Mr. Naylor said, “Where to?”
Daddy hesitated, and said, “That arm’s bad.”
Mr. Naylor said, “Want to get him over to Wilkes General?”
Daddy rubbed at his chin. “I got to come up with some reason. They’ll ask what happened, how he hurt it.”
Mr. Naylor said, “What was it again?”
Daddy went into the account of how we’d been run off the road. He didn’t say by who.
Mr. Naylor said, “Hm. Guess that would only set off more questions. Get some others involved that don’t need to be. Could say it was a farming accident.”
Daddy nodded. “Working on the tractor, fell off.”
Mr. Naylor said, “Yup.”
Daddy said, “That’ll work.”
Mr. Naylor drove like it was Sunday morning, not any faster than twenty-five miles per hour. It took a long time coming down the mountain.
Merritt moaned from the back, and asked, “How much longer?”
“Won’t be long,” said Mr. Naylor, as we poked along.
Daddy handed Merritt the jar again. I commended myself on keeping my mouth shut. Merritt slurped away while Mr. Naylor drove even slower as we made it into the more populated area of Wilkesboro. In town, some paid no mind to what Daddy did, while others relayed a different message: We know what y’all are doing. For shame. For that reason alone, I had never liked coming down off Shine Mountain and into town every Saturday to get groceries. For the past year or so, I’d begged not to be made to go, my humiliation like the weight I carried, easy for anyone to see. Daddy generally sold on 10th Street, where a strange mixture of preaching and prostitution existed. The ones listening to the preaching would sometimes duck into questionable establishments where Daddy’s jars were kept hidden until someone came in asking for “that special drink y’all got.” If I was forced to go into town, I walked behind Daddy and Merritt, stared at the ground in front of my feet. Daddy said I was going to walk into a light pole, or a wall, one of these days. He couldn’t see my embarrassment. He couldn’t see it, or it didn’t matter.
On Main Street we passed by the federal building and post office where I’d heard the government had set up a revenuer’s office for Wilkes County, and where a slew of agents had been sent to try and catch all moonshiners and bootleggers, but tracking down people who didn’t want to be caught wasn’t easy. No one could see that it had made much difference. From there we went across the Yadkin River into North Wilkesboro. We went by Pearson’s wholesale grocery where Daddy would get milk, bread, eggs, and cigarettes on them miserable Saturdays. Finally, we came to Wilkes General Hospital.
Mr. Naylor said, “Want I should pull up to that there entrance?”
Merritt burped while Daddy stared at the brightly lit building and sucked hard on his cigarette.
He blew a stream of blue smoke out of the cracked window, and said, “Yeah. I reckon that’s where we ought to go.”
For the first time in my life, I believed I heard a hint of nervousness in his voice. Mr. Naylor eased up to the door and put the vehicle in Park. Daddy finished his cigarette, and got out. I scooted across the seat after him and got out too.
He leaned down to speak to Merritt, and said, “I’m going in and see if I can find somebody to look at that arm.”
Merritt, his color gone from white to an unhealthy-looking flush with eyes bright and glassy, didn’t respond. Daddy acted like he was deciding something, and he finally turned and went inside where the large windows of the entrance showed him looking around for help. It didn’t take long before a nurse approached. Daddy gestured toward the car, at where I waited on the sidewalk. Merritt had propped up on an elbow and grinned stupidly. I glared at him, then turned back to see what was happening.
Mr. Naylor said to no one in general, “You think she’d be a little quicker.”
He was one to talk.
Merritt slurred, “It’s all right. I’m feeling purty good now.”
The nurse disappeared and came back pushing a wheelchair. Daddy held the door for her and in a matter of seconds she was beside the car’s back door, locking the wheels. She was all business, barely sparing me a glance before she leaned down, and studied Merritt’s wacky-looking arm.
She said, “When did this happen?”
Merritt was vague. “Not long ago.”
She said, “What’s your name?”
He wore a lopsided grin and said, “Ish Merritt, ma’am.”
I wanted to be anywhere but here. It was evident he was three sheets to the wind. Daddy shoved his hands in his pockets and paced.
The nurse said, “It’s going to hurt some getting you into this chair.”
Merritt said, “Naw, ma’am, it ain’t. Not now.”
Daddy came forward and said, “Here, I’ll help him.”
He motioned at Merritt, who apparently no longer had an issue moving out of the back seat. It didn’t seem to bother him one bit as he shifted with Daddy’s help into the chair, his arm resting in his lap, all wrong-angled. The nurse grabbed the two handles at the back and whisked him toward the hospital’s door.
Daddy said, “Marty, thankee kindly. Go on home. I’ll bring what I had for you another night.”
We hurried to follow the nurse as she breezed by the desk where another lady sat writing in a ledger.
The nurse said, “Let Doctor Barnes know we’ve got a serious arm injury.”
The woman immediately picked up a phone, held it to her mouth, and spoke. Crackly speakers overhead blasted, “Doctor Barnes, treatment room one. Doctor Barnes, treatment room one. Stat.”
We had to walk fast to keep up, and soon we stopped at some double doors.
She said to me, “You have to wait here.”
Daddy handed me a couple of dimes and said, “Call your uncle Virgil. Tell him to come get us.”
I took the change and watched as the nurse took Merritt beyond the double doors.
Daddy said, “We’ll be out soon as we can.”
The doors closed after them, and a few seconds later an elderly-looking man in a white coat with a stethoscope slung around his neck went through them and I took him to be Doctor Barnes. I tried to see if I could see Merritt and Daddy before the doors closed again. The hall was empty. I walked back the way we’d come, looking left and right for the pay phone. I found one a minute or so later inside a small metal box hanging on the wall. All around it were dirty messages, the names of girls who would apparently do this or that, if you called them, along with the so and so was here types of scribbles. I put a dime in the slot and dialed Uncle Virgil’s number. It rang six times and I was about to hang up when Aunt Juanita answered.
She shouted an irritable, “Hello!”
That followed what sounded like a pot being thrown on the floor. I swallowed, my throat about to close up, and not allow me to talk.
She said, “Whoever this is had better speak up. . . .”
I choked out, “Hey Aunt Juanita, it’s Jessie.”
“Jessie. What is it, why are you calling?”
I imagine it wasn’t natural seeming, getting a phone call from me.
“We’re at the hospital. Merritt hurt his arm.”
She said, “Good Lord. You okay? What about your daddy?”
“I have