To Be Where You Are Page 3

  He heard a kind of moan followed by a dull thud and the phone crashing onto what sounded like bare floor.

  ‘Dora! Are you all right?’

  Silence. ‘Dora!’

  ‘Come with me!’ he shouted to his wife, aka his deacon of many years.

  ‘The table,’ she said, holding fast to the one-legged side.

  He took it from her and laid the thing on the floor. ‘Dora Bolick has passed.’

  ‘Dora Bolick?’

  ‘Dora Pugh! No, Esther Bolick!’ So much for the caffeine-deprived wits of the retired priest.

  2

  MEADOWGATE

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1

  At Meadowgate Farm, the Queen Anne’s lace and bush honeysuckle of summer had given way to the ironweed and witch hazel of autumn. Gone were the lashing thunderstorms of August and the sultry rains that besotted highland meadows in mid-September.

  In the west pasture, six head of Red Angus cattle cropped knee-high grass mingled with clover and lespedeza. A muscular fifteen-hundred-pound bull named Choo-Choo didn’t meander far from the heifers. Two of the five were scheduled to calve in March and three were due late April, a month-long gap conceded to be a welcome breather on a busy farm with a demanding vet practice.

  At the Kavanagh Animal Wellness Clinic, the wall clock in Reception gave the glad news: high noon—or dinnertime, as the locals liked to say.

  Dooley Kavanagh, DVM, had just completed the repair of an aural hematoma in the left ear of a bluetick coonhound. Chester was pretty much a regular at the clinic, having gotten at various times on the wrong side of a bull terrier, a lawn tractor, and a tangle of barbed wire.

  He liked this hound, he had charisma. Hounds in general were great guys; he wouldn’t mind adopting one, but hounds and heifers weren’t always the best fit. Being fully ninety percent nose, the breed could hound a heifer till she gave him a jaw-breaking kick. The old farm dogs and Charley, their year-old female golden, were dogs enough for now.

  He soaped his hands and washed up at the sink in the prep room. Through the open window, he heard their vintage tractor bushhogging the north strip. That would be Willie, who’d been Meadowgate’s farmhand for thirty-five years and lived in the little house out back. Tomorrow Willie and Harley would be mowing hay.

  He was still in a daze, as if the life of landowner and vet was a dream. He and Lace had it all, but they’d invested nearly all to have this life. Things would be plenty tight for a year or two.

  After college and vet school and the hard separations from Lace and the long process of acquiring Meadowgate from his mentor, Hal Owen, and jumping through hoops for the adoption agency . . . after all that, there was this: his wife of three and a half months, their four-year-old foster son, Jack Tyler, his new practice, a payroll, the cattle, their farmhouse, a hundred acres . . .

  Unreal.

  And the dream had taken shape right here. He had come out to Meadowgate nearly every summer since he was eleven years old. This is where he had read and reread everything James Herriot had written, and pored over old editions of Beef Cattle Science. It’s where he’d watched the birthing of calves and lambs, colts and piglets, pups and kittens, and given a hand to Hal in more than one crisis.

  He remembered the blood on his hands from the emergency delivery of a bull calf turned crossways in the birth canal. He was fourteen, and had helped a living being come into the world. He had considered the delivery a badge of honor, and actually hated to wash up afterward. It was, after all, the crown of the veterinary profession—this giving a hand to life, to breath. Hal had trusted him to do it—a little anxious, maybe, but counting on the kid to get the thing done.

  Hal, who was pretty much a hero to him, was now retired from his full-time practice and working part-time at the Kavanagh clinic. The clinic had also been able to retain Blake Eddistoe, Hal’s longtime vet tech, and their receptionist, Amanda, who was also totally competent at everything else.

  It was a perfect setup. Even Joanna Rivers’s vet practice a few miles north was a benefit. Joanna didn’t have the mobility constraints or expenses of bricks and mortar; she had a truck and equipment and was good to go wherever needed. Most of Hal’s former clients had turned their large farm animals over to Joanna, which took a potential strain off the Kavanagh clinic.

