The Last Round

Parish

Chapter 27: The Last Round

The morning before the surgery. Monday. October seventh. Clem wakes at 4:30, the same time, the body's clock set to the hour that the practice has required for twenty-eight years and that the body will require tomorrow and the day after and the days after that, even though the practice will not require it, the body continuing to wake at 4:30 because the waking is the body's habit and the habit does not know about the surgery, the habit knowing only the rhythm, the rhythm being: Wake. Rise. Coffee. Truck. Roads. Practice.

He makes coffee. French press. Dark roast. Community Coffee. He drinks it standing at the kitchen counter, the counter where he has stood every morning for twenty-eight years, the standing being the posture that avoids the loneliness of sitting alone in the dark kitchen, the standing being the compromise between the eating and the leaving, between the body's need for the fuel and the heart's need for the road.

But this morning is different. This morning the standing at the counter has a quality that the other mornings did not have, the quality of the last, the last morning of standing at this counter before the surgery, the last morning of the coffee and the counter and the dark kitchen and the 4:30 waking that is the practice's opening act. The quality of the last is the quality of attention, the heightened attention that the last produces, the attention that says: Look at this. Remember this. The counter. The coffee. The dark window. The sound of the refrigerator. The sound of the clock on the wall. The sounds that are the morning's sounds, the sounds that the practice begins with, the sounds that are so ordinary that they are invisible, inaudible, unnoticed — until the last morning, when the last makes the ordinary visible, audible, noticed.

He drinks the coffee. He does not eat. His stomach will not accept food this morning, the stomach's refusal being the body's anxiety, the anxiety that the mind has been managing but that the body expresses in its own language, the language of the stomach and the muscles and the hands that are slightly — not shaking, never shaking — but slightly tighter than usual on the coffee cup, the tightness being the body's preparation, the body preparing for the thing that is coming, the thing that the body does not understand but that the body knows is coming because the mind has been carrying the knowledge for three weeks and the carrying has leaked into the body, the knowledge seeping from the mind into the muscles and the stomach and the hands.

He goes to the truck. The truck is in the driveway. The truck has been in the driveway every morning for twenty-eight years and the truck is in the driveway this morning and the being-in-the-driveway is the sameness, the sameness that is both the comfort and the ache, the comfort being: The truck is here, the practice is here, the morning is here. The ache being: The truck will be here tomorrow and I will not be in it.

He opens the veterinary box. He checks the compartments. The syringes, the antibiotics, the anti-inflammatories, the reproductive supplies, the hoof instruments, the surgical instruments, the suture material, the miscellaneous. Everything in its place. Everything labeled. Everything accessible. The system of a man who has been reaching for the right tool in the dark at 2 AM for twenty-eight years, the system that will be used by Dr. Tran for the next six weeks, Dr. Tran who will drive this truck and open this box and reach for these tools, the reaching being the practice, the practice continuing without Clem, the continuing being both the hardest fact and the most reassuring fact.

The hardest fact: The practice does not need him specifically. The practice needs a vet. Clem is a vet. Dr. Tran is a vet. The practice's need is categorical, not personal, the need being for the category — veterinarian — and not for the individual — Clem. The parish needs its animals treated and its confessions heard and its hooves trimmed and its calves delivered, and the treating and the hearing and the trimming and the delivering can be done by any competent veterinarian, and Dr. Tran is a competent veterinarian, and the competence is the qualification, and the qualification is sufficient.

The most reassuring fact: The practice does not need him specifically. The parish will continue. The cattle will be treated. The horses will be trimmed. The goats will be held while the medicine goes in. The practice will continue because the practice is not Clem, the practice is the need, and the need is the parish's, and the parish's need does not stop because one veterinarian has surgery, the need continuing the way the river continues, the way the levee stands, the way the morning comes, the continuing being the parish's nature, and the nature is the reassurance.

He drives. He drives the round. The last round. The round that is not different from any other round except that it is the last round before the surgery, the last round before the six weeks, the last round before the absence, and the lastness gives the round its quality, the quality of the heightened attention, the attention that makes the ordinary visible.

