God's Country

On Friday, Boo Radley left a message at the agency. Nora, the part-time receptionist, handed it to her with a wink. It said, "Discarded plaything requires callback," with his number. Miranda flushed, but in a way, it was better than if he’d left his name.

She called him from a payphone, in the middle of the day when she figured he was likely to be at work. He was, his machine picked up. That sweet southern accent flowed out of it, giving the usual instructions. She was barely listening, constructing what she wanted to say. But at the end of the message, he said, "If this is Miranda, leave me your home number unless you’d like me to keep leaving creative messages at your office."

So when the beep sounded, she merely said, "This is Miranda," and left her number. She hoped he wouldn’t speak to her mother.

She had spoken to Rick that morning about the weekend routine. He’d been in a sullen mood, refusing to talk about what had happened with Sandy. Miranda hoped that someone had told him about her, but she doubted it. She had discovered that the entire family lived off of Rick’s disability check. The other vehicle that had hit his car, paralyzing him, was a park ranger’s truck. Worse, the ranger had been drunk, and driving at unsafe speeds. So Rick received a pretty fair settlement and lived off the county. He had plenty to provide for good private medical care, and even an apartment in town. But he had chosen to stay out on the res and help out his family. His money bought all the food in the house. All the booze, all the drugs. The big TV. In return, the family had nearly killed him with neglect and dirt. They were unlikely to tell him a truth that might make him finally angry enough to leave them.

"So, Rick," said Miranda as she wheeled him out to the sink for a hair wash. "I was thinking that, if you wanted, I could come out on Saturdays and set you up so that all someone would have to do is empty your catheter bag and bring you a washcloth and basin on Sunday. If you are careful with your diet, you should be able to last until Monday morning, no problem." She had taken Roberta’s suggestion about keeping one day to herself very seriously.

"You’d come here on Saturday?"

"I live right in Vallejo," she said. "It’s not far, and it only takes an hour or less, if we wash your hair on Fridays." She tilted his head back against the sink and ran the water, unable to help admiring the spill of hair in the sink.

"Of course, on the weekend, you would be my private client, so you’d have to pay me separately."

He clutched the towel around his neck with one hand. "How much?"

She calculated swiftly. "I think $40 a visit should do it. You can pay me at the end of the month, when you’ve gotten your check." It was more than reasonable.

He knew it and nodded. "Yeah, okay." He closed his eyes and gave in to the warm water. She watched him, seeking the person who had drawn the pictures she saw in the sketchbook. Her hand cupped over his ear to protect him from the sluicing spray. Donny came in while she had her fingers dug deep in shampoo foam. He watched her intently, not saying anything.

"Hello, Donny, is there something I can do for you?" she said finally.

"Oh, yes, nursey," he said, rubbing his crotch. She didn’t bother to react.

"Shut the fuck up, Donny. That’s my nurse," said Rick, without opening his eyes. To my surprise, Donny’s mouth tightened and he walked away.

"Does he always talk to you like that?" Rick said quietly.

Miranda shrugged. "Sometimes."

"He won’t anymore," said Rick. "What about the others?"

"They ignore me, mostly. As soon as I enter a room, they shuffle out of it. I’m like the plague. Michael gets me things if I ask him, but he never talks and he never looks at me."

Rick grinned. "He likes you."

Miranda found herself blushing. "Quit it, he does not," she said.

"Come on, he’s a fucking handsome Indian, ain’t he?" he said, opening his eyes and laughing as she completed the rinse-out and turned off the water.

"No handsomer than you," she replied, not meaning to say it. There was a silence. "I mean, you’re twins, right?" she said hastily.

"Right," he said, no longer smiling. She lowered him back into his chair and finished up for the day. She saw Michael on her way out and smiled at him. He smiled back before he could think about it, then quickly looked away and ducked into the kitchen. She followed him and found him with Donny, who was wearing his apron and mopping the kitchen floor.

"Why don’t you ever clean up in Rick’s room?" she said bluntly. "It’s gross in there." She turned to Michael without waiting for an answer from Donny. "Can you please make sure that someone cleans up in there at least once a week? Rick supports you, and that makes him the head of the household. Show some respect." Michael nodded, eyes on the floor.

As she left, she caught a glimpse of Rick’s mother, on her knees in her small bedroom off the living room, praying with a rosary. She was nearly always back there, or off playing bingo at the church. Miranda could hear Tootie’s coarse laughter as he and a few other friends moved around in the back rooms. If the woman would only come out of her room. Her constant defeated air hung over the house, a visible case of spiritual destitution. She had turned to God for her own salvation, but closed the door for her family to turn to her.

