by JD Salyers
Of course, that night she hadn't known about the bar fights or the stealing or the terrible group of friends. Angry young men, men who did everything to excess and ran right over any rule of law they encountered - speeding, drinking, stealing, fighting - it didn't matter. They were a train ride of bad decisions, and Landon seemed to be their ringleader. He hadn't been proud of it, though, and he'd always tried his best to keep a thick wall between that part of his life and the part he was spending with her.
Not that they spent that much time together, not at first. Her father had actually chased him away with a gun once, shooting into the air, telling him he couldn't come back until he made himself more respectable. The next time Melody saw him, two weeks later, he was wearing a suit and selling her mother a vacuum cleaner.
"What's so funny?" Janice asks, startling Melody.
"Just memories," Melody answers, her throat feeling suddenly thick and raw. She swallows and looks around the room for Pansy. "We are going to take a bath," she says, anxious to get out from under Janice's curious gaze.
"Hold on, now," Janice objects. "You need to tell me more of these stories. I want to know."
"Why?" Melody scoffs, not unkindly. "It's old water, under the bridge."
"I don't care. You bath Miss Pansy here, and I'm going to make us a couple of toddies. Then, once she's down," Janice points at Melody, "You and I are going to have a fireside chat."
Melody glances toward the cold, dark fireplace.
"No - I'll get a blaze going in the fire ring out back, all right?" Janice is nearly pleading now. "Please? I want to know."
"Why? What does any of it matter?" Melody isn't trying to be stubborn, she really has no idea why the younger woman would want to listen to her old lady rambling.
Janice points again, this time toward Pansy, who has one sticky finger tangled in Melody's hair. "Because of her. One of these days, you and Pop might not be around to tell the stories, Mom. I hate it, but it's true. I want to be able to tell them to Pansy and Jakey. James and I have talked about this."
The lump in Melody's throat comes back. She nods, thinking that Janice's words are truer than she knows. She feels fine, except that the man who holds her heart is slowly fading from her, and that might hurt worse than a sudden loss. "All right," she says quietly. "But let's get our little one to bed first."
An hour later, after a bath Pansy doesn't want, a story she doesn't listen to, and a bottle that finally puts her to sleep, Melody and Janice settle into Adirondack chairs beside the crackling back yard fire. The wind is picking up, tugging the flames this way and that. Melody can feel the storm in the air, and it will drive them back inside soon, but for now it feels good. "It's the perfect time of year for this," Janice murmurs, staring into the bright flames and sighing contentedly.
"I agree. We should do this sort of thing more often." Melody sips at her drink and feels the heat of the alcohol bite at her throat. They'd settled on mulled wine instead of toddies, the perfect cool evening libation, as her father used to say. Even if it wasn’t exactly fall quite yet.
She shakes her head. Janice had opened the floodgates of her memories and didn't even know it. Even sitting here decades later, with her grandchild asleep in the house, she can smell the grease and sweetness of the carnival and feel the strength of Landon's hand when he held hers that first time. She'd been over the moon, instantly in love, and her father could probably have locked her in the cellar and she would have found a way to get to him. She'd been that smitten and, to her own surprise, that stubborn about seeing him.
"Well, we know how the story ends," Janice says quietly, not looking at her. "How does it begin?"
Melody hesitates, then begins to talk, sifting through her thoughts to bring out the most relevant details, or so she thinks until Janice stops her.
"Mom, tell me about Pop. Tell me how he was, because what you said earlier makes me think he was a whole different kind of man back then."
Melody nods slowly. "He was. He didn't give a hoot about much of anything except that car of his, and later, me. He didn’t care about authority, or school, or even the future. When I met him, he worked to drink and drank to race. That's all they did, back in those days."
Janice looks bemused. "Do you mean circuit racing? Like NASCAR?"
