“She’s your mother’s mom…Elva’s mother,” Rod answered.
The words had a sudden and profound impact on the trembling Rose, who pushed away from Rod and looked at the boy standing beside him. Her eyes, though red and wet with tears, searched the boy’s face for recognition.
“Elva,” she whispered, looking from Jeff to Rod. “My Elva?” she asked, pointing at the youngster. Her arm wavered, as if drained of strength and dropped to her side.
Rod supported her upper body with a strong hand on each shoulder. The wild, panic driven need to escape was gone and her stare had softened into an expression of bewilderment. He could see her mind racing to make sense of the words and the possibilities. “Rose,” he said, in a hush, “we’ve missed you. There are friends and family who will be so happy to see you’re alive.”
The faintest of grins appeared at the outer corners of her mouth, but she did not reply. For a moment she looked from face to face as Clayton and several others closed their distance, creating a small semicircle around the kneeling pair. Cory caught Clayton’s attention and mouthed, How? His question was greeted with a broad smile and a shrug of the tall man’s shoulders.
“Is she okay?” Boob finally asked, somewhat scared, due to the old woman’s appearance. She was mostly clean and properly dressed but wilder than he expected a grandmother to be. “I mean, does she know who we are?”
Rod answered without taking his eyes from Rose’s face. “I’m not sure. She appears to be healthy. She’s certainly not going without food or water, but I can’t imagine she’s been taking care of herself – not in her state of mind.”
“Well, that raises all kinds of questions, doesn’t it?” Cory asked.
Mrs. Allen, who had been staring into the dirt for several seconds, lifted her head and tapped Rod in the chest. “Farrell?” she questioned, quietly but with enthusiasm.
“Yes…yes, Farrell,” Rod said. “My brother, Farrell, married your daughter, Elva. This is their boy,” he said, pointing to Jeff. “His name is Jeff, but we call him Boob.”
“Boob,” she repeated, while stretching her hand toward the boy. She held it aloft, her fingers curling ever so slightly, in an invitation for the boy to come. Rod nodded an okay and Boob reached and took her hand in his. It was rough and cold but somehow warm and soothing at the same time. “Boob,” she said again, cocking her head, trying to make sense of the unique moniker.
“Yes, I’m…I’m so…” The boy was overcome with emotion for the elderly woman. She was a direct link to his birth parents and his heart swelled with appreciation. He moved to her, as her hand tugged at his, and they embraced. She stroked his yellow hair, whispering Elva’s name over and over again. There were few, if any, dry eyes around the circle – the reunion was sweet and endearing as any they could remember.
“Clayton,” Cory finally said, walking the short distance to tug at his friend’s sleeve. “We’re not alone. There’s no way she’s without help. Let’s take a look at that headstone Dude saw drop.”
“Right with you, buddy,” Clayton agreed. Quick hand signals conveyed to Rod what the two intended to do and he waved them on.
“How crazy is that?” Clayton asked, as he swung his rifle to the ready.
“I know, but I’m afraid the bigger question is, how crazy is she?”
“At least she seems to know who she is,” Clayton suggested.
“Maybe,” Cory agreed, “but that’s a pretty big maybe.”
The two walked, careful to cover one another, as they searched for the downed stone. It didn’t take long to arrive at the marker in question. At a glance, it appeared like so many of the others: gray marble with a name, dates and a church building, possibly a temple, carved into the surface.
“Well, Clayton, move it,” Cory ordered.
“What? You move it. This was your little expedition.”
“Alright, Chicken, but cover me.”
Cory carefully slung his rifle over his back and drew his pistol. He looked at Clayton, who had his weapon at his shoulder. “Don’t frickin’ shoot me, Clayton.” His lanky friend chuckled but did not lower his rifle. Cory tested the stone with his foot, anticipating it would require a fair amount of strength to move the slab, but it did not. The headstone budged, only a fraction, but it should not have moved at all.
“Did you see that?” Cory asked, excitedly.
“Holy crap! What have we found?” Clayton replied.
