“I do,” said Lucy. “I’m pretty excited about trying some new foods.”
“I suspect you might be alone in that,” said Pam. “It’s not Thanksgiving without turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce.”
“There’s going to be cranberry salsa,” said Rachel.
“Not the same thing at all,” said Pam, checking the recipe card. “It’s got hot peppers!”
“I’d like to come, but I’m not sure Bob and I will be welcome,” said Rachel. “Bob’s defending Link and Jason, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” said Lucy, “but I’m sure you’ll be welcome. Rey will understand. He knows how the system works. Everybody’s entitled to legal representation whether they’re innocent or guilty.”
“That’s the thing,” said Rachel, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Link and Jason still insist they’re innocent, that if it couldn’t have been Hank DeVries, it’s someone who looks a lot like him, but Bob’s not buying it. He thinks they probably did it, but they didn’t act alone. He suspects they were egged on by someone else to firebomb the pub, but they won’t say who.”
“That’s not like Link,” said Lucy, thinking that he and Jason may have grown up but were still behaving like naughty children, relying on the bully’s tried and true tactic of blaming others for their own misdeeds.
“A lot of people are saying it was Rey himself,” said Pam.
“No way,” said Lucy. “I know for a fact that Rey wants to rebuild. He’s hired an architect and he wants Bill to be the contractor. And look at this dinner. He wouldn’t be doing all this if he wasn’t sticking around. He wants to be part of the community.”
“Bob thinks Zeke Bumpus was involved,” said Rachel.
“There’s a big difference between talking hate speech and committing hate crimes,” said Pam.
“I heard someone say that it’s not so much what people say as what people hear,” said Lucy. “Maybe Jason and Link misconstrued something Zeke said.”
“I don’t think that gets him off the hook,” said Rachel. “He still bears some responsibility.”
“I wonder what Zeke’s got to say about that,” mused Lucy, planning to give him a call. But first she had to make her escape from the kitchen where her friends seemed to expect her to put down her notebook and camera and pick up a knife and a cutting board. “I wish I could stay and help”—she gave an apologetic shrug—“but I’ve got to take Bill to see the bone doctor today.”
She made the call to Zeke while driving back home to pick up Bill.
As she expected, he vehemently denied any involvement in the firebombing.
“America for Americans is strictly nonviolent. We’re sort of a National Association for the Advancement of White People, and we follow Dr. King’s strategy of passive resistance.”
Lucy found this claim hard to swallow. “But some of the statements you’ve made do seem to encourage violence. It seems pretty suspicious that the pub was firebombed after your anti-immigrant demonstration.”
“America for Americans held a demonstration and put up a billboard, all activities that are protected by the Constitution. We didn’t have anything to do with the explosion at the pub—no how, no way.”
“But some folks might have taken your anti-immigrant rhetoric a step too far,” said Lucy.
“Well, that’s their problem, not mine. And what about folks like you, in the media?” he continued, challenging her. “Time after time I’ve seen my words twisted just so you guys can sell more newspapers.”
Lucy knew this was an argument she couldn’t win. Just as patriotism was said to be the last resort of scoundrels, blaming the media seemed to be their first, knee-jerk reaction. “So, for the record”—she spoke slowly and carefully—“you insist that America for Americans had nothing whatever to do with firebombing the old pub?”
“Absolutely not,” said Zeke, “but I’ll be amazed if you print that.”
“Prepare to be amazed,” said Lucy, ending the call as she reached the top of Red Top Road and turned into her driveway.
Bill was ready to go, waiting for her at the kitchen table where he’d been doing the word jumble in the morning paper. “Any idea what c-l-e-t-t-e-u could be?” he asked as he got to his feet.
“Lettuce,” said Lucy, not missing a beat. “How’s the arm?”
“Fine, thanks to the Vicodin, once it’s in the sling, and I don’t move it or bump it,” said Bill.
Lucy knew he was putting on a brave front. She’d seen how badly bruised his arm and shoulder were, and how painful it was for him to get dressed and undressed. He couldn’t wear anything that involved raising his arm, like a pull-on T-shirt or sweater, and instead chose shirts that buttoned. Even so, he couldn’t shove his broken arm into a sleeve but had to carefully slide it on, inch by painful inch. Getting dressed was no longer a quick matter of automatically throwing on a few garments but was a slow process that left him white-faced and exhausted. He couldn’t even tie his shoes and, too proud to ask for help, had switched to a pair of casual suede slip-ons.
“Well, we’ll see what the doctor has to say,” she said while he settled himself in the passenger seat and struggled to fasten the seatbelt with his good arm.
Coastal Orthopedics and Sports Medicine was housed in a modern office building that had only recently been built on the outskirts of town near the Winchester College campus. It took about fifteen minutes to drive there, and there was plenty of parking in the adjoining lot.
As she walked into the waiting room with Bill, Lucy was reminded of the many times she’d brought the kids to see Doc Ryder. The old family doctor was now retired, and Bill was her husband, not her child, but there was still a bit of that déjà vu feeling. She was on her way to the receptionist’s desk to announce their arrival when Bill caught her by
