Holloway steepled his hands. “My father, Mr. Robie, was also a doctor. And a good one. He was competent and professional and his bedside manner was very reassurin’.” He paused. “If you were white, that is. Now if you were black, he was none of those things, principally because he refused to provide medical care to those folks. And he would refer to them in the most repugnant terms you could imagine.”
“So he was a racist?”
“Absolutely. To the extreme. Not so uncommon in men of his generation from the Deep South. He would have been ninety-four this year if he had lived. I was the youngest of seven children. And the only one to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a doctor. Half my siblings took after my father’s views on race, and the other half marched resolutely into the twentieth and twenty-first century. I would count myself among the latter.”
“Okay,” said Robie impatiently. “But what about Billy?”
“When Mr. Faulconer came to me I did a thorough examination, which included X-rays, sophisticated blood testing, and other analyses as part of my diagnostic protoco
ls. I may be a small-town doctor who does a little bit of everythin’, but I received an excellent medical education and was even an organ transplant surgeon early on in my career. I had dealt with many cancer cases, some hopeless, others treatable, over the course of my practice.
“But out of an abundance of caution I sent my findings on Mr. Faulconer to a good friend and professional colleague of mine who’s the chair of the Radiation Oncology Department at Ole Miss Medical Center. He’s a world-renowned authority in the field. He confirmed my diagnosis of stage IV non-small cell lung cancer that had metastasized irreversibly into other major organs, including Mr. Faulconer’s brain and liver, and also his bones. At that stage there are some treatment options, but no realistic possibility of a cure. This particular cancer was virulently aggressive and options were limited.
“Nevertheless, we explored the various options, includin’ radiation, chemotherapy cocktails, and a combination of both. I even looked into some experimental trials that were goin’ on in different states, but unfortunately, Mr. Faulconer, for various reasons, did not meet the test criteria. In any event treatment would have been physically arduous and, at best, would have bought him only a few more months of life, and hardly at a high quality. I discussed this at length with the Faulconers, and they ultimately made the decision to forgo any type of treatment. The decision was made to make him as comfortable and pain free as possible until the end came.”
“But Billy told me all he was taking was oxygen!”
“Billy did not understand many of the things that I explained to him. He was not educated in medical matters, and his brain had already been impacted by the cancer. His short-term memory was very poor and his grasp of details lackin’.”
“He remembered our championship football game in great detail,” interjected Robie.
“I’m not surprised by that. I said his short-term memory was impacted. But memories from long ago might very well be crystal clear. When the end draws near the mind reaches out for…some comfort. Some happiness. I suppose it makes it bearable.”
Robie nodded. “I guess it does,” he said quietly.
“But Angie Faulconer is very capable and was very aware of all that we were doin’. He received morphine and other painkillin’ medications daily through a port I had placed on his forearm. He received every medication and treatment that was possible under the circumstances to ensure that his sufferin’ was as limited as it could possibly be. Either I would travel there to administer them and also check on his condition, or she would. I instructed her precisely on how to do so. Billy’s condition was constantly monitored by a portable sensor system that he wore under his clothing, and that was read every two hours. And I would vary his pain medications based on that.”
“I didn’t know any of this.”
“Mr. Robie, he never suffered unduly. Everythin’ that could be done for him was done for him.”
“I guess just seeing him in that trailer with the oxygen tank. It just seemed that he was all alone.”
“Angie and I implored Billy to go into hospice. He either could have done it in a facility nearby, which I had located and made arrangements for, or else home hospice would have been provided by a local agency that I knew to be very good. I had filled out all the forms, and there was government money available. It wouldn’t have cost them anythin’, really. It was all ready to go.”
“Only Billy didn’t want to leave the Airstream?” said Robie quietly.
“Only Billy didn’t want to leave the Airstream,” Holloway repeated. “And who was I to question the wishes of a dyin’ man?”
Robie looked at the other man, contriteness in his features. “I’m sorry, Dr. Holloway. I obviously got this completely wrong and made a complete ass out of myself.”
“No, you were just lookin’ out for an old friend.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Robie. “I’m not sure I deserve it, though.”
“I watched my father’s bigotry and hatred eventually destroy not only his marriage and his family but ultimately himself. From a very early age, I told myself I would never be like him. And I’m not.”
“Billy was lucky to have you as a doctor. And he’s in a better place now.”
“I truly believe that he is. My father went to church every Sunday and pretended to understand a God who had made it his life’s work to love and welcome all people. I too attend church every Sunday. I read my Bible every day. I worship a God that is truly color blind, as we all should be. But I don’t blame you for thinkin’ what you did. Lord knows there are racists aplenty, not just in Mississippi but everywhere. Fortunately, I am not one of them.”
The two men shook hands.
“Thank you,” said Robie.
Holloway pointed at the sling. “Have you attended to that?”
“Not yet. I have some unfinished business.”
Holloway nodded. “I’ll be at the funeral.”
“So will I,” said Robie. “So will I.”
Chapter
72
WHEN ROBIE RETURNED to the Willows, he found Reel on the rear porch with his father and Victoria.
Dan Robie said, “Your partner here has been fillin’ us in. So Emmitt Barksdale’s dead?”
Robie took a seat, glancing momentarily at Victoria, before nodding at his father.
“We’re waiting on a positive ID, but it looks that way.”
Victoria said, “But why? Who would have wanted to kill him?”
“Don’t know. He was the guardian of a woman named Jane Smith. It might be connected to her.”
Dan said, “Guardian? What was the connection with Emmitt and this Smith person?”
“Again, we don’t know. It all just happened. We went to see her. She’s at the state mental institution in Lancet.”
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Victoria.
“Schizophrenia,” replied Reel. “And even with all the meds she’s on, she’s not really there. Like talking to a young child.”
Victoria looked at Dan and said, “I guess we should consider ourselves lucky. Even if Ty can’t talk, we know his mind is fine.”
Dan nodded and gripped her hand. “That’s right, hon. Ty is goin’ to be just fine.”
“So who will care for her now?” asked Victoria.
“That’s up in the air. Unless she has relatives, I guess she’ll become a ward of the state. She certainly can’t live on her own.”
“But do you think this is connected to what’s been happening in Cantrell?” asked Dan.
“Yes, I think it is,” answered Robie. “Only I can’t tell you how.”
“Yet,” amended Reel. “We’re working on it.”
“Where is Ty?” asked Robie.
“With Priscilla,” said Victoria.
Robie’s phone buzzed. It was Taggert.
He listened to what she said, clicked off, and rose. Then he looked at Reel. “We need to go.”
She stood, leaving Dan and Victoria staring up at them.
“Is someone else dead?” said Victoria fearfully.
“No, just a development.”