The Hum and the Shiver (20 page)

“Damn well better be,” the old man muttered, and slapped his keys into Stoney’s hand. Then there was a rustle of large age-battered wings, and Stoney stood alone in the dark. He hummed as he walked to his uncle’s station wagon.

18

The sun touched Bronwyn’s face through the window. She blinked and frowned as she awoke; there was no way the sunrise could come through her bedroom window at that angle. She rose on her elbows and squinted into the glare before she realized she was still on the couch, and the light was reflected from a car’s windshield. At the same moment, she comprehended whose car it was.

The excitement was almost too much for her as she struggled to get the Velcro straps in place around her leg. When that was done, despite the protests of her sleep-stoked bladder, she grabbed her crutches and hobbled toward the front door. “Kell!” she almost screamed.

She blinked into the dawn as she emerged onto the porch. Chloe and Deacon sat with her older brother, all of them looking at her. It was the first time she’d seen Kell in two years, and he looked broader, older and more mature. His black hair hung in unruly strands to his shoulders, and his chin was fashionably stubbled. When he stood, she swore he was a good two inches taller. She hopped toward him and he met her halfway with a big wraparound embrace.

“So this is the big war hero,” he said.

“Nah, there’s some lots bigger than me,” she said into his chest. She grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and anchored herself for the fiercest hug she could manage, pressing herself into him. For the first time, she felt like she was truly home, and that everything would be all right.

She pulled back and looked up into Kell’s face. The maturity in his eyes was different, much more like Deacon’s than it had ever been before. She tucked his hair behind one ear. “You need a haircut, mister.”

“And you need dancing lessons,” he said with a grin, then picked her up and twirled her around. She laughed, the first time she’d done so without an edge of bitterness since she’d been home.

He put her down, kissed her on the forehead with a loud smack, and said, “I was beginning to think you weren’t ever going to wake up. Let me see the leg.”

She extended the plastic-sheathed limb for him.

“Ouch,” he said. “Weren’t you also shot in the arm?”

“That was nothing,” she said with a dismissive wave. The gesture toppled her off balance, and Kell caught her. Both laughed and hugged again.

“You better sit down so you won’t have so far to fall,” Deacon said dryly, and pushed a chair out for her.

“Wait, I’ll be right back, I really have to pee.”

“Holler for your brother while you’re in there,” Chloe said.

Bronwyn used the bathroom quickly, yelled for Aiden to get out of bed, and returned to the porch. As she settled into a chair she said to Kell, “I thought you were coming home Saturday.”

“I pulled an all-nighter Friday night to get ready for my last final,” Kell said. “I was too tired to drive Saturday night, and then Sunday morning I got a call from the warehouse that one of the other stockers drove his ATV into a tree. So I worked an extra shift, then got up early this morning and headed home.”

“You could’ve called.”

“He did,” Chloe said.

Bronwyn scowled. “Well, no one told
me.
”

“Has she been like this all week?” Kell asked.

Deacon nodded.

The door opened and Aiden emerged, rubbing his eyes against the light. “Nobody woke me up,” he slurred. “I’ll miss the bus.”

“You can stay home today,” Chloe said.

“Yeah, you can help me unload my car,” Kell added.

At the sound of his big brother’s voice, Aiden squealed and jumped into his lap with such force that, had the chair not slammed back into the wooden porch rail, he would’ve knocked them both over. Everyone laughed.

“Nice to be missed,” Kell croaked as Aiden hugged him.

“Aiden, let your brother breathe,” Deacon said.

“Let’s all play something!” Aiden cried. “C’mon, we’re all here, let’s do ‘John Barleycorn.’”

Kell looked at Bronwyn. “What do you think? You up to it?”

Sweat beaded along her spine at the thought, but she managed to sound casual when she replied, “Sure, why not?”

Kell got his banjo from the car, and Aiden fetched Magda for Bronwyn. The others gathered their instruments, and for a moment the morning air filled with various tunings and adjustments. Then Deacon said to Aiden, “You’re the one who wanted to play, hotshot, so you sing it. And count us off.”

