When Crickets Cry Read online

  He opened the door and stood a moment while his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. He pulled the pipe from his lips and nodded. "Doctor," he said, extending his hand.

  I extended mine. "Sir."

  We sat on the back porch, and Mrs. Trainer poured us tea while we watched their cat tear at a ball of red yarn. He stirred, occasionally looking at me, but didn't say a word. I had come to him, so, ever the teacher, he would wait on me.

  "Yes sir, well ..." I fumbled with my tea bag and eventually dripped it across my lap and laid it on the saucer. "Um ... sir, like I said, I was just driving through and knew from the alumni bulletin that you had retired here." I sipped, looking for the words. "So how do you like retirement?"

  He shook his head. "Hate it." He pointed his pipe end toward the kitchen, where somebody was washing dishes. "We both do."

  "How's that?" I asked.

  He wrapped his tea bag around his spoon, squeezed the dark juice out using the string, then carefully laid it and the spoon on his saucer. He sat back, sipped, looked out over the backyard, and said, "My whole life, I've been one thing. Doctoring is what I do. It's who I am. Retirement doesn't change that. So now I'm spending three days a week giving physicals down at the indigent clinic."

  "So you're staying active?"

  He looked at me, and inside his eye I caught sight of a flicker, almost a fire. `Donny, don't talk to me as though I were an old man. My body may be frail, shoulders not as broad. . . " He ran his fingers along his plaid vest. "My coats may not fit as tight as they used to, and I may take more medication than I ever have, but one thing remains ..." He nodded, looking past the backyard over his, and my, past. "You may take me out of doctoring, but never the doctoring out of me."

  We sat quietly, sipping, while the cat played. Finally he set down his cup and said, "I followed your story. Read it in all the papers. A few even called to interview me, but. . ." He held up his hand. "I declined." He leaned back, his chair squeaking. "I've often wondered what happened to you, where you went."

  He packed his pipe and lit it. The plume of air filtered out of him, surrounding us with the sweet smell. It reminded me of school, of endless days of discovery, of him, and of Emma. I breathed deeply and then held it a long time.

  He turned to look at me again, squinting beneath the smoke. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and then refolded the cloth and returned it to his pocket. "Now, you want to tell me why you're here?"

  "Sir," I said, turning my chair at ninety degrees to his, making eye contact easier on us both. "I've got a ... situation."

  "Well ..." He raised and lowered his chin and scratched a dayold beard. The cat jumped onto his lap, laid its head on his thigh, and purred. He looked at me, raised both eyebrows, and nodded. I had learned that very trick from him. That nod was how I told a patient to go on, without actually saying it.

  "Well ... sir ... ," I stammered.

  `Donny," he interrupted, "at my age, I never know how long I have. You better get your story in now, while I can still hear you and can sit up long enough to respond intelligently." He smiled and sat back.

  I took a deep breath, scratched my head, and started in. Every word. Beginning from the moment I'd left medical school, on through my residency and specialization in transplantation, through Nashville and then our choice to head to Atlanta. I told him of our practice, of Royer, of Emma's decline, and then of our last weekend at the lake. I also told him the one thing I'd never told anyone.

  When I finished, he sat quietly for some time, puffing on a cold pipe. His eyes had narrowed and he wrinkled his forehead. The cat purred, his hands stroked its silky black hair, and his feet sat wrapped in fur-lined slippers. He pointed to an orange tree that hung over his fence.

  "I knew a farmer once," he started, staring out over the fence. "Think his name was James. Had an orange tree, a lot like that one. It hadn't bloomed in several years and wasn't looking too good. Still had green on it, but not much. One morning I caught him standing next to it, sizing it up and murmuring to himself. In one hand he held a hammer, and in the other he held three twelveinch spikes. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me to stand back, and then he drove one of the spikes into the trunk, about knee height. That nail split the thin skin on that tree, and the farther in he drove it, the more white ooze seeped out around the head of the nail. He drove a second at waist level and a third about here." He raised his hand level with his collarbone.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "That's exactly what I asked him. You know what he said?"

  I took the bait. "What?"

