Three Rivers Page 15

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Daddy is in pain. Mama abandoned us. My brother was destroyed by the church. God hasn’t done a damn thing about any of it.”

  Chris kneeled beside Melody, put his arm around her. “God wants your life to be a testament to his grace, but you have to ask for it. ‘Remember the Lord your God, for it is he who is giving you the power to make wealth.’”

  Melody pushed him away, stood and paced across the kitchen. “The only people getting wealthy off God are the preachers. They get richer and we get poorer.”

  “Wealth isn’t always about money,” Chris said.

  Melody snorted. “Wealth is always about money to the goddamned preachers.” She rinsed her coffee mug and stared out the window at the rain. She filled a clean mug with coffee and took it out to Maurice. She felt desperate to escape Chris’s fervent pleading.

  She set the coffee on the bedside table and gathered up the soiled sheets. “I’ll start another load of laundry,” she said to Maurice. She tilted her head at the mug of coffee. “Do you want cream or sugar? I wasn’t sure how you liked it.”

  “This is fine,” Maurice said. “Thank you.”

  “He hasn’t eaten anything,” she said. “I tried to get him to drink one of the shakes, but he wouldn’t. He just dumped it out all over the bed.”

  “Mr. Mahaffey,” Maurice said. “Is that true? Are you refusing to eat?”

  Daddy’s hands flailed up, as if he were trying to shoo Maurice away.

  “Can’t we give him real food? What harm would it do to give him something that tastes good?”

  “He won’t keep it down,” Maurice said. “That’s why we started the shakes in the first place. His stomach can’t handle it.”

  “Then do something else. Put in one of those feeding tubes.”

  “I’m right here,” her father barked. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. I can hear every goddamned word you say. No tubes. I don’t want you sticking one more thing in my body.”

  “Calm down, Mr. Mahaffey. No one’s inserting a feeding tube. We talked about this, remember?”

  “Well, I didn’t talk about it,” Melody said.

  “Why don’t you bring him a glass of water?” Maurice prepped one of his needles. “I’m going to give him a little extra medicine for the pain.”

  “What exactly are you giving him?”

  “Morphine.” He might as well have said “cranberry juice” for all the inflection in his voice.

  “Don’t people get addicted to that?”

  “Yes,” Maurice said. “People do.”

  “Well, aren’t you worried about that? Daddy, aren’t you worried about it?”

  Maurice plunged the needle into her father’s thigh. He made a note in a small notebook he kept by her father’s bed and discarded the needle into a red plastic box with a locking lid. “I’m not worried about it,” Maurice said. “How about that water?”

  “What if I’m worried about it? Does anyone care what I think?”

  “Look.” Maurice lowered his voice and stood close to her. “It doesn’t matter. Can’t you see that? He isn’t going to turn into a junkie. He isn’t going to be here long enough for that.”

  “But…” Melody wanted to say something sharp and hurtful, but there was no point. Maurice was right.

  “I’m sorry,” Maurice said. “I know it’s difficult.”

  Right then Melody wished she believed in something. It would be a relief to be one of those people who could just pray and feel better. Melody was tired of feeling hopeless and alone and pissed off at the world.

  Chris came into the room, holding a glass of water. “I couldn’t help overhearing.” He handed the glass to Maurice. “We should take turns praying for your father so he is constantly being lifted up. It might help his pain, bring some comfort.”

  Melody glared at him, but it was too late.

  “Little girl, if I sniff anyone praying over me, I won’t be the only one dying in this house.”

  “No one’s praying, Daddy.” She turned to Chris. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “Get this praying asshole out of my house! Now!”

  “Calm down, Daddy. No one’s praying.” Melody pushed Chris back into the kitchen. “What is wrong with you? What in God’s name are you trying to do to me?”

  Chris stumbled. “I offered to pray. Is that such a terrible thing? Isn’t that what God asks of us?”

  “You have to go,” she said “You have to leave right now.”

  “God knows you are suffering. He’ll forgive your faithlessness.”

