Page 59 of Poison Wood
Riverbend, Louisiana
Thursday, February 14, 2019
1:32 p.m. CST
The truck’s windshield wipers drag across the windshield as ice pellets smack the glass. It’s one of those days here where the temperature drops instead of going up. The road still has a sheen on it, and I slow down as I approach the turn to my father’s property.
The note from Martha Lee sits open next to me. I tried the number she’d given me several times, but each time it had gone to an automated voicemail. Then I did what I should have done as soon as Martha Lee had slipped me that note. I snapped a picture of it and sent it to Carl, asking him to pass it along to Erin. He hasn’t responded.
I’m considering calling him when I spot the front gates up ahead on my left, and what’s parked next to them makes my stomach drop.
What the hell?
A news van is idling in the grass near the entrance.
I start pressing the remote to open the gate well before I get there. It starts to swing open, and a male journalist and a camera guy jump out. Not Erin and Carl, thank God. But I do recognize him. The only other reporter at the news conference earlier.
I keep my eyes forward and ease onto the property even though I’d rather floor it. I don’t want to accidentally hit this kid if he thinks he’llbe able to approach the truck. But he stays back and shouts questions at me through my closed window.
“What are you doing in town, Rita? Is it true you went to Poison Wood?”
“Do you have anything to say to Johnny Adair?”
“What does your father have to say for himself?”
“Whose skull was in that basement?”
I want to yell that he needs to go back to J-school because he obviously didn’t pay attention the first go-round. Yelling at someone’s closed window is not the way to get a story.
I drive through the open gates, stop, and wait for them to shut before I drive on. He stays on the other side, and I exhale. If I were him, I wouldn’t be standing around shouting. But then I consider what I would be doing. I’d be knocking on a door. I’d be getting a cell phone number to call. Is that really better? Is that somehow above what he’s doing out there at the gate?
On the windy drive to the farmhouse, I have to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting a giant front-end loader scraping slush off the road. Then I see who is in the cab, behind the wheel.
My father waves at me.
I hold my hands up. “What the hell? When did you get home?”
He shrugs and motions for me to go around, which I do because it’s futile to argue with him that operating heavy equipment the day he is released from the hospital can’t be part of his recovery. No way he’s coming down out of that cab until every last drop of slush is gone from the road. He may even go out on the two-lane blacktop and keep going. Although I hope he doesn’t. Not with a news van idling out there.
I know him well enough to know he’s thinking something through. Some men have sand gardens on their desks. My father has a Bush Hog and eight hundred acres of land.
At the house, I stop in the kitchen and stare at Debby as she loads the dishwasher.
“What?” she says.
“How come you didn’t tell me he was coming home?”
She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “It happened fast. There was paperwork and instructions and appointments to set up and medicine to get and I just got overwhelmed.”
“Was operating a front-end loader part of the instructions?”
She shuts the dishwasher and faces me. She exhales. “What do you want for dinner?”
Her exhaustion is palpable, and me storming in like this is not doing her any favors. Bottom line is I should have been at the hospital to help her.
I look down at my heels. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.” I look back up. “Whatever you make for dinner is fine.” I don’t remind her I’d told her I wouldn’t be here for dinner. Turns out my father being home and a news van idling nearby are enough to make me stay put.
Upstairs, I run a hot bath and climb into it. My mind is racing too fast. I need to slow down and sort through what has happened. If I don’t, I’m going to miss something.
