“Why?”
“Your business is Belsum Chemical, no?”
“His family business, yes.”
Nora takes a deep breath, then says gently, even apologetically, “There’s some awfully bad blood in this town between us and Belsum.”
River’s mother puffs out her sunken cheeks. “Which I have to tell you, I never understood until I saw you with my own eyes. Man, you all have some legit complaints.”
“We do.” Nora nods graciously.
“But I’m on your side,” Apple protests. “You guys got screwed. I’d want out if I were you. Hell, I want out because of you. Not you specifically, you understand, but…”
Nora nods again. No one looks at me.
“Besides, do I have another option?”
“It’s true I’m the only therapist in Bourne,” Nora admits, “and fifty percent of the medical professionals at this clinic, which is the only clinic in town, but there are a few folks I can recommend who see patients online. You’ll find wifi spotty in Bourne, but it may be better than the alternative.”
“Which is you?”
“Me and my conflict of interest, yes.”
She considers. “I don’t mind. You—all of you—must hate my husband even more than I do.” Apple’s voice is full of awe. “This might be the best therapy I’ve ever had.”
* * *
Meeting Apple Templeton at last, listening to her complain about her husband, worry about her son, wish she could ditch this town and the family business and all of Belsum’s plans for here and for us, this would have been enough for one day.
But on the way to the bar, Nora’s phone rings.
She glances at the screen and then, because she is driving, puts it on speaker.
“Russell?”
“Nora.”
A whole conversation right there. She already sounds panicked. He already sounds full. He has news—he’s never the one to call; it’s always her—he doesn’t want to tell her but must need her to know.
“You okay?” She’s a little breathless.
“Yeah. You?” Him too.
“Yeah. Just leaving work and going to work.”
“You driving?”
“Yeah. You’re on speaker. Say hi to Mirabel.”
“Hi, love,” he calls. I wave from the back, not that he can see, not that he expects me to answer otherwise. And then, “Hey Nora, do me a favor?”
“Anything.” She’s aiming for breezy.
“Pull over.”
* * *
She waits. She waits until everyone gets there. She says nothing as her guys file in. She takes their orders, which she needn’t because she knows them by heart, and serves them calm as ever. She waits until they’re into their second rounds. She does not let her face show fury or fear or even distraction. She does not weep or rend her robes, which are a stained button-down belonging to her dead husband over a pair of faded black leggings, or roll her eyes or raise her voice to either the heavens or the patrons themselves, her friends and compatriots and fellow survivors. She unearths great reserves of strength or, maybe, hunkers down for a long night coming and waits and eventually finally says, light as she’s able, “So. Russell called.”
Their heads all rise like the bubbles in their beers. They do not need to ask, “Russell who?” They do not need to ask why he called or what he said.
“Aww, Nora, honey,” Tom begins, but she raises a hand that says stop, that says she doesn’t want comforting or gentleness or her ass kissed, that she’ll cry or scream or probably both if they don’t just tell her quickly what they know they must.
“The suit isn’t going anywhere,” Hobart says quietly. If she notices he’s used the present tense, I can’t tell.
“These things take time.” She bites her lips. She interrupted, and she didn’t mean to. She is trying so hard to seem loose, cool.
“Twenty years?”
“It hasn’t been twenty years.”
“Sixteen.”
“Yeah. Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes it takes sixteen years. We’re making progress.”
“We aren’t, honey.” Tom tries to match her calm, her pretend calm.
“How would you know?” she snaps.
“Forget gaining ground, we’re losing it.”
“We aren’t.”
“We are,” says Zach. “They’re back. They’re reopening the plant. That’s how not worried about this lawsuit they are.”
“It’s a ploy, Zach. It’s all for show. Tell me you don’t see that.”
“How do you figure?” Maybe he’s genuinely willing to hear what she has to say. Or maybe letting her lay out her case is the first step to poking holes in it.
“That’s why they’re back. Because they’re worried about the suit. So they can show they aren’t worried about the suit.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Zach sounds like he’s talking to a small child or a scared dog.
“Maybe you’re right,” Tom starts.
Nora snorts. “Then what’s your excuse?”
He shrugs, helpless, but raises his eyes again to hold hers while he answers her question. “They offered us jobs, Nora.”
“In exchange?” she demands, even though she knows, even though Russell warned her.
“Not in exchange.” Hobart winces. “But yeah, as a condition of employment, we had to take our names off the lawsuit.”
“It’s blood money.”
“Maybe,” Tom says, “but it’s still money.”
She opens her mouth, but Zach starts in before she can say anything. They’ve been waiting to have this conversation with her, dreading it no doubt, but ready now and eager to have it over with finally. “They’re good jobs, Nora. Full-time, good salary, benefits.” And when she still won’t look at him, “Health insurance. Life insurance.”
“You don’t need benefits.” Her eyes are wide, too much white. “Pastor Jeff—”
“Could stand to get paid more for his services,” Zach says. “You too. I mean Mirabel’s doing a great job with the books over there”—he smiles at me, my tray piled with Frank’s receipts, not that I’ve looked at so much as a single number this evening—“but it can’t be enough.”
“We’re fine,” Nora says, a statement so absurd, on so many fronts, Zach laughs.
“You’re underpaid. And you’re overworked. If more of us had insurance, more doctors would come. More services, specialists. Maybe we’d get a hospital close enough to make a difference. If we had a choice—”
“You have a choice,” she interrupts.
“We don’t.” Zach stands then. So she can take his measure, I guess. Maybe to remind her how many legs he has left to stand on. Maybe to remind her how much he’s lost as well. “We don’t. They took that—”
“Yes, they did. So why would you—”
“Because what else can I do, Nora? Buy more buckets and more blankets and stretch the roof through yet another winter? Stay home all the time because it hurts like hell even limping with this piece-of-shit prosthesis? No offense, man.” He turns to Tom who’s keeping Zach’s leg functional with will, plumber’s tape, and a bike wrench.