Beyond Confusion, page 21
Patients who came by ambulance entered through automatic doors on the far side of the big square room. Patients’ cubicles ringed the rampart of counters at the center that protected nurses, aides and orderlies, doctors, and computer jockeys from the melée. EMTs in uniform lounged in and out.
Meg squinted. She couldn’t remember how the room numbers went. Then she spotted Todd in conference with Linda and one of the other deputies, and she knew where to go. Linda gave her a hug. Todd patted her on the shoulder. The uniformed deputy disappeared.
“Rob’s all right?”
They exchanged looks.
“Well, he’s not bleeding or anything,” Todd said. “I mean not externally. They were afraid of clots.”
“Three broken ribs,” Linda said. “Right now they’re checking to be sure the breastbone is not broken, too.” She touched her sternum. “And they’re worried about, you know, internal bleeding. She was near him.”
“She?”
Another exchange of glances. Todd said, “Carla Jackman shot him with a dinky .22. She didn’t use hollow-point ammo. Good thing.”
Meg gaped.
“Hey, sit down.” Todd pulled a chair for her.
Meg sat. “You’d better start from the beginning. I do not know anything, not a thing.”
By the second telling, she began to sort it out. At least she sorted what the two deputies knew. She was dumbfounded. Carla? She would have bet on Aidan as the killer, with Wendy a close second. “So where’s Jeff?”
Todd said, “He took Carla to the jail as soon as the doctor said it was okay.” The county jail lay between the courthouse and the annex. “To book her. She was hysterical.”
Linda sniffed. She probably didn’t like that term any better than Meg did, but there was that high-pitched giggle. Meg shivered.
“Well, she was hysterical,” he repeated. “Crying and laughing and stuff. Jeff said she was raising the gun to shoot herself, so Rob tried to knock it out of her hand. He did knock it across the room, but she fired first. Maybe it was a hair-trigger. She’d already fired a wild shot.” After a moment, he added, “Her father went to the jail with her, called the lawyer.”
“Bad seed,” Meg muttered, but her heart wasn’t in it. I should have shit-canned Marybeth the year I came. I knew what she was. My cowardice almost got Rob killed.
She closed her eyes and felt easy tears roll down her cheeks. Todd made a strangled noise, and Linda murmured soothing words in two languages.
“Ready to go?”
Meg jumped to her feet.
Rob scowled at her, eyebrows twitching. “Here I thought you’d be glad to see me vertical.” He was leaning on a walker. A cross-looking orderly stood behind him with a wheelchair.
“Oh, Rob, oh, I am glad.”
“No you don’t, I’m not huggable, believe me.” He fended her off and smiled a little. “And whatever you do, don’t make me laugh. Let’s go home.”
And they did. He was standing because bending hurt. The cross orderly inserted him into the car. Fastening the seat belt would have hurt too, so Rob didn’t. Meg drove carefully.
It was almost ten. She offered to fix a bed on the hideaway couch in the living room, but Rob said he could make it upstairs as long as he didn’t have to twist. Though he was doped to the eyeballs and both of them were exhausted, neither was sleepy. Meg warmed the pot pies. They ate, Rob a lot. They went to bed.
And lay there radiating warmth. At last Meg began to talk. When she remembered the unforeseen donations to the bookmobile, she even cheered up, though she stopped short of making him laugh. After that, he talked a little about Carla, but not about the shooting. He was sorry for her.
Meg felt less tender. After all, Carla had pulled the trigger. Meg didn’t say so, but she was thinking, Like mother, like daughter.
The phrase struck her like a bolt. Tomorrow her mother would be buried, and she would not be there. She asked Rob whether he thought she was a bad daughter. He didn’t answer, because he had fallen asleep. When she stopped feeling neglected, Meg fell asleep, too, but she didn’t sleep well.
~
Judge Rosen presided over the preliminary hearing. Ellen Koop intended to charge Carla with second-degree homicide and first-degree arson, both as an adult. Rob thought it was a good decision in the legal sense, though he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that Carla was a victim. She looked tiny and fragile in her orange jumpsuit. She wasn’t required to plead at that point, and she didn’t cry. Bail would be argued the next day. Carla did not look back when the guard took her off.
