by N. C. Reed
Alicia and Ronny had two children, a set of fraternal twins two years behind Gordy in school. Daughter Leanne, the oldest by three minutes and change, and son Leon, named for their paternal great grandfather, were excellent students, with IQ's that were literally off the charts. Something else Leon managed to take credit for, allowing that superior genes had to be responsible for so many smart children. Both were champing at the bit to get their driver's license, Leanne insisting she should go first as she was the oldest. The two of them were old enough and strong enough that they worked the farm after school and through the summer, and they operated trucks and other equipment on the farm. With so many others able to drive however, they did not qualify for the farm exemption which would have allowed them a restricted license to drive to and from school, to and from pick-ups and deliveries and any other work the farm required so long as it was during daylight hours. Both felt heartily persecuted because of this, but even Leanne's heartfelt letter of indignation to the Governor had not improved their situation. They would get licenses at sixteen and not a minute earlier. Considering their driving record around the farm with ATVs and the like, that was probably a good thing. The two shared an electric golf cart to get around the farm on, and even it showed signs of being wrecked more than once.
Ronny and Alicia had wanted more children and were still hopeful. Both had been assured there was no physical reason they could not have more children, and the doctors had all ended with a slightly ribald prescription to 'just keep trying'. They had, and were.
And now, at the far end of the table with Leon, sat Clayton Sanders, returned home from only God knew where at the moment. Clay had come late in life to Gordon and Angela, her referring to him as her 'baby boy' not a meaningless affectation. His niece Abigail was only seven years his junior, and Gordy nine.
Gordon knew that Clay had always felt left out as a child and as a teen. He was never old enough to go with the adults, and was too old to want to go with the kids. Gordon attributed that more than anything for Clay's decision to 'run off and join the Army', as Leon had put it.
They had seen him exactly twice since then. Once for ten days following his basic training, and once more a year-and-a-half later at the end of a school he had come home from Iraq to take. He had stayed with them six days and then reported in. Since then, nothing. He wrote once in a while, but it was rare as hen's teeth and his mother treasured every letter and guarded them like the gold at Fort Knox.
Clay had never been a 'bad kid', but he had been rambunctious and unafraid. He and Greg Holloway, now Deputy Holloway, had more than once been delivered to Gordon's door, in trouble for one thing or another. Trouble seemed to follow him, even when he tried to be on his better behavior.
Now today, with no warning whatever, he shows up to stay for good, already having had an encounter that had cost a man his life. Granted that man was a thug and no one important would miss him, but Gordon didn't miss the way that Clayton didn't seem affected by the taking of the life of another. He knew there was only one reason that would be;
It wasn't something new to him. Clay had been in the Army ten years, seen service in a half-dozen countries that they knew of, and faced enemies in every one. It was unrealistic to think that his youngest son was unblooded.
But it did lend strength to Leon's argument that something was 'chasing' Clay. He mentally shrugged the thought away as he realized he was wool gathering, his family waiting for the prayer so they could eat.
“Dear Lord,” he bowed his head, “for this bounty we give thee thanks and ask thy blessing upon it. We also give thanks for the return of our missing member, making us whole once more. We give thanks that you have watched over him and brought him safely home. Please continue to watch over our family and grant us the strength to overcome. Amen.”
“Amen!” several echoes were heard down the table as the traditional grabbing began.
“Good to see some things don't change,” Clay snorted from his seat next to Leon.
“Just be glad Abby ain't here,” Leon told him. “Ham's her favorite. She'd be fighting some of 'em by now,” he chortled.
“Sure enough,” Gordy nodded, passing a bowl of heaping mashed potatoes. “Welcome home Uncle Clay,” he grinned.
“Thanks Gordy,” Clay smiled.
And for just a bit, a few wonderful hours, he allowed himself to forget how he had come to return to Calhoun and his family. Why he was here.
What was coming.
CHAPTER THREE
-
Time passes quickly on a farm or ranch, and the Sanders did both.
Clay's arrival had been fortuitous for the family, as it was right on top of planting season. A day of rain had helped settle the dry conditions and soon tractors were rolling, breaking ground. In addition to their own land which was a substantial holding, the Sanders leased other land. That included the land of the former Troy place, leased from the new owner for the season through an attorney.
“Hate to see that place broke up,” Gordon told Clay one evening as the two worked to ready their rigs for the next day. “Knew old Harold a long time. Was a good man.”
“You didn't want it?” Clay asked and Gordon snorted.
“Son, the world is full of things I want,” he chuckled. “But adding over a thousand acres to this place would put me deep in debt, and leave it for you kids to have to pay. Added to the inheritance tax, probably be all you could do to hang on to it.”
“Hadn't thought of that,” Clay nodded, his voice non-committal. “Know who bought it?”
“Nah,” Gordon shook his head. “Just glad to have the pasture for a year, and the hay. Got hunting rights too. Just for one year, though. I expect next year we 'll have some kind of mini-mansions there with a pool and what not.”
I doubt it, Clay thought to himself, but couldn't say aloud.
