by Penny Reid
Duane flipped on the light in my room and began straightening the bed, fluffing the pillow, and turning down the blanket. Beau set me on the floor next to the foot of the bed and wrapped me in his big arms.
“We missed you, Ash.” His voice was watery, though I seriously doubted he would actually cry.
Duane joined us and hugged me from behind. “I’m sorry I put maggots in your macaroni and cheese. I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time.”
Then Beau said, “And I’m sorry we used to hold you down and spit in your mouth.”
“Ugh! Gross, Beau.” I gagged a little. “I’d forgotten about that.”
The memories stirred something in me. The severity of the twins’ acts of torment was nothing in comparison to the frequency. They had launched volleys at me daily, hourly, whenever I was at home. I’d never thought of them as particularly lovable because my earliest memories involved their constant assaults.
I tried to reach out to my brothers while I was in college to form some kind of sisterly bond with them on a more grown-up level. In return, they showed up at my dorm room stoned, behaved like criminals, and hid buckets of freshly slaughtered pigs’ feet in my friends’ rooms. It took weeks for us to find them all.
I didn’t know what to think about all that now. I tsked and laughed at the absurdity of the moment, the apology for things that happened years ago, yet it wasn’t that absurd. Their wild behavior had kept us in limbo for eight years.
Too tired to talk, I lifted my arms to hug my brothers. We stood together for several moments then Beau and Duane pulled away. Beau held my gaze—his eyes still glassy—then he took a step back.
“You need anything, we’re right next door.”
“That’s right, anything at all.” Duane put his hand on Beau’s shoulder. “But you might want to knock first.”
He hadn’t meant it as a joke. It was a sober warning meant to save me from embarrassment. Too late.
Beau closed his eyes, gave his head a subtle shake, and pushed Duane toward the door. “You’re a dummy.”
“What? What did I say?” Duane said, glancing between his twin and me.
“Just keep walking, dummy.” Beau’s eyes flickered to mine, apologetic and irritated, then he managed to guide his twin the rest of the way, closing the door behind them.
I went through the motions of putting on my pajamas and brushing my hair, thinking about not much, but what I thought about was on the spin cycle, and it was making me dizzy. So I sat on my bed and stared into the mirror.
I had bags under my eyes. In the morning, I would have to go hunting for hemorrhoid cream. Or I could just not care. I decided not to care.
I heard a knock followed by my door creaking open.
“Are you decent?” Jethro’s voice sounded from the hallway.
“Yes. Come in.”
He pushed his way into my room using his elbows because his hands were full. He held a plate in one hand with a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on it, and a cup of tea in the other that smelled like lemon, peppermint, and bourbon.
“Food,” he said, placing everything on the nightstand.
I glanced at the sandwich and tea, but made no response.
“Come on now, you need to eat.” Jethro picked up the plate and sat next to me. “Doctor’s orders.”
My eyes flickered to my brother then to the perfectly grilled cheese sandwich. I took it. Took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
He passed me the tea. “Now drink.”
I squinted at him. “This has bourbon in it.”
“Yes, it does. Good, Tennessee bourbon, guaranteed to make the pain go away. Drink it.”
Making the pain go away sounded pretty good, so I took a sip. It was warm, not hot, and tasted like bourbon and honey. I took a larger gulp then followed it with another bite of my sandwich.
“Thank you,” I said; the warmth of the alcohol spread down my throat to my chest.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Drew. He made all this.”
I studied Jethro for another moment, took a bite of my sandwich. I debated whether I wanted to have this conversation at all, let alone now. In the end, I gave in to both curiosity and avoidance of heavier subjects.
“So…Drew. Who is this guy?”
“He’s my boss.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s the federal game warden for this stretch of the park.”
I frowned, not sure what a game warden was, so I asked. “What’s that? Like a park ranger?” I followed this question with another large gulp of my tea-laced bourbon.
“Uh, no. He’s not a park ranger. Game wardens are law enforcement officers. Most are employed by the state they work in. Drew is federal law enforcement. He was appointed to the Great Smokies by some big-wigs in Washington.”
I watched Jethro as I bit, chewed, swallowed, repeat; I thought about this information. At least I tried to think about this information. The bourbon plus no sleep plus no food all day plus news of my mother’s terminal diagnosis were all battling for dominance, Mad Max style, in my brain cage.
“Federal law enforcement.” I shook my head hoping to clear it. “What does that mean in terms of a national park? And why was he appointed? And how come he’s here? And how does he know Momma?”
Jethro nodded toward my tea and waited until I drank before responding. “Well, him being a game warden and a federal officer…what that means is that he’s some kind of big shot, PhD guy sent down from Washington to keep the park safe. And I think he was appointed because he’s an expert in endangered wildlife. He’s here tonight because I asked him to stay just in case you had news when you got home from the hospital. And he met Momma at the library when he was appointed to his position at the park. They’re friends.”
