Out Of The Deep I Cry

anything? How about some homemade hot chocolate? You know you love hot chocolate.”

Dr. Rouse closed his eyes for a moment. “Sure,” he said. “That’ll be fine.” He opened his eyes again. “Reverend Fergusson. Of course. You were the one who leaped in front of that Clow woman.”

There was a pause. Clare stood fixed to the carpet, wondering how she should respond. His greeting was hardly enthusiastic. She settled on a “Pleased to meet you,” and a wave.

“So, Clare,” Mrs. Marshall said, in a voice as bright as her fuchsia lipstick, “I’ve been telling Allan about the terrible situation with the roof, and how I’m going to be using the trust principal to help out the church.”

Clare looked for a seat that would require the least amount of movement from here to there. She picked a striped barrel chair kitty-corner to the sofa and balanced herself on its edge. If you’re feeling twitchy about a situation, “Hardball” Wright said, it’s because it’s a bad situation to be in. Unfortunately, she couldn’t just flop to her belly and elbow-crawl to the door, as her former survival school instructor would probably have advised. She had asked to be here. Furthermore, she was, if not directly culpable, at least one of the people responsible for Dr. Rouse’s ravaged expression.

They sat in a silence more full than speech. Mrs. Marshall glanced at Clare, then at Dr. Rouse. “Allan, since Reverend Fergusson is here, are there any questions you’d like to ask her?”

His eyes peered at her from a long way away. “Yes, I would,” he said, his voice rough and creaky. “I’d like to know how a priest gets to value bricks and mortar over human lives.”

“Oh, now, Allan, let’s not be melodramatic,” Mrs. Marshall said. “The ten thousand the clinic gets from the Ketchem Trust isn’t going to mean the difference between life and death. And I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to make sure the board of aldermen increases the town’s funding to the clinic to compensate.”

Clare thought Mrs. Marshall’s persuasiveness as an advocate for the clinic would take a hit, given the fact that she had withdrawn her own support. But she kept her mouth shut.

Mrs. Rouse returned with a tray bearing three brown-glazed mugs, the tall, slope-sided style unique to university gift shops and German beer halls. “I made some for everyone,” she said brightly. She gingerly set a mug on the table next to her husband’s chair, patted his shoulder several times, and then deposited the tray on the coffee table, within easy reach of her guests. “Honestly, Lacey, I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about replacing your contribution.” Renee Rouse dropped into a comfortable velveteen chair that sat kitty-corner to her husband’s. Books, magazines, and word-search puzzles were stacked on a broad stool at its side, and Clare could picture the Rouses, on long winter evenings, sharing the space together, reading. The Journal of the American Medical Association on his lap and the Ladies’ Home Journal on hers.

“The last two times there were changes in one of the revenue sources for the clinic, the town adjusted their share to compensate,” Mrs. Rouse went on. “As I recall, when that grant from the state ran out, they didn’t even wait for a regular session. They passed an amended budget at a special town meeting.”

Clare could feel the stone of guilt rolling away. “Really? That’s good to know.”

“If they do it again,” Dr. Rouse said. “If.” He lurched forward, his hands tightening on the arms of the recliner. “These are hard times! The board has been making noises about cutting down library hours and firing the high school art teacher to save money. Do you honestly think they’ll just hand it over to me and say, ‘Oh, here’s your ten thousand, Allan, and thanks so much for asking’?”

Mrs. Rouse recoiled.

The high color in Allan Rouse’s cheeks drained away. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That was uncalled for.” He scooted to the edge of his chair and reached out a hand to her. “Please forgive me.”

Renee Rouse took his hand, squeezed it in hers. She nodded. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m just…”

She nodded again, then stitched a smile on her drawn face. “Why don’t you have some of that hot chocolate, lovey.” She stood. “I’m going to tidy up in the kitchen.”

Dr. Rouse took his mug off the table and sank back in on himself, as if his reserves of indignation had been spent. Did all that relentless consideration for your spouse help or hurt? Clare had really only seen one marriage up close and personal-her parents’-but she couldn’t recall her dad apologizing over a snapped remark like Dr. Rouse’s. Of course, she also couldn’t envision her mother bringing Dad hot cocoa on a tray or working to smooth his ruffled feathers.

