The Hum and the Shiver (16 page)

“If you want, give me a call and maybe I can ride out there with you. I’ve been meaning to go back out there myself, so surely between the two of us we can find it.”

“We’ll see what my schedule is like,” Don said. “Thanks for the offer.”

As they walked to their car, Susie said quietly, “You still haven’t done that interview?”

“Not yet,” he said testily as he held her door.

She swung her legs into the car and smoothed down her skirt. “I can’t keep working these double shifts, you know. You have to keep your job.”

When Don had closed his own door and buckled his seat belt, he said, “I know that, Susie. I really couldn’t find the road, it wasn’t an excuse.”

“Is it because of that state trooper everyone’s terrified of?”

“Do you
want
to have to bail me out of jail?”

She looked evenly at him. “If you’re in jail for standing up for yourself and what’s right, yes.”

He felt a mixture of shame and pride. “Well, it’s a big county. I probably won’t ever see him again.” Then he turned on the ignition and slapped the old mix tape into the player before Susie could say anything else. They pulled out to the strains of “A Country Boy Can Survive.”

*   *   *

Craig watched the two vehicles depart. He heard Mrs. Gaffney closing up the piano behind him. He knew he should’ve been disappointed, but somehow he felt elated. He could
do
this. That last nagging bit of doubt in the back of his mind was now gone. This
was
his calling, and even if he only momentarily reached one out of the four adults, then it had been worth it.

He looked up at the clear blue sky and said a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

*   *   *

“So,” Terry-Joe asked seriously, “what
do
you remember?”

The morning sun twinkled through the trees as a breeze rippled the branches. A mourning dove plaintively announced itself. “Terry-Joe, I’m still a little fuzzy from yesterday,” Bronwyn said. “I did have surgery, you know. And we agreed to start tomorrow.”

They sat on the Hyatts’ porch. Terry-Joe’s own mandolin rested across his knees. Brownyn’s leg was propped up and exposed to the air, per the doctor’s instructions; with the antiseptic stains and fresh scabs around the puffy, bruised incisions, it looked especially grotesque. She used the Sunday paper’s
Parade
magazine to shoo flies drawn to the shiny Neosporin.

Terry-Joe made no mention of it. Instead he said, “I’m just trying to find out where you’re head’s at, so I know where to begin.”

“Okay.” Bronwyn pointed at the instrument. “That’s a mandolin. How’s that for a start?”

He smiled. “Sure it’s not a tater bug?”

“Not with a flat back.”

He held it by the neck. “Remember how to hold it?”

She took the instrument and placed it under her right arm. He offered a small white pick. After turning the flat plastic in her fingers a few times she said, “It’s lighter than I’m used to.”

Then she frowned. There was no conscious memory associated with that, but the pick
did
feel wrong in her fingers.

He traded her a green one. “Try this.”

She touched the pick to the strings, but before she strummed, she said, “The action doesn’t look right.”

He scooted closer so he could see what she meant. “Show me.”

“Give me a nickel.”

He fished one from his pocket.

“It’s too high. Look.” She slid the nickel under the twelfth fret. It lay flat against the neck, not touching the strings.

He looked at her and smiled. “I think it’s coming back to you.”

She realized he’d set the action high to see if she’d notice. It would make the instrument louder, but the fingering would be much harder. “That’s sneaky,” she said, but couldn’t repress a smile. “Have you got a screwdriver to adjust it?”

He twirled one in his fingers. “Always.”

After the action was reset, she plucked the two bottom strings and winced at the sound. “That’s not a G,” she said.

“No, that’s a bug screamin’ right before it hits the windshield. You want me to tune it, or you want to try?”

Despite the morning breeze, she was already sweating from the intensity. This had been second nature to her before she left home. The Bronwynator could retune a mandolin, make out with a boy, and sneak tokes off a joint without short-changing any of the tasks at hand. Now, though, she couldn’t quite recall how to tune the instrument, despite her best efforts.
God,
she thought,
I hope I remember how to do those other things.

