by N. C. Reed
“Jody, it wasn't just you that was caught by surprise,” Clay sighed again. “My whole family is still trying to work out what her problem is. No luck so far.”
“I don't think I can forgive her for John Bear's death,” Thompson admitted. He had always called Barnes 'John Bear'.
“I can't either,” Clay agreed. “And she's my niece.”
“Yes sir.”
“Jody, we aren't in the Army anymore,” Clay looked exasperated. “Call me Clay. Clayton even. Bossman if nothing else. I'm not entitled to be called 'Lieutenant' anymore, you know.”
“I'm aware,” was the simple reply. “I don't know what to do.”
“About Abigail?” Clay asked and got a nod in reply. “No one else does either. I can't tell you what to do. It's got to be your decision whatever you do. I will tell you that right now, with her attitude the way it is, you're better off passing her by, man. And I'm sorry to have to say that. For both of you.”
“I came to that same conclusion,” the other man nodded, voice subdued. “It was a foolish idea to start with,” he added in a very rare admission of something so private.
“No, it wasn't,” Clay said at once. “I thought the same thing once about Lainie,” he nodded to where the redhead was talking to some of the women from the Troy farm group. As if she felt his gaze she looked over to him and smiled. He returned it before looking again to his friend.
“I felt the same way you do now. It was foolish to think that I could trust someone. Trust doesn't come easy to us, Jody, and for good reason. If we let Beverly dig a little she'd no doubt determine we're all completely screwed up in the head. We spent too long in the bush, telling ourselves we wanted to be there and enjoyed it.”
“I did enjoy it,” Jody said softly. “I often wish I was still there.”
“I do too,” Clay admitted. “Makes us stupid or something I guess?”
“I guess,” Jody stood. “Thank you, Lieu-, Boss,” he said simply before moving away.
“Welcome,” Clay raised a glass to his friend's retreating back.
-
“Clayton Sanders, you're drunk.”
“That I am,” Clay nodded, or thought he did. He wasn't sure.
“I think it's time I take you home,” Lainie told him, putting his arm beneath her shoulder.
“What are you gonna do with me once you get me there?” he leered at her, or tried to. Again, he wasn't sure. He knew that he had signaled that intention to his face, but couldn't tell if the message got through to his facial muscles or not.
“What were you drinking?” Lainie fought off a laugh.
“Finest Calhoun County Mash,” Clayton replied. “Got it from Leon,” he made a shushing motion with his index finger to his lips. “'s a secret,” he confided. “Don't tell nobody.”
“If you don't want us to know, perhaps you should whisper a bit,” his mother said from his other side. He turned his head to see Angela walking alongside him as a steadying influence.
“Where 'd you come from?” he frowned at her. “And I was!” he insisted.
“No you weren't,” at least half-a-dozen voices assured him, followed by laughter.
“Are you sure?” Clay asked, puzzled. “I could have sworn I was whipse. . .whospe. . .what was I doing?” he asked Lainie.
“Whispering?” she couldn't fight off the smile any more.
“Whispering!” Clay seized the word. “Yeah. Whispering. I was whispering,” he turned to inform his mother.
“If you say so, dear,” she indulged him.
“You said that like you don't bleve. . .bliv. . . .believe me,” he struggled to get another word out.
“Perish the thought, dear,” Angela patted his arm. “Here we are,” she said as they reached the ATV. With Angela's assistance Lainie poured Clayton into the passenger seat and buckled him in.
“I 'll drive!” he offered, trying to move across the seat but held fast by the seat belt.
“No you won't,” Lainie assured him as she slid behind the wheel herself. “I want to get us home in one piece, Cowboy.”
“Got nefarious plans for me, hot stuff?” he tried again to leer.
“Stop stealing words from Leon!” Lainie laughed as she put the rig in gear.
“Which word?” was the last thing Angela heard as the two pulled away.
“Clayton tied one on, did he?” Gordon asked from behind her.
“Boy did he,” Angela laughed.
“Maybe it will help him,” his father said simply. “Lord knows he could use a night of decent rest.”
“I don't know that he 'll get it tonight,” Angela chuckled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
-
One week after New Years Day winter hit with a vengeance.
The day had dawned clear though rather cold as people went to work around the farm. Milking, feeding, stock tending, fence riding, there was never an end to the work that had to be done, and that left aside the work involved in just providing some basic needs in their new situation.
Wood crews went out as usual, felling selected trees for firewood. They were the first to notice the gathering gray clouds that began to move in from the north and west, but it was Gordon, moving cattle with the help of a few others, who realized what it meant.
“This is gonna be wet,” Gordon said after taking one look at the horizon. “Okay, that's it,” he told the people helping him with the cattle. “Get 'em headed toward the barn,” he ordered. “You two,” he pointed to two of Joshua Webb's sons. “You head to get the wood crews,” he told one of them, “and you get to the houses and warn them. Freezing weather likely before dark. Get ready for it now. Get on, now,” he urged as the two set boots to flanks and their horses took off.
“What do the cows do when this happens, Mister Sanders?” Byron Jessup, Harley Jessup's oldest son asked.
