Time Wounds All Heels

There was a long silence.

"I'm sorry Jimmy."

He looked down and when he raised his eyes to her, Kincade saw they were filled with tears. Something had changed and Kincade felt itchy. It was the look of defeat, things ending, and when a man showed that, he was either going to walk away or come back shooting.

Jimmy turned and started to walk toward his truck. Kincade sensed something behind him and turned to see four men lifting the wheelchair over and down the steps. A moment later she was wheeling past him toward the retreating figure.

No other men were following, but Kincade found himself behind her. She might be a Saint, but Jimmy was a man who had just lost hope and such men were dangerous.

Kincade had reached the truck when she approached to within a foot.

"Jimmy. Stop for a second."

He opened the truck door and slid inside without looking at her.

She stood up in the chair by pushing herself up with her hands and managed to touch his arm. Kincade found himself at her side, not sure what he'd be able to do but moving behind her.

"Jimmy. Listen to me."

"Why? You ruined my life with your damned meddling. Everybody thinks you're some kind of saint. You're just a damned old bitter woman. You can't have a man in your life so you mess with other people's lives."

But Kincade noticed he didn't shake her hand off.

"Jimmy, I was married to a man like you. He thought he could stop drinking. And he did, after he killed himself and left me paralyzed for life. I know how hard it is to stop. But it can be done. People do it every day."

He finally turned to look at her.

"What difference will it make? You heard her, we're through. She won't come back to me and she'll keep me from my son."

"That's not what I heard, Jimmy. That's not what she's saying. She doesn't trust you. She doesn't believe you want to stop bad enough and she doesn't trust you around your baby if you keep drinking. I don't blame her. I wouldn't trust you around a baby. The way you are now."

"What do I do? How do I make her trust me again?"

"Prove to her she's wrong. You've trying to do this by yourself. Join AA. Get a sponsor. Find people who will help you and go three months without a drink, or six months, or a year. Whatever it takes."

"I'll miss my son's life."

"I know she'll let you be there for the birth. She's already talked about letting you visit with him, with your mother along. It will be supervised, but you'll see him and, if you're worried about it, she won't be seeing anyone else. The girl loves you. After what you did I have some difficulty understanding that, but she loves you. Now, it's all up to you. You can go get drunk, or you can call Bill Sorrells with the county. He's been clean for 10 years and you haven't done anything he hasn't done worse. Go talk to him."

He sat there with his hands on the wheel.

"Do you really think she'll wait for me?"

"I think so Jimmy but, even if she doesn't, you're not really doing this for her - you're doing it for your son, and for you. Whatever happens now, it will pass, but you're going to have to live with yourself for a long time."

She sat back down in her chair heavily and it hummed backward. A moment later Jimmy and his pickup drove out of the parking area, without spinning out.

Without looking back at him, she said, "I appreciate the backup, Mr. Kincade. Do you always leap to the defense of maidens? Or just the crippled ones?"

"Just instinct. I'm not here because I was worried about you. From where I stand, you've got more balls than any guy around here, and I'm not here because you're in a wheelchair. I couldn't help myself. I was raised that way."

"Well, thank you. I wasn't really worried about Jimmy. He's a good boy. I've known him since he was in diapers."

"He grew up."

"I know. Unfortunately, they don't stay in diapers, but I think he'll be alright. He wants to get sober for Alyssa and Sorrells will be a good mentor. Now, I need to get back because we still have a lot of people to feed. You don't have to stay any longer if you don't want to. I know you've got pictures and talked to people. We can do this by phone, can't we?"

"We could, but it's Saturday and I don't have any place in particular I need to be. I don't mind hanging around until you get free."

"I may not."

"I'll take my chances."

"You're a pit bull. You're a good reporter, aren't you."

"I'm okay."

He followed her back to the church and watched as a trio of men lifted her back up onto the porch. She whirled back into action and the hours passed as she kept the food flowing and talked with people. Even though it was October, it was hot and he found himself sweating.

