Down Where My Love Lives

by Charles Martin

  I turned on the flashlight, shone it down onto myself, and said, "It's just me and Bryce." I decided it'd be better not to shine the light on Bryce, so I kept it pointing down on me, watching her. She craned her neck, muttered something, and disappeared again into the barn.

  I flicked off the light again as Pinky crossed the trail in front of me, waddling her way back to the barn after what was apparently her nighttime feeding.

  Bryce stepped closer to the corn and peered at the tops, shining black in the moonlight. He whispered, "They were a little taller than this. It was summer. I was chasing a man, and we came to a field." He raised his hands and touched the tips of the cornstalks.

  "He had been assigned to me a month earlier, and I'd been chasing him ever since. That was the thirty-second day. When he cleared the corn and stepped into my row, he was forty-two paces." He pointed at the shotgun on my shoulder. "I'd been working some tunnels earlier in the evening, so I was carrying one of those. I placed the bead on his legs and squeezed." Bryce blinked but didn't flinch.

  "He dropped, began spraying the corn around me with AK-47 fire, and one 7.62 round cut through my helmet but missed my head. I fired a second time, and the man stopped firing and clutched his feet. He was screaming. I walked within twenty paces and fired a third time."

  Bryce dropped the imaginary gun and pulled the real Colt .45 from his holster. He clicked off the safety and, clasping it with two hands, walked farther down the corn row.

  I followed, the shotgun over my shoulder, pointing away, the flashlight aimed on Bryce.

  He walked to a spot twenty steps away and stood, feet apart, pointing into the dirt below him. He extended the pistol barrel into the air and stopped some two feet from the ground. He then began speaking in a language I'd never heard. It sounded like a loose cousin to what Maggie and I would hear when we went to eat sushi.

  Bryce knelt, the pistol still clutched in both hands, and whispered, "I said, `Where is she?"' He paused, waited, looked further into the memory, and spoke again. "Where is she?"

  Silence followed as Bryce cocked the hammer on his Colt. I backed up one step, and Bryce whispered, pressing his ear hard against the memory of the man's face. He stayed there, listening, shaking his head, and nodding. Then, without another word, he stood up and pulled the trigger eight times. He fired all eight shots into the dirt beneath him, directly through the memory of the man's head. He ejected the clip, inserted a second, and flicked the slide forward, chambering another round. He clicked on the hammer safety, holstered the still-smoking weapon, and breathed in long, measured breaths. Finally he blinked, reached into the cargo pocket on his pants, pulled out a sheet of gum, and popped all twelve pieces into his mouth.

  While I tried to make sense of this nonsense, Bryce worked the gum around in his mouth. The mixture of dirt, corn, gunpowder, urine, and spearmint added to the confusion.

  "Bryce?"

  He blinked and looked at me.

  I shone the light on his feet. "Have, umm,... have you been, uh ... do you always walk around barefooted?"

  Bryce looked at his feet, the gum filling most of his mouth. "Only when I don't want to be heard."

  "You know," I said, trying to sound casual, "if you're ever out this way and want to come in for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat, you can always knock. Or just come on in and have a seat at the table."

  Bryce considered that for a moment, then said, "Okay."

  I nodded. "Sure. You don't even have to knock."

  Without another word, Bryce stepped off into the night. Within ten paces, I could no longer make out his outline. A few more, and both the sight and sound of him had disappeared altogether. Ten seconds later, I heard a covey of quail flush and rise down near the river beyond my son's grave, some two hundred yards away.

  I walked back to the barn, stripped, and showered. Cleaner, I walked across the yard to the house and locked the shotgun back in the closet, and only when I'd sat down at the kitchen table, hovering over a glass of orange juice, did I realize how badly my hands were shaking.

  When I cracked open our bedroom door, I found Maggie snow-angeled diagonally across the middle of the bed. Her breathing told me she was asleep, so I pulled the door quietly shut and spread out across the front porch with Blue. A few hours later, I woke inside a dew-covered sleeping bag. Pinky was grunting at me from inside the barn, and Blue lay on his bed across the porch looking at me as if I were from Mars.