“They 'll gather under a shelter and huddle together, usually,” Gordon told him. “Probably under a tree or two.”
“Wouldn't it be better to put 'em in a barn, or under one of them big pole barns?” the younger man asked.
“Not if we get a lot of ice and the roof collapses,” Gordon replied grimly. “Tree falling or even a limb falling might cost us a head or two, but a collapsed roof could end up costing us several head. This is better.”
“Horses too?”
“We 'll have to stable the horses, especially the ones we're using,” Gordon admitted. “Cattle have thicker hair and hides and the weather would have to get way more severe than we see around here to really hurt them. Horses will just stand there and freeze if you let 'em. Wild horses won't, but these aren't wild. They're used to being cared for. And anyway, these we're using can't be left out after working up any sweat at all. Make 'em sick. Now let’s get 'em moving.”
Joshua Webb got the word from his son and immediately informed the wood cutting crew. Tools were gathered and what wood had been cut was quickly loaded on a wagon to be pulled back by a tractor. Fifteen minutes after the warning all of them were on the way back.
The houses took the warnings stoically as they hurried to make preparations. Wood boxes were filled and fires stoked. Cold, wet weather was a killer and the only way to fight it was a warm house. Food was hurriedly readied for what might be a long period of forced inactivity, or at least greatly reduced activity. Traveling across ice to the central kitchen area might prove problematic if not dangerous.
At the Troy farm, (no one had ever renamed it) food was prepared for the people living in the apartments as well so that they could stay inside if they had to. Watches would be manned by the men who lived there, standing in the cupolas to keep an eye on their surroundings.
Among the Sanders the same actions were being taken, albeit in a more orderly form. Being at home, the Sanders had established patterns they followed for something like this, altered only by their new circumstances.
Greg Holloway was grateful that he'd been able to take Gordon and Patricia up on their offer of a place to live in
their home before the storm had hit. He was more than comfortable there, having spent much of his teen years under that roof. His presence was welcome there and he could feel that.
The same offer had been made to Jake, but Jake decided that it was worth staying at the Troy farm to allow his daughter to play with children her own age. While he would have enjoyed living with the Sanders, Jake always put his daughter ahead of himself. Jacqueline, Jac for short, was happy where she was, so he stayed.
By lunch time preparations were well under way and lunch consisted of simple foods like sandwiches and other hand foods, eaten while work was completed. By four in the afternoon it had been snowing an hour and the ground was turning white. As the first pelts of sleet began descending, Gordon deemed their preparations complete and ordered everyone to their homes for the duration.
As darkness settled on the farm, all the occupants could do now was wait and watch. Pretty much the same as they had done before the world as they knew it had ended.
-
“I don't know why I thought this wouldn't happen,” Lainie said softly as she and Clay lay cuddled in the French door window of his upstairs loft bedroom. While they didn't use it, it was still nice for things like this.
“There's a very long and distinguished list of things I didn't think of,” Clay sighed as he hugged her to him. He was sitting on the floor with his back to a large ottoman while she sat in front of him, using him the same way Clay was using the ottoman.
“Really?” she looked over her shoulder. “It looked to me like you had everything covered pretty well.”
“Did to me too,” he nodded. “Right up until game time. And then things I should have thought of started rolling into my head.”
“Like what?” she asked. “It's not like we don't have time,” she pointed outside where the dimming light showed a substantial amount of snow already on the ground.
“Medicines for one,” he admitted. “Wasn't for the others, we'd be hurting right now. And what Patricia did right at the end. Or the beginning,” he shrugged. “Those prescriptions were a good idea and a good way to get medicines we need. They won't last forever, but they wouldn't have anyway so that's a moot point. They would expire and lose strength if we didn't use them.”
“That I can see being an issue,” Lainie agreed. “Patricia did say she was studying the herbs she can plant to grow a healer's garden though,” she reminded him.
“And that may well be a saving grace,” Clay nodded. “Plus Mrs. Webb teaching them things like what she had done to save her son's leg. Tandi was nothing short of amazed at how old the wound was and still not septic. Her poultice worked a minor miracle there.”
“What else?”
“Tires, for another,” he rattled off. “Magazines for our rifles. I've got plenty mind you, but in actual combat you drop magazines all over the place and sometimes you don't get them back. I should have gotten more, but I was planning a strict 'pull our heads in and wait' strategy so I thought we had enough. And we probably do,” he admitted. “Still, it's an issue.”
“I can see where either of those would bother you,” Lainie agreed.
“We don't have enough long-term storage food for all these new people,” he told her. “I had enough for my entire family plus you and two more. Even adding the group at the Troy farm we had more than enough with all the canned goods me and Leon bought. The others brought the same or more per person with them so that was set. None of us figured on taking food to the church or adding all these others to the mix.”
“I thought of nothing that babies need,” he continued. “No diapers, formula, nothing. Mitch and the rest did of course, but there's nothing like that here at all. I should have planned for that. Just like I should have thought about having a good dog or four and them already trained when all this started. But I didn't do that either.”
