Light of Logan

by Regina Smeltzer

  Something fell into his hair. It dripped onto his face. He swiped a hand across his forehead and stared at the white slime on his palm.

  “Blasted birds.” Crows, like a thick cloud of summer gnats, stretched across the sky. As a black undulating mass, they drifted high overhead, shifting, streaming down, and then effortlessly, rising back up.

  Nate jerked a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hand and then scrubbed the rag across his face and hair. Sighing, he looked at his side of the roof. He only had three rows of shingles laid. It was just so hot.

  On the other side of the roof, the sound of Chet’s hammering continued.

  As Nate shoved the soiled cloth back into his jeans, he pushed the nail gun out of the way with the toe of his work boot. “Ready for a break?” he called over his shoulder.

  The pounding on the opposite side of the roof stopped as Nate backed down the ladder and headed around the house toward the shade of the live oak. An orange cooler rested on the open tailgate of his blue pickup truck. A hundred thousand miles on it when he bought it a year ago and it still purred like new, thanks to its diesel engine. He slid his hand across the top of the bed before filling a paper cup and pouring the icy water over his head.

  “Looks like the birds found you, too.” A grin the size of Texas spread across Chet’s face as he jumped from the third rung of the ladder. He strode across the rutted yard and pointed to the telltale smear on the shoulder of his sweat-drenched t-shirt.

  “I thought crows stayed in the fields and ate the farmer’s corn. What’re they doing in town?” Nate shielded his eyes and stared upward where birds still flew lazy circles above the trees. “We’ll never finish the roof at this rate.” He poured another cup of water and downed it in quick gulps, his mood blacker than the ebony feather that landed beside his foot. He gave it a kick with his boot.

  “We’ll never finish the roof if you don’t get your mind back on the job,” Chet said. “What’s with you, anyway?”

  Nate angled himself on the tailgate, and the weathered springs groaned. He lifted his nose to the air. “The Johnsons must have spread manure again.”

  “Come on, buddy. Forget the birds. Forget the cows. I’ve known you too long.” Chet raised his eyebrows. “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  Nate poured another cup of water and took a swallow.

  “I knew it! It’s a girl.” Chet leaned against the truck. “So tell all, my friend. You haven’t been interested in anyone since Kathy, and that was, what, four years ago?”

  Nate narrowed his eyes. “There’s no girl.”

  “Ha! You can’t lie to me. I’ve known you since you were in third grade and still wet the bed.”

  Nate hissed through his teeth. How could he explain what he didn’t understand? Yes, he was distracted, but he didn’t know why. He had barely brushed against her. If she hadn’t been bone-thin, it wouldn’t have mattered. As it was, he about knocked her down the stairs. But what bothered him the most wasn’t the fact he could have hurt her; it was her expression. Big brown eyes full of shock, as though he was her worst nightmare. He wasn’t movie-star gorgeous, but his mug had never scared anyone before.

  Gravel crunched beneath the tires of a white club cab, shiny and new. “The big boss’s here,” Chet mumbled.

  A door clicked shut. “Am I paying you guys to sit around like little boys?”

  Harold Evans had been Nate’s employer for the past four years, since Nate graduated from the University of South Carolina with a business degree. Little good the degree did him when he worked as someone else’s hired hand while he dreamed of owning his own business. “Hey, Mr. Evans,” Nate said. “Just came down for some water and a bath. Those stupid crows‒”

  “I need this place under roof by the end of the week. The plumbers are scheduled to start Monday. Time is money.” For all his talk, Harold Evans treated his workers well.

  If Nate couldn’t have his own business, working for Evans Construction was a close second. In the early years, the older man took the time to teach him new skills, and over the years, Mr. Evans had entrusted him with increasing responsibility, sometimes manning his own crew.

  Chet walked back toward the house as Nate slid off the tailgate and stretched. Joints popped and crackled. Last night’s restlessness had left his body groaning like an old granny.

  A thump. A cry of pain.

  Nate turned toward the sound, dread filling his gut. Accidents happened in construction‒too many of them serious.

