by David Wayne
We finally gave up re-digging the trenches. They refilled with mud and rain in less than five minutes, and it had become too dangerous out in the open. At times, the river rushing down the hill filled the tent with over two inches of dirty water. Our shelter had become a big bathtub filled with cold, filthy muck. All we could do was sit there while rain pounded down with fury. Our surroundings were pitch-dark, except for periodic cracks of lightning. At times, the rain poured so heavily the sound was deafening, exacerbated by loud, howling winds and thunderous, cannon-like booms. It sucked.
We sat miserably that way for several hours. Eventually, we got a reprieve; the wind died down, and the downpour turned into a drizzle. We shared a mutual sigh.
“It’s going to be back, probably worse,” she said.
I nodded.
“Max, I wanted to ask about Trisha,” she said softly, but the words struck me like a sucker punch.
Sensing my hesitation, or maybe noticing that I’d stiffened and leaned away, she said, “I’m not prying. Trisha was my friend, too.” She didn’t put a comforting hand on me, but her eyes comforted.
When I didn’t respond, she dug into my backpack, handing me the bottle of Johnny Walker and the smokes I’d wrapped in a Ziploc. I moved over and unzipped the tent flap and fogged up a cig—blowing the relaxing smoke out the screen mesh. As I unscrewed the bottle top, I wondered how the sister knew I had this stuff. She must have nosed through my things when I snuck off for a nice, big number two after lunch. The thought irritated me, but thoughts of Trish were stronger. Of course, I had no intention of sharing such private matters with her. It was my business.
But then my mouth started moving.
“I really do miss Trisha,” I said, taking a burning pull from the bottle. I was staring out into the wet night, feeling lost. Her patient stare said she’d wait forever—but where to start?
“How did you meet her?” she said, touching my arm. Obviously, the sister had been down this road before. She reminded me of Father McGeegen.
Between the booze, the smoke, and thinking about Trish, I could suddenly breathe, like a foot pressing my neck was suddenly removed. I smiled at the thought of our first meeting. “I moved here from Jersey, so Alabama was a bit of a culture shock, to be polite. The point was to disappear into nowhere. Two years ago, right before Mother’s Day, I went to the local florist to send a gift back home. Trish was the owner,” I said, shrugging and swigging.
During my silence, Sister sat silent, and somehow that egged me to spill. “While Trisha built my flower arrangement, we bantered. She was really smart—quick and funny, but in an unassuming, low-key way. Plus, she had the nicest a—huh, disposition,” I stammered, falling silent and taking another slug of whiskey. Talking about Trish was making me feel better. Feeling better, when feeling bad, is good.
“So, I asked her out to dinner. She said no. I asked her to lunch, and she said no. How about coffee? She shook her head no. Can I stand here and just talk? She said, ‘Only if you have business.’” I paused, savoring that frustrating moment, which seemed weird—savoring a frustrating moment.
“I left her shop pissed off. Later in bed, I tossed and turned all night, cussing the stuck-up, arrogant florist. Screw it, I thought, I’m not here to meet women anyway. Alabama is an escape, not a quest for love. I decided if I ever needed flowers again, I’d drive into Birmingham—the hell with Trish and Trish’s Flower Shop. The next day, I went into town for supplies and found myself parked outside her florist shop. Men are fools, you know?” I said.
She nodded, her look saying this is true.
“I went in and pre-ordered flowers for my aunt’s birthday, which was a month away. I asked the same series of dating questions and received the same answers—no dates," I said with a laugh, and the sister joined in.
“So, I went home, pissed off once again—but over a few beers on the porch, fighting mosquitoes, I got over it. I’d been happy in Heartsville, living the solitary lifestyle. I wasn’t looking for love, but I decided I shouldn’t be purposely avoiding it either. That was the light switch. The awakening, so to speak. Nothing like a good beer buzz and the thought of a beautiful woman in tight jeans to make a man change his perspective. No offense, Sister,” I said.
“None taken,” she said.
