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Authors: Robin Hathaway

BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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The first thing I did when I returned to the kitchen was check out the gun. Following professional crime-scene procedure (although there had been no crime, at least none that I knew of), I donned a pair of my surgical gloves before touching it. All six chambers were loaded. When had he filled the empty chamber? While I was at the hospital? It couldn't have been easy for him. I visualized him, dizzy with pain, struggling to load the gun with one hand. Or had there been three empty chambers? One left by the bullet he'd fired at the barn roof to scare me, and two left by the bullets he'd put into that fellow down the road? A tremor ran through me. I had to know. I went back to the parlor.
 
 
He had been dozing, but he woke with a start when I came in.
“When did you reload your gun?” I asked pleasantly.
He blinked, then studied me thoughtfully. “I trust you didn't spoil the fingerprints.”
“I'll return it when your hand has healed.”
“When hell freezes over.”
His confidence in me was overwhelming. “You didn't answer my question.”
“What makes you think
I
reloaded it?”
“Who else?”
He glanced at Lolly, who had followed me into the room.
“You didn't …”
“I told you. She's not as dumb as she looks.”
“I wish you wouldn't—”
“You're afraid I'll hurt her self-esteem?” He winked at his daughter. “We don't go in for all that psychobabble, do we, baby?”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head and grinned.
The exchange had exhausted him. He slumped back against the sofa. Lolly and I returned to the kitchen.
I stared at the gun on the kitchen table. What to do with it? I sat down to think. I couldn't leave it there. But I didn't want to carry a loaded gun around with me. And I didn't know how to unload it. Lolly was watching me.
I reached for the tea towel that my surgical instruments had rested on during the operation and wrapped it carefully around the gun. Then I shoved it into my backpack. The risk was minimal. If I kept within the speed limit and avoided potholes, it probably wouldn't go off. I would keep it in my bureau drawer until further notice. If I really needed a background check on Max, I could always take the gun to the police and they could lift his prints and run them through the national database. If he had a previous record—bingo—I'd find out immediately. How I would explain my possession of the gun was the least of my worries.
Silently, the cats had resumed their posts. “Let's go,” I told Lolly. Together, we dismantled the operating room under their watchful gaze.
“How many cats do you have?” I asked as I scrubbed spots of her father's blood from the oak table.
“Twelve.”
“Holy mackerel! Do they all have names?”
Setting a bucket of soapy water laced with Clorox at my feet, she said. “My mommy named them for jewels. She loved jewelry. That's Sapphire—and Ruby—and Amber … .” She pointed out each cat as she gave me its name. “And there's Emmy on the windowsill. That's short for Emerald. And Di is over by the stove. Di is for Diamond. And there's Lappy—with the dark blue eyes—on top of the refrigerator. Lappy's short for lapis lazylee.”
“Lazuli,” I said, correcting her. “Where did they all come from?” I picked up the mop and dunked it in the bucket.
Lolly shrugged her big shoulders. “People dump them on the road when they don't want them anymore. Then they come up to our house looking for food.”
I grimaced at the heartlessness of people.
When the kitchen finally looked like its former self, I dropped onto one of the wooden chairs, my head in my hands. I had never been so tired. Not as a resident. Not even as an intern. Without my asking, Lolly brought me a cup of tea.
“Thanks.” I looked up at her. “Not just for the tea but for all your help. I couldn't have done it without you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She beamed and plopped on the chair across from me.
Although it was against my principles to interrogate children about their parents, Lolly wasn't strictly a child. She fell into a special category. I decided to bend the rules.
“Where is your mother now?” I asked.
Her bland, contented face became a sullen mask.
“Has she been gone long?”
No answer.
“Did your mom and dad have a fight?”
She squirmed in her chair, a sure sign that the subject made her
uncomfortable. I gave up. When I finished my tea, I said, “I have to go now. I need to see some other patients. But I'll be back tonight to check on your dad. Meanwhile, it's up to you to take care of him.”
“Oh, I will.”
“I know you will, Lolly.” I picked up my bag. “He'll probably sleep all afternoon, but if he wakes up, give him some tea and … some toast, if he wants it.”
She listened to my words as if her life depended on them.
“And if he complains of pain, give him these.” I drew a bottle from my bag and spilled two tablets of Percocet on the table.
Always the perfect hostess, Lolly followed me to the back door and saw me out. She waved as I boarded my bike. The last I saw of her, she was plodding down the drive toward the mailbox.
 
