Bloodstream (32 page)

“But the clippings are true, aren’t they? He did steal a car.”

“It happened right after his father died. Do you have any idea what it’s like for a twelve-year-old boy to watch his father waste away? How completely it can break a child’s heart? Noah has never recovered. Yes, he’s still angry. He’s still grieving. But I know him, and I’m telling you,
my son is not bad.”

Fern held back a retort. There was no point arguing with an enraged mother. It was obvious to her that Dr. Elliot was blind, unable to see beyond her love.

Lincoln asked, “Who was the other boy?”

“Does that matter?” said Fern. “Noah has to face the consequences of his own behavior.”

“You implied the other boy started the fight.”

“Yes, to protect his sister.”

“Have you spoken with the girl? Confirmed that she needed defending?”

“I don’t need to confirm anything. I saw two boys fighting. I ran out to stop it, and I was shoved to the ground. What happened out there was ugly. Brutal. I can’t believe you’re sympathizing with a boy who attacked me—”

“Attacked?”

“There was physical contact. I fell.”

“Do you wish to press charges?”

She opened her mouth to say yes, then stopped herself at the last instant. Pressing charges meant testifying in court. And what would she say under oath? She’d seen the rage in Noah’s face, knew that he’d wanted to strike her. The fact he hadn’t actually raised a hand against her was only a technicality; what mattered was his intent, the violence in his eyes. But had anyone else seen it?

“No, I don’t wish to press charges,” she said. And added, magnanimously, “I’ll give him another chance.”

“I’m sure Noah will thank you for it, Fern,” he said.

And she thought miserably:
It’s not the boy’s approval I want. It’s yours.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Claire asked.

Noah’s response was to draw away like an amoeba, shrinking to his side of the car.

“We have to talk about it sometime, Hon.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is, you’ve been suspended. We don’t know when, or even if, you can go back to school.”

“So I don’t go back, so what? I wasn’t learning anything anyway?’ He turned and stared out the window, shutting her off.

She drove a mile without speaking, her gaze fixed on the road, but not really seeing it. She saw, instead, a vision of her son as a five-year-old child curled up, mute, on the couch, too upset to tell her about the teasing he’d endured in school that day. He has never been a communicator, she thought. He has always wrapped himself in silence, and now the silence has grown deeper, more impenetrable.

She said, “I’ve been thinking about what we should do, Noah. I need you to tell me what you want. Whether you think I’m doing the right thing. You know my practice isn’t going well. And now, with those broken windows, and the damage to the carpets, it’ll be weeks before I can see patients again. If they even want to see me..
.“
She sighed. “All I was trying to do was find a place where you’d fit in, where we’d both fit in. And now it seems like I’ve made a mess of things?’ She

pulled into their driveway and turned off the engine. They sat without speaking for a moment. She turned to look at him. “You don’t have to tell me right away. But we need to talk about it soon. We need to decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether we should move back to Baltimore.”

“What?” His chin snapped up, his gaze focused at last on hers. “You mean,
leave?”

“It’s what you’ve been saying for months, that you want to go back to the city. I called Grandma Elliot this morning. She said you could move back early and stay with her. I’d join you after I get our things packed, and put the house up for sale.”

“You’re doing the same thing again. Making decisions about
my
life.”

“No, I’m asking you to help me choose.”

“You’re not asking. You’ve already decided.”

“That’s not true. I’ve made that mistake once already, and I’m not going to repeat it.”

“You want to leave, don’t you? All these months, I’ve wanted to go back to Baltimore, and you didn’t listen to me. Now
you
decide it’s time, and suddenly you ask,
What do you want, Noah?”

“I’m asking because it does matter to me! What you want has always mattered.”

“What if I said I want to stay? What if I told you I’ve got a friend I really care about, and she’s
here?”

“All you’ve talked about for the past nine months is how much you hate this place.”

“And you didn’t care then.”

“What do you want? What can I do to make you happy? Is there anything that’ll make you happy?”

“You’re yelling at me.”

“I try so hard, and nothing ever satisfies you!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“You think I like being your mother these days? You think you’d be happier with a different mother?”

