After the Fall

by Robin Summers

  “Well, you’ll have to take it easy for a few days, get your strength back.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me,” Taylor said, clearly not happy with the plan.

  “You had some people worried,” Duncan said. He thought about elaborating, but held his tongue. Instead, he added, “You look better.”

  “Better than what?”

  “Better than before.”

  Taylor eyed him. Duncan scuffed his foot against the carpet.

  “You visited me.”

  It was more a statement than a question, and it made Duncan a bit uncomfortable. Still, he held his ground. He returned her gaze.

  “Yeah. That’s what friends do.”

  It was presumptuous of him. He knew that, and yet it felt right somehow, both the idea and the voicing of it. He wanted them to be friends. He watched her closely, waiting for her reaction. Finally, Taylor nodded her acceptance.

  “Thanks for that,” she said, with no trace of insincerity or condemnation. Duncan rocked on his heels. He felt happier than he could recall feeling in a long time.

  “Dunk?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sit,” she commanded, although her smile belied the authoritative way in which she said it. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Duncan smiled. He grabbed a chair and slid it up next to the bed, straddling it backward, resting his forearms across the back. They sat quietly for a while, Taylor not seeming to have anything pressing on her mind, while Duncan tried to figure out how to ask what he wanted to know. Despite her seeming acceptance of his offer of friendship, and his existing friendship with Kate, he was not sure if it was his place to interfere. In fact, he was pretty sure it was most definitely not his place. He disliked meddlers, and he had come to see Taylor with the intention of meddling, which bothered him. But Kate was clearly upset, and it was not too hard, at least not to anyone paying even the slightest bit of attention, to figure out the reason probably rested with Taylor.

  “Spit it out, Dunk.”

  “Huh?” he said, startled.

  “You obviously have something on your mind.”

  “I…well…I’m not sure…” Duncan sputtered, internally cursing his inability to articulate anything at all.

  “I’m not going to bite,” she said, her voice holding an unexpected kindness. Not that she was unkind.

  He smiled nervously. “Well, it’s just that…I was wondering why…I mean…”

  Duncan paused, letting out a deep breath.

  Focus, Duncan. Just say what you mean.

  Taylor sat there, patiently waiting. He was grateful for that, and it gave him the confidence he needed.

  “I know you haven’t been here all that long,” he began, trying to put his question into some kind of coherent context, “but it’s pretty clear, or it seems pretty clear, to me anyway, that there’s something going on. Between you and Kate.”

  Taylor sucked in a breath, but she stayed quiet.

  “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that, ’cause there’s not. Nothing at all. It’s totally fine, in fact. Everyone here knows Kate’s gay, and Buck made it clear that it was a non-issue on the farm. Not that anyone would have an issue. I definitely don’t.”

  Duncan knew he was rambling, but he could not seem to help it. He had developed the worst case of verbal diarrhea he had ever had, but he knew if he didn’t keep going he would never finish.

  “I’m saying this all wrong,” he continued, shaking his head. “I’m just wondering, I guess, if…if you have feelings. For her.”

  Taylor let out a deep breath and examined the fibers of the blanket. Duncan waited for her to respond, to say something. Anything at all.

  “Why are you asking me this?” she finally said. She picked at the blanket covering the bed, keeping her eyes averted.

  Duncan thought of Kate, of what she meant to him, and it filled him with a confidence he had only occasionally felt before. The same confidence he had held within himself that night with Zeke.

  “Like I said, she’s like a sister to me,” Duncan responded. He had lost his hesitation. “And I don’t want to see her get hurt. She doesn’t deserve that.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Taylor agreed sadly.

  “But last night at dinner, and this morning, she was quiet. See, Kate’s normally like this force of nature. She can make you happy just by walking into a room. She cares about everyone.”

  “I know.”

  “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I came here to ask you because Kate won’t talk about it. But the truth is, I don’t need to know. All I really need to know is whether you care about her, or whether the pain she’s feeling is pointless.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  It was a simple statement, but to Duncan, it spoke volumes.

  “Then don’t,” Duncan answered. It was clear she was struggling. He wanted to put an arm around her and would have if he did not think she would reject it.

  “It’s not that simple,” Taylor said sadly.

  “Sure it is. Look, I may not be the brightest guy around, and I know I’m young, but I do know a few things. One of them is that a person always has a choice, even if it’s a hard one. And this situation? This thing between you two? If you care about her, it doesn’t seem all that hard.”

  “What if I don’t know how?”

  Her voice was small, fragile. She seemed almost helpless.

  “Know how to what? How to not hurt her?”

  “How to care.”

  They were such little words, but they left Duncan reeling. Taylor’s desolation was overwhelming. Even when the plague had come and stopped the world cold, even when his parents had died, stealing away everything Duncan had ever known, even when he was scared and alone in the dead of night, with nowhere to go and no one to go to, he had never lost himself.

  Taylor, apparently, had not been so lucky.

  “It’s all a choice,” Duncan said. “You have to choose to care, and the how will follow.”

  Taylor nodded, but Duncan was not convinced she had truly understood him. He struggled to figure out what he could say that would break through the hardened bricks of misery that had become her world. He started to speak, but Taylor beat him to it.

