The Hum and the Shiver (15 page)

“You pretty much run this place, don’t you?”

“The porch?”

“The town.”

Now Hicks turned very slightly toward him. “Me? I’m just one more retired old fart with nothing to do all day.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen how people treat you. They look up to you.”

Hicks frowned, then resumed his neutral expression. “I think somebody’s been talking out of turn, Reverend.”

“No, sir, I just pay attention. I see how people defer to you. And I was always taught to respect my elders.”

“You want me to get people to come to that church of yours, don’t you?”

“No, sir. I’d just like to invite
you
to come.”

Hicks almost laughed out loud. “I don’t think that’s too likely, Reverend. Not too likely at all.”

“Why?”

A new voice said, “This Yankee bothering you, Uncle Rockhouse?” The word came out
Unca.

Craig looked up. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stood on the sidewalk leading up to the porch. His face was almost femininely handsome, with thick pouty lips and sleepy eyes. He wore a faded cowboy hat with the side brims rolled up, and black hair fell to his shoulders.

“Naw,” Hicks said. “This-here’s the new preacher over to Smithborough.”

Craig smiled, stood, and extended his hand. “Craig Chess, of the Triple Springs Methodist Church.”

The younger man was a full head taller than Craig. “Get the fuck away from me,” he snapped contemptuously. “You need anything, Unca Rockhouse, you call me.”

“Sure thing, Stoney,” Hicks said.

The tall young man went into the post office. He sauntered, just as Dwayne Gitterman had done in the convenience store, but with even more arrogance.

“Reckon I’ll leave you to your rocking, Mr. Hicks,” Craig said tightly. His temper seldom flared, but it did so now, and he knew he needed to leave. He crossed the highway toward the Fast Grab. He did not check for traffic, but in Needsville, that was not terribly risky.

Inside, he found Lassa again behind the counter. “Morning, Reverend,” she said brightly.

Her cheer defused most of his annoyance. “Good morning, Lassa.”

“You’re in town early.”

“I wanted to catch a few people and extend personal invitations for them to come to services tomorrow. Including,” he added with what he hoped was a charming smile, “you and your family.”

Lassa giggled. “I’m afraid we can’t make it, Reverend. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”

He leaned on the counter and asked seriously, “Lassa, why won’t any of you Tufas come to church? Any church?”

She looked down, studiously rearranging a display of portable lighters beside the cash register. “I don’t know about anyone but me, I’m afraid. I have to work tomorrow morning, six
A.M.
to two in the afternoon.”

“I just spoke to Mr. Hicks over at the post office. If he came, would you?”

Lassa looked up, eyes wide. “Did he say he would?”

For an instant Craig seriously considered lying. “No. But if I convinced him, would that convince you?”

“What’s that old man to me?” Lassa said flippantly. “I hate to see him come in the door. He pays for things out of a tube sock full of pennies.”

Craig contemplated pushing the point, but again remembered this was a preliminary scuffle, not a final battle. He patted her hand and said, “Well, just know you’re always welcome.” As he turned to leave, he spotted the young man referred to as Stoney kneeling beside Rockhouse, deep in conversation. When he opened the Fast Grab’s door, both men turned to look at him. He was too far away to see their expressions, but he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain breeze.

*   *   *

Bronwyn returned from Knoxville that night with her leg in a removable fiberglass cast.

As promised, Bliss drove her there in the Cloud County Emergency Services ambulance. Bronwyn asked that no one else accompany them; she never again wanted to wake up in post-op and find a ring of concerned Hyatts hovering over her the way she had at the VA hospital.

The office visit had been scheduled for the weekend in case there was a mob scene with the media, but not a single reporter seemed to know about it. After examining Bronwyn, the astounded doctor scheduled immediate surgery to remove the pins and screws; normally this was done with local anesthetics, but her injuries were so complex, they decided to put her under a general. The surgeon, called in from his son’s soccer practice, was also amazed at the rate of recovery, and for one brief moment thought he might have to rebreak one place to get the metal out. But eventually they left the two pins that would be permanently needed and closed the incisions.

