Down Where My Love Lives

by Charles Martin

  The roof above was made of aluminum sheeting, supported with rough-cut trusses, making the inside watertight. The tongue-and-groove cypress floor had been swept clean and looked loosely octagonal in shape. The eight walls also were cypress plank, and each had been fitted with a window.

  On two walls there was a kitchen of sorts. A large farmhouse sink had been sunk in the countertop; it was fed by a hand pump connected to a series of pipes that disappeared through the floor and evidently into the tannic black water of the Salkehatchie below. I worked the pump, and crystal-clear water flowed out, meaning someone had either dug a well or tapped into a spring. Maybe both.

  Across the room was a built-in bunk, and on the bedside table sat a worn copy of Herodotus. Occupying the rest of the room were two chairs, a shelf with about a hundred Louis L'Amour books, and a large footlocker. Leaning in a rack along the last wall rested three rifles and as many shotguns. One of the rifles was fitted with a large telescopic sight, making it look like some sort of sniper rifle. Four handguns-two revolvers and two automatics-hung from nails driven into the wall. Each was oiled, and despite the fact that most had a matte black finish, each glistened slightly in the pulsating light behind me.

  The idea had crossed my mind that Bryce had simply built himself a summer home, which was odd given that he could have owned a slope-sided chalet in Aspen. But my other idea said that someone had built a getaway shack, hidden in the middle of nowhere, that allowed him to keep an eye on his moonshine still, marijuana plants, or meth lab with little fear of intrusion.

  My shadow stretched across the room like Peter Pan's, and my heart pounded like a war drum. I looked down into the water at the boat, around the room, and in search of fading shadows. All of that told me one thing: I could not make it out of this swamp tonight, and the best opportunity I had was to sleep right here. Yet I also knew that whoever had built this place and left that light on would be back, and based on the difficulty of finding this place, I wasn't sure he wanted to be found.

  I stepped toward the wall and lifted one of the revolvers off the nail. A Smith & Wesson .357. I clicked open the cylinder and found it loaded. I stuffed it inside my pants and stretched out on the bed, where for two hours I kept my eyes pried wide open. Finally sleep set in, and I dozed off. Sometime later, I woke to the sound of someone standing at the sink.

  I cracked open my eyes, but the lantern had been dimmed. I could see the form of a person standing some eight feet from me. I slipped the revolver from my belt and lay as still as I possibly could. From the smell in the room and the repetitive motion of the man's arms, I figured he was cleaning a fish.

  Only when I sat up did the bunk creak. I slowly aimed the pistol at the broad dark frame in front of me and waited. It was useless to try to aim, because my hand was shaking like a leaf. When the person turned, and the lantern lit his face, I nearly lost my bladder again.

  I lay back, shaking my head, and dropped the pistol on the floor. "Bryce! What the-!?"

  Bryce clicked on a gas stove and threw the fish filets onto the skillet. He poured in a touch of oil, then reached out a window over the ledge and lifted the lid on a propane grill that seemed somehow built into the side of the tree house. He used some tongs to flip over whatever was on there and returned to the fish. He added seasoning and some pepper and popped the tab on a Chek soda. Then he pumped the hand pump in the sink, filling a glass of water, which he swigged down in three gulps.

  While the fish sizzled and the grill cooked whatever it was cooking, Bryce set the table with two plates, two forks, and two glasses of water. He pulled plates from above his head, flipped the fish one last time, and then slid two filets each onto the plates. He reached across the ledge and pulled in what appeared to be two ears of corn and two baked potatoes, wrapped in aluminum foil.

  While I worked to reinsert my jaw into its rightful place, Bryce sat down and turned his attention to his food. Beneath the light, I could see he was decked out in all black, his feet were bare, and his .45 was tucked in its shoulder holster on the left side of his chest. He looked at me and continued eating as if he were judging the food for its culinary details.

  I sat at the table and looked at the breakfast before me while Bryce took small bites and paid me little mind.

  "How long have you had this place?"

  Bryce chewed, pushed his food around his plate. If he heard me, he didn't appear to care.

  I tried again. "What do you do out here?"