To his surprise, Edwin Jackman came up with his hand extended as the crowd of journalists and onlookers dispersed. Rob shook it.
Jackman said, “I’m grateful, Neill. You saved Carla’s life. I’d like you to meet my wife. Phyllis, this is the undersheriff.”
A pleasantly plump woman in her early forties smiled at Rob. “I’d recognize your voice.”
“And I yours.” He thought about thanking both of them for being helpful, but that might be misconstrued, so he said he hoped Carla’s lawyer would give satisfaction, excused himself, and went over to Linda and Jeff. Beth was talking to Madeline, Jack, and Harley. Meg hadn’t come, though half the library staff had. Tessa wept, and Wendy patted her shoulder. The children’s librarian looked on with a stony face.
Rob was worried about Meg. The hearing had started half an hour after her mother’s funeral was scheduled to begin. She’d elected to stay home for a private time, a time to mourn. He hoped she wasn’t waiting for her brothers to call her.
He listened with half his attention as his crew prepared to dig into the DNA test results from Trout Farm. He thought his people would do a good job, but he didn’t want to be there. He spotted Henry near the courtroom exit and asked the young deputy to drive him home.
Henry not only agreed, he brought the car right to the courthouse steps. Rob managed to get in without falling and breaking the rest of his ribs. He felt sore as a boil.
“Uh, you heard about Jake?”
“What?”
“He called in this morning. His little girl, she has some kind of anemia. It’s serious, but it’s not cancer, not leukemia. Jake went to Portland.” Henry beamed as if he’d known Jake for his whole life instead of six months.
“That’s great news.” It was. Rob felt a layer of anxiety peel off. Like a very large onion, a Walla Walla Sweet. He had to smile at his own dopiness. Henry shot him a puzzled look, so Rob composed his face and asked a semi-intelligent question. Henry told him the details of Jake’s call.
Meg was not in the kitchen. Rob stood listening until he heard the soft clack-clack of her keyboard. In her office. He filled a water glass and took another pain pill. Then he went to find her. To his relief, though she looked sad, her agitation had eased.
“Hello, love,” she said. “I’m glad I stayed here. I was able to think about her for the first time since I flew home. Without distraction, I mean. All four of my brothers called and left messages, but I kept both phones off the hook the whole time.” She drew a breath. “I don’t have to answer.”
“I’m glad, Meg.” Another layer of the onion peeled away. He told her his absurd simile and provoked a smile, and then he told her about Jake’s good news, and that delighted her. They drifted back to the kitchen for coffee and Meg’s sculptural cookies.
“Do you think Carla will plead guilty in the long run?”
Rob picked the pecan half off his cookie and munched it. “I don’t know. For the sake of the county budget, I suppose I hope so.”
“She confessed.”
“A confession can always be retracted. She was under a lot of stress.”
“Ha!” Meg said darkly, but she didn’t pursue whatever vengeful thought had intruded. “Are you coming to my rally?”
Rob groaned.
She looked stricken. “I’d forgotten the ribs.”
“I hadn’t. I just took a pill that’s going to knock me out for a couple of hours.” He checked his watch. “When is the love feast scheduled?”
“Love feast!”
“A Methodist term, I believe. My command of religious jargon is shaky at best.”
“Well, I hope the Methodists turn out. We need all the help we can get.” She looked pensive. “Seven-thirty, Rob. And I’ll have to go over to the library earlier.”
“Uh-huh.” His mind had turned down a rocky path. “I’d better call Wade Hug. It’s his jurisdiction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Better safe than sorry.” He took out his cell. “Maybe the Inerrant Word guerrillas will mount a counter-demonstration.”
Meg’s turn to groan.
But hyper-efficient Pat Kohler had already warned Chief Hug, and all was well. Meg retired to her office again, and Rob creaked upstairs to lie down.
~
The first van came across from Oregon, from The Dalles. Meg wasn’t expecting it, but she knew some of the librarians, so she went over and shook hands. They asked about Annie, looking serious and sympathetic, but she could see they were in high spirits, and they had signs, big signs.