Melody laughs. "Oh, no, honey. They never did anything so organized as that. These boys wrecked as hard as they drove, and hurt themselves on a regular basis. I'm honestly surprised Landon survived it, because he was the worst of the bunch. One of the other boys said he never met an S-curve he didn't like, and they were right."
She tells Janice about the weekends of sitting in the dusty heat, scared out of her mind, watching Landon circle the track and sure he wouldn't make it back to her. How he'd wave on the last lap, every time, and she would blow him a kiss. Every time. "He got to where he considered me his good luck charm, and then I had to blow him kisses at the beginning and end of every race. He'd be thrilled."
"It sounds like he enjoyed having you there with him, and the kisses were just an excuse," Janice says.
"Oh, I know that," Melody says, laughing softly. "He was so angry when he had to stop bringing me along, that I thought he was going to kill somebody before I could calm him down."
"Why did he stop bringing you, then?" Janice asks.
"The other boys decided that I was fair game for teasing," Melody says. "Landon got into too many fights over me, both before and after the races. He ended up in the hospital once and the drunk tank twice because of it."
"Oh, no," Janice murmurs, but she looks amused. "I can't imagine Pops in jail."
"Between fighting and trespassing, he knew his way around the place."
"Trespassing?"
"They raced on some farmer's land - without permission, of course."
"Oh, heavens." Janice blinked.
"It was for the best - this happened right around the time that I got pregnant with James. It probably wasn't safe for me to breathe in all that dust and fumes, anyway."
Janice cringed at the very idea, and Melody didn’t blame her. Melody knew that Janice had been good at pregnancy, logging what she ate and how much, keeping an eye on every twinge and bubble inside her. So careful, compared to her own pregnancies. Back then, they didn't know about the effects of the environment on the developing baby, and she would have been called crazy for even bringing up the subject. But of course things had changed - that's what happens, isn't it? she thinks. Things change and become something new.
A small voice taps at her thoughts, And what happens to you? What do you become when things change?
Hopefully she doesn't have to figure that out for a while.
Behind them, faintly, the phone rings. Janice stands up. "I'll get it. It's probably James checking in - he promised he would."
Melody watches the fire and waits. Their talk stirred up a lot of feelings, some not as welcome as others. The early times with Landon seemed bittersweet now, so far across the years. She missed it, suddenly. The simplicity and joy of the two of them, sharing everything, standing together against the irrational obstinacy of her parents. The roadblocks had served to meld them into one, which only enraged her father. Ultimately, there was nothing he could do, and Melody is so glad about that. Her life might have been so much different, and she can't imagine a worse fate than that.
Janice comes back and sits beside her, but the easy comfort of the evening is gone. Her fists are clenching the bottom of her pink t-shirt and her face is lined with concern. No, not concern, Melody thinks. Fear.
"What's wrong?"
"James says something is happening up there, at least he thinks something is happening. He needs me to ask you - is there anything he needs to know about Pop?"
Melody's heart skips a little and she sits forward in her chair. Heart attack. Stroke. A fall. A fight. Lost. "Is he all right? Why would James ask that?"
Janice holds up a hand. "He's all right. I think. James didn't sound so sure and I don't blame
him." She leans forward and reaches across for Melody's hands, both of them. "Mom, he pulled a gun on James."
14
James stops Landon at the edge of the campfire's light. It's blazing now. Peter is sitting and smoking, Michael is nowhere to be seen - probably inside the tent. "Dad, I need to know what's going on."
"Nothing, son. Just enjoying the night. Haven't been here for a while, and I'm glad to be back." Irrational anger wells up in Landon's throat. How dare his son question him like this? James was always the good son, the one they depended on to do as he was told, to trust his parents. This isn't like him.
Landon takes a deep breath and a mental step back. The rational part of his brain asserts itself, thankfully.
How many times had he told the boys to be careful in these woods? How often had he stressed the importance of letting someone know where you were going? What you were doing? Of course James will ask, if for no other reason than the fact that Landon probably worried him when he didn't come back. He concedes that he's just broken his own cardinal rule. "I'm sorry. I guess I lost track of time."