“Okay, I'm starting to see why you might be concerned,” Lainie nodded. “And those are all legitimate worries. But you have to stop,” she told him. “You can't keep going like this. And needing to get hammered just to sleep? Clay? That's bad. I shouldn't have to tell you how bad, either,” she raised an eyebrow.
“If I don't, then I dream,” he told her softly. She had to strain to hear and even then, she missed-
“What?” she asked him.
“If I'm drunk then I don't dream. For just one night I sleep. I rest. Then it starts all over again. Little by little I work myself back to where I can't sleep at all, dreaming stuff that keeps me from getting any rest. Or sleeping at all sometimes.”
Lainie didn't respond to that right away, rolling this new factoid around her in her mind. Finally, she looked at him again.
“How long has that been going on?” she asked him gently.
“The dreams?” he asked.
“Start with that,” Lainie nodded.
“I can't recall exactly,” he said after a minute of considering it. “I guess after my second tour overseas was when it really became a problem. As for when it started, I really don't remember. They came on me gradually until it was a problem.”
“How much of a problem are we talking about?” Lainie wanted to know.
“I already told you,” Clay looked at her. “After a while it starts wearing me down because I can't sleep. Or rather I do sleep but the dreams rob me of any real rest. After a while I'm tired all the time no matter what. That's why I used to work myself to a frazzle here on the farm,” he shrugged. “It helped me sleep since I was exhausted.”
“When did you start self-medicating with so much alcohol?” she demanded.
“You know, I didn't tell you that so you could give me the third degree,” he frowned at her attitude and tone of voice. “And I don't consider pulling a good drunk once in a blue moon to be 'self-medicating either. I used to do that all the time on the weekends when I was a teenager. It's what country kids do. We don't have anything else to entertain us so we drink, we yell, and we ride.”
“If you're using alcohol to treat an underlying condition then it becomes self-medicating, Clay,” Lainie was shaking her head. “And it's a first step toward being addicted. Or in this case becoming an alcoholic.”
“You just can't help yourself, can you,” he sighed after a minute. “First peaceful minute around here since John died and all you can think about is the fact that maybe three times a year I've been known to indulge in a good drop of whiskey, which allows me to get an equally good night of sleep. Here we are with a blanket, a fire place, some hot chocolate and a snow storm and you can't just enjoy that and be thankful? You have to start riding me about something so trivial as that?”
“It's not trivial, Clay,” Lainie insisted. “If it's left unchecked it could become a problem.”
“I'm going to bed,” he said suddenly, rising from behind her, leaving the blanket for her as he did so. “Why couldn't you have let me enjoy tonight and then brought this up tomorrow? It was such a nice night, too,” he shook his head as he walked toward the stairs that lead down to the main floor.
“Clay, wait a minute!” Lainie called out. “I'm just trying to help you!”
“I don't need any help,” he told her over his shoulder. “Least not with that. It's not a problem, it's just a good time every so often that also happens to helps me a little. I'm sorry I told you. I should have just kept it to myself. Next time I 'll know better.” With that he was down the stairs and gone, leaving Lainie sitting in a puddle of blankets.
Alone. She sat back, still a bit shocked at how quickly things had fallen apart.
Why had she kept pushing him about that? Was it so much to ask for just one night of peace once in a while? Lord knew that Clay deserved it if anyone did. She should have been flattered that he considered a night in her company in such a romantic albeit rustic setting was an enjoyable and peaceful way to spend the evening.
Lainie was often too sensitive to that sort of thing. She could ignore drunks in the club because they were leaving. Those around her she was more leery of
when it came to alcohol. Her mother's meth addiction had meant that Lainie was on her own much of the time. Her father had been an alcoholic who had deserted her when she was a child and her mother's snitching live-in boyfriend had always made a grab for her when he was drunk. That tended to leave her wary of anyone who 'indulged' as Clay had called it.
Maybe she had overreacted to Clay's drinking? In fairness to him, she hadn't noted him drinking much if anything since she had known him. In fact she rarely saw any of the former soldiers drinking at all, let alone to excess.
His statement that next time he would 'know better' bothered her as well. She didn't want him thinking he couldn't talk to her. That was a one-way ticket for failure in any relationship. If her acting the way she had made him reluctant to tell her things then that would leave them with communication problems in the future. He had shown great trust in her, telling her something she doubted he had ever told anyone else at all. Clay had been under tremendous pressure and she had just added to it. Had they been in normal times she might have felt justified in doing it, but under the circumstances. . . .
He was right, she decided. She had ruined a perfectly good evening. She headed downstairs herself to try and make things up to him, but found him already asleep on the bed. As she watched she noticed his REM under the lids of his eyes, then the twitching of his hands. Before she stopped watching, his leg moved once as well, almost in a minute kicking motion.
How much of that was PTSD and how much of it was as simple as her ruining a good time for the two of them? How could she tell the difference?
She needed to learn more about dealing with those kinds of issues. She promised herself she would talk to Beverly Jackson as soon as she could, and maybe to Martina as well. She joined Clay under the covers and tried to snuggle against him against the cold, but even in his sleep he seemed to be pushing her away. Rather than fight him she withdrew to her side of the bed and lay there thinking of ways to make this up to him tomorrow.