Saving Thomas

by A. L. Moore

  Saving Thomas

  by

  A.L. Moore

  Copyright © 2020 A.L. Moore

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, event, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Judy Bullard, Custom E-Book

  For my momma, whose Southern slang takes Southernisms to a whole new level. Thanks for always telling me I could do anything. I love you to the moon and back!

  Author’s Note:

  Boys in the South

  There’s just something about the South in the summer. I’ve never been able to quite put my finger on it, but it’s there hidden in the sway of the weeping willow, dancing with the fireflies in the light of the moon on those never-ending humid nights. In summer, things are different, magical in a way. Sure, tans are deeper, sweat tea is sweeter and the nights are longer, but it’s more than that. There’s something mystical in the warm breeze that sweeps across the fields during a record setting scorcher of a day, always appearing at just the right time. The nights aren’t just longer, they are a whole other world, making the people you’ve known all year long transform into these memorable characters who make you laugh harder and live life like it should be lived, with good food that not only fills your belly but your soul, stories that, although on some level you know aren’t one-hundred percent true, will transcend time, and midnight swimming secrets that would cause the hair on a parent’s head to turn white. And you know at the end of August, it’s those people and those stories you’ll still be reminiscing about to your grandchildren someday. But the best part about the South in the summer, the part that perfected the chill of racing goosebumps, the part that causes butterflies to suddenly appear out of nowhere and, at times, the part that has the ability to make you feel as if your heart has been ripped from your chest, is the boys.

  The boys in the South are of a different caliber already, but on a warm summer’s night, on the bank of a riverbed, they are a force to be reckoned with. The way their eyes move in on a girl from beneath the brim of a low pulled hat is enough to make the driest mouth water. Then, they all have that look. You know the one. The one that makes your knees tremble and your lungs forget to move air in and out of your chest. That look alone should be outlawed. And finally, as if they need anything else, they have that slow Southern drawl of an accent in their arsenal, too. It’s not like we all don’t have it around here, but the sound of a deep, Southern accent whispering low just as the sun disappears behind the trees can make a poor soul lose her mind. And for all those reasons, I wrote this story. I hope you enjoy.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  A wet spring is a good spring when you live on a farm. At least that's what I'd been told my whole life. Though, I'd wager opinions in Clay County, North Carolina had changed recently. Stepping out the back screen, I stared up at the same stretch of ominous gray I'd been looking at all spring. At least now, there were puffy wisps of white swirling about in the dark abyss. A small promise that summer might be drier. We'd all prayed for the rain, like every year, but this was the first time I could remember that we'd prayed for it to stop.

  Despite the muddy-brown water washing leaves out of the gutter on the side of the porch, the downpour was over. At least that’s what the weatherman said. We usually didn’t watch the news because most of the reports could send a body into a deep depression, but Daddy had burned the Farmer’s Almanac when his first crop of seeds had washed down the riverbank. He was out there now. He always stayed with the crops during the rain, like he could keep the dirt in place somehow. The first few times, Mama had stayed with him. Both of them sopping wet by day's end. Now, she stayed in the kitchen. She said he was crazy, and if he wanted to drown out there, she wasn’t going to stand by and watch it happen. I hadn’t given up on him yet. A lot of things Daddy did didn’t make sense to me at first, but he was always right in the end.

  “Here, take him a sandwich,” Mama said, as I stepped into my rainboots and reached for the handle of the screened door.

  “You think it’s doing any good?” I asked, reaching back for the napkin she offered.

  The lines in her face grew more prominent as she peered over the side of the wooden railing that ran the length of our backsteps. “Can’t make it any worse,” she scowled into the clouds before turning back to the soapy dish water. Her dark chocolate eyes and thick, dark hair were gifts she'd passed along to me. Her hair fell loose down her back, giving her the appearance of a woman half her age from behind. At least it would've without the frumpy housedresses she'd taken to wearing since having my baby sister.

  I splashed my way across the mushy grass, careful not to let anything splash on Daddy's lunch. His ballcap rested in a camo lawn chair, no doubt covering a pack of unopened Marlboro lights. He’d quit smoking before I was born, but he always kept a pack on hand. He said just having them close helped to calm his nerves. I didn’t have to ask Mama to know where this fell on her crazy meter.

  The stalks were heavy with water, giving a glossy appearance as they curved in the warm summer breeze. Daddy had his arms stretched wide at his sides, running his hands over the top of the plants that neared his waist.

  He'd worked day and night getting new seeds planted and been up long before daylight everyday checking until he'd finally spotted green.

  “Brought you a sandwich,” I called, trying to work my boot out of the unforgiving mud. He turned toward me shaking his head, but I couldn't be sure if he was talking to me or himself, his eyes far away. It was clear the momentary reprieve from the spring showers wasn't doing much to ease his troubled mind. The air still smelled heavy with rain. “Daddy,” I called again.

  “Breelynn,” he said startled, rubbing the thick stubble that shaded his chin. “I didn’t hear you come out.”

  “Mama sent you something to eat.” I held up the sandwich, swatting a fly with my other hand.

