by T. F. Walsh
“Anyone we would know?”
“College buddy. Get together once or twice a year.” Myles shook his head slow and careful between Cal’s strokes with the clipper.
“Did you happen to bring a few days of mild weather back with you?” Brad glanced away from the mirror as if only talking to fill the shop with noise.
“No, you’re on your own for that.”
“Now me,” Cal interjected, “I’ll take a portion of winter in my year.”
“Radio boys are forecasting snow tonight.” Myles talked into his lap as Cal tipped his head forward.
Dived right into that topic. Brad listened to Cal continue on about weather, including the scheduled opening for the outdoor ice rink in the park.
“Mayor floated the idea of a hot chocolate and coffee stand the Saturday next to Valentine’s at the last board meeting. Think either of you nice young fellas would bring a sweetheart?”
Brad tossed last month’s Outdoor Life back on the low table. “It’s going to take more than a pretty face to get me on ice skates. Tried those in-line things once. Went down hard and often. I’ll stick to snowmobiles outside and basketballs inside.”
“Tax season,” Myles mixed the words into a sigh. “Starts to hit stride long about then.”
“Could stop by for coffee,” Cal frowned at each of them in turn. “Always a park project that needs your nickel.”
Brad watched Myles’ reflection. His new haircut took shape and refined his handsome features into an unsettling familiar look. A few moments later, when Myles pulled out his wallet, he remembered where he’d seen a man like that before.
Sharon Starr kept one wall decorated with family photos. He would have testified the man with the new haircut in front of him was Scott Tanner or his identical twin stepped down from beside Laura.
Chapter Four
Laura stood up from the back porch bench and took a second look at the large thermometer on the garage wall. The needle hovered in the single digits. Like an obedient farm sitter, she’d follow Roger’s instructions to let the larger steers into their yard, fresh snow or not. A shiver racked her body under the warm barn jacket. In St. Louis, the radio and TV would be busy listing closings. The few minutes she’d listened to the Eau Claire station, they mentioned two school districts with delayed starting times. Six inches or more if the almost flat workshop roof can be trusted.
A fine, steady snow began before she’d left Daryl’s yesterday. It continued in variations of almost invisible to snow globe proportions well past evening chores and into what she’d planned as telecommuting hours.
“Didn’t make sense,” she muttered as she selected a pair of gloves. The website at Data Diagnostics, her current employer, wasn’t due for maintenance for another two months. They were going to lose clients if a computer information firm didn’t have a constant web presence. Already two of her fellow technicians had deserted for other, larger firms since early November. With any luck at all she’d find a response with an explanation when she opened her email after farm chores.
“Morning, girls,” she called out to the collies. They came into view from around the combined cattle and machine shed. At sight of her, they spurted forward and nudged each other in a contest for the first and most attention. She talked nonsense to them, called them by name, and decided that she found enough difference in their markings to tell Taffy from Cocoa.
The warm scent of Angus steers, hay, and ground feed greeted her inside the shed. When she pushed the top of the cattle door open, human and animal alike blinked at the sudden morning light magnified by the pristine snow. A large stack of hay bales outside the fence stood transformed into a giant tiered cake decorated by a baker with an unending supply of white icing.
“Everyone have a good night? Are your water cups working this morning?” She moved down the aisle between the pens and tested water flow, rubbed a couple of cooperative animals, and collected a lick on her coat sleeve. The trio of youngest animals, less than six months old, shied off to the far side of their pen and studied her with large dark eyes. “No, I’m not Roger. His old barn jacket should smell familiar but you’ll have to put up with a different voice for a couple of weeks.”
Ten minutes later, the larger animals rambled around in the yard and the young trio explored fresh hay in the manger. The collies kept a watchful eye on each other as they crunched breakfast from separate bowls. Laura went outside, climbed up a corner of the hay supply, and found the area she’d pulled bales from yesterday.
“Look out below.” She tumbled three off the side. End over end the hay bundles chased each other down to the ground and halted by the taut wire fence.
The dogs responded to it first, only moments after they’d joined her among the steers. They pricked their ears, posed for an instant, and took off in a race toward the road. She pulled off the final piece of twine and kicked the third bale apart. A moment later a dull, steady, mechanical throb reached her ears. A smile formed as she remembered Aunt Sharon’s list of miscellaneous information and repeated it to uninterested steers. “Asher’s will take care of snow plowing.”
Laura finished the last of the morning chores in only a few minutes and walked to the corner of the workshop. A bright green tractor with matching front loader already worked at the mouth of the driveway. The operator lowered the scoop, eased forward until snow curled like shaved white chocolate from the main mass, backed, lifted, turned, and dumped the contents like a sparkling waterfall off the packed gravel.
She raised her arm in greeting.
The driver responded with a quick lift of his right arm.
Convinced the driver was the owner of the dairy farm and this would be a good opportunity to get acquainted, she mimed drinking coffee and pointed to the house.
He repeated his gesture.
Laura lingered at the corner of the workshop enthralled by the lower, forward, lift, turn, and dump cycle repeating in front of her. The dogs, with their greetings to the driver and tractor completed, trotted over for human attention. “Good girls. Shall we find a stick for you to chase?”
