The Distance Between Us (42 page)

Jeptha hoped she noticed how well he already knew his way around the place. The best way to climb the hospital food chain ladder, he believed—and to keep his parents off his back—was to kiss the right people’s asses. And this imposing woman, who was now beaming at him in appreciation, was clearly one of the right people.

Like hell I’ll pay for some shitty little apartment,
he thought.

“Thanks very much,” Julianna said. She stepped past him, keeping close to the wall so as not to disturb the plastic sheet the painters were fussing with. She teased the painters as she passed, inviting them to come put a new coat or two on her house when they’d finished there, and one of them chuckled and said that sounded like a fine idea, if she’d agree to provide the beer. She laughed and promised to do just that.

And then she was face-to-face with the second orderly, and what should have been the end of her excursion.

Connor Lipkin was both smarter and more experienced than Jeptha Morgan. In May he had graduated (summa cum laude) from the University of Maine with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, and the next fall he had been accepted at Yale to begin his master’s. Connor had worked at the state hospital in Bangor every summer for the past three years, and his life’s ambition was to be a famous psychologist, just like his hero, Carl Jung. (He even fancied he bore a physical resemblance to Jung, and he cultivated this resemblance as much as he could. The balding head and stocky body came naturally to him, but the thin black mustache and distinctive wire-rim eyeglasses like those Jung had worn as a young man were recent additions to Connor’s developing persona.)

Julianna’s luck was now bordering on the miraculous, however, because that very morning Connor, who was nearsighted, had gotten his new, Jung-like glasses knocked off and rendered unwearable in a scuffle with an unruly patient. Thus impaired, he was forced to squint in an attempt to get a clear look at her features as she approached.

Connor had seen Julianna Dapper many times over the last month, but he had never seen her in a formal dress, and from a few feet away her face was still a blur. The ease with which she had passed Jeptha and the painters made him relax his guard, though, more than he would otherwise have done, and gave him no reason to believe she was a patient. After taking into account her height and her checkered headscarf, which he was sure he recognized, he decided this woman coming toward him must be none other than Nurse Gable.

This initial impression shouldn’t have lasted longer than a moment, of course. And when Julianna finally drew close enough for him to see who she really was, there should have been, by all rights, a much different outcome to the day’s events. But in the split second before Connor’s straining eyes could detect her true identity, yet another quirk of fate came galloping to her aid.

“Morning, miss,” he said, ducking his head.

It just so happened that Nurse Gable figured into all of Connor Lipkin’s private sexual fantasies. She was a torment to him, and had been for years. Most of his fantasies were a variation on the same theme: Nurse Gable, in her uniform, massaging his back with her naked feet. He had never seen her naked feet, of course, but he was quite sure they would be large, perhaps even a bit mannish, and high-arched, with finely painted toenails. This secret desire of his made it impossible for him to look the woman in the eye, and so he always ducked his head when he was around her. He was convinced she would see right through him unless he were to keep his head averted in her presence.

For her part, Julianna thought Connor Lipkin was a man named Tom Putnam, who had been a mild, shy janitor from her school days in Missouri.

“Good morning,” she responded sweetly to Connor’s greeting.

Her voice was low and husky, much like Nurse Gable’s.

Connor, flushing, stepped out of her way, almost tripping over his feet in his haste to allow Julianna access to the outside world. She patted his arm in thanks, but he kept his head down even then, noticing only her long fingers and the feel of her cool skin on his wrist. His heart almost exploded at her touch, and he found himself wishing ardently for twenty-twenty vision, so as she walked away from him he could get a better look at the backs of her ankles, and the black pumps she was wearing.

If there were any remaining doubt that Julianna was absurdly blessed with good fortune that morning, it would be banished by what occurred at this juncture. As she glided down the sidewalk and emerged at last from the shadow of the hospital, she was granted the biggest boon of her journey: Squarely in front of her, as if waiting for just this one special moment in its dull mechanical existence, was an unlocked automobile, with the key in its ignition.

Edgar Reilly had never once, before that day, left his key in the car. The only reason he had done so that morning was because as he pulled into his designated space in the hospital parking lot, a bee had flown through his open window and attempted to land on the crown of his bald head. Edgar was allergic to bee stings, and deathly afraid of bees. He had leapt from the car, slammed the door, and dashed for the safety of the hospital, waving his arms about his head and swearing under his breath. Once inside, he realized he had left his key in his car, but as he kept his office key on a separate keychain and intended to only be inside for a short while, he decided not to risk another encounter with the bee until it was time to leave.

