Chained and Locked by Anne Anthony

Didn’t surprise Doc Johnson to find the clinic’s front door chained and locked. Sheriff Coulson told him as much when he was released this morning.

“Jonas, I’d stay away for a week or two. Go fishing. Heard the bass are biting at Badin Lake. Mayor Wilson’s got you in his crosshairs since the new law was passed.”

“Buddy Wilson don’t scare me. Never did. Been a bully since third grade.”

He went back to his Ford pickup, pulled out the bolt cutters from its bed, and returned to the front door. The lock bent, but wouldn’t snap. His arms never recovered their full strength since his stroke five years before. He pressed harder until the metal bar broke away. He stripped the chains through the handles, tossed them to the sidewalk, and inserted his key into the door. The automatic lights switched on.

Last night was a blur of commotion. The waiting room looked much the way it did after the police dragged him out, pushing past the armed guard he’d hired. He refused to go quietly. Intake forms were scattered on the floor, soaked with the juice of smashed tomatoes flung inside by protesters, and most chairs were upended. He flipped one plastic chair over on to its feet. Doc Johnson was handcuffed by boys he helped bring into the world.

“What would your mama say if she was alive?” he asked, not expecting an answer.   

Widow Jeffries, he suspected, was the one who called the sheriff. A good Christian woman who was hell-bent on spending her life beyond this one with Jesus. How giving women protection from getting pregnant could be illegal in his lifetime he’ll never understand. His Martha must be pissed as all get out looking down from above; his wife handed out condoms to her high school students for decades before she was taken by the good Lord.

He finished righting the chairs when he heard the front door rattle.    

“You open, Doc?” A thin young girl asked the question. She looked all of fourteen.

Anita Wilson stood with the girl and held her hand; the woman was wearing the black leather gloves he often saw her wear to Sunday service. Her coat was buttoned to the collar, a silk scarf tucked inside. She reminded him of a lodgepole pine, a narrow, tall tree often turned into utility poles or other sturdy things that stand their ground.

“Buddy know you’re here, Anita?” Doc Johnson asked. She let go of the girl’s hand, took two steps toward him as if ready to throw a punch like she did in seventh grade after he called her I-Need-Ya, a nickname that never stuck. He took two steps back.

“No one’s business where I am. Or what I do. Now please, answer the girl.”

“Yes, dear, I’m open.” He offered his hand. “Come with me.”

# # #

Anne Anthony has been published in Prime Magazine, Carolina Woman’s Magazine, Glass Mountain, Blue Heron Review, The Dead Mule School for Southern Literature, and other literary journals. Anne recently released an anthology of flash fiction, The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memory, which includes pieces selected specifically for life-long readers experiencing memory changes. She lives and writes in North Carolina.

Photo: Matt Artz

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