The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  "Tom McCord," she reluctantly replied.

  "Tom fucking McCord?!"

  "Easy on the cursing!" Shirley shouted from the kitchen. "I mean it!"

  Lowering his voice, Griffin whispered, "What the hell is he doing here?"

  "Look," she said, "he and his brother couldn't make it out there, okay?"

  "I don't give a shi—"

  "They've been a good addition to the road. Really, they have. Believe me."

  "I specifically remember him kicking my ass, Emma. Or did I imagine that?"

  "No," she said, "you didn't. But . . . but he's changed. Just talk to him. He has, I promise."

  "Wait a minute. Just who in the hell is he to you?"

  "Well, I guess," she said, suddenly fascinated by the beige carpet. "I guess you could call him . . . my boyfriend."

  "What?!"

  "That's right; I said it. Tom McCord's my boyfriend, and I suggest you get over it."

  "Are you two fighting in there?!" Shirley shouted from outside the door.

  "No, ma'am," they squeaked.

  "Keep it down," she said. "Don't make me say it again. I mean it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Hell." He groaned once he heard their mother's feet shuffling away from the door. "I just figured when you finally did find you a man, it wouldn't be the same sumbitch that treated my face like his own personal punching bag."

  "It took me some time to forgive him. But I have. I think in time you'll learn to forgive him, too. He loves me. And I can't help but love him back."

  "Love?" He smirked. "Really?"

  "Yes, and I welcomed all of your girlfriends with open arms. So I expect the same."

  Ashamed, he shook his head.

  "I did have a lot, didn't I?"

  "Too many to count."

  "Sorry, sister, I'll do my best."

  Feeling as though they were in dire need of a subject change, Emma lay across the end of the bed. Propping her head on her elbow, she asked, "You up for telling a story?"

  "A story? What story? Seems like you're the one with a story to tell."

  "You first."

  "From the beginning?"

  "Pleeease. Just say, 'I guess so.'"

  Giving in, Griffin took a deep breath and began his tale.

  "The storms kicked our asses. When they came, I took Pawpaw to the basement. He didn't like it, but they were so bad, I just didn't want to risk it."

  "We had to do the same."

  "So Daddy finally got to put that bunker he built to use, huh?"

  "He did, yeah."

  "Anyway, for months it was an endless struggle to keep him happy. Until one day," he said, "when I caught Memaw hanging out in his bedroom."

  "What?!" she exclaimed, sitting up.

  "Easy." He chuckled. "Easy, lemme finish."

  Despite the look on Emma's face, Griffin spoke fondly of their deceased grandmother appearing to him as she had, young and in her prime. He spoke of how she informed him of Robert's impending death, and how when she discovered her grandson didn't believe in God, she swore her only purpose was to cleanse his soul.

  Moments after her arrival, their grandfather had passed away, leaving Griffin alone to grieve. In great detail, he described his troubles of placing Robert beneath the earth, and Emma was pleased to hear the plot he'd chosen was Martha's favorite flower garden.

  "How did Shelby get into the picture?"

  "It was after I buried Pawpaw. I found her on the kitchen table eating my corn."

  "Were you mad?"

  "At first. But I couldn't stay that way cause deep down I didn't want to be alone."

  He hasn't opened up like this in years, she thought. If only Daddy were here.

  "Did you run into Ethan?" she asked.

  "How'd you know?"

  "Something he said. I bumped into him after you left Eleanor's place."

  "Emma," he whispered, grasping her hand. "You never met Roland, did you?"

  Caught off guard, a shudder ran down her spine. As Emma ducked her chin, he squeezed her hand, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  "Emma," he whispered again. "Answer me."

  "Things happened. Things I wish hadn't. But I don't want to talk about me. It's you that has the floor."

  As Griffin leaned against the pillow, he slammed his palm on the mattress.

  "If he hurt you. If he did—"

  "He's dead, Griffin. I saw to that days ago."

  "Damn, sister! You—you killed him?"

  "Yes, now can we please get back to your story?"