After a quick search of a scrap lumber pile, she found a suitable piece for fetch and sent it into an arc tumbling end over end to the dusk to dawn light pole. Laughter bubbled up and formed a fleeting cloud in front of Laura’s mouth as the collies ran and stumbled in their game. The dogs provided entertainment value with their antics. No evidence yet that they had a duty as part of the security system.
She turned back for another quick check that the shed door latches remained fastened. Like many farmers in the area, Roger didn’t lock the outbuildings. He simply secured them with metal drop pegs through hasps.
Half an hour later, she moved the pan of cooked sausage links to a cold burner and reached for the oven door. Three quick knocks from the porch door competed for her attention. “Come in!”
She pulled out a batch of rolls, shook off her oven mitt, and turned the control to “off”. Half a dozen quick steps later she paused at the open kitchen door. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Big as a park ranger and hungry as a bear.” Brad stuffed his bright orange ski mask into a pocket and grinned. “Morning, Goldilocks.”
“I expected your dad.” Why didn’t I think to ask if he lived on the farm?
“He’s finishing with the cattle at our place. Am I still welcome to the coffee and . . . what else do I smell?”
She darted her gaze to the stove. A tendril of smoke rose, along with the smell of scorched cotton. The first flame broke out before she got tongs around the cloth. It multiplied and grew as she hurried the mitt across the small kitchen. The damaged glove sizzled against the cool, damp stainless steel when she dropped it all into the sink.
“Sorry about that. Do you like your potholder medium or well done?” She started to turn her mouth into a gentle curve as she faced him.
He leaned against the doorframe, coverall zipper open down to his waist. His complexion mirrored the snow outside with a sprinkling of brig
ht red dots on his left cheek. “Neither.” His finger shook as he aimed it across the room. “Fan.”
“Yes, sir.” So much for this history Daryl claimed between them. For an instant there she feared he would pass out. Testing the 911 response time wasn’t on her “to do” list for this visit. She gathered her own nerves into a closer net, flipped on the faucet, and stepped toward the proper wall switch. “Sit down, Brad.”
• • •
Brad staggered backward and called on every major muscle to control his collapse onto the porch bench. The sturdy wooden pew recycled from an abandoned church took his weight without a whisper of complaint. Push through the memory curtain. Stay in the present.
He exhaled when the hum of the exhaust fan joined water splashing into the sink. One . . . two . . . he counted deep breaths silently. Singed fabric. Cloth burns different than flesh. His fingers grasped the zipper pull and he continued undressing. When the first boot popped off he caught a glimpse of Laura in front of the stove. A moment later, when the left one joined its partner, she moved into the dining room and out of sight.
Stifling a groan, he stood, pushed down the insulated coverall, and stepped free. His scars burned fierce at the moment and sent bullets of pain to his missing arm. Psychological. Phantom. He stood there aware of the truth while his skin played tricks with his nervous system. Habit, manners, or maybe sheer determination moved him to the sink where he swung the faucet to the empty side and began to wash.
“Sorry. I’m not usually prone to such carelessness.” She stepped behind him, retrieved the wastebasket, and started to transfer the sodden, charred oven mitt.
Words failed him as he rinsed his hand then reached for the towel. Her posture held a hint of sadness. He knew that pose, had worn that same sag in his shoulders when he’d come up short on an exam. He blotted the towel against his face, started to do the same to his left sleeve until he came to his hook. Several swallows later, rejecting a whole collection of the wrong words, he managed to speak. “Coffee smells good.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back to play a proper hostess as soon as I banish this to the outside.” She tied off the liner and vanished into the back porch.
His gaze stalled on a remnant of black fabric no larger than a fine machine screw clinging to the side of the sink. His throat contracted, trying to force air and memories deeper. Once—no twice—he’d awakened and gotten a glimpse of his bare arm and elbow before the amputation. His flesh appeared in memory as blackened kabobs that slid off the skewer into the bottom of the campfire. A vision of dark, ragged flesh akin to beef seared on one side and raw on the other threatened his stomach’s stability.
Paying attention to every wrinkle and fold, he returned the towel to its proper place. He moved his gaze over the familiar items around him; by concentrating on ordinary objects, his mind stayed in the present.
In the dining room, the technique failed him. Instead of the table set for two, the daybed with bright patchwork quilt, or an ornate cuckoo clock he saw the dirt, rocks, and scrubby trees of a lonely corner of Afghanistan.
He removed his helmet and set it next to the butt of his rifle before he leaned against the mud brick wall. Weariness invaded his core. With too few men at the outpost, each soldier was pushed to the limit of his endurance. He needed to radio a report, request supplies, and beg for reinforcements. “Sarge . . . ”
Whoosh! The first rocket arrived.
The men around him jerked into action. Trained hands lifted helmets, rifles, and binoculars. He grabbed his own gear, clapped the nearest man on the shoulder to follow him, and headed for the gunnery post at the turn of the trail. Three paces after the wall ended the world changed.
Whoosh! Another rocket passed close. A split second later, an explosion loud and near ripped through the scene. He went down from the wave of superheated air, lost hold of his weapon, and rolled a quarter turn. His eyes refused to close at the sight of flames feasting on his own body.
