by Sharon Sala
He sat down in his father’s chair and, not for the first time, thought how it still smelled like him. The pipe he occasionally smoked—the aftershave that he had worn. He sighed. It was almost like being cradled in his arms.
He turned on the TV, took a drink, and then kicked back in the recliner. A few minutes later the pop was gone, the TV was on mute, and he was asleep.
Laurel was undressing in a darkened room. She didn’t know he was there. He watched from the shadows as the clothing came away one piece at a time until she was bare.
He saw her reaching for a hairbrush, and then she began brushing her hair. In the dream, sparks flew like fireflies, and the more she brushed, the higher the sparks went until they turned into lightning arcing all around her.
“Turn around and see me,” he whispered, so she turned and held out her hand.
He took a step, and then another, and the closer he moved, the higher the flames grew around her. She was danger. And she was love. He chose love and embraced her—then burned up in her fire.
Chapter 15
The rain turned to snow sometime during the night. It was sticking on the grass and bushes, on the roof and on Laurel’s car, but it wasn’t sticking on the ground.
She bundled Bonnie up against the cold and was congratulating herself for grabbing the little UGG boots Bonnie was wearing at the all-city yard sale in August. They were a tiny bit too large, but with thicker socks, they were perfect.
Bonnie was happy about her fuzzy boots, as she called them, and so ecstatic it was snowing that Laurel knew she hadn’t heard a word she was saying. “Do you remember I’m going to pick you up from school today?” Laurel asked.
“Yes, Mommy. What about a snowman?”
“The snowman is for later, and only if it snows enough to stick. We are talking about now. Listen carefully, okay? Don’t forget to give the note to your teacher so she’ll know to keep you off the bus.”
“I won’t forget,” Bonnie said. “Can we build a girl snowman?”
Laurel chuckled. “Then it would be a snow girl.”
Bonnie frowned. “But how will people know it’s a girl?”
Laurel poked her daughter in the chest. “We’ll put boobies on her. How about that?”
Bonnie giggled. “Yes! Snow boobies!”
Laurel buttoned up Bonnie’s coat and then helped her into her backpack. “It’s time to go to the bus stop, honey. Let me get my coat.”
“Can we walk, Mommy? I wanna walk in the snow.”
“The driveway is still soft and muddy. Maybe we can walk on the grass, okay?”
“Yes, yes!” And out the door they went.
They were almost at the stop when they saw the big yellow bus appearing as it rounded the curve. “There it comes!” Bonnie cried.
“He sees us,” Laurel said. “See, he’s waving. He’ll wait for you.”
She got Bonnie on the bus and then jogged back to the house. She needed to hurry or she was going to be late for work.
Within a few minutes, she was driving past Jake’s house with an ache in her stomach. She wanted him. There was no denying the feelings. Where their relationship went was yet to be determined, but she’d made up her mind last night that if he asked, she would not say no.
* * *
They laid Adele Payne to rest in the family cemetery behind her house as the snow fell on the mourners, muffling the sounds of their grief and most of the preacher’s prayer.
When it was over, friends and family gathered back at Beverly’s home, where they’d been ever since they’d learned of her death. Beverly was glad to get home out of the cold and was so ready for this time of mourning to be over. She wanted her home back. She wanted to be done with sadness, but their family had been shattered. It would take time for the tragedy of what happened to fade.
She stood in the warmth of her home, happy with the life she and her husband had made for themselves and their boys. They didn’t have grandeur, but they had comfort, and they had enough. It still hurt her heart that they’d let Laurel suffer. She had a lot of prayers ahead of her before she would ever feel right with God.
* * *
Truman was cold. The propane tank was empty. A slight oversight on his part. Not only did he not have heat, but it also meant he couldn’t warm up anything to eat. He was sitting in the living room with a blanket wrapped around him when the lights suddenly flickered, then went out.
He cursed, then got up and went to the kitchen to look through the pile of unpaid bills. And there was the electric bill—another oversight. Great. He’d spent most of his money getting his truck out of impound, and now he was broke until his monthly check arrived. He needed a lot of money to get all of this up and going.
He thought about places to heist, but not in Blessings. Not anymore. Even animals knew not to shit where they slept. He thought about the last time he’d been in Savannah, and that liquor store down by the river on the outskirts of the city. It seemed a good a place as any to heist.
He got his pistol and ammo and then wasted time digging around for his gloves before he remembered they were under the seat of his truck, and out the door he went. He didn’t even bother locking up the house. There wasn’t anything to steal, no lights to see by, and too damn cold to linger.
He drove away with his head in the clouds, already spending the money he had yet to steal.
* * *
When Jake woke up, he was still in the recliner, and the TV was still on mute. He was a bit stiff as he stood, but he had slept through the night. He glanced back at the recliner.
“Thanks for the good night’s sleep, Dad.”
He was on his way to the bathroom when he glanced out the window and saw the snow. Unlike Bonnie, he was not enamored of the falling white stuff or the fact that he’d be spending the day inside.