 
As my fatigue began to wear off, my mind started to work again, and the thoughts it churned up were not pleasant. They were mostly medically oriented. I buried the criminal aspects of the case. I would dig them up later and examine them. I knew my limitations. I could handle only one thing at a time.
The operation was just the beginning. Now I had to deal with the postop period—keep the hand free of infection and pray that regeneration wouldn't occur. Preventing infection would be relatively easy if I was careful with the dressings and Max didn't do something stupid—like take a shower without waterproofing his hand. But the second danger was out of my control. If the neuroma nerve of his index finger—on the side next to his thumb—decided to regenerate, it could ball up, become rigid, and destroy his pinching mechanism—the single most important function of the human hand. The one that lifts us a notch above the rest of the animal kingdom. The most important stage in an infant's development—the ability to grasp. I should know. Once upon a time I was a pediatrician, I thought ruefully. Also, regeneration is extremely painful.
As I pedaled my bike, I suddenly became aware of my right hand, the way Lucy, of “Peanuts” fame, one day became aware of her tongue. That was all she could think about: tongue, tongue, tongue. At present, all my right hand was doing was lightly gripping the handlebar—and occasionally, when I applied a little pressure, steering the nose of my bike. I began to think of all the other things my right hand could do. Like signaling a turn, adjusting the straps on my straw basket, and, most important, giving the guy who cut in front of me the finger. Others came flooding in:
tie a shoe,
pick a flower,
throw a ball,
catch a ball,
swat a fly,
unscrew a jar,
turn a doorknob—or a
page
—
peel a banana,
sign a check,
write a letter,
open
a letter,
paint a wall,
hammer a nail,
button a button,
stir soup,
make a fist,
clap.
A Zen saying came to me: “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” I gave a short laugh at my black humor. Oh my god, the list of things you couldn't do with one hand was endless. Not the least of which was running a printing press! Under normal circumstances, a printer needed three hands—even if he employed a printer's devil.
I dropped the subject. It was too depressing. Instead, I began to think about my patient's personality. Max was gruff and threatening, but—with a shock—I realized he didn't really scare me anymore. I had detected an underlying tenderness in his treatment of Lolly. That's probably why I hadn't totally believed his crazy threats. And his pose as a shabby farmer-printer didn't ring true, either. There was a force to this man. And the woman in me detected plenty of testosterone under that fake facade. If he had been younger, I might even have been attracted to him. Squelching that silly thought, I concentrated on my next problem: How was I going to convince Max to go to a medical center and have reconstructive hand surgery?
When Paul came in with a number of parcels, Maggie was still at the front desk. “Any problems?” he asked, not really expecting any. In tranquil Bayfield, there was rarely any trouble—except when bikers came to call. But that had only happened once.
She yawned and shook her head. “Have you seen Jo?” she asked.
“Not since this morning. Why?” He glanced at her sharply. Paul had developed a fondness for the young woman doctor, and he knew she had a habit of getting into trouble.
“We were supposed to go to the farmers' market this afternoon, but she didn't come. And when I called her room, there was no answer.”
Paul shrugged. “She probably had an emergency.” But he felt anxious.
“Maybe, but she usually calls …”
“Want me to take over now?” he asked, changing the subject. He didn't want to hear any more worrisome news about Jo.
“Okay. Then I can go to the store before dinner.” She gathered up her knitting and a tote bag full of paperbacks, the survival kit of a motel proprietor, and planted a kiss on her husband's bald pate.
 
