The Hum and the Shiver

11

Susie Swayback stood in the bedroom doorway, hands on her hips, and said, “Donald Carter Swayback, what the hell are you doing?”

Don looked up from the floor, where he knelt as he pulled things from the closet. “Looking for my old guitar. Have you seen it?”

“Lord, do we still even have that thing?” Susie put her purse on the bed and sat down to remove her shoes. Susie had been adopted from China but raised across the line in Georgia, so she had a thicker Southern twang than even Don. It often disconcerted people when they traveled. “And why do you want to find it? Planning to sell it online?”

“No,” he said petulantly. “Thought it might be nice to start playing again. Just fooling around with it, you know. Is that okay with you?”

“You didn’t lose your job, did you?” Susie said accusingly.

“No!”

“Well, good,” she said as she took off her scrub pants. Susie was an X-ray technician at the county hospital, and for the past three months she’d been pulling third and first shifts to cover vacations, which meant she went to bed almost as soon as she got home in the evening. Don was beginning to feel like they were college roommates with mismatched class schedules instead of husband and wife.

“Ah-ha!” Don said. From the very back of the closet he pulled out the battered black cardboard case. He placed it flat on the foot of the bed.

“Don’t get dust on my comforter,” Susie warned. “And put that other stuff away.” She went into the bathroom; a moment later he heard the shower start.

Don opened the case. Inside was his cheap old Sunburst acoustic guitar, now some thirty years old. The remains of a sticker, probably for Nirvana or Pearl Jam, marred the surface. He lifted it, rested it across his lap, and lightly strummed. The sound shimmered, mingling with the shower noise. He adjusted the G string slightly, but otherwise it sounded in tune.

He strummed again. The room abruptly seemed to grow clearer, as if a hazy curtain had been yanked away. He looked around, seeing his home as if for the first time. The cheesy landscape painting they’d bought on their honeymoon hung over the bed; straps of Susie’s bras protruded from the top dresser drawer. His brown loafers, one upright and the other showing the worn sole, lay on the carpet beside the door. The effect quickly faded, though, and then Susie came out of the bathroom, tying her robe.

Inside the case was a spiral notebook. He opened it and saw lyrics and chords in his own handwriting. He remembered that he used to write lots of songs, documenting his life through music; how long had it been since he’d done that? And why did he stop?

“I declare, that Coletta is going to get herself in trouble before long,” Susie said as she sat on the bed and began brushing her black hair. “She was an hour late, and I swear she smelled just like pot. She can only slip past so many pee tests before they catch her, I tell you what.”

Don looked steadily at his wife. He admired her shiny black hair, pale skin, and delightful slanted eyes. Her legs, where they emerged from under the robe, were smooth and soft. By the time his gaze returned to her face, she was also staring at him. “What,” she asked, “are you looking at?”

He smiled. “The most beautiful redneck Asian woman I’ve ever seen.”

She continued to stare; there was an unmistakable rumble in his voice. “I’ve been on my feet for sixteen hours,” she said warningly.

He crawled across the bed and growled teasingly, “Then you won’t mind being on your back for a while.”

He kissed her shoulder, and she giggled. “What’s got into you, Don?” she demanded, but did not resist as he pushed her back onto the pillows.

Later, she turned to him and said, “Now I need another shower. But if this is your idea of a midlife crisis, I have to admit I like it.”

“I’m not middle aged,” he disputed with a tired grin.

“And my eyes are round like Ping-Pong balls,” she said in a cliché Asian accent, swapping the l’s and r’s. She ran her fingertips across his chest; the remains of his youthful muscles were still there beneath the layer of sedentary fat he’d accumulated. “Seriously, what brought this on? Did you imagine I was that cute little clerk down at the Q-Mart?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I just… I was out at Aunt Raby’s today getting the old Swayback family Bible. I hope I can find some family connection between me and Bronwyn Hyatt’s family that might let me get that interview with her.”

“You’re part Tufa?”

“Yeah, my right leg below the knee and the three fingers on my left hand. One of my ears is suspect, too.”

“Seriously? I guess it explains the hair and the teeth, but you never mentioned it before.”

“Never really thought about it before. But my great-grandmother was Tufa, and if I can track down her family in Needsville, it might give me an in with the Hyatts.” He paused, looking down at her hand now drawing lazy circles on his bare stomach. “The thing is, Aunt Raby mentioned that Grandma Benji used to sing weird Tufa songs. I checked online, and at the library: nobody knows anything about any Tufa songs. I mean, any songs that are specifically Tufa.”