  “What’s going on down there?”

  It took Duncan a moment to catch up. He smiled as the excited voices of the farm’s youngest residents filtered into the room.

  “It’s Wednesday,” he said, his own excitement rising. “Time for music class.”

  “You’re kidding,” Taylor said, her face a mask of incredulity. Duncan thought she could not have looked more surprised if a UFO had just landed on the front lawn.

  “Nope,” he said, standing up. He had an idea, and he was not about to take no for an answer. “Get dressed.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing a shirt and a pair of jeans from the top of the dresser and tossing them onto the bed. “Time’s a wastin’.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened. “Oh no. I’m not going down there.”

  “Why? You got something better to do today?”

  Taylor crossed her arms across her chest, as if that ended the conversation. But Duncan was not about to let it. He crossed his own arms, a mocking reflection of Taylor’s pose. She frowned.

  “Dunk,” she said warningly, but he stood firm. If she was ever going to allow herself to be happy, she needed to be reminded of what happiness was. Even if he had to force it down her throat and hold her mouth closed while she swallowed.

  “Tay-lor,” he responded in the sing-song whine he had mastered as a child, frustrating Taylor even more. Her frown slid into a scowl.

  “No.”

  Duncan just kept smiling at her with his arms folded.

  “Du-unk,” she said, her voice taking on its own whine. “I’m still not feeling all that well. I need to rest.”

  “What you need,” Duncan corrected as he flipped the blanket and she
ets off Taylor’s lap and down toward the bottom of the bed, “is to get out of this bed and live a little.”

  Taylor’s expression was caught somewhere between a pout and an indignant scowl. Duncan decided to really push her buttons.

  “What’s the matter? Is big, bad Taylor scared of a bunch of kids?”

  Taylor growled at him, making Duncan jump back half a step. If Taylor had been feeling better, Duncan would have turned tail and run out the door. He knew full well she could kick his ass all the way to the cow pasture.

  He laughed a little nervously as she swiped up the pants from the bottom of the bed, shooting large, pointy daggers at him with her eyes all the while.

  “I’ll just give you a little privacy,” he said, shuffling toward the door. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

  He could not quite make out the words she was muttering under her breath, but he caught enough to know she was not going to offer to buy him a thank-you dinner anytime soon. Not that there were any restaurants to take him to, anyway. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the hallway wall, waiting.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I finish dressing in my borrowed clothes, thinking about the satisfying thwack my palm will make against Dunk’s skull when I get into the hallway. I surprise myself, and probably him, by not smacking him upside his smug, little head. Maybe I am growing as a person. Then again, I let him bait me into following him downstairs to join the weekly music class, so maybe I am just as petty and ridiculous as I have always been.

  The scene on the porch is like Romper Room on Red Bull. Three of the children are sitting on the floor, bouncing up and down as if they are suspended by rubber bands. A couple of the teenage supervisors stand chatting amidst the chaos, seemingly oblivious but following the action out of the corners of their eyes. Two more kids are chasing each other around the porch, weaving in and out of the human obstacles. Next to them, a little girl sits combing her Barbie’s hair, giving what appears to be a very serious lecture to her doll on proper hair maintenance. And there is Buck in the middle of it all, perched on an armless rocking chair, watching the scene before him, that beautiful old Martin resting gently across his lap. A couple of other adults I don’t recognize are crowding in at the edges of the porch, and I notice a few more lurking a little farther out in the yard, like they are embarrassed to be here but unwilling to miss anything. I notice, of course, that Kate is nowhere to be found. The disappointment I feel at her absence is as unsurprising to me as having woken up this morning with both a left and a right foot.

  Dunk yanks on my shirt sleeve and heads for the center of the porch, plopping himself down dead center of the action. I stay rooted to the floor, just in front of the house’s screen door. He beckons me with a nod of his head and pats a space on the floor beside him, and I will my feet to move. But they don’t.

  I feel like an outsider, an intruder of the first order, an interloper with no right to the two square feet of space next to Dunk. I shake my head and sidestep to my left, finding that my legs are willing to obey my commands as long as the direction is away from the group. I lean up against the wall of the house, my arms locked in that familiar place across my chest. I am as inconspicuous as a moose in a ballet recital. Something bumps my leg. It’s Rusty, angling for a head scratch. I give him a little rub, and he settles down on the floor beside me with a contented sigh and begins snoring.

  Buck clears his throat, and all attention turns toward him. He flips the guitar upright on his lap, settles his left hand onto the fret board, and begins to play. His first selection is a rousing rendition of “Old MacDonald.”

  What have I gotten myself into?

  He sings in a rich baritone, each verse in perfect pitch. He is quickly joined by the less than perfect voices of the children and adults gathered around him, but Buck doesn’t seem to mind. Although they sing off-key, they sing—and in some cases, shout—with enthusiasm. I want to be glib and signal how above it all I am with a roll of my eyes or a sigh, but instead my foot betrays me, tapping out its approval in time to the music.

  I am pathetic.

