s finally talked
Chérie
into seeing Doc Fletcher. I need to get her to the office, but my truck’s broke down. Any way you could give us a lift this early afternoon, pardner?”

“Happy to help, but my damn shoulder’s acting up. Carrie can drive us.” The Garritys took Crickette and Max into town. Eva met them at the office. She and Crickette were in Doc’s exam room for quite a while before Doc called Max in. Five minutes later the Conroys came out arm-in-arm, each supporting the other. Jess knew by the gray of their faces that the news wasn’t good.

Carrie went to Crickette. Max patted his wife’s hand, and he shambled over to Jess and leaned full on his shoulder like he couldn’t support himself. “Not good, partner,” Max whispered, “looks like woman’s cancer.”

The men stood silent, one not knowing what to say and the other having said it all. The women sat in the corner, their heads together. The air in the room was thick and dark as January sky when Eva emerged from the exam room. She stood straight as a Sioux in the saddle. As strong. She brought everyone together and took charge. “From Crickette’s symptoms, Doctor Fletcher fears for ovarian cancer. He’s spoken to a surgeon in North Platte who will make an exploratory surgery in early December. Until then, I have a prescription for pain medicine. I’ll be in your house whenever I can, Max. Carrie, if you’ll help with the girls, I know Stanley can manage at home.”

Eva took Crickette’s hands in hers, and she peered into her eyes, and she wouldn’t speak until her sick friend peered back. “Sister, you must be brave. Remember the dark days we escaped. We can do it again, but only if you keep your courage.”

Crickette’s stare was blank, but she swallowed hard and nodded.

On December 9, Jess drove Crickette, Max, and Eva to the hospital in North Platte. The cruiser covered the sixty-eight miles down there in under an hour. They met Dr. Blanchard, the young female surgeon who’d operate on Crickette. Afterward Max said, “Dang, ya know she-docs exist—I read in
Look Magazine
about one curing blind kids in India—but ya don’t figure on seeing one with your own eyes.”

During the surgery the next morning, Jess watched Max pace back and forth like an animal in a cage.
Waits at the medic’s are always tough
.
Bein’ a lawman, ya have your share. There’s boredom, and that’s the easy part. Bein’ helpless is worse. It works out in the end sometimes, like with Stella Purcell when her horse fell on her, and it don’t sometimes, like when Billy Foster shot hisself. Either way, the waitin’s always tough.

It didn’t work out for Crickette. Dr. Blanchard appeared, still in her surgical gown, and took Max away to talk in private. A tall, gray-haired woman waiting out her husband’s gall bladder surgery shuddered as she watched them walk in silence down the hall.

The diagnosis was cancer. Cancer of the ovaries. Bad cancer. Lots of it. The surgeon told Max that Crickette had three months. Three hard months.

Jess drove back home that afternoon. Eva and Max stayed the two days until Crickette was discharged. Stan brought them back in his Plymouth.

Once Crickette was back at home, Eva was with her almost round the clock, especially the week after surgery. At first, Crickette seemed much better. And there was the holiday season. Like a January thaw kindles hope for an early spring, those days buoyed everyone’s spirits. They dared wonder if maybe the she-doc could’ve been mistaken.

In mid-January, Jess got an emergency call from the Conroy place. Eva was on the phone. “Sheriff Jess, you must come quick. Max makes a big walnut desk for a doctor in Broken Bow when it falls on his foot. A very heavy desk. We can move it but the foot is very bad. Very purple under the skin and very much swelling. Can you come?”

“You’re saying a desk fell on Max?” Jess asked.