He slammed his fist on the dashboard, punching it again and again as he roared:
“Stop—yelling—at—me!”

She stared, shocked by the violence of his rage. And by the bright drop of blood that suddenly trickled from his nostril. It fell, spattering the front of his jacket.

“You’re bleeding—”

Automatically he touched his upper lip and gazed down at the blood on his fingers. Another drop slid from his nostril and landed on his jacket in a bright splash of red.

He shoved open the door and ran into the house.

She followed him inside, and found he’d locked himself in the bathroom. “Noah, let me in.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I want to stop the bleeding.”

“It’s already stopped.”

“Can I take a look? Are you all right?”

“Jesus Christ,” he yelled, and she heard something crash to the floor and shatter. “Can’t you just
go away?”

She stared at the closed door, silently demanding it swing open, knowing that it wouldn’t. There were already too many closed doors between them, and this was just another one she couldn’t hope to break through.

The telephone rang. As she hurried to the kitchen to answer it, she thought wearily:
In how many directions can I be pulled at once?

Over the phone, a familiar voice blurted out in panic: “Doc, you gotta come out here! She needs to be looked at!”

“Elwyn?” said Claire. “Is this Elwyn Clyde?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m over at Rachel’s. She don’t wanna go to the hospital, so’s I thought I better call you.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, exactly. But you better come here quick, ‘cause she’s bleeding all over the kitchen."

18

Dusk had fallen when Claire arrived at Rachel Sorkin’s house. She found Elwyn Clyde standing outside on the porch, watching his dogs run around in the front yard. “Bad business,” he muttered darkly as Claire came up the steps.

“How is she?”

“Oh, she’s wicked ornery Gone and ordered me outside when all’s I’m trying to do is help, y’know. Just wanta help, but she says, ‘You go outside Elwyn, you’re smelling up my kitchen.” He looked down, his homely face drooping. “She was good to me, what with my foot and all. I was just looking to return the favor?’

“You already have,” said Claire, and patted his shoulder. It felt like a bundle of twigs through the ratty coat. “I’ll go in and have a look at her.”

Claire stepped into the kitchen. At once her gaze shot to the wall. Blood was her automatic reaction upon seeing the bright splashes. Then she saw the words, spray-painted in red across the cabinet doors:

SATAN’S WHORE

“I knew it was coming,” said Rachel softly. She was sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a plastic bag of ice to her head. Blood had dried on her cheek and matted the strands of her black hair. Broken glass littered the floor around her feet. “It was just a matter of time.”

Claire pulled up a chair next to Rachel. “Let me see your head.”

“People are so unbelievably ignorant. All it takes is one idiot to get them started, and it turns into a. . .“ She gave a choked laugh. “Witch hunt.”

Gently Claire lifted the ice pack from Rachel’s scalp. Though the laceration wasn’t deep, it had bled profusely and would require at least half a dozen stitches. “Is this from the flying glass?”

Rachel nodded, then winced as though that simple motion had set off new stabs of pain. “I didn’t see the rock coming. I was so angry about the paint, about the mess they’d left in here. I didn’t realize they were right outside, watching me walk into the house. I was standing there, looking at the cabinets, when the rock came through.” She gestured toward the broken window, now boarded over. “Elwyn put up the boards.”

“How did he happen to come by?”

“Oh, that crazy Elwyn’s always tramping through my yard with those dogs of his. He saw the broken window and came in to see if I was all right.”

“That was good of him. You could have a worse neighbor.”

Rachel answered with a grudging, “I suppose. His heart’s in the right place.”

Claire opened her medical bag and took out the suture set. She began dabbing Betadine on Rachel’s wound. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I guess I was a little stunned. I found myself sitting on the floor, but I don’t recall how I got there.”

“You should be under observation tonight. If there’s any bleeding inside your skull—”

“I can’t go to the hospital. I don’t have insurance.”

“You can’t be home alone. I can arrange a direct admission.”

“But I don’t have the money, Dr. Elliot. I can’t pay for the hospital.”

