Getting to Goose Neck Bend

By Marjorie Bailey

When Norly Wade's sister needs a temporary home for her beloved cat Haley, Norly raises her hand—and her self-absorbed, controlling husband Richard raises a fit. He gives Norly a choice: Me or the cat.

Norly chooses the cat, and together, she and Haley head south toward the Oklahoma hills where Norly was born. Her search for a pet-friendly rental takes her to rural Goose Neck Bend, where she happens upon an elderly man hanging over his mailbox, having fallen ill. Norly stops to help the widowed, childless Oscar, a simple act that brings an unlikely cast of characters that changes the trajectory of her life.

Just as Norly feels like she's putting down roots, she discovers she's expecting—and her finances are dwindling. In order to maintain her independence from Richard, Norly must find some means of financial support. She takes a leap of faith and buys the local corner store, and soon, she's faced with an old mystery that could bring Oscar the kin he longs for— and an injury that could force her back to Richard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667899442

Book preview

One

The posted speed limit was forty-five miles per hour, but at a daring thirty-five, I was doing well to hold my Plymouth minivan on the narrow, curving road. I felt sure I had caused a few daredevil drivers to mutter obscenities as they sped around the van.

I had arrived in eastern Oklahoma two days ago after driving eight hours south from Omaha. There’s nothing much to get in the way of a straight line in Nebraska, so the roads don’t slither around like this one was doing, going out of its way to get wherever it was trying to go. Trees and thick undergrowth prevented my getting a good look at anything beyond the sides of the road. My Nebraska conditioning wanted to brush away the obstacles so I could get a clear view. I wasn’t used to anything getting between me and whichever horizon I wanted to look at.

A sign that read slow curve came into view just ahead and I braced myself. If they admitted to a slow curve, I was prepared for the worst. It was also a blind curve, and if I hadn’t been going as slow as a Nebraska winter, I might not have seen him. My first impression was that someone had left an old blanket or rug draped over a mailbox. Mounted on a weathered post, the rusty mailbox stood at the edge of the road just at the point where the curve decided to go the other way. It was only when I was easing the van into the new curve that I saw that the blanket was a man; but he was draped over the mailbox just the same. At the last minute, I noticed that the mailbox was beside a driveway of sorts, and I twisted the steering wheel in that direction, pushing the brake pedal hard at the same time, hoping there was no one impatiently close behind me.

He was an old man, and he hung there so loosely that he seemed boneless. I thought he was dead or unconscious until I saw how his stringy arms were clenched around the mailbox. He couldn’t hold on for dear life that way and be dead. I bolted out of the van as soon as it jerked to a stop. The man’s head was down, resting on top of the mailbox, and his eyes were closed, but as I reached his side, he mumbled something between short gasps of breath. I thought he was saying he couldn’t find his house.

Did a car hit you? I asked, thinking of that treacherous curve that targeted his mailbox like an archer taking aim. Maybe he’d been sideswiped by one of those forty-five-miles-per-hour drivers who might never have been aware of him standing at the side of the road, opening his mailbox door to peer inside. The road was in deep shade at this point, a dim canyon created by tall trees bursting into new leaf, blocking the early April sunshine.

No, not hurt, he rasped. He fought for breath and spoke in a near whisper. Taken a bad spell…dizzy. Need…get back…house. The words faltered as he grew breathless again. I looked beyond the spot where I had left the van at the beginning of the driveway, but I could see no sign of a house. My eyes followed the graveled drive and watched it curve away into a thick stand of trees. I guessed that his house must be hidden among them. The thicket had to be at least fifty yards from the road; there was no way he could even crawl that distance. He must have known that, and just kept his arms around the mailbox, waiting for help, like the victim of a shipwreck hugging a life preserver.

Is anyone at the house? I asked. The old man rolled his head from side to side on the mailbox in what I took to be a negative answer. Live alone…taken bad. More gasps. Have to…find the house. For a man in his condition, he seemed strangely insistent on getting back to an empty house in the middle of nowhere.

