The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel by Sharyn McCrumb Page A
Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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face, and as he leaned back against the soft-cushioned back of his wicker armchair, he slipped in and out of awareness, more at peace than he had been in many months.
He wasn’t as young as he used to be. Hell, he’d been oldfour presidents ago. It had been a long, eventful life. He’d been born in 1908 on a farm in southside Virginia, which is what they call that part of the state bordering North Carolina. Times were tough in his youth, and making illegal whiskey during the Prohibition years was one good way for a farm family to get a little extra cash. The Treasury cops seemed to think moonshining was some high and terrible crime, damn near treason the way they carried on about it, but as far as Jack Dolan could see, moonshining was just an agrarian form of tax evasion, and he’d never met anybody yet who didn’t do a little of that when times got tough. The really expert bootleggers were the ones up north who dodged the tax man by importing the forbidden whiskey from Canada. Those fellows ended up with fortunes, and fine houses, and sons in the U.S. Senate. Jack had never attained that exalted degree of success, but he had done well for a farm boy who never got past sixth grade.
The children were less of a success, though; he had to admit that. Maybe he’d given them too much money, or maybe they’d got above their raising, with their private schools and flashy cars as soon as they were old enough to drive. Well, things might have been different if John hadn’t been killed in Vietnam. He always was the best one of the bunch, and maybe Jack had doted too much on the oldest boy and the others resented it. Or maybe the time he’d spent in prison when the feds finally caught up with him had soured his children and cost him their respect. Too late to worry about that now, though. He hadn’t seen the young’uns in … must be seven years, he thought. Not since Alice died and they came to pick over the furniture before he sold it all in a tag sale.
Although he still retained his habit of hiding any real emotions,Jack had been worried lately. He was past ninety, and although he had boasted the constitution of an ox for nine decades now, he knew that health was no longer a thing he could take for granted. Living alone was dangerous at his age. One fall could leave him helpless on the floor, dying by inches out of reach of the telephone. Of even greater concern, though, was the possibility that he would be taken ill and hospitalized. He didn’t like the idea of being given anesthetic. He’d heard that people said things under anesthetic—things that they didn’t want other people to know about. That thought made him uneasy. He hoped he’d never be sick enough to risk it. Another danger of hospitals was the fact that they were full of social-working busybodies who might decide that when he recovered he would not be allowed to return to the mansion.
The young man who had bought the place seemed like a nice fellow, though. He didn’t ask too many personal questions, which was good. He might be useful to have around. At least he wasn’t stingy with the groceries. Maybe the young man or his lady friend would turn out to be decent cooks. Mr. Jack was getting tired of living on fast food. Besides, when he walked to the grocery store he couldn’t carry very much back with him. Five pounds of sugar at a time was about all he could manage these days. He was going to need a lot more than that.
Chapter 6
“
Show me a sane man and
I will cure him for you.
”
—Carl Jung
E lizabeth MacPherson wondered what day it was. Not that it mattered, really. Eat, sleep, and take your pills. The days at Cherry Hill had begun to slip by in an amiable haze, and somewhere in the drift of days she had stopped marking the time until her month was up. She had settled into a routine now—rest, meals, therapy, and group sessions, all punctuated by sedatives designed to take the edge off reality. Elizabeth could see how people could
He wasn’t as young as he used to be. Hell, he’d been oldfour presidents ago. It had been a long, eventful life. He’d been born in 1908 on a farm in southside Virginia, which is what they call that part of the state bordering North Carolina. Times were tough in his youth, and making illegal whiskey during the Prohibition years was one good way for a farm family to get a little extra cash. The Treasury cops seemed to think moonshining was some high and terrible crime, damn near treason the way they carried on about it, but as far as Jack Dolan could see, moonshining was just an agrarian form of tax evasion, and he’d never met anybody yet who didn’t do a little of that when times got tough. The really expert bootleggers were the ones up north who dodged the tax man by importing the forbidden whiskey from Canada. Those fellows ended up with fortunes, and fine houses, and sons in the U.S. Senate. Jack had never attained that exalted degree of success, but he had done well for a farm boy who never got past sixth grade.
The children were less of a success, though; he had to admit that. Maybe he’d given them too much money, or maybe they’d got above their raising, with their private schools and flashy cars as soon as they were old enough to drive. Well, things might have been different if John hadn’t been killed in Vietnam. He always was the best one of the bunch, and maybe Jack had doted too much on the oldest boy and the others resented it. Or maybe the time he’d spent in prison when the feds finally caught up with him had soured his children and cost him their respect. Too late to worry about that now, though. He hadn’t seen the young’uns in … must be seven years, he thought. Not since Alice died and they came to pick over the furniture before he sold it all in a tag sale.
Although he still retained his habit of hiding any real emotions,Jack had been worried lately. He was past ninety, and although he had boasted the constitution of an ox for nine decades now, he knew that health was no longer a thing he could take for granted. Living alone was dangerous at his age. One fall could leave him helpless on the floor, dying by inches out of reach of the telephone. Of even greater concern, though, was the possibility that he would be taken ill and hospitalized. He didn’t like the idea of being given anesthetic. He’d heard that people said things under anesthetic—things that they didn’t want other people to know about. That thought made him uneasy. He hoped he’d never be sick enough to risk it. Another danger of hospitals was the fact that they were full of social-working busybodies who might decide that when he recovered he would not be allowed to return to the mansion.
The young man who had bought the place seemed like a nice fellow, though. He didn’t ask too many personal questions, which was good. He might be useful to have around. At least he wasn’t stingy with the groceries. Maybe the young man or his lady friend would turn out to be decent cooks. Mr. Jack was getting tired of living on fast food. Besides, when he walked to the grocery store he couldn’t carry very much back with him. Five pounds of sugar at a time was about all he could manage these days. He was going to need a lot more than that.
Chapter 6
“
Show me a sane man and
I will cure him for you.
”
—Carl Jung
E lizabeth MacPherson wondered what day it was. Not that it mattered, really. Eat, sleep, and take your pills. The days at Cherry Hill had begun to slip by in an amiable haze, and somewhere in the drift of days she had stopped marking the time until her month was up. She had settled into a routine now—rest, meals, therapy, and group sessions, all punctuated by sedatives designed to take the edge off reality. Elizabeth could see how people could
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