SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4, PRESENT DAY
Clare sat in her kitchen, introducing Ethan to the wonderful world of squash, listening to her husband lose it over the phone.
“—then they asked for a goddamn ten-point transition plan, and I told them I couldn’t plan the damn transition without knowing who the hell is going to step into my shoes. They’re still refusing to look for a new chief. Absolutely not. What if the town votes out the department anyway? How could they ask someone to hand in his resignation if the job might not be there blah blah blah blah.”
“Mmm.” Ethan liked the squash. She had begun weaning him a month ago, when he hit the half-year mark, and now he was off breast milk completely, he’d developed a prodigious appetite for baby food. Unfortunately, in addition to eating, he also liked to throw it, stick it up his nose, and rub it into his hair.
“So I said they might want to think about the fact my resignation takes place on November eighth unless the referendum passes, in which case I get the joy of laying off everyone and shuttering a department I’ve given the last ten years of my life to.”
“I’m sure the referendum will fail, love.” It had damn well better. It felt as if every free moment either of them had had over the past two months was swallowed whole by meetings and town halls and knocking on doors and mailing out leaflets. They had spent their first anniversary apart; she on a phone bank Mrs. Marshall had set up, Russ talking to the Tri-Town Area Republicans.
“I told ’em Lyle would have to step in as acting chief. They accepted my resignation; I’m not changing it now and I’m not hanging around breaking in some newbie for free. If they want me to run a transition they can damn well pay me a consulting fee.”
“Russ, the money’s not going to be a prob—”
“It’s not about the damn money, Clare!” There was a pause. “I’m sorry.”
She returned the spoon to the mashed squash with enough force to send the jar sliding across Ethan’s high chair tray. “I’m not the person you’re mad at.”
“I know. I know they’re just making me so crazy. ‘If Lyle’s the acting chief, won’t that leave the force shorthanded?’ Why yes, it will, so maybe you ought to loosen the purse strings some, you cheap bastards, and give us the money for another officer!” He made an inarticulate noise. “Which they won’t do, of course, because—”
“What if the referendum passes?”
“Got it in one. God, Clare, I am this close to just quitting right now.”
Clare put the spoon down and shifted the phone to her other ear. Ethan, taking advantage of the single hands-free moment, wrapped his chubby fingers around the jar of squash and heaved it over the side of the tray.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Clare jumped up. The glass hadn’t shattered, but the kitchen floor and half of one cabinet were now decorated with a spray of pureed squash. Ethan, startled by her loud exclamation, began to cry.
“What is it? Is the baby okay? Clare?”
She gritted her teeth. “We’re all okay. Ethan just chucked a jar of baby food all over the floor.” She moved to the counter to grab some paper towels. Ethan twisted in his seat, reaching for her, crying even louder. “Are you going to be home soon?” She bent over and began wiping up the mess.
“I’ll try. Did you at least finish up your sermon?”
She tossed one soppy paper towel into the garbage and tore off another. Ethan’s cries were taking on a rhythmic quality, like a dental drill to the jaw. “Not finished, so much as I gave up on it. It may be the worst All Saints’ Day sermon in the history of Christianity, and I don’t care.” She laughed, because if she didn’t, she might start to cry. “I have to go now, I need to see to the baby.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“Love you, too.” It took five swipes to clean up the squash, and she knew she ought to go over everything with a wet sponge, but she just didn’t have the energy. She unbuckled Ethan and cuddled him close, rubbing his back and shushing him. He knotted a squash-covered hand in her hair and hung on as his sobs slowed down to whimpers. Her phone rang again.
“Hi, Reverend Fergusson? This is Washington County Hospital admissions. We’ve had an admission to the intensive care unit for a stroke and the family is asking for you. Mae Bristol, one of your parishioners?”
Clare’s brain stuttered to a stop. The baby. And no childcare. Twenty minutes to get to Margy’s and twenty minutes to the hospital from there. Elizabeth de Groot was away for the weekend. Could she call the Presbyterian minister? If it was a normal hospital call—but Mae Bristol was part of her congregation. Her mouth made the decision before her mind could. “Tell them I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She called Russ. “I need you to come home and take care of Ethan right now.”
“What? Clare, I can’t do that. I’m just about to start the shift-change briefing.”