  Calming down, Griffin folded his arms across his chest, and replied, "It was Ethan who shot me."

  "That piece a—"

  "No, Emma, wait," he said. "When I found Shelby, she said there was a gang headed my way—a gang she said killed her mother. There just wasn't enough time after that. The basement was the last place I looked for supplies. But while I was down there, I heard someone walking through the house. And I knew it wasn't the girl because—well, because she weighed nothing, and these steps were weighed down, you see?"

  "Yeah, I see. I see. Go on."

  From then, Griffin admitted that he'd cowardly remained hidden beneath the stairs of the basement without a care whether or not Shelby found a good place to hide. But the place he'd chosen wasn't as secretive as he'd believed. Noises of someone cascading downstairs had forced him to back into the nearest corner. Griffin said that once the intruder had reached level ground, he expected to see a stranger, but it wasn't a stranger at all—it was a childhood friend.

  "I was happy to see him. But, sis, what an idiot I was. My faith in people, which wasn't too good to begin with, went straight down the shitter after that."

  Griffin explained that his friend from long ago wasn't the same person he'd remembered. Ethan's expression had been cold and distant, one Emma knew all too well.

  "He told me what they were like. Said there were five of them. Him included," Griffin continued. "Said I'd have to agree with their, their—what'd he call it? 'Methods of survival.' And I knew by the way he put it, they weren't the crowd to be hanging with. Maybe if it was just me, but I had the girl."

  "Did they find her?"

  "No. Thank God they didn't."

  "So what happened?"

  Her brother described his first interactions with Roland as being introduced to the Devil himself. Similar to Emma's past dealings with him, Roland had come across as gentle but demanding.

  "It was something in his voice," Griffin said. By the way Griffin and Ethan had spoken with each other, it was clear that they were acquainted. It was an acquaintanceship, Griffin said, that Roland had believed he could benefit from, when Ethan had foolishly let slip the fact that they'd grown up down the same road. This, of course, had intrigued Roland and had subsequently led to Griffin and Ethan's interrogation.

  Once Ethan had spoken the words, Griffin said his friend was thrown into a state of panic. Due to the severity of Ethan's frantic expression, Griffin was forced to come up with a believable counter move.

  "No, man," Griffin had said. "You got me mixed up with somebody else. I'm from Longview. I just moved out here to help my gramps."

  "What happened then?"

  "After that, he handed Ethan the pistol."

  "What, why?"

  "He didn't believe me. Plus, it didn't help that the guy was insane, Emma. In. Sane. Roland gave Ethan a choice. Either prove this dude means nothing to you, or take us to the road y'all grew up on."

  "So he shot you?"

  "Yeah, sister, he did. And they left me there. But be thankful it was Heskill y'all dealt with. If it had been Roland, you'd all be dead. Ethan saved everyone by shooting me."

  "Everyone but the man who spared his life. Where was the girl hiding?" she asked, overcome by a sudden wave of unexpected tears. "Huh?"

  "In the dryer. She's pretty smart."

  "Why didn't you get Eleanor to patch you up?" she asked, fetching him a glass of water from the pitcher next to the bed. "She c
ould've helped."

  "Shit, they were bad off," he said. "And I know this'll be a surprise to you"—he smiled—"but I didn't want them to waste the supplies they had on me. I guess I've changed. Hell, I can't even remember being picked up by them boys."

  "I'm proud of you, brother. Daddy would be too."

  "Emma, may-maybe if I'd helped Daddy finish that cabin . . . I would've been home. And maybe"—he paused, choking back the tears—"you wouldn't have left. And . . . and he'd still be here."

  "Brother, no," she whispered, grasping his hand. "This is not your fault. It's mine. Mine. Understand me?"

  "But Emma—"

  "But nothing. It's done. And you're home. And that's all that matters."

  Their conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Maples coming to check on her patient.

  "How you feeling?" she asked, bringing her hand to his head.

  "All right, I guess. I am hungry, though."

  "That's a good sign. We saved you some potato soup."

  "That sounds great. Thank you."

