Nobody's Child (15 page)

“Straight ahead!” Laura Ann yelled, digging her oar in to haul the boat forward. Like swimming at an angle across a rip tide, their next move would take them across the current, to the safety of the far bank. Laura Ann dug her paddle in deep and pulled with her back and legs, desperate to propel the boat forward out of this misery. Working together, they pushed the boat across the center of the current and toward less turbulent waters near the far bank.

“Left!” Laura Ann screamed, realizing too late that their combined heaves were more powerful than she'd needed, the boat darting across the water to impale itself in a vertical bank. She flipped her paddle to the left, pulling toward the bow. Behind her, Sophia matched her moves. The boat spun on its axis, assisted by a strong upstream current. Half a minute after they entered the whirlpool, they shot downstream, caught in the flow toward Middlebourne. They were through.

Guiding the craft to the right, along the bank below the edge of Route 18, Laura Ann heard horns. One honk, then many, from cars and trucks blaring away up at The Jug Store. For the first time that day, she allowed herself a grin. The old
men at the bar in The Jug Store would chew on that story for a few years. A girl, and some woman wearing a pink top, shot the rapids at The Jug whirlpool during the worst flood on record. And they lived to tell about it.

It was a stupid move. She should have refused Sophia's request, no matter how dire her situation. Her heart pounding, she chided herself for letting stubborn pride get in the way, silently sure she could do this. Chiding herself for endangering Sophia — and the baby. Nevertheless, facing heavy odds, they'd won. She turned and flashed a smile to her newbie canoe partner. She and her sister had won.

Chew on that, Uncle Jack.

“I mean it, Keester,” Laura Ann said, wishing he'd move on. “We like to walk.”

“No can do,” the older man said, wiping his brow. “Got that canoe out of the creek for you, little lady, and I'm a' gonna get you to town. Right thing to do.”

Giving up, Laura Ann extended a hand. “Thank you. For asking the guys to help us.”

“‘Tweren't no trouble, Miss McGehee. Five of us, it took, but she's outta there, and the suitcase too. We'll set ‘er upstream of the jam and she'll be awaitin' when you comes back.”

“All right. We'll take you up on that ride,” she said, gripping Keester's hand with all the strength she could muster. “But only as far as Main Street.” She turned to her left. “This is my friend, Sophia. She came to visit but her car is stuck at my place.” She nodded in the direction of the truck bed. “Her suitcase. We're going to get her headed home today.”

Keester tipped his hat, a John Deere ball cap with a dark
stain of hair oil about the headband. “Pleasure. Reckon you wouldn't be drivin' outta there anytime soon.” “I reckon,” Sophia replied.

Laura Ann smiled, suppressing a laugh. Country lingo sounded funny in Sophia's city mouth.

“Alrighty then. Hop in, little ladies, and we're off.”

Keester Bays loved Red Man. Empty pouches of the famed chewing tobacco littered his truck, and a baseball-size wad of tobacco distended Keester's right cheek. Only Keester could stuff an entire pack of Red Man into his mouth at one time. The sickly sweet odor of tobacco spit blew through the truck while they drove with the windows down, headed a couple of miles into town.

“So, Keester, what's got you and all those boys up at the store so early this morning?” Laura Ann shouted over the wind noise.

“Road's out,” he answered, turning his head to spit.

“Road's gonna be out a long time, Keester,” she said, squeezing Sophia's shoulder. “Are those guys at The Jug Store going somewhere, or just hanging out?”

“Hangin' out.” He said it like “hangin' out” during a major disaster was all in a day's work.

“From out of town, huh?” Keester asked, leaning in Sophia's direction. “What brings you to these parts?”

“My late husband, bless his soul,” Sophia said, slipping back into her country role. “He loved these parts. Miss McGehee did us a big favor once. My James passed more than three years ago, and I got mighty lonely. So I came to pay a visit.”

“Sorry to hear that, Miss.”

Laura Ann choked, squeezing back another laugh. She ducked her head, then turned to face out the open window and feigned a cough.

Well done.

“We're getting off at the bank, Keester. Thanks for the ride,” Laura Ann said, glad they'd made it to town without a severe grilling. Or a proposal.

The truck slowed and pulled into a parking place. Laura Ann clambered out, followed by Sophia. “Gotta run, Keester. Say hi to Mrs. Bays.”

“Aren't you forgettin' somethin'?” Keester asked, looking back at the suitcase in the truckbed.

“Nope. I've got it,” Laura Ann replied. Before Keester could unlatch his seat belt, she'd placed a foot on the bumper and launched herself into the bed. She handed the travel case over the side to Sophia, then leapt out.

