An Everyday Hero

by Laura Trentham

  * * *

  Pressure along his side brought him out of his coma-like sleep. He blinked against the weak light. Gray clouds blocked the sun, leaving him in deep shadow on the porch. In the army, if you didn’t learn to catch sleep in uncomfortable positions and places, then you didn’t sleep at all. A clean porch under an overhang was luxurious. Except he must be out of practice because his body was hating him this morning.

  Another nudge against his hip had him raising his head and squinting at the person looming over him.

  “You gave me a scare.” His father’s face took shape.

  Frown lines and the bags under his eyes were made more pronounced by gravity. Always trim and athletic, Emmett’s father had seemed to defy the march of time. His hair had remained blondish-brown with no gray, and more important, it simply remained. But in the moment, Emmett could catalog the years gone by in wrinkles and worry.

  “Morning.” Emmett’s voice was hoarse.

  “Do you need aspirin and water? Feel up to eating?” His dad held up a bag.

  Emmett’s stomach growled. If his nose wasn’t deceiving him, country ham and biscuits awaited. He’d skipped dinner the night before. He sat up and rubbed his face. His stubble was turning into a beard. “I’m starving, actually. I didn’t eat anything last night.”

  “Did you drink your dinner?”

  For a moment, Emmett didn’t catch his father’s meaning, but when he did, embarrassment flushed through him. He’d never broken house rules as a teenager—no drinking, no drugs, no sex—so having his father suspect he was hungover summoned a teenage-like shame.

  “I haven’t been drinking.” The defensiveness was misplaced. He had spent more nights than was healthy hanging out with Jack Daniel’s.

  His father merely cast a look at the half-empty bottle of whiskey and row of shot glasses on the table by the rocking chair.

  “I was actually…” He checked all around them, but there was no sign of the kitten. “I was out in the storm because I thought I saw something.”

  His dad kept a cat in the horse barn to keep the mouse problem under control, but it had never been a pet. Admitting he’d crawled through cobwebs and mud to rescue a kitten who’d since returned his kindness by running off was not an option. Anyway, based on the weird look his dad was giving him, he might not believe the truth.

  “Power back on?” Emmett asked.

  “Came back early this morning. Why don’t you get cleaned up while I brew some coffee.” His dad hesitated before offering a hand up. The last time his dad had shown up unannounced to offer help, Emmett had yelled at him to mind his own damn business and get the hell away.

  As there was no graceful way to rise to his one leg, he clasped his dad’s hand. With the strength of a longtime horse trainer, he hauled Emmett up with little effort and held on to Emmett’s hand longer than was necessary or comfortable.

  How long had it been since he’d held his dad’s hand? He’d shaken it on many occasions. After his last high school football game. At graduation, both high school and college. At his officer’s induction. But a time had once existed when he’d slipped his hand into his dad’s for comfort and protection. Crossing the street or walking into school the first day of kindergarten.

  His dad let go, clearing his throat and leading the way into the cabin. Emmett hopped behind him like a defective toy soldier. He grabbed his prosthetic and retreated to the bathroom. The pity on his dad’s face was what he had been trying to avoid since coming home.

  He flipped the water on to heat and examined the beast staring back at him from the mirror. His mud-caked hair was three shades darker, and his face had chunks of dirt stuck to it. His sleeve was ripped where he’d caught his arm on the nail, but blood mixed with grime and disguised the extent of the injury.

  He might have laughed at himself, except his dad had looked him over as if his appearance wasn’t a shock. Like he spent his days and nights drinking and wallowing around in mud only to sleep on his porch. Could he blame his dad? Emmett had shut his parents out. No doubt their imaginations elicited the worst-case scenarios.

  He sat on the edge of the tub and swung his legs around to stand under the hot spray. Brown rivulets of grime ran down his body. He shampooed three times before he felt human again and paid careful attention to cleaning his stump and the gash on his arm.