  Still, a few of Hal’s old clients continued to haul in the occasional donkey, goat, or llama. Just last week he’d gone out to a horse trailer in the driveway and treated a mule—a fungus infection requiring a thorough hoof swab and a shot. It was ‘a drive-by shootin’,’ according to Harley Welch, who lived with them now in the farmhouse basement room with the canopy bed.

  He heard the horn blowing as the farm truck wheeled into the drive—Harley at the wheel, Jack Tyler in the middle, and Charley on the passenger side in full head-out-the-window mode. He watched Jack Tyler jump from the cab and run this way.

  Their little guy had been pale and uncertain when he arrived in June. Now he was brown as a horse chestnut and wired with a confidence that was amazing to see.

  Charley exploded into the room and dashed up the hall to beg a treat from Amanda.

  ‘Hey, Dad!’

  And here was their brown-eyed kid, grabbing him around the legs.

  ‘Hey, yourself, buddy. How was your trip to the co-op?’

  ‘Charley ate their ol’ cat’s dinner an’ pooped at th’ front door where people step an’ I had to stick my hand in a plastic bag an’ pick it up an’ flush it.’

  ‘Life’s little dramas.’

  ‘Charley jumped up on everybody.’

  ‘What did they say about that?’

  ‘They didn’t like it, so we put ’er back in th’ truck.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Mr. Teague was there, he told me to shut up an’ sit down.’

  ‘Ah, Mr. Teague. A sad old fellow. Did you shut up?’

  ‘Nope, but I sat down.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘I’m about starvin’. I got a jawbreaker in my pocket, Jake give it to me.’

  ‘Jake gave it to you, okay?’ He and Lace were in the throes of grammar lessons, the alphabet, numbers . . .

  Jack Tyler ran to the ruler on the wall. ‘Hey, Dad, come see how high I am. Jake says I shot up a foot.’

  He would take a full lunch hour today; he had bolted lunch for two weeks. They wanted time to talk with Jack Tyler, plant the seed—December was coming fast . . .

  ‘Hey, Dad, come see if I growed any.’

  ‘Grew any. We measured and weighed you yesterday. Forty-two inches. Forty-two pounds. That’s it for now.’

  He was stumped about what to do with Harold Odom’s terrier, Hobie, checking in after lunch. They’d run the initial fecal test for Giardia and got a negative, but he wanted to do the ELISA. Hobie had been immunocompromised as a pup . . .

  Harley came in with a ‘parcel,’ as he called it, and set it on the sink top.

  ‘There’s y’r bag balm. Our rope ain’t comin’ in till Saturday.’

  ‘For my swing!’ Jack Tyler jumped around in scuffed cowboy boots, flapping his arms.

  ‘We gon’ have you flyin’.’ Harley grinned big; he was wearing his dentures today. ‘You gon’ be seein’ th’ other side of th’ mountain from that swing.’

  Their Harley—sixtysomething and a hundred and five pounds soaking wet—was family. Years ago, he had shielded Lace from her violent, no-good father, but that was only one reason they loved this guy. The downside was trying to teach Jack Tyler good grammar with Harley butchering the language.

  ‘Any news at the co-op?’

  ‘Jake says tell you y’r other vet’s sellin’ up an’ goin’ west.’

  ‘Joanna Rivers?’

  ‘Jake says ’er dad’s in a bad way, she’s leavin’ soon as she can sell up.’

  He was smacked by thi
s. Not good. No.

  ‘I’ll be paintin’ th’ glider porch this afternoon,’ said Harley, ‘an’ goin’ in town this evenin’.’

  Dooley grinned. Roughly twice a month, Harley trekked to Mitford to visit Miss Pringle, a French piano teacher who rented the rectory from his dad. Harley had subleased Miss Pringle’s basement for several years, and how those two had made a connection beyond lessor and lessee . . . he didn’t get it.

  ‘I’m gon’ cook a mess of collards f’r Miss Pringle,’ said Harley.

  ‘Give her our best. And be careful. Remember the curve.’ His dad used to worry about the curve; now he worried about the curve.

  ‘I’m half starvin’,’ said Jack Tyler.

  ‘Okay, buddy. Climb up here and wash your hands.’ He pulled the step stool from under the sink. ‘We’re going to talk about something exciting after lunch today.’

