An Everyday Hero

by Laura Trentham

“From what I heard, you came home a hero, so I’m sure you’ve made your family proud. Your mama is worried about you out here all alone is all.”

  “A hero? You’re just like Mama and them. You don’t understand shit. Go on, and don’t come back.” His about-face was ruined by a slightly unbalanced totter on his artificial leg. The screen door banged shut followed by the slam of a solid door in red to match the roof.

  The tension retreated with him like a black cloud. She rose and descended the steps, scooping her hat up and putting it back on her head, the straw like hot needles against her scalp. Shuffling backward from the house, she took in the bees circling the lips of the beer bottles set up in a triangle and the half-empty Jack Daniel’s next to a rocking chair.

  As she turned, a twitch at the window curtains registered. Forcing herself not to look back, she stalked toward her car, only slowing when the protection of the trees swept around her. Sweat slid down her back and itched her scalp.

  She made it back over the gate without adding to her injuries, retrieved her shoes, and sat in the blessed coolness of her AC for a few minutes. She couldn’t imagine Emmett sitting down to talk out his issues, much less putting his feelings to paper. Too much roiled under the surface. She’d done her duty by Amelia and the foundation.

  Yet, a different duty tugged at her conscience. Duty to a boy who’d been kind to her for no reason. Duty to a man who’d sacrificed more than a leg for his country.

  She stopped at the crossroads. Right would take her home, where she had nothing waiting on her but the palpable worry emanating from her loving, hovering parents and an uncertain future. Left would take her around the perimeter of the Lawson’s horse farm to the main house. What did she owe Emmett? What did she owe herself?

  Before she could delve into the whys and wherefores, she turned left. The Lawson’s house was antebellum in style with white columns out front. Emmett’s mother had hosted teas and ladies’ get-togethers at the house when life was slower and socializing had nothing to do with electronics. Greer had never been invited inside.

  A horse barn stretched out to the right and the fences were well maintained this close to the working fields. The Lawsons specialized in training Tennessee walking horses and dressage horses, not racing.

  Greer parked out front and wished for a ponytail holder and a stick of deodorant. She had never seen Mrs. Lawson without perfectly coiffed hair and makeup and dressed in chic, age-appropriate clothes.

  Greer tugged on the hem of her skirt. Her wardrobe consisted of clothes appropriate for bars and performing, not calling on one of the oldest, most respected families in Madison. At least she’d put on her pearls that morning. She stepped onto the porch and raised her hand to knock when raised voices on the other side made her hesitate.

  She couldn’t make out the words, but a man and woman were arguing. Mr. and Mrs. Lawson presumably, although she’d never seen either of them say a harsh word to or about the other in public. They were admired and lauded. Mr. Lawson was a deacon and Mrs. Lawson headed up the charitable acts society at their church.

  She swallowed and considered her options. If she retreated, she wouldn’t come back. Her guilt over not being able to help Emmett would eventually fade and life would go on. She wouldn’t fool herself into believing otherwise.

  Couples fought all the time. They could be arguing over dinner plans or what color to paint their living room. She rapped on the door and the voices cut off. She rocked in her sandals and half turned to look back at her car and the road beyond, feeling awkward and wishing for an easy out.

  The door cracked open and revealed a sliver of Mrs. Lawson. She was in jeans and an untucked, oversize T-shirt with the farm logo on the pocket. Her hair was in a messy updo and her face was makeup free.

  While it had been years since Greer’s parents had guilted her into attending church with them and she’d seen Mrs. Lawson, she did not look like the same woman who lived in Greer’s memories. The skin at her eyes had thinned and sagged and the lines around her mouth had deepened. Her state of dishevelment wouldn’t have been surprising with anyone else, but Greer had never seen Mrs. Lawson looking less than perfect.

  “Mrs. Lawson.” Greer pasted on a smile she’d learned to wear when the spotlight was too bright and her stage fright crept up to sabotage her.

  “Why, Greer Hadley. I heard you moved back in with your parents.” Although no judgment marred the words, the way Mrs. Lawson refused to meet Greer’s eye told her enough about what else she’d heard.