  Using a set of the many crutches he kept stashed around the cabin, he slipped into the bedroom. No clean underwear. A fact he wouldn’t mention to his dad. Commando, he pulled on his usual uniform of loose-fitting khakis and a T-shirt.

  He attached his prosthetic and pulled his pant leg down to disguise it as usual. Walking out to join his dad in the kitchen with his prosthetic camouflaged lent a sense of normalcy he desperately needed.

  His dad stared out the narrow window over the sink and sipped a mug of black coffee. Emmett poured himself the same and leaned his hip against the counter. His dad had maintained the same military-style haircut since Emmett could remember. He had also retained a stern demeanor that Emmett associated with drill sergeants even though his dad had been in Army Special Forces.

  “I knew men who came home broken, Emmett. Good men. Back then we didn’t talk about it. We were expected to suck it up and deal with it.”

  Emmett tamped down an instinctive defensiveness only his dad could arouse. None of the impatience of their recent clashes laced his dad’s voice, though, and Emmett forced himself to ask, “Did you suck it up?”

  The intensity his dad focused out the window made Emmet wonder if the Second Coming was taking place in the overgrown field. Finally, his dad said, “I had friends who turned to alcohol and drugs. Some ended up homeless or dead. They eventually disappeared.”

  His dad had never discussed his time in the army beyond platitudes about the glory and honor of serving his country. A display case of his medals took their rightful place next to a case of Emmett’s great-grandfather’s World War II medals and his grandfather’s Vietnam medals. His dad had engaged in obscure, ambiguous conflicts around the world. Had he made hard decisions that cost lives? Did he carry regrets?

  Emmett wasn’t brave enough to ask. Instead, he said, “I’m not an alcoholic.” Yet. The word hung in the air between them. He had tramped too far down that road to be comfortable with the denial. “I wasn’t drunk last night.”

  His dad’s gaze flitted toward him but settled to stare out the window. He didn’t believe Emmett, and honestly, given his recent history, Emmett wouldn’t have believed the pronouncement either.

  His dad continued on as if Emmett hadn’t spoken. “There was little help available back then, but there is now. Here’s a pamphlet from a center in Arizona.”

  His dad pulled a full-color shiny pamphlet from his back pocket and held it out. Emmett took it and skimmed its pages. It was a rehab facility. Private and discreet. A well of bitterness soured any warm, fuzzy feelings Emmett had developed over the last half hour. Of course it wouldn’t do for Madison to gossip about the Lawson boy’s “problem.”

  Emmett tossed the pamphlet on the counter. “That’s not the kind of help I need.”

  “What do you need, son?” His dad finally shifted to face off with him. “You’ve got a lot of life ahead of you. What are you going to do with it? Waste it out here? Aren’t you lonely?”

  He hadn’t considered his state of loneliness until Greer and a damn kitten had reminded him what it was to care about something other than his own sorry self. And now he’d pissed Greer off so badly, she might never speak to him again, and the kitten had probably realized Emmett couldn’t take care of himself, much less it.

  “I’m figuring things out,” he finally said.

  “I could use some help on the farm. I’ve got more horses than I can train at the moment, and a mare close to foaling.”

  Emmett had gotten a business degree with the thought he’d maybe one day come home and take over, but that seemed a lifetime ago and impossible now. “I’m not as good with horses as you ar
e.”

  His dad made a scoffing sound. “I wasn’t either at your age. Too impatient, I suppose. Patience comes with age and experience. You’re a Lawson; horses are in your blood.”

  Emmett couldn’t deny it. He’d loved the horses for as long as he could remember. They had moved back to Madison after his dad had retired from the army when Emmett was in middle school. His grandfather had been getting on in years and his dad was a man of duty, first to his country and then to his own father.

  “Did you ever resent having to give up your army career to take over the farm?” Emmett asked.

  “I accepted God’s will.”

  Emmett envied his dad’s blind faith in a deity he no longer bought into. “But was running the farm what you wanted?”

  His dad sighed. “It wasn’t about what I wanted. It was what God willed. Someday you’ll learn to listen.”