  I sat up and looked at him. "What? What'd I do?"

  He flopped his ears forward, laid his muzzle down across his leg, and let out a deep breath. Maybe now he would let himself go to sleep.

  THE CALENDAR ON THE REFRIGERATOR SHOWED THAT IT was Tuesday, July 16. Another week had passed. Each day seemed like one long day that rolled seamlessly into another, where daylight and darkness had little meaning other than to suggest something I'd forgotten. According to my count, Maggie had been home eighteen days. Before all this stuff started, her cycles had been pretty regular at twenty-eight days. I wasn't sure, but I guessed we were another two weeks, give or take a few days, from knowing one way or the other. I tried to imagine each scenario. Neither was very good. Whatever the outcome, I wasn't sure how Maggie would react.

  I pulled on my jeans, slid on my boots, and combed my hair. I walked around the front of the house and found her sitting in a rocker, wrapped in a blanket, and watching the bulldozer dump burned memories and brick into a Dumpster across the street.

  She hadn't eaten much in a couple of days, and I was sure she had lost some weight. Her face was thinner, accentuated by her short hair, and her color was not too good. Her hollow face looked like a reflection of her insides.

  I scrambled some eggs, made some cheese grits and toast, and walked out onto the front porch. She smiled, nibbled, but ate little. I kissed her forehead, she brushed my face with her palm, and we sat in the rockers, swaying.

  THE PHONE RANG TWICE BEFORE THE HOSPITAL receptionist picked up. "Hello?"

  It was late; I cleared my throat. "Hello. I need to speak with Dr. Frank Palmer, please."

  "Hold just one minute."

  Five minutes passed while the elevator music reminded me that I hadn't been to the dentist in a while.

  "This is Dr. Frank."

  "Dr. Frank, this is Dylan Styles."

  "Hey, Dylan. How's our girl?"

  "Well, sir, she's not sleeping much. I was wondering if-"

  "No problem. I'll have the nurse call in something. How's everything else?"

  I wasn't sure how to answer. Finally I stammered, "I-I just think it'd do her some good to get a good night's sleep."

  "I'll tell you what," he said, "why don't you stop by the office. I'll have the nurse pull a few things out of the sample bin. Save you some money."

  "You don't mind?"

  "I'll have it ready when you get there."

  "Thanks, Dr. Frank."

  THE BUILDING THAT HOUSED THE DIGGER VOLUNTEER Fire Department No. 1 was little more than a tall concreteblock warehouse with four large front-and-back aluminum garage doors that allowed the trucks to drive through the building rather than just into it and one very tall flagpole that stood adjacent to Mr. Carter's dog kennels. He had donated the land.

  Picnic tables and folding chairs spread across the lawn behind the building, and the enormous flag flapped gently in the 98-degree air. Three-foot standing floor fans sat in the middle of the firehouse, circulating the air through the doors and blowing across the red-and-white-checkered tablecloths covering the picnic tables. Newspaper had been spread across the tablecloths, and upright rolls of paper towels sat on top of all that, ensuring that nothing would float away. Mr. Carter's rolling barbecue pit, an old propane tank cut lengthways and set on trailer wheels-and big enough for a man to lie down in-sat smoking, lid open, currently heating three huge twentygallon vats.

  Draped in a red apron that read "Fire Chief," Mr. Carter tended both the fire and the pots with the same stick. He'd poke the fire, stoke the flames, t
hen dip that same stick into the water and poke the boiling food. He said the mesquite in the charcoal added to the flavor. Badger and Gus, two of Mr. Carter's older and most obedient dogs, had been let out of the kennel and lay at their master's feet.

  I parked out of sight because I didn't want to explain the van, and then Maggie and I crossed the street and walked through the firehouse. There's no use denying it; it's pretty much a huge toy room for grown men. All of us signed up in part because of all the cool toys. From chain saws to axes to the infamous jaws of Life, we are enamored with things that cut, bang, or smash. And what boy doesn't grow up wanting to drive a fire truck?