  Chet lay at the bottom of the ladder, his left leg bent awkwardly beneath him; his ashen face spoke of the pain he wouldn’t voice.

  Nate ran and squatted beside his friend. One glance at Chet’s odd-angled left foot and Nate’s stomach clenched. He could never be a paramedic.

  Mr. Evans palmed his cellphone. “A squad’s on the way.” He rubbed his chin; worry lines etched his forehead.

  “Stupid crows,” Chet mumbled through pale lips. “Slipped on some of their droppings.” His fingers dug into the dirt as pain gripped his face.

  “Don’t talk, buddy. Help’s coming.”

  Chet groaned. “Man, lousy timing. Sorry, Nate.”

  Nate attempted to take a deep breath, but his tight chest made him feel like the victim of a boa constrictor that hadn’t eaten in six months. He needed to help Chet, but he didn’t know what to do. When had he last been so worthless in an emergency? He gulped, remembering the girl. He didn’t do anything to help her. But he had been in a hurry to get the building permit before the courthouse closed. When he came back out fifteen minutes later, she and the old man were both gone.

  A siren sounded, and Nate jumped to his feet, almost stumbling over Chet’s extended leg.

  A crow landed on the roof of his truck.

  Life was spinning out of control.

  4

  Saturday, May 11

  Ruth walked with hurried steps. The unfamiliar county road cut a swath through pines and cyprus, the swampy ground beneath the trees hidden by a thick tangle of vines, ferns, and grasses. A strip of azure sky provided just enough light to melt both the visible and the hidden into a miasma of ‘what if’s.’ Gnats buzzed around her face, making the hot trek more miserable. Why hadn’t she brought a bottle of water?

  Garage sale shopping provided the bulk of her weekend entertainment, but most of the trips kept her closer to home. She normally wouldn’t have gone this far, but today, anger over Joe’s behavior smothered her good sense.

  She shifted the plastic grocery sack to her opposite hand, reminding herself the trip was worthwhile. Inside the bag lay three shirts she had purchased for a quarter each. She could remake them into something really nice.

  Now past noon, her feet ached, the strap of her purse bit into her shoulder, and nothing sounded better than her own shady front stoop. Well, maybe a glass of iced tea.

  She glanced around again, wondering about the lack of crows. All morning she hadn’t seen one, which was strange, when most days, it was hard not to practically trip over them. Even the crow with the scar, that always seemed to be around, hadn’t made an appearance. Maybe the crows didn’t like the swamp; she wasn’t too fond of it herself.

  A car whizzed by, stinging her legs with loose gravel. She sighed, wondering where courtesy had disappeared to. The rude driver made her think of Joe, and then her mind wandered to that instant in the State House when she’d thought he looked like one of the huge, feathered birds. A husky laugh escaped her throat. Such an imagination.

  Sprigs of dark-green among the light-colored grasses caught her attention. Tiny pine trees poked their heads above the slender blades. Ruth stared at the sturdy tops and smiled. They were just what she needed to screen the back of her yard. True, it would take several years before the pines provided much privacy, but she wasn’t going anywhere, even though she just rented the place.

  She stepped into the grass and stopped. Would taking the trees be stealing? Unsure what to do, she looked around and spotted a county truck and tw
o mowers along the edge of the trees about a city block away.

  As she approached, she saw two men sitting on the tailgate, a paper lunch sack and an old metal lunch pail stretched between them. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts with orange vests, they looked like the workers they seemed to be. Mr. Charlie’s words came back to her: “Be careful.” “Foolhardy,” her mother would say, “to speak to strange men on a deserted road.” A shiver of anxiety, like a chill without a cause, gripped her. From the pavement, such as it was, she called to them. “Do you know who owns the sides of the road?”

  The shorter of the two men ran the palm of his hand across his mouth. “Don’t know for sure. The county maintains the strip along the roads. Not sure who owns the land behind it.” He smoothed down his grizzled beard.

  The younger man got up and poured water from a large red and white thermos into a paper cup. “You look like you could use a drink.” He walked toward her.