“Well, I think I'm good,” he said instead, finishing his service work. “You?”
“Just about,” Gordon nodded. “Let’s go see what your mother cooked for supper.”
-
It took three weeks and and few days to plant everything. There was a lot of land involved, plus Gordon always tried to help out friends and neighbors who needed it. One such friend had suffered a mild heart-attack in the off-season, and he and Clay had broken, plowed and planted the family's land while he recovered. It was just the kind of thing Gordon did, and his children had been raised the same way. In addition to their own land the the land on the Troy farm, they leased several thousand more acres across the county. All of which had to be broken, plowed, and planted.
With the planting done it was time for other things. There was always plenty to do around a place like the Sanders' Farm, and Clay threw himself to it. He was ever up before dawn, and still working when his mother rang the supper bell.
Word had spread about his involvement in the 'tussle' at the diner, and he had worried that his family might face repercussions from it, but so far nothing had happened. Clay had applied for and received a gun permit, traveling to Columbia to apply rather than through the Department of Safety in Peabody due to Officer Cole.
He had attended Wednesday night Bible service that next night home, where he had received a cold welcome at best. Clearly, he was expected to throw himself on the mercy of the Lord and the church for taking another life, but…Clay didn't see that he had anything to ask for. He hadn't started that fight.
Amy Mitchell have been there, and had given him a jaundiced eye from across the auditorium as she sat with a little girl who might have been eight or nine. A miniature of her, in fact. She had placed a protective arm around the little girl when she saw Clay looking at them.
Guess that explains why she is where she is, Clay had thought at the time. There was no ring on her finger and no one sitting with her. He shrugged mentally and dismissed it from his mind. It wasn't his business, and not minding his business was what started this mess in the first place.
Won't make any difference in the long run,
anyway, he thought sadly. It did twig him a little that she seemed to consider him a threat, especially to the girl, but he shrugged that off as well. He couldn't take it back. She could have been more appreciative though.
His mother had ignored the cool reception at church and had actually outdone some of the older women on staring down, it taking an individual of strong character to withstand Angela Sanders' scrutiny. But Clay had decided that he wasn't going to make things difficult for his mother and hadn't gone back. He had been looking forward to attending, but that night had pretty well killed the joy. He could read a bible as well as any preacher so he decided he didn't need it, having survived to this point without it.
He didn't do anything social to amount to much. He had picked out a place well back from the road and started a cabin of his own, getting his brother-in-law to dig a basement for it. He erected forms for a basement himself with just a little help from is nephew and father, then hired a local cement company to pour the walls and floor. Soon he was living in his own small space, an A frame cabin with a small balcony overlook, loft bedroom and full basement with a garage door.
“Bit extravagant, don't you reckon?” Leon had noted.
“Nah,” was Clay's only reaction.
Clay had found himself a pickup truck after planting, then had gotten a ride to the bus station in Peabody. He was gone for four days and when he returned he was driving a surplus Hummer, pulling a trailer.
Gordon had watched the wide bodied vehicle pulling up the narrow drive to Clay's new cabin, wondering how 'surplus' it really was. It looked fairly new and in good condition. He had shrugged it away, knowing it wouldn't be the first time that someone had allowed a good vehicle to be surplussed away. He never even asked about it other than to comment on it once as 'nice to have'. Clay had agreed even as he sealed it away in the basement of his cabin, out of sight.
All the signs pointed to Clay settling in to a new life on the farm.
Leon didn't buy that for a second.
Leon Sanders didn't miss much, and eighty-one years gave him a lot of experience to call upon. Leon had raised three children, outlived two of them, made a small farm pay for itself, and had been a power in the local political scene in years gone by. In decades past if you wanted to be elected to office in Calhoun County, you needed Leon Sanders' backing. Leon knew people. He knew how to read them, lead them, and talk to them. It had always amazed Leon how much you could learn about others just by watching, and listening.
He had spent the last few weeks watching his youngest grandson and listening to him talk. Not to what he said, but to what he didn't say. Sometime you could learn more about someone from that, rather than what they did talk about. Clay would talk about time in Afghanistan, and Iraq, once in a while mention the Philippines, but never discuss Africa other than to say 'I been there'. He shrugged off any other questions like water from a duck's back and no amount of prodding would change it.
Leon didn't miss Clay's reluctance to engage in social activity, either. Not with that bunch of wet hens at church. Leon scoffed openly at the notion that their opinion mattered to anyone, including the Good Lord. A more hypocritical bunch didn't exist so far as he knew and their opinion of him was worth almost as much as the horse manure he often stepped in during the day. Almost.
The horse manure at least had value as fertilizer after all.
No, Clay's reluctance to partake in social activities wasn't the problem. It was a problem, perhaps, but not what interested Leon. The Old Man saw something that he wasn't sure the rest of the family saw.
His grandson had become a predator in the years he had been gone. It didn't surprise Leon, Clay having been more like his grandfather than his parents. But Clay was more subtle than Leon had ever been. Almost as if he was making an effort to appear as if he wasn't one. To look harmless.