Claire regarded her patient for a moment, wondering how hard she should push the issue. “All right. But if you stay home, someone will have to be with you tonight.”

“There’s no one.”

“A friend? A neighbor?”

“I can’t think of anyone.”

They heard a loud knock. “Hey!” yelled Elwyn through the closed door. “Can I come in and use the bathroom?”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?” Claire asked with a meaningful glance in Elwyn’s direction.

Rachel closed her eyes and sighed.

A police car had just pulled up in the darkness when Claire came back out onto Rachel’s porch. She and Elwyn watched as the officer stepped out of the cruiser and crossed the front yard toward them. He came into the light, and she recognized Mark Dolan. She was surprised to see him, because he normally worked the late night shift. She had never liked Dolan, and she wasn’t kindly disposed to him today, either, when she remembered what Mitchell Groome had told her.

“Had some trouble here?” he asked.

“Called ya over an hour ago,” Elwyn said crossly.

“Yeah, well, we’re up to our eyeballs in calls. Vandalism takes a lower priority. So what happened? Someone went and broke a window?”

“This is more than just vandalism,” said Claire. “This is a hate crime. They threw a rock in the window, and Rachel Sorkin was hit in the head. She could have been seriously hurt.”

“How is that a hate crime?”

“They attacked her for her religious beliefs.”

“What religion?”

Elwyn blurted out, “She’s a witch, you goddamn imbecile! Everyone knows that!”

Dolan’s smile was condescending. “Elwyn, that’s not very nice of you to call her that.”

“Nothing wrong with calling her a witch, if that’s what she is! If it’s okay with her, hell, it’s okay with me. I figure, better a witch than a vegetarian. I don’t hold that against her, neither?’

“I wouldn’t exactly call her beliefs a religion.”

“Don’t matter what you call it. Just ‘cause a woman wantsta believe some airy-fairy stuff don’t mean people can throw rocks at her!”

“This
is
a hate crime,” insisted Claire. “Don’t pass it off as simple vandalism.”

Dolan’s smile had thinned to a sneer. “This will get the attention it deserves,” he said. And he walked up the porch steps and into the house.

Claire and Elwyn stood together for a moment in silence.

“She deserves better,” he said. “She’s a good woman, and she deserves better ‘n this town has dealt her.”

Claire looked at him. “And you’re a good man, Elwyn. Thank you for staying with her tonight.”

“Yeah, well, it’s turned into somethin’ of a major operation now, hasn’t it?” he muttered as he headed down the steps. “I’ll just take these dogs on home first, seem’ as how they make her all tetchy like. Might as well get that other fool business over with, too. Since I did promise her.”

“What business?”

“Bath,” he grunted, and tramped off into the woods, the dogs trotting at his heels.

It was late at night, and Noah was asleep, when Lincoln finally called her.

“I’ve picked up the phone a dozen times to talk to you,” he said, “but something always came up. We’re pulling double shifts here, just to keep up with the calls.”

“Did you hear about the attack on Rachel Sorkin?”

“Mark mentioned it in passing.”

“Did he also mention he was a total jerk?”

“What did he do?”

“It’s what he didn’t do. He didn’t take the attack seriously. He passed it off as simple vandalism.”

“He told me it was just a broken window.”

“The vandals spray-painted a message in her kitchen. It said, ‘Satan’s Whore.”

There was a silence. When he spoke again, she heard barely controlled anger in his voice. “These devil rumors have gone too goddamn far. I’m going to have it out with that Damaris Horne, before she starts writing about Penobscot Indian curses.”

“You haven’t told her about your conversation with Vince, have you?”

“Hell, no. I’ve been trying to avoid her.”

“If you do talk to her, you might ask her about her good buddy, Officer Dolan.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“I heard it from one of the reporters, Mitchell Groome. He saw them together.”

“I’ve already asked Mark whether he’s been talking to her. He absolutely denies it. I can’t take action against him without proof.”

“Do you trust his word?”

A pause. “I honestly don’t know, Claire,” he sighed. “Lately I’ve been learning things about my neighbors, about my friends, I never knew before. Things I didn’t want to know.” The anger faded from his voice. “I’m not calling to talk about Mark Dolan.”

