Tough Cookie

The lady I hit? So he didn’t know Eileen Druckman? Had he not been aiming directly for her? “No. She’s hurt, but hanging in there.”

“Is he … dead?”

I hesitated again, torn between wanting to get information and trying to be pastoral to a man who believed he was dying. “Who?”

“Kee-rist! You an owl or somethin’?” This question sent him into a fit of spasmodic coughing.

“Gilkey?” I said when his paroxyms abated. “Were you aiming for Jack Gilkey?”

Reed started coughing again. “Is he dead?” he repeated hoarsely.

“Do you mean Jack Gilkey? No, he’s not dead. Do you mean Doug Portman? Yes. Did you hit him, too, the way you hit that lady?”

“I’m dying,” Barton Reed repeated dully. “There’s no hope.”

“There’s always hope.”

He turned his head away.

Since he didn’t seem to want to talk about Jack Gilkey or Doug Portman, I said brightly, “You’re quite a snowboarder. Maybe when you get better—”

“She wouldn’t do the half-pipe with me anymore. Said she was hurt but that was … crap. Just chickened out.”

I knew better than to say Who? a third time. I decided to try the Rogerian technique, one of the few remembered remnants from a mostly-useless psych degree. The famous shrink Carl Rogers had maintained that you should always repeat what the patient says. See where it leads. I repeated dutifully, “She said she was hurt.”

“She was the best. Got hurt. Wanted to be famous. Never happened.”

“It never happened.”

“Is there an echo in here?” Barton turned from the window and batted his good eye at me. A puzzled look came over his face. “Is he dead? I gotta know.”

I folded my hands and tried to think of what to say. Barton Reed was confused. He was convinced he was at death’s door. He craved information or absolution or something, and I just didn’t know how to provide it.

He groaned. “You from the church?” he repeated.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then pray for me.”

I took his bandaged hand in both of mine and clasped it. No matter what, give what you’ve got, Rorry and I always told our class. God can take a couple of sardines and five hard rolls and turn it into a feast, and God can help you pray with an incoherent criminal in physical and spiritual pain.

“Our Father,” I began; he mouthed most of the prayer with me. When we finished, he was asleep, and I hadn’t learned who “he” was in his insistent question: Is he dead? I figured I could come back and visit him the next day, and hope he’d be more coherent.

But it did not happen. The next morning, Tom and I received a call: Barton Reed had died of a heart attack at midnight.

CHAPTER 19

That morning, Thursday, after we got the call, I prayed for Barton Reed. Then I cleared my mind and did my yoga before pulling myself into the shower. I couldn’t focus. Again and again I saw Barton Reed, crouched, hell- bent, racing down the slope, sending Eileen sprawling. The previous night, I had not been allowed to see Eileen. The doctor told Todd his mother was doing so well she could probably be out of Intensive Care today. Todd, subdued and shaken, had come home with us. He’d spent the night in Arch’s room, in Julian’s old bed.

Jack Gilkey, his eyes red and swollen, had informed us that he was spending the night at the hospital. He asked Tom to call the bistro so someone else could do the lunch shift the next day. Before we left Lutheran, the Hispanic family took notice of poor Jack. They told us the grandfather of their clan had been in a car accident, and they, too, would be spending the night in the waiting room. Diego offered Jack hot homemade tamales. The last I saw of Jack, he was holding a tamale in one hand and a Dos Equis in the other.

Now, as I toweled off, I wondered how he was doing. Sleeping on a couch always seems convenient until you’ve done it for six or eight hours. I slipped into warm clothes and descended to the kitchen. Tom, who was poring over a plumbing manual, set it down to fix me a double espresso topped with a soft dollop of whipped cream. I sipped it and stared out the bay window in my no-longer-commercial kitchen. Too much had happened. Too many people had been hurt. No break, no light, appeared on the horizon. Outside, as if echoing my gloom, a steady snowfall that had begun during the night showed no sign of letting up.

“I’m taking the boys to school,” Tom announced. “They want breakfast at McDonald’s first. Can I bring you something?”

“No, thanks. Are they sure they want to eat out? I have to put together breakfast dishes for today’s show, and I can offer them something good in about half an hour.…”

Tom touched my shoulder. “Todd says he doesn’t want to sit around. He’s asked the doctor to call him at school if there is an emergency.” He smiled mischievously. “And both boys are desperate to get their Spenser presentation over with so they can have their Christmas party. Nothing like the lure of Christmas cookies.”

“Oh, Lord!” I exclaimed. “I forgot to make anything—”

Tom picked up a foil-covered platter from the marble counter and crinkled up a corner. Underneath the silvery wrapping lay dozens of crisp brown Chocolate Coma Cookies, each one studded with dried tart cherries, toasted almonds, and dark chocolate chips.

“What in the—?”

“Miss G., you wanted your recipe tested, didn’t you? After I finished putting in the drains—”

“Tom! You’re done?”

“ ‘O, ye of little faith,’ ” he began as the boys catapulted into the kitchen howling that they’d fed the animals, could they please go get some breakfast burritos? Todd and Arch both seemed better, each buoyed by the other’s presence, each enthusiastic about the prospect of their upcoming holiday party. They did not want to discuss Eileen’s condition, but only asked me to send them good vibes for their presentation. I promised I would.

Tom set two cookies on a small china plate and left it by my espresso. The crunch of almonds, tang of cherries, and rich, luscious chocolate woke me right up. I decided to call the upcoming day’s TV menu “Feel-Your- Oats Holiday Breakfast.” Rashers of crisp Canadian bacon, a bowl of icy vanilla yogurt, and a mountain of fresh fruit would go perfectly with the two starchy dishes I’d decided to prepare—spicy Swiss oatmeal and homemade bread. By seven-thirty, I had called early-rising Julian. He was flattered to fax me his new five-grain bread recipe. I thanked him, then proofed yeast while measuring out the cereal. A fresh, dimple-skinned orange, a new jar of Indonesian cinnamon, and more tart cherries beckoned to go into the oats.

By nine-fifteen, I was actually humming to myself, a sure sign the culinary work had once again helped me get life back into perspective. I realized the time set for Arch and Todd’s presentation was only half an hour away. I checked that the bread dough had risen properly and sent the boys a silent prayer of encouragement.

The phone rang. Concerned that it might be the hospital calling about Eileen, I picked up rather than letting the machine answer. It was not the hospital. It was Boots Faraday.

“Look, Goldy,” she said without preamble, “Arthur Wakefield insists I owe you an apology.”

“What?”

“Arthur’s an old friend, and he didn’t mean any harm by running that article about you.” She paused, struggling, I supposed, to adopt an unfamiliar apologetic tone. “I … I heard about your friend Eileen Druckman, and that awful Barton Reed, and that you were there when it happened. I realized that you really are in the middle of a mess.”

“Yes, it’s bad,” I admitted. But why call me? Unless, of course, she wanted to confess that Doug Portman’s mean critique of her work had driven her to kill him six days ago.