“So, every day for two weeks, I returned to Trish’s Flower Shop—ordering arrangements and enjoying conversation for the brief twenty minutes it took for her to build them. I sent flowers to everybody. From my local doctor to the car mechanic who switched out my dead battery. Finally, when I started sending flowers to city council members, she asked me out. Well, sorta,” I laughed.
We sat in a comfortable silence while I gathered myself. Males need a few sips of whiskey and a puff of smoke to figure out and articulate emotions. It’s complicated stuff. Apparently, Sister understood this and remained silent.
Finally, I continued. “So, out of the blue, Trish says, 'How about if I come over tonight and you cook me dinner?' That came like a right hook out of nowhere, but Max Ryker never shows a sweat. I bounced back quickly. 'Sure, I’ve got some veggies soaking in a homemade marinade and some fresh fish ready to fry up.' None of that was true, of course, but it could be. It was only eleven a.m., and ole Maxie is pretty resourceful when it comes to getting laid…uh, I mean—”
“You mean getting laid,” she said, shrugging.
“Well, sorta, but I’d already invested, like, two weeks, you know?”
She gave me a dry stare. “Yeah, that’s, like, forever, you know?”
I let the comment slide; after all, she was a sister. “So, when Trish shows up at the crib, she’s carrying a twelve-pack of Heineken Dark, an overnight bag, and a toothbrush with one of those plastic tops covering the tip. The kind only chicks use?” I said.
Susan nodded.
“Then Trish says, 'If you’re willing to keep my toothbrush in your bathroom, then I’m in. Otherwise, call me when you’re ready.' She said this like a landlord demanding a first, last, and security deposit, or no deal. Now that’s classy, right?”
“Oh, very classy,” Sister said with a slight frown.
“In one sentence, Trish packed a knockout punch—direct, cute, ballsy. Of course I said yes, right?”
“Of course. You’d already invested a mind-boggling two weeks,” she said, smiling.
“The last couple months, I’d been debating asking her to move in. It’d been two-years, but I kept hesitating. My place was spared the Event, so if I’d only asked her, she’d still be alive…”
“Max, don’t go to that dark place. Only shadows lurk there, and all they want to do is smother us,” she said, and somehow I found solace in her words.
A massive boom shook the tent, followed by a flash so bright it seemed like high noon. We both jumped and then laughed. But I couldn’t continue; my brain had fast-forwarded to the now. The positive rush of Trish and her goodness evaporated with the monsoon that began pouring, making the earlier storm seem like a mild rain.
But it was about to get much worse.
Chapter 8
Over the next hour, Mother Nature vented her fury. As the tent filled with dirty water, pieces of our lean-to began blowing off. Finally, our tarp covering succumbed to the high winds, blowing completely away. One of the log supports, still secured on one end by a rope, began flapping around. It battered the tent like a tetherball being smacked around a pole, slamming hard against the tent.
Bam, bam, bam.
I had to cut it loose before it smashed and broke the tent. I ran out into the storm, the rain stinging my face, every burst of lightning teasing me with death. The roof brace was swish-swashing around in midair, and I had to dodge and duck it. It was like a ten-pound club being swung randomly by a ghost—one that was trying to brain me. It had no set pattern or rhythm, and every time I reached out to grab it, the thing moved—as if it were purposely dodging me. I couldn’t get any timing on the damn thing. Finally, I gave up and bent down football tackle
style and went for it.
A sudden gust of wind brought it at me fast. I ducked but slipped in the mud. As I flailed about, the pendulum swung and smashed hard into my side, almost knocking me down. Luckily, I was able to secure it under my arm and slash the rope. I limped back inside the tent, my side sporting a huge, oblong-shaped bruise. It hurt like hell.
“Are you all right?” she asked, noticing I was holding my side.
“No, I’m damaged, wet, tired, hungry, and angry… How are you?”
She tried to lift my shirt to check out my boo-boo, but I politely pushed her away. I prefer to suffer silently.
