“I’ll sure do that.”
Outside, Craig asked Marshall, “Mind if I leave my car here? I was going to stroll around town a little bit, enjoy the breeze.”
“Reckon so,” Marshall said as he painted the railing’s underside.
Craig walked toward the post office. Sure enough, Rockhouse Hicks was in his usual place, all alone at one end of the long, narrow porch. Craig sat down in the rocking chair beside the old man and said cheerily, “Good morning.”
“It’s morning,” Hicks said without turning. He wore threadbare jeans, old loafers, and a flannel shirt whose collar points had worn away.
“You pretty much run this place, don’t you?”
“The porch?”
“The town.”
Now Hicks turned very slightly toward him. “Me? I’m just one more retired old fart with nothing to do all day.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen how people treat you. They look up to you.”
Hicks frowned, then resumed his neutral expression. “I think somebody’s been talking out of turn, Reverend.”
“No, sir, I just pay attention. I see how people defer to you. And I was always taught to respect my elders.”
“You want me to get people to come to that church of yours, don’t you?”
“No, sir. I’d just like to invite you to come.”
Hicks almost laughed out loud. “I don’t think that’s too likely, Reverend. Not too likely at all.”
“Why?”
A new voice said, “This Yankee bothering you, Uncle Rockhouse?” The word came out Unca.
Craig looked up. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stood on the sidewalk leading up to the porch. His face was almost femininely handsome, with thick pouty lips and sleepy eyes. He wore a faded cowboy hat with the side brims rolled up, and black hair fell to his shoulders.
“Naw,” Hicks said. “This-here’s the new preacher over to Smithborough.”
Craig smiled, stood, and extended his hand. “Craig Chess, of the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”
The younger man was a full head taller than Craig. “Get the fuck away from me,” he snapped contemptuously. “You need anything, Unca Rockhouse, you call me.”
“Sure thing, Stoney,” Hicks said.
The tall young man went into the post office. He sauntered, just as Dwayne Gitterman had done in the convenience store, but with even more arrogance.
“Reckon I’ll leave you to your rocking, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said tightly. His temper seldom flared, but it did so now, and he knew he needed to leave. He crossed the highway toward the Fast Grab. He did not check for traffic, but in Needsville, that was not terribly risky.
Inside, he found Lassa again behind the counter. “Morning, Reverend,” she said brightly.
Her cheer defused most of his annoyance. “Good morning, Lassa.”
“You’re in town early.”
“I wanted to catch a few people and extend personal invitations for them to come to services tomorrow. Including,” he added with what he hoped was a charming smile, “you and your family.”
Lassa giggled. “I’m afraid we can’t make it, Reverend. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”
He leaned on the counter and asked seriously, “Lassa, why won’t any of you Tufas come to church? Any church?”
She looked down, studiously rearranging a display of portable lighters beside the cash register. “I don’t know about anyone but me, I’m afraid. I have to work tomorrow morning, six A.M. to two in the afternoon.”
“I just spoke to Mr. Hicks over at the post office. If he came, would you?”
Lassa looked up, eyes wide. “Did he say he would?”
For an instant Craig seriously considered lying. “No. But if I convinced him, would that convince you?”
“What’s that old man to me?” Lassa said flippantly. “I hate to see him come in the door. He pays for things out of a tube sock full of pennies.”
Craig contemplated pushing the point, but again remembered this was a preliminary scuffle, not a final battle. He patted her hand and said, “Well, just know you’re always welcome.” As he turned to leave, he spotted the young man referred to as Stoney kneeling beside Rockhouse, deep in conversation. When he opened the Fast Grab’s door, both men turned to look at him. He was too far away to see their expressions, but he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain breeze.
Bronwyn returned from Knoxville that night with her leg in a removable fiberglass cast.
As promised, Bliss drove her there in the Cloud County Emergency Services ambulance. Bronwyn asked that no one else accompany them; she never again wanted to wake up in post-op and find a ring of concerned Hyatts hovering over her the way she had at the VA hospital.
The office visit had been scheduled for the weekend in case there was a mob scene with the media, but not a single reporter seemed to know about it. After examining Bronwyn, the astounded doctor scheduled immediate surgery to remove the pins and screws; normally this was done with local anesthetics, but her injuries were so complex, they decided to put her under a general. The surgeon, called in from his son’s soccer practice, was also amazed at the rate of recovery, and for one brief moment thought he might have to rebreak one place to get the metal out. But eventually they left the two pins that would be permanently needed and closed the incisions.
While she waited for Bronwyn to wake up from the anesthetic, the surgeon appeared, still in his scrubs, and took Bliss aside into a conference room. He seemed agitated, and frequently scratched under his beard. “Ms. Overbay, may I ask you something? You seem to know your stuff, and I know you’re from the same small town as my patient. Is there anything unusual in Ms. Hyatt’s medical history that might not be mentioned in her files?”
“Unusual?”
“Yes. Something in her family history, perhaps. Frankly, if I didn’t have X-rays showing what her leg looked like six weeks ago, I’d be convinced this was a whole different patient. She’s healed a good three months ahead of any normal prognosis.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It depends on the reason. If she’s just a freakishly fast healer, then yes, it’s good. If not, then it’s the sign of some deeper condition.”
“Such as?”
“Hell, I don’t know. It’s just weird. I looked over the army’s medical records on her, and I can’t imagine that the woman I just worked on was really in as bad a shape as they said she was.”
“You saw her on the news.”
“Yes, but the news is no different from the drunk in the corner bar: he might have a good story, but that doesn’t mean you can trust it.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “I’m worried that the army might have treated her injuries as more serious than they were, in order to get more PR use from them. That would be a gross mistreatment of the patient, needless to say, but sadly it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Has Ms. Hyatt given you any indication that might be the case?”
Bliss almost laughed. “Doctor, I promise, Bronwyn’s injuries were real. What you see now is the result of rest, good home care, and following doctor’s orders. I’ve watched it happen. If it’s faster than normal, then it just is.”
The doctor nodded, although he didn’t appear convinced. “I’ll make lots of notes about this, should Ms. Hyatt ever need them to pursue any legal action against the army. Or the Iraqis, for that matter.”
“Thank you. I’ll make sure she knows.”
After Bronwyn woke up, drank some water, and was able to answer basic questions, the doctor returned to explain the results of the surgery. “There’s a lot of rehab still to go. Realistically you’re looking at months, maybe years before you can walk fully unaided again. But all in all, it’s close enough to a miracle to have me looking over my shoulder for angels.”