  "I didn't have the chance to say it before," Mrs. Maples said. "I sure am glad to see you."

  "Same here."

  Emma bid them goodnight, and left Griffin to his supper. She made her way back to Tom, who she was certain was already getting ready for bed. That man, she thought. He's worse than me.

  She climbed the steps of their home, and opened the door to find him tucking Jane, Lizzie, and Claire into bed.

  "Hey, sugars," she whispered, entering the room. "Where're we gonna sleep?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Both of us can't fit on the couch."

  "I made a pallet for us in the living room," he replied.

  "We can sleep in there," Jane interjected, sitting up. "Really, we can."

  "No, baby, y'all go ahead."

  "But, but," Lizzie stammered. "Tom's here now."

  "Yeah," Claire chimed in.

  "Don't worry," she replied, embracing them. "We'll figure out some new sleeping arrangements tomorrow. For now, y'all get a good night's sleep."

  Emma and Tom left them to it, and closed the door. They sprawled out across the pallet he'd constructed. Lying there, Emma felt as though her mission was complete, that she had finally accomplished what she'd set out to do. Unfortunately, these feelings were accompanied by the question, What do I do now?

  Overthinking the days to come, Emma lay somewhat comfortably on her side when Tom leaned over her shoulder.

  "Whatcha thinking about?" he whispered.

  She rolled over to face him, and propped herself up on her elbow.

  "I'm not sure what to do with myself now," she replied.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, amused.

  "I mean"—she paused, grimacing at the pain manifested from balancing the weight of her massive head—"I mean . . . " She lay flat on her back and sighed. "Now that he's here, safe . . . it's just, I'm not used to things working out." Closing her eyes, Emma whispered, "I keep thinking I'm gonna wake up and still be in that room with Roland."

  "You're safe. I got you."

  "I know. I know you do," she replied, turning to face him. "I'm glad you do, baby. I'm sorry. I'm just stressing."

  "You think . . . ." He trailed off, seeming to be thinking hard on something. "You think you'd like to add more to the list?"

  "Stress? I'm confused." Emma snorted involuntarily. "Why would I want to do that?"

  "I was thinking that maybe when you're ready . . . you'd consider being my wife?"

  Caught off guard, all Emma could do was run the question through her mind. Marriage? she thought. Me? He wants to marry me? As in me, myself, and I?

  "Would you say something? Your eyebrows are scaring me."

  "But, but," she stammered, struggling to find the words. "We don't have a church."

  "Baby, this land is our church."

  "I think Daddy would agree with that."

  Before Tom could respond, Emma had lifted the cover and crawled on top of him. As she traced her fingers along his supple lips, he stared at her with a wanting that couldn't be suppressed. A few of her untamable curls had fallen from behind her shoulder, and swayed between their flushed faces. The ringlets must've interfered with his view because he promptly tucked them behind her ear, as he always did.

  As he glided his calloused hand down her spine, she couldn't help but think of how blessed she was to have a man who desired her for the stubborn woman she was.

  "Of course," she whispered. "Of course, I'll marry you."

  PART IV:

  Sixteen Years Later. . .

  Chapter 47:

  Emma

  Sitting quietly, bundled in her furs and coat, Emma looked out through the window of their deer stand. Staring at the forest floor beneath them, covered in white, she turned to the teenager sitting next to her.

  "I don't think we've ever had this much snow before," she whispered. It was obvious he was choosing not to respond. Shivering in her seat, Emma forced him to acknowledge her, pulling at his ear. "Do you?" she asked, raising her brow.

  "They'll hear us. Shhh," he scolded.

  "Oh, come on," she said. "We haven't seen anything for hours."

  "I hate it when you do that."

  "Do what?"

  Motioning toward the side of his head, he replied, "My ears, Mom."

  "Oh, please, Samuel," she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "When have I ever done that to you?"

  "Mom."

  "Son?"

  "Shhh."

  "Fine. But just remember, you're the child, not me."

  "I'm fifteen years old. I don't even need you. Why are you here?"

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, 'I. Don't. Need. You.'"