The biggest said THE DALLES PUBLIC LIBRARY, but the others were more inventive. One showed a glass full of milk. It said GOT BOOKS? Another said READING MAKETH A FULL MAN, over a picture of a paunchy gent with a big grin. There were more, smaller and hand-lettered, along the lines of SUPPORT YOUR BOOKMOBILE. The Dalles contingent joined the small crowd of townspeople who had showed up early. Some of them were holding unlit candles, and others had their own signs. One just said READ!
Pat had set things up, even to the cop car lurking discreetly on the street outside the parking lot. She must have gone to Kinko’s with a picture of Annie, because the “shrine” photo was poster-sized and blurry. It sat on the steps of the bus where Annie had fallen, and the banner above it said ANNIE BALDWIN’S BOOKMOBILE. A low platform stretched left along the dinged side of the vehicle. Pat had removed the plastic film from the windows so everyone could see they were broken, even in the dim pink glow of the parking lot lights.
The heap of votive flowers had grown. Some of them were artificial, some bouquets from the supermarket with green tissue paper around them, some single blossoms, roses and daisies, all with cards or small hand-lettered signs. GET WELL SOON, ANNIE and ANNIE BALDWIN, OUR HERO. Two poinsettias and a tiny Christmas tree sat in pots. And there were stuffed animals, too, probably from little kids. As Meg watched, several people sidled up with more flowers.
Library board members, most of them elderly, had called to approve the rally and wish Meg well, but none were coming. In a way, that was a relief. Beth and the mayor of Klalo lurked at the edge of the crowd.
Pat pinned a tiny microphone to Meg’s collar and gave her a big smile. “Go for it, Meg.”
Meg didn’t know what it was, but she was willing to try. “Does this thing work?” she started to say, and her voice rang out. She turned the mike off quickly. “Lord. Is there a program?”
Pat handed her a sheet of paper with bulleted headings just as Madeline Thomas’s pickup pulled into the lot and disgorged Maddie and a large elderly lady in full ceremonial regalia. If Maddie looked good in elkskin robe and headband, this woman looked magnificent. It had to be Opal Hoover, Harley’s grandmother. Meg didn’t see Harley.
She stuffed the program into her pocket and hurried over to the two women. She was able to trot without falling because somebody had plowed the lot and spread grit. Half a dozen young Klalos, probably high school students, beat her to it, and swarmed the two women, laughing and chattering. Mrs. Hoover administered pats and hugs. Madeline gave Meg a big wink.
“I’ll get some chairs.” Pat dashed toward the main entrance. The library, supervised by Nina and a couple of stern-looking volunteers, was still open for access to the rest rooms in the basement.
By the time Meg had greeted Mrs. Hoover and escorted her and Maddie through the crowd, there were folding chairs in place on the platform Pat had conjured from the high school. An anxious-looking man in a dark suit sat in one of the chairs. As Meg, Maddie, and Mrs. Hoover approached, he rose and introduced himself as Peter Nussbaum. He was the head minister at Trinity Lutheran Church, there for the invocation. Much hand-shaking.
Somebody was singing “Kumbaya,” not a surprising choice if not particularly apt. Voices joined, hesitating at first. As Meg watched another van draw up, the words percolated through to her. “Someone’s reading, Lord, Kumbaya.”
She smiled. Lucy’s father had played that song over and over with the three chords he knew. At the time Meg had thought it was wonderful. It was one of the few songs anybody could sing, cats and dogs even, and it still sounded good.
The second van parked neatly. Eight people bubbled from it, one waving a sign that said MULTNOMAH COUNTY LIBRARY. Oregon was coming through for Annie in a big way. Meg felt a prickle of excitement alongside her surprise. She didn’t know these librarians, but she smiled and shook hands, and they joined the expectant crowd, which was now singing “We Shall Not Be Moved.” Meg thought of Harley and wondered if they were going to sing “Ain’t Gonna Study War No More,” too. They probably didn’t know that one.
More people, people of all ages and both sexes, came in from the community—and from outside Klalo, too, in spite of the weather. Most of them had candles. A few cars drove past. One driver honked. The candle flames flickered, illuminating faces like medieval saints. Fortunately, the wind had died down, though it was still snowing a little. She thought she saw a video camera.
Then another van came. It was from Vancouver with a big sign that said FORT VANCOUVER REGIONAL LIBRARY and gave the names of all the branches served by that big system. She did know the Vancouver people. She went to them and told them how touched she was that they’d driven all the way up on Highway 14 for the rally. They said it was all right, they’d used the freeway on the Oregon side. Meg laughed.