  "He said, `Sometimes trees forget they were meant to blossom and just need to be reminded.' I looked at the three spikes and asked, `Why not ten spikes?' He shook his head and eyed the tree. `Nope, three is a good enough dose. Don't want to kill it, just remind it."'

  We sat for almost thirty minutes, letting the quiet breeze filter through the trees, ruffle the cat's hair, and roll the red yarn about the back porch. He dozed once, then woke only to doze again. Finally, he began to snore quietly.

  I stood just loud enough to wake him but not so loud as to startle him. He stood with me, looped his arm around mine, and we walked arm in arm to the door.

  He leaned on me and I leaned on him.

  I walked through the front door and turned to say good-bye, but he cut me off. He tapped his chest with two fingers. "After more than sixty years of medicine, I'm still amazed at this little thing. Fist-sized, it sits in the center of its, never stopping to take a break or even pause. So simple, yet so complex and so utterly unknown." He raised his hands in front of him, almost as if he had finished washing in the sink outside the OR and was waiting for the nurse to hold gloves while he inserted his fingers. "I have held more than a thousand hearts in my hands. Hardened arteries, plaque, small flutters, all signs of disease. To this day, I can close my eyes and run my fingers along the left and right main and tell you if there is disease or not." He closed his eyes and rubbed both index fingers along the tips of his thumbs.

  He paused and blew his nose again. "In all my study, all my practice, all my teaching, I never met another doctor as gifted as you. Your skill, personality, and ethic made for a great combination, but it wasn't those things that caught my eye that day at your interview with our board."

  "Sir?" I said.

  "You had something very few applicants ever have."

  I studied his face, not sure where he was leading.

  He placed his hand on my chest, palm flat against the sternum. "If I could get away with it, I'd strap you to a gurney, charge the paddles to a thousand, and shock you until your toes curled and your hair straightened."

  "Sir?" I said, confused again.

  "You need reminding, son."

  His wife walked up from behind, put her arm around him, and tucked herself under his shoulder. He looked tall again. He continued, "If God ever made one man to do and be one thing, it was you."

  I turned, pulled my sunglasses from my shirt pocket, and slipped them over my nose. "Sir?" I asked. "What if... what if I've forgotten how?"

  He shook his head. "Son, that well won't ever run dry."

  Chapter 43

  aturday morning found Charlie and me leaning over a dead pig, rubbing seasoning into the meat. Three things make great barbecue: preparation, heat, and the pit itself. Our preparation involved a dry rub of our secret recipe, which is heavy on garlic salt, pepper, and cayenne. We had lit the coals about 7:00 a.m., and would add more as the day passed, but the secret for good barbecue is "low and slow." You've got to be patient, take your time, and cook the meat slowly over ten to twelve hours, depending on the size of the pig-and you've got to keep your eye on it. If you don't enjoy that aspect of it, or the constant maintenance the fire requires, you might as well not get started.

  Perfectly cooked meat occurs within a rather short window. Admittedly, our best asset in this whole parade was Charlie's nose: he could smell "not yet," `just right," and "too lat
e." He was better than one of those little white pop-up things they stick into the Thanksgiving turkey that lets you know when it's done.

  We built the fire on one side of the pit, which generated heat and smoke that then wafted up and across an iron grate that held the meat before spilling out an eight-foot chimney. We controlled the airflow at two places: the door to the fire pit and the chimney. Too much airflow, and the fire would burn too fast and cause the meat to turn tough; too little, and the fire wouldn't generate enough heat and would die, causing the meat to sour.

  Since Charlie couldn't see the smoke coming out, we had bought a large thermometer, secured it to the iron lid, and taken the glass panel off the front. Charlie then read the thermometer with his fingers and adjusted the flow accordingly. Because we're talking about relatively low temperatures, say between 180 and 200 degrees Fahrenheit, Charlie was allowed some wiggle room. We messed up a couple of pigs before he finally got it right, but I'm not interested in a perfectly cooked pig. To be honest, if it made Charlie happy to tinker with it, I'd eat it anywhere from raw to cremated.