  Ruth hesitantly reached for the water.

  “You shouldn’t be walking on this road alone.” He moved a couple of steps away as she drained the cup.

  “I was wondering about the little pine trees‒if I can dig them up. Your mower will chop them down…”

  The young man laughed. “You want the pine trees? Help yourself, would be my guess.”

  Ruth stared at the muscles that bulged beneath the sleeves of his shirt. She backed up another step, still gripping the paper cup in her tense hand. “I need to go home and get my shovel.”

  “How long will it take you?”

  Ruth looked down the dusty road. “I can be back within an hour.”

  “I hope to be on my way home by then.”

  “Where are these trees?” the bearded man called out. He reached behind him into the bed of the truck and pulled out a shovel. “Lead the way.”

  Keeping the man with the shovel in front of her, Ruth retraced her footsteps and pointed out the sprouts of dark green. The older county worker stomped through the grass, creating a path as he moved toward the saplings. The younger man lingered beside her. She sent her companion nervous glances, but he seemed intent on watching the older man.

  “These sure are little things,” the bearded man called over his shoulder. “Not much more than twigs. It’ll take forever for them to grown big.” He separated a patch of grass with his boot and bit the end of the shovel into the earth. When three sprig-like trees hung from his fist, he walked back to the edge of the road where Ruth stood. “What do you plan to put them in?” he asked, wiping his brow with his arm.

  She hadn’t thought about that. She stuffed the newly purchased shirts into her purse and held out the empty bag.

  The grizzled worker shook sand off the dangling roots and slid the three gangly saplings into the bag. Ruth took it from his hands. “Thanks so much!”

  “Want some more water?” the young man asked as they reached the truck.

  “I’ve been enough of a nuisance. But thanks again for the help.”

  “Happy planting.” The older man lifted the shovel above his head in a wave.

  A smile crept across Ruth’s face. She had been right to stop. One couldn’t live in fear of every unknown. She thought of her dad—his murderer never found. A random shooting the police had said. His death had changed her mother. Overnight, she turned jittery, always looking over a shoulder, re-locking doors that were already locked, demanding Ruth stay inside even when her friends were playing in the small yard in front of the apartment.

  No wonder Ruth tended to jump at every shadow. Clutching the bag of trees, she felt a renewed spring in her step. Yes, some people were worth trusting.

  The road crew disappeared at the bend of the road. Soon the swamp would be replaced with the edge of town and its modest houses. And then she would be close to home.

  A white sedan shot past her, slowed, and backed up. The driver’s window lowered. “You need a ride?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Ruth kept walking.

  “It’s too hot to walk. Come on. I’ll give you a lift.” The driver edged the car forward, keeping pace with her.

  “No, really. I’m almost home.” Her skin prickled as she tightened her grip on the bag of trees. She regretted her decision not to buy a cellphone. At least she should have purchased some mace. It couldn’t cost too much, could it?

  The car door opened.

  Primal instinct fueled her tired legs as she ran, the stranger’s feet pounding close behind her. The ground turned to mush and she slipped, falling to her knees, losing her grip on the bag and her purse. She clawed at the muck, trying to regain her feet.

  A hard hand grabbed her upper arm and yanked her upright, wrenching her shoulder.

  “Back off!” she screamed.

  His hand connected to the left side of her face, snapping her head backward.

  She fought back the tears, unwilling to show her weakness.

  “I said I’d give you a ride,” the man hissed through clenched teeth. “This is your lucky day.”

  She pulled and twisted, but his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of her arm. She drove the palm of her hand toward his nose, but he grabbed her wrist mid-strike.

  “Full of energy, are you?” He wagged his eyebrows.

  She wanted to throw up. He was so much stronger. Trying to fight through the hysteria, she pushed to remember the self-defense techniques she learned years ago—lessons she’d never needed until today. She jammed her knee into his leg, trying to hit his kneecap.

  The man groaned. He released her wrist and drew back his fist.

  She threw her body to the right, wrenching her shoulder but avoiding his punch. Using her free hand, she dug her nails deep into his arm and twisted.