The roads. Louisiana 15 north toward Waterproof. Louisiana 65 south toward Ferriday. The parish roads that branch off like capillaries. The gravel roads that lead to farms. The driveways that lead to houses. The roads that Clem has driven for twenty-eight years, the roads that are the practice's arteries, the arteries through which the truck flows, the truck being the blood, the blood that carries the oxygen that is the veterinary care, the care being the thing that keeps the parish's livestock alive.

He drives the roads and the roads are the same roads. The same potholes on Louisiana 15 north of Clayton. The same curve where the bayou crosses under the road. The same straightaway through the soybean fields between Vidalia and Ferriday. The same roads. The sameness is the thing. The sameness is the comfort and the ache. The sameness says: The parish is the parish. The parish has been the parish for twenty-eight years. The parish will be the parish for the next six weeks. The sameness will continue.

He drives to Earl's ranch. He crosses the cattle guard. The tires sing on the pipes. He parks by the working pens. The parking is the routine, the routine that has been performed on Tuesdays and Thursdays for fourteen years, the routine that he is performing on a Monday because tomorrow is Tuesday and tomorrow is the surgery and the surgery is in Baton Rouge and the being-in-Baton-Rouge is the absence, the absence from the routine.

Earl is by the pens. He is not working cattle. He is standing by the pens because the pens are where Earl goes in the morning, the pens being his place, the place where the work is and where the being-near-the-work is, the being-near being sufficient when the working is not required.

Clem gets out. He walks to Earl. The walking is the approach, the approach that has been made a thousand times, the veterinarian approaching the rancher, the two men meeting at the pens where the work happens and the words happen and the silence happens and the silence is the communion, the communion of two men who have shared the work and the words for fourteen years.

"I'm going to be away for a few weeks," Clem said. "Dr. Tran from Jonesville will be covering. She's good. She'll take care of things."

He does not say why. He does not name the surgery. He does not share the diagnosis. The not-sharing is the habit, the habit that is the practice, the practice of the man who listens and does not speak, who holds and does not show. The not-sharing is also the protection — of Earl, who has had enough of medical timelines, who has had enough of diagnoses and prognoses and the months-long countdowns that medical conditions produce, who does not need to carry Clem's diagnosis on top of the grief he already carries.

Earl nods. He does not ask why. He does not ask because asking would be intrusion and Earl does not intrude, Earl being a man who respects the closed door, who respects the shell, who learned from Lorraine's leaving that the closed is sometimes the protection and the protection must be respected.

"She know the cattle?" Earl said.

"I'll brief her," Clem said. "I'll give her the herd records. She'll know what she needs to know."

The knowing-what-she-needs-to-know is the promise, the promise that the coverage will be adequate, that the practice will continue at the level that the parish requires, that the animals will be treated and the farmers will be served and the service will not diminish because the provider has changed.

They stand by the pens. The cattle are in the south pasture. The October morning is cool, the coolness being the September turning fully arrived, the temperature at 68, the air carrying the crispness that October provides, the crispness that is the opposite of July's humidity, the crispness that makes the breathing easy and the standing pleasant and the morning a gift.

The roses are still blooming. The fall flush is at its peak, the bushes heavy with flowers, the red and pink and white and the Julia Child yellow, the yellow that is Lorraine's yellow, the yellow that Earl tends first.

"The roses look good," Clem said.

Earl looked toward the house. "They always look good in October," he said. "She said October was their best month. She said the fall blooms last longer because the heat isn't burning them. She was right."

She was right. The sentence that Earl has said before. The sentence that is the tribute, the tribute to the dead wife's knowledge, the knowledge that lives in the roses and in the man who tends them and in the tending that is the love.

Clem says goodbye. He does not say goodbye. He says: "I'll see you in a few weeks." The sentence that is not goodbye but is the acknowledgment of the absence, the absence that is coming and that will last six weeks and that will end with the return, the return being the plan, the plan being: Survive the surgery. Recover. Return. The return being the goal.

He drives south. He drives to Marie-Claire's five acres. He turns onto the parish road. He pulls into the grass beside the shed.

Marie-Claire is home. Lily is at school. The goats are in the back pasture. The bells are ringing. Pearl is visible, the white coat catching the October light, the light that makes Pearl look clean for the first time since Marie-Claire acquired her, the October light being the forgiving light, the light that does not expose the stains the way the summer light exposes them.