Aiden grinned happily. He lightly slapped the guitar as he counted four, and then the Hyatt family played together for the first time in over two years.

Aiden sang,

There were three kings came from the west,

Their victory to try;

And they have taken a solemn oath,

John Barleycorn should die.

The others joined in:

Fol the dol the did-i-ay,

Fol the dol the did-i-ay-ge-wo.

Bronwyn held to her mandolin like a life preserver. She played tentatively, sneaking peeks at Aiden’s chording to see if she was both remembering correctly and putting her fingers in the right places. She sang softly as well, her voice tight and thin. But she
was
singing, she
was
playing, and she felt the stirring of her long-neglected wings in the music.

And then it happened. First her injured leg began to tingle, that maddening itch sensation that signals healing but makes you wish you were still injured. She flexed her toes and felt the muscles work more strongly than they had in weeks. Her calf, weakened from disuse, ached a little in protest but didn’t give out. And despite the rigid support of the temporary cast, her bare heel began inexorably tapping against the wooden porch.

At first she didn’t even notice it. After all, according to legend, Tufas were born with their feet tapping. But then Deacon lowered his fiddle, looked at her with his slightest smile, and winked. He resumed playing before the others noticed, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling.

*   *   *

Terry-Joe Gitterman slowed his bike as he approached the Hyatts’ home. Something in the air felt different. He stopped just out of sight, hidden by the overhanging trees. He let the engine die, then listened.

Music drifted down from the house. He recognized “John Barleycorn,” and Aiden’s adolescent voice. Then he picked out the instruments. Guitar, also Aiden. Chloe’s autoharp, Deacon’s fiddle. A banjo, which meant Kell Hyatt had returned from college at last. And …

He felt a lump rise in his throat. A mandolin.

He should feel a sense of accomplishment, he knew. After all, Bliss Overbay, second in line of the First Daughters, had given him an important task, and now he knew he’d accomplished it. Bronwyn was once again playing Magda. Yet he felt the sting of tears behind his eyes aching for release. He didn’t understand until this moment how much he was looking forward to spending time with Bronwyn again, how he wanted to slip his arms around her slender body and guide her strong fingers to the right place.

But there was nothing for it now, he knew. She was playing with her family, and he would definitely be the odd man out. He turned the bike, kicked it into life, and sped away, grateful for the sharp wind in his eyes.

*   *   *

That afternoon, Don Swayback found the turnoff with no trouble.

He stopped in the middle of the highway and stared at the blatant turn he was certain had not been there before. He saw the intersection of Curly Mane Road, and the turnoff for Jenkins Trail. He saw the spot where he’d had the run-in with the state trooper. But this road, the one now plain before him, simply hadn’t been there that day. There was no way he could’ve missed it. If only he’d thought to take photos for comparison.

He checked his watch. It was two forty-five. He shot several pictures of the turnoff in case it vanished again. Then he considered his options. He could go back to his office and show Sam the photos, proving he’d at least tried to do the interview. Or he could suck it up and actually try to do it for real.

He thought of Susie’s disappointment if he came home with more excuses or, worse, no job at all. He sighed, turned off the highway, and headed toward the Hyatt residence.

The road dead-ended at their driveway, and the gate was open. He parked along the fence; after all, he hadn’t been invited. Then he took a deep breath, checked his hair in the sun visor mirror, and got out.

As he climbed the hill toward the house, he saw a woman working in the flower bed off to one side. She hummed to herself, and had her back to him. He stopped a respectful distance away and said, “Excuse me?”

She turned, shielded her eyes with one gloved hand, and said, “Can I help you?”

He recognized her from his research, and his mouth was suddenly dry. His whole career might ride on what he said next. “Ma’am, my name is Don Swayback and I’m with
The Weekly Horn
newspaper over in Unicorn. I’m guessing you’re Mrs. Hyatt?”