Since my first guess about his being a hit-and-run victim was wrong, I tried to remember anything I had learned about heart attacks. My fingers felt his wrist for a pulse, but there was only a faint flutter, delicate as the lift of a butterfly’s wings, through his skin.

I looked both ways on the road and listened intently for the sound of approaching cars, but there was only silence. There had been other houses at intervals along this road out from town, but I had been too preoccupied with driving to pay much attention, so I didn’t know how far away the nearest neighbor might be. As far as I was concerned, I had no choice about what to do, but I had a bad feeling that my decision was going to cause trouble.

You need a doctor’s help. I’m going to drive you into town. I spoke with all the authority I could muster, which was more than I expected, considering the submissive quality of my life for the past three years. The man didn’t argue, but I knew that was due more to his condition than any actual consent. I’m going to leave you right here for a couple of minutes while I turn my van around and move it closer.

Back in the van, I started down the drive. A heavy layer of gravel had been spread along the length of it but did nothing to level the deep ruts. The van rocked and lurched roughly as I steered to avoid the branches that encroached on either side. I had driven only about thirty feet when I was surprised to see that another driveway branched off to the left and sloped down to a broad clearing beyond the trees. Nestled in the open space, with a backdrop of tall trees, stood a small cabin. The drive curved around it and opened into a rough parking area near the front, which faced away from the main driveway. A low front porch was just visible, but I could see that it overlooked the clearing, which was bordered on one side by the trees and undergrowth that grew right up to the road.

There was a quiet, closed look about the cabin. I wondered whether this was the old man’s home or whether he lived at the other end of the long driveway. I angled the van down the slope just far enough to allow room to reverse onto the main drive and turn around. Pulling the van up as close to the man as I could, I hurried around to open the front passenger door. I eased one arm around him. My van is right here. If you can hold onto me, I think we can make it. Just put your arms around me and let me bear your weight.

I expected some protest; but his head, still resting on the mailbox, moved a little in an affirmative nod. I felt briefly as though I were somehow taking unfair advantage of his weakness. He had clearly wanted to go home. I ignored the pangs of doubt and staggered with him to the door of the van and practically heaved him onto the front seat. His weight surprised me, and I hadn’t noticed his height when he was hunched over the mailbox, but I guessed he was at least six feet tall. I always thought people shriveled up when they grew old, like the man in the poem who wore the bottoms of his trousers rolled. In spite of his bony thinness, my heart bounced around in my chest from the exertion of moving him, and I had to lean against the van for a minute to catch my breath before I could get him upright and make him as comfortable as possible.

The back seat would have been the best place for him, but all the available space in the van except the front bucket seats was filled to the cramming point. All my worldly belongings, except the third seat of the van, which I’d had to leave behind in Omaha to make room for the rest, were wedged in as compactly as I could get them. My friend Ellen and I had packed the van in a hurry, and I felt that under the circumstances we’d made an efficient job of it. You’re like a turtle, Ellen had told me, carrying all your goods on your back.

Rolling down the driver’s window, I stuck my head out and listened again for traffic sounds. Pulling out of your driveway along this road must be a little like playing Russian roulette. I eased the van onto the road and into my lane and then pushed the accelerator down hard, in case someone was hurtling around that slow curve behind me. I had buckled the man securely in the seat belt and shoulder harness and locked the door. There wasn’t much more I could do for him, and he didn’t seem to be any worse off than before. As I drove back along the ten-mile route I had followed earlier, I tried to decide where I should take him. Trying to find his doctor’s office, if he even had a family doctor, was pointless; I doubted he could give me directions in his condition. It seemed like an eerie coincidence that my cousin Maxine’s house was just a few blocks away from a large regional medical center that was probably the only building in town I could find without help.