Before she had to admit it, though, Terry-Joe reached around so that his left hand covered hers on the neck. This brought her close against him. “Here’s how you do it when you ain’t got a tuning pipe or a guitar handy,” he said, and guided her fingers to the pegs. “Keep plucking the fourth string for me.”

She did. As he slowly adjusted the peg, the discordant sound of the two parallel strings merged into one clear note. “That’s it,” he said softly.

She turned to him, and suddenly, like in the movies, their faces were millimeters apart, close enough to feel the other’s breath on their lips. They gazed into each other’s eyes, and all she could hear was her own blood pulsing.

After a moment he blinked, smiled, and said, “Now you do the next one. Remember how?”

It took real effort for her to turn away. “I think … you hold down the fourth and get the third to sound just like that, right? That gives you the D.”

“Yeah,” he said. Her black hair brushed his cheek. “Tune the whole thing. That’ll be lesson enough for one day.”

He went to the edge of the porch and looked out over the yard, his back to her so she wouldn’t feel nervous under his gaze. Bronwyn did as he instructed, adjusting the deliberately discordant strings into the correct tones. As she worked, her memory gave up little flashes of experience so that she gradually recalled the proper tuning.

Movement drew Terry-Joe’s attention to the tree line at the edge of the yard. A greenish brown bird six feet tall, with long spindly legs and an erect neck, emerged tentatively into the open. It looked around, then darted its long neck down to test the grass. Two more emus peered out from the bushes, waiting for their scout to signal the okay.

Bronwyn saw it, too. She put the mandolin aside and raised herself with her arms to get a better look. “What the hell—?”

Terry-Joe waved his arms and shouted, “Hey! Get on outta here! Now!”

The lead emu shivered, its feathers rippling, then turned and dashed back into the woods. All three vanished.

Bronwyn said, “Was that an
ostrich
?”

“Naw, one of Sim Denham’s emus.”

“Does he know they’re loose?”

“Know it? He
let
’em loose. He had to file bankruptcy because of those stupid things, and when he couldn’t find a buyer, he just opened the pen and off they went. There’s probably a dozen of ’em in the valley, and if they survive the winter, they’ll start breeding.”

“When did that happen?”

“Back around the first of March, I suppose.”

Just before the mission that made her a celebrity, she calculated. “Wow. That’s weird, even for here.”

“Yeah. Most likely they’ll freeze to death, though.” He turned to face her. “So, back to work. How are you doing?”

She ran the pick across the strings. The sound shimmered in the morning air.

“Nice,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“So what sort of music did you listen to over in Iraq?”

“Whatever everyone else was listening to. Hip-hop or country, pretty much. Not a lot of middle ground.”

“Anything good?”

She shook her head. “It all sounds the same after a while. And it’s all…” She sought the right word.
“Mean.”

He nodded. “I know. Gave up on the radio myself. Been listening to stuff from England lately, pipers and such. Ever heard smallpipes? Like a bagpipe, ’scept not as nails-on-a-chalkboard sounding.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, your homework: Get Aiden, if he ever wakes up, to knock Magda well and truly out of tune, then you retune her. Right now I have to get down to Jack Tenney’s to help him unload some seeds, but we’ll check your work tomorrow.” He met her eyes in a way that said more than any words. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Ms. Hyatt.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gitterman,” she said, knowing exactly what the look meant and more, how much courage it took for him to risk it. She’d been his brother’s girlfriend, after all. It made her feel good in a totally new way. He walked down the hill to his dirt bike, the mandolin case in his hand. His wide, straight shoulders and narrow waist lent an echo of Dwayne’s swagger to his stride.

Terry-Joe’s bike passed another vehicle that pulled into the driveway and stopped. Craig Chess parked in the sun, willing to brave the hot interior rather than deal with the sticky residue dripping from the pecan tree. He waved to Bronwyn as he approached. “Good morning. Hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”

Bronwyn managed to keep her voice steady as Craig strode toward her. Terry-Joe was a good-looking boy, but Craig was a
man,
and the awkward feeling in her belly returned. “Not to tell a man his job, but shouldn’t you be in your pulpit?”

