he’d dodge the wet paper bullet.
Josh headed for the pressroom. He was pleased to see workers already replacing the conference room’s threadbare carpeting, a long-neglected project he’d authorized so as not to leave a poor impression when representatives of the prospective new owners arrived for due diligence.
He entered the pressroom and tapped on the shoulder of Jimmy Mayes, a part-Indian whose jet-black ponytail and beaded leather hair tie made him unmistakable from behind.
“How’s it going?” Josh signed.
Because the ability to speak and hear was of no advantage in the roar of a newspaper pressroom, and fluency in sign language was essential, press crews often included non-hearing, non-speaking operators. The Winston News was no exception. Mayes gave him two thumbs up. Josh felt the huge Goss Community offset press crank to life. He glanced at the tall oak cabinet with the hand-wound factory floor clock that had belonged to Sharon’s father. Right on time.
He grabbed one of the first copies off the press and was waiting in front of Winston Middle School at 3:15 p.m. when its massive green front doors sprung open and a flood of blue-jeaned, backpack-laden kids cascaded down the granite steps into an ever-widening pool at the bottom.
Josh had no problem spotting Katie. Her jeans, blouse, backpack, blonde pony-tail pulled through a baseball cap—all those were within the current fashion norms that teens mysteriously established, communicated and regularly altered. But Katie stood out, literally. At age thirteen, she was five feet, ten inches—almost a head taller than most of the girls and all of the boys. His heart warmed at the sight of her.
He watched her scan the cars in the middle school pickup line until she spotted the Volvo. She sprinted to it, left arm flailing to balance the heavy pack on her right shoulder.
“Hi, Dad,” she said as she plopped into the passenger seat and slung her backpack onto the rear floorboard.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek. Katie squirmed away giggling. “Dad, you’re embarrassing me!”
Josh laughed. “That’s what dads do. Now, let’s go see Dr. Wright and find out what’s up with your leg.”
Allison Wright began making mental notes for the patient file. Well-nourished, Caucasian male, appearing to be stated age. She pulled on a fresh set of sterile gloves.
“Okay,” she said, “take off your shirt.”
Ricky Scruggs, twenty-five, hunched his shoulders to tighten the pectoral muscles under his tight, black t-shirt and admired himself in the examining room mirror. “I will if you will.”
Allison cocked her left eyebrow and fixed Scruggs with her stare.
“Just kidding,” he said quickly.
Allison considered giving him a lecture on sexism before concluding it would be wasted on a patient who’d begun by asking if he’d get to see a “real” doctor—presumably male. She raised the shirt over Scruggs’s chest and gently lifted the ring piercing his left nipple. Scruggs yelped. She probed the inflamed, scabbed skin. Reddening. Ulceration. Necrosis of the dermis. “You might have come in when it first got infected,” she admonished. “Take it out.”
Scruggs maneuvered the ring from his nipple. Pus and blood oozed from the puncture holes. Allison spread a paper towel on a box on a counter next to the examination table. Scruggs placed the ring on it.
Allison cleaned the wound and examined the inflamed area with a magnifying glass. She judged it to be eight centimeters, about twice the size of a fifty-cent piece.
On any given day, her clinic—a yellow converted Victorian home three blocks from the river—saw a catalogue of the ills that had befallen mankind within a twenty-mile radius of Winston, West Virginia. Snake bites, cut feet, broken arms and ear infections, assorted injuries to workers at the plant, predictable diseases of the aged and dying. When someone in the area needed medical attention, they showed up at the Winston Medical Clinic. Allison enjoyed the variety. Every day was a new problem, a new challenge. And despite having to deal with occasional boors like Ricky Scruggs, every day provided a chance to help people who were hurting and who appreciated her help. It made her feel competent, useful—needed.
“How long have you had this piercing?”
“Couple days.”
“You did it yourself?”
“Wasn’t hard.”
Allison cleaned and dressed the wound, scribbled a prescription for flucloxacillin and gave Scruggs half a dozen small tubes of mupirocin, the generic form of Bactroban.
“Take the pills twice a day and use the ointment until the samples are gone. If it doesn’t clear up in a week, call me.” She decided what she’d write in the case notes in the patient file. Infection—surely caused by a do-it-yourself job with an unsanitary instrument.
Scruggs pulled on his shirt. “What about the ring?” he asked.
“Leave the ring out while you heal. The hole will close but if you feel you must, the piercing can be redone. This time, use a licensed professional.”
Scruggs put the nipple ring in his pocket and left without a thank you.
Allison sighed. If Scruggs was like a frustrating number of patients, particularly males, he would ignore her orders. The nipple ring would be reinserted as soon as the infection abated.
Her last appointment of the day was with Katie Gibbs.
“My God!” she exclaimed when Katie walked into the examination room. “You’ve become a clone of your mother!” Allison forgave herself for the reaction. It really was like looking at a ghost.
With the exception of what Allison called her “lost years,” Sharon Gibbs had been Allison’s closest friend from grade school until her death, sharing secrets, ambitions and causes. Winston had no Race for the Cure until Allison and Sharon started one. The irony was lost on neither of them when Sharon developed breast cancer. When the end was near, Allison had been there to provide palliative care—and afterwards worked with Josh to create a hospice county program in Sharon’s honor.
“Hi, Allie.” Katie blushed.
Allison couldn’t believe how quickly the girl had grown—at least eight inches in the last year. She was definitely at the awkward stage—still a child in many ways but quickly becoming a woman, as evidenced by the baby fat turning to curves.
“What’s happenin’ with the Kate-ster?” Allison gave her a fist bump.
“My left leg hurts. Dad wanted me to get it checked out.” She took a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Also, I need you to sign this health permission form for soccer camp.”
Allison took the form. “Camp Kanawha. I met my first boyfriend there because I had the perfect strategy for Sadie Hawkins Day.”
“I know. Run fast.” They laughed.
Allison measured Katie’s height and weight. “All good,” she pronounced.