I had spent the past two nights with Maxine, and the reason I was out driving in unknown territory today was because I had to find a place to live. Fast. Maxine and I were best friends, as well as cousins, when we were young. We had kept in touch through all the years since my parents packed our belongings into an old truck and moved to California. But keeping in touch meant that we exchanged cards and notes at Christmas, most years. I realized now that corresponding with someone for thirty-three years isn’t the best way to actually know her.

I had arrived at Maxine’s house late in the afternoon, after calling from a rest stop near Joplin, Missouri, to tell her I was on my way to Muskogee. She was more thrilled than I would have been to get a call from a cousin known only through the U.S. mail since we were twelve years old.

Now you know you’re welcome to stay with me just as long as you want to, Hon, Maxine told me, her Oklahoma accent soft, slow, comfortable. Relieved to have a real destination, with someone waiting for me, I spent the remainder of the trip perfecting Jack Guthrie’s version of Oklahoma Hills. Jack Guthrie and the Oklahomans would have been amazed.

I hadn’t unpacked my van after I arrived at Maxine’s, except for a small suitcase and Haley, the cat I had brought with me, along with his food and water dishes. There was more room to spare in my van than there was in her house. Maxine’s two sons were grown with families of their own, and her husband had died a few years ago. She worked as a clerk at the County Building, but Maxine was not a woman who ever sat idle, so maybe she needed a hobby to fill the hours between coming home from work and going back again. Except that Maxine didn’t have a hobby. She had an obsession. She had discovered handcrafts.

They were everywhere. Boxes and baskets and bags of craft work filled the small entrance vestibule and overflowed into the living room and dining room the way boiled oatmeal oozes over the top of a saucepan.

A Colonial-style sofa, already burdened with its upholstery of orange and magenta roses on a background of olive green, bore piles of T-shirts sparkling with whole solar systems of painted stars and moons. Cluttering the coffee table, which lacked space for even a small cup of coffee, were scraps of brightly colored felt, balls of cotton, lengths of ribbon, sequins, beads, and a hot-glue gun with glue sticks the size of a band leader’s baton. A herd of ceramic pigs with Betty Boop eyes rooted behind an orange recliner; and throughout the house the walls were covered with flocks of decorative ducks and gaggles of wooden geese. On bookshelves, on the floor under the windows, and covering the top of the maple television console were towering stacks of magazines that I suspected contained articles and instructions on how to do even more of what Maxine had already done way too much of.

I took Maxine out for dinner later, not wanting to risk opening the refrigerator door, precariously covered with handcrafted magnets. Once we were away from the overcrowded distraction of her house, I found that Maxine was still my favorite cousin, my motherly friend with a subtle sense of humor and a kind-hearted generosity. But for the sake of my sanity, I knew I would have to find my own home.

After Maxine left for work the next morning, I poured another cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table that I had helped her clear of her latest craft project so that we could eat breakfast. She confessed that she usually ate while standing at the kitchen sink so she could enjoy watching the birds at the feeders in her backyard. I thought it was more likely that she coveted the table space and was unwilling to sacrifice it for the mundane ritual of placing food in her mouth.

I scrutinized the newspaper ads for house and apartment rentals and circled a few that looked possibly acceptable, if not exactly promising. After I made some phone calls to arrange to see the properties, I borrowed Maxine’s telephone book that held a city map, made sure that Haley’s water dish was full, and set off to explore the new territory. At the end of the day, discouraged but still determined, I questioned Maxine about the areas surrounding Muskogee.

Well, Hon, there’s a lot of small towns around here, but if you can’t find a house in Muskogee that suits you, I don’t think you’ll have much luck anyplace else, either. I don’t see why in the world you don’t just stay here with me until you get your feet on the ground. Maxine, usually calm and serene, seemed agitated, and her kind, homely face showed her concern for me.

I explained that I didn’t think I could get my feet on the ground until I had my own place. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her that I didn’t think I could even find my feet in her house. It would be easier for me to start fresh here if I were left on my own, and the sooner I could get started with it, the sooner I’d get on with it, as my mother liked to say.