“Why are you calling?”

“To talk about what happened last night. Between you and me.” She closed her eyes, bracing herself to hear words of regret. Part of her wanted to be cut off, cut free. It meant she could leave this town without looking back, without struggling for the right decision.

But another part of her, the largest part, wanted
him.
“Have you thought about what I said?” he asked. “About whether you’ll stay?”

“Are you still asking me to?”

“Yes.”

He said it without hesitation. He was not cutting her free, and she felt both joy and apprehension.

“I don’t know, Lincoln. I keep thinking of all the reasons I should leave this town.”

“What about all the reasons you should stay?”

“Besides you, what other reasons are there?”

“We can talk about it. I can come over now”

She wanted him to come, but was afraid of what would happen if he did. Afraid that she’d make a premature decision, that just his presence alone would prove to be the most convincing argument of all for her to stay in Tranquility. So many things were driving her away. Just to look out her window, to see the impenetrable darkness of a November night and to know that that night is cold enough to kill...

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

She swallowed. Nodded to the empty room. “All right.”

The instant she hung up, a sense of panic seized her. Was she presentable? Was her hair combed, was the house tidy? She recognized these scattering thoughts for what they were, the feminine longing to impress one’s lover, and she was startled to be experiencing it at this late stage of her life. Middle age, she thought with a rueful smile, does not automatically confer dignity.

She deliberately avoided even a glance at her mirror, and went downstairs to the front parlor, where she forced herself to occupy the next moments building a fire in the hearth. If Lincoln insisted on paying a visit at this late hour, he’d have to be satisfied with what he found. A woman with soot on her hands and the smell of wood smoke in her hair. The real Claire Elliot, beleaguered and unglamorous. Let him see me this way, she thought rebelliously, and let’s see if he still wants me.

She lay down wood and kindling, then struck a match and touched the flame to the crumpled newspapers. The fire was well set and would burn without further attention, but she remained by the hearth, watching with primitive satisfaction as the kindling caught, and then the logs. The wood was fully seasoned and would burn hot and swift. She was like this wood, left dry and untouched for too long. She scarcely remembered what it was like to burn at all.

She heard him ring the doorbell. Instantly she was a bundle of nerves. She clapped her sooty hands, then rubbed them against her hips and succeeded only in transferring the soot to her slacks.

Let him see the real Claire. Let him decide if this is what he wants.

She went to the front hail, paused to regain her composure, and opened the door. “Come in,” she said.

“Hello, Claire,” he answered, equally at a loss for words. They just looked at each other for a second, then broke eye contact, gazes drifting off to safer territory He stepped inside, and she saw that his jacket was dusted with fine snow, that the darkness outside swirled with a powdery whiteness, like mist.

She closed the door. “I’ve got a fire going in the other room. Can I hang up your jacket?”

He took it off and as she slipped it onto a hanger, she felt the heat of his body in the lining. So many times before, they had met, had spoken, yet this was the first time her awareness of him extended to all her senses, to the warmth of his body lingering in the jacket, to his scent of wood smoke and melting snow. To the certainty of knowing, even with her back turned, that at that moment, his gaze was on her.

She led the way into the parlor.

By now the fire was fully ablaze, throwing its bright circle of light against the gloom. Claire took a seat on the couch and turned off the lamp burning beside her. The fire gave off light enough; it was in shadow she sought refuge. Lincoln sat down beside her, a comfortable space apart, a statement of neutrality that did not distinguish between friend, lover, or mere acquaintance.

“How is Noah doing?” he finally asked, neutrality maintained even in conversation.

“He went to bed angry. In some ways, he wants to be a victim, he wants to feel like the world’s against him. There’s nothing I can do to change his mind.” She sighed and dropped her head against her hand. “For nine months he’s made me the villain for forcing him to move here. This afternoon, when I told him I was thinking of moving back to Baltimore, he blew up. Said I wasn’t thinking of his needs, what he wanted. No matter what I do, I can’t win. I can’t please him.”

“Then all you can do is please yourself.”

“It feels selfish.”

“Does it?”