“And all this made you think, ‘Hm, I want a quickie when my exhausted wife gets home’?”

“No, all this made me think about my guitar and the songs I used to write, which made me feel kind of… I don’t know, young, I guess. And that made me want a quickie with my exhausted wife, who I might add was up to the challenge.” He playfully yanked a stray strand of her hair.

She giggled, then stretched luxuriously. “Boy, I’ll sleep now. You know, one of the ambulance drivers who drops people off at the hospital is a Tufa. Bliss Overbay. I could ask her if she knows any Tufa songs.”

Don shook his head. “Nah, doesn’t matter. Just thought it was odd.”

Susie looked into his eyes. “I like you like this. All interested in something. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you this way.”

“Been a while since I’ve felt this way.”

“Think it’ll stick?”

He shrugged.

She kissed his ear and took the lobe in her teeth. “Anything I can do to help it stick?”

He turned to her. “You’re doing a fine job already,” he said as he kissed her.

It took forever for night to fall.

The sunlight faded and at last the moon rose, casting enough light that Bronwyn could see the yard outside her window where the trees didn’t cast shadows. In that clear spot of silver, the haint would again appear. Eventually.

She rubbed around the point where the largest pin went through the skin of her thigh. Scratching was totally forbidden, but the itch had grown exponentially. She would be immensely glad to be shed of this monstrosity, and would hold Bliss to her Tufa timetable. She dreaded what she’d see when the Ilizarov mechanisms were removed, though; her legs, once the envy of all the other Tufa girls, would be permanently scarred. She pretended it didn’t bother her, but it did. She liked being the Bronwynator, the hell-raising hot chick all the other girls hated and all the boys wanted to take out on a quiet gravel road. That would be hard to maintain once she looked like she’d been through a blender, and she never, ever wanted a mere pity fuck.

She looked at the banners across her ceiling. Tomorrow she would take them down while Aiden was at school. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but there was no longer any meaning in the symbol for her. She would leave the army when her enlistment was up. Stop-loss wouldn’t apply to her; she was more valuable as a PR tool if she vanished back into the hills anyway. If she emerged into the public eye again, she might say something Major Maitland wouldn’t like. Besides, she knew her immediate future was here.

That should’ve brought a sense of relief, but instead the tight panic in her chest increased. The challenge she now faced was even more daunting. Her mother appeared so young, alive, and filled with music that it seemed impossible the night wind would take her. Her absence would send reverberations all through Cloud County, and probably to every Tufa who’d left as well. A First Daughter didn’t go without leaving a mark.

She heard cows lowing somewhere in the distance and glanced at her clock. Three minutes after twelve. The sound of cows after midnight was supposed to be another herald of death. Then again, it could just be insomniac cows. Not all superstitions had that supposed grain of truth to them.

The wind suddenly billowed the flag curtain into the room. Then it snapped back against the screen, as if the air pressure outside had suddenly dropped. At that moment a soft voice said once again, “Private Hyatt…”

Bronwyn swallowed hard and realized she was sweating. A haint could do nothing, she knew, except appear and speak to those meant to hear; nevertheless, knowing a dead person wanted to chat sent chills up her spine. She often wondered if the Tufa afterlife was the same as the regular one; Tufa passed through time differently, but once it stopped, they were like any other dead thing. When their song was over they decomposed, in both the literal and ironic sense.

So when someone crossed back to this world to deliver a message, everyone assumed it must be pretty important. Yet to be the recipient of that message left Bronwyn with a tingly, tangible fear completely different from the one she’d known during her ordeal in Iraq. Those people had wanted to do her physical harm; this haint might be after something else entirely.

But she’d never know until she engaged it. So she turned to the window and said, “I’m here.”

The haint emerged from the shadows beneath the red oak trees. As before, it stood so that the missing tissue in its side was plain, the wound looking for all the world like it had been made with a giant cookie cutter. Blood soaked the edges, but otherwise it was surprisingly neat. It took off its helmet, revealing the same dark hair all true Tufas sported. It had been a lovely young girl in life, but was now free of both flesh and gender.

Bronwyn forced herself not to look away. The haint’s eyes sparkled with moonlight as if they glowed. Its expression was wide eyed and blank.

“Okay,” Bronwyn said at last. “Come in here and let’s get this over with.”