Do you remember that place we lived when we were about ten or eleven years old? I asked. You lived across the road from us, and there was a deep ditch where all of us kids used to dig tunnels.

That was out at Gooseneck Bend, Maxine reminded me. It wasn’t a town or anything, just a place. I haven’t been out there for a long time. Our old houses are gone, and so is the schoolhouse. You wouldn’t recognize anything now.

If you’ll draw me a map, I think I’ll drive out that way tomorrow. I’m curious to see if it’s at all the way I remember. I suppose it’s just an extension of Muskogee by now.

Maxine must have found something funny about that, since she almost choked on the iced tea she was drinking. I’ll let you see for yourself. I’ll draw you a map, but you can’t get lost. You just keep going straight east till you get there.

Two

The old man was sitting more erect now, although his head was still bowed, as if it were too heavy a burden for his scrawny neck to lift. His breathing sounded easier, and I thought his color looked better. He sat with closed eyes, but his lips moved in silent speech. I decided to risk enough conversation to at least learn his name before we reached the hospital. I could foresee some definite problems there.

Sir, I began hesitantly, as though I were a child addressing a figure of great authority. A vision of Oliver Twist, gruel bowl in hand, flashed before my eyes. My name is Norly Wade. I used to live out here in Gooseneck Bend, a long time ago.

There was no response.

I’m going to take you into the hospital to have them check you over. It would help if I knew your name.

Silence.

Do you have relatives around here? I tried again.

He made muttering sounds that I couldn’t decipher. Then, Ruth, he said clearly. Her name is Ruth.

Is Ruth a relative? Does she live nearby?

Ruth, he said again, and lifted his head suddenly to stare through the windshield. Ruth Morgan, but it was McBride. He croaked out a sound that might have been a laugh. Ruthie McBride, my bride. He shook his head. Couldn’t find Ruth. Saw her red dress. Like the gal in the song with the red dress on. But that was Dinah; the old folks called her Dinah. Couldn’t find Ruth. Saw her go in the house. I need to go back to the house.

Chills ran up and down my spine like someone practicing scales on a piano. Was he mentally ill? How did I know he even lived around here? He could have been wandering and just ended up on this road. I wondered if he carried a wallet or some piece of identification that might help when I got him to the hospital. Reassured by that possibility, I tried once more for coherent information.

They’ll need to know your name at the hospital, I explained gently. Can you tell me your name?

My name is Oscar Morgan, he said in a strong voice. But maybe you better tell me who the dickens you are and where in tarnation you think you’re taking me!

***

At the emergency entrance to the hospital, I reluctantly left Oscar sitting in the van while I hurried in to find help and a wheelchair. An orderly came out with me, and I was relieved to see that Oscar hadn’t moved. His lapse into apparent normality had been brief, and his rambling mutters had continued for the remainder of the drive into town. I didn’t try again to question him. Even with my limited medical knowledge, I was confident he hadn’t suffered a heart attack, but something was seriously wrong. I only wished I knew whether his present state of dementia was a new development. He might have worried family members out searching for him while he was being hauled to the hospital by a total stranger. Maybe it wasn’t even legal for me to do this.

While Oscar was eased capably out of the front seat by the burly orderly, I surreptitiously looked for any sign that he carried a wallet. A tell-tale bulge in a back pocket of his faded khaki work pants proved to be what I hoped, and without even a small prick of conscience, I smoothly lifted it out before the orderly seated Oscar in the wheelchair and pushed him through the emergency room door.

Oscar Morgan proved to be his actual name, which I had my doubts about before I saw his current Oklahoma driver’s license. From his birth date, I calculated that he was eighty years old. The photograph on the license portrayed a man who must have been in reasonably good health as recently as two years ago, when his current license had been issued. Silver hair, thick and wiry, was combed straight back from his high forehead, revealing a rugged face with sad, dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. According to the photograph and a restrictive clause on the license, he was required to wear corrective lenses, although he hadn’t been wearing eyeglasses when I found him. They might have fallen off when he became dizzy and leaned over the mailbox. The address on his driver’s license matched the name of the road on the map that Maxine had drawn for me, so it seemed likely that it had been his own mailbox after all, and my fears of being apprehended for unlawful abduction receded.

