The School on Heart's Content Road by Carolyn Chute Page A

need to apply for a red card and MaineCare.”
    â€œIt’s true,” says Sass. “A hospital wouldn’t be that mean to turn you guys away.”
    Erika turns and puts her eyes wide on each of them. “Yeah?” Then goes back to pinning washcloths.
    â€œThey’ll let you charge it,” says Sass eagerly. “Unless you are
real
poor, then the hospital part is free if you aren’t eligible for MaineCare. But Jesse himself is probably eligible, even if you aren’t. He’s under eighteen. Even so, you only have to pay the doctor, maybe. And probably anesthesia if . . . you know . . . if
that
is necessary.”
    Erika pins the washcloths slowly. She does not want them in her house. She does not want them in her yard. But Erika is a soft person, not one to offend.
    â€œMaybe you could save him!” Sass urges. “Maybe it’s not too late.”
    Patti sneers. “My sister is a conspiracy theorist. There’s all this rumor among her friends that the hospitals are grabbing people’s houses. Or the state is. Or something.”
    â€œOh, the state wouldn’t do
that,
” says Nan.
    â€œWe have friends,” says Erika without turning, “who the hospital
said
they put a lien on their house. And MaineCare too.”
    â€œProbably a bluff,” says Patti with a chuckle. “Playing on their
ignorance
.”
    Sass’s voice gets a little thrill to it. “Oh, Erika, why don’t you call now? Every minute matters.”
    â€œBecause,” says Patti, “my sister is stubborn and. . . .” She picks fretfully at the yellow bow of her gift. She stares deeply into this bow and says, “This whole discussion is disgusting.”
    Sass says softly, “They really won’t take the house, Erika.”
    â€œAnd so what if they did!” snaps Patti. “It’s just a piece of real estate!”
    â€œMaybe she can mortgage the house,” Nan suggests. “They don’t have to sell it.”
    Erika hangs another washcloth carefully. There’s the rustlings of the children inside the house, those who will still be alive next year. She says, “Jesse would die even
with
treatments.”
    Patti laughs. “He has a ten-percent chance!”
    Erika speaks only to the striped pink and white washcloth and two clothespins. “A five-percent chance of living five more years.”
    A car passes. The horn toots. Friends of Donnie’s.
    Patti sighs. “They could discover a miracle in five years.”
    â€œThey?” Erika asks the dark sock she is now hanging.
    Patti’s eyes behind her sunglasses are unseen. Her voice comes out like a cheery TV ad. “Erika acts like her own baby is just a piece of furniture. It . . . it is hard for me to understand. Five years of time, Erika! Five precious years! But oh, no, you are not looking at five years as precious. You sit there juggling numbers like your child is just a card game or lottery . . . or something. My God!”
    â€œI do not want him in
this
world,” Erika’s voice says firmly, into along stunned silence. She finishes with the last washcloth, turns, and sees Donnie in the doorway in his old sweatpants, blue with white double stripes on the outsides of each leg. And gray T-shirt. She has two fantasies right now. One, that Donnie will keep filling that door, like a brave soldier, and keep
them
out. He will not be his usual wishy-washy self and let people walk over him. He looks so strong from this distance, even without his mustache. The way he stands, the hard fed-up look in his eyes. She imagines he is who she once thought he was.
    And she imagines Jesse as he actually was six months ago. Standing in the kitchen. His sly, mischievous, fun little white-baby-teeth grin, cheeks blooming with perfect health, pointing up at his half sister, Elizabeth, who would be fixing his Barney cup with Kool-Aid, and he says, “Mine is reddy,” which