  A smile tugged his thin lips as his eyes softened on the opened kitchen window. “I see her watching me up there,” he said, nodding toward the house. “I know what she thinks, but I’ve been working this land since before she was born.”

  Daddy was ten years older than Mama and he never let her forget it. Not that you could tell from looking at him. He looked to be in good shape, despite the pudge that hung over the waist of his blue jeans when he sat down.

  He wiped the sweat from his graying brow and reached for his ballcap. Sticking the hat on his head and the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, he plopped back in the camo chair with a huff, unwrapping the napkin. “I suppose you think I’ve gone nutty too?”

  “No more than usual,” I said earning a smile as he dabbed the mayo from the corner of his mouth. I hugged his wide shoulders and peered at the endless rows of green stalks. “It’s looking good,” I pointed out, glad to be telling the truth. Even I was worried after what'd happened over at the Johnson’s place. Water had taken out their whole crop, a good bit of soil too. Mrs. Johnson had to take a teller’s job at the bank in town to make up the income, leaving my best friend, Katy, to take care of her three little brothers. Just having to take care of John Tyler was enough. He was the one who'd shot my poodle with a BB gun on Christmas last ye
ar.

  Who gives a BB gun to a seven-year-old?

  “Are we alright, Daddy?” I asked, thinking about the new babysitting duties I'd taken on since I hadn't been able to do much in the fields lately. My baby sister, Jenny, was nearly four now, but Mama was having a time getting her to use the toilet, especially at night. I didn’t want to change anymore diapers than I had to, especially when I had to chase Jenny around the house to do it.

  “Why don’t you grab an apron and bring in the tomatoes. We’ve done lost a lot of them," he sighed, avoiding my question. “Damn rain knocked the ripest ones into the mud.” Daddy always had an answer to everything and when he didn’t, he'd change the subject.

  The apron was bursting at the seams before I made it through the first row. I dumped the mostly red tomatoes into the kitchen sink and grabbed a couple of the cloth bags we used for groceries. Katy was coming across the field when I stepped back out the door, her long blond hair matched the blowing straw she ran through. Eight or eighteen, it didn’t make a difference. Katy always ran when she came over. If she didn’t, her obnoxious brothers were sure to catch her.

  “I had to get out of that house,” she said breathlessly, her hands on her knees. She blew a sweaty strand of hair from her face as her flaming red cheeks started to return to a normal color.

  I chuckled quietly so not to offend her. She said the same thing every day. "Tough morning?” I asked, busy snapping tomatoes from the vines. I snuck in a few green ones for frying. They were Daddy's favorite.

  “You don’t even know, Breelynn. I think Mama must’ve been sleeping with the devil himself when she spawn John Tyler. Do you know what he did this morning?” She paused dramatically until she had my full attention. “He peed in the kitchen sink.”

  “He didn’t!”

  “Yes, he did. Right there on Great Granny's hand painted plates, and I was washing dishes when he did it!” Try as I might, I couldn’t help but laugh. The Johnsons were far better than any sitcom I’d ever seen. Poor Katy never saw the humor. She stayed in a constant state of stress. “You laugh but just imagine. Great Granny would turn over in her grave!” she exclaimed.”

  I hugged her neck, wiping tears from my eyes, "I'm glad we're friends, Katy."

  Hearing the squishing sound beneath her shoe, she looked the rows of tomato plants up and down. “I don’t remember y'all planting so many tomatoes last year." She reached for a bag from my arm.

  “We didn’t. Daddy went a little crazy,” I said, using Mama’s words, “after the flood. He said we might be livin' off tomato sandwiches this winter, but at least we'd be livin'.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Katy said. “I like tomato sandwiches. Since Mama went to work, we’ve had a lot of takeout. If I never see another slice of pizza,” she moaned.

  “Fine, you can take my place, and I will go eat pizza at your house,” I said snaking my way through the clinging vines to the next row. Take-out at my house meant someone was having a birthday.

  “Deal,” she said, “but don't eat from the owl plates. Those are the one's John Tyler peed on.” I laughed as Katy shook her head with a look of pure disgust.

  Gnats swarmed us as we continued plucking tomatoes. Before long the bags were nearly too heavy to carry. We took our load to Mama who was busy washing and peeling. Our counter looked like a stockpile for vampires, red jar after red jar filling every free space.

  “Be quiet going up those stairs,” Mama said in a hushed voice. “Jenny just went down for a nap a few minutes ago, and I promised we’d go for a walk when she wakes up.

  We padded up the steps in our socks and plopped down on my twin sized bed.

  “I broke up with Drew last night,” Katy said flatly, staring at my white pop-corned ceiling. That statement had lost its shock value awhile back.

  “What for this time?”

  She turned over onto her stomach and glanced thoughtfully out the window that overlooked the small house across the road. “I found a letter from Erica in his room.”

  “I thought you were going to trust him?”

  “He left the stupid thing laying out in plain sight on his dresser,” she said innocently. "Well, in his dresser," she grudgingly admitted, "but the drawer was partially opened, and it was just stuck there beneath his underwear.