In addition to his driver’s license, Oscar’s wallet contained his Social Security card and an insurance card which, to my great relief, appeared to be current. The contents of his wallet were so reassuring that I felt no guilty twinges when I explained that I was slightly acquainted with Oscar and had found him dizzy and in a state of confusion and thought he needed immediate medical attention.

Oscar was wheeled into the waiting room and I was told that a doctor would examine him shortly. My presence wasn’t questioned, and I began to relax a little. I didn’t know why I felt like a villain masquerading as a Good Samaritan, but when a voice boomed out, Why, Oscar Morgan, what are you doing in this here place? I jumped so hard I knocked my magazine to the floor.

Standing directly in front of Oscar’s wheelchair was a large woman dressed in a white polyester uniform and thick-soled white shoes. Her round face was capped by tightly permed white hair, and a name tag that identified her appropriately as Blanche was pinned to the pocket of her tunic. My lands, Oscar, what happened to you? she demanded to know. Oscar looked up at her with a dazed, puzzled expression. He said nothing, but his hands twitched nervously on the arms of the wheelchair.

Now what’s he gone and done to hisself? She looked at me expectantly.

I’m not sure. I happened to be driving by and saw him out by his mailbox. I knew something was wrong, but there was no one around, so I drove him here. I cleared my throat. I don’t really know him all that well, I informed her.

Well, I’ve known Oscar here since I was knee high to a grasshopper and I can tell you he don’t look like hisself right now. I’ve told him he don’t take care of hisself like he should, out in all kinds of weather mowing that yard or raking leaves up, or fiddling around in that orchard of his. Works hisself to death and living alone like he does, I bet he don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. He’s fell off something terrible, too.

He fell? I asked, somewhat enlightened. A head injury, for instance, could explain his dizziness and confusion. Do you think that happens often?

Do I think what happens often, darlin’? Blanche asked.

Well, you said he fell off something before, so I just thought maybe he had fallen again today, and could have a concussion or something… I let my voice falter to a stop at the expression on Blanche’s face.

She threw back her head and hooted out a laugh. Lordy mercy, child, he didn’t go and fall off of nothing. I meant he’s looking poor. She chuckled. What I mean to say is, he’s lost a lot of weight here lately, looks like nothing but skin and bone to me. You aren’t from around here, are you?

I explained that I had only recently arrived in town. Eyeing what appeared to be the nurse’s uniform she was wearing, I asked, Do you work here at the hospital?

Oh, lands no, I work over at Pineview Manor, it’s an old folks home. I’ve been a nurse’s aide over there some twenty-odd years now. Oscar here used to come in real regular to visit his brother-in-law, Harvey McBride, but he hasn’t showed up recently. I’m so run off my feet over there I can’t tell if I’m coming or going and I just never got around to asking Harvey about him. Anyway, I’m here now because one of my grandbabies run hisself into a table and broke his head open and my daughter’s car is getting fixed and she didn’t have any way of carrying him over here so she called me and I brought them in. They’re back there with the doctor now, getting his head sewed up. I was just fixin’ to go on back there and see how they’re doing. Now you stop by the home and let me know how Oscar’s getting along. I’m there every day but Sundays.

She bustled away, leaving me feeling breathless. There were questions I wanted to ask her, but I hadn’t found an opening. I would like to have known a little more of Oscar’s background in case it would be helpful to the doctor. I didn’t think Oscar was going to provide a wealth of information.

To my relief, Oscar was admitted to the hospital for observation, I was informed by the intense young doctor. Mr. Morgan appeared to be suffering from malnutrition, dehydration and depression, the doctor stated, although the severity of his condition couldn’t be determined until he had undergone further testing. He would need to be hospitalized for at least a few days.