Our swinging roof rafter managed to do some serious damage to the tent, smashing one side completely down. It didn’t punch a hole through the fabric, but the sunken top was collecting more rain than before. It soaked through almost immediately, leaking in like a spigot. Water was now pouring in through the back, the sides, and the top. Occasionally, a large wave would rush down the hill, gracing us with a couple of inches of water; it took about ten minutes to seep back out. We sat in complete silence, total darkness, and wetness—enduring the nightmare until about three a.m. We dozed and woke periodically all through the night. We shivered in the cold wind, which continued to howl long after the storm had passed. Not a very good first night, to say the least.
Chapter 9
We awoke at daybreak, wrapped together like pigs in a blanket—two wet and freezing people using body heat to stay warm. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to peek at her chest—knowing the physical effect that chilly wet has on a woman. She noticed me noticing and gave me a weary look, causing me to feel adolescent.
“I’m sorry for last night, Max,” she said. “Obviously, you saw what was coming and, by the grace of God and despite my arrogance, prepared us for it. For that I am very grateful. You could, however, if you were polite, discontinue staring at my breasts—which are reacting to the cold and not our closeness.”
A quick acknowledgment of saving us, and then right back to the sharp tongue. Why wasn’t I surprised? I would have rolled over and gotten up, but I had a little problem. At least three of my ribs were cracked, making me feel like I had a red-hot poker shoved up my rear. I gritted my teeth as pain seared my body.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m just rosy, why?”
“You seem to be in a lot of pain. How badly were you hurt last night?” she asked, very concerned. She was nice when she was being nice.
“I’m in no pain at all, just a little cramped from the bad sleeping conditions,” I said casually, trying not to groan. Even talking hurt.
“Why are you tearing up, then?”
“My eyes water when I wake up. It’s a weird family affliction. All Rykers do it,” I said.
She didn’t look happy. “That macho bit doesn't fly with me. Let me see it,” she said, reaching over to pull up my shirt.
I blocked her. “I will not.”
She made a frustrated noise. “Okey dokey, Mr. Ryker, have it your way. Suffer alone. Do your pointless little peacock strut. There’s no shame in admitting you’re hurt and need help. But I forgot… you’re Mr. Man and could never be honest and admit to anything. Especially something related to a feeling.” She stood, water squishing out of the sleeping bags as she walked over them. Her last step caused a stream to shoot up and squirt me in the eye. I felt dirty mud water running down my cheek. Great.
Slowly, I edged myself up. I had pretty much learned not to respond to her pointed stabs and smart remarks. She was too quick-witted. If I had a comeback to one of her comments, she would bounce back with a better one. The best response, I learned, was no response at all. This seemed to infuriate her, which was the point. It didn’t matter, really; I’d be finding her a new traveling companion in the next town, and then I’d be free of her.
She made a weird breakfast consisting of a breaded something-or-other and water-coffee. I ate it because I was starved, but didn’t ask what was in it—I didn’t want to know. We hiked at a slow and lethargic pace, both of us grumpy and irritable from being up all night. We stopped for an early lunch.
“Do you have children, Mr. Ryker?” she asked, taking a bite of sandwich.
“Not that I know of. You?”
She gave me a sideways glance. “No, I don’t. What does ‘not that I know of’ mean?”
I shrugged and bit my sandwich.
“Have you ever been married?”
“Noooooo,” I said, letting out a long, low whistle. Why do women want to get so personal? “Just the one long-term relationship,” I said.
She brightened, indicating I’d scored some brownie points; I mean, women like guys who do relationships. She cleared her throat. I looked up, chewing my food.
She rolled her eyes. “How long and to whom?”
“I told you the whole story last night. Were you drunk?” I said, laughing at my funny.
She frowned. “Everybody in town knew about your casual, on-again, off-again fling with Trisha. It didn’t amount to much more than Saturday night booty calls. Is that the extent of your relationship history?”
I’d noticed she was slowly dropping the prim and proper vocabulary and was falling into a more relaxed way of speaking. Obviously, she was a young nun, but I didn’t expect her to say booty call, or even know what it was.
