Out to Canaan by Jan Karon Page A

door.
    â€œI’ll go with you,” he said. Was he crazy? It was broad daylight. He had gone into the drug-infested Creek with her once before, to bring out Poobaw Barlowe—but that had been under cover of darkness and he’d never felt so terrified in his life.
    â€œYou ain’t goin’ in there with me in th’ daylight, a preacher wouldn’t be nothin’ but trouble. Besides, you couldn’t hardly git up th’ bank that time, you like t’ killed y’rself.”
    She was right about that. He’d taken one step up and two back, all the way to the top. “What kind of medicine have you got?”
    She stopped and looked at him.
    â€œWhy go in empty-handed? What can you do, not knowing? Come with me to the hospital, we’ll talk to a nurse.”
    â€œI ain’t goin’ t’ no hospital.
    â€œLace. Get smart. You can’t do this without help. Drive to the hospital with me, I’ll get Nurse Kennedy to come out to the car, if necessary. Tell her what you know, see what she thinks.”
    Lace looked at the floor, then at him. “Don’t try t’ trick me,” she said.
    â€œI don’t think you’d be easy to trick.”
    God in heaven, he didn’t have a clue where this was leading.

    Nurse Kennedy leaned down and talked to Lace through the open car window. Lace sat stoically, clutching the duffel bag in her lap.
    â€œIt could be a bleeding ulcer,” said Kennedy. “Does Harley drink?”
    â€œHarley was bad to drink f’r a long time, but he’s sober now.”
    â€œAny diarrhea?”
    â€œAn awful lot, an’ passin’ blood in it.”
    â€œHow’s his color?”
    â€œReal white. White as a sheet.”
    The nurse looked thoughtful. “Vomiting blood, passing blood, pale, weak, cramps, diarrhea. All symptoms of a bleeding ulcer.”
    At least whatever it was wasn’t contagious, thought the rector, feeling relieved. And it was curable.
    â€œWhat’s the prognosis?” he asked.
    â€œI could be wrong of course, but I don’t think so. If it’s a bleeding ulcer, it can be treated with antibiotics. Diet plays a part, too. The main thing is, he’ll need treatment. His hemoglobin will be low, and that’s serious.”
    â€œWe can’t thank you enough.”
    As they drove down the hill, he still didn’t know where he was headed or how this would unfold.
    He pulled the car to the curb in front of Andrew Gregory’sOxford Antique Shop. “Let’s stop and think this through. If you go to the Creek, there’s nothing you can do. You heard the nurse, he’s got to have treatment. Let me get Chief Underwood to drive us in there, we’ll bring Harley out, money, truck, and all.”
    â€œWhere would you take ’im to? He ain’t goin’ t’ no hospital.”
    â€œI don’t know. Let me think.” Not Betty Craig’s, that was for certain. Betty’s little house was stuffed to the gills with Russell Jacks, Dooley’s disabled grandfather; Dooley’s mother, Pauline Barlowe, who was looking for work; and her son, Poobaw. There wasn’t a bed available at Hope House, even if Harley could qualify, and the red tape for the county home would be a yard long.
    â€œBlast!” he said.
    â€œIs that some kind of cussin’?” asked Lace.
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” he replied.

    He was running late for dinner, and he had no idea how he would explain it all to his wife.
    Of course, she was vastly understanding about most things, he had to hand her that. So far, she hadn’t run him out of the house with a broom or made him sleep in the study.
    This, however, could definitely turn the tide in that direction.
    She was standing at the back door, looking for him, when he walked up to the stoop with Lace Turner and a weak and failing Harley Welch.
    She said only “Good Lord!” and came out