Free The Drought by Patricia Fulton, Extended Imagery Page B

the answering machine to click on. He could save the quarter if he hung up, but he wanted to hear his friend’s cocky voice even if it was just a recording. Suzy was watching him, mouthing the words, “Is he there?”
    Waving her away, Jar turned, and was about to cradle the receiver when someone picked up. Jar let out a deep breath and said, “Barry?”
    He could hear someone breathing on the other end. Jar gripped the hand piece harder, struggling to stay calm, “Barry please, just let me know you’re all right.”
    Whoever was on the other end let out a deep breath and whispered, “Is this Jar?”
    Jar’s eyes flew open. It wasn’t Barry, but it was someone in Barry’s room, talking on Barry’s phone. Trying to contain his excitement he responded, “Yes, yes it is.”
    Another ragged breath, like the person was struggling. To do the right thing?
    A low whisper, barely audible, “He’s alive. That’s all I can say.” There was a loud click, followed by dead air.
    Jar slowly moved the hand piece away from his ear. He was alive. He cradled the receiver, and sagged against the phone. Barry was alive.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Junction, Texas
     
    Maryanne Cook dropped the phone back into its cradle as if burned by the plastic. She looked at the doorway, expecting Mr. Tanner to be framed there, ready to reprimand her. “I heard what you said. You violated our agreement now please leave the premises immediately.” But the doorway remained empty, as it had for the past two weeks. Mr. Tanner had not once come to check on his son.
    She didn’t mind his absence, his presence and his complete lack of remorse made her uncomfortable. In her experience most abusive men came to the door with hangdog expressions, wringing their hands, exuding remorse. She’d heard all manner of excuses, some admitted to the abuse, “I don’t know what came over me. It’s never happened before.” “I just lost control, it was like being possessed.” And some were outright liars, “She fell down the stairs.” “She tripped and hit the corner of the table.”
    Mostly it was men who called, high profile men in business or politics who didn’t want to answer questions in an emergency room. She’d go and patch up a bloody nose, stitch a cut under an eye, wrap broken ribs. Once in a complete turnabout she’d gotten a call from a councilwoman in San Antonio who had fairly knocked the shit out of her husband with a heavy ashtray. It shouldn’t have mattered but it felt nice stitching up a man for a change.
    Most of the time it went smooth but there were a few cases that threatened to derail her private practice, she’d had a distraught father call about a shaken baby—but that one didn’t go well, there’s no being discreet with a dead baby.
    They all called using the same phrase, “I heard you’re discreet.” She imagined it was like a prostitute turning her first trick. Once you got past the unpleasant thought of being bought, it all had a certain rational symmetry. A person in need; another person willing to provide a service, where was the harm?
    Outside of his initial phone call, inquiring about her ability to be discreet Mr. Tanner did not act like any of her other clients. When he came to the door he didn’t offer any explanations or any apologies, he escorted her briskly through the foyer and up the stairs, showing her to her room as if she were a houseguest and not a nurse phoned in the middle of the night to fix whatever mess he had left her. She prodded him with a condescending tone, “And the patient Mr. Tanner? Where would—she be?”
    Without correcting her, he led her to the next room. His hand alighted briefly on the doorknob and she caught sight of bright crimson specks on the cuff of his dress shirt. He didn’t open the door. He said, “If you need anything, I’ll be in my office downstairs.” And he left.
    She nudged open the door and peered inside. She saw him on the bed, a boy, not a wife. The boy’s