Dex is in the paddock. Dex is standing comfortably. The management is working. The bute and the corrective shoes that the farrier applied last week have reduced the lameness, the lameness that was a grade three now a grade two, maybe a grade one, the reduction being the management's evidence, the evidence that the plan is working, the plan that Clem designed and that Marie-Claire is following with the precision of a woman who follows plans precisely because the precision is the control and the control is the thing she can give the horse when she cannot give the horse the cure.

"He's doing well," Clem said, watching Dex move in the paddock, the movement smoother now, the stride more even, the head-bob reduced, the body showing the drug's effect and the shoe's effect, the combined effect being the comfort, the comfort that the management provides.

Marie-Claire nods. "He's eating better. He's moving better. Lily walks him every afternoon. She leads him around the paddock. She talks to him while she walks him. She tells him about school. She tells him about her friends. She tells him things."

The telling-things. The confession. The child confessing to the horse the way the adults confess to the veterinarian, the horse being the listener, the listener that does not judge and does not advise and does not repeat, the listener that is present and that the presence is the gift, the gift of the animal that listens by being there, by standing beside the child, by walking beside the child, by being the thing that the child loves and that the loving produces the trust and the trust produces the telling.

The parish's confessional structure: The farmer tells the vet. The child tells the horse. The vet tells no one. The horse tells no one. The confessions are held. The holding is the practice. The practice is the parish.

"I'll be away for a few weeks," Clem said. "Dr. Tran will be covering. If Dex needs anything, call her."

Marie-Claire looks at him. She looks at him with the directness that she has, the directness of a woman who has learned to look at things directly because the not-looking-directly is the avoidance and the avoidance is the thing that allowed the hitting to continue, the avoidance that she has renounced, the renouncing being the looking, the looking that says: I see you.

She sees something. Clem does not know what she sees. He does not know if she sees the diagnosis or the surgery or the anxiety or the lastness, the lastness that is the quality of this visit, the quality that makes it different from the other visits, the quality that Clem has tried to conceal by making the visit ordinary, by doing the ordinary things, the checking of the horse and the asking about the goats and the telling about Dr. Tran, the ordinary things that are the cover, the cover that is the not-telling.

But Marie-Claire sees something. She sees it the way she sees the things she sees, directly, without avoidance.

"Take care of yourself, Dr. Boudreaux," she said.

The sentence is simple. The sentence carries more than its words. The sentence carries the seeing, the something that Marie-Claire saw and that the seeing produced the sentence. The sentence is the care, Marie-Claire's care for Clem, the care that reverses the direction, the care flowing from the client to the veterinarian, from the held to the holder, the reversal being the thing that Clem does not expect and that the not-expecting makes the receiving harder, the receiving of care being the thing that Clem does not practice, the thing that the practice does not include, the practice being the giving and not the receiving.

"I will," Clem said.

He drives away. He drives the parish roads. He drives the roads that he has driven for twenty-eight years. He passes the farms and the ranches and the houses and the barns. He passes the fields where the soybeans are being harvested, the combines moving through the fields, the combines being the machines that cut and thresh and separate and store, the machines that are the harvest's instruments, the instruments of the gathering, the gathering of the year's production.

He drives past the levee. The levee is quiet. The river is low. September low becoming October low, the river at its lowest, the gauge reading twenty-five feet, the number that is the comfortable number, the number that requires no watching, the number that says: The river is where the river should be. The levee is not needed. The margin is enormous.

He drives through Vidalia. He passes the library. The library is open. Renee is inside. The lights are on. The fluorescent hum is humming. The books are on the shelves. The shelves are holding the books. The holding is the library's function, the function that Renee maintains, the maintaining that will continue while Clem is in Baton Rouge, the continuing being the parish's nature.

He drives past the bank with the time and temperature sign. 9:47 AM. 71 degrees. The numbers blinking in the October light. The numbers being the parish's vital signs, the signs that say: The parish is alive. The parish's temperature is 71. The parish's time is 9:47 on a Monday morning in October.

