Nervous Water by William G. Tapply

Him, all full of himself.”
    â€œThey were my parents,” I said. “They’re both dead now.”
    â€œMeaning I ain’t supposed to say the truth about them?”
    â€œWhat’s the truth, Uncle Jake? That you were jealous of them, of their success?”
    â€œNothin’ to be jealous of,” he said. “Me, I own my own company. I’m doin’ good. I got plenty of money. Did it all on my own, too. I ain’t jealous of nobody.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Whatever.” I looked at my watch, then held out my hand. “I’ve got to head home. It was good to see you again, Uncle Jake.”
    He shook my hand quickly. “Sure. You, too.”
    â€œYou’ll talk to Aunt Faith?”
    â€œDon’t worry about her,” he said.
    â€œGo visit Moses,” I said.
    â€œYeah,” he said, “we’ll see about that.” He turned and started back to his car.
    â€œHey, Uncle,” I said.
    He stopped and looked at me.
    â€œI just figured out who you remind me of.”
    â€œYeah? Who’s that?”
    â€œGram.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œMy grandmother. Your mother. You look like the way I remember her.”
    He frowned and shook his head.
    â€œExcept,” I said, “she was a lot more pleasant.”
    Uncle Jake Crandall rolled his eyes, then got into his red Buick and backed out of Moze’s driveway.
    As I drove home, I kept thinking about Cassie. Two days ago Uncle Moze had asked me to see if I could put him back in touch with her. I didn’t know it at the time, but his sudden urgency was the result of learning that he had an aortic aneurysm, that he could die any minute. That was a good reason to want desperately to reconcile with his daughter.
    Now he’d been punched in the chest and had a heart attack, and finding Cassie struck me as urgent, too.
    Sergeant Charlene Staples thought Cassie was the one who’d punched him. Broke into his house at night and punched him and smashed all the pictures of her he kept on top of his television console.
    Cassie, full of rage? Cassie, bubbling with hatred for the man whom she knew as her father, who brought her up, who fed her and clothed her, who taught her about the sea?
    Maybe. Moze, in his druggy stupor, said she was the one who punched him.
    But I wasn’t prepared to believe it.
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    The next morning, Tuesday, a little after nine, I called Maine Medical in Portland, got connected to the ICU, told the nurse I was Moses Crandall’s nephew, the one who’d visited him yesterday, and I wanted to know how he was doing.
    â€œStable,” she said.
    â€œCan you tell me any more than that?” I said.
    â€œNot really. He’s unchanged.”
    â€œStill basically unconscious, all drugged up?”
    â€œBasically.”
    â€œYou are not exactly brimming with information,” I said.
    â€œI’m telling you everything I know, sir,” she said. “Mr. Crandall is resting comfortably. He is taking some nourishment intravenously. His vital signs are, um, stable. Like I said.”
    â€œCan you tell me if he’s had any visitors?”
    â€œI could tell you, yes.”
    I sighed. “Okay. Will you tell me, please?”
    â€œSince you were here, Mr. Coyne, his only visitor was Sergeant Charlene Staples of the Moulton police.”
    â€œNo others.”
    â€œNo.”
    After I hung up from that informative call, I called Julie at the office.
    â€œHow’s your uncle?” was the first thing she said.
    â€œStable, quote unquote. Look, I’ve got to do a few things this morning. What’ve we got?”
    â€œThe Sanborn mediation’s at two,” she said. “Want me to reschedule.”
    â€œNo, no. I’ll be there.”
    â€œDo what you have to do,” she said. “I hope your uncle’s going to be okay.”
    I told Henry to guard the house, then walked down to the parking garage on