by Sharon Hinck
After another block, I reached a sign for the city bus. A young man was already sprawled on one end of the bench. He wore a baseball cap, which stalled me for a moment. But he was black, not the pasty Caucasian of the teen from the shooting. That was a plus. His Ruben Studdard–size shorts hung low on his skinny frame, showing a few inches of boxers. Dreadlocks dangled beneath the cap, covering his ears and reaching his shoulders.
I sat next to him, barely able to glance his direction. I felt as clumsy as I had at my first high-school dance, trying to start a conversation. “Sure is another nice day,” I offered softly.
He nodded.
“I’m not used to the weather staying this warm into October. I’m from the Midwest. We get a few days of Indian summer, but nothing like this.”
He bounced his chin a few more times. A man of few words—but he seemed friendly. Now, what kind thing could I do for him?
I gave another sideways peek. “I like your shirt.” At least I liked the orange shirt with the turned-up collar better than his sagging shorts.
He didn’t look at me, but he pursed his lips and nodded again. Then he leaned forward and looked down the street.
Okay, so the compliment hadn’t made his day. What else could I do? I fished in my purse. “Here. I have an extra bus pass. I’m not going to use it.”
Hampton Roads Transit had seemed like a great way to get around while I learned to navigate the unfamiliar streets. One of the routes through Chesapeake went straight to the Norfolk Navy base. But being trapped on a bus was even more terrifying than driving somewhere. At least in my own car, I could pull over if I started to hyperventilate or cry.
The young man ignored me.
“I said, you’re welcome to use my Farecard. Honest. I don’t need it anymore, and it’s still got ten rides on it.”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and adjusted his cap. His head tilted away from his hunched-up collar, revealing a wire. An earbud flashed behind the dreadlocks.
The head bouncing suddenly made sense. He hadn’t heard a word I’d said.
I sagged back against the bench. Another failure. Now what? I barely had the strength to drag myself back home, much less hunt for someone new.
Mustering a determination that was more desperation than courage, I tapped the man’s arm.
He jumped and turned to look at me, pulling out his earbuds. Tinny music thrummed loudly enough for me to hear the beat. He glowered at me.
“I have an extra Farecard.” I forced a weary smile and held out the pass. “Could you use it?”
“Why?” He glanced around as if this were Candid Camera, or maybe America’s Most Wanted.
I shrugged. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”
He still hesitated. How hard did I have to work to give something away? Good grief, people were suspicious these days.
“You’re sure?” He reached out and touched the ticket gingerly, as if he feared a slap on his hand.
There was fun in baffling someone . . . surprising him with a random act of kindness. I grinned. “It’s like that movie. Pay It Forward.”
His laugh was low and rich, a James Earl Jones sound that resonated in his chest. He finally accepted the card from my hand. “I liked that movie. Thanks, ma’am.” The bus pulled up, and he shouted his thanks again as he mounted the steps. The delight in his smile made me giggle.
Accomplishment flooded me. I stood and walked toward home with a lighter step. I’d won a triathlon. I’d gotten Bryan fed, clothed, and off to school. I’d endured a grueling counseling session and didn’t play too much verbal dodge ball with Dr. Marci. Then I’d reached out to a stranger and brought him a smile. I deserved another message from Tom’s DVD.
I hurried into the house and loaded the disc. Curtains drawn, pillows plumped, air-conditioner set on low, huge mug of chai tea, I made a ritual of my preparation. But when I hit Play, nothing happened.
Maybe I’d put the disc in upside down again. I popped it out and flipped it, hoping the messages from Tom would cooperate and appear. I couldn’t soothe a wild stallion, but I’d become a DVD whisperer, coaxing the recording to play. Gnawing my lip, I waited for the visit with Tom that I so desperately needed.
chapter
14
MY COAXING WORKED, AND Tom’s face grinned out at me. During our busy days of unpacking and settling in, I hadn’t spent enough time just staring into his eyes, tracing the lines of his jaw, watching the earnest furrow deepen on his forehead, and enjoying the dimple full of mischief flicker across the right side of his lips.