  CINDY PHONED IN THE MORNING AND SAID HER BOSS HAD called her in for half a day, so she'd be at the hardware store until noon. She asked me to pick them up at Annie's lemonade stand after she clocked out about twelve thirty.

  I parked three blocks down the street and started a slow walk up Main. Things were quiet, including Annie. Her "Lemonaaaade! " call had been reduced to the tarnished cowbell, slow, deep, and hollow. It fit Clayton.

  Annie wasn't pacing the sidewalk, soliciting customers, but sitting in her chair in the shade, wrapped in a tattered sweater that undoubtedly belonged to Cindy. I wondered if her inactivity would have an effect on people's giving. As I got closer, I could see that it had, but not in the way I'd anticipated. Her cup was spilling over.

  "Hi, Annie."

  "Hey, Reese," she said, jumping out of the chair and running over to hug my leg.

  But still the heart doth need a language ...

  She wrapped her left arm-still thick with plaster castingaround my waist and pointed toward the window of the hardware store. "Aunt Cici will be out in a minute. She's pulling some crickets for a man who's going fishing."

  Since Charlie had organized our little get-together at my place, I wasn't quite sure how we'd pass the time. Hospitality just isn't one of my gifts. But Annie's comment gave me an idea.

  I looked down at her. "Do you like to fish?"

  "Never been."

  I mouthed the words, but made no audible sound: "You'venever-been-fishing."

  Annie shook her head and laughed that beautiful, tender laugh I'd begun hearing in my sleep.

  "Even with all those crickets in that box at your house?"

  Annie raised her eyebrows and shook her head again.

  I walked into the hardware store and found Cindy leaning over the cricket box. "I'd like ... um ..." I looked down in the box. "Three dozen crickets, please."

  She looked up at me, rested an elbow on top of the box, and said, "You're kidding, right?"

  "No," I said, studying her face, "should I be?"

  Cindy stuck her hand back in the box and started chasing crickets. "It's just that these things don't always sit still while you try to lasso 'em."

  I looked into the box again and then out the window at Annie. This time I whispered, "I want as many crickets as will occupy her, you, Charlie, and me for most of the afternoon."

  Cindy smiled, nodded, and handed me a tube made out of wire mesh and capped with two cardboard ends. "Here, hold this."

  I held the tube while she wrestled the crickets. Every so often, she'd hold up her hand, I'd lift the lid, and she'd drop in a few before the others crawled out. It was a delicate dance, but we managed not to get out of time, and I never stepped on her toes. I paid, she clocked out, we moved Annie's stand inside and stashed her money in the store safe, then walked toward the truck.

  I held the door while they climbed in. When I got in myself, Cindy looked at me and asked, "Your wife teach you that?"

  "Teach me what?"

  She elbowed the door. "To hold the door. Every time we go anywhere with you, you're always holding the door. I'm not sure if I'm beginning to like it or if there's something wrong with me. I'm thinking about racing you to the next one."

  I thought for a minute and realized that maybe, somewhere in the residue of what was once me, I wasn't all that different from Annie. Maybe my inner emotions still had expression, still made it to the surface and bubbled out. Maybe I wasn't dead after all.

  "Yes, I guess she did. I've never really thought about it. And no, I don't think there's anything wrong with you."

  Cindy smiled, and Annie inched closer to me, rubbing her shoulder and leg against mine.

  Because it wasn't too much out of the way, we detoured past the marina, where I found Termite pumping gas for the weekend warriors. He looked disgusted.

  "Hey, Termite."

  He almost stood up but caught himself before seeming excited to see me. Instead, he nodded that cool-kid nod that says, I'm doing just fine here on my own private island, and I can do with or without you. Your presence doesn't change things a bit.

  Termite wasn't a very good liar. He was in bad need of some friends. "What time you get off?" I asked.

  "Couple of hours."

  "You got dinner plans?"

  He looked at me suspiciously and even took a step back. "Why?"

  I shook my head and smiled. "You really don't trust people, do you?"

  "Nope." He looked around the marina and waited for me to carry the conversation again. He spun his Zippo lighter across the thigh of his cut-off jeans, spending energy and time.