“Man down!”
Strong arms rolled him in the dirt, smothering the flames, saving his life before blessed unconsciousness descended.
“Fuel dump.”
“Pardon me.” Laura’s soft comment called him back to the present.
“Uh . . . ” He scrubbed his face and focused on the winter view outside the window. “Sorry. I got lost in the past for a moment.”
“Your arm?” She stepped in front of him.
He exhaled a portion of the weighty memory. “Affirmative.”
“Sit down and tell me about it over coffee. We have rolls that turned out golden, not charred.”
His mouth started to match her casual smile but stalled halfway. Don’t act pitiful. You can’t stand pity.
A few moments later, they sat across a tiny drop leaf table with breakfast scattered on small plates serving as a physical barrier. Brad glanced at her, admired the confidence in her fingers as she transferred sausages and buttered a warm cinnamon roll.
His hook weighed a hundred pounds on his lap. Words refused to line up right, but the silence started to grow thick as pine pitch. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and took the risk. “Flames and I . . . well, they bring back my worst days.”
“Marines?”
“Army. Infantry.”
“Afghanistan?”
“Affirmative. Twenty-six months ago next week.” He answered before she could ask the second portion. A study of her face found more curiosity and concern than pity. Friendship, not sympathy, was what he needed at the moment from his blonde “summer girl” all grown up.
“Tell me.” Her expression, without a hint of judgment, encouraged him.
“Are you saying you haven’t pried the details out of your relatives?”
“They claim it’s a story best told by you. And I understand the importance of primary sources.”
“Okay.” He chewed a roll and studied her posture. According to her shoulders that earlier defeat had vanished in the past few minutes. The tall and proud girl—correction, woman—with the golden hair waited for him to speak. “I was in the wrong place when a dozen fuel barrels went up. The surgeons declared the arm beyond hope in Germany. The rest of me came back to Brooke Army Medical Center.”
With an index finger she traced the rim of her mug three times around. “That’s all?”
“The condensed version is all most people want to hear.” How many people really cared about another’s surgeries or demons? It took months for him to give more than hints to his family. And they witnessed bits and pieces.
“I’m not most people.”
His grin formed without permission from his brain. “I’m aware of that.”
“Do you have time to talk?” Her sky blue eyes continued to inspect his face. “Or should I rephrase that to energy?”
The cuckoo bird announced the hour, breaking the stretching silence.
“Half an hour. I need to work in town later this morning.” Brad reached an internal compromise by moving work on the Carlstead missing person case down a priority notch.
“I’ll try to be polite. Let me know if I cross into forbidden territory.”
He stood, brought in the carafe, and topped off both coffee cups. If he survived her questions, he’d ask a few of his own.
• • •
“I understand why you returned to Crystal Springs after the army discharged you.” Laura gestured for Brad to take the final breakfast roll. His half-hour deadline was nearing. “But what prompted the real estate license? Why not use your journalism degree from Madison? Isn’t the web insatiable for material?”
“Who’s spreading the rumor that I’m not?”
“Another point for you.” Conversation with the adult Brad this morning flowed from one topic to another with nothing she’d brought up declared off-bounds. His face reflected genuine interest as he described the variety of his army postings. A confident man sat across from her this morning; she needed to look quick to catch glimpses of the boy full of contradictions.
&nbs
p; It was a stark contrast to their exchange while picking raspberries during her last summer visit. At fifteen, Brad paused long enough between sentences to make jam of the berries he dropped in his plastic bucket. She’d not put him at ease with her short replies and open scorn of a high school that didn’t offer advanced placement classes, either.
At the moment, the changes in her own maturity level came up cloudy in her internal mirror. Would this be smoother or more difficult without their childhood acquaintance?
“Where could I find an example of your writing?”
“Last year, I managed to get a piece into a conservation newsletter. A couple other articles float around out in cyberspace. Sorry, left my complete credentials in the other suit.” He eased back his chair as the cuckoo announced the half hour. “I should go. Come over to our place. I promise not to cook.”
“Is your cooking that bad?” She reached to stack dishes and tried to conceal a startle as music broke out in his pocket. A march. I’ve heard it before, but the name escapes me.
“Good morning, this is Brad Asher.” He began to speak after the briefest of glances at the incoming number. “Yes, the reception is good. What time do you suggest?”
She took a portion of the dirty dishes to the kitchen. The house floor plan offered minimal opportunity for private conversation. From the steady volume of his voice, he didn’t appear to be particularly concerned if she overheard. Still, it wasn’t her business to eavesdrop on his life. It could be one of those journalism ventures he’d hinted at paying off. Or a girlfriend. He’d be a handsome part of a couple.
“Yes, if any of that changes I’ll call you back. Take care, Mrs. Schmitt.” He tucked his phone away and brought his coffee mug to the kitchen. “That was your prospective landlady. She wants to meet with both of us and discuss the lease. Will Monday at ten work for you?”
“Sounds perfect.” A widow older than my mother. She replayed his description of the owner from yesterday.
“Good.” He plucked a pen from the jar by the phone and began to write an address plus phone number on the message pad.