I watched the first two messages, reciting some of the words with him. Once again, the blessing he spoke sent a tingle down my spine, as if gleams of God’s countenance really could shine on me.
“Message three,” Tom said. “This one—”
He paused, mouth partially open. The pause stretched beyond a moment of gathering thoughts. I held my breath, then let it out in a whoosh as I realized the recording had frozen. Our rented movies did the same sometimes, when a scratch or smudge interrupted the play. Bryan would forward past the bad section.
I tried Fast Forward but nothing moved. I hit Play again and again. Rewind did nothing. Then the screen went blank.
Not fair. So not fair. I pulled out the disc and babied it with glass cleaner and a soft cloth, removing any signs of fingerprints on either side. Still nothing. Even after I fiddled with the disc for several minutes, the finicky recording wouldn’t give me any more. I growled and threw a pillow at the DVD player.
Stomping to the kitchen to start supper, I checked my voice mail. I’d decided to keep the ringer off, since the sudden sound of the phone still threw my anxiety into high gear.
My mom’s voice held a querulous tone. “Are you so busy you can’t even call within a week?”
Mary Jo, the ombudsman, remained determinedly cheerful. “You’re not still fighting that virus, are you? We really need to connect. Call me.”
My friend Sonja had talked fast and left a long, detailed summary of their dog’s surgery, her kids’ soccer games, and her frustration with one of the women on the committee for the church nursery. Her energy and wit used to make my day. Now listening to her felt exhausting.
Mrs. Pimblott left a friendly message wondering when I could meet with her about the Thanksgiving play.
I saved all the messages. Maybe I’d make a few calls tomorrow. Or not.
The last message opened with a crackle and a soft hiss. “Pen? It’s Tom. I was hoping you’d be there.”
I squeezed the receiver, wanting to wring each precious sound from it.
“I’m great. I’ve lost a little weight. No, I’m not seasick. Stop laughing. I was made for this. Look, I know we decided phone calls just made it harder, back when I was at basic. But I’m on the carrier today and had access. I couldn’t resist. Your e-mails are great, but I sure would love to hear your voice. I’m riding the Holy Helo tomorrow—I’ll be out visiting the destroyers.”
Tom’s energy and confidence resonated through the phone, and I could picture him with the rotors of the helicopter churning the air as he crouched and ran to board, ready to be carried to the next ship that needed a visit.
“How have you been?” His tone lowered to the gentle concern I’d grown to dread. I didn’t want him to tiptoe around me. He was treating me the way everyone had always treated my brother. Did he think—?
“I’ll e-mail soon. I probably won’t try calling again unless I e-mail you first. Glad you like the DVD. Be sure to listen to message three. Give Bryan a big hug from me, and tell him I’m proud of him.” I could almost feel the muscles of his arms flexing as they circled around me. “Still on target to get home for Thanksgiving. Love you.”
And he was gone.
I replayed the message five times. Then I gave in to my heavy loneliness and crawled in bed for a nap. I’d been beating myself up for being tired all the time, but Dr. Marci said it was part of the healing process. Well, valid o
r not, I couldn’t fight it anymore. My mind and body demanded to shut down.
At least I set the alarm clock this time. That woke me soon enough to shake off my woolly-headedness so I could greet Bryan like a normal mom when he came home from school.
He joined me in the kitchen to tell me about his day.
While we talked, I moved ahead on another tip from my notebook. “Okay, kiddo. Laura-Beth said that she makes grits all the time, and that’s why her kids are so healthy. Hand me the kettle.”
“Sounds weird. Grit? Like the stuff Dad used on our old driveway.”
I punched an opening in the box and poured some into a measuring cup. “That was dry concrete mix, not grits.”
“That looks weird, too. Are you sure we’re supposed to eat it?”
“I’m sure it’ll be great once we cook it.”
He made a face. “Why don’t we go to McDonald’s?”
“Because we want to learn about living in the South.”