“Watch yourself. I think this thing’s made of Styrofoam or something similar. I’m going to…”
Suddenly, and without warning, the makeshift marker flew from the ground, striking Cory’s crouching figure in the chest, knocking him backwards. The momentum carried him into Clayton’s legs, toppling him as well, but not before he fired two quick rounds, the first striking and splintering the mock stone and the other sailing skyward. The two young men scrambled to right themselves but not before a dark figure leapt from the hole and held them at gunpoint.
“Howdy, fellers. I’d be obliged if you’d just stay there on your butts for a minute.”
The Browning’s bore looked much bigger than it really was when aimed at their heads from only a few feet away, so they obeyed the order. Footsteps and yells followed the two hastily fired shots, setting the newcomer on edge.
“Yo, whoever’s running this way, better hold up ’fore I ventilate your buddies here.” The footsteps and chatter stopped immediately in the wake of the ominous threat. “Don’t try no trickery. I can hear a mouse fart in a windstorm so keep yer distance.”
“Listen, old man, we were…”
“I know what you were doin’ – tryin’ to steal my woman and my stuff. Ya think I’m a fool? I weren’t born yesterday,” he said, shoving the barrel closer to the fallen friends.
“We’re not here to take anything. We’re just checking out this old church. That’s all,” Clayton said, unable to tear his eyes from the shotgun’s swaying muzzle. “How ’bout you lower that thing before you hurt somebody?”
“Oh, I’m a fixin’ to hurt somebody alright, less ’n you pack up your crap and git on yer way.”
“You two okay?” Rod called from a short distance away, unable to see what was happening through the jungle of grave markers.
“They’re fine but won’t be if you persist in causin’ trouble,” the old timer yelled back. “Y’all be on yer way and I’ll set these young fellers free, but ya ain’t takin’ Thelma.”
“Thelma?” Cory whispered to Clayton.
“Yeah, Thelma, you dumbass. You ain’t takin’ my woman.”
“Oh, that Thelma,” Clayton said, still watching the gun closely
“Hey, we’re not interested in hurting anybody or taking anything. This lady here is my boy’s grandma. How about you step out here and talk this over,” Rod suggested.
The sunbaked stranger released the forend of his semi-automatic 12-guage and scratched his ball-cap covered skull, the action shifting the soiled, green hat around on his bald head. However, he had no trouble keeping the gun steadily aimed at C&C. They squirmed, involuntarily, while watching and wondering what the stranger was thinking – their eyes pinned to his trigger finger.
“Grandma?” he hollered back. “How’s that?”
“It’s a long story, come on out here and I’ll explain it to you,” Rod replied.
“Did ya see them Harvesters up ’er at the church?” he shouted, while smiling. “Any tricks and these two’ll make a matchin’ set.”
“You have my word. Everybody put your weapons down. We mean this man no harm,” the security chief hollered, loud enough for all to hear, including those still at the trucks.
A minute later Cory and Clayton emerged from behind a row of headstones, their hands high above their heads and their weapons missing.
“That there’d be far enough, boys,” their captor ordered from behind a tall, heavy stone that offered him plenty of protection. From his vantage point he could see Rod, Rose, and the others in a tight-knit
cluster, as well as a handful of armed intruders near their vehicles. “Looks like we got ourselves a Mexican standoff, don’t it?”
“Who are you?” Rod asked, moving gingerly toward C&C.
“A question I’d asked you.”
“Okay then, I’m Rod Jenson, head of security for The Ward, over in Logan.”
“Is that right? Well, I’m Grant Wright, head of security, burial detail, church maintenance and vermin removal for all of Hyrum. How’s that tickle yer fancy?”
“You’ve been busy. We lost count of the number of markers on the way in,” Rod replied, inching closer to the old man.
“Rod, you know a thing or two ’bout shotguns?”
“Yes sir.”
“You reckon I could take these boy’s heads clean off from this range?”
Rod stopped and looked back and forth between his two, young friends. They were not smiling. “I believe you could.”
“Well, with that understandin’ I’d recommend you quit trying to sidle on over here. Capiche?”
“Yes, sir. I got ya,” Rod concurred. “We’ll do it your way.”
“Good enough. All right then, tell me ’bout this grandma stuff.”
“I will, just as soon as you tell us how Mrs. Allen came to be in your care.”
