Chapter 8 For the Want of a Nail



He slipped into the half-lit dawn, releasing the door knob so that the bolt slid noiselessly into the jamb to avoid waking the beautiful woman who still slept peacefully in his bed. Through the morning mist, across the field beyond the barn, he could make out a family of deer-an antlered buck, a doe and a couple of yearlings. He grinned ruefully at the fact that, before he'd almost died this last time, he would not have been able to make those differentiations. The riotous morning avian cacophony did not disturb his reflections. Instead, it focused, calmed him in a way that the silence of the night-which was far from silent in his overactive brain-- never could. He stepped from the walk into the grass, pant cuffs sopping after only the few steps that took him past the tractor shed. He paused at the ringing sound of metal striking metal, peeking through the open door to find his host shaping a strip on an anvil. The odor of oil, gas and fresh dirt was strong inside the metal building.

Jackson Taylor didn't even look up from his work. "Good morning," he greeted in between pings. "Dented the housing on the power take off." He examined the metal tube before continuing.

Josh nodded silently. He'd also learned what the tractor PTO was, as well. "Can I help?" he heard himself asking.

Taylor eyed his guest, then the housing with a critical eye before using the housing to motion for Josh to follow. He fitted the housing around a thick metal rod. "Hold this in place while I fasten it down," he instructed, fitting a screw into its hole. It slipped and Josh hissed at the strain realigning it put on his scar. Taylor crooked an eyebrow, "You okay?"

Lyman nodded, then breathed as deeply as he could. "It's heavier than it looks."

"Most things in life are." Taylor rocked the cover, satisfied with its sturdiness, then replaced his tools in their respective spots. "But, with practice you get used to it."

A brown rabbit hop, hop, hopped to the door and looked in, seemingly shocked at the sight of Josh Lyman turning his hand to manual labor.

"'Bye, Daddy," three voices preceded their three owners who trooped through with their school books for kisses and hugs-well, a handshake for the scion of the family.

Josh's gaze followed the children, and their car until they were out of sight, regret and resignation clouding his face. Taylor recognized the expression, "Come on," he ordered, striding purposefully to a battered Bronco and coaxing the engine to life. In just a few moments they'd crackled down the gravel drive and the knobbed wheels were singing on the blacktop. "River's up," Taylor commented as they crossed over the muddy waterway that, according to the framed map in the carriage house, formed one boundary of the farm so large it could almost be called a plantation.

"Is that good?" Josh asked idly.

"Means more water for crops, but more bugs," Taylor grinned, then waved his hand toward the water covering one end of a field. "All in all, it's a good thing."

Josh nodded as if he understood.

Right arm draped over the steering wheel, left arm gesturing out of the driver's window, speedometer never dipping below sixty, Taylor chattered on about the community-the farms and their families and who was staying in farming and who was leaving it. Josh had no idea where he was and where he was going; for once in his life, he was just along for the ride.

Donna Moss rolled over to an empty pillow. "Josh?" She glanced toward the wardrobe: his shoes were gone. She peeked out of all the windows, not spying him on his morning walk, before dressing and stepping out into the cool, wet morning. "Josh?"

Evan Taylor's face appeared in a small second-story window above her. "Good morning!"

"Good morning," Donna returned the greeting. "Have you seen Josh?"

"Come on up," the doctor motioned with a paintbrush. "As you pass through the kitchen pick up a couple of cups of coffee and bring them with you."

Taylor strode purposefully through the rows of bins of seeds and nails, past stacks of striped overalls and fertilizer bags and filled two coffee cups from the pot that sat on a well-worn, but clean, counter. He handed Josh the cup with a John Deere logo, keeping for himself the cup that proclaimed, "Talk slow, but think fast."

"It's decaf," a creaky voice proclaimed from one of the two rocking chairs by the plate-glass windows.

"Now, Bascom Yager, that's all Sandra will let ol' Keith have," the occupant of the other rocking chair explained. "We know who holds the reins on that mule."

A strawberry-blond woman, seemingly about Donna's age, smiled pleasantly behind the counter, as though listening to an old, familiar song. Josh followed Taylor's lead and parked himself in a worn ladder-back chair with a split-oak seat.

"Mr. Winston, maybe that's because I'm so good she wants to keep me around for a long time," a giant of a man, well-built but at least ten years older than Josh, descended the spiral stairs from the gallery above, arms loaded with a box of leather gloves.