After a while, it was a natural thing to put down the camera and notepad and take a place behind the tables, passing out food as the unending line continued to file through. She positioned herself at the end and was able to help the passing out of cakes and pastries to the children. She glanced up at him and smiled. Even with her hair up in a net, her face flushed with heat and sweat running down her cheeks, she was beautiful.

At 3 p.m., the line was finally petering out, the cars and trucks magically vanishing from the field surrounding the church. The women sat in chairs behind the tables while the men leaned against the wall. Hubie walked outside again for another smoke, joined by two of the older men.

Kincade came over to Jessie.

"Is this a good time?"

"You've been a good sport, Kincade. Let me wrap things up, get the guys ready to get everything back to normal and bring the pews back in for tomorrow. A half hour, okay?"

"Sure."

At that moment a black woman with white hair and what could only be called granny glasses hobbled over to her and said, "Miss Jessie, could I ask a favor?"

"Sure Ethel."

The old black woman leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"How long?"

"It's been two days. Sarah told me today that it's been two days since she heard from her and I checked around. Nobody else has heard from her either."

Jessie seemed to stare off into distance.

"I'll go check on her, Ethel, and let you know. Mr. Kincade I'm sorry, but something's come up and it's liable to be late. I can't ask you to stay here that long. I promise I'll call you. Just give me a number."

"It's not that late, Miss Miller. If you have an errand to run, I can wait here, or meet up with you later."

"There really is no point, Mr. Kincade. I don't know how long I will be and I assume you weren't planning on staying in Palatka overnight."

"With apologies, Ms. Miller, but I wouldn't tell you how to operate a food bank or the other work you do here. A face to face, especially for a story like this, is always better than a telephone interview. I'm just trying to do my job. I really am not worried about the time."

She just stared at him for a long moment. He couldn't read her expression.

"You really are hard to shake, aren't you?"

"Comes with the job."

"Alright, get your car. I'm going to take my van. You just follow me and we can go somewhere and talk - after."

He was waiting on the road leading away from the church, pulled far enough off that she made it by him in her van with no trouble. It was going on 5 p.m. and shadows had appeared in the dimming light. He followed her with no trouble. She wasn't racing, but she was making tracks at a good pace.

He followed her to where the dirt road led into a paved two-lane road and then, after about five miles, widened into a four lane highway. The road wound through neighborhoods anchored by small convenience stores and then acres of open woodlands. After awhile he saw a huge cemetery on his left that seemed to run for nearly a half mile.

There was a street sign that read "Silver Lake Road", onto which she turned. A few miles further south she turned onto a two-lane road with a name he didn't catch; then, two miles further, she turned to the right on a dirt road that led him into a world of increasingly older, shabbier wooden houses. Another turn and they were driving down a dirt road that grew narrower and more rutted the further they went. Finally, she stopped the van a hundred feet from a frame house that might have been white a hundred years ago. Now it was just dirty. He pulled in behind her. The driver's door opened and the magic wheel chair swiveled around to settle down next to the driver's seat. She slid a very nice ass from the driver's seat into the chair.

"That is a very nice rig. Does the county pay you for your work or do you have your own money?"

She glanced at him and he couldn't tell if she was irritated or not.

"Are all reporters so nosy about other people's personal business?"

"That's why they call us reporters."

The wheelchair lowered to the ground and she spun it around.

"I don't get a penny from the county, or any government source. I'm an unpaid volunteer, but I have my own money. Any other questions?"

"A bunch, but they'll wait."

She rolled forward and he followed her, nearly falling over her as she stopped abruptly.

He stepped around her.

"Oh damn."

He stared with her at the crumpled boards and the fallen metal rods that must at one time have been a wheelchair ramp. They served as the support for the ramp and a railing to hold onto when walking down the steps. The porch stood nearly eight inches above the ground. A set of four steps, each only about three inches high, stood beside what had been the ramp, but he would never be able to lift the wheelchair even three inches.

"I told her..."she whispered, "I should have come by and made sure."

"You didn't know?"

"No," she said softly, shaking her head back and forth, "It's an old house. I had the ramp put in there – for her and for me – ten years ago. There was a time when she didn't need it but, as she got older, her legs got weaker."

She wheeled herself closer.