  She pulled a glass from the kitchen cabinet, filled it with tap water, and drank it down. She filled it again. Her hands shook.

  “I can help,” Chris said.

  “I don’t want your help. I don’t want your prayers. I don’t want your God. It’s all a lie.”

  “A lie? When your father dies, do you really believe he’ll turn to dust? Do you believe that’s all there is?”

  Melody hurled the water glass at him. He ducked and the glass shattered on the floor behind him. “Get out!” she yelled. “Get out of my house!”

  Chris inched his way toward the door. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll come around.” He stepped out into the rain, and Melody slammed the door behind him.

  Maurice stepped into the kitchen. He looked sheepish, and she knew he’d overheard everything. “Your father’s sleeping. I’m going to go find Bobby.”

  “You know, it’s not your job to take care of Bobby,” Melody said.

  “I’m worried about him out in this storm.” He left by the back door and disappeared into the rain.

  Melody stared out the back window, but there was nothing to see. Everything was gray and wet and dark. When the phone rang, she jumped. She grabbed it before it could ring again and wake her father. “Hello?”

  “I’m calling for Geneva Mahaffey. Is she available?” It was a man’s voice, somehow familiar, though Melody wasn’t sure why.

  “No, she most certainly is not available. May I ask who is calling?”

  “Yep. Deputy Buster Boggs with the Muskogee County Sheriff’s Department. Mrs. Mahaffey was in earlier with Mr. Nair. They were supposed to return and pick up Mr. Nair’s daughter an hour ago.”

  Melody realized this was the same man she spoke with earlier when she’d tried to call Sheriff Randall.

  “Mama hasn’t been home today,” Melody said. “I don’t know any of the other people you just mentioned.”

  “I’m afraid they might be stuck somewhere. We’ve got a hell of a flood coming in, and I don’t reckon anyone should be out driving in this.”

  “About that,” Melody said. “We’re out off of County Road 240 and the water is rising pretty quickly. My brother said there was a man and a small boy out camping on our land last night. I’m worried about a child out in this storm.”

  “A man with a small boy, huh?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did your brother describe the man? Can I talk to your brother?”

  Melody stretched the phone cord to look out the kitchen window. All she could see was water, falling from the sky and rising up from the ground. A crack of thunder shook the house. The kitchen lights flickered and died. “Our electricity just went out.” She was grateful her parents still had an old-fashioned phone with a cord and no plug.

  “Yep, it’s out all over the county,” the man said. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She thought of her father, alone in the dark. “I should go now.”

  “Listen, if you hear from your mother, tell her to sit tight. Tell her that Miss Nair is fine here until the storm blows over. No need to take any chances.”

  “Sure.” Melody didn’t believe she would hear from her mother.

  “And, ma’am, that man with the little boy might be dangerous. Don’t confront him.”

  Melody wondered if Bobby was outside
confronting him right now. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

  “Don’t know anything for sure,” he said. “Just keep your distance.”

  She stared at the back door and willed Maurice and Bobby to come through it. “Mr. Boggs? Are you still there?”

  “Right here.” The man’s voice sounded garbled, as if he were chewing something.

  “If you do talk to my mother, would you tell her that we’re doing just fine without her? Tell her we don’t need her here.”

  She heard a strange wet sound on the other side of the line. “I reckon I can do that.”

  “Thank you.” Melody hung up the phone. She didn’t know who Mr. Nair and his daughter were, but Mama had obviously chosen them over her own family.

  She found a bundle of old candles in the dining room and a book of matches. She took one of the tapers and an old crystal candlestick holder out to the living room. Daddy moaned and said her name. His chest rattled. He coughed. He gasped.

  “Did I wake you? I’m sorry. We lost the electricity.” Melody placed the candle atop the piano and lit it. The soft light was comforting. “Flood’s coming in.”