  He wrapped his arms around her chest. With her back pressed against his abdomen, she put all her body weight on him. She leaned over his arms and drew both feet upward. Tender tissue yielded under her heels and the man screamed and dropped her. She struggled to her feet.

  The man remained doubled over.

  The sound of a speeding vehicle approached.

  “You need help?” the grizzled driver of the county truck called out the window. The younger worker sprinted around the truck toward Ruth.

  An engine roared, and the Taurus skidded down the road.

  The older worker jumped from the truck and walked toward Ruth, cellphone in hand. “Called the police,” he said. “You OK, kiddo? Thought we were coming to your rescue, but you did OK without us.” He grinned. “You’re some tough girl, but those trees didn’t fare so well.”

  Her plastic bag, ripped and torn, lay on the ground, the trees crushed and splintered. Nearby, her purse dangled from a gangly shrub.

  “I really need to sit down.”

  Two sets of arms grabbed her as her knees finally let go.

  5

  Tuesday, May 14

  Nate avoided hospitals on the basis of what happened there. People were cut and chopped on, and then they died. This wasn’t a rational reaction to places of mercy, but Grandpa Bishop had broken a hip and survived surgery, only to die the next day with a blood clot to his lung. It could happen to anyone, but Nate still shivered when he drove past the place. Now his best buddy had been locked in the Logan Community Chop Shop for four days.

  During Chet’s surgery, Nate bravely sat with Betsy, Chet’s wife, in the waiting room. The smell of stale french fries, old coffee, and body odor nearly put him under the table, and he spent more time with his nose up his sleeve than not. The stench didn’t seem to bother Betsy. But then, she had dealt with dirty diapers recently.

  The lady at the reception desk smiled as he walked by, her pale eyes twinkling in recognition, the turquoise smock hanging loose around her stooped shoulders.

  “Hey, Mrs. Murphy.” Nate tried to keep on the good side of the grandmother-type.

  “Are you here to see Chet again?”

  “Yep.”

  “You were here last night.”

  “Yep.”

  He almost expected he
r to pull out a plate of freshly baked cookies, but instead she waved him on.

  He rounded the wall to the elevators.

  Two men in white lab coats with stethoscopes draped around their necks glanced at Nate then resumed their conversation.

  The elevator doors slid open.

  Nate pushed the five-button.

  One of the men paused the discussion about the benefits of laparoscopic versus incisional exploration long enough to press eight.

  The smell of antiseptic solutions greeted him as he exited the elevator. His stomach rolled. He hated hospitals, but he forced a bounce to his step as he strode into Chet’s room and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “How you feeling, buddy?”

  As usual, Betsy sat on the vinyl recliner alongside the bed, her legs drawn beneath her, and another hospital-issued white blanket draped over her lap.

  Nate bent and kissed her cheek. “You ever want to dump this man for someone new, come my way.” The words, spoken in jest, held a hint of sincerity. Nate dreamed of finding a woman as wonderful as Betsy.

  “I think I’ll keep him awhile yet.” Betsy patted her husband’s arm and gifted him with a smile that could speed global warming.

  “Those crazy crows still out there?”

  “You ask me that every evening, and yes, the crows are still here. Nasty things.”

  “Mrs. Rhonda told me the mayor is planning to trap them,” Betsy said.

  “Good luck with that.” Chet’s grin spread across his face.

  “They don’t act like normal crows.” Nate glanced toward the window. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a black form sitting on the ledge or a group of birds flying by, brushing the glass with their wings. Somehow, he knew the mayor would be unsuccessful. These crows were smart, too smart. “People are starting to get freaked out, and the birds just keep coming.”

  “Do you think I should keep Chip inside?” Betsy glanced at Nate. “I haven’t heard of anyone being attacked, but you never know. Maybe just until the mayor gets control of them?”

  “They just seem to be here. That sounds stupid, but those beady eyes look as though they’re watching us.” Nate gave a shaky laugh and wagged his fingers in the air. “Here I am, all superstitious suddenly.”