The woman snorted and the man's white pony tail jerked, bearded face contorted in mock umbrage. "Keep that up, woman, and I'll let you know who's really in charge."

The woman's voice sounded angry but her smile took off the edge. "Oh, I know who's in charge in our house, Keith Gilbert. She's five years old and her name is Tori!"

"Tori was Keith's fiftieth birthday present," Taylor explained.

Gilbert puffed up in the leather chair he'd pulled near the coffee pot, "Just 'cause there's snow on the mountain . . ."

"I had grandchildren by the time I was fifty, Keith," the man they'd called Bascom ragged.

"And I," the older black man, 'Mr. Winston' Brunswick, continued, "had my mind on other things by that time-things more appropriate for a man of my age and wisdom."

"That's not what Miss Mary says, Mr. Winston," Sandra grinned. "Weren't you forty-five when your boy Seth was born?"

"Well," the older scrubbed a hand across his face, pink showing through the ebony skin.

Josh had watched the exchange with some amusement. It was like watching CJ and Toby when they started on one of their well-oiled "shtiks."

"This is a fine topic to be discussing when we have a guest among us," Mr. Bascom chided. "So, Josh Lyman, where are your people from?"

"Wow, that's lavender!" Donna stopped short at the door of the bathroom. "I've never seen that color in a house this old."

"Ebubechi and Chigozi picked it out." Evangeline sipped from the cup. "When we moved here, we promised them that, just because they were living in a house that's one-hundred and fifty years old, they didn't have to live like they were one-hundred and fifty years old."

"Lavender," Donna cast her eyes about the room, the white of the footed tub contrasting with the high color of the walls.

"Bechi called it 'Georgia O'Keeffe lavender'-from her paintings." She dipped her brush in the can and daubed at a bare spot. "How are you doing? Ready to go home soon?"

Donna shrugged.

"How's the cognitive dysfunction?"

"He's learned to button again, he's learned the letter 'z' and he's halfway through the Congressional face book, but I think poker is going the way of bow ties."

"How important is that?"

"Well, he was so bad at poker before it might actually save him some money." The corners of Donna's mouth turned up, but it wasn't a smile.

"What about his stamina?"

Donna studied the contents of her cup. "Shouldn't you be asking him this?"

"Would I get the truth?"

"No," they said together and Taylor continued, "so I'm asking you."

"It's been four weeks. He's pretty much up to full days, except for all the walking."

"The walking will be good for him." The brush glided silently over the wall. "And the stairs, too, I would imagine. The magic number is thirteen."

"Excuse me?"

"Thirteen stairs," the doctor explained, "when he can climb thirteen stairs without getting winded then it's safe to resume . . ."

"Oh," Donna turned scarlet. "Oh," she said more quietly, sadly.

Evangeline Taylor turned around, brush in mid-stroke, eyebrows raised, eyes meeting Donna's.

Donna looked away.

"Well," the doctor put the lid on her paint can, dumped the brush in a water can, "are we at the 'I love you too much to saddle you with a cripple like me' stage of recovery?"

"Yes," Donna sighed, relief evident. "What do I do?"

"Ride it out," the doctor prescribed, "and resist the almost overwhelming urge to apply a two-by-four to the side of that man's thick skull."

Donna almost laughed and it felt good.

"How old are they?" Josh asked incredulously as the occupants of the rocking chairs stepped, with surprising spryness, to an SUV driven by a man about Josh's age.

"They'll admit to being best friends for nearly ninety years."

Josh shook his head in awe.

"And still sharp as a tack, too," Gilbert warned, needlessly, for Josh had already been subjected to their interrogation about his family, farm policy and the President. "I hope I'm still that sharp at that age."

A derisive cough, the tone of which seemed very familiar to Josh, sounded from behind the counter and Gilbert crooked an eyebrow at his wife.

"Yeah, well, Josh gave as good as he got," Taylor observed. "Not too many folks can keep up with Mr. Bascom and Mr. Winston when they get to talking."

Gilbert nodded as he stood and sorted out the gloves. "Except for their wives."

"Nothing like a good woman to keep a man young," Taylor opined, cutting his eyes to Josh.

Gilbert met his wife's gaze, tender, soft. "Nothing like it."

Josh watched it all, a rancid heap of envy welling up inside him that was still too small to fill his empty heart.