  Mr. Willard, the owner of the corner gas station and grocery, greeted us at the door with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. Jim Biggins, evidently taking a break from his landclearing and firewood business, walked around the side of the building with a hundred-pound sack of charcoal slung over each shoulder. Butch Walker and his boys, free between the morning and evening milking at their dairy, sat at a table laughing with a few guys I didn't know. John Billingsly, Digger's only computer guru, sat hovering over a portable bug zapper that stood like a six-foot chiminea with a purple head. Every three or four seconds it zapped.

  The wives of these men all sat at one table, whispering, laughing, and trying to hide whatever they were talking about from their husbands. Which was also exactly what the men were doing, but both groups knew this, so the game continued as it had since Adam met Eve in the garden.

  No matter how slowly I walked, Maggie walked a half step behind me, almost hiding behind my shoulder. She hadn't said she didn't want to come, but she hadn't seemed too excited either. I looped my arm inside hers, and we walked to the nearest table, where Amanda saw us and came to our rescue. She grabbed Maggie and led her off to the women's table.

  Maggie's eyes told me she didn't want to go, they told me she wanted to run very far away from here, but I silently urged her on, so she put on a smile and acted happy.

  I sat with the boys, giving the obligatory laugh when needed, but my eyes, ears, and mind were with Maggie. The women's conversation had turned to children, whose child was in what grade, what sports they were playing, how far each mom drove the car pool each day, how many loads of laundry they washed in a week, and how much their grocery bill had increased because of the rising price of milk. Maggie listened, trying to look interested, but her crossed arms, crossed legs, and stiff neck told me she needed help.

  Mr. Carter came to the rescue. Stirring the middle pot, he leaned back out of the smoke and said, "Amos and D.S."

  We jumped up from the table and met him at the cooker. He gave us each a hot pad, and we lifted the first vat off the cooker. It was heavy, and I almost stumbled. Amos smiled, eyed my shaking arms, and shook his head. "You need to get busy."

  I looked at my deflated biceps and compared them to Amos's. Not much comparison. We drained off the water, then dumped the contents directly onto the newspaper on the center table. Red potatoes, corn on the cob, carrots, shrimp, andouille sausage, Alaskan crab legs, and about four cans of Old Bay Seasoning spilled across the table and sat steaming in the shade of the magnolia tree that towered above us.

  Amos and I returned for the other two vats while everyone else grabbed plates and started helping themselves to the mound on the table. We loaded up three tables with dinner and then sat around the tables eating with our hands. A true low-country boil does not involve flatware of any kind. We just bellied up to the tables, rested our elbows on the edges, and dug in.

  Everyone, that is, except Maggie and me. We did what we were getting good at. We pretended.

  An hour passed. The shrimp tails and crab shells piled up, and people began sitting back and passing around the toothpick cup. Inside the fire station, John Billingsly was tending his ice cream maker, which finished churning about the time someone started telling the story of Amos's and my heroic rescue at the church.

  The guys laughed. One of them imitated me with my oxygen tank and rubber boots that were two sizes too big, while another mimicked Amos's attempt to kick in a stubborn door. While they prodded, Maggie, Amanda, and a few other ladies passed out plastic spoons and peach ice cream served in Styrofoam bowls.

  While I listened and the fake smile on my face told the guys around me that I was enjoying their fun, my eyes watched Maggie, who had busied herself with cleaning the tables and the ice-cream machine. She tried to look helpful, look interested, look okay, but I knew her, and I knew that she was about ready to jump out of her skin and that when she did, tears wouldn't be far behind. She had held it together about as long as she could.

  I threw my bowl away, looped my arm inside hers, and walked her slowly beneath the magnolia and along the grassy lawn that led down to Mr. Carter's duck pond. The shade felt good, the breeze felt better, and the farther we got from the tables, the more her shoulders relaxed and her breathing deepened. By the time we reached the pond, the wrinkle on her forehead had almost disappeared. We stood watching the ducks swim around the turtles and a few well-fed carp feed slowly through the weeds at the bank.

  About ten minutes later, Amos and Amanda appeared behind us. Amos held an uncut watermelon on one shoulder. The four of us stood at the water, saying nothing and not feeling as though we had to. Maybe that's the sign of true friendship, when silence is not uncomfortable.