“Already done. The turnout was pretty light. Makes the service go quickly.” He sat on the porch steps at her feet. When he looked up at her, the sunlight edged her in a halo. It was a bit disconcerting. “You look like you feel better.”

“I do. Getting the Eiffel Tower off my leg helped.”

“I bet.” He nodded at the mandolin. “Do you play?”

“I’m learning,” she said truthfully.

“I read somewhere that music’s good therapy for head trauma. And, in my experience, for making life a little better in general.”

“Do
you
play?”

“I tinker. Piano, organ, some guitar. Never tried a mandolin, though.”

Chloe emerged from the house, barefoot and wearing a comfortable summer dress. Her black hair hung loose. Craig immediately stood. “Mrs. Hyatt,” he said.

“Reverend Chess, what a surprise.” She looked around. “Where’s Terry-Joe? Jack Tenney just called for him.”

“He’s on his way there,” Bronwyn said.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Craig said. “I wanted to check on Bronwyn and see if she needed anything from town.”
And,
he thought to himself,
to see what the devil Don Swayback meant about not finding the road. And to make up for being a coward on Thursday.
“I’m going into Johnson City later this week, so if you all need anything picked up there, I’d be glad to.”

Chloe smiled, and for an instant Craig felt a little dizzy. The resemblance between mother and daughter was extraordinary, but the differences were even more pronounced. There was a hard edge to Brownyn, but Chloe was all soft curves and gentle feelings, an earth mother in the truest sense. And, he realized uncomfortably, as sexy in her mature way as Bronwyn was in her youthful one.

Chloe’s smile grew into a grin, as if she’d followed his thoughts. “I’ll pour you kids some iced tea,” she said, and went back inside.

Craig turned to Bronwyn. “So … what sort of music do you listen to?”

She didn’t want to give him the same answer she’d given Terry-Joe; a non-Tufa might not get it. She tapped her temple and said, “Things are still a little scrambled up here. I’ll have to take a rain check on answering that. What about you?”

“Ironically, my favorite musician is
John
Hiatt.”

“No relation to us, I reckon.”

“Well, it is spelled differently.”

“Not exactly religious, though, is he?”

“You think religious people can only listen to religious music?”

“I thought
professionally
religious people had to, yeah.”

“Maybe at one time, and maybe some still. But I don’t hold with isolating yourself from the world. I may not watch MTV or play on the computer every night, but I try to leave myself open to new things. If I disagree with something, I like to be able to explain why. To myself, if no one else.”

“So do you agree with the war?” she asked, then mentally slapped herself. Why was she trying to pick a fight?

He didn’t seem offended. “Me? No. The whole ‘thou shalt not kill’ rule is pretty clear.” Suddenly he remembered whom he was talking to. “I hope you don’t take that personally.”

She laughed. “No. I’ve seen plenty of Christian killers, and Muslim killers, and the occasional Jewish killer. As near as I can tell, believing in their various gods just eggs them on.”

“What denomination are you?” he asked as casually as he could.

“My family’s Tufa, Reverend. We believe what we’ve always believed.”

Smiling, he pressed on. “And what’s that?”

“That it’s not polite to discuss religion with company.”

He leaned a little closer. “And how long until I’m not company?”

“I’m afraid you’ll always be company to most of the Tufa, Reverend, even if you married me.”

Instantly she blushed bright red and looked away. Where the hell had
that
come from?

Craig stood, brushed off his jeans, and said, “Well, I didn’t mean to be rude. It was nice to see you again, Bronwyn.”

Chloe came out with two glasses of tea, and looked puzzled when she saw Craig on his feet. “Not leaving so soon are you, Reverend?”

“I don’t want to tire Bronwyn out. Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Hyatt. I’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course. You’re welcome any time.”

Chloe watched Craig get into his car and drive away. “He is a handsome man, isn’t he?”

Bronwyn said nothing, instead staring at a viceroy butterfly as it danced across the yard. She’d seen the flash of hurt in Craig’s eyes, and had let him go without a word. Was the Bronwynator, who’d once propositioned her sexy-bald high school principal, suddenly ashamed she found a man attractive? Had she deliberately driven him off?