"Business? What business?"
"Oh, dinners and meetings and things," I said vaguely. They were dissatisfied with this reply, but nobody protested too loudly. After all, they'd found a new replacement Chris, which was just as well.
They moved on to other things, and I sat back and listened. Angie's husband seemed nice, and Steve's wife got him to stop drinking quite so much. Mara and Thomas and Brent were working their way up their respective career paths. The children were adorable, and Derek knew enough about literature to pass muster. They were getting along just fine without me.
The one true redeeming quality of that morning's brunch was that it gave me something noisy and distracting to play back in my head later that day. I'm not one to say that modern medicine is a horrible thing, as I've reaped my share of benefits from it, but there is some terror involved. Terror! Giant whirring machines – x-rays bouncing off my insides – tubes where tubes should never be – sterile jars, cold stethoscopes, paper gowns, biopsy needles, and thick folders with charts stapled to them. The whole ghastly mess, in some kind of cyclical rerun of the time when my father's heart was failing him in the hospital and the doctors whispered to me that I ought to have mine looked at, if I really had been feeling uneven beats for a few months. I hadn't wanted to die like dad, so I'd put it off – until I realized that putting it off was probably what had killed him.
All this sounds more dramatic than it actually was, but I spent that day and most of the next in the hospital, while my health insurance adjusters probably groaned and made a note to raise my rates. My city doctors showed me into a conference room at the end of it and shrugged at me. Stress-induced heart failure, yes, but there was no further damage to the heart itself. I should learn to expect the arrhythmia. I could try surgery, but –
No, I couldn't. I didn't want to. I was scared, and why shouldn't I be. The mortality rate was high, the return uncertain, and I lived a quiet life.
More shrugging. It's your health, Mr. Dusk.
And with that I fled, signing all the proper forms and collecting all the paperwork and running away to Eighth Rare Books. It was the next best thing to my home – my village, my bookshop, my upstairs bedroom and tiny kitchen.
Marjorie understood, of course, so she coddled and entertained me while I nursed the bruised places where they'd poked me and the bloody places where they'd stuck me. We sat and talked about the usual subjects (books, writers, politics) until we were both talked out and her customers had grown annoyed with the rumpled young man who was taking up all of her time.
***
Thankfully, the weather held while I was in the city. The train ride back to the village that Friday was pristine and beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that I stepped onto the platform at my stop with the sudden realization that I should have called Charles before leaving the city. I would be waiting for quite a while in the dry but chilly afternoon before he showed up, if he was even able to get away and drive out to meet me.
I needed to call him, but I also knew that I'd need to find a telephone and money for the call, which was more organization than I was willing to cope with immediately. I'd just come from the warm, comforting rocking of the train into the freezing country air with my coat half-on while I carried my bag towards a windbreak.
"Hi! Hello there, Saint Christopher! Come and say hello!"
I looked up from fumbling attempts to button my coat and saw a young woman in a thick woolen dress and dark heavy boots hurrying towards me. Beyond her, an older man was securing the door of a camper-trailer hooked to a large, battered pickup truck. Two Low Ferry boys were loitering around the camper, looking curious.
"Gwen!" I said, startled. "Is that you?"
"Who else?" she said, stopping in front of me and looking me up and down. "Well. I heard you'd died but you don't look resurrected."
"Who told you – never mind," I said, because the children turned guilty faces towards me. One of them was the boy Lucas tutored.
"Come on, then," Gwen said, hands on her hips, and I grinned and shoved my arms through them, hugging her. She hugged back, tight enough for me to swing her up and around while she laughed. "Oh, Saint, it's good to see you."
"You too! I didn't think you'd make it through for another month."
"Well, the road was good and we'd worn out our welcome where we were," she said, taking my hand and dragging me towards the trailer. "We're on our way to camp. Do you need a ride?"
"I do, as a matter of fact," I answered, allowing myself to be pulled into the front seat of the truck after Gwen. Her father, Tommy, slammed the door on the trailer and slapped my shoulder in greeting as he climbed into the driver's seat. The village boys rough-housed their way into the back of the cab. The warmth was a welcome relief, as was the grunt and purr of the engine.
"Good to see you, Saint," Tommy said, easing the truck out of the train-station parking lot.
"You too, Tommy. I see you brought the whole clan," I said, as Tommy pulled the truck neatly into a slow-moving line of cars and campers of various sizes and ages, all of them looking battered and weather-beaten. "You just get into town?"
"Manner of speaking," Tommy replied with a grin, not taking his eyes off the road. "Buyin' supplies."
"From who?" I asked. Tommy tapped the side of his nose. The train station was a popular place for truck-drivers to pull up for the night. Unscrupulous drivers sometimes sold some of what they had to people who needed it. They got to pocket the cash, after all, and insurance covered the loss.
"Lucky we found you," Gwen continued, as the caravan made its way out onto the road. Mud and snow pocked the surface, making it a little perilous, and the campers moved slowly. "Been to city?"
"Just came back," I said. "You?"
Gwen shrugged cheerfully. "We've been round and about. Do you need any chickens?"
A loaded question requiring a cautious answer: "Dead or alive?"
"Prefer 'em dead?" Tommy asked.
"Usually. I'll take a few, but not for a few days," I said, as the truck grumbled its way towards Low Ferry. "Just looking forward to getting home today."
"Is it long, the train to city?" Gwen asked.
"Not really. City itself's a little tiring, though," I replied.
"So I hear," Tommy observed.
"How come you two are hanging around with these troublemakers?" I asked, turning to the boy and his comrade.