Lending a Paw(90)

I flicked a stray piece of lettuce off my finger and tried to figure out why he’d ask. “Larry told me he’d cut his hand. But . . . he broke it?”

Tucker looked at me over his sandwich. “I was way out of line to say anything. Please forget it.”

An odd itch climbed up the back of my neck, but I nodded because I now understood what he was talking about. “Librarians know all about respecting privacy laws.”

Tucker’s nicely broad shoulders lost a little bit of tension. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d give you a hug, but . . .” He held up his hands, still filled with gooey sandwich.

I smiled. “Can I ask a question, instead? How hard is it to break a bone in your hand?” I laid down my sandwich, made a fist with one hand, and pressed it into the opposite open palm, pushing hard. “And how long does it take to heal?”

If you were hitting something, say the back door of a farmhouse, how much force would it take to break your hand? How hard would you have to hit, how much damage would you inflict on yourself, how much would you inflict on what you were hitting?

But a better question was, why had Larry lied? He’d told Kristen the injury was from softball and he’d told me he’d cut himself, yet it was really a break. Why the multiple lies? Maybe he was just one of those guys who was trying to tell the best story. Sure, that could be it.

“It’s easier than you think,” Tucker said. “Saw a lot of it, downstate. From street fights, but also people who’d get mad and haul off and hit a wall. Metacarpals with spiral fractures? Those guys are in a world of hurt for a long time. Surgery, nerve damage, sometimes they never get their strength back a hundred percent.”

He talked about the importance of physical therapy for full recovery and how the length of recovery varied tremendously, but all I kept hearing was the loop of my question and his initial response.

How hard is it to break a bone in your hand?

Easier than you think.

• • •

Eddie and I sat out on the houseboat’s front deck, me on the chaise lounge in shorts and sweatshirt, Eddie warming my lap as the sunset glow faded. I’d set the chaise in the exact center of the deck. No chance of any accidental fallings-in tonight.

“Mrr,” Eddie said, snuggling in closer to me.

“Yeah,” I told him, petting him long from head to tail. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

I’d asked Tucker if he wanted to come aboard. “Love to,” he’d said, and I’d started smiling. “But I have to work tomorrow, so I’d better get home.” So, once again, it was me and my pal Eddie hanging out.

In a minute, I’d go figure out who was hosting the Friday night party. One dock down, maybe two. It wasn’t far. Over the quiet water I could hear music and laughter and the popping of beer cans. Eddie and I would sit here for a while and then I’d put him inside and head for the lights and the noise.

Soon.

The stars came out, bright in the moonless sky. The scattered white of the Milky Way eased into view. It must be at least eleven o’clock. I should find the party before the diehards were the only ones left.

Soon.

Eddie purred gently. “Trying to get me to stay?” I asked, resting my hand on his back, feeling the vibrations up through my arm, shoulder, and deep into my heart. “I should really go and be social.”

He shifted and his purrs became lower and even more soothing.

I thought about Stan, about how he’d died, how he’d lived, and about how much I owed him. I thought about my responsibilities to the library, to the ever-increasing number of bookmobile patrons, to Holly, to Aunt Frances. I thought about my obligations. Which overlapped quite a bit with the responsibilities, but wasn’t an exact match, somehow.

What is a friend obligated to do? Did I want to be the kind of person who ran the risk of being taken advantage of, or be the kind of person who walked away? And what is a niece obligated to do? More than a friend? Less?

I thought about the times I’d talked to the detectives. Had I been too impatient? Unrealistic in my expectations? Maybe I’d assumed too much; maybe I hadn’t listened to them just as much as they hadn’t listened to me.

The party noises faded. Up above, a yellowy green curtain waved into view, a slow dance moving to a beat I could almost feel in my bones. The northern lights, gorgeous and unworldly, beautiful and primeval.

I watched the show all the way to the end, hours past the time I should have gone to bed, watching and wondering.

And thinking.





Chapter 18


The next day, Saturday, had been scheduled to be a Bookmobile Day. Unfortunately, the bookmobile was still in the mechanic’s garage. I’d called all the stop contacts and volunteered to bring a selection of books in my car. “Tell me what you’re interested in, and I’ll make sure I bring something that suits.”