And then it was time, past time, so she went up to the platform and took the program from her parka pocket. She looked out at the sea of faces and the flickering candles, and her throat closed. Meg spoke in public a lot and didn’t suffer from stage fright, but this was different.
“Hello,” she mumbled.
“Turn on the mike,” Pat hissed.
“Oh, sorry.” Meg touched the switch and cleared her throat with a resounding boom. “Your honor, Sheriff McCormick, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our patrons from Klalo, a lot of whom I recognize, and especially to those of you who drove in from the country, from places Annie Baldwin serves every week.”
There was a ragged cheer at the mention of Annie’s name.
“In case you don’t know, people, we have visitors from other libraries here tonight, and we welcome them too, because the attack on our bookmobile is not just a local problem. I want to tell you what happened in Flume yesterday, but first I hope you’ll welcome Pastor Peter Nussbaum of Trinity Lutheran Church who has volunteered to give us some words of inspiration. Pastor Nussbaum.”
The anxious man stepped forward. “Thank you, Ms. McLean.” He was not a large man but he had a large voice.
Meg realized she’d forgotten to introduce herself. Sheepish, she stepped aside and left the limelight to the minister.
“I’ll try to inspire you,” he said. “Let me tell you about Annie.”
A ripple of applause spread through the crowd.
“Annie Sorenson Baldwin.” He intoned the name as if it were an invocation in itself. “Annie was baptised in our church, confirmed there, married there. Both of her children were baptised at Trinity. I’ve been in Klalo twenty years myself, so I know Annie. She is the key woman on our telephone tree. She takes food to the sick and the bereaved. She comforts the dying. She teaches in our Sunday School every week. She is a good woman, and I need not tell you the worth of a good woman. It is above rubies. Some day, God willing, Annie will be an elder of the church.”
The crowd stirred, restless.
Pastor Nussbaum fixed them with a glittering eye. “Yesterday morning, people claiming to be Christians attacked Annie. They threw stones at her. They called her names. They did not know her, or they wouldn’t have done that. I’d sooner chop off my right hand than harm Annie Sorenson Baldwin.”
He drew a breath and roared, “And I tell them, as Christian to Christian, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ ”
A burst of applause. Oh thank you, Meg thought. I wish I’d said that.
When the clapping faded, he went on, quieter, “I just came from the hospital. Annie’s skull is fractured, and she’s still sleeping, but her doctors are optimistic. I am going to pause now. I hope you will send Annie your good thoughts. I am going to pray for her.” He bowed his head.
So did Meg. Opal Hoover nodded as if in approval.
When Pastor Nussbaum raised his head, indicating that the time for prayer was over, Meg stepped back to center stage.
“I’m Meg McLean, the head librarian. Before I launch into my report, I’d like to introduce people to you. The sheriff is here and our mayor.” Beth gave a little wave. Ripple of applause.
“On the platform with me is Mrs. Opal Hoover. Mrs. Hoover is an elder of the Forest Band of the Klalo Nation. She lives in Flume, and when she heard of the demonstration against the bookmobile, she saw to it that there would be defenders as well as protesters yesterday morning. Her grandson, Harley Hoover, put a stop to the attack. By that time, I was inside the bookmobile myself, and I can tell you I was glad to see Harley and his young helpers. Please welcome Mrs. Hoover.”
The applause was warm and sustained. To Meg’s surprise Mrs. Hoover stood and stepped forward. “People who live in Flume like the forest,” she said in a high clear voice that held only a hint of old age. “We gather berries and mushrooms in their seasons. We see bear and deer and elk every day. Eagles soar above our streams. Raven sees us. We watch the mountain, and the mountain watches us.” She meant Mount Saint Helens. Hair rose on Meg’s nape. She was listening to a true storyteller.
“Flume is a good place to live, a good place for children. My children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren come there to learn the forest. But we live in the world, too, and Annie Baldwin brings a part of the world to us every week. That’s good for Flume. Annie likes the children, and they like her. They tell her stories, and she listens and gives them books with pictures.” Her eyes twinkled. “And she has a nice place for elders like me to sit and rest our feet while we tell her stories.”
