The Rosewood Casket by Sharyn McCrumb Page A

went off without a hitch,” he said. “Is there coffee?” She nodded toward the Mr. Coffee machine. He poured himself a cup, and kept talking. “The kids were nervous, but they were game. We didn’t have to push anybody out of the plane. And the wind didn’t pick up, so we all made it into the drop zone.” He yawned. “It makes for a long day, though.”
    She nodded. “I watched the eleven o’clock news. I figured that if anything had gone wrong, they would have said so. I’m glad you’re back.” She put her arms around him, and he patted her head, as if she were an anxious child. The robe opened a little, and he saw that she was wearing his black T-shirt for a nightgown—the one his unit had made up, that said “We Rule the Night.”
    Then he noticed the blinking light on the answering machine.
    “Were there any phone calls, Debba?”
    She nodded, a flash of guilt crossed her face, and she buried her face in his shoulder. “I thought it might be the base. A wreck, maybe, or your unit being put on alert. You just got back.”
    “That doesn’t mean I won’t have to go again,” he said. He pushed the button and waited for the machine to rewind. “Did you hear the message?”
    “No. I turned the TV up when the phone rang.”
    The machine clicked on, and he heard his brother Clayton’s voice. “We have to go home,” he told her. She looked up, her eyes wide with panic. It would have made no difference if Debba had married an accountant instead of a chopper pilot. Her terror was a constant. He knew that Debba would find east Tennessee no less terrifying than the prospect of Haiti or Somalia.
    *   *   *
    In the darkness Clayt Stargill was pacing the flagstone walk in the backyard of his father’s house, his vigil punctuated by frequent glances at the luminous dial of his watch.
    “They won’t be here for hours,” said Dovey, who was sitting on the porch steps. “Nashville is a good five hours away, and Cincinnati is even farther. They may not be here until morning. It’s not like there’s anything they can do once they get here.”
    “I know,” said Clayt. “There’s nothing I can do, either. Except pace.”
    At sunset, when he had returned to Jonesborough from his visit to Beverly Tipton’s farm, a black car was blocking his driveway, and Dovey Stallard was sitting behind the wheel, reading a paperback in the fading light. Without preamble she told him about his father’s illness, and she went in with him while he telephoned Dr. Banner, who had all but retired from half a century of general practice, but he agreed to meet Clayton at the Stargill farm.
    Dovey followed his truck back to Wake County and up the ridge to the old homeplace, nestled between two old maples that brushed the tin roof with their branches. They found Alton Banner already in the house, tending to his patient.
    “Will he get better?” asked Clayt as he entered his father’s bedroom.
    “I doubt it,” said Dr. Banner. “He’s had a serious stroke, and his heart wasn’t any great shakes to begin with. You can’t leave him like this, though. If you don’t get some fluids in him, he’ll die of neglect.”
    “He doesn’t want to go to a hospital.” Dovey Stallard appeared in the doorway, and handed the physician a yellow legal pad. “Mr. Stargill wrote down everything he wants.”
    “Never mind what he wants,” said Clayt. “If he has a chance, then do whatever you have to.”
    Alton Banner skimmed the first page of Randall Stargill’s instructions. “It says he doesn’t want life support. Hooked up to machines, he calls it. Well, we can give him his way on that, but just in case this is not his final hour, he is going to the hospital, so that he can at least have clean sheets, intravenous fluids, and a fighting chance to beat this thing. I’ll call the rescue squad. Have you notified your brothers?”
    “We got in touch with Robert in Cincinnati this afternoon,” said Dovey. “Garrett and Charles