  Emmett ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t believe in God, Dad. Not after what I’ve seen.” His stomach churning, he dumped the too-strong coffee in the sink and retreated to the porch to take up his customary spot in a rocking chair.

  His dad followed him out. “I saw plenty of bad too.”

  “I only heard about the courageous fight and the glory of serving your country. Your biggest worry was earning medals to hang in the Lawson family collection.” The first thing his dad had done was ask for Emmett’s medals so they could be included.

  Every time Emmett looked at the case he saw the sergeant who’d died under his command in the reflection. He would never receive a parade in his honor, and his wife and child had been left with only a folded flag. It could have been Emmett. Some nights he was convinced it should have been him. The vagaries of fate had left him doubting the balance of justice.

  His dad slapped the column of the porch stairs. “It wasn’t my place to burden anyone else with my issues.”

  “My issues are a burden to you? I’m sure it’s difficult to explain me away to all your church friends. You’re welcome to pretend I don’t exist.” He jabbed and sliced with his words, wanting to hurt his dad. Hurt him enough so he’d leave Emmett alone.

  His dad’s face reflected a mortal blow, and remorse came back to inflict its own wound on Emmett. He’d grown up an obedient son and a good soldier, but the habit of following orders had died alongside his men. He refused to apologize.

  The reality was Emmett was never going to live up to the Lawson ideal. After all, he’d had the bad grace to get his leg blown off and his mind scrambled.

  His dad rocked on his feet as if he wasn’t sure which direction to head. Fully confront Emmett or retreat? He chose to retreat, clomping down the steps and walking away.

  Emmett stood on the porch and watched the sun chase the clouds.

  He’d gotten what he wanted. He was alone. Strangely, relief didn’t surface. An icky feeling crept through him like a virus attacking healthy cells. The crystal of the wind chimes sent a shaft of light to wink off the bottle of Jack at his elbow.

  If his dad’s accusations weren’t so fresh, he might give in to the temptation. But he was self-aware and disciplined enough to recognize the danger looming down the path he was treading.

  A soft mewl had him cocking his ear. It came again from the far side of the porch. He looked over the rail but didn’t see the kitten. No way was he crawling under again. Instead, he foraged his kitchen for something suitable for a cat to eat. His fridge was a wasteland, so he grabbed the bag of ham biscuits and filled a plastic container with water.

  He limped down the porch stairs and crumbled half a biscuit and part of the ham next to the water on the sun-warmed grass. He sat on the bottom step, still and silent.

  The soft crunch of grass and leaves alerted him to the kitten’s approach from under the porch. It moved with caution, but as soon as it fell into the food, it ate with gusto. Once the kitten was halfway through, Emmett reached out and stroked it behind the ears.

  Like a rusty motor turning over, its purr was audible. It was skinny and dirty and flea-bitten. It had probably never been given a reason to trust people, yet here it was letting Emmett offer aid and affection.

  Lethargic after its first good meal in forever, the kitten didn’t protest when Emmett took it inside, determined it was a female, and gave her a bath, drowning as many fleas as possible. What the kitten needed was a flea treatment and a trip to the vet.

  He spent the afternoon in a quandary. He hadn’t left the cabin in three months. Grass had grown halfway up the hubcaps on his truck. As much as he’d railed against his dad, too many of his questions had burrowed in his psyche. What was he going to do with the rest of his life?

  He was only thirty, even if some days, his experiences left him feeling ancient. Unless he planned on ending it all—which, out of bravery or cowardice, one he’d never seriously considered—he couldn’t hunker down at the cabin forever.

  He grabbed his keys from the front table and tucked the kitten in the pocket of his cargo pants. The truck interior was hot enough to slow-cook barbecue. He turned the key but instead of rumbling to life, the engine emitted a series of clicks.

  He wiped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt and tried again. Click. He cursed loud enough to scare a bird out of the hydrangea bush a few feet away. The battery was dead. There was a poetic analogy somewhere in the situation, but he chose not to examine it.