Once he was dressed and had a cup of coffee at hand, he sat down to go through email and messages. There was one from Sophia thanking him again for coming. He sent a response back and went through the rest, pausing to linger on one from yet another buddy in his old unit. Myron Fitz, who they’d all called Ron, was back at his advertising company and still after Jake to reconsider the offer he’d made when they were both in hospital rehab.
To Jake’s surprise and Ron’s delight, Jake had a knack for writing hooks—the tag line that advertisers use to sell products and grow the reputation of companies, large and small. Even though Ron had been bed-bound, he could still do ad work on his laptop, and because of their proximity, one day while they were both hospitalized he challenged Jake to come up with a hook for one of their new campaigns. Once Jake understood the concept and what they were going for, his idea astounded Ron. Ron ran it by his men at the next meeting, and it was accepted.
Jake thought it was funny.
Ron was delighted.
And after numerous other incidents during their recovery when Jake continued to repeat his success, Ron actually offered Jake a job. Jake laughed again and turned him down cold. He wanted nothing to do with big cities. He was going home.
But, according to Ron’s latest email, he had a job offer he wanted Jake to consider. If Jake could work from home, would he reconsider the job offer?
Now Jake was curious.
He sent back a long message asking detailed questions, what the pay and benefits would be, and would regular traveling be involved, or could all of their face time be dealt with by Skype? As he hit Send, he thought of Laurel and couldn’t help but wonder if this would play into a job that would comfortably support him—and a family—if he should happen to ever have one.
The fact that Laurel and Bonnie always came to mind when he thought of a future was a risky emotion to play with. He had no notion whether she would be receptive, but like the job offer, it was something to think about.
* * *
Truman was only a few miles from
Blessings when he slid off the main road into a ditch. He tried driving himself out, but the mud was deep, and he only got stuck worse. Now he needed a tow to get out, but there were problems regarding his predicament.
A: He was a convicted felon with a firearm and ammunition in his vehicle.
B: The only friend he had who might pull him out was Nester, but since Truman had broken his nose, the friend part was iffy. Still, he had to give it a try.
But then things got worse. As he was making the call, his truck, which had been leaning precariously, just went ahead and laid over on its side.
“What the hell!” Truman yelled, and dropped the phone to grab on to the steering wheel, which was actually just a reflex, because holding the wheel meant nothing to the fallen truck without tires on the ground. “Crap on a stick!” Truman yelled, as he slid all the way across the seat, coming to rest against the passenger side door on his back. And he couldn’t see his phone.
He paused to get his bearings and glanced out through the windshield at the still-falling snow. Then he looked straight up at the driver’s side door, which was now on the high side of the truck. Getting out would be like climbing to the second floor of a house—without the stairs.
Frustrated, still hungry and still freezing, and still packing the gun that could get him sent back to prison, he took a deep breath and then got down on the door on his hands and knees and began looking for his phone. He finally saw it wedged between the seat and the passenger side door. But that door was wedged against the bank of the ditch. He could see it, but he couldn’t reach it. After skinning the hide off his knuckles and promising God he wouldn’t rob a soul if He’d just help him get out of the ditch, he thought of taking off his belt to try and reach the phone. The buckle was heavy—maybe he could drag it out.
So off came the belt. His pants slipped a little, but he didn’t have time to pull anything up. Now he was on both knees trying to thread the buckle down to the phone. Finally, he got it in position right behind the phone and slowly began to pull. The buckle was heavy enough that it caught on the phone and pulled it out, too.
“Gotcha, you little bastard!” Truman crowed, then heard a knock.
He looked up. There was a highway patrolman looking down at him.
“Sir! Are you okay?” the patrolman yelled.
“Yes, yes, I dropped my phone.” He held it up. “I was just about to call a friend for a tow!” Truman yelled.
“I’ll call a tow truck,” the patrolman said.
“I don’t have any money to pay him!” Truman yelled.
“You can’t pull this truck upright and then out of a ditch with a log chain, buddy.”
“If you call him, you have to pay him,” Truman yelled, but the patrolman was gone, the gun and the ammunition were in the glove box, and Truman was pretty much up shit creek.
In a panic, he pulled back the floor mats, felt around underneath the dash, and then made a rash decision and jammed the gun between the seats and shoved the ammunition in beside it. Then he grabbed a handful of greasy rags and stuffed them in on top. He started to say a prayer about the weapon, and then stopped, thinking God wouldn’t give a shit if he got caught with that, so the praying ended.
An hour passed while Truman contemplated the terrible condition of his fingernails. Then he noticed one of his boots was missing a heel, at which time he got back on his knees and found the heel caught beneath the floor mat. He put the heel in his pocket and sat back on the door. He was just about to have himself a fit when the tow truck arrived and things started happening.
The patrolman came back to the window and knocked. “Do you want to get out before they pull out your truck?”
“I’ll stay here,” Truman yelled.
“Then hang on,” the patrolman said, and disappeared again.