She stood, removed her gloves, and walked to him. She wore cutoff shorts and a sleeveless top. Her skin was tanned dark brown, and her jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “I’m Chloe Hyatt,” she agreed. “Swayback … I knew an Oswald who married a Swayback fellow.”

“Bengenaria? Everyone called her Benji?”

“That’s her.”

“That’s my great-grandmother.” He frowned, taking in Chloe’s comparative youth. Despite having three children, the woman looked younger than he did. “You
knew
her?”

“Knew
of
her.”

“That’s not what you said.”

She smiled. It was beautiful, dazzling even, and Don suddenly felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Mr. Swayback, are you calling me a liar?”

He smiled as well. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry it came out like that. I’m here because I’d like to make arrangements to sit down with your daughter and do an interview with her. I know she’s been badgered by the press, and I can appreciate that she still needs to recover from things. But I think the local readers have been ill-served by the national media, and I’d like to speak with your daughter about things other than the war or politics.”

Chloe smiled faintly. “‘Ill-served’?”

Don laughed. “Well, you know.…”

Movement caught his eye. A tall young man with hair to his shoulders emerged from the house and leaned on the porch rail as he watched them. Don tried not to let it rattle him.

Chloe made a strange motion with her left hand, almost like she was trying to speak in sign language. He might not have noticed, except at that exact instant he felt a sharp pain above his left eye that made him wince. It faded immediately.

“So what would you want to talk to my girl about, if it’s not the war or politics?” she asked.

“What it’s like to be home, what she missed, what she didn’t miss, and what she plans for the future. Her favorite memories of Cloud County that helped her get through her troubles, that sort of thing. We’re not trying to beat the news channels at their own game. People read our paper for football scores and coupons.”

“Howdy,” a male voice called behind Don. He turned and saw an older man, dressed for farming, stride across the lawn. The young man now watched from inside the screen door. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” the newcomer said neutrally.

“This is Don Swayback,” Chloe said. “He’s a reporter. But Benji Oswald was his great-grandmother, so he’s one of us as well.” She said that with a wink, although Don noticed the man looked a bit puzzled. “Mr. Swayback, this is my husband, Deacon.”

“Well, pleasure to meet you, then,” Deacon said as they shook hands. “But our newsworthy family member is dead to the world right now, I’m afraid. She was up early, and after lunch she went out like a light. Just like she used to do when she was a baby.”

Don felt a sudden, embarrassing rush of relief. No interview today, and it wasn’t his fault. “If you’d do me the honor of passing on my comments, I’d be really grateful. You can reach me here.” He handed Chloe his card.

“You a musician, Mr. Swayback?” Deacon said.

Don blinked. “Er … funny you should ask, sir. I just dug my guitar out of the closet after about six years.”

“There’s a regular ongoing shindig some of us have every night around here. It’s a private thing, so we don’t advertise it or nothing, but I think you might enjoy it. Starts around sundown, goes until our fingers fall off. Bring your guitar and come sit in.” With a chuckle he added, “Nobody there expects anybody to be too good, and you might run into my daughter there.”

“I might do that,” Don said. “Where is it?”

“Just follow Spruce Line Road. You’ll know the turnoff.”

The pain above his eye momentarily returned. He
would
know the turnoff, just as he would’ve if he’d gone through with his plans last night instead of spending the evening with Susie. The emotional certainty overrode any intellectual skepticism. “Thanks for the invite.”

“We look out for our own,” Chloe said enigmatically.

*   *   *

As they watched the reporter drive away, Chloe undid her ponytail and shook her hair loose. “What’d you invite him to the barn dance for?” she asked.

Deacon shrugged. “Had a feeling about him. You spotted it, too. He’s got some of us in him, and it’s more’n just skin deep.”

“If it’s from Benji Oswald, though, he’s more Rockhouse’s people than one of ours.”

“Benji left. She knew what her blood was. I’d say that leaves him free to choose.” Suddenly he stepped forward and yelled,
“Get outta here!”

He kicked at the plants. A brown and yellow snake turned and moved off across the yard toward the weeds at the tree line.