LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Three

      Caleb stared at the sea of faces gathered in the meeting room of the Refuge Library. They made him nervous. So much so that he’d twisted the brim of his hat into a knot. He was nervous for Kristen, nervous for Greg, nervous that no one would even care about one old rancher with dead kidneys and no family other than an adopted son whose blood type didn’t even match.

      Members of a local service club listened with varying amounts of interest. From his place on the dais, Caleb could see their faces and the few who played on their cell phones while Kristen explained the life-and-death scenarios people like his dad lived with every day.

      He wanted to get up and punch the cell phone users, demand they listen and care. Kristen was terrific. Articulate, warm, funny. And the PowerPoint presentation was an attention grabber filled with grim facts as well as the hope and long life that could be realized through a living kidney donation. He was learning from her, too.

      When she introduced Caleb, he stood, awkward as a three-legged calf. Here goes nothing, he thought for the sixth time in two weeks. He was the face of the issue, like he’d been years ago on one of those news programs that beg people to adopt older kids. He remembered the humiliation, the feeling that he was a germ under the microscope and lesser somehow because he had no parents to love him.

      This was different, though. This wasn’t about him. This was about Greg, the only person to respond to that long-ago news program. As long as he could remember that, he didn’t care if his face was hotter than a brush fire or that his knees wobbled like Jell-O.

      He stepped up to the microphone, cleared his throat and read from the paper he’d written and rewritten.

      “Pops. That’s my dad,” he started, feeling proud as he always did to be able to claim Greg Girard as his dad. “He’s the best man I know, a hard worker, a real cowboy who loves his neighbor like the Good Book says and goes the extra mile to help others. He used to donate blood every time the mobile came to town, and after fire wiped out the Belgers’ hay barn, he fed their cows all through the winter out of our barn, free of charge. We ran a little short that spring, but he never mentioned the reason, just went to the feed store and bought expensive feed.”

      Though his fingers trembled, he peeked at the crowd. Most were listening. He looked back at his notes.

      “Even after his kidneys failed and he had to go on dialysis or die, he was thinking about others. At Thanksgiving, he drove around Refuge, distributing beef from our herd to families who were having a hard time. I could tell you lots of stories about him like that, but I’ll just leave you with this thought. If it was your dad, wouldn’t you want someone to step up and save his life?”

      Grabbing his hat, he sat down again. Blood pulsed in his head. He had no memory of what he’d said. He hoped he’d made sense. He twisted his hat again, aware he was about to ruin a perfectly good Resistol.

      Kristen turned her head, gave him one of her reassuring smiles, the kind that lit him up on the inside, fool that he was. She always said he did great. He doubted it. She was nice like that.

      They were, however, making progress. Thanks to her. Every time they did this speaking gig, several attendees took the business cards he’d had printed with the donation center’s information.

      Each response, small though it was, gave him hope. Not much, but enough to keep him rushing through chores to meet Kristen at the Lions Club or the arts council or any of number of churches who’d agreed to hear them speak.

      When her talk ended, followed by polite applause, the group took a break, and he found himself uncomfortably surrounded with questioners. He looked for Kristen, but as happened every time, she was surrounded, too.

      “Why don’t you give your dad a kidney?” The man in a yellow golf shirt seemed almost accusatory.

      “I’m not a match. He’s type O. I’m AB. His donor needs to be O.”

      A woman with a kind face asked from behind purple glasses, “I know your dad. How’s he doing?”

      “Holding his own, thank you. But like Kristen mentioned on the PowerPoint, being on dialysis a long time shortens his life span, even after he gets a new kidney. We need a donor as soon as possible.”

      Somehow he got through the rest of the questions and wove his way past clutches of conversations toward Kristen. She was the real power behind this campaign, and every time they were together, he found himself more and more captivated by her.

      The wild teenage love he’d suffered in high school had grown up to be every bit as wild. His certainty that he didn’t stand a chance with her was even wilder. Love her from afar, but keep his mouth shut. That was his modus operandi.

      He spotted her then, as questioners drifted away, leaving one gray-suited man and Kristen. The man was standing a little too close, Caleb thought. Kristen stepped back two paces and ended up against a wall. The man followed, talking, his hands gesturing. Caleb recognized him.

      Danny Bert. Used-car salesman. High school jock and bully.

      Something dark moved inside Caleb, a primal sense of protectiveness. He picked up his pace, excusing himself as he brushed past the remaining people.

      “You haven’t been around in a while, Kristen,” the suit was saying. “Maybe we should have coffee and talk over old times and this donor thing. I know a great little place that stays open late.”

      “Sorry, Danny, I can’t, but I appreciate your interest in donating. Call the number on the card, and they’ll get you started.”

      “I’d rather talk to you. Old times and all.

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