It was clear to Leon that while Clay had hated what happened at Lorrie's, it wasn't because of what had happened, but that it had happened to him. It had exposed him, and Clay was clearly uncomfortable with that. Not from fear, but from the notoriety it had brought him. Many thought him a hero while others thought him a criminal. It was obvious to Leon even if it wasn't to the others that Clay couldn't care less about those opinions, he just didn't want to be so noticeable. It was almost as if it were spoiling some kind of plan he had.
What are you up to boy? Leon had wondered more than once. He had decided that today was the day he was going to find out. Three months was long enough and he was too old to keep guessing. And whatever it was, Leon didn't want it getting in the way of anything he himself had going. He might be old and retired, but he was not idle.
Clay talked to the family every day, but he never really told them anything. He talked around things, but he never came right out and said much of anything at all. It as all just hints and innuendo. Well, Leon had decided that today was the day he was going to talk to Clay, and that Clay was going to talk to him as well. Leon Sanders had many ways to get people to talk to him when he wanted them to, including making said person so miserable they would talk just to shut the old man up.
Leaning only lightly on a walking staff that he carried most everywhere, Leon walked to the tractor shed where the family kept the farm's machinery stored when not in use. The old man was not surprised when Clay's back stiffened slightly and the younger man turned to look at him long before he arrived. There was no way possible for Clay to have heard Leon's approach over the sound of the tractor's idling engine. It was almost as if the boy had eyes in the back of his head now. Leon supposed that was pretty accurate.
Clay shut the tractor down and stood wiping his hands on a rag as Leon made the last few steps to where his grandson waited.
“Morning Granddad,” Clay smiled faintly. “How's tricks?”
“I ain't got any tricks at my age, boy,” Leon growled back, though without any rancor. “What are you up to out here at this hour?”
“This hour?” Clay frowned. “Papa it's nearly eight o'clock!”
“Should have been doing this at least an hour ago,” Leon nodded, as if Clay had made his point for him. “I tell you, every generation gets lazier than the last,” he shook his head theatrically. Clay laughed.
“Well, I'm pretty sure Mom would have had a conniption if I had fired this beast up before daylight,” he said, leaning up against the huge Ford as Leon took the straight-backed chair for himself.
“She should have been up an hour or more by then,” Leon declared, grunting as his weight hit the weaved twine seat. “It's a wonder anything gets done around here, I tell you,” he added.
“Someone didn't take their Geritol this morning,” Clay laughed, earning himself a glare from Leon. “What's wrong with your oats today?”
“You are,” Leon declared flatly and Clay instantly lost his good humor.
“I'm tired of watching you gloom about here, boy,” Leon said flatly. “There's something riding you, and I'm tired of wondering about it. Start talking.” Leon crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
Clay didn't speak at once, his facial expressions running from startled to surprised to angry, and then to resigned. He sighed, a long, tortured sound to Leon's ears, and pulled out a can of Copenhagen. Taking a dip he offered the can to Leon, who instead pulled a can of Garrett snuff from his own pocket. Talks like this required tobacco.
“I'm listening,” Leon said.
“Okay,” Clay nodded. “I'll tell you what's 'riding' me, so long as you don't interrupt, scoff, or make any judgment until I'm finished. Think you can do that Old Man?” You could hear the capital letters. It was practically a proper name among the family.
“I imagine I can,” Leon nodded.
Clay leaned back against the tractor, collecting his thoughts. Leon waited patiently. It was a nice morning, with a cooling breeze in the air. Finally Clay started talking.
He spoke for nearly an hour, and Leon was true to his word. He never interrupted, never made any remarks at all. His only reaction was
the occasional facial expression, usually surprise, but once or twice a grimace. Those Clay ignored. At last he finished and leaned back again. Leon studied him for a time, weighing what he'd heard.
“I can see why you ain't told that lot,” he finally said, waving toward the houses in the distance. “They'd have you in Downy's before the end of the day.” Downy Mental Health Center was a facility just outside Nashville for the 'mentally and emotionally distraught', as the brochure went. Locally it was known as the Loony Center. Being sent there had a stigma that was hard to get rid of.
“That's about how I seen it,” Clay nodded.
“So, this is what you've been working on, then,” Leon stated rather than asked. Clay nodded again.
“Probably cost a pretty penny,” Leon mused.
“Yeah, it has,” Clay agreed, his voice noncommittal.
“Where did you get the money, boy?” Leon asked.
“I took it,” Clay admitted freely. “I tracked down an African warlord, killed him and his men, and took his loot. All of it. Split thirteen ways it was still plenty. More than plenty.”
“Thirteen?” Leon asked.
“Twelve of us, and a share for them,” Clay nodded.
“And that's what brought you home,” Leon stated rather than asked. “And how you left the Army,” he added.
“Yes,” Clay nodded again. “So now, you know.” It wasn't quite a challenge, but it was brittle.
“Well, I'm in,” Leon said at once, rising slowly but steadily to his feet.