“Oh, that. Let’s see…that was pert near a dozen years ago – was the dang’dest thing you ever did see. She come ridin’, just as casual as you please, right down the middle of town on this big, gray mare, and we been together ever since. She don’t say much, which is fine by me but she’s a good cook and listens to my stories. Ya say you’re related somehow?”
Rod led Grant through the history of the Bear River group and them merging with The Ward. The explanation was hurried but concise enough to give the old guy a flavor for who they were and where they’d come from. Although the shotgun barrel was never lowered, the give-and-take had eased the tension of both parties. Rod further tried to explain the loss of Rose’s son and her eventual disappearance. The Ward had written her off as dead, with some believing God had miraculously taken her home – but here she was – safe and sound.
“So that youngin’ there is my Thelma’s grandboy? That the gist of it?” he asked, through teeth that were yellowing and incisors that were gapped. “Boy, come on over here.”
Rod cranked his head to look behind him where Jeff and Dude stood shoulder-to-shoulder. He nodded, giving his permission and widening Jeff’s eyes. “Me?” he asked, pointing at his chest.
“It’ll be okay,” Rod assured.
The boy hesitantly walked the 30 yards to stand beside C&C. From where he stood he could see Grant’s face and leathered neck but little else – except for the looming barrel. The elderly man’s cheeks were hollow and his face thin but strong. Small deep-set, yellowing eyes, shifted from target to target before resting on Jeff.
“What da they call ya?” he asked, his tone more pleasant and caring than it had been.
“Jeff, Sir.”
“Not yer name, Boy. What da people call ya – your nickname?” he asked, again.
“Oh, that’d be Boo Boo or Boob for short.”
Grant laughed and in doing so lowered his gun’s muzzle to the ground. “My hell, if that don’t beat all. Boob – now that’s quite a name.”
“Yeah, well what’s yours?” Jeff asked defiantly.
“Pedoochie…Harry Pedoochie.”
“That’s just as weird as Boob.”
“I reckon you’re right there. My boy’s used to call me that before…” Grant’s head dropped and Jeff could see he was fighting back tears. Suddenly Rose rushed passed Rod, and then Jeff, to wrap herself around Grant, who released the gun and let it fall into the dense weeds. Clayton, Cory and Rod surrounded Jeff, waiting to see how the encounter would ultimately play out.
“I’ve heard of you folks over the years, but who do ya trust?” Grant asked.
“I know,” Rod agreed, taking the initiative to close the gap and shake Grant’s hand.
“What you plannin’ on doin’ now?” Grant asked. “You’re not takin’ my Thelma.”
“Only if she wants to go,” Rod assured the elderly fellow.
Rose clung tightly to Grant, her face buried in his shoulder. “She lookin’ like she wants to leave?”
“Nope, I believe she’s in good hands but you’d be a lot safer with us in town. We’ve got a pretty sweet set up and we could use your help. You’re obviously resourceful and have some skills we could use.”
“That’s quite an offer, but we do okay all by our lonesome. We got ’nough food to last us till we pass on and it’s quiet here – just the way we like it.”
Rod shifted his feet, kicking at the weeds and dirt. “True, at least for now, but there’s a storm coming, Grant. Might not be tomorrow but evil is on the way. You can count on it.”
“I reckon I can take care of business if I have ta, but I appreciate the concern. If we change our minds I know where to find yer outfit.”
Before goodbyes were said, Grant led his newfound friends along an earthen tunnel from the fallen stone to the church’s gym. Pallets and shelves, overflowing with foodstuffs, filled the entire space. A wall, beneath a basketball standard, was lined with firearms: pistols, rifles, shotguns and more. Dude and Jeff perused the display; their jaws slack as they ran their eyes and hands over the vast armory.
“Ya like my toys?” Pedoochie asked.
The boys nodded eagerly. “Very cool. Where’d you get ’em?” Dude asked.
“Oh, here and there. A lot of these old farmers ’round here served in the wars – I just consolidated their collections.”
“They all work?” Jeff asked, pointing at some of the older looking weapons.