Thus it came to pass that Connor Lipkin watched—and did nothing—as Julianna’s blurred, graceful figure climbed into the Edsel. He knew it was Edgar’s car she was taking, but he also knew Nurse Gable and Dr. Reilly were friends, and since the woman he had mistaken for Nurse Gable obviously had the key to the automobile, he didn’t bat a nearsighted eye as she drove away from him, waving. He assumed she was borrowing Edgar’s car on hospital business, which explained why she was dressed so formally. (Connor preferred her nurse’s uniform, of course, but he thought her dress was nice, too.) He placed a hand over the spot on his wrist where she had touched him, and he turned back to the hallway with an aroused smile.

Edgar’s staff wouldn’t notice anything amiss until Nurse Gable returned to her office and went looking for her dress. By this time, though, the door Connor had been guarding was closed and locked again, and the painters were hard at work, and Connor and Jeptha were in another part of the ward, attempting to calm a patient named Phyllis Farmer, who was having a bad day. Phyllis believed Connor and Jeptha were trying to steal her “golden egg,” which was actually half an orange she had snatched from the breakfast table and promptly shoved, for safekeeping, under her ample buttocks. She put up a spirited fight, which ended up lasting the better part of an hour.

This being the case, Nurse Gable wasn’t able to piece together what had occurred for some time. When Julianna’s absence was at length confirmed, there was a mad, unproductive search of the premises (leading, incidentally, to the discovery of the hugely overmedicated African violet in the nurses’ station), followed by a heated argument among Nurse Gable, Jeptha Morgan, and Connor Lipkin about whom to blame. This all took far more time than it should have, primarily because none of them wanted to be the one to give Edgar Reilly the bad news.

Edgar was a more-or-less understanding employer, but when mistakes happened he had a baleful way of looking at the responsible party that they all dreaded—his displeasure underscored by the crisp, almost violent manner with which he would unwrap a Tootsie Roll or a caramel before popping it into his mouth—and they knew Julianna’s escape was the kind of error that could cost them their jobs. So when a red-faced and squinting Connor Lipkin finally screwed up his courage and knocked on Edgar’s office door, Julianna had been gone for nearly two hours.

Coincidence doesn’t merely love insanity: It worships it.

Back in the little town of Prescott, Maine, Elijah heard Julianna call him Ben as he settled into the backseat of the Edsel, but he chose not to correct her because he was trying to come up with the best way to ask for her newspaper. He was also fretting about how he was going to smuggle an outlawed item such as this past his mother once he was home. Mary Hunter was diligent and resourceful, and she knew her only child all too well. In the last few weeks she had even begun to frisk him for news-related contraband the instant he walked through the door.

The front windows of the Edsel were open, but the wind on his face was hot as he mulled over various strategies. The sun was almost directly above them, and he felt tired and thirsty. He rested his head on the seat behind him and closed his eyes for a minute, grateful for the ride, because the walk home would have taken him almost half an hour. The humid air pouring into the car was thick with early summer fragrances; he could pick out the scent of roses and lilacs, but most of what he smelled he didn’t have a name for.

In the front seat, Julianna tugged at her dress and made a mental note to speak to her mother about sewing her something that would fit her better. Her mother was an excellent seamstress, and Julianna seemed to have had yet another growth spurt. She supposed most fifteen-year-olds went through the same thing, but she hated knowing she wouldn’t be able to wear this exquisite green dress much longer. It was such a shame. She’d gotten so little wear out of it; she almost felt as if she’d never even worn it before that very day.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at “Ben” and smiled to herself when she saw him close his eyes. She was glad he had accepted a ride; the poor boy was obviously exhausted. He didn’t get enough to eat, she knew, and it was a wonder he could even stay on his feet.

She pulled up to the stop sign at a T intersection about a mile and a half out of town. To the right and not far away—though she had no idea of this—was Elijah’s farm; to the left was the open highway, leading eventually to the New Hampshire border, and from there to the rest of the country.

She looked both ways, as if confused. She wasn’t, though; she was just waiting for guidance. Ever since she had begun her journey that morning, she had needed no map. Something had been advising her, telling her which way to go, and she implicitly trusted whatever this something might be. She knew all she had to do was wait a moment, and it would speak to her again.

And it did, of course.

Home is this way,
she thought, turning left.

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Copyright © 2008 by Noah Bly. Previously published under the name Bart Yates.

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eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0251-7
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First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2015

First Kensington Trade Paperback Edition: Ju\ly 2009
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2008