  “I have, yes. Just until I get on my feet.”

  “What can I do for you, dear?” While her small smile contained a welcome, she didn’t swing the door wide and invite Greer inside.

  Sweat prickled the back of her neck as she searched for a space between polite and intrusive. “I’ve come from seeing Emmett and was hoping you had a moment to chat.”

  Mrs. Lawson touched her bloodless lips with blue-veined hands. “Oh my. Did he do something … impetuous?”

  “I should have called first.” Greer forced a reassuring smile. Mr. Lawson was nowhere in sight over Mrs. Lawson’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry. He’s having a difficult time at the moment.” Worry was writ in large print across Mrs. Lawson’s face. “What did he do?”

  In the little time Greer had spent with Emmett, she could sense the two things he couldn’t bear was to be a burden and to be pitied. No wonder he had sought out the solitude of the cabin. But if Mrs. Lawson was aware Emmett was scaring people off by shooting at them, she might have a stroke.

  “Nothing you need to apologize for. I’m working with the Music Tree Foundation, and Amelia had asked me to stop by to see him.”

  Mrs. Lawson’s mouth formed an O before she nodded and fully opened the door to finally invite Greer inside. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks. I had tea at Emmett’s.”

  “Did you? I didn’t think he let visitors get that close.” The laugh Mrs. Lawson attempted cracked.

  The Lawson house was more than 150 years old. The wood emitted a scent that whispered of ladies in hoop skirts and men on horseback. Mrs. Lawson led the way into a living room, throwing Greer into another time altogether. The mid-century furniture and accents of yellow flashed a picture of the ladies from town gathering for afternoon drinks and cigarettes before anyone knew they caused cancer.

  The furniture was delicate and the dust motes plentiful. Greer sank to the edge of a couch covered in a floral tapestry. Mrs. Lawson took a green velour armchair across from a low coffee table. The magazines stacked on top were months out of date. She fiddled with her wedding band. It was loose.

  “What’s happened to Emmett, Mrs. Lawson?” Greer didn’t mean to launch a direct assault, but Mrs. Lawson didn’t deflect the seriousness of the question.

  “War happened.”

  “His left leg?”

  “Amputated right below the knee. He feels the loss keenly—you’ll recall what an athlete he was—but his problems go deeper and darker than the physical. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Can you get him out of the cabin?”

  “I’ve tried, but he refuses.”

  “What about food? He must have to go to the grocery on occasion.” And the liquor store, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “I take him groceries every week and the occasional home-cooked meal. He’s already lost too much weight.” Mrs. Lawson pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. Grief had stripped away any social affectations.

  Greer could only imagine how difficult it was for Mrs. Lawson to see her only child suffer, but enabling his behavior wasn’t doing him any favors. He required a reason to rejoin the living and food seemed a fundamental need. “If you want my advice, I would stop food deliveries immediately. Lure him here with a dinner invite when you know he’s good and hungry. He’ll come out before he starves.”

  Mrs. Lawson looked away but nodded. “I’ll stop. I’m desperate enough to try anything to r
each him. Anything to get him home. That’s why I reached out to your uncle Bill.”

  Home. Even though Emmett was physically back, Greer understood what Mrs. Lawson meant. “I didn’t realize he was musically inclined.”

  “Oh, but he was. He loved the guitar in high school. Spent hours in his room. If he hadn’t been such a good football player—and of course, his father encouraged sports over music—Emmett might have joined the band.”

  Greer blinked and worked on squaring her memories with the new information. “Does he still play?”

  Mrs. Lawson shook her head. “I’m not sure. Wait here a moment.”

  She scurried away, the creak of the old wooden stairs and ceiling tracing her footsteps. The noise increased to bumps and bangs.

  “You’ve come from seeing Emmett?” The male voice swung her attention from the ceiling to the doorway.

  She shot to her feet. “Mr. Lawson. Nice to see you, sir.”

  He made a brushing motion as if her greeting were an annoying no-see-um. “How was he?”