James is shaking his head. "No, Dad. Something else is going on. What is it?" He meets Landon’s gaze in the light of the flashlight and digs a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket. He turns away and cups a hand to light it. He starts walking up the trail. Landon follows more slowly.
Landon hesitates at the questions, and fights down the anger again. A boy - no matter how old - doesn't question his father. But that was his own father's way of thinking, and Landon wants to believe he is better than his own father. Still, he doesn't want James asking these questions. Doesn't want to answer them. He might even go so far as to say he has no answer - not one that he can give. How does a man tell his son that he's losing his mind? How does he do it without ruining their last big trip together?
That word, last, hits him in the gut. Hard. He's been tallying all the lasts, ever since the doctors told them what would happen. He's been keeping a running list, hasn't he, and he didn't even realize he was doing it until this moment.
The last time he eats at that steakhouse Melody likes.
The last time he walks through the conditioned air of the mall, holding Melody's hand, surrounded by chattering teenagers.
The last time he holds his wife.
The last time he drives.
The last time he swings his grandson up in the air, just to see him gasp with laughter.
The last time he walks through the woods with his boys.
The list, it seems, is never-ending. It is also heart-breaking.
Why? Why does it have to be the last time? Why does it have to be him?
There aren't any answers, and he knows it. Smarter men that him have considered the question, so what makes him think he can think any better? He's just a blue-collar small-time guy. Hell, he didn't even go to college. He didn't have to, back in his early years, in order to make a living.
A monster, panic, claws at the back of his throat. He swallows it down.
"Dad?" James is closer now, less than a foot from him. Landon realizes that they're back at the campsite. "Dad? Where do you go? What just happened there?"
Landon swallows and looks away toward the fire. Peter is snoozing in his camp chair. He looks uncomfortable. "Just thinking."
What does he say? How does he keep this trip happy and tell them about this...thing...that's stealing his mind? James is staring at him, openly worried now. Landon tries to smile. Grimaces instead. The thought of saying it out loud makes him ache inside. "I'm going to get some sleep," he says, instead of answering. "Peter's got the right idea."
Because he can't do anything else, he turns and goes inside his tent, where Michael is already passed out.
The space is big enough for four men, but right now, to Landon, it feels like a coffin.
He doesn't undress, he works around his shoes and holster and simply lays flat on his back, staring at the dim green glow of fire that filters through the canvas tent. He listens to James moving around, listens to him banking the fire, and the light grows dim. Then all is quiet for a little while. He doesn't sleep. He aches.
Everything in him says that he needs to talk to his sons, but why should he have to do it right now? What difference does two more days make? As soon as they get home, he promises himself. He'll invite them inside and, with Melody's help, tell them what's happening to him. Even as he thinks about doing that, anger flares in him again. It's banked, like the fire, but the glow is still there. He shifts and closes his eyes.
He doesn't know how much time passes before voices rouse him. Whispers, but harsh. Urgent. When he opens his eyes, it's still dark out, but the fire is blazing again. He can feel the heat roll through the tent. He gets up, notices that Michael is gone, and crawls out into the campsite.
The rain is pouring and cold, making him cringe when it hits the back of his neck. Peter, Michael, and James are all standing at the fire.
"Dad." Peter spots him first, comes over to help him up. "What are you doing awake?"
Landon looks at the three men, ignores the question. "What's going on?"
James slumps. "Jakey. He's not here. He's not in the tent."
Fear slices through Landon's entire body, nearly bending him double. He tries not to, but his gaze goes to the dark ledge and the river below. "Why didn't you wake me? Why aren't we looking?"
He turns and heads down the path, away from his boys who seem to be frozen by the light of the fire. His mind is racing. Jakey is three, he can't have gone very far. Landon pauses and turns. "Peter, check the area where we found the wood earlier. Maybe Jakey thought it would be fun to get more. James, you might want to start making phone calls."