  ‘Is it a bike?’ Jack Tyler was buzzed about a bike. ‘With sixteen-inch wheels?’

  ‘Way better. Use soap. And wash some more, it’s lunchtime.’

  Joanna’s news was cutting into his gut like a worm.

  With Joanna out of the picture, clients would be needing the services of his clinic. Dangerous work, large animals. A kick in the head, a hoof to the jaw, a foot crushed beneath the iron shoe of a horse. Farmers were mostly vetting their cattle themselves these days, so the business was running more to the equine side.

  He checked his watch, his text messages.

  Lace. Painted hr + half! Love u. Carving out time for her art was hard. The whole place was going at a gallop these days; thank God for Lil, who helped at the house twice a week.

  His dad. Esther Bolick passed this a.m. will do funeral Monday cant look at trucks til next week. Praying for you & love to all.

  When he was a kid, Miz Bolick helped him bake an Orange Marmalade Cake, which won a big prize in a flour company contest. He remembered the bedroom slippers she was wearing while they were baking the OMC in her kitchen. The slippers looked like pink rabbits, ears and all, with plastic eyes that clicked when she walked. She had sent them an OMC for their wedding present. She was cool; he had liked Miz Bolick.

  Joanna Rivers. Dad’s melanoma going wild. Heading to Colorado as soon as I sell the practice. Any interest in expanding yrs? Best.

  Just what he needed—to buy another practice. No way. It was tough to sell a large-animal practice like Joanna’s, even with the mobility of a truck with all supplies onboard.

  He walked outside with Jack Tyler and drew in a lungful of the aromas coming from the house. Maybe their tomatoes with some spices, and somewhere deep in that smell, roast chicken.

  He took the hand of his son, grateful, and they headed to the house like a couple of bulls responding to the rattle of a grain bucket.

  • • •

  His wife was a dynamite beautiful woman, but even more beautiful when she’d been painting. Her art opened her up in a way he couldn’t possibly understand.

  ‘How’s Chester?’ she said.

  He liked that his family cared about his patients. ‘Great. He’ll bunk with us tonight. How’s it going over here?’

  ‘Hoed weeds. Painted. Paid bills. Canned four quarts of tomato sauce; we’re done with canning except for apples and pumpkins.’

  She had a way of looking at him; he loved coming home for lunch.

  ‘Grammar lesson this morning,’ she said. ‘Seems to be working, but you know he loves to say ain’t. I told him he could say it once every day, but only once.’

  ‘Very generous of you.’

  ‘Okay, Doc, you two clean up,’ said Lily.

  ‘We’re cleaned up, thanks.’ He was looking for the roast chicken. ‘So where’s the chicken we smelled comin’ over?’

  ‘That’s for supper,’ said Lace. ‘I’ve just been invited to Irene McGraw’s, Kim is here from L.A. And I have a list for the Local and a lot of errands and won’t get home till five. So we made supper ahead.’

  Kim. Irene McGraw’s Academy Award nominee sister. Kim had bought several paintings from Lace. He looked at her, inquiring, but she didn’t look back.

  ‘I’m takin’ my plate to th’ porch,’ said Lily. ‘We’ll not see many more days like this. Y’all set down an’ eat before it gits cold.’

  ‘Hey, Lil. Sandwiches, potato salad, iced tea? It’s already cold.’

  ‘You got fried bologna in that sandwich. Still hot.’

  ‘I like th’ same as my dad. Is mine bologna?’

  ‘Is th’ Pope Cath’lic?’ said Lily.

  Jack Tyler piled two volumes of Beef Cattle Science on the bench at the table and climbed up. He held hands with his mom and dad and his dad said a blessing and they all went Amen! together. Amen was the start of getting to eat and he was really hungry from going to the co-op for salt licks and laying mash.

  ‘When’re we goin’ to talk about what’s exciting?’

  ‘After lunch,’ said his mom.

  Jack Tyler did the two-thumbs-up routine learned from Amanda. ‘I have a great idea!’

  ‘He’s a man for the great idea,’ said Dooley.

  ‘You could say what’s exciting now. An’ I would eat every bite and not leave any.’