I had trouble believing a few of his assertions. First, Drew “Mountain-of-a-Man” Runous did not strike me as a Dr. Runous unless his PhD was in lumberjacking or plundering or beard growing or headlining in sexy daydreams and dirty fantasies. Secondly, Dr. Runous’s posture of entitlement this morning and odd possum behavior tonight made me question what kind of friends he was with Momma.
My eyes weren’t cooperating; I couldn’t keep them both open, so I peered at Jethro through my left eye. “What kind of friends?”
Even through one eye, I could see that Jethro was scowling at me. “Nothing like that, Ash. Get your mind out of the gutter. He’s one of us. He’s like a son to her and a brother to all of us. For God’s sake, he’s a year younger than me. Plus he’s not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“He’s…shy, I think. Quiet. He doesn’t talk much, not even to me.”
“He doesn’t seem quiet to me, and he looks like he’d be a playboy, impregnating all the local girls with Viking babies.”
“You have a wild imagination, sis. I think he’s just the opposite. In fact, I’m not one to tell stories, but I think he might be celibate.”
That got both my eyes open.
“We’ve all tried to hook him up, but he won’t even go to the bar with us.”
“Maybe he doesn’t drink.”
“No, he drinks. We’ve tossed back beer and whiskey from time to time. He just doesn’t socialize much. And he’s definitely not interested in Momma, so get that thought out of your head.”
I shrugged. “Well, how am I supposed to know? He called her Bethany. And he’s hanging around here, and he cooks, and he kissed my forehead, and his beard tickles, and…and he looks like a Viking.”
Jethro frowned at me. “You’re drunk. You need to eat more of that sandwich.”
Instead, I sipped the bourbon and forced my eyes to focus on Jethro, who was looking blurrier by the minute. “What could Drew and Momma possibly have in common?”
“They talk about poetry, books, meaning of life stuff. He’s always bringing her books. I think they like the same kind of stuff. He’s got that PhD, and Momma, you know she always wanted to go to college.”
I nodded because I did
know. I did know that she always wanted to go to college.
But I was tempted to shake my head because I couldn’t reconcile the image of Drew and Momma reading poetry together. This was partly because I used to read poetry with her. This was also partly because my first impression of Drew told me that he only read magazines related to guns, cars, naked ladies, and facial hair.
I finished half of the sandwich and washed it down with the rest of the tea.
“I need to sleep,” I said, swaying a little.
“What about brushing your teeth?” This was an unexpected question coming from Jethro, not because he lacked appropriate dental care. In fact, he had lovely teeth. It was unexpected because it verged on nurturing.
My eyes were closed, and this time neither of them would be opening for several hours. “No…can’t…must…sleep.”
I fell backward against the pillow, already half passed out. I wasn’t fully conscious when Jethro lifted my legs onto the bed, pulled back the covers, and tucked me in. But I did surface long enough to feel his kiss on my cheek, his hand squeezing my shoulder, and to hear him whisper something about sweet dreams before he flicked off the light and closed the door.
CHAPTER 4
“Woman’s love involves injustice and blindness against everything that she does not love.... Woman is not yet capable of friendship: women are still cats and birds, or at best cows.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche
Duane didn’t lock the second floor bathroom door.
Therefore, upon waking, stumbling out of bed, tucking my toiletry bag under my arm, and shuffling to the bathroom, I had another lesson in the importance of knocking. The interaction also negated any need I might have had for caffeine to bring me fully awake.
He screamed.
I gasped then growled and grumbled as I marched out of the bathroom. “Is this all you boys do? Hide in the upstairs bathroom? Get a hobby for hootenanny’s sake!”
I didn’t bother to shut the door behind me. Instead, I raced down the steps to the first floor and used the bathroom under the stairs. When I was finished with my morning routine, I tucked my toiletries behind the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Really, I was fighting the urge to run back upstairs and read. I did this by giving myself a stern stink-eye.
Reading, for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn’t asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infinitely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people.
Take romance for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses.
These clean, well-satisfied, perma-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists, or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he’s a cool guy (or gal) who’s invested in the woman’s love life. Or, he’s a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants.
My boss cares about two things: Am I on time? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift?
And the men in romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes.
I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I’d be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.
I thought longingly of my eReader upstairs in my room. I hadn’t read since the day before yesterday, and that was on the plane.
What I needed to do was face my brood of brothers and figure out next steps.
What I wanted to do was hide in my room with my latest novel and escape into a world without bearded, masturbating hillbillies, and a world where my beloved mother wasn’t dying.
In the end, I surrendered to reality and made my way to the kitchen in search of coffee. I hoped at least one or two of them would be up. I hoped maybe I might persuade the others to have a family meeting sometime in the afternoon.
However, the scene that greeted me in the kitchen was surprising. Heck, it was downright baffling.