I spoke to Oscar briefly before he was wheeled into the elevator that would take him up to his ward. Oscar, I’ll be back soon to see you, I told him. He didn’t respond except to look at me reproachfully. I held one of his hands in mine and could feel it trembling. You’re going to be fine. They’ll take good care of you here. He looked at my hands holding his but said nothing. His wheelchair was rolled into the elevator, and the doors closed.

***

Maxine couldn’t tell me anything about Oscar Morgan, except that she thought the name was vaguely familiar. "But I do remember some McBrides. They lived in a big house down the street from us when we lived out on Harris Road. I didn’t know them, really, but Mama did.

I had to go screaming up there for help one day when Mama was gone to the store and one of my brothers—it was probably Leonard—got his head stuck in a water bucket. I couldn’t get that bucket off to save my life, but I knew Mrs. McBride was always at home, so I ran and got her. She came up and just yanked that bucket right off his head, like it wasn’t the first time she’d had to do it. I’ll bet Aunt Nora remembers them. She might remember the Morgans, too.

Aunt Nora was my mother, Eleanora Griffith. I had been named for her, but my father thought that was too big a mouthful for a little girl. My mother was always called Nora, and they didn’t want to call me Ellen or Ellie, so somehow my name evolved into Norly, and that’s all I can remember ever being called. My mother lived in California, in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I had lived too, until I moved to Omaha.

***

Pineview Manor, when I finally found it the next morning, proved to have a view of one pine tree, but it was an enormous one that looked to my unknowledgeable eye like a blue spruce. It sat in the center of a well-tended lawn and was surrounded by comfortable groupings of outdoor furniture.

The brick building was composed of a two-storied central section flanked by low wings that stretched out to parking lots at either end. A semi-circular drive led under a portico that covered a wide front entry. After parking in one of the lots and following a sidewalk back to the entrance, I went in to talk to Blanche, determined to learn what I could about Oscar Morgan.

Blanche seemed happy to see me, radiating an enveloping warmth and interest that made me feel as though I’d known her for a long time. She was busy when I arrived but insisted that I talk to Harvey McBride, Oscar’s brother-in-law. She took the time to walk with me to his room.

They’ve known each other since they were boys, in fact they were just about inseparable, some folks joked that Oscar only married Harvey’s sister so he could get to be one of the family. They stayed real close all the time Oscar and Ruth were married, but Harvey’s an old bachelor. He was sweet on one of the Gish girls before the war, but he was called up and went overseas for a spell, and when he came home she’d already up and married some other feller. Harvey never took up with anyone else after that.

I wedged in a remark when Blanche had to pause for breath. We were walking down a long hallway and I guessed the extra pounds she carried were detrimental to her conversational habits. Oscar talked about Ruth yesterday when I was driving him to the hospital, but he wasn’t exactly coherent. What happened to her?

Ruth died some years ago, I don’t remember just when it was, but I don’t think she was any older than I am right now. It was a crying shame, she went real fast, cancer of the pancreas. Anyway, Oscar had a terrible time of it after that, it was a blessing he could keep on with his job for a while to keep hisself busy. He was a rural mailman, started that soon after the war and kept it up all those years, always said it suited him to be out in the open instead of cooped up in a store or factory. This here’s Harvey’s room, he’s a real corker, don’t take no mind of his jokes.

The door to the room stood open, and as we walked in, I heard the sound of cards being shuffled repeatedly. Harvey McBride, wearing a blue plaid shirt, sat in a chair near a large window and looked as though he were being consumed by the chair, which was covered in a similar plaid.

Harvey looked up with delight when he saw that Blanche had entered the room. Ha! I’ve got this one bested, Blanche. Watch this now! He did something complicated with the deck of cards, his movements too fast for my eyes to follow, and the cards seemed to fly as gracefully as birds on the wing from one of his hands to the other, where he caught the deck intact.

"Well if that don’t beat all, the way you picked up that