  She gave him a look; he picked up his sandwich.

  ‘You’ll stay with Lily today when I run to town. Harley will be painting the glider porch and you can help, so put on your overalls, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jack Tyler. ‘An’ I’m savin’ my ain’t to say at supper.’

  The new vet was hammering down on his baloney and cheese when his cell phone thrummed in his shirt pocket.

  ‘We need you,’ said Blake. Their tech didn’t call him at home unless it was serious. ‘Better get over here.’

  He got over there.

  • • •

  When?’ said Jack.

  ‘After supper,’ she said as she kissed him on the cheek.

  She speed-dialed Dooley as she walked to the car.

  ‘Water coming in on the floor everywhere but Reception,’ he said. ‘The plumber’s on his way. Don’t worry, go to town. There’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘Is there anything Hal . . . ?’

  ‘Hal and Marge are away ’til Monday. I’ll let you know.”

  Water coming in on the floor? Why? Surely . . .

  She caught her breath. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you back.’

  She would do what he said and not worry. That’s also what God was constantly telling her. Take no thought for the morrow, fret not; be anxious for nothing. In hundreds of ways, God was telling her not to do what seemed like everybody’s favorite thing to do.

  She was tired, really tired. Up before six and nonstop every day. But she was young, Lily said, as if that meant she was immortal or something.

  She turned right onto the state road and there was the deep green swale and then the Hershell place on the hill with its herd of little heifers who looked like toys, and the ragged ribbon of blue mountains beyond.

  She loved driving through the countryside in her blue Volvo wagon. Though the wedding present from her mom and dad was seven years old, it drove—and looked—mostly brand-new. Sayonara to her old Beemer that had totally croaked and was parked on blocks under the barn shed. Maybe they could get a few hundred for parts if push came to shove.

  All through college and the years after, she had saved every penny and stretched every dollar. She hoped push would not come to shove, or if it ever did, that it would wait a long time.

  She hated leaving Dooley and Jack even for a town trip. Though she liked a break, she felt she was driving away from part of herself. Jack Tyler was truly part of her; she couldn’t imagine loving him more if he’d been their biological son. She rarely thought now about the crushing diagnosis that meant she couldn’t have children. The pain was the only real rem
inder, and the pills.

  She glanced at the two dozen eggs in the basket on the passenger seat. She loved giving away eggs; people’s eyes always, always lit up. Who in Mitford would like farm-fresh brown eggs today? It was a favorite guessing game. Maybe Esther Bolick, who had baked one of their two wedding cakes.

  At Jake’s place next to the co-op, she turned left onto Mitford Road, hit Play, and sang along with the first tune on her country classics CD.

  ‘Try as I may, I could never explain

  ‘What I hear when you don’t say a thing . . . ’

  • • •

  He realized this would also be a blow to Hal and Marge. They would feel pretty miserable, maybe even guilty, all unnecessary.

  He was watching the kitchen clock—ten after five—and filling a bucket at the sink when she opened the screen door.

  She looked pale. Shocked, somehow. He had had his own shock this afternoon, but hadn’t texted her with details.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Where’s Jack Tyler?’

  ‘In the library watching a movie. He missed you. I gave him a snack. What is it?’

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said.

  Hal had warned there could be problems down the road, and the more-than-reasonable sale terms of the entire Meadowgate property had always been forthright: As Is.

  The inspector had given them his own warning about the pipes. ‘It was replumbed twenty, maybe thirty years ago. So maybe three, four years to go, no way to say.’ And now water everywhere but Reception, which was two steps above grade.

  She set the grocery bag on the table, afraid to ask. Dooley didn’t look like himself. ‘What’s going on at the clinic?’

  ‘I’ll give you a clue if you’ll give me one.’

  ‘Kim wants me to paint something for her.’

  ‘Great.’ Tap water pounding into the bucket. ‘But that isn’t what’s bothering you.’

  ‘She wants me to paint a mural. At her house. In L.A.’

  He sat down hard on the bench, wondering if he’d heard right.

  ‘For a lot of money.’ She drew in her breath. ‘Now you. I just . . . I can’t . . . Let’s do the clinic first.’