  Bryce looked around, scraped the last of his fish onto his fork, and filled his glass again. Conversations with Bryce were often one-sided. He'd talk when he felt like it.

  I looked at my watch and knew that I'd been gone too long. "Bryce, I don't mean to be unkind, but I need to get going, and I need some help getting out of here."

  Bryce finished off another glass of water, then walked to a bare wall and opened a shoulder-width door that led onto a balcony, four feet by four feet square and surrounded by a railing. On the balcony sat a wooden box fitted with a porcelain white toilet seat. With his back to me, Bryce lifted the seat and peed through the hole.

  I listened as the stream fell thirty-five feet to the water below. I tried again. "Well, I need to get home to Maggie."

  Bryce shut the door and spoke for the first time. "She's fine." He washed his hands in the sink, sat back down, picked up his corn, and started into it like a typewriter.

  "Bryce." I set down my fork and wiped my mouth. I noticed that since being up here, I hadn't swatted at a single mosquito. "How long have you been watching my house?"

  He shrugged.

  "Why?"

  He grew very still, and his eyes glazed over as if someone else had entered the room. He cleared his plate and then climbed down the ladder to the boat. Alongside it sat a small black-and-green two-man canoe.

  We loaded into his boat, and with the two of us paddling and Bryce's sense of direction, we banked the canoe onto the grassy landing below the obstacle course before daylight. I stepped out and turned to thank him, but he had already backed up and was poling himself back into the swamp. When I tried to open my mouth, he just waved. For the first time since I'd met Bryce, I saw an expression of pain on his facethe kind that had sewn itself into the sinews of his person.

  I turned down our drive at daylight and pulled around the house. Blue came trotting out to meet me. Maggie too. She was wrapped in a blanket, and her short hair was sticking up as if she hadn't slept.

  She saw that I was okay and looked as though she wanted to say something, but the words didn't make it out of her mouth. She returned to the barn, her blanket dragging on the ground, climbed into the loft, and then shut the door and clicked on the AC unit.

  Blue licked my fingers, and his quiet whining told me what Maggie's silence and my heart already had-that I'd been stupid to leave, selfish to go to Jake's, and that spending the night out was a dumb thing to do.

  FROM THE KITCHEN, I WATCHED MAGGIE WALK OUT of the barn and into her vegetable garden-a small forty-byforty-foot patch where she experimented with growing vegetables. Ordinarily, it was overgrown with produce; now it sat overrun with weeds. Even the raccoons had quit coming around.

  I poured her a cup of coffee and met her midway through what was once the tomato section. She took it and sipped beneath the broad rim of her hat. I tipped her hat back slightly and then leaned on a tomato stake. "You sleep any?"

  She shook her head and sipped again. The caffeine did little to raise her eyelids.

  I looked at the weeds around us. "You want some help?"

  She smiled and let me off the hook. And while that was nice, it reminded me of how much Maggie had withdrawn.

  A little later I drove to Walterboro, stopped by Dr. Frank's office, and then found a hat store that I'd heard about in the whispers around church. An elderly lady helped me find what I needed, wrapped it in a box, and sent me on my way with a remembering look in her eye.

  Evening brought a blessed cool breeze, a warm shower, and some welco
me cloud cover that blocked out the late afternoon sun, dropping the temperature into the upper seventies. Understanding that she was allowed to change her mind at a moment's notice and without reason, I was not surprised when Maggie told me she wanted to get out of the house. We cleaned up, dressed, and drove the four miles to the church property.

  A blue circus tent had been erected above the cement foundation, which had been cleared of ash and rubble and new portions poured. Another tent stood alongside, and beneath it sat tables loaded with food.

  Cars lined the roadside, and despite the impromptu service, women showed up wearing their favorite and newest hats. Amos had assigned a young deputy to direct traffic, and elsewhere young men in coats and ties were escorting ladies across the dirt parking lot to folding chairs beneath the tent.

  Maggie stepped out of the van and looked both ways across the highway before I could get her attention from the rear of the van. "Honey?" She walked around the side, and I handed her the box. "Didn't want you to feel underdressed."