Truman reached for the steering wheel, but he should have grabbed his pants because his belt was still in the floor. He made a quick transition from one end of the cab seat to the other as the truck began to move into an upright position. In no time the truck was out of the ditch and back on the highway. He looked up in his rearview mirror and sighed. Here came that cop again.
Truman rolled down his window. “Thank you.”
The patrolman nodded.
“The tow truck driver has agreed to bill you. I need your driver’s license. If you’ll get out of the truck while we write up all the paperwork, you can soon be on your way.”
“Yeah, sure,” Truman said.
He opened the door and stepped out onto the blacktop as his pants dropped to his ankles.
The driver of the tow truck laughed.
The patrolman grinned. “I only need to see your driver’s license, sir.”
Jake pulled up his pants and then grabbed his belt out of the truck.
“I was using it to get my phone,” he muttered as he threaded it through the belt loops, then handed his license to the cop.
The tow truck driver took a picture of the license with his phone then sent it to the office for the boss to okay.
The patrolman had already run the tag, knew the truck belonged to a convicted felon, but he had no outstanding wants or warrants, and it wasn’t against the law to slide into a ditch on a slick road. And now he saw that the driver’s license matched the owner of the vehicle and that Truman did not appear incapacitated in any way other than the fact that he had no butt to hold up his pants. His job here was done.
Truman was stunned when both the driver and the cop drove away. His original plan had been to rob that store, but he made that promise to God about not robbing anybody if He’d just help him get out of that ditch.
His shoulders slumped.
It was hard being honest.
He sat there a few minutes, running scenarios through his head, and then remembered his Aunt Sugar. He didn’t know if she was still alive, but she might let him stay with her a bit until he could get his monthly disability check.
Satisfied with the new plan, he very carefully turned the truck around. He had to go back through Blessings to get there, but he was going to pay Aunt Sugar a visit.
* * *
Sugar Thomas had spent most of her adult life living down the fact that her sister Candy had married Baker Slade, the most worthless man to ever walk their side of the mountain. She tithed at church, didn’t gossip, and liked her privacy, which was why she and her man had built their little house up so high. She told people it was because she felt closer to God, but the truth was, few people bothered to drive that far, which suited her just fine.
She was in her kitchen putting on the kettle to make some elderberry tea when she thought she heard a car coming up the road. She turned off the fire under the kettle and went to the window to look out and saw a pickup truck approaching.
“Who on earth might this be?” she wondered, and went to the hall closet to get her rifle.
Now that she was a widow, the burden of taking care of business fell on her shoulders, and this was no exception. She checked to make sure the gun was loaded and then stepped out onto the porch with it cradled in her arms.
Her eyes weren’t what they used to be, but when she saw the man who got out of that truck, she didn’t have to look twice. It was Candy’s youngest offspring, an unfortunate happening that occurred during her tenth year of married life.
She pulled herself up to her full height of six feet and swung the gun around so that it was aimed in the vicinity of his feet.
Truman panicked. He’d left the truck running in case he might need to make a fast break, and it appeared his instincts had been right. It appeared he was going to have to sweet talk her some. “Aunt Sugar! It’s me, Truman.”
“I know who it is. That’s why I have aimed at your feet. If you wasn’t kin, I would have already shot the hat off your head as a reminder that I don’t like company, don’t want company, not having any, eith
er.”
Truman sighed.
So much for mooching a place to stay. Still, he might be able to get her to come up with some cash. “I will be honest, Aunt Sugar. I have had a run of bad luck and—”
“Do you have a job?” she asked.
“Uh, not at the moment, which—”
“Did you get fired?”
“No, ma’am, I—”
“So, if you weren’t fired, and you don’t have a job, that tells me you’re living on welfare. Have you even held a job since you got out of prison?”
He shrugged. “No one wants to hire me.”
“Funny how that happens when you went to jail for robbing honest, hardworking people. I guess word gets around.”
Truman felt the ground falling out from under plan B.
“It’s cold, and it’s dark in my house, Aunt Sugar. I need to buy propane and pay my electric bill. I was wondering if—”
She pulled the trigger.
Dirt flew up on his shoes and his pant legs, but he was already running. He swung into the seat, shoved the truck into reverse, and backed out of her sight before he slowed down enough to dare turning around.
Now he was mad, and it was all Jake Lorde’s damn fault. If he’d kept his mouth shut back in the day, Truman would never have gone to jail, and he wouldn’t be in this mess.
He stomped the accelerator as he headed down the mountain. This time he was calling Nester and wasn’t taking no for an answer.
* * *
The snow lasted long enough that Bonnie got to make her snow girl before she went to bed that night. Laurel spent the evening poring over recipes, and then in the end, opted for meat loaf because it was her daddy’s favorite.
Jake had read Ron’s offer, sent emails back and forth regarding how they would furnish the client’s info, what the focus of the new ad would entail, and if someone else would be responsible for the artwork that goes with the campaigns.