“But Mom, they have McDonald’s in the South. The bus goes past two of them on the way to school.”
Bryan could engage me in a debate worthy of a top district attorney . . . on almost any topic. Like any good defense lawyer, I used one of my sharp legal skills: diversion. “Why don’t you go out back and see if Jim-Bob wants to play soccer?”
He bounded away in a flash, relieved to escape further kitchen duty.
I studied the back of the box of grits. The basic recipe sounded awfully bland, but one for Cheddar Grits with Bacon caught my eye. I didn’t have any bacon, but I had a jar of Bacos. That would work as a substitute. Instead of grated cheddar, I substituted a jar of Cheez Whiz. Close enough. I squinted at the print. A can of artichoke hearts? Good grief. I wasn’t Rachael Ray.
Instead, I pulled a bag of broccoli from the freezer. Following the instructions, I brought some chicken broth to a boil and stirred in the grits. Then I mixed in all the other ingredients, poured it into a baking dish, and popped it in the oven. It smelled pretty good. However, the texture was runny, so I upped the temperature on the oven a little, and instead of an hour, I set the timer for ninety minutes to be sure the concoction thoroughly cooked.
Then I ventured out to the back steps to watch Bryan. Laura-Beth was in her yard, hanging up white T-shirts and Ray’s immense boxers. Not the scenic view I longed for.
Her eyes were sharper than I’d realized, because when she turned from clipping some tube socks to the line, she spotted me.
“Howdy, neighbor!” Clothespins spewed from her mouth and she beelined for our fence.
I hoisted myself up and walked over to meet her. “Is your dryer broken?”
She laughed. “Why run the eee-lectricity when the sun can do the work? I noticed you don’t hang out your laundry.”
I looked at our yard. “I guess we don’t have a clothes pole.”
She squinted. “Well, if that don’t beat all. Never noticed before. Too bad you didn’t catch that before you bought the house. Well, I guess you can string something between the house and your tree. That’d do ya.”
Sure. I’d get right on that. I’d love to give the neighbors a show of my unmentionables.
“So, I saw you down to the corner when I was driving back from the Kmart with the twins. At the bus stop. Is your car broke?”
I didn’t want to explain my project to Laura-Beth. “No, I was just . . . sitting there for a while.”
She twisted her mound of frowzy hair into a knot and clipped it with a clothespin. “Well now, I hope you don’t mind some advice . . .”
I’d lost count of how many of her conversations opened with that line.
“You wanna be careful. We have a lot of crime around here. You know what I mean?”
Laura-Beth waved and headed back to her laundry basket. The words she’d said swirled around my head—an incantation to conjure memories. Bloodshot eyes. A voice snarling and spitting curses. Tense angles on a frenzied face under a baseball cap.
I raced into the house to splash cold water on my face. My hands paused under the flow of liquid, and I studied them. My fingers didn’t look very different from those that had clenched the gun: slender, with pale skin and chewed nails. I couldn’t dismiss him as an aberration. Whatever he’d done, he had been a human. As much as I tried to define his actions as animalistic, the fact remained he was once a little boy like Bryan. He’d drawn pictures of dragons and knights and built castles of Legos. He’d kicked a soccer ball around a backyard. One day he’d shot two people, tried to kill me, and then run into the sunny afternoon.
Sadness poured over me. I let myself feel the despair. Dr. Marci had encouraged me to stop shutting down my thoughts. She said that as emotions were stirred up, I should feel them, process them, and come to terms with them.
But they were as unwelcome as my meddlesome neighbor. Still, I opened the door and invited them to stay for tea. I agreed with them that the crime was a horrible, tragic example of what people were capable of. And slowly, the feelings thanked me for the sandwiches and took their leave.
The timer on the stove beeped loudly.
Maybe Laura-Beth’s culinary suggestions were more helpful than her warnings about the dangers of our neighborhood.
Bryan, ears always tuned for the sound of imminent food, barreled into the house. While he washed up, I lifted the casserole from the oven and set it on the kitchen table.