He turns and heads down the trail again, trying to find a balance between hurrying and keeping his footing. The last thing he needs is to break something. “Dad,” James calls from behind him. He ignores it.
He had forgotten how dark it gets out here, away from all the light pollution of home. The minute he gets too far from the fire, he pulls the flashlight from its place on his belt and clicks it on. It is woefully inadequate for the thick darkness, but it's all he's got. He scans the woods and the trail ahead, hoping to see a glimpse of white skin or tiny red pajamas.
The thought of Jakey - chubby, funny Jakey with his soft skin and small, stout legs - anywhere near that roaring river water chills Landon to the bone. He slips and catches himself, once, twice, then gives up and sits on his ass to slide down the steepest parts of the trail, gripping the flashlight like life itself. By the time the land starts to level out, he's soaked and sore, but he pays no attention beyond an obligatory grunt when he gets to his feet again.
He digs his heels into the mud to hold himself and searches left and right, trying to guess which way Jakey might have gone. There isn't any clear sign - if there was, he probably couldn't see it - so he goes with instinct and heads left. The ground slopes downward somewhat here, and Jakey's little legs would be tired. He'd follow the path of least resistance.
The trees clear out just ahead, and it looks like this spot might have been someone's campsite recently. Charred ends of small logs and branches are sticking up out of the mud, and there is some plastic hung up in a low bush. That makes his heart race momentarily. He even takes a step toward it, Jakey's name on his lips, but then it rattles and he realizes what he's looking at.
He keeps going, trying to pay attention to everything he sees, trying to listen for the welcome sound of James calling to him, telling him they found Jakey. At the same time, he whispers the baby's name over and over, to keep the holes at bay and to remind himself what he's doing here. If he loses track now, it could be a disaster - not only for himself, but for Jakey, too. If the boy is down here, he needs to be found and taken to safety immediately. Landon needs his wits about him.
He's nearly a quarter mile along the bank when his eyes land on a flash of something bright. It's on the bank, below the trail, closer to the water, maybe ten feet below whe
re he's standing. He can't tell what it is, though. Another piece of plastic or some other random debris? A boat in the water below the brush? Or Jakey? He can't tell but he needs to know. If it's Jakey, he's one short tumble into fast-moving current.
Landon sits again - it's too steep to try to walk if he's worried about being hurt, even if he holds onto the trees that dot the slope. The ground is saturated here and soaks into his clothes. It's cold, too, and as he uses his hands to slow his slide, his fingers quickly start to numb. He calls Jakey's name over and over. Willing it to be the boy. Willing him to be all right. Willing a safe rescue and a warm, safe, dry grandson, tucked sleepy into his tent with his daddy.
Landon's heart aches at the thought. He keeps calling.
He has to break through a thin wall of brush to see what the pale thing is, but it isn't difficult. He can't even feel the scrape and burn of rough branches as he pushes them aside. He keeps going.
When he gets to the thing, he picks it up, but even before that he can see that it looks like part of a bed sheet, trapped in the branches from some other flood long past. It doesn't even look white, up close. It's not Jakey.
He's equal parts relieved and angry with himself for wasting valuable time. He turns and starts the difficult, slippery scramble back up to the trail. He's halfway there, not quite to the wall of branches, digging a knee into the cold mud, when he loses his balance and slips.
His throat slams shut and he half-rolls onto his right side. The mud smacks his cheek and he feels his skin tear. His hands scrabble for anything, but all they catch are weeds that tear away. He can't feel his fingertips for sure. His left calf, flung wide in the bid to brace against the fall, slams into a small tree trunk, one he'd used just moments before to help steady himself.
Something snaps, and it isn’t the tree. He feels it, clean, like the crack of a rifle inside his head. Pain, sharp and then dull, shoots up through his knee and into his hip. He stops moving and grabs for it.