While she waited for Bronwyn to wake up from the anesthetic, the surgeon appeared, still in his scrubs, and took Bliss aside into a conference room. He seemed agitated, and frequently scratched under his beard. “Ms. Overbay, may I ask you something? You seem to know your stuff, and I know you’re from the same small town as my patient. Is there anything unusual in Ms. Hyatt’s medical history that might not be mentioned in her files?”

“Unusual?”

“Yes. Something in her family history, perhaps. Frankly, if I didn’t have X-rays showing what her leg looked like six weeks ago, I’d be convinced this was a whole different patient. She’s healed a good three months ahead of any normal prognosis.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It depends on the reason. If she’s just a freakishly fast healer, then yes, it’s good. If not, then it’s the sign of some deeper condition.”

“Such as?”

“Hell, I don’t know. It’s just weird. I looked over the army’s medical records on her, and I can’t imagine that the woman I just worked on was really in as bad a shape as they said she was.”

“You saw her on the news.”

“Yes, but the news is no different from the drunk in the corner bar: he might have a good story, but that doesn’t mean you can trust it.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “I’m worried that the army might have treated her injuries as more serious than they were, in order to get more PR use from them. That would be a gross mistreatment of the patient, needless to say, but sadly it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Has Ms. Hyatt given you any indication that might be the case?”

Bliss almost laughed. “Doctor, I promise, Bronwyn’s injuries were real. What you see now is the result of rest, good home care, and following doctor’s orders. I’ve watched it happen. If it’s faster than normal, then it just is.”

The doctor nodded, although he didn’t appear convinced. “I’ll make lots of notes about this, should Ms. Hyatt ever need them to pursue any legal action against the army. Or the Iraqis, for that matter.”

“Thank you. I’ll make sure she knows.”

After Bronwyn woke up, drank some water, and was able to answer basic questions, the doctor returned to explain the results of the surgery. “There’s a lot of rehab still to go. Realistically you’re looking at months, maybe years before you can walk fully unaided again. But all in all, it’s close enough to a miracle to have me looking over my shoulder for angels.”

She looked down at her withered, pale leg. The sutures were fresh, the incisions stained orange by antiseptic and already starting to scab over. Patches of long, soft hair grew between the surgical sites. Her other leg, smooth and muscular, only made this one look even more deformed. She felt something in her chest like a sob struggling to escape.

Bliss stroked Bronwyn’s hair and asked the doctor, “How soon until we can head back? I know it’s Saturday, but I’d like to miss as much evening traffic as possible.”

His eyes widened. “Back? Tonight? I really think we should keep her at least overnight, just for observation.” Then he turned to Bronwyn. “Sorry, I don’t mean to talk about you like you’re not here. But you’ve been through a lot, not just today’s surgery, and I’d feel better if we waited.”

“I’ve been observed enough,” Bronwyn said, her tongue still heavy with the dregs of sedation. “I want to be the audience, not the show. I want to go home.”

“She’ll be in an ambulance with an EMT,” Bliss said. “And clearly, whatever she’s doing at home is working.”

The doctor chewed one end of his mustache for a moment. “It’s against my better judgment. But you can’t argue with the results you’ve been getting.” He threw his hands up in a shrug. “Drive safely, ladies. And call me if you need anything.”

*   *   *

The trip home was uneventful; Bronwyn slept most of the way. Bliss hummed all the songs of comfort she knew. When she heard Bronwyn moan once, either in pain or a nightmare, she began to sing a tune originally written as a hymn. For the Tufa, though, its symbolism carried a far different meaning:

When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies,

I’ll bid farewell to every fear

And wipe my weeping eyes.

I feel like, I feel like

I’m on my journey home.

I feel like, I feel like

I’m on my journey home.…

It was almost ten o’clock when they passed through Needsville, and twenty minutes later Bliss backed the ambulance up the hill to the Hyatts’ porch. Deacon carried his semiconscious daughter from the stretcher inside to the couch. Bliss undid the cast, exposing the sutures to the air. Bronwyn awoke to find Aiden, hair tousled from sleep, kneeling beside her and staring at her leg.