 
Tom pulled into his driveway and unloaded his archery tackle. Then he unloaded a second tackle, the one he had prepared for Jo to use—had she turned up for her lesson. He wondered if she was done with her emergency. Falling for a doctor had its drawbacks. His best-laid plans were often blown to smithereens. However, this particular doctor was worth it. He had recovered from his earlier disappointment. Jo was the first woman he'd met who didn't play games. She was absolutely honest—to a fault, sometimes—and she never teased or cried or played the coquette. Three attributes that were worth their weight in gold. If he had to put up with an occasional disappointment, they were a small price for the benefits of being her man of the moment.
Of the moment? Tom grabbed a beer from the fridge and ambled onto his screen porch to enjoy the sunset. Was that all he was? A passing fancy? There had been a time when he had thought differently. But with Jo, it was hard to tell. Not because she was fickle. Not at all. But because she didn't seem to know her own mind. It had to do with that misdiagnosis in Manhattan. He stretched his legs in front of him and sipped his beer. She still hadn't come to grips with the death of that child—Sophie. She still blamed herself. Until she makes peace with her past, he thought, she won't be able to plan her future. He, of all people, should know about that.
Across the fields, the red disk paused on the horizon for a split second, then—as if pulled by unseen hands—disappeared. When all that remained was a salmon stripe, Tom stood up. If she needs time, he told himself, I'm a patient man. I can wait. He went inside to eat a lonely supper.
 
 
Tom was not the only man thinking about Jo over a lonely supper. A hundred miles north, in Queens, in an apartment over a print shop,
her father stared with a melancholy expression at the silent phone on his kitchen wall. He had learned not to call his daughter too often. It annoyed her. He had trained himself to wait for her to call him. But the waits were long and it was hard. During the days, it wasn't so bad. He still had the remnants of his printing business. Despite the change in technology, some loyal customers continued to patronize him. And recently he had landed a new printing job—a semiannual bulb and seed catalog. But the evenings seemed endless. He wasn't a big TV fan and his eyes were too weary after a day in the shop to read much. When the weather was fine, he'd go for long walks. He lived on a busy thoroughfare and he liked to join the bustle—trucks loading and unloading, shoppers, mothers with children. He didn't even mind the teenagers who, pushing and shoving one another, sometimes bumped into him. He felt less alone on the street. Then he'd stop at his favorite tavern, Murphy's , for a beer or two, and by the time he got home, he'd be ready for sleep.
But tonight it was raining. Even if he went for a walk, the streets would be empty. Absently, he flicked through a magazine. The
National Geographic.
Jo had given him a subscription last Christmas. It probably was about to run out. He admired the photos, which were first-class. And the printing job, of course, was the best in the world. But he wished they'd write more about things he knew instead of all those faraway places with their weird fish and birds.
Brrrring.
He jumped. The phone rang so seldom after business hours that it always startled him.
“Dad?”
“Jo. What's up?”
“Oh, not much. I just wanted to check in—and I have a question for you.”
“What's that?”
“Remember that time I caught my finger in the Multi?”
“Sure. Scared me to death.” He chuckled.
“Well, I have a patient here who did the same thing—with
two
fingers.”
“Oh god …”
“Well, here's my question. Do you remember how long it took for my finger to heal?”
He frowned, trying to remember. “It was years ago. You were fifteen.” Now she was thirty-two. “About two weeks, I think. I remember I had to hire a kid to replace you in the shop.”
“That's what I thought. Well, I'll tell my patient he can expect to be out of work for at least two weeks.”
“Does he run his own shop?”
“I think so.”
“That's rough.”
“He has a Multi.”
“No kidding. I thought they had all hit the graveyard by now.”
“It's not in the best shape.”
“So, how're you doing?”
“Great.”
“You still liking the country?” His voice held a wistful note.
“Yes, Dad.”
“I was wondering about the holidays … .” He didn't want to plead, but he dreaded facing Thanksgiving and Christmas alone. Not that he ever had. Jo had always come through in the end. But she tended to wait until the last minute. Of course, he knew she was busy.
“We'll get together, Dad. Either here or there. You can count on it.”
“Good.” He couldn't think of anything more to say, yet he yearned to keep her on the line. “I started the mock-up for that new catalog today.”
“How's it going?”
“Okay.”
“Who's setting the copy?”
“Lizzie.”
“God, is she still alive?”
“She's only sixty-five, Jo,” he said reprovingly.
“Sorry. Seems like she's been around forever. Well, I better go.”
Those dreaded words. “Okay. Good to hear from you.”
“Bye, Dad.”
He replaced the receiver gently, as if that would keep her on the line a little longer. Sometimes he thought he should have married again. But he'd never met anyone who could hold a candle to Jo's mother.

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