“Bye now,” Laura Ann said, careful not to touch the driver's side of the truck, draped in a windblown covering of dried brown spit. “Thanks again for the ride.”

Keester shrugged, then touched the bill of his hat in a sort of mountaineer salute, and drove away.

Laura Ann waved, glad she'd escaped without more questions, then turned to Sophia. “I need to go in the bank for a while. To make a deposit and check on the mortgage.”

“Is there a problem?” Sophia asked, rummaging through her purse for her phone.

“The flood. Fifty stools are due in New Martinsville in seven days. I can't drive them out.” She took a deep breath, trying to swallow her stress on the steps of the one place that could sink her. “No stools means no money.”

Sophia put out a hand toward Laura Ann. “I understand.”

“Anyway. I came to find out what the bank's grace period can do for me. I'll be about ten minutes.” She looked down at Sophia's phone as its screen sprang to life. “I know you have some calls to make. Try the Enterprise dealer in New Martinsville. That's the only car rental in the county. We can get you a taxi that far.”

Sophia nodded, a strange resignation in her eyes. “Thanks. I'll stay out here and watch the bag.” She looked down at her phone. “Got a signal!” she said, smiling.

At the top of the steps, Laura Ann looked back. Sophia stood on the sidewalk, the phone to her ear. Moments later, Sophia buckled at the knees, sinking down to sit on a low brick wall that flanked the bank's steps. One hand on her belly, the other to her ear, she bent over in a strange pose of concentration.

Or perhaps some unspoken pain.

“Your mortgage is due on the first, Laura Ann. In four days. Beyond that, the bank has the option — but is under no obligation — to extend you a grace period.”

Matt Parker, a persnickety loan officer prone to the repetition of simple facts, sat behind a broad desk without a single sheet of paper on it. Just a computer screen and keyboard. In all her days working with this bank, the only one in town, she'd never seen him handle a piece of paper.

“I know it's due on the first, Mr. Parker. What I'm here to ask is when does the grace period end? When is the last day that I can pay without penalty? Thanks to the flood, I can't get my stools to New Martinsville. I'm here to do some advance planning so that I pay on time.”

“That's distressing to hear, Laura Ann.” He turned to his computer. “But it confirms our analysis.”

“Distressing?”

“Yes. All of our loans are subject to federal audit. With your father's death — I'm sorry, of course — “ “I'm sure.”

“Yes. Well, with his passing, we're very concerned about your ability to pay. Surely you can understand.”

“I appreciate your sympathy, Mr. Parker. But let's get to the point.”

“Point? Certainly. We've rated your loan recently and it's been downgraded to what the banking industry terms ‘doubtful.' “ He stared at the screen like it was some kind of friend, never making eye contact with her. “We've recently been required to put up a financial reserve as collateral against your debt, Laura Ann. If you miss a payment, we may have to call the loan.”

“On what grounds?” The voice came from behind her. Familiar strength.

Sister.

Laura Ann turned, Sophia pulling a bag as she settled into the chair next to her. She took the seat as Mr. Parker looked up. She had her smile back. The woman who deflated on the bank steps had fled, the old Sophia returned.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Parker said, his eyes darting between the two women. “Have we met?”

“No.” Sophia unzipped her purse, rummaged for a moment, and produced a business card. “My name is Sophia McQuistion. I'm a tax attorney from Pittsburgh. And a friend of Laura Ann's.”

Attorney?

Laura Ann's mouth fell open, but she felt the touch of a hand on her knee as Sophia shot her a quick wink.

Sophia gave him just a heartbeat to review the card, then launched the question again. “On what grounds has your auditor downgraded this loan?”

“I'm sorry Mrs. — Mrs. McQuistion. We're not authorized to discuss that with outside parties.”

“Fine. I know the game, Mr. Parker. So, let's speak in the hypothetical. A ‘doubtful' loan is rated an ‘8' on the auditor scale, and represents debts for which the bank has demonstrable evidence that there will not be repayment. Sixty to ninety days
of past-due accounts, or loss of revenue to repay.” She paused, watching him. “Am I correct?”

He shrugged in silence.

“Has Ms. McGehee missed a payment?”

“That's not in question.”

“Yes, it is. You put the issue in play with that comment about the ‘doubtful' rating. I repeat, Mr. Parker. Has my client missed any payments?”

“Your client?” Mr. Parker stiffened, his face sour. “No. She has not.”

“So. If she's not delinquent, one of the two key provisions for this rating, then I conclude that you have downgraded her account for reasons of questionable revenue. But you'd have to show proof of that to an auditor, wouldn't you? Proof, it seems, you may have fabricated.” She looked at Laura Ann, then continued. “When is the next payment on this note due?”