“Yes, Mr. Ryker, I know what a booty call is,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I’m a modern nun living in a modern world. We’ve adapted to the times. I’m a sister, not Mother Teresa. In the twenty-first century, nuns use a bit of slang and even catch the occasional R-rated movie. Sorry if that pops your expectation bubble of what I’m supposed to be.” She stood and grabbed her backpack. “But I take your dodging of the question to mean you’ve never been in a meaningful relationship, which is odd at your age, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer, instead grabbing my stuff and heading down the trail. I viewed my relationship with Trish as meaningful, especially considering my standard was one-nighters. Unfortunately, the probing didn’t stop as we marched through the muddy woods.
“So, I’ve heard things, Mr. Ryker. Whispers, rumors, and innuendos,” she said without slowing our pace.
I pretended it was a statement and kept on sloshing along through the mud.
“You know? People talk?”
Slosh.
“Because when people live in the periphery of a community, without engaging in it, folks tend to fill in the blanks on their own.”
More statements with question marks. I felt like a pincushion, with each question another piercing needle.
“Some of the ladies in our Bible study group were talking.”
Finally, I let out a long sigh, figuring if I didn’t respond, the needling would just continue. “I suppose they would. A sophisticated man from the big city moves to Hicksville, and it’s only natural bored, lonely housewives would fantasize. I’m young and fit, and there’s a reason women nicknamed me Slow Hand in college. It’s—”
“Huh, no, the rumor was more along the lines of you getting kicked out of the military or some government agency. Some say traitor, others say criminal activity. Mostly, women thought the way you stayed holed up like a hermit crab was creepy. I was only asking for a bit of information about your past,” she said, sounding irritated.
“I already disclosed what I did at the Leaders Group meeting. I worked for the government. Took early retirement. Me and my pension moved to the Birmingham suburbs. The end,” I said, hoping to put an end to the probing. What more did she need to know?
She made some type of frustrated woman grunt, which I pretended not to hear. The trail wound to higher ground, which provided dryer dirt and made for easier walking. The lack of sleep felt like an awful hangover. There’s nothing like an intense hike when you feel like shit. The mosquitoes were biting with a fury, like starving vampires. Truth be told, I hate the woods. The sister had stopped jawing, and all that could be heard were twigs crackling under our feet. For an hour,
we walked like zombies without talking. Then it started again.
“So, do you have any questions for me?” Sister said without turning around.
“Nope.”
“So, you don’t want to know anything more about me?” she said with attitude.
“I’m good.”
“So, Hogwogs could kill us tomorrow, yet you prefer to walk in dead silence rather than learn about your traveling companion—whom you know nothing about?” she said, ramping up both tone and attitude.
She was going to force my hand, so I caved. “I know enough about you already. You were born in the woods somewhere; your father taught you to hunt. You became a nun. Moved to Birmingham. The End.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding hurt.
Now I felt bad. “Look, I grew up around the Church. You had your mean old biddy nuns and the young pretty ones we called nunners,” I said. Sensing the opportunity to score some points, I threw her a compliment. “I’m sure us boys would have considered you a nunner.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. So did I. But rather than twirl around and tear into me, she decided to push forward. Keeping up with her for the next several hours was hell on earth—my chest bruise was screaming, but I didn’t complain. It beat talking.
We were burnt out, and it seemed pointless to push on late. We decided to camp early after finding a nice clearing. We warmed up a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli, to go with some stale bread, and ate while watching the sun sink. I kicked off my shoes, putting them by the fire to dry. Sister followed suit. The crackling of the fire felt comforting. Or maybe it was the Johnny Walker I was sipping. I lit up a smoke. Last night in the tent notwithstanding, I was surprised she wasn’t scowling at me for drinking and smoking. I looked around at the peaceful night. I guess now it was all about the simple things. After scrawling a few notes in my log, I looked up to find her staring at me. I decided the sister goes down better with a mellow buzz. She wasn’t all bad, I suppose—a bit snippy. Maybe I’d been too short with her earlier. Might as well sling some conversation, make her feel better, and then head off to bed.