  “Now, who can tell me what chords I was playing?” Buck asks, his song finished. Eager hands shoot into the air, and a few more eager voices call out a random assortment of answers. The most insistent of those voices is Dunk’s, much to the group’s amusement. He looks around sheepishly once he realizes he has less restraint than the seven-year-old sitting beside him. Buck smiles, though, and congratulates Dunk on being right. Dunk’s embarrassment quickly turns into pride.

  “Okay, what shall we sing next?”

  A chorus of voices shouts out their opinions, ranging from “Pop Goes the Weasel” to “Freebird.” Finally, Buck settles on one he likes and begins to play again.

  And so it goes for the next hour, with Buck playing a song and everyone singing along, followed by Buck asking a series of questions about music and music history. His repertoire extends, thankfully, beyond children’s songs. He is definitely a child of the 60’s, not that anyone seems to mind. I certainly don’t. But Buck also plays a variety of other songs of differing genres, including one song from The Sound of Music that has me doubled over with laughter. By the time he gets around to “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” I am singing along under my breath.

  After one last Dylan song, Buck lays the guitar back down on his lap, eyeing the group.

  “Time for me to hang up the old pick. Now, who’s going to take over for me?”

  Five hands immediately go up, including one belonging to a little boy sitting next to Margie, who is no bigger than the guitar. Buck makes a show of selecting his successor, studying each of the wannabes carefully. Finally, Buck chooses one of the teenage boys, who hoots and pumps his fist with all the exuberance someone his age should have. I worry his enthusiasm might lead to carelessness that could endanger the priceless instrument he is about to play, but I needn’t bother. He takes the proffered guitar with the care and gentleness of a father picking up his newborn daughter for the first time. Clearly, Buck’s music lessons have included teaching respect for the Martin.

  “What are you going to play for us, Sam?” Buck asks, leaning back into the rocker.

  “Well, sir, I thought I’d play one of my sister’s favorites. If that’s all right?”

  “Go ahead, son,” Buck says, patting Sam’s shoulder. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  Sam nods and looks to the sky, his silent prayer obvious. He closes his eyes for a moment and lets out a long breath. Then he begins to play.

  I can’t name the song right away, although the strum pattern and notes tickle some kind of memory in the basement of my brain. Sam’s playing is nearly perfect. The strings resonate smoothly, each tone crisp and bright.

  I know I recognize the song, but I still can’t place it. A concert, maybe? Sam’s voice is different than I expect, higher pitched than his speaking voice yet gravelly and soulful, but still managing to hold a measure of youthful innocence. He sings softly, his voice contrasting beautifully with the lower octaves of the guitar.

  I know the tune is right, know Sam is singing on key, know the lyrics as they fall from his mouth. I am definitely remembering a concert of some sort. In college.

  Sam plays gently at first, letting the music lead him into a progressively stronger and sharper rhythm. The next line comes, and it acts like a balloon being rubbed against my head, the static electricity causing my mental hairs to stand on end. I am increasingly sure that not only do I know this song, but I need to remember what it is very quickly for some reason I have yet to identify. I glance over at Buck, who similarly seems to be trying to puzzle it out.

  I was in college, and a whole bunch of us crammed into my tiny Geo Metro and drove three hours to see this concert. I didn’t really want to go, but I had the biggest crush on this girl who was going, so I offered to drive. Of course, the whole night she was mooning over some guy in her world literature class who had blown her off the night before, so that didn’t go a
nywhere. And I kind of thought she was being a bit of a bitch…

  Oh, wait, I do know this! Cool, that…Uh-oh.

  It’s like watching a movie and recognizing the star even though you can’t think of her name or anything else she’s been in, and it nags at you throughout the movie and bothers you long after you’ve finished your popcorn and soda and have had your after-dinner cocktail, until finally you’re in a meeting the next day with several colleagues and your boss, and they’re all in the middle of a conversation when you suddenly yell out, “Helena Bonham Carter!” as it explodes in your head, and you find yourself beaming with pride at everyone around you until you notice the quizzical looks on their faces, and your pride quickly dissolves into horror.

  “I’m a—”

  “Sam!” Buck and I shout in unison, both of us lunging forward, having recognized the impending train wreck at the same time. Sam freezes mid-strum, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Buck. I, of course, having no idea what to say, just stand there like a deer in the aforementioned train’s headlamps. Buck, thankfully, is as cool as usual.

  “That was great, Sam. Good work. Maybe we’ll have you play the song again Saturday night. Late. After the children are asleep?”

  Buck puts a little added emphasis on that last bit, which, combined with the interruption, finally gets through to Sam. His cheeks redden, and he quickly hands the guitar back over to Buck. Thankfully, the kids seem to be oblivious to the subtleties of the conversation. The murmuring and muffled laughter among the rest of the group says that if they hadn’t understood before Sam stopped playing the song, they do now.

  “You did play it well, Sam,” Buck adds, a mixture of reassurance and relief that Sam won’t be finishing his performance of “Bitch.”

  “So, who’s next?”

  Several hands wave excitedly in the air. Once again, Buck’s eyes track over the group, glancing at each volunteer in turn. I ease back against the wall, reclaiming my position as head wall-holder-upper, willing my heart back into a steady rhythm.