  She accepted the box, untied the bow, and lifted the hat from inside. It was a blue sun hat with a broad white band and feathers on one side. Miraculously, it matched both her eyes and her dress.

  I held the tail of the ribbon while she settled the brim on her brow, forcing tears out of the corners of her eyes. I pulled my white handkerchief from my pocket and gave it to her, and she dabbed her eyes. She kissed me on the cheek-which told me she was sorry-and hooked her arm inside mine-which told me that she loved me-and we crossed the street.

  We took a seat near the back while those around us filled up. Amos looked spry in his coat and tie, which Amanda no doubt had matched because he hadn't displayed that much style in his entire life.

  Amanda was busy with the flower arrangement and white tablecloth spread across the folding table up front. Her tummy had grown some more. She was now into the full-on pregnant woman waddle, and she glowed from head to toe. She saw us and hurried down the aisle to hug Maggie.

  Maggie smiled, teared up, and placed her palm across Amanda's tummy as though feeling the ripeness of a melon. Amanda gawked at Maggie's hat while I marveled at my wife.

  I watched her-the way her shoulders moved with the tilt of her head, the way her smile lit up the six people around her, the way her hair, tucked behind her ears, framed her face like baby's breath. I thought about the way her heartbeat sounded the rhythm for our dance atop the magnolia floor. I wanted to tell her all this but didn't know how. Just because something is broken doesn't mean it's no good. Doesn't mean you throw it away. It just means it's broken, and broken is okay. I wanted to tell her that broken is still beautiful, still works, still wakes me in the morning, and at the end of every day past and those to come, I can love broken.

  The choir, a purple mass of matching robes and sweaty faces, appeared and started swaying and humming. The congregation stood, ladies fanned themselves with bulletins, and the choir began clapping and singing a responsive hymn, proving once again that they had more rhythm in five minutes than I'd had in my entire life. We swayed, sang, and clapped until fifteen minutes later when Pastor John stepped up and the choir lowered their voices to underscore his.

  He stood several minutes, smiling and looking for an entrance. Finally he raised his hands, the choir dropped their voices even more, and he said, "If you're with the fire department, please raise your hand."

  We did.

  He laughed. "Well, if you needed a reason not to end up in hell, now you've got it."

  The laughter spread like a wave. It felt good.

  Pastor John tucked his Bible beneath his arm. When he looked up, his face was soaked, but it wasn't with sweat.

  Up front, Li'l Dylan said, "Daddy! Daddy!" Amos picked him up and bounced him on his knee.

  Maggie grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  Pastor John raised his chin and began, "I've been asking the Lord to forgive me for the things in my past that brought this upon all of you. I have asked before, and I will ask again, please forgive me."

  The choir swayed and hummed a melody, and Pastor John placed his Bible on the altar. He palmed the sweat off his cheeks, dabbed his eyes, and returned his handkerchief to his pocket. Finally he picked up his Bible again, turned toward the back, and read, "And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying."

  Maggie's fingers wrapped more tightly about mine.

  "There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away."

  Maggie dropped her head and fought back a sob, and I started looking for an exit.

  "Behold, I make all things new."

  Maggie dropped her head, stood, and hurried between the chairs and out the back of the tent. Pastor John waited while I followed her out. She ran across the parking lot toward the river, hit her knees, and buried her face in her hands. The moss hanging from the oak above looked like arms swaying in the wind, reaching down to sweep the riverbank.

  I knelt next to her, and she fell against me. Finally she managed a breath deep enough, and I helped her to her feet. We made our way across the parking lot toward the van.

  Midway through the cars, an SUV pulled up to the back of the tent, and the driver got out. He was tall and broadshouldered, and his skin was dark as night. Although I couldn't see his face, his body posture told me that he wasn't here for church. Maggie, too, picked up on it and stopped walking.

  The man walked up to the back of the tent and began striding confidently down the middle aisle toward Pastor John. I led Maggie to the side of the tent where we could see and hear inside.

  Pastor John saw the man, stopped midsentence, and said, "Welcome, James."

  The man called James stopped and laughed loudly. 'Thought I'd stop in and see how the flock was doing, Preacher."