“Have Lyle do it. I mean it, Russ, I’ve got a parishioner in the ICU and the family is asking for me.”
Silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, he said, “Can you wait half an hour?”
“I don’t know, does Mae Bristol have half an hour?”
He let out a puff of air. “Okay. Bring Ethan here.”
“What?”
“Bring him here. I don’t mind if he’s in the room during the briefing. Christ knows, we could all use something to smile about.”
“But—”
“You literally have to drive by the station to get to the hospital. It’ll add on two or three minutes, tops.”
“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” This was fine. It probably wouldn’t take her as long as it would if she had to wait for Russ to get home. She grabbed Ethan’s diaper bag and tossed the bottle she had made up for later inside. She set him in his playpen in the living room as she dashed upstairs, his indignant shrieks following her. She didn’t bother changing her jeans, just pulled off her shirt and wiggled into a black clerical blouse. She looked in the mirror to snap on her collar, and saw her hair was half down and crusted with drying squash. She swore, grabbed a brush, and frantically yanked it into a ponytail.
Downstairs, she plucked her travel kit off a shelf and scooped her son out of the playpen, snatching his coat off the stand on the way out the door. Car door, infant seat, buckle, tug. Diaper bag, yes. Travel kit, yes. She forced herself to reverse carefully and drive only five or ten miles over the speed limit to the police station.
She drove too fast into the department’s lot and slewed over two spaces as she parked. Car door, infant seat, squeeze, unbuckle. She slung the diaper bag over her shoulder, picked up Ethan and held his coat against his back as she carried him up the stairs. Past reception, down the hall, she nodded to Harlene at dispatch and rounded the corner into the briefing room without stopping. Only to see Lyle MacAuley, looking grim, several officers, their faces toward the floor, and no Russ.
“He’s—” Lyle began, but she spun on her heel and strode back toward his office. Harlene, out of the dispatch seat, stepped in her way.
She held out her arms. “Let me take him for a bit, poor little thing.”
Clare looked past her toward Russ’s closed door. “Harlene, it’s not your job.”
Harlene held a finger to her lips. In the quiet, Clare could hear sounds coming through the door. Russ’s voice, words inaudible, rising and falling in a soothing cadence. And someone else, crying. She stared at Harlene.
“Noble took a bit of a turn.” The dispatcher’s cheeks reddened. “He’s scared. We all are, I guess.” She held out her arms again. “Let me take him, Clare. It’ll do us both some good.”
Clare handed Ethan over. She set the diaper bag on the dispatch seat.
“Everything I need there?”
Clare nodded. “I’m not breastfeeding anymore, so there’s a bottle. Just in case.” She tried to think of something to say. “Harlene … I’m sorry.”
“T’ain’t your fault.” She took Ethan’s arm and made him wave bye-bye. “You go on to the hospital. We’ll be fine here.”
In the car, Clare mechanically reversed, drove, signaled, turned, stopped and started. At some point she realized tears were flooding her eyes. She went past the hospital entrance and around to the chaplain’s parking spot near the ER. She parked the car and turned off the ignition. She was crying in earnest now, mouth open, shoulders shaking. She needed to stop. She needed to get hold of herself. People were relying on her.
She unscrewed the top of the water bottle she kept in the car and took a gulp, then poured a little into her palm and splashed it on her face. She took another swallow. Leaned over the console and popped open the glove compartment, where the travel package of tissues lived. She pushed the spare hairbrush aside. Her hand closed over a bottle of pain pills.
Oh. Yes.
Just like when she took them from Audrey Langevoort’s bathroom, her body made decisions without her input. It was Clare twisting off the top and shaking a pill into her hand, yes, but it wasn’t her. It was a more selfish Clare, or maybe a smarter Clare. She laid the pill on her tongue and washed it down with water. Not unlike Communion. Take, and eat.
By the time she stepped off the elevator at the ICU nurses’ station, she felt wonderful. Focused, peaceful, with a kind of warm hum through her body. She could deal with Mae Bristol’s frightened family, and with the referendum, and with Ethan, and with everything. This was what she had needed all along, not day care, not meditation, just a tiny chemical adjustment. She breathed in. Quiet mind. Calm mind. She smiled.