The Hum and the Shiver

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,

The others joined in:

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.

“That could’ve been close,” Deacon said.

Chloe chuckled. “That little bitty thing?”

“It was a copperhead.”

“And if it bit me, I’d have a sore for a while. There’s a patch of snakemaster growing right down the hill, it’d clear it right up.”

“Maybe,” Deacon said, continuing to watch the snake until it vanished. “You remember when we first saw Brownyn in the hospital down in Virginia? We knew she’d be okay, so even though it was hurtful to see, we didn’t get that ache that you get when you worry someone might die.”

Chloe said nothing, but put her hand on his back.

He continued to gaze after the snake. “I told her that if something happened to you, it was because the night wind called you and I was okay with that. But that was a lie, plain and simple.”

“I know,” she said.

He turned to face her. “You look so healthy, Chloe. So alive. If I start dwelling on what you might look like in a coffin—”

“Don’t,” she said. “Seriously. I worry about you, too, trying to keep it together without me. But it’s all signs so far, and we may be reading them wrong. Even if we’re not, I’m not going to stop living before I have to, you know?”

Before he could reply, Kell came down the hill saying, “Who was that?”

“Local newspaper guy,” Deacon said. “Wanted to talk to your sister.

“What’d you tell him?”

“That she was asleep.” He spit casually to one side, then added, “Say, why don’t you take your sister to the barn dance tonight?”

Kell blinked. “Because I’m tired? I’m running on four hours’ sleep, you know.”

Deacon waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, you can sleep when the night wind blows you away. It’ll do her good. And you’re the only one who could get her to do it without a fight.”

“All right,” he said wearily, and headed back toward the house. Deacon winked at Chloe; she shook her head and pinched his behind through his overalls.

When Kell went back inside, he found Aiden still watching TV, switching through channels with methodical boredom. “Man, there’s nothing on during the day. I might as well have gone to school.”

Kell sat down beside him. “What are you going to do when school lets out next week?”

“Die of fucking boredom,” Aiden said, then caught himself. “I mean…”

Kell laughed. “I know the word. Just make sure you don’t say it around Mom.”

Suddenly their sister’s picture appeared, and Aiden stopped switching. Beneath the photo of Bronwyn in uniform were the words, HERO NO MORE?

The news channel announcer said, “It’s been a week since Private Bronwyn Hyatt returned to her tiny hometown in Tennessee following her spectacular rescue. In that time, more sources have confirmed that her rescue was little more than a staged publicity event, even as the military continues to defend its actions.”

The image switched to a man identified as MAJOR DANIEL MAITLAND, U.S. ARMY. “Private Hyatt was severely injured in combat, was taken to an enemy hospital, and kept under armed guard. U.S. Marines risked their lives to bring her out of that situation. I’m sorry that some people feel the need to insert politics into this, but those facts are indisputable.”

The next talking head was Cole Kincaid, Democratic representative from Tennessee. “It appears that this young woman was in the process of being turned over to the Red Cross for transport back to the U.S. Command when the marines attacked. The doctor making the arrangements was killed, some say execution-style, by American troops. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this, no matter how high it goes.”

“Wow,” Aiden said. “Sounds like they don’t believe she’s a hero.”

“To them she’s not a real person,” Kell said. “She’s just a face they can exploit.”

“What does ‘exploit’ mean? Is it like ‘explode’?”

Kell smiled. “No, it means they’ll use her to make themselves look better.”

The newscaster returned. “There has been no public statement from Private Hyatt since she returned home a week ago to great fanfare.” Footage of the parade appeared. “The army has said she will be honorably discharged, and wishes to return to private life. But the question remains: Was this young woman a hero, a victim, or simply in the right place at the wrong time?”

Kell took the remote from Aiden and turned off the TV. “That’s enough of that.”

Aiden rolled his eyes and sighed. “Now what do we do, then? If I tell Mom I’m bored, she’ll just give me chores.”

“Can’t have that,” Kell agreed. He pretended to think hard. “Let’s get our squirrel guns and go pop some beer cans.”

“Cool!” Aiden cried, and jumped to his feet. As he rummaged through his closet, Kell opened Bronwyn’s door and peeked inside. His sister was asleep on her back, one strand of black hair curling along her cheek. He heard her soft snoring. He made a hand gesture that urged her to continue to rest as long as possible, then quietly closed the door.