Aiden said, “Wow.”

“Yes, that’s where the pins went in,” Bliss said. “And came out. Your sister’s been through a lot today.”

“Wow,” he whispered again, and tentatively extended one hand.

“Touch them,” Bronwyn croaked, “and you’ll draw back a nub. I mean it.”

“Leave your sister alone,” Deacon said firmly. “Go get her a glass of tea.”

“Yessir,” Aiden mumbled and shuffled, head down, into the kitchen.

Bliss turned to Deacon and Chloe. “The doctors were pretty surprised. She’s way ahead of schedule. I told them it was all this clean mountain air.”

“Good an explanation as any,” Deacon agreed.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” Chloe said to Bliss. “I’ve been worried all day, and tonight the wind’s been high in the trees.”

Bliss nodded. “I noticed that. Best you stay close to home for now.”

Brownyn closed her eyes and listened for the night wind. It lurked outside among the upper branches, waving them against the stars. It was hard to tell over the pain medication if the wind was dancing, or instead flitting from place to place like something stalking its prey below.

“Not my mom,” Bronwyn whispered.

“What, honey?” Chloe asked. But Bronwyn was asleep again.

14

“Good morning,” Craig Chess said to his congregation.

All seven people, in a sanctuary that could seat three hundred, replied in unison, “Good morning.”

He leaned casually on the pulpit. “I don’t think there’s going to be a mad last-minute rush, so why doesn’t everyone come down front?”

Don Swayback looked at Susie. They rose from the last pew and came down the side aisle, passing through beams of sunlight tinted by the stained glass windows. On the opposite side, a well-dressed family of five left their seat on the next-to-last pew and moved in an orderly line to the front. The two groups took seats at opposite ends of the first pew.

Craig almost laughed. “Thanks. I don’t have to shout this way, at least. I’d like to thank you for coming to my inaugural service, and I hope you’ll tell your friends and family about it as well.” He opened his hymnal. “I think it’s appropriate to begin both this service and my full-time pastoral career with ‘What a Day That Will Be,’ page one hundred forty-two.”

He looked back over his shoulder. Mrs. Gaffney, the elderly pianist he’d recruited, began to play.

Craig’s voice, a well-modulated baritone, was the loudest. His congregation sang softly, none of them risking any public display of enthusiasm. He knew George Landers had sent them from his own church to make sure Craig didn’t face an empty building on his first day. Later, when two hundred-dollar bills showed up in the collection tray, he’d known they originated with George as well. Still, seven people now faced him expectantly, if not exactly enthusiastically, and he owed them a sincere effort.

“I’d like to read from Psalm 111, verses one through ten.” He concluded with, “‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom: a good understanding have all they that do his commandments: his praise endureth forever.’” He closed his Bible and added, “Which, as I’m sure you know from looking at the bulletin, leads into today’s sermon, ‘The Beginning of Wisdom.’”

It wasn’t a great sermon; he knew it wouldn’t be. But he also knew it was the right sermon for this day. He told them about his own life, his crisis of faith, and his subsequent certainty that he’d been called to the ministry. He tried to be self-deprecating without being irreverent, and was rewarded by one muffled snicker from Susie Swayback. He was establishing, as much to himself as to them, his viability as a spiritual leader, and as he progressed he grew more certain, more comfortable, more right.

The children fidgeted during his talk, but he held the adults’ attention. When the service ended thirty-five minutes after it began, he moved to the door for the exit meet and greet. He gave each of the three children a silver dollar, telling them they “fell from heaven just that morning.”

After the family left, he shook Don Swayback’s hand. “We met at the Shoney’s the other day, didn’t we?”

“That’s right. This is my wife, Susie.”

“A pleasure to meet you. So, Don, were you ever able to find the road to the Hyatt place?”

“No, I haven’t been back yet. But I intend to.”