Just then, a horn beeped, startling him. It was Cassie in her old Chevy. She was getting out of the car, running toward him.
* * *
“You’ll be all right,” Dr. Hoeck said, as he pressed the last strip of white adhesive tape against Martie’s cheek. He’d given her a shot of morphine before setting her broken nose and packing the nostrils.
Jonas sat next to her. “Are you sure, Dad?”
Dr. Hoeck nodded. “She can rest here until her father comes. Now, let’s see about you.”
They were in Dr. Hoeck’s first-floor study, a converted parlor. Three walls contained tall bookcases crammed with medical books and journals; against a fourth was a small refrigerator and a glass cabinet filled with drugs, bandages, and other supplies that he kept for emergencies. A green banker’s lamp on the huge mahogany desk usually supplied the only light, but today the overhead chandelier and side sconces were on. Martie was lying on a brown leather chaise. A table littered with bloody gauze bandages and swabs was beside her. The smell of alcohol permeated the air.
Dr. Hoeck went to turn off the metal sterilizer percolating on a sideboard. As he did so, someone knocked at the pantry door at the rear of the house. Cassie answered it quickly because Mrs. Hoeck was asleep upstairs, and Dr. Hoeck had strict orders for everyone to be quiet whenever his wife succumbed to exhaustion. A few seconds later, voices were heard in the kitchen, and then Martie’s father entered the study.
Mr. Trowbridge was a blunt block of muscle, with powerful arms and chest. Scars from fish hooks and barroom brawls etched his tanned face; wrinkles puckered the corners of his eyes.
“Martie, time to go,” Mr. Trowbridge said, without introducing himself. Despite his imposing physique, he was twisting a tattered red baseball cap in his big hands. His glance moved anxiously around the study after quickly taking in his daughter. “Doc, thanks for your help.” His tucked the cap under his arm and reached toward the back pocket of his stained khaki pants. “How much do I owe you?”
Dr. Hoeck looked at the fisherman in surprise. “Nothing at all, sir.”
“Now that won’t do. We pay our way.” Mr. Trowbridge flipped through his wallet and fingered a twenty and seven singles. “Hope this is enough.” He placed the bills on the desk.
Martie sat up unsteadily. Jonas took her elbow and helped her to stand. Mr. Trowbridge stepped across the floor, trailing fumes of diesel oil and fish, and grabbed his daughter around the waist, forcing Jonas to back away.
“Let me give you some tablets for pain—” Dr. Hoeck began.
“Not necessary. Old Martie can make do with a slug of whiskey if she needs it.”
Jonas studied his friend. She looked pale and shaky from the pain and morphine as she crossed the room.
At the parlor door, Mr. Trowbridge turned to glare at Jonas. “And I don’t want you messing around with my girl any more. Hear?”
Jonas was speechless and turned to his father, who made no response.
Mr. Trowbridge looked at Dr. Hoeck. “Martie’s never been in any trouble before she hooked up with him.” He thrust a thumb at Jonas. “And besides, she don’t have time to come here and fool with your lawn. She’s got housework and tending to do at home.”
Jonas saw the distress in Martie’s eyes. He felt angry at Mr. Trowbridge, as if he were facing Donald Becker all over again. He wanted to stand up for Martie, for himself and their friendship, but he was too confused. He also was growing angry at his father for doing nothing.
The fisherman took his daughter by the hand and angled her out of the room, muttering, “You don’t belong in a fancy place like this.”
All the choked-down emotion flooded Jonas. “Dad, do something! She’s my only friend! Don’t let them go!”
Dr. Hoeck sighed and pointed to the chaise. “Take a seat, Jonas.” He sat across from his son.
Jonas did as he was told, but agitation made it nearly impossible to hold still. “Can’t you go after them?”
Dr. Hoeck didn’t answer. Instead, he gazed at the neat rows of pink and purple flowers through the window, a frown deepening the lines on his forehead. Then he removed his eyeglasses, as if he no longer wanted to see the unpleasantness before him. “Jonas, I’ve worked very hard all my life—at university, med school, at the hospital—but I’ve learned that no matter what you do, many things can’t be changed regardless of how diligent or intelligent you are. Eventually, you realize your efforts don’t make much difference. People don’t care if you try to help them. And the more you try, the more they hate you.”
In this statement, Jonas heard an echo of Martie’s resignation but with a difference. Even though Martie was poor and had her own struggles, she possessed courage, unlike his father, who had never fought back, who allowed himself to be beaten over and over just the way Jonas had allowed Donald and Jerry to pick on him. In turn, his father had inflicted his misery on Jonas and his mother, punishing them for his own unhappiness.
This sudden awareness shook him, but Jonas was also desperate not to lose his friend. The thought of returning to the state of loneliness before Martie was intolerable. Tears of anger and frustration spilled down his cheeks. He wiped them away as he watched his father stare out the window.
“You think I’m just like you,” Jonas whispered, his voice tight.
Dr. Hoeck observed his son as if from a great distance and made no move to comfort him. Slowly, he folded his glasses, replaced them in his breast pocket, and nodded.
Jonas swallowed hard, then jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. “Well, I’m not like you!”
He stood before his father. Never before had he spoken to him like this. Jonas felt a flare of exhilaration shoot up through the disgust and fear. For a second, he savored this foreign feeling, the strange taste of confidence, then he ran past his father, through the kitchen, and out the back door.