“I don’t know what’s takin’ them so goddamn long,” Roy growls. “That idiot technician damn near killed me takin’ that X-ray, and now they leave me sittin’ out here with my thumb up my ass all damn day long. This was a waste of time.”
I shoot an apologetic look to the glowering woman who sits across from us. Thankfully, her son, who can’t be more than seven and has his leg in a full cast, doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything besides his iPad screen. “It’s been a half hour, Roy,” I say with forced patience. When Simon broke his collarbone, I sat in the emergency waiting room with him for seven hours. Had my father gone through with chemotherapy, the doctor was recommending an eight-hour-a-day, five-days-a-week program. A thirty-minute wait is a blink in time.
I want to tell Roy all these things, but I know it won’t make a difference. “Let me go up there and ask them. You stay here.” I drop my voice to a whisper, “And maybe stop swearing in front of small children.”
I leave Roy scowling as I head to the reception desk. The nurse is busy on the phone, but the doctor who has been tending to Roy’s arm—a white man in his fifties with bushy eyebrows and a pinched nose—comes around the corner, a folder tucked under his arm.
“Hi, excuse me, I was wondering if Roy Donovan’s X-ray results are ready yet? He’s getting a little … antsy.”
The doctor offers a tight-lipped smile. “He’s not too happy to be here, is he? I was just coming to get him, actually. Tell me, has your father been taking it easy?”
“She’s not my daughter!” Roy barks directly behind me.
I startle and shoot Roy an exasperated look for sneaking up on me. “I’m his neighbor. But no, he hasn’t been taking it easy at all. I’ve had to fight with him every day to let me help around his place.” There is something satisfying about tattling on Roy, especially when I watch the deep frown of disapproval that forms on the doctor’s brow.
“I had a feeling. There’s more swelling than I hoped to see by this point—”
“Well, I ain’t comin’ back here again, doc, so you better figure it out,” Roy snaps.
The doctor shares a knowing look with me. “I was going to say that I think we can set your arm today. Has he been taking the medication I prescribed to manage the pain?”
“Yeah,” Roy says at the same time I say, “The seal on the bottle hasn’t even been broken.”
If looks could kill, the withering gaze Roy spears me with would have them wheeling me to the morgue. “What, are you spying on me?” he growls.
“You sure she’s not your daughter?” The doctor chuckles, unfazed by Roy’s hostile tone. “All right. We’ll get you casted up and on your way.”
* * *
It’s midafternoon by the time we pass the sign marking Trapper’s Crossing. The ride has been quiet, Roy taking turns scowling at the road and the navy-blue fiberglass cast that stretches from his knuckles all the way to just below his armpit.
“Did the doctor say how long you’d have to wear it?” I dare ask.
“Six to eight weeks, if I don’t do anything stupid.”
“You mean, like refuse help from everyone around you?” I say lightly but quickly add, “That’s nothing. Your arm could have been shattered. If you needed surgery, you would have been in that thing for mon
ths. Don’t worry, you’ll be carving your wooden figurines again in no time.”
He doesn’t respond, so I assume that’s the end of our conversation. I adjust the dial of the radio to find a station with better music.
“And whittling.”
“Hmm?”
“Some of them aren’t carved, they’re whittled. There’s a difference.”
I wait a moment, and when he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “What’s the difference?”
“With carving, you use different tools. Chisels and gouges, and lathes. With whittling, you only use a knife.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say slowly.
“Well … now you do.”
“When did you start doing that?”
“A long time ago.” Again, that long pause, where I assume the conversation is done, and then he offers, “I was eight. My daddy was sittin’ on the porch after supper, with his pipe and a fresh piece of basswood. He let me give it a try. Stabbed myself here.” He holds out his left hand to display the jagged scar on his palm.