  By the look on his face, Emma knew he regretted saying it. Her son had inherited her trait of immediately feeling guilty after saying something cruel. Instead of waiting for his apology, she opened the latch and began climbing down the ladder.

  "Mom," he moaned, "what are you doing?"

  "I'm leaving you to it, son." She shrugged, reaching the ground. "Just giving you whatcha wanted."

  As she escaped his injurious words, Emma feared Samuel actually believed this. For months, his annoyances with her had seemed to fester. Being his mother, Emma had noticed the buildup. When she'd been his age, Emma never would've gotten away with telling her parents such foolish things. Besides, it would've been a lie.

  This was the land of their ancestors, and like most of Samuel's peers, Emma knew he didn't appreciate what they'd gone through to keep it. Since the downfall of modern civilization, the landscape flourished like it had when the Clery's ancestors were living.

  Trudging through the thick snow, Emma couldn't help but look up and admire the bareness of the pines and the icicles that resembled daggers, frozen upon the tree limbs. Every year, the snow gave them something different to entertain themselves with, but in all of Emma's forty-three years, it had never stuck like this before.

  The creek, along with their massive pond, had been frozen solid for weeks. Because of this, their sole source of nourishment had come from the hunt, which in recent days had been scarce. Emma had instructed the road to conserve what livestock they had. She knew if something didn't change, they would be starving soon.

  Casting away these worrisome thoughts, Emma shook her head and focused on the frosted path before her. The swimming hole she and the girls used to escape to was just a few strides ahead. The rope they'd swung from was still intact, but the limb it clung to looked rotted and weak. Emma was certain when summer arrived they would have to seek another sturdy branch for the children to swing from.

  As Emma stared at the glossy ice covering the murky water, a blurry reflection appeared, but it wasn't hers. Squatting before it, she realized it held a resemblance to an old friend who had perished many years ago.

  Assuming the image was only a product of her heartache, Emma took a deep breath and watched the steam billow from her lips and engulf the cool air. It wasn't until she began
to rise that she heard a familiar whimper coming from across the water. As Emma raised her chin to investigate, her breathing was quickened by the sight of Stella sitting still on the other side of the creek.

  If it wasn't for her black eyes and red collar, Emma would've never spotted her.

  "Oh my!" Emma gasped. "Stella!"

  Despite her master's call, Stella's stare remained stoic and grim, like she wasn't as happy to see Emma as her master was to see her. A thought crossed Emma's mind: Perhaps Stella was forced to depart from Heaven to deliver a message she didn't want to.

  "Stella!"

  This time, Stella tilted her head and turned her gaze toward the frozen creek before them. As Emma did the same, she witnessed the reflection of a large branch falling from the tree above. Before the thought of dodging it could cross Emma's mind, it collided with her shoulder blades, knocking her face-first onto the ice. The force of the blow was so great it slid her across, leaving behind a trail of blood gushing from her busted nose.

  As Emma pried her cheek from the bitterness of the cool ice, she searched for Stella, but she had disappeared. Emma wiped the blood from her face, and began to rise when the ice split beneath her.

  "No, no, no, no," she whispered, stalled. "Please, God."

  Crack. Crunch. Crack.

  The water and ice swallowed her whole. Panic didn't consume her until she realized she was sinking deeper into the depths of the murky water by the weight of her boots filling up with water. She couldn't shout out for help; she couldn't pry the boots from her feet; she couldn't do anything. Every effort Emma made to keep from drowning seemed to speed up the process.

  Once her feet collided with the muddy creek floor, Emma blindly began pulling at the laces of her boots. Seconds was all it took for them to loosen. Snatching them from her feet, Emma began to float when suddenly her body began drifting along with the current. As she struggled against its flow, Emma realized she had been distanced from her entry point through the ice.

  Soon, she couldn't focus on anything but the pain. Emma was losing this battle—something she hadn't done in years. She knew this was it. But just as she began making peace with reality, Emma spotted a rope clinging to the ice. Resembling a snake, it slivered toward her. Someone was the feeding the rope that the girls used to swing from into the creek.