Floyd sat and listened. For the first time in his life, he was silent, hanging on every word. Kathy talked about the EPA and Jim’s cattle ranch, talking about some kind of contamination in the water. And if they didn’t catch it fast enough? It would taint over a million acres of farmland, cattle ranches, and drinking water in at least eight states. She managed to retell Jim’s encounter with the EPA and Doc’s reaction to it, explaining how that might explain the cow’s weird behavior without lighting one cigarette. She fiddled with her box of Camel Lights on the table. She switched brands a few days ago, feeling a rattle in her lungs. Floyd didn’t say a word, letting Kathy continue. Then she told him about Jim and Doc going to Floyd’s place, looking for him. “But you weren’t there, was you?” She questioned it, not sure what his response would be. It wouldn’t be out of character for him to storm out of the diner, returning later after he cooled down. But it didn’t phase him in the least. Floyd noticed Kathy’s hands shaking as she picked up the coffee to take a small sip. She fiddled with the cup for a minute, spinning it in circles on the table.
“So, they’s go to check on you, and you ain’t there. Youns truck is sittin’ out front, so’s theys figure youns inside, right? But those two scaredy cats are too chicken to walk up youns stairs.”
Floyd chuckled, thinking about the shotgun sitting by the door and his one duck-hunting trip with Doc and Jim. He sipped his coffee, nodded, and listened, closing his eyes long enough to picture what it looked like. Doc tip-toeing up to the front door because Jim would’ve been too afraid to do it himself.
“And guess what they find? Nothin’. You didn’t even lock your door that day, did ya?” Kathy’s hands got more twitchy, her voice quivering a little more. “But ‘tis good you didn’t, ‘cause Jim wouldn’ta got in to call the 9-1-1.” She reached for the cigarettes and pulled one out, playing with it like the coffee cup. Putting it between her lips, it quivered as she lit it. Exhaling, she started to sob, tears slowly sliding down her cheeks. Kathy didn’t pause to wipe them away, struggling as she was to tell Floyd that Doc was dead. “Doc collapsed on your steps. Nancy says she took the call, and Jim was so dumbstruck he couldn’t answer any of her questions so’s she could help him figure out what he should do.” She took two more puffs of the cigarette, ashing what little bits of burned paper and tobacco came from her puffs. It wasn’t much. “Nancy told me she heard Jim screaming, blubbering about his best friend, save him, or some such thing. Hard to believe Jim would’tav said anythin’ like it.” Her hands stopped shaking long enough for her to stab out the smoke. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the ashtray, Floyd waving it out of his face. Kathy stabbed the butt a few more times, making one hundred percent sure it was out.
“So, that was a few weeks ago.” Kathy went to the funeral and graveside service, with a total of twenty-two people in attendance, many of whom Doc took care of their animals, big and small. There was Danny Gershaw, an alpaca farmer, and his wife, Marsha. Of course, Jim was there, standing hunched over as if his best dog had passed away. Kathy remembered when old Bo got hit by a car on the newly constructed interstate highway. Bo got loose from the farm and ran out into traffic, not knowing that the cars wouldn’t stop. Jim wouldn’t talk about it and bottled it up inside. Kathy thought that might’ve been when Jim shut himself to feelings, choosing to stay away from them altogether because they were too hard.
Danny, Marsha, and Jim whispered to each other throughout the service. Marsha asked about Jim’s cow and the EPA, whether they had any conclusions, and if his milk was now tainted because of the groundwater. With Doc gone, the cattle, sheep, and alpaca ranchers wondered who they would get to care for their animals. Marsha mentioned a vet in Des Moines that would make the trip once or twice a month, but she wondered if that was often enough. Jim shrugged. Danny glared at Marsha, putting his finger to his lips. “Sorry, folks.” Her tone was the same as how she spoke to Jim.
Then there was Dennis, the convenience store clerk in Spiner who sold Doc Twinkies and coffee. He was a young kid, maybe twenty-two, still pimply, with a clipper-cut, almost shaved down to his scalp. When he was younger, he was blonde. Today, the blackish hairs were so short you couldn’t guess what color it would be if he let it grow out. He grew up on his daddy’s farm, and Doc ensured their sheep were healthy. Dennis heard something about a will and hoped Doc remembered him. It wasn’t likely, as Doc barely remembered the kid’s name, even though he wore a name tag.
Twelve people from the church came, including Pastor Theodore and his ‘church ladies,’ as Janice called them, Beatrice and Betty. Of course, the memorial topic was hell and whether Doc committed himself to Jesus, thereby saving his immortal soul. As the townsfolk who attended his services came to expect, he preached for 45 minutes exactly, gave a benediction, and then gave Doc two minutes, speaking about what a great veterinary doctor he was, a genuine humanitarian and overall nice guy. It wasn’t the sentiment Jim wanted, but it was good enough for Spiner and those fortunate to know Spud.
The remaining six people were three funeral directors, the hearse driver hired to drive for every funeral, a reporter from the local paper, and a woman Kathy had never seen before. She wore black jeans, brown cowboy boots, a white silk blouse, unusual for Tri-Cities, and a dark blue jean jacket. Her shirt made her stick out like a sore thumb because the rest of her outfit tracked for Iowa folks in the Tri-Cities area.
Floyd tilted his head, looking like the pitbull listening to the RCA phonograph. “Silk blouse?” Kathy nodded, lighting another cigarette, her makeup mussed from her tears.
“Yep. Can’t very well mistake silk for any other material.” She tried to blow her exhaled smoke over her head, but it blew Floyd’s way from the airflow through the diner. Kathy did her best to wave the smoke away from Floyd. “Sorry.”
“What was her name?” Floyd asked. His curiosity got the better of him, not because he cared who she was as much as he was genuinely curious why she was there.
“She wasn’t wearin’ a name tag, you old coot,” Kathy softly tapped his head with the palm of her hand. “What? Youns think she’s there for a reason?”
“Ain’t no business comin’ to a funeral of someone you don’t know.” He took a big gulp of his cold coffee. “Just wonderin’ who she is. No one bothered to ask her? Sure as the church ladies would’tav asked her, doncha think?”
“What? You some kinda detective now?” She took three quick puffs from her Camel light and exhaled, which started a coughing spell lasting over thirty seconds. Wiping away the tears, Kathy stretched and drank her coffee, cold though it was. “Want a warm-up there, Floyd?” Kathy said, standing, tossing her smokes on the table.
Floyd nodded, still curious about the woman in the white silk shirt at the funeral. It didn’t track. Didn’t add up. And Floyd wasn’t ever concerned about things outside his own life. It was like being a cop was intrinsically inside him – at least it was now. People commented in town how slow he was. Now, in his early seventies, he wondered. Did he pick the wrong career? Should he have been a cop? And what if that was what was missing all these years, doing the boring, tedious work of milking cows? He had more questions than answers, and Kathy had more to share.
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