The haint did not move. Slowly it pointed at the window. The blue glass still rested on the sill.

Bronwyn took a crutch and, after three swings, finally knocked the rocklike chunk of glass to the floor. It landed with a thud that reverberated throughout the house.

By the time she settled back against her pillows, the haint stood at the foot of her bed.

“Yah!” Bronwyn cried. She waited to catch her breath, then said, “Okay. What’s up?”

“I’m Sally,” it said in a voice that was just a hair slower, and considerably more sepulchral, than a normal speaking voice. “Sergeant Sally Olds. I died on the road to Basra in 1991.”

Bronwyn’s mouth went dry. Everything had happened on that road. “I drove that way myself.”

“I know. I saw you. I watched.”

Bronwyn shifted on the pillows; the pins in her leg ached more than ever. When she looked up, the haint had vanished.

A slightly darker shade stood in front of her dresser. Bronwyn said, “Oh, come on out here, will you? If I can’t even scootch around without freaking you out, this isn’t going to work.”

“It’s very hard to stay this way,” Sally said. “And I’m here for something important.”

“Yeah, I know. My mom’s gonna die, and I have to learn her song.”

“No,” Sally said. “I’m here just for you.”

Bronwyn’s breath caught in her throat. “For me,” she said flatly.

“You are surrounded by walls, Bronwyn. They were there before you were hurt, and even though your body is weak now, these walls are stronger than ever. They must come down if you are to be what you must.”

Rage flared in her heart; she hated being lectured. “And what’s that? Somebody’s wife? Mom to a brood of barefoot heathens just like me? I put those walls there for a reason, to keep me from marrying the first guy who made me come and being stuck in this valley for the rest of… of time!” She had no idea where this sudden insight came from, but she grasped its truth even as she blurted out the words.

“Yes, just like you’ve always known, none of that is for you. Your path is…”

The haint made a hand gesture that left Bronwyn speechless. For a moment the only sound was the night wind through the open window.

“I will help you,” Sally continued. “I know what happened. As I tell it to you, you will recall it. And relive it. That can’t be helped.”

“The hell it can’t,” Bronwyn snapped.

“There is no time for your pain, Bronwyn. It has to be drawn out, looked at, and dealt with. What will happen, will happen, and you must be ready for it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Be ready for me tomorrow night,” Sally said, and turned toward the window. It gave Bronwyn an unobstructed view of the wound. Pieces of ragged organs dangled like the ribbons on a war hero’s chest. Before the haint took three steps, it vanished.

Bronwyn stared off into the night. Crickets and tree frogs gradually grew louder. The breeze stirred the banners and curtains.

She turned on the bedside lamp. There would be no sleeping for a while, and now she had to pee. Bedpans quickly lost their charm, and although getting up and going to the bathroom was a production even with her mother’s help, this time she was determined to do it herself.

The worst moment was when the weight of her leg hung free before it tipped downward. She felt it in her lower back and, oddly, her triceps as she braced herself, lowering her leg as slowly as she could until her heel touched the floor.

As she caught her breath, she saw an envelope half-hidden by her nightstand. Leaning as far as she could, she managed to retrieve it. The effort made her break out in a fresh sweat.

She turned the envelope over. It had fallen from the mail sack when Deacon moved it against the wall. The writing was a child’s, and the address in Jasper, Alabama. She opened it and pulled out the card.

Dear Private Hyatt, it said. Thank you for protecting our country. Someday I hope to join the army, too. Maybe by then they’ll let girls fight.

Bronwyn smiled at that. The girl would learn quickly enough how often girls fight, especially in the army.

A small photo of a gap-toothed little black girl had been enclosed. Bronwyn gazed into those wide, dark eyes. She saw nothing she recognized.

She put the picture beside her on the bed. Someone was sad, not because she was nearly killed, but because she had to kill other people. Bliss’s words came back to her once more: Even with people, there’s some that need killing.

She realized with renewed vividness that she truly was different from other people, even most other Tufas. The haint knew it. And maybe that’s why Bliss entrusted her with that pragmatic truth so long ago.

She no longer had to pee. She lifted her leg back onto the mattress, wincing at the slight, almost obscene movement of metal bolts penetrating her skin. This would have to end soon. She took three Vicodin, one more than her doctor recommended, and closed her eyes, waiting for the effects to kick in. But she found herself still awake as the sky outside lightened at dawn, her curtains waving in the last of the night wind.