  Daddy’s face was gray and his eyes wobbled. He grasped at her. Something was wrong; something was missing. Daddy wheezed and rattled, but the oxygen tank was silent. She stared at the big silver contraption with its clear tubes leading to Daddy’s nose and its big black cord plugged into the wall outlet. No electricity, no oxygen. “Oh, Daddy.… Just hang on.”

  There was a portable tank next to the larger electric tank, but she didn’t know how to use it. She had to find Maurice. “Try to relax, Daddy. Don’t panic.”

  “Genie,” he croaked.

  “Don’t talk, Daddy. Save your energy.”

  “Genie.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Mama will come home, you’ll see.” She ran to the back door to look for Maurice. She hoped she could find him before her father stopped breathing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Obi crept through the rising water. The boy he’d seen in the window was hiding behind a tree, spying on Liam. Rain ran down around them, but the boy didn’t seem to mind the wet. Obi was soaked. He’d put Liam in the car and gone out to gather firewood, which he carried now wrapped in a tarp for later. When the rain let up, they’d want dry wood and kindling for a fire. Now he wanted the boy behind the tree to go away. What could he be doing, out in this storm and so far from the house? The boy stood between Obi and his son. It was a bad place to stand. Obi stopped and watched the boy, tried to read his stance and his intentions. He was up to no good; Obi was sure about that. People who lived inside stayed inside when the weather turned bad.

  Obi’s rifle was slung across his back. He set the bundle of wood down in the rushing water and felt the future warmth it could bring wash away. He moved forward. Water swirled around his legs. It was rising fast. When he was about six feet away from the boy, he saw the car driving toward them. It was not the kind of car that anyone should be driving through several feet of rushing water on a dirt path to nowhere. Obi’s first thought was that the cops were coming for him, but it wasn’t a police car, not even an unmarked police car. It was a cheap subcompact swerving wildly. If the driver didn’t slow down, he’d end up in the creek or wrapped around a tree. Then Obi saw the other option, the more likely option; the car was careening toward his car, and toward his son.

  Obi sprinted past the boy behind the tree, who was now waving his arms and shouting. The car skidded and bobbed violently along the surface of the water. It happened during floods. Drivers braked when they shouldn’t, turned too quickly, or panicked and gave everything to the strong pull of the currents. Obi yanked open the passenger-side door of his mother’s car and pulled Liam into his arms. He ran, his son cradled against his chest, toward the spot where he’d first seen the spinning car appear, because one thing was certain: The car was moving forward fast and it wasn’t going to turn back.

  Liam wrapped his legs around Obi’s waist and held tight to his neck. Obi galloped through the water, racing to put as much distance as possible between his son and the careening vehicle. Liam thought it was a game. “Go, Daddy!” he yelled. Behind Obi, there was a sickening crunch of metal followed by a crack of thunder. Someone screamed. Obi turned to look. The car had crashed smack into the passenger side, where Liam had sat just moments before. Obi stared at the point of impact, and even though Liam was in his arms, he pictured his son in the car, pictured him mangled in the horrible wreckage. His only job was to keep Liam safe. Again and again, he came so close to failing.

  The driver of the wrecked car stumbled out, fell on his face into the water, scrambled to his feet, and fell again. A bright gash of blood poured down his face, one spot of color in the gray world. Obi hesitated, not wanting to get mixed up with this man, or with the boy behind the tree, or with anyone, but Liam was more compassionate. “He’s hurt. Help him, Daddy.”

  Obi walked toward the man. He kept one arm around Liam and used the other to pull his gun around. He didn’t point it at the man, but he kept his hand on the barrel. The cool metal felt like security. The man stared up at Obi, his eyes glassy and frightened. The cut on his head poured blood across his face, lending him a savage look. Obi suspected the man could do with some stitches.

  “Are you okay?” Obi asked.

  The man stared up at him. “Am I okay?”

  “Can you walk?”

  The man struggled to his feet. He wobbled but remained standing.

  “Do you live here?” Obi asked. “I think you should go back to the house, call a doctor.”

  The man shook his head and then winced as if the motion pained him. “I was leaving, trying to leave. The roads—oh, they’re terrible.”