  Amos, sitting in the front row and still holding L.D. on his knee, tensed like a dog before a fight.

  Pastor John never skipped a beat. He pointed to a seat down front. "There's always room for one more."

  James laughed. "No, no, I think I've given you enough of my money for one lifetime."

  Amos's deputy slipped out the side and around the back. He stood at the rear of the tent, speaking into a radio clipped to his uniform shirt.

  Pastor John addressed the congregation. "Friends, this is James Whittaker. James and I were once partners, stealing everything we could get our hands on and even some things we couldn't."

  Not a foot shuffled; not a person could be heard breathing. If Pastor John was afraid, he didn't show it.

  James smiled. "You know, John, after twenty years in prison, I learned something very important." He twirled in the aisle, walked toward the front, and pointed at him. "In the end, we all get what we got coming!"

  Pastor John nodded and stepped forward again, now just a few feet from Whittaker. He looked him in the eyes. "Yes, we do."

  Whittaker looked down his left arm where Amos sat two feet away-ready to pounce. Had L.D. not been on his lap, I think he would have. Amanda sat next to him, her arm hooked inside his-both holding on to and holding down.

  Whittaker looked at L.D., then at Amos. He leaned closer and said, "I don't think he has your eyes." Then he turned and walked sideways across the front of the altar and out the side of the church. He weaved among the ropes that held down the tent.

  I don't know the cause-it had something to do with the smug look on his face. The look sparked something I hadn't felt in a long time. Somewhere inside me, deep down, something snapped. I stepped in front of him, started at my toes, and threw everything I had through my fist and into his face. It was the hardest I'd ever hit anyone in my life.

  His head jerked sideways and blood trickled off his lip, and faster than a cat, he backhanded me four feet in the air, over a tent rope, and flat on my back, where the stars spun in circles above me.

  I looked up, tried to balance on an elbow, thought I might vomit, and saw a black freight train flying sideways through the darkness.

&n
bsp; Amos's body-tackle toppled Whittaker like a bowling pin. The collision sounded loud and painful-like two Mack trucks meeting head-on in an intersection. Amos landed on top, fended off a vicious right, and then landed his own squarely on Whittaker's chin. Two seconds later he had Whittaker facedown and hogtied. Little mud bubbles were circling around Whittaker's nose and popped every time he exhaled-which was often as he fought the thick zip ties that bound his hands and feet.

  Amos's suit was smeared with mud and soaked with sweat, and the seams behind his shoulders were stretched taut. He squeezed the sides of Whittaker's cheeks so that they'd have a better chance of being cut by his teeth. He pointed Whittaker's face at me and leaned over him, whispering low enough that the folks sitting a few feet away in the folding chairs couldn't hear him. "That is my best friend on the planet. You ever do that again, and I'll finish this fight."

  Whittaker outweighed Amos by maybe eighty pounds, but Amos's adrenaline seemed to be making up the difference. He pulled back my eyelid, studied my pupil, slapped me gently on the face, and then picked up Whittaker like a sack of potatoes, dragged him to his deputy's car, and flung him onto the backseat.

  Amos and Amanda followed Maggie and me home and helped get me settled in the loft. My eye was turning black and puffy, but my jaw was still connected. And I still had all my teeth. Amanda gave me something for the pain, and while my arms and legs turned to noodles, the three of them stood over me and talked in whispers.

  "You be all right?" Amos asked.

  I tried to nod, but my words sounded as though I'd just come from a drill-happy dentist. "I've been hit harder."

  Amos shook his head. "I doubt it." He pulled the door behind him and whispered in hushed tones, "We can hold him tonight, until he makes bail, then ..."

  Amanda spoke up, louder. "Amos, this is not going to stop."

  He poked his head back through the door and nodded at me. "Keep your guard up."

  "You too."

  They left, and I climbed right out of bed and watched their truck's taillights disappear. Then I fumbled my way down the steps, hobbled across the yard, and found Blue standing on the front porch, stretching. I walked into the house, using the hallway walls like curbs, unlocked my writing closet, and pulled out the Winchester. I slid a shell into the chamber, clicked the safety on, and walked back into the barn.