Mr. Parker took a long breath, then turned to the computer screen. “Due in four days. On the first.” He exhaled a long breath, then added, “Overdue on the fifteenth. About three weeks.”

While he searched his screen, Sophia reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook.

Laura Ann's heart skipped. “No,” she said, reaching across the gap between them to lay a hand on Sophia's check. “I can do this. Please.”

“I know you can,” Sophia said. “This is not a loan. I'm buying your stools.” She turned toward Mr. Parker. “Let's be doublesure that some overzealous bankers don't arbitrarily downgrade a reliable loan.” She held Mr. Parker's eye with her last comment, and he winced.

In the silence between Laura Ann's amazement and Mr. Parker's discomfort, she filled out the check and signed it with
a flourish, then handed the paper to the banker. He refused to touch the check. Sophia laid it in front of him, then stood, pulling on Laura Ann while stuffing her checkbook in her purse.

“Deposit it, Mr. Parker. To the credit of Laura Ann McGehee's mortgage. Consider it an advance payment — and a sign of her reliable income stream.” She turned, grabbing the suitcase, and gestured with a move of her head for Laura Ann to leave. Sophia stared Mr. Parker down for a long moment.

“We'll return in one hour for the receipt.”

“That lawyer lady bailed her out.”

“Drug money?”

“Not drugs. Men. The paying kind.”

Her ears tuned to the loud conversation of two patrons at the pizza parlor, Laura Ann shoveled in another bite of Auggie's Old Fashioned sausage and mushroom. The little restaurant was packed for lunch, most of the people showing the effects of the flood. Muddy clothes, water stains on their pants, or knee-high rubber boots — coping with a tragedy that decimated the lower half of town.

Laura Ann dabbed at some pizza sauce on her chin and rolled her eyes.

“What?” Sophia asked in between bites.

Laura Ann nodded her head in the direction of the window, an older woman seated with a man about the same age, both of them outfitted in waders. The woman droned on in a voice loud enough to hear across the crowded room.

Laura Ann whispered, “Don't you hear what they're saying about us?” She wagged her head in the direction of the rude lady at the window.

“Every word,” Sophia replied.

Laura Ann smiled, cocking her head to one side. “You don't show it.”

Sophia shrugged. “I'm an attorney. And a good poker player too.” She shook her head. “Don't let it bother you. They're just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Laura Ann asked, polishing off the last bite of her pizza.

“No one's talking about them,” she said with a big smile. “So they yap about other people just to get noticed.”

“That's sad,” Laura Ann replied. The pizza, mixed with a stomach full of stress, soured in her gut. She waited for Sophia to finish her last bite, then gathered her things and stood to go.

Main Street of Middlebourne resembled the hybrid of a gold rush town and a national disaster area. Heavy equipment moved into town on lowboys towed behind big tractor rigs, all of them funneling in from the direction of Sistersville on the only passable section of Route 18. State emergency vehicles, news vans, and a Salvation Army food truck belched exhaust as they clogged the town's main artery. Mud tracked everywhere … red clay slinging off tires and flat chunks of mud squashed on the pavement like earthen cow pies. Up and down Main Street, people moved fast, a hive of bees determined to shovel out of yet another flood. A community knit together by dogged West Virginia determination.

“Does it bother you?” Sophia asked after lunch when both were out of earshot of Auggie's. “All that talk?” The two wove their way down the crowded sidewalk, loaded with groceries, two bags of jeans — and a receipt from the bank. A three-quarter mile walk lay ahead of them, headed out of town to the Par-Mar gas station, and the cab stand for the town's part-time taxi.

“Sure it bothers me,” Laura Ann replied. “Especially now. With Daddy gone.”

“Is that typical? These rumors?”

“Folks gossip. You're a new face and they probably wonder
what you're up to, spreading business cards around town and all.”

“We saw a banker, Laura Ann. That's hardly newsworthy.”

“It's big news for some. Uncle Jack's friends love salacious rumors. They'll probably label you as loose money from out of town.” She chuckled. “Maybe a brothel madam who runs her business out of local farmhouses.” She moved aside as a loud truck rumbled by. “Other than my uncle's friends, most people will simply wonder why you're here. Distrust runs high after a flood. Real estate deals, rip-offs, carpetbaggers. Uncle Jack will be busy trying to scam something in this, you can be sure.”

“You've mentioned him a couple of times. Never positive.”

“Nothing good to say.”

A diesel pickup zoomed past headed through town, then screeched on the brakes. The driver slammed the mud-spattered red truck in reverse and zoomed back, weaving and erratic.