  Tommy Thompson, his center for two years on the football team, had taken over Thompson and Sons garage after his father had passed and would drop everything to help Emmett. At one time they’d been good friends.

  The kitten popped her head out of his pocket but didn’t try to escape. She seemed to enjoy the ride in his pants. Taking cover in the shade, he scrolled the numbers in his phone. His finger hovered. The moment took on an importance far beyond a dead battery.

  He’d tried to separate himself from the living, but somehow life had found a way to claw him back into the fold. Finally, he tapped the number and waited.

  Chapter 10

  Greer knocked on the front door of Becky’s Bar and Grill. No windows disrupted the sea of gray-painted concrete blocks. Becky’s black SUV was parked around the side in the shade of a water oak. She was probably in the kitchen or office.

  Bars had been Greer’s stomping ground for years, and the layouts were all similar. She understood how much work it took to successfully run a bar and how difficult it was to find good, reliable help. After busting up the joint, Greer wasn’t sure whether she qualified as either, but desperate times and all that.

  Smoothing down her oxford shirt and making sure it was neatly tucked into her jeans, she knocked on the solid metal door next to a Dumpster around back. Sweat, both the nerves and Tennessee-heat-induced variety, trickled down her back. The smell of old food and skunked beer emanating from the Dumpster reminded her of all-night parties after gigs when she was young and pursuing the goal of living life to the fullest. Her stomach tried to turn itself inside out.

  She raised her hand to knock again, but before her knuckles made contact, the door swung open.

  Becky poked her head out, squinting. The hallway behind her was dim and windowless. “Hey, Greer. I thought we were all settled up. What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see if I can do something for you.” When Becky’s eyes remained scrunched in confusion, Greer pasted on a smile and said, “I need a job.”

  “Well now. That is a surprise. Come on in.” She pushed the door fully open and Greer stepped inside. Although the hum of an AC unit reverberated down the stark concrete-block hallway, the circulating air was humid and stale with the smell of old cigarettes.

  Becky led the way into a small office. A laptop was open on a desk covered with papers. A chair with ripped vinyl sat against the wall. Greer shifted on her feet. While she’d made an atonement tour right after the “incident,” she felt as if her misdeeds followed her like a black cloud. Not bad luck, but bad decisions. A string of them going back to turning up her nose
at attending the community college in Madison to move to Nashville.

  “First, let me apologize once again for my behavior. I’m not sure what got into me,” Greer said.

  “About six shots of Patrón, according to your tab.” Becky’s sarcastic smirk and raised eyebrows settled Greer’s nerves. Sarcasm, she could handle.

  “I will never touch the stuff again. Blech.”

  “That’s what they all say.” Becky’s laugh betrayed her love affair with smoking. As her laugh faded, she linked her hands over the papers on her desk. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

  Greer sat, the split vinyl biting into the back of her legs through the denim of her jeans. “I’m an experienced bartender and waitress, and I know how difficult it can be to find good people.”

  “Are you good people?” Becky was in her fifties and had grown up in a trailer park on the edge of Madison. Although she’d never been invited into the women’s church circles, she had gained a reputation as a sharp businesswoman, but even more so as a kind person.

  “I’m trying to be good people.” Greer held her stare, unblinking, until her eyes burned.

  Finally, Becky said, “I could use some weekend help behind the bar. My regular bartender, Edgar, has a new baby at home and his schedule has gotten more difficult to manage.”

  “Weekends are good. Perfect, actually. I’m volunteering during the week as part of my plea agreement.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Working with veterans and their families using songwriting as therapy. It’s been really great.” Greer forced a confident smile even though her difficulties with Emmett and Ally bothered her like a swarm of no-see-ums.

  If Becky thought she couldn’t even handle a volunteer gig, no way would she trust Greer in the bar. And Greer needed this job for her sanity as much as for the money.

  “You can mix drinks?”

  “Even the fancy ones. I supported myself for years bartending.”

  “I thought you were a musician?”