Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“She is, thank you,” Dr. Aris said, adjusting his glasses. “We were just saying how quiet the town gets once the autumn tourists leave.”
“Rachel has been resting more lately,” David said, his voice soft with a public sort of concern. “The change of season always takes a bit of a toll on her energy, so we are keeping things quiet.”
I felt a sudden, hot flush rise in my neck. I had not been resting more than usual, but contradicting my husband in front of his professional colleague felt small and unnecessary.
“I am doing just fine,” I said, handing David the brown paper lunch bag.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” David said, checking his gold watch again. “Go on home and take it easy this afternoon. No need to push yourself.”
I turned and walked back to the parking lot, my fingers tracing the circular band of my silver wedding ring.
By seven that evening, the shadows had stretched long across the asphalt at the Shell gas station on the edge of town. Gas was three dollars and eighty cents a gallon, and the pump clicked off at thirty-eight dollars exactly.
A young man stepped out from the side of the brick building, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. It was Marcus, an eighteen-year-old high school dropout who lived in the trailer park behind the high school.
He pulled the cuffs of his faded denim jacket over his knuckles as he approached the driver’s side of my Buick.
“Mrs. Vance,” he said, his voice hesitant and low. “Could I borrow your phone for a second?”
“Is everything alright, Marcus?” I asked.
“My battery died,” he said, looking over his shoulder toward the empty county highway. “Just need to make a quick call to my sister.”