He drives. He sees the parish. He sees it with the sharpened seeing that the diagnosis has provided, the seeing that is the lens, the lens of the possibly-temporary, the lens that focuses the attention on the thing that might be lost, the thing that is not being lost (the prognosis is excellent) but that the might-be intensifies, the intensifying being the seeing, the seeing being the attention, the attention being the love.

He loves the parish. He has not said this. He has not used the word. The word is not a word he uses because the word is too large and too simple for the thing it describes, the thing being the twenty-eight years of driving and treating and listening and holding and carrying, the twenty-eight years that are the love, the love that does not need the word because the love is the action, and the action is the practice, and the practice is the love.

He pulls into the driveway at noon. He parks the truck. He turns off the engine. The refrigerated unit hums its last and goes silent. The silence is the stopping, the stopping that is not the end but the pause, the pause that the surgery requires, the surgery being the interruption, the interruption that the body requires, the body saying: I need to be fixed, and the fixing requires the stopping, and the stopping is the pause, and the pause is temporary, and the temporary is the plan, and the plan is the return.

He sits in the cab. He looks at the veterinary box in the rearview mirror. The box that is the practice. The box that is organized the way his mind is organized. The box that will be used by Dr. Tran for six weeks. The box that will be here when he returns.

He gets out. He takes off his boots on the porch. He leaves them by the door. The boots that carry the parish's mud. The boots that have carried the mud for twenty-eight years. The boots that will carry the mud again, in six weeks, when the surgery is done and the recovery is complete and the return is accomplished and the practice resumes and the truck drives the roads and the box opens and the hands reach for the tools and the tools do the work and the work is the practice and the practice is the parish and the parish is home.

He goes inside. Renee is there. She has come home from the library early. She has come home because tomorrow is the surgery and today is the day before and the day before is the day that the wife comes home early, the coming-home-early being the care, the care that says: I am here. I am here on the day before. I will be here on the day of. I will be here on the days after. The being-here is the plan. The being-here is the marriage.

They do not pack. The bag is packed. The bag has been packed since Friday, the packing being the practical thing, the thing that Renee did because the practical is the language, the language that the marriage speaks when the emotional language is too large.

They sit on the porch. The October afternoon. The October light. The parish visible from the porch — the pecan trees on Carter Street, the rooftops of the houses, the steeple of First Baptist, the levee in the distance, the levee that is the line between the parish and the river, the line that holds.

They sit in the chairs. The green rocking chairs from the yard sale in Natchez. The chairs that have held them for twelve years of evenings. The chairs that will hold them again, in six weeks, when the surgery is done and the recovery is complete and the evenings resume.

Renee holds his hand. The holding that is the marriage's essential act. The holding of the hand that holds the parish. The holding that says: I am here. The here is the thing. The here is enough.

The parish is visible from the porch. The parish that Clem has served for twenty-eight years. The parish that will continue without him for six weeks. The parish that does not know about the surgery. The parish that is the parish, unchanged, unchanging, the same roads and the same farms and the same people and the same animals, the sameness being the thing, the sameness being both the hardest fact and the most reassuring fact.

The hardest fact: The parish does not need him specifically.

The most reassuring fact: The parish does not need him specifically.

The two facts are the same fact. The same fact seen from two sides, the way the bridge connects two sides, the way the levee separates two sides, the way everything in the parish has two sides, the two sides being the condition, the condition of living in a place that is flat and beautiful and vulnerable and strong and that holds the things it holds the way the levee holds the river, with the steady pressure of a thing that was built for holding.

Clem sits on the porch. Renee sits beside him. The parish is visible. The October light is golden. The air is cool. The morning will bring the drive to Baton Rouge and the hospital and the gown and the anesthesia and the surgery and the recovery and the return. The morning will bring the beginning of the pause.

But the evening is here. The evening is the last evening before the pause. The evening holds the last in its quality of attention, the attention that makes the ordinary visible, the ordinary being the porch and the chairs and the light and the air and the parish and the hand in the hand.

The ordinary is visible. The ordinary is beautiful. The ordinary is the parish. The parish is home.

Clem sits on the porch. The evening holds. The parish holds. Tomorrow comes.