“Hey there, L.A.! Need a ride?” A young man in a soiled green Marshall University ball cap pulled alongside her. He matched their stride, driving in reverse, his huge muffler belching black and loud.

Laura Ann cringed, shaking her head while she pressed forward. “No thanks, Tommy.”

“Long walk home, babe.”

“We're headed to the Par-Mar for a taxi. We're fine.”

“Shouldn't pass this up.” He waved a hand in Sophia's direction, his eyes evaluating her head to toe. “Hey, who's the pink and pregnant lady?”

Sophia kept her gaze set straight ahead, matching Laura Ann's stride.

“A friend, Tommy. And we don't need a lift.”

“Suit yourself.” The young man hit the brake, stomped the diesel into drive, and roared away.

Laura Ann frowned and kept moving. “I liked him—a few years ago,” she said. “But he had a problem controlling his hands. He has a nasty temper when he's denied.”

Passing the bank for the third time that day, Sophia slowed, out of breath. “I need to stop a minute,” she said, panting. Her face red with exertion and wet with sweat, she set her bags down and plopped on a mud-covered bench at Bridgeway Road. The bridge behind them — the half of it still intact—stood resolute against a frothing torrent. Sitting on this bench thirty-six hours ago, she'd have been ten feet under water.

“I need to make one more call.” Sophia panted. She fished out the phone and leaned back into the mud-caked bench. Laura Ann set her bags aside, and then wandered over to a road barrier at the washed-out crossing, providing a little privacy.

Sophia's hands described something during an animated call that Laura Ann couldn't hear. She waited at the edge of the bridge, rebuilt not long ago, marveling at the power of the water that severed it for the third time in her twenty years.

To her left, Route 18 resembled a two-mile-long mud pie. As far as she could see, everything at eye level was a reddish shade of taupe. A coat of mud—earth paint — covered grass, road, and homes. The pastel red-brown of drying mud caked phone poles, trees, and barns at a constant level. Chalky brown desolation.

Sophia waved at her and Laura Ann headed back to the bench.

“I've found a dear friend,” she heard when she got closer. “I'll need another week here, but I'm fine.” Sophia touched the screen and dropped the phone into her purse.

Laura Ann cocked her head to one side as she approached. “Everything okay?” Laura Ann asked. “Sorry to eavesdrop, but …”

“Fine. My employees can manage without me.” She took a long breath, sweat dripping from her forehead. “I've changed my mind.”

“I don't understand. I thought — “

Sophia shrugged. “Sorry. I shouldn't have put you through this, Laura Ann. But when I met that rude banker, it got me thinking. You're up against some stiff opposition if the bank wants to recode your loan. I can't leave you hanging. The least I can do is to stay and help you get those stools ready.” She smiled. “I mean — if you don't mind. Who knows? I might even get my car out.”

Laura Ann felt her face go flush, aggravations over the dangerous canoe trip mixing with the memory of the miraculous bailout at the bank. How could she refuse?

Sophia pointed up the road. “We've got company.”

A pickup rolled in their direction, a familiar face leaning out the window.

“Word travels fast,” Laura Ann replied. “I guess he got your voice mail.”

The truck came to a stop and Ian threw open the door. A beige coat of wet mud caked the sides of the vehicle. When Ian stepped out of the pickup, Laura Ann threw her arms around his neck. He stood tall, a stalk of corn.

“You couldn't wait.” He chided her with a squeeze. “Just had to climb in that stupid canoe and come to town.”

She let go of his neck. Unshaven, he had a salty line about his brow where sweat gathered under the game warden ball cap. His eyes were red, like he'd been up long hours, and she caught a familiar whiff of hair tonic. “I heard you were in town when I dropped in at Auggie's for a bite. That's when I checked the voice mail. Sorry I didn't find you earlier.”

“Did you manage to get some lunch?” she asked, pinching his side.

“Are you kidding? I jumped in the truck and headed this way soon as I listened to your message.” He pinched her in return. “Had to hurry. I saw Tommy's truck over at the Exxon. Thought he might get to you first.”

Ian waved toward Sophia. “Forget the taxi. I'd be glad to take you over to New Martinsville myself.” He patted the hood of the truck. “Boss said it's okay, what with the flood and all.”

Sophia stood and picked up the grocery bags. “I'd love a lift, but — “

“She's staying with me a while longer, Ian,” Laura Ann said, cutting her off. “But a ride back to The Jug would be super.”

Ian glanced at Sophia, then back at Laura Ann, and shrugged. “You're sure you don't need a ride to the rental place? Really. It's not a bother.”

“No,” Sophia said in unison with Laura Ann. They both laughed.