  How to answer? Truthfully or politely? “He was fine.”

  Mr. Lawson retained a military bearing along with a buzz cut and clipped manner of speaking. Emmett had his build, but had inherited his smile and sense of humor from his mother. Greer had always found Mr. Lawson intimidating.

  “He still out there running everyone off with a gun and drinking himself to an early grave?”

  “He wasn’t drunk.” For some reason she couldn’t fathom, considering Emmett had been rude and scared the bejeezus out of her, she didn’t mention the gun or the bottles lined up like a squadron on his porch.

  “Small mercy. I would appreciate if you wouldn’t go gossiping around town about our situation.”

  “Of course not. I’d like to try to help Emmett. I’m volunteering with the Music Tree Foundation.”

  He snorted. “Volunteering? Is that what you kids are calling court-ordered service these days?”

  Anger went off in her chest like a sparkler. “Your son needs help, and it doesn’t seem to me that anyone else is breaking his door down.”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Greer held Mr. Lawson’s stony stare for as long as she could, grateful for Mrs. Lawson’s interruption. “Is everything all right?”

  “No, it’s not, Judy, and there’s no use in pretending it is.” He never took his eyes off Greer. Was he worried she would steal the silver? “Your parents are good people, but considering Emmett’s situation, the last thing he needs is a drunk influencing him.”

  The sparkler of anger turned into a Roman candle. “I’m not a drunk, Mr. Lawson. It was one night of poor decisions. Decisions I’m atoning for now.”

  Mrs. Lawson held a dust-covered guitar in her hands. “Greer is trying to help Emmett, dear.”

  “We don’t need her kind of help.”

  “You should be grateful I’m not calling the police and filing a report against him.”

  “I’m going to march out there and order him to move back here. That’s all there is to it.” Remnants of his life as a soldier clipped his words and squared his shoulders.

  “That is a terrible idea, sir.” Greer wished she were taller and more intimidating. “Let me try to—”

  “You will leave him alone.” His voice tolerated no dissent.

  A kernel of gumption sprouted in her heart. The last decade stumping and failing in Nashville had left her confidence and conviction battered. Success had never even grazed her fingertips. She’d stopped fighting for her dreams because her dreams had been dismantled piece by piece, year by year, until they were rubble.

  Where did the sudden urge to fight for Emmett come from? The defeat reflected in his eyes and the set of his shoulders had been only too familiar. As much love and worry as his parents carried for him—and she recognized Mr. Lawson’s anger was born of love—they didn’t understand him. She did.

  Emmett was a wounded animal burrowed in a hole. He wouldn’t be ordered out by Mr. Lawson or coddled out by Mrs. Lawson either. He had to be lured out, maybe even bullied out. She would probably fail—again—but dammit, she would try.

  “I’ll do what I believe is right, Mr. Lawson.” She took a step forward. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Mr. Lawson hesitated a beat longer than was polite before he cleared the doorway. Greer walked away as if she were leaving the stage after a poorly attended set. Head high and an unbothered expression on her face.

  She stepped outside. The humidity made a deep breath impossible. As she reached the bottom of the porch steps, Mrs. Lawson pushed through the screen door. “Greer! Hold up a second, would you?”

  Greer turned and looked beyond Mrs. Lawson, where the long shadow of her husband haunted the hall. “I’m sorry if I upset you or your husband. I can assure you, it wasn’t my intention.”

  Mrs. Lawson whispered, “Everything seems to upset Henry these days. He loves Emmett. Wanted to give him a hero’s welcome home—newspaper article, a party, school visits—but Emmett refused.”

  “Expectations can be more dangerous and disappointing than reality.”

  “Yes, they can.” Mrs. Lawson touched Greer’s wrist. “You seem very wise for one so young, my dear.”

  Greer was taken aback by the observation. Compared to her high school friends who were married with mortgages, Greer had been left behind. Her drunken exhibition at Becky’s had only cemented her state of immaturity.

  Doubt inserted itself like a splinter. Her life was in shambles. Why did she think she could help a man as broken and hurting as Emmett Lawson?