  “You shouldn’t be driving in this weather,” Obi said.

  “I turned back, but I couldn’t see. I guess I missed the driveway. I don’t know what happened.” The man slumped down to the ground again. “I’m very tired.”

  Obi released his grip on the rifle. “Listen.” He dragged the man up to a standing position, keeping his other arm around Liam. “You’ve got a bad gash on your head. You need to go inside, get a doctor.” The man nodded, but he didn’t seem to understand. “Can you get back to the house? Will someone there help you?”

  “She threw me out,” he said. “I was trying to help her.”

  Obi looked for the boy who’d been spying on Liam. Where could the boy have gone? Obi didn’t like losing sight of him. It left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. Finally, Obi spotted him. He was not alone. He walked toward Obi with a tall black man. Neither appeared to be armed, but Obi wished he could grab his rifle. If it came down to it, he would drop the injured man in favor of his rifle, he decided.

  “Hi, there,” the black man said. “I’m Maurice and this is Bobby.”

  Obi nodded, cautious.

  “This is private land,” Maurice said.

  “I have permission to be here.” Obi tightened his grip on Liam. “My mother knows the woman who owns this land. She said we could camp here.”

  “You know mother mine, mine, mine, Mama?” The boy who’d been spying on Liam spoke with some sort of stutter. And he wasn’t really a boy. Something about the way he moved had Obi thinking he was a teenager, but he saw now that the boy was a man, not so much younger than Obi.

  “My mother knows your mother,” Obi said.

  “She is where? Where is she?”

  There was something off about the boy, but he didn’t seem to be a threat. At least he didn’t seem to be threatening them. Obi was less certain about Maurice. The way he said it was “private land” made Obi wonder if he planned to protect the land from people like him. And yet, Obi could hardly believe that Maurice had any claim on the land. Obi knew the type of women who visited his mother. They were, without exception, white and entitled.

  “This man is hurt,” Obi said.

  “We don’t know him.” Maurice shook his head like a dog trying to shake off wat
er. “He just showed up to talk to Bobby’s sister.”

  “He shouldn’t have been driving. He almost killed my son.” Obi struggled to balance Liam’s comfortable, familiar weight against the heavy pull of the injured man. “He needs a doctor. At the very least, he needs this wound cleaned out.” The man’s bleeding head sagged against Obi’s shoulder.

  “I’m a nurse,” Maurice said. “Let’s get him back to the house.”

  Obi shoved the man toward Maurice and Bobby, but the man protested. “No.” His voice was high pitched and whiny. “I want to stay with you.”

  “You can’t stay out here.”

  “We can all go home,” Bobby said.

  “You can help me,” the man said.

  “No.” Obi’s arm was numb from supporting the man’s weight, and he couldn’t believe two able-bodied men would just stand there and not offer help. Maybe Bobby was a little slow, but there was nothing wrong with him physically. If Maurice really was a nurse, Obi figured he wasn’t a very good one.

  “You should come with us,” Maurice said. “This storm is getting worse. If the levees break, we’ll be right in the path of the flood. You don’t want your son out in this, do you? This is your son, right?”

  Obi thought he heard a hint of threat or insinuation in Maurice’s voice. He didn’t like it one bit. “We’ll be fine.” Of course, it wasn’t true; they would not be fine. The wreck had destroyed their one piece of shelter. They had no way to travel now except by foot. If the rain kept up, they’d be forced to swim.

  “Let’s all go home, home, home,” Bobby sang. Liam laughed.

  “No. We’ll manage. Thanks for the offer.”

  “You need to come inside,” Maurice said. “If anything happened to you out here—”

  “We would not hold you responsible for anything that happened to us.”

  “Do you really want to be out in this mess with a child?”

  They were stranded and it was raining like the end of the world was near. Obi’s options were slim, and he knew it. Liam shivered and huddled tight against him. Maurice was right. The floodwaters were rising, and he couldn’t protect Liam from the storm. Maybe he could protect him in the house. Maybe he could protect them both.