"I thought that it was getting rickety a month ago. I meant to call someone and have it replaced but -"

She rolled forward close enough to the one metal railing on the left side. But as she put pressure on it, it wobbled. It wouldn't take any weight.

"I got busy. There was always something to do. Even so, I could have come by on a weekend. I would have seen what was happening. Somebody might have accidently brought it down, or it might have been kids. They have some mean little bastards around here. Whatever, I should have done something."

"It can still be fixed," Kincade said, stepping up on the first step.

"You want me to knock, see if anyone is here?"

"She's in there."

After a minute, she said, "Go on up and knock. See if the door's locked."

He stepped up onto the porch. The boards under his feet cracked and creaked. He put his hand on the door knob and twisted. It turned and, as he pushed, the door swung inward. He looked back at her, sitting in the rapidly growing gloom. She didn't need to gesture. He stepped inside.

It was an old fashioned living room, with a heavy couch next to one wall and a coffee table in front of it. There was a large-screened, old-fashioned floor model television sitting in one corner. A wall was filled with shelves and knickknacks and photographs in frames.

"Hello?"

He waited a few seconds and then called out again. He looked around, found a light switch on the wall near the front door and flicked it on. A hanging lamp flared to life.

"Is anyone here?"

He walked toward an opening at the other side of the room. It was darker here. Again he felt for a switch and found it on his left. He stood there for a moment, taking it in. Then he approached what lay in the center of the room and sat gently on the old fashioned bed. He reached one hand out to the side of the figure lying there. The skin was cool, almost cold, dry and almost crinkly, like dry parchment.

Her eyes were closed, her body dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown. He looked around and saw a pitcher which might have held water. Her hands lay at her side. The clothes hung on her loosely. There was a body underneath it, but it was hard to be certain that it was a woman, with a woman's curves, if it hadn't been for the long white hair. There was enough black at the roots to have a hint at what she would have looked like as a younger woman.

He stood up and left the dead woman behind him.

She waited for him at the foot of the porch. He shook his head and she lowered her head to her hands.

"It looked like it was peaceful. I'm not a doctor, but there are no signs she was in distress. She could have just fallen to sleep."

After a long moment she raised her head and stared at the ruined ramp.

"Miserable son of a bitch. God...."

She rubbed her forehead.

Kincade walked down the steps to stand beside her. He held his arms out to her.

"No."

"You want to see her. There's no way you're getting that wheelchair in there. Unless you want to crawl in, let me help."

She looked at the ground, then slammed the arm of the chair viciously.

"You miserable damned piece of junk. What good are you when I really need you?"

She looked up at him and held her arms out.

"Hold tight. I'm heavier than I look."

She caught his look and snapped, "Don't say it. Don't goddamned say it. Not now."

He smiled innocently.

"I wasn't going to say a word. Put your arms around my neck."

As she gripped him around the neck he ran his left arm under her legs and his right under her ass.

"Watch it."

"Can't lift you otherwise. Besides, we need a good wide –"

She glared at him.

"Anyway, up we g-"

"Whoof."

He almost dropped her but put one foot under him for balance and caught her, then straightened, lifting her with him."

"Whoof?"

"Sorry. Caught me off guard. Heavier than I-"

"It's dead weight, Kincade, I can't help you the way a normal person would."

"I just wasn't ready."

"Whatever. C'mon."

He turned and stepped up heavily, then took another step and another. As he felt her solid weight against her side, he felt something more solid, harder. Metallic.

"Are you carrying a piece, or are you just glad to see me?"

"I'm a single woman who lives alone. I've got a permit for a concealed carry."

"No wonder guys don't give you any grief."

"Not any more."

They approached the doorway and he turned sideways as they entered. He carried her into the bedroom and stopped as she stared at the woman on the bed.

"Could you just - set me on the bed beside her?"

He knelt beside the bed and let her slide beside the dead woman. She just sat for a moment, then reached out with one hand to stroke the old woman's hair.

