Page 10 of Smuggler's Cove
If he wakes upwas what the doctor didn’t say, but was understood, nonetheless.
“Can you explain the process? What do I need to do?”
“You’ll fill out paperwork. Do you have his discharge papers from the military?”
“Yes, somewhere at home. How did you know he was in the service?”
“The tattoo.”
“Oh, of course.” Rita remembered the star and bars on his forearm.
“The sooner you can get that to us, the better. He may recover much faster at the VA hospital.” The doctor tried to be encouraging, but by the looks of it, the outcome seemed bleak.
The doctor walked Rita back to the reception area where her son was doodling. She spied George entering the building. The minute she saw him, Rita began to sob.
George put his arms around her, and Jackson just stared.
Rita managed to compose herself. The kind nun handed her a hankie. Then Rita turned to Jackson.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but you’re not going to be able to see your father today.”
“Is he dead?”
Shock waves bounced off everyone. George and Rita swapped startled glances. “Dead? No. No, he didn’t die. But he’s got a whole lot of bandages, and the people around him are very sick.”
“But why are you crying?” Jackson was more engaged than he had been all day.
“Because he’s sick, and that makes me sad.” Rita wasn’t sure if she was lying to herself or her son.
Jackson shrugged. It was becoming his go-to response lately.
“George, I have to go home and find J.T.’s discharge papers. What about the car?”
“The mechanic said he can fix it in two days. I’ll phone Betty when we get to your house and let her know I’ll be up here for another day or two.”
“Are you sure, George?” Rita asked.
“Of course. I can’t leave you with all this. Besides, Betty will be happy to have me out from under her feet.”
Rita knew that was a fib. Betty and George had a solid relationship. They were best friends. George knew there was nothing Betty wouldn’t do for her sister, and nothing he wouldn’t do for her, either. Besides, someone had to mind Jackson while Rita was handling the details.
By the time they got back to the Taylor house, it was dinnertime. Rita rummaged through the refrigerator to find something to cook. It was sparse. There was a slab of Velveeta, a quart of milk, and a half loaf of Wonder Bread. She checked the cupboards. Rice. Beans. Macaroni. She couldn’t top Betty’s grilled cheese and bacon, so she decided on macaroni and cheese. It was the best she could do with what she had.
Rita began cooking, George went to call Betty, and Jackson went to his room to play with his toys. She sliced the cheese and slowly melted it in a small saucepan with some milk. As she stirred the cheese, she thought of how Jackson didn’t seem to be reacting to everything that was going on. He was too stoic for a six-year-old. He didn’t cry once—not when she uprooted him and his brother, not when they had to return here and leave Kirby behind, and not when he heard about his father’s accident. Rita was concerned about him.
George walked into the kitchen saying, “Betty sends her regards and said to tell you that Kirby is being an absolute angel.”
“I can’t thank you both enough for all that you are doing for us,” Rita said.
“We’re family, Rita, and we’ll always be here for you.”
“Well, since you’re here”—Rita smiled—“do you mind keeping an eye on this cheese? I want to check on Jackson.”
* * *
In his room, Jackson was playing with two Cootie bugs, simulating they were in a fight. She watched her son smack the plastic bugs together, then rip their legs out. It was startling. “Jackson, honey? Why are you beating up your bugs?”
“Cause one is the good guy, and one isn’t.” He said it as if she should know. “Like the bad guys in the war.”