“We're headed back to the canoe.” Laura Ann let go of Ian to take the sacks from Sophia. She set them in the bed of the truck. “And for the record,” she declared with a playful pinch at Ian's bony ribs, “Tommy Sovine never had a chance.”

Half an hour later, Ian held the bow of the canoe above the logjam, bracing the craft against the high water that rushed past. “You're sure about this?” he asked, wagging his head.

Laura Ann tapped his cap with a paddle. “I was born in a canoe,” she replied, determined not to show her concern.

“That's a stretch,” he replied. “I don't know … two women? On their own?” he asked, wagging his head, his smile broad. “Better get across fast and hug that far bank. Hold on to the trees if you need to while you round the bend. I don't want to have to pry you out of that log jam.”

“Yes sir, Officer Ian. Now, let us go. Gotta get home and get started on a meal. You'll come for dinner. Promise?”

Ian nodded. “Gonna have to sleep on the couch, though. I'm not canoeing out of The Jug at night during a flood.”

“That's the way I want it,” Laura Ann responded, then reached forward to touch his hand. “We'll be fine. Pork chops, beans and potatoes, fried okra, and a cobbler. Don't be late.” With that, she put her oar in the water and pushed out of his grip.

The Middle Island Creek raced to its doom, swollen muddy torrents overflowing their banks, but not the ravaging liquid monster that tore through the valley three days ago. Laura Ann called out directions to Sophia but didn't need to watch her. They were a team now. The canoe shot across the creek and Laura Ann guided them along the brushy edge, pointed downstream toward the logjam.

She raised her oar in a wave goodbye, and Ian signaled back. Tall like a tree, shoulders and arms his branches, he stood anchored on the far bank, his eyes locked with hers. Warm tingles rippled down her back. She waved once more, and then set her eyes on the deadly dam.

“Hug the left bank,” Laura Ann hollered, making herself heard above the water's roar. No longer the wicked waterfall that she'd witnessed below, water sliced through the logjam, a wooden strainer sifting a brown torrent. A canoe would stand no chance once smashed up against the jumble of trees, cars, and houses. A minute later, Laura Ann cut sharp left only twenty feet from the dam to join the natural flow of the creek in its seven-mile loop about their jug-shaped spit of land.

Three miles downstream, Laura Ann guided the boat to a rest, pointed into a broad bank. Every trip when she glided to a stop below the farmhouse, she wondered in amazement at a waterway that enabled her to canoe with the current yet always find her way back home.

“If you'd told me we could do this, I'd have never believed it,” Sophia said, helping to pull the canoe and its load of food through sticky mud into clean grass. “It's like an Escher painting. You finish where you start.”

“A what?” Laura Ann asked.

“An artist named Escher. He did a lithograph of stairs that spiraled back on themselves. Like this creek.”

“That's why my relatives settled here,” Laura Ann replied, grabbing a handful of plastic sacks. “Imagine how they appreciated it, before there were any roads.”

“Let me have some,” Sophia said, taking two sacks from Laura Ann. “I'm not as fast—but I'll get there.” She motioned with a loaded hand in the direction of the house. “I know it was a lot of trouble, but thanks for taking me to town. And for your hospitality. I think the stay will do me good.”

“It's the least I can do.” Laura Ann toted her load alongside Sophia, starting the quarter mile uphill slog to the house through verdant fields lush with timothy and clover. “Thank you for that help at the bank.”

“You're welcome. I got the best end of the deal, by the way. Now I have Christmas presents for everyone at the office.”

Together they waded upslope through deep soggy grass. Like a green sauna, the air above the pasture lay thick with humidity. Sophia stopped frequently to wipe at her brow, pushing back matted black hair. Laura Ann's T-shirt clung to her chest and back, soaked through by the time she'd walked halfway to the house.

“Whew!” Sophia exclaimed, setting her bags down for the fourth time. “Out of shape.”

“Maybe not,” Laura Ann said, waiting at her side, yet anxious to be on her way. The cool of the woodshop beckoned her. “Remember, you're expecting, Sophia. Take it slow.”

“Perhaps. But this shouldn't be so hard.”

“The humidity makes it worse. Let me take two of those.” Laura Ann reached over and took the sacks. Sophia did not resist.

“How did they cut this grass before tractors?” Sophia asked once they were underway again.

“By hand. They used a big blade. A scythe.”

“This entire field?” Sophia wheezed. “Cut by hand?”

“They had all summer,” Laura Ann replied, smiling. She remembered Daddy's favorite joke. “If we're not working,” he'd asked with a laugh, “what else is there to do?” Hard work, the essence of a good life.