"Her hair was jet black. Martha was nearly 60 when I met her. Her husband, Riley, used to tease her about coloring it, said she was trying to look younger to keep all the young girls from going after him. She'd give it right back to him, saying there were plenty of younger black – and white – gentlemen that would be happy to console her if he went after a young woman. They were very much in love. He lived five years after I met her, just dropped dead at work one day with no warning. She never loved another man."

She ran a finger along the dead woman's charcoal-colored skin.

"She was my rehab nurse when I first got into the chair. Not like this one, a plain old wheelchair that I had to move with my arms. I didn't know how to go to the bathroom, get on and off the toilet, how to clean myself - things you never think about when you have two good legs."

She didn't look at him but Kincade saw that her eyes were wet.

"No matter what they say, nobody is ever ready for the chair. I was young and strong one day and half a woman the next. People say you have to pick yourself up and concentrate on what you have left, not what you're lost. The stupid motherfuckers! You can't concentrate on what you have left. All you can think of, night and day, is what you lost. It took time, months, and she was there for me. I probably would have made it without her, because most people eventually learn to live with the chair but - she was there for me! My parents were still alive then and I loved them but, she was the one person who made a difference."

She leaned forward and put her face in her hands.

"She was there for me. It was her job, but it was more than her job and, when I decided that I wanted to live again, she kept pushing me to do something with my life. 'The Lord didn't save you from that crash to have you throw away his gift by sitting in a room watching TV and getting fat.'

I told her there was nothing I could do, nothing I wanted to do, nothing I was good at. There isn't much demand for cheerleaders doing routines in a wheelchair. I wasn't going to go to college. All I'd ever wanted to do was get married and raise a few kids, be a mother and a good wife. I would have been a good one but, after the crash, no kids, ever! No husband!

But she wouldn't let up. It didn't happen overnight but, over time, I got into volunteering at churches, food pantries, working with pregnant girls who needed mentors. There are always needs that there is no money for. So, a little bit at a time, I found out there were still things I could do."

She lifted her face from her hands and stared up at Kincade.

"Who I am – she created that person. She made The Wheelchair Lady. She was my friend and my conscience. We were close. That was when she could still get around, when her husband was alive, when her son lived here in Palatka. Then her friends got old and died and her son moved away for a job."

She rubbed her lips and tears glistened in her eyes.

"She got old and frail, invisible, like a lot of old people. She wouldn't go into a nursing home - that would have killed her! All she wanted was to be remembered by a few people, like me, and I forgot about her. I got too busy and she died alone!"

"People get busy. She knew what your life was like. She must have understood."

She looked up into Kincade's eyes and said, "Don't try to make me feel better, Kincade. She died alone."

She pointed to an old-fashioned phone that sat on a small table at the end of the bed.

"Give me the phone and let me call her funeral home."

"Do you want to-"

"I'm not going to leave her alone. I'll wait here with her until they come to pick her up. I, uh, would you mind waiting outside. I'd like to spend a few minutes alone with her."

"Sure."

He walked outside and waited in the gathering darkness. He knew this wasn't going into the story. He was a reporter and knew the rules of the game. You owed the subject of the story nothing except to quote them honestly, otherwise they were raw material for your stories. You owed your loyalty to your employer - the newspaper, the radio station or the television station that paid your weekly salary.

However, he knew this had never happened - nobody but the two of them would ever share it. There were things that were too personal, going beyond his duty to the paper.

It was about 20 minutes later that he saw the lights approaching through the darkness. When it came closer he saw that it was not a funeral home vehicle but a county ambulance. Three men stepped out, two closer to his age pushing a gurney, the third a clean-cheeked kid. They wore county rescue uniforms.

"You with Mrs. Miller?" one of the two older men asked as he stood at the steps.

"She's inside, with the lady."

He walked in behind them. Miller looked up at them as they came into the room. Her eyes were clear, her face dry. She'd cleaned herself up.

"Hi, Bob, you guys got here pretty quick."

The older, bald guy who wasn't pushing the gurney said, "When I saw the address, and the name, I took the run. I'm sorry to be here. Mrs. Smith was a good woman."

Miller just nodded.

"How'd you get in here, Miss Jessie?" the younger man asked. "We saw your wheelchair outside."