Miranda finished her rounds early so she could take her mother to the doctor. She made as if to follow Nadine into the examining room but her mother waved her off irritably. Miranda locked eyes with Dr. Abrams. He acknowledged her with a crisp nod. She’d worked with him on several of her cases. So Miranda let her mother go alone, certain the doctor would tell her everything she needed to know.

While she waited, she flipped guiltily through a an old copy of Cosmopolitan, actually looking at the hairstyles and makeup tips, the fashion advice and the stories of sexually adventurous women who all seemed to live in New York City. It made her feel marginally better that perhaps there was one place in the country where she wouldn’t have to feel like a slut for sleeping with Boo on their first, and as far as she was concerned, only date.

It bothered her, not just that she’d slept with him, but that she’d wanted to so badly, that she’d enjoyed it so much. She’d been afraid that if she’d woken him, she wouldn’t have wanted to leave. She’d been afraid to call him again, because she knew she’d end right back up on her back, memorizing the cracks in his bedroom ceiling. She was a serious person, with serious things to worry about. Her mother probably had lung cancer. She had many patients to take care of, people who needed her, who took up all her time. She had a few good friends to hang out in with few spare hours. She didn’t have room in her life to go haring after some random guy. She felt pretty well prepared for her inevitable conversation with Boo.

Dr. Abrams came into the waiting room and beckoned her into his office. Her mother was still in the examining room, getting dressed. "I’m so sorry, Miranda," was all he said, and all other thoughts left her head.

She took a number of deep breaths, managing to say calmly, "How long?"

"Hard to say, she’s a stubborn ol’ gal and I know you’ll be taking excellent care of her. With luck, a year or more. Possibly less, if it progresses faster than we hope." The gray eyes behind his large wire-framed glasses were sympathetic. Miranda looked at the files on his desk.

"Treatment options?"

"Honestly, Miranda, there isn’t much. She has so little tissue left, even if we could kill off the cancer with radiation or chemo, it would destroy the little healthy tissue she has left and leave her on artificial respiration, which I don’t think either of you want."

Miranda nodded. She already knew, but she had to hear it, to make sure it was real.

"She’ll be coming in here any second, Miranda. Are you ready or do you need a moment?" A massive fist was crushing her heart.

"I’m fine, bring her in," she said.

Later, back at home, they’d had one good long cry together, hugging each other tightly on the worn sofa in the rarely used living room. Then Miranda had wiped her eyes and tucked her mother gently into bed. She was brewing her some tea when the phone rang. It was Boo, and he was definitely on the huff.

"Well, fancy hearing your actual voice again," he said.

"Boo, I’m sorry, this isn’t really a good time," she said, and broke into uncontrollable sobs.

"Darlin’, what’s wrong?" he said, his tone changing instantly to one of urgent, warm concern.

"It’s my Ma," she gasped out between sobs. "I can’t…she has…I have to go, I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later, I promise," she said, and hung up, trying frantically to pull herself together for her mother’s sake. Alone at the kitchen table, Miranda fell completely apart for the first time she could remember.

The kettle whistled, reminding her of her duty. She stood up, brewed a cup of Lipton’s with a little honey and a squeeze of fresh lemon, and took it in to her mother. Nadine was fast asleep already, curled up like a little girl, one hand tangled in the sheets. Miranda sat next to her and sipped at the tea, thinking about what it was going to be like when the bed was empty, when Nadine was gone. Her thoughts were more clinical than self-pitying. Would she take over this bedroom with the connecting bathroom, or would she stay in her own, that had a better view of the trees? What would she do with all of Nadine’s unstylish clothes? None of them would ever fit her, she was nearly half a foot too tall and much bigger through the shoulders.

She weighed the pros and cons of going part-time at work. On the one hand, she’d have more time to take care of her mother as she grew progressively more ill. On the other hand, she’d be less able to pay for her medical bills. She resolved to speak to Roberta in the morning about that deal she’d mentioned. Maybe she could get some of the other nurses to take on Nadine as a patient for a cut-rate, which would allow her to spend more time at work and make more money. She could sell Nadine’s car – that would help a little. It was old, the Buick, but in good running order. She should be able to get a couple of grand for it. And Nadine barely used it even now. She wouldn’t be driving it too much longer.

She finished the tea and reached over to turn out her mother’s bedside lamp, but halted. She stared down at the dear, lined brown face, the graying, thinning hair. That face held every scrap of love she’d ever known. She’d only seen pictures of her good-looking blond father, a young sailor passing through San Diego, his arm around the pretty little Latina he’d taken up with during his short tour of duty. She turned out the light and walked around to the other side of the double bed in the dark. She slid in under the flowered bedspread and closed her eyes. She just wanted to hear her mother breathe.