  I obliged him. "Because Charlie and I are cooking a pig, and we're having a few folks over. Thought you might enjoy it."

  "What time?"

  "Whenever. Nothing's too formal. It'll be ready whenever you get there. If it's not, it will be soon enough."

  Termite looked out over the marina again. "I might stop by for a few minutes."

  "Well, if you can fit us into your busy social schedule, drive north to the bridge and then turn back six houses. We're on the southeastern side. You'll smell the fire."

  Ajet Ski was parked nearby, painted in flames. Down the side someone had airbrushed The Rocket.

  "That yours?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "You build it?"

  He nodded again.

  I patted him on the shoulder, which caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise like a pit bull's. "See you, Termite."

  He looked toward my car and saw Cindy and Annie. He said, "Hey, Doc, they be there?"

  His question stopped me. I turned around. "What'd you say?"

  "I asked if those two would be there."

  "Why'd you say `Doc'?"

  Termite shrugged and stuffed his lighter back into his pocket. "Dunno. Guess 'cause you're always checking on people, and you remind me of this doctor I had back home."

  I looked at the car then back at Termite. "Yes, they'll be there."

  "Okay." Termite nodded almost to himself. I drove out of the marina parking lot, and Cindy asked, "Wasn't that kid in The Well the other night? Sitting at the bar by himself?"

  I nodded. "Termidus Cain is his name."

  "What?"

  "Uh-huh, that's why he goes by Termite."

  "I'm not sure which is worse."

  "He's new around here. Running from something. Needs some friends and maybe a hot meal too. Besides," I added, pointing my thumb over my shoulder and out the back window, "I was hoping he might bring his jet Ski."

  Cindy looked as if she wanted to say something, but let it go. We drove the last few miles in relative silence.

  We pulled off the hard road, down the gravel drive, and back into the woods where my house sat tucked into the edge of the lake. Charlie was sitting next to the fire, snoring, when we drove up. His chair was leaning against a tree, his Atlanta Braves baseball cap covered his eyes, and Georgi
a lay at his feet, her nose pointed toward the pig.

  The girls changed inside while Charlie and I fed more coals to the fire. I had raked the beach below my house and placed two beach chairs facing southward along the lake.

  Cindy saw the setup and made a beeline for the beach, her flipflops smacking her heels as she walked across the cool sand. She wore a two-piece suit. The bottom looked like a normal girl's bathing suit while the top looked more like a tank top. If she were tanning, she wouldn't have to put lotion on her stomach or back, because they were covered. When she spread her towel across the seat, I saw a four-inch, horizontal scar just above her belt line. About where her kidney was. Or used to be.

  Annie skipped down to the beach wearing a little girl's twopiece. It was a mixture of orange and green neon colors and was too big, hanging loosely about both her hips and chest. It looked like one of those suits little girls wore when they wished they were more grown-up.

  Her chest incision had healed well. Staple holes dotted the sides of the scar, which was red and raised somewhat. But for the most part, Annie had not scarred badly. Which was good. And the fact that she wasn't afraid to let the world see it meant she hadn't scarred too badly on the inside either. Both would make the next surgery less difficult for whoever did it-cutting her open and sewing her up would take less time, not to mention the fact that she'd be less conscious of it for the rest of her life.

  Cindy read while Annie began working on a sand castle, but her energies were low. So I set up an umbrella, and she napped for a couple of hours while Cindy finished a novel.

  When she placed it on the beach next to her, I asked, "Any good?"

  She shrugged. "It had its moments."

  "What else you bring?"

  Cindy readjusted the towel behind her shoulders and said, "Nothing. What you got?"

  "Not much. Most of the folks I read are dead or so boring they ought to be."

  "What about all those people you're always quoting?"

  "You sure?"

  She shrugged again. "Why not?"

  I ran inside, picked Robinson Crusoe off my bedside table, pulled out my bookmark, and then made a pitcher full of raspberry fruit smoothies on my way back out the door. When I passed Charlie at the fire pit, he held out his hand. I placed a glass in it, and he placed his other hand on my shoulder and whispered something.