The orange-tinted lump didn’t look at all like the picture on the box. I poked it with a fork, and the tines couldn’t pierce it. Bryan had been right. Apparently grits were the same thing used to make concrete driveways.
Hi, Tom-o-my-heart,
It was wonderful hearing your voice today. I played the message again and again. Sorry I wasn’t home. I was out for a walk. I’ve been experimenting with southern cooking, so I’ll have some new recipes for you to try when you get home. But tonight Bryan and I decided to keep it simple and have bologna sandwiches. I’m glad you got your sea legs right away. I was wondering how well you’d be able to preach the Gospel while doubled over the rail. LOL! Are you ever . . . scared? Yes, yes. I know we are always in God’s hands. But I just wondered. Do you ever worry when the ship heads into hostile waters?
Come home soon. I need you to take your turn at tucking in Bryan. Tonight he begged for Hop on Pop, and my tongue still hasn’t untangled. We finished up with some of the Rootabaga Stories, since those are your favorite.
I watched the first two messages again today. They helped a lot. But then the disc locked up. Don’t roll your eyes at me. I pushed all the right buttons, and even cleaned the thing. If I don’t get it to play, you’ll have to call again and tell me what you said, okay?
Remember your promise. You ARE coming home safe, aren’t you?
Two million hugs, Pen
chapter
15
IN SPITE OF MY failure with the grits, I woke on Friday with a distant star of optimism flickering in my heart. During the past week I’d begun to join the human race again—the support group, the worship service at the mission, my small good deeds that forced interaction with people. And nightmares had only woken me twice last night. A huge improvement.
I pulled on a crisp blouse and my best jeans, fastened my hair back with a shiny barrette, and even touched some mascara to my lashes.
“How come you’re all dressed up?” Bryan asked, digging into his instant oatmeal.
“I thought I’d drive you in to school today and chat with your teacher a little.”
His eyebrows disappeared under his mop of bangs. “Am I in trouble?”
“Should you be?” I hid a smile.
He reached for the jam. “The gum in Chelsea’s hair was Aidan’s fault, not mine.”
I glanced at my watch. Too bad I didn’t have time to pull a few more interesting tidbits from my son. “I’ve been exchanging messages with your teacher, and I thought it would be a good idea to touch base. And I feel up to it today.”
An inner debate played across his f
ace. Hooray, Mom was acting like a mom again. On the other hand, it was safer when moms and teachers didn’t collude. He decided on a grin. “Then she can give you the stuff about the play.”
Some of my confidence fled. I swallowed the last of my coffee and stood. “Let’s go, buddy. And tell me more about the gum in Chelsea’s hair.”
The squat grade school right-angled a generous playground full of sand and climbing equipment, while green wedges of landscaping marked off the parking lot and softened the line of the chain-link fence behind the property. Children in sweatshirts and jackets rocketed skyward on swings, whooped along a sliding bar, and raced around the curly slide and suspension bridge.
“Here, Mom. I’ll meet you inside.” Bryan tossed me his backpack and raced to a geodesic jungle gym.
I locked the car and hitched his bag onto my shoulders. What did they put into these heavy textbooks for second graders anyway? I’d have to ask Mrs. Pimblott.
I stared at the red doors. Another mom with a pigtailed daughter edged past me and hurried inside. Smoke billowed from a stack on the roof, as if the building were a tiny factory, pumping out educated children. I took a few deep breaths and smelled the ravioli on the menu for the day’s school lunch.
I’d felt the tug of anxiety when I left the house. Using tips from Dr. Marci, I had acknowledged the fear and moved forward anyway. Getting into the car had been another battle, but I’d pushed through. Now I stared at the noisy, chaotic building full of people. Could I walk inside? I took two more steps.
“Look, Mom!” Bryan’s voice carried over the other shouts and giggles from the playground.
I turned to find him. He hung upside down, his knees barely hooking him over the rail at the top of the dome. Inside the metal form, he dangled far too high above the packed sand. His hair swung down toward the hard ground beneath him. My throat constricted.