Chapter 8: Visiting Hours

The county hospital had two floors, one elevator, and a waiting room with a plastic tree.

By ten o'clock Hazel was in a bed on the second floor with oxygen in her nose and antibiotics running into her arm.

The doctor, a tired man in a rumpled coat, told us it was pneumonia, both lungs, caught just in time.

"Whoever called this in probably saved her life," he said.

Caleb squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.

Frank had said nothing since the church.

He sat on a bench in the corridor with his hat between his knees, staring at the floor tiles.

Caleb walked over and stood in front of him.

I stayed three steps back, because some things belong to fathers and sons, even bad ones.

"She was mopping a floor with a hundred and three fever," Caleb said, very low.

Frank did not look up.

"Nobody was helping her. Nobody was checking on her. She's fifty-nine years old."

"I know how old my wife is."

"Then why was she alone in that kitchen?"

"Because she asked to be."

Frank's head came up, his eyes red-rimmed and furious.

"That church is hers. She wouldn't let anyone else touch it."

"You could have stopped her."

"Don't you tell me what I could have done."

"I'm telling you what you didn't do. For twelve years, Dad."

Frank was on his feet before I saw him move.

His right hand came up, thick-knuckled and fast, aimed at the side of Caleb's face.

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