Chapter 5 - A crisis on the highway
Caleb flinched as if the floor had moved. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, Grandpa. Sorry." Three times fast, one on top of another, the way children do when they've learned that sorry is cheaper than whatever comes after. The anger went out of Walt like air out of a tire. He put one big hand on the boy's head. "Go wash your face, Caleb. Go on."
When the boy was gone, Walt lowered himself onto the stool and didn't look at Martin. "He thinks we're going to the doctor," he said. "Aren't you?" "I've been to the doctor. Cardiologist in Casper says the valve is shot. Without a new one, I've got a few months. With one, I've got a big surgery, then weeks in a hospital, then rehab, and nobody to watch the boy. And a pile of papers I can't read without my glasses." He rubbed his face. "So, I'm not having it." "Walt." "I'm taking him to my son, Ray. He's a mechanic in Denver. Divorced, two years sober, he says. We haven't talked since the funeral, but he's blood. He'll do." The old man finally looked at Martin, and his pale eyes were wet and furious at being wet. "Then I'm going home to sit on my porch till it's done. A man who can't carry his own load doesn't get to keep what he loves. I won't be a burden on that boy. Not one more day." "Does he know?" "He'll know in Denver."
Martin thought about a chair in a bus station in Laramie. He thought about a boy counting heartbeats against a clock that ran 2 minutes fast. When the road opened at dawn, Martin made Walt Hollis an offer. Walt said no. Martin didn't listen. The offer was simple, the way Martin's offers usually were. The best heart surgeon in Denver. A private room. Somebody to care for Caleb during recovery. Every bill, every paper handled.
"No," Walt said. "Walt. I can make this." "I said no. You can drive us to Denver because the buses won't run till afternoon and the boy's cold. I'll pay for your gas." He put a $20 bill on the dashboard of Martin's truck, and it stayed there the whole way, sliding a little on every curve.
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They drove south at 40 mph behind a plow. The world on both sides of the road was white and empty, fence posts sticking out of the drifts like stitches. Caleb sat in the back seat in his new cap and socks, leaning forward between the seats so he could see his grandfather's face. Every 10 minutes, he reached for Walt's wrist. "Quit that," Walt said gently. Caleb didn't quit.
20 miles north of Fort Collins, it happened. Walt went quiet in the middle of a sentence. His face turned gray, then white, and sweat broke out across his forehead. Even though the heater was barely keeping up, his hand went to his chest and stayed there. "Grandpa." Caleb had both hands on his wrist now. "It's too fast. It's too fast. It's too fast."