Roscoe, my youngest brother, was standing at our old gas stove making omelets. He was showered and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, all of which appeared to be in good order. I hadn’t really noticed much last night after my fainting spell, but now I saw that Roscoe wore his brown beard trimmed close to his face, the hair on his head cut short and stylish. In fact, it looked as if his hair had product in it.
Bizarre.
I rubbed my forehead, half wondering if I was still asleep. The entire picture in the kitchen was completely bizarre. My brothers were up at 7:30 a.m. They all appeared to be dressed for work—work!—and were interacting like mild mannered, well-adjusted, productive members of society. I was so confused.
Tangentially I noted that the roosters were at it again in the backyard, several of them crowing like the devil. I was beginning to get used to the sound; it was becoming the background music to the soundtrack of Tennessee.
Roscoe glanced over his shoulder and gave me a tight smile. It looked sad. “Hey, Ash. How you holding up? Want an omelet?”
I nodded, staring at him for another full ten seconds. “Yes. Yes, please. That would be great.”
“You want toast too?” Cletus asked. “I can make you some toast.” He was dressed in blue Dickies, which were worn but clean, and had a patch with his name sewn on the left pocket of his work jumpsuit.
“That would be great. Thanks, Cletus.”
“She likes butter and strawberry jam, right Ash?” Billy, standing next to Cletus—wearing black suit, white shirt, and black tie—indicated to me with his coffee cup, his expression detached.
My eyebrows lifted at Billy’s remembrance of my toast preferences as well as the fact that he was wearing a suit. “That’s right.”
Billy muttered something under his breath, just low enough for me not to hear.
“What was that?” I questioned him.
His blue eyes, same shape and color as mine, lifted and he gave me a cool glare. “I said you’ve been gone for eight years. It’s a wonder we know anything about you.”
I frowned at him, and was about to question him further when Jethro cut into the conversation.
“I heard a scream.” He made this statement from the kitchen table. He was dressed in what appeared to be some kind of park ranger uniform. An open newspaper—a newspaper?!—was on the table in front of him along with a half-eaten omelet. “Was that scream from you or Duane?”
I sighed. “That was Duane.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Today is Wednesday. I thought no one was assigned to Wednesday.”
“Unassigned days are wild card days, first come, first serve deal. He’s been up there since sunrise.” Roscoe shook his head.
I rolled my eyes, wished I hadn’t asked the question. “Anyway, I forgot to knock again. It was my fault.”
“We should get a bell for your neck.” Billy’s blue eyes regarded me thoughtfully beneath dark brown eyebrows. He made this suggestion matter-of-factly, like it was a very reasonable, good idea. To him, it probably was.
Of the brothers, Billy was the most serious and stern. I could count on one hand all the times I’d heard him laugh while we were growing up. His cool attitude this morning notwithstanding, I also suspected he was the smartest in the traditional sense. Facts and figuring came easy to him, especially anything to do with machines.
“Might as well just change my name to Bessie while you’re at it,” I mumbled.
“‘…wome
n are still cats and birds, or at best cows.’”
This little gem came from the corner of the kitchen behind me, and was received by the rest of the room with a tangible stretch of silence. I frowned at the words—their implied meaning and their origin—and at the voice that spoke them.
As I suspected, when I turned I found Drew leaning against the counter, sipping coffee, and eying me over the rim of his cup with those silvery blues.
He was dressed in a uniform, the kind a very official, super important park ranger might wear. Unlike Jethro’s, his had a lot more pockets, a badge, and a gun. A cowboy hat was at his elbow on the counter; he also wore cowboy boots. I noted with detachment that his beard and hair had undergone a transformation. His facial hair had been trimmed, though his blond beard was still impressive. The unkempt locks on his head had been brushed, pulled back, and fastened behind his neck.
I noted these things with a small degree of womanly interest. It was instinctual, incidental, the way a person would notice a Maserati racing down the street and think, That’s a nice car.
His tidy, official-looking appearance—nay, his commanding appearance—did nothing to endear him to me, especially not after calling me a cow.
Therefore, I spoke my thoughts before I could catch myself. “Really? You’re really going to quote Nietzsche to me? To me? Nietzsche? To the sole female in the room?” I motioned to the kitchen with a flailing, frustrated hand wave. “When I first wake up? Before I’ve had coffee? After finding one of my brothers mating with his hand upstairs for the second time in as many days, and I’m the cow?”
“Can’t mate with hooves,” Drew said, his delivery deadpan.
“And yet, many men prefer the company of sheep over their hands, or even women.” I said this sweetly before I gave him my back and glared at Jethro. “I need to talk to you.”
I tilted my head toward the family room and walked out of the kitchen, waiting for Jethro to follow. I didn’t have to wait very long; but to my infinite aggravation, Dr. Drew Runous, PhD, trailed right behind my brother tucking his leather notebook into one of the side pockets of his cargo pants.