Clare took her drink off the coffee table with a murmur of thanks. Mrs. Rouse gave her husband another look- checking his emotional temperature-and whisked out of the room. Mug in hand, Clare read COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS AND SURGEONS in Gothic gold lettering. “Did you attend Columbia?” she asked, trying for some semblance of conversation.

Dr. Rouse gestured toward Mrs. Marshall with his mug. “Her mother sent me. Paid my way through medical school and my residency. That’s how I wound up at the clinic, you know.” He sat up straighter, speaking directly to Mrs. Marshall. “It’s not as if it was my dream to sink my life into that two-bit practice, you know. I was going to do my time and get the hell out.”

Mrs. Marshall sat stiffly, knees together, and sipped her cocoa. Clare waited for her to respond to Dr. Rouse. When she didn’t, Clare ventured, “Why did you stay on?”

“Mrs. Ketchem died right around the time my obligation was up. I had agreed to head up the clinic for as many years as she supported my medical training, you see. Seven years. But when it was time for me to go, I could see there wasn’t anyone competent willing to take on such a thankless, underpaid job. And by that time, I had become sort of-infected by Mrs. Ketchem’s passion for the clinic.”

“And you had a life here,” Mrs. Marshall said, “and Renee didn’t want to move away from her family…”

He shot a fierce look at Mrs. Marshall. “That’s true. But mostly, it was the clinic. You have no idea what that place meant to your mother. None at all. If I told you-” He cut himself off.

Clare thought it sounded a bit theatrical. Evidently, Mrs. Marshall did, too. “Allan,” she said, her voice gentle, “I’m sure you have insights into my mother that are different from my own. But I’m the person she left as trustee, and I can only act according to my judgment about her wishes.” She put her mug down on the coffee table. “I think our presence here is just causing you more distress right now. Why don’t we leave and give you a chance to absorb what we’ve talked about. You have my number, and if you want to speak further after you’ve… adjusted to the news, please give me a call.”

She stood, and Clare hastily followed suit. Mrs. Rouse met them at the door as they retrieved their coats from the hall closet. “Leaving so soon?” she asked.

Mrs. Marshall laid her hand on the woman’s arm. “Renee, I’m sorry to have had to bring bad news. Please let me know that he’s doing okay.”

For a moment, Mrs. Rouse’s chirpy facade fell away, and she looked older, tired, scared. “He’s just so unpredictable lately,” she whispered. “Sometimes he’ll sit for hours in that old chair, not reading, not watching television. Just sitting. Then other times he’ll come home ranting and raving and ready to take on the world. I wish I knew how to help him.”

“Have you thought about taking him to a psychiatrist?” Clare said. “Maybe he’s depressed.”

“He can’t be!” Mrs. Rouse’s expression went flat. “He’s the most stable person I know.” She reattached the cheery look on her face. “He probably just needs a break. We’re going away this Friday to a medical conference in Phoenix. We’ve planned to take a few extra days afterward, to lie by the pool and order room service.”

“That sounds wonderful, dear. I’m sure it will cheer him up,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Do keep in touch, won’t you?”

The two women exchanged hugs and Clare shook Mrs. Rouse’s hand.

Outside, on the top of the steps, they paused to pull on gloves. “You ought to encourage her to get him to see a doctor,” Clare said. “Stable people suffer from depression, too. And he was acting very oddly in there, you have to admit. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to curl up and die or come out fighting.”

Mrs. Marshall clutched Clare’s arm against icy slips as they descended the steps. “Maybe,” she said.

“You sound doubtful.”

At the walk, Mrs. Marshall let go of Clare and snapped open her clutch to retrieve her keys. “We’re from another generation, dear. We don’t go popping off to get mood-altering pills whenever life hands us a setback.”

Clare rolled her eyes.

“I will check in with Renee when they get back from Phoenix.”