  I gave her a playful shove. “Katy, you can't snoop through his stuff and then get mad about what you find."

  She looked at me like she looked at John Tyler when he was pestering her. “Oh, yes I can. You’ll see when you have a boyfriend.” Her lips instantly clamped together. “I’m sorry, Breelynn, I wasn’t thinking,” she said quickly.

  I waved her off, turning the subject back to her. “What did the letter say?”

  “It was stupid really,” she said, combing her fingers through the wind-created-tangles in her hair. “Erica was mostly just telling him what he'd missed in English Lit. and asking if he was still dating me.”

  “Then why did you dump him, again?” I asked, confused.

  “Have you seen Erica Davis?” she said dramatically, referring to the model worthy, head cheerleader at our school who'd been a d-cup since the fifth grade. “I can’t compete with that.”

  Katy would never be a d-cup, and neither would I. Thank the good Lord for that; she didn't need any more self-esteem, despite the act she was putting on now. She had more than her fair share of admirers. Heck, Drew was about as sought after as Erica, and he'd only ever wanted Katy. Working the farm definitely had its perks, like a golden tan and toned everything. Body wise, Katy and I could've been twins. Though, I'd outgrown her five-feet-six by a couple of inches by the eighth grade.

  “What did Drew say?”

  Tears pooled in her soft green eyes. “That he…loves me," she choked, reaching for a tissue from my nightstand. “I hung up after that.”

  If I had a nickel for every time we’d had this conversation, Daddy wouldn’t have to worry so much about the corn, but I owed Katy. She could break up with Drew a hundred times, and it still wouldn’t add up to what I’d put her through the past four years.

  “You should call him,” I encouraged.

  I always felt bad for Drew. He was the polar opposite of Katy’s Broadway dramatics. Our freshmen year of high school, Katy had made a big production in front of everyone in homeroom, throwing a grandma-sized bra at him in front of everyone. Any other boy would've been mortified, probably let her have it, but not Drew. He’d simply shoved it into his backpack and calmly taken her into the hall. He was the youngest of seven kids, so naturally he had more patience than God gave most.

  The bra turned out to be his mama's.

  I started putting away the laundry piled in my rocking chair, while Katy tried not to hyperventilate, again. I was tempted to slip into the medicine cabinet and give her one of Mama’s nerve pills. The phone rang in the hall and I heard Jenny’s feet hit the floor. On second thought, I'd better leave those pills for Mama.

  “Kay,” Jenny called out, “Kay, you here?”

  Katy looked at me panicked. “I can’t go back to my house, Breelynn. Everything reminds me of Drew. Besides, there’s no telling what John Tyler’s peed on now.” She buried her face in my pillow.

  “We know it wasn't on Drew,” I smirked. She didn’t find it nearly as funny. “Stay for supper?” I sighed as she started for the hall.

  “Don’t you need to ask your mama to be sure there’s enough for me?”

  “I thought you were good with tomato sandwiches?” I winked, tossing the last pair of socks in the dresser and following her out.

  Lately, dinner at my house had become a scattered event. Mama usually coaxed Jenny into eating while I ate, and Daddy ate whenever he managed to escape the fields. Most days she ended up eating without him, but she never gave up until at least eight. That’s why it surprised me to see Daddy seated at the table, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows at six o’clock. Katy and I exchanged a loaded look and pulled out our chairs at the same time.

  “This is
what happened at my house, before I became a professional babysitter,” Katy whispered.

  I tried to catch Mama’s eye, but she was too busy fussing about the tomato apocalypse taking over her pantry and trying to get Jenny to stop spitting out food, to see me. Daddy was no better. He sounded like Bubba from the movie Forrest Gump, rattling off all of the things we could make with the tomatoes. Any other time, I would’ve laughed, but I could tell that something was up. There were two good hours of daylight left. Even during the winter, Daddy didn’t come in this early.

  “I hope y'all aren’t moving,” Katy whispered, low enough that only I could hear her. “Oh God, what would I do?”

  I was trying to be patient as Daddy took his last bite, but Katy just didn’t have that much willpower. She noisily dropped her fork to her plate and scooted back from the table, fanning her face like an old lady in church. “Tell me y'all aren’t moving,” she bellowed. Daddy watched her amused, wiping his mouth and glancing at Mama.

  “No use keeping it a secret,” Mama said. Katy’s jaw hit the floor.

  “Are we moving?” I demanded, my voice taking on the same edge as Katy’s.

  “Of course, we’re not moving,” Daddy said, pushing his chair away from the table. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and stabbed a potato. “Then what’s up?”

  Daddy hesitated, something he rarely did.

  “Go on, Marshal,” Mama encouraged. “It’ll be worse if she opens the door and finds him standing there.”

  The potato took a painful route down my throat. There was only one person they could be talking about. One person who could shatter my very being just by stepping foot on our front porch.

  “I got a call a few weeks back,” Daddy started, “when the rain started up again, asking if I needed any help.”

  “That’s good, right?” I asked cautiously. You’ve been looking for some help.”