“Well, Son, they ain’t much good if they don’t shoot.” Grant laughed and slid close enough to stand between the two boys, placing a knowing hand on their young shoulders. “You’ll soon be men and know more ’bout this stuff than any fella should. They’re a tool, just like a hammer or saw, and they can be used fer good or bad.” He paused briefly and looked around at the supplies he’d acquired over so many years of searching and hauling. “Rod, get yer people in here and take what you need.”
A look of welcomed relief swept over Rod’s face and he replied, “You serious?”
“We got plenty – load up them trucks.”
“Thanks Pedoochie, you’ve helped a lot of good people today,” Jeff said, wrapping his arms around the older man. Grant was a bit taken aback, not expecting the genuine display of emotion for his kind deed. The act sent him back dozens of years to his own family and the sons who had brought him joy in a world of hardship. He awkwardly patted Jeff on the back and reached out to squeeze Dude’s shoulder. “You boys will do well. Let’s help get this stuff loaded.” Grant distributed enough groceries to fill their trucks, offering more should they run out anytime soon.
Before long, temperatures were dropping and shadows were stretching long to the east. Grant made the rounds, shaking hands and exchanging smiles with Rod’s people. Everyone seemed ready to roll, except for Jeff, who held his head down as tears dripped from the end of his nose. Rose went to him and cradled his head against her bony chest. She kissed the top of his head, placing her hand over his heart and encouraged him to do the same. He felt the gentle rhythm of his grandmother’s heart thumping strongly against her chest and he smiled. “Boob,” she said, covering his hand with hers, “here.”
Rod thanked Grant again, offering his hand in more than just a passing gesture. “You run into trouble – get Rose and yourself to Logan. I’ll give our checkpoints the word to let you through, but we’ll be back. Jeff will be anxious to see his grandma and I know my wife will want to pay her a visit.”
“You’ll sure be welcome. Can ya hold up fer just a minute? I got something I want them boys to have.” Seconds later, his bent-over frame hustled across the landscape and disappeared between the headstones.
“Where’s he off to?” Cory asked, drawing a s
hrug from Rod. “Kind of a quirky old goat, isn’t he?”
“Yes he is. The salt of the earth, as my dad would’ve said,” Rod answered.
Minutes later, they could hear something jostling and rustling toward them. Grant broke from the cemetery with a shotgun in each hand and a satchel over his shoulder.
“What have you got there?” Rod asked.
“A little surprise fer yer kids,” he said, holding the guns aloft.
Rod and Cory laughed, knowing the reaction the gifts would emit. “Jeff, Dude, come over here. Grants got a little something for you.”
Jeff reluctantly pulled himself away from Rose and joined Dude at Cory’s side. Their faces were suddenly aglow with excitement when they saw what Grant held before them.
“These were my boy’s. We hunted pheasants ’n geese with ’em every year ’til the world went to sh…I mean, ’til God took ’em home. I’ve been hoping somebody’d come along who could use ’em more ’an me. I reckon you boys fit the bill.”
Grant knelt and laid one of the Brownings on the ground at his side. “Dude, you’re a little feller so I’m givin’ you this good ol’ 20 gauge. I taught it right and it shoots straight – promise me you’ll take good care of her.”
“I will sir,” Dude said, reaching out and taking the semi-automatic shotgun in hand. “It’s pretty light – thanks, Grant. I’ll look after it like a baby.”
“Good boy,” Grant said, pulling the second gun from the ground. “Now Boob, this ’uns a real collector’s item. Mr. Browning didn’t make too many of these. He was a Mormon, ya know – true blue American who lived over the mountain in Ogden. This here’s called a “Sweet Sixteen” and she’s a beaut. It don’t kick quite like my 12 but it’ll suit a boy yer size just ’bout right. You treat her good and she’ll keep ya safe.”
Jeff took the shotgun and rubbed it carefully from stock to breach. “It’s a treasure, Harry. You gotta know I’ll take good care of it. Thank you so much.”
“Well, you boys are welcome. It’ll make me proud to have you use ’em. Here’s some ammo to get you started,” he said, handing over the heavy bag of shells. “I’m sure yer dad ’ll find ya more after you shoot through these.”
The Lasting Hunger Page 9