  “Here.” Mrs. Lawson pushed the guitar into Greer’s chest.

  She held her hands up. “What am I supposed to do with Emmett’s guitar?”

  “Take it to him. See if it will make a difference.” Mrs. Lawson was starved for hope. All Greer had to offer were crumbs.

  “Mr. Lawson doesn’t want me to interfere, and Emmett told me point-blank to never come back.”

  “I’m sure he did.” Mrs. Lawson’s blue eyes cut as deeply as her son’s. “But you wouldn’t be here right now if you weren’t going back.”

  Mrs. Lawson was right. Greer would try again. Not right away, but soon. She’d give him time to get comfortable in his solitude, before she shattered it again. In the meantime, she’d research issues returning veterans faced. Especially ones who had been wounded.

  Greer wrapped her hand around the neck of the guitar, the weight like an anchor. “I’ll give it another try. As long as he doesn’t threaten to shoot at me again.”

  Tears shined behind Mrs. Lawson’s smile. “Thank you.”

  Disappointment was inevitable, but Greer was too far down the road to do a U-turn now. “I’m not a therapist or even a good example of a successful, functioning member of society. Keep your expectations low.”

  Mrs. Lawson’s laugh was weak but natural. “Will you let me know how you make out?”

  “Sure thing.” Greer gave a little wave as she drove off, letting her smile and shoulders slump as soon as she was out of sight. What had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter 4

  The next two sessions with Ally at the Music Tree Foundation passed in silence. Not a comfortable, friendly silence or even a silence born of them working on lyrics, but an oppressive, stalking silence like that of a prisoner awaiting execution. It was exhausting.

  Greer wanted to coax Ally to open up and talk to her, but she had no experience with teenagers, beyond what she herself had experienced in high school, and had no idea how to breech the wall of resentment and cocky bitchiness Ally had erected.

  Greer fantasized about quitting and letting someone else deal with Ally, but according to Amelia, Greer was the last resort. If she walked out, Amelia wouldn’t sign off on her service hours, and Ally would be expelled from the program and referred back to the juvenile court system for a more severe punishment.

  Unable to throw Ally back into the system, Greer girded herself for another soul-withering session of silence b
efore stepping inside the Music Tree Foundation. Singing echoed from down the hall. The harmonizing between Amelia’s rich alto and the husky baritone drew Greer closer like the Pied Piper.

  She pressed her ear against the door and closed her eyes. It was an old mountain song about a young man dying and leaving his true love behind. The writer’s name had been lost to the mostly illiterate musicians handing it down through the generations.

  “Eavesdropping? Is that what you’re stooping to now?” The slice of Ally’s voice was a jagged line of darkness into the light the music cast.

  Greer popped her eyes open long enough to say, “Shut up and listen,” then she closed her eyes again and retreated into the magic Amelia and the man were creating in such a mundane setting.

  Greer didn’t notice Ally move, but when the song ended and Greer returned to the narrow hallway smelling of fresh paint, Ally had positioned herself like Greer’s mirror image. Silence again beset them, but it was unburdened. Words weren’t necessary when sharing music.

  It had been a long time since music had cast magic for Greer, but in the silence, she remembered how it used to be. Before music had transformed from a joy into a grueling job.

  Greer nudged her chin back toward their workroom, and Ally followed her inside without complaint. As the spell from the song faded, Greer whispered, “Did you feel it?”

  A hesitancy and unsureness stripped away Ally’s usual indifference. “I think so.”

  “What did the music make you feel?” Greer pitched her voice low as if the music hung in the room like spirits that could be frightened away.

  “Kind of sad.”

  “Me too. I felt like crying, but at the same time, I didn’t want it to end.”

  “It was more than just the words that made it sad, though, wasn’t it?” Ally’s gaze darted to Greer’s face and back down.

  It was as if Greer had sighted a rare bird. She forced a nonchalant lilt into her voice. “The minor key gives it a melancholy feel. The best songwriters wield power over people’s emotions. The choice of key makes the difference between a happy pop song and an FU breakup song and a melancholy ballad.”