  About twenty years ago, Mr. Carter had planted twelve weeping willows along the banks of his pond. Now they were tall, mature, and their branches swooped over and down into the water like Rapunzel's hair. We sat in the shade of one. I leaned against the tree trunk, and Maggie sat between my legs, leaning against me.

  Amos drove his Benchmade down the middle of the melon, then cut out large chunks and passed them around. He sank his face into the heart and let the juice drip off his chin. Maggie did likewise, chewed, leaned back, and spit a seed out into the water.

  Amos looked out across the pond. "The federal guys have put me in charge of the investigation here. We've got most every agent in the state trying to find them, which shouldn't be too hard to do given what they look like, but we haven't yet, and even when we do, we can't do anything, because technically, they haven't done anything wrong-at least that we can prove. It'd be Maggie's word against theirs, and we can question them but technically can't hold them.

  "One more thing." Amos wiped his face, closed his eyes, and spoke as if it hurt. "Antonio and Felix were released from prison about three days before Amanda was kidnapped and tied to a tree in the woods two years ago."

  We sat in the quiet a moment while the weight settled down into my stomach. He put his arm around Amanda, who seemed relatively unmoved by the admission. Evidently she'd heard this story before.

  "A week later James received a postcard from Charleston. The front showed a picture of a rural country church that looked a lot like one that used to stand not too far from here. And on the back someone had drawn a stick figure wrapped around a tree."

  "You think I should move Maggie someplace in town?"

  Amos shrugged. "Hard to say. Criminals don't think like we do."

  I stood and walked to the edge of the pond, dipping my fingers and then shaking them. I wiped them on my pants, plucked a tall weed from the bank, and began breaking it into smaller pieces.

  I nodded. "You think they'll come back? I mean, to the house?"

  "The cop in me doubts it." He tried to sound reassuring. "They're probably running now. I've known too many criminals who never make good on their word-even when it comes to revenge." He paused again and looked at Amanda. "But the husband in me does not."

  Maggie looked at Amos. "Which one do you believe?"

  "I believe ..." He looked at Amanda, then put his hand on her shoulder, "the one who loves her."

  We were quiet a minute.

  "I'd keep Papa's 12 handy for a while."

  MAGGIE DIDN'T SAY MUCH ON THE WAY HOME. NEITHER did I.

  I parked in front of the barn and told her I wanted to check on t
he house. When I walked up the back steps and into the kitchen, the light on the answering machine was blinking. I pushed play, turned down the volume, and lowered my ear next to the machine. Mr. Sawyer from the adoption agency said the committee had reached its decision and would be sending out a letter in the next couple of weeks. When he had finished speaking, I pressed delete and walked slowly down the drive to the mailbox. It was empty.

  Like me.

  BY MIDWEEK, I ADMITTED THAT SEVERAL THINGS were bothering me and I could not shake them. I didn't like having to live like two tramps in the barn; I was worried about Maggie; I couldn't make sense of anything right now; and I knew things were getting worse and not better. But at the top of the heap of things that bothered me most, that woke me up in a cold sweat at night, screaming out of the silence and calling me a liar, sat the story I'd written and given to Maggie. And with Maggie growing more detached by the minute, what troubled me was not what I'd left in but what I'd left out.

  I leaned against the shower post and shut my eyes. The water dripped off my shoulders and cooled my skin amid the humid night. I didn't want to live this way. The wrinkle between my eyes told me what was bothering me, but it also said something else: it said I had grown angry and bitter that she had shut me out.

  Pinky slammed her stall door, reminding me it was well past her dinnertime. I finally voiced to myself what I had been thinking for days but had not been willing to admit. When I looked at my life, at the torn and frayed quilted patchwork that had enveloped us, I wondered if any part of it could be sewn together again. Because as I studied it in my mind's eye, only tattered remnants remained.

  I stood in the doorway, drying myself and studying the house. From the chipped paint to the squeaky screen door to the stick-and-twig ruins of Maggie's landscape design to the smell of Pinky's unkempt stall wafting across the back porch, the place looked and smelled the way I felt.