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Friday, January 28, 2011
Sowing Seeds
Sowing Seeds
Sam tired of window shopping quickly. There wasn't much to look at in the quaint mall in the sleepy town, but it was the best the area had to offer. He'd lived here for more than a year, "imported in", as the locals called it, as a computer tech for a resort hotel. Laura, his wife, had settled in nicely, loving the small-town feel. They had made friends, enjoyed the few great restaurants, and, should the itch get unbearable, could drive the 60 miles to the nearest big city for the symphony or occasional concert.
He spotted a bench, occupied only on one end by an older man, who seemed intent on working on his pocket watch. Sam shuffled over and dropped to the opposite end, stretching out his khaki-clad legs in front of him. He crossed his ankles, looked at his watch, jingled the change in his pocket, uncrossed his ankles, crossed them again.
"Yessir. Kilt him, I did."
Sam froze mid-jingle. "Pardon me?",he queried, almost afraid to ask the old man to repeat himself.
"That ground hog in my garden. He was tearin'' up my stuff, so I kilt him. He won't be back." The man spoke in the way of old-timers, as if one had been privilege to to his thoughts, starting in the middle of a conversation, sometimes working their way back.
Sam visibly relaxed. "Well, that's for sure", he replied.
"You gotta garden?"
"No sir. We live in town, not much room for a garden." Sam had learned the response was the right one. The local folk didn't expect town-dwellers to have gardens.
The old man nodded knowingly. "Been farmin' my whole life. Still got a garden. You ever move out to the country, you look me up. Folk'll tell you I got the best garden around these days.Name's Ray." The old man stuck his hand out in Sam's direction. Sam had no choice but to scoot closer to accept the introduction.
"Sam". Ray's calloused grip was firm, the hand of a man still accustomed to work. Sam looked into the weathered face. The lines around his eyes bespoke not just the years, but life and laughter.
"I even got a flower garden", Ray winked. "My wife, she loves those flowers. Some of 'ems not just for lookin' good, though. You know marigolds'll keep bugs away from your vegetables? Don't like the smell.
Can't say as I blame 'em.", Ray cackled.
Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Is that right?"
"Even planted some rose bushes. Temperamental dang things. But you oughta see my Jeanie's face when I pick one, bring it to her." Ray's face softened when he spoke of his wife. "You married, Sam?"
"Yes, sir. Five years." Even now, Sam was surprised that Laura loved him, put up with his long work hours and sometimes impatient demeanor.
"My Jeanie 'n me been married over 50 years. She's a peach, that gal is."
Sam smiled. Ray was obviously still smitten with his "gal".
"She's dress shoppin', wants to get all gussied-up for our grandson's wedding. I told her,'Now, woman, I ain't buyin' no new suit.'. Got a perfectly good suit, navy blue. Wear it to church on Easter and Christmas, that's all. Rest of the time I reckon Jesus don't care what I wear to church. A man only needs one good suit. Easter, Christmas, weddin's, and to be buried in, the way I see it."
Sam wondered what Ray would think of the closet full of suits he had at home.
"Know what she told me? They ain't havin' no church weddin', gonna get married right down by the river. All us men gotta wear blue jeans, white shirt, and matchin' ties. Purple. No, not purple - "lilac". Ain't that somethin'?" Ray laughed out loud. "Well, least I didn't have to go rent no monkey suit. What about you, Sam. How 'bout your weddin'?"
Sam squirmed a little. "Monkey suit", he answered sheepishly, "mint green tie."
Ray cackled even louder, drawing a few grins from passing shoppers. "We gotta keep them little gals happy, now don't we, Son." Ray wiped his eyes. "Mint green. If that don't beat all."
"You got the look of a man waitin' for somebody, Sam." Ray raised his shaggy eyebrows in question."That wife of yours?", he asked with a sly grin.
"Yeah, Laura's getting highlights in her hair at the...beauty shop." Sam had started to say "salon", but said "beauty shop" instead, thinking Ray would appreciate it.
Ray nodded. "Highlights? You mean them blonde streaks?" He nodded again. "Don't go in much for them beauty shop streaks. I like what Mother Nature and the good Lord give 'em. Yessir, sunshine and the Lord do the best job. But, now, females are different, you know." It was a statement, not a question.
Sam smiled. "You don't have to tell me, Ray." He shook his head, thinking of how excited Laura had gotten at the prospect of a new hair style.
"Thing is, though, Son, is you gotta make 'em happy. Let 'em have them blonde streaks. Don't even blink when they want lilac or mint green ties at their weddin'. You pick 'em a flower, tell her how purty she looks, tell her how good she smells. You'll see."
Sam glanced at his watch.
"You got somewhere to be, Sam?", Ray asked.
"No, just a ballgame."
"You playin'?".
Sam shook his head. "On tv."
"You got money on it?"
Sam laughed. "No sir, just watching."
"Son, you sit on a bumblebee, it'll sting you on the ass every time."
"What....?"Sam looked puzzled.
"Just let it be, son. Quit lookin' at your watch. Don't make her feel like she's puttin' you out by bein' here with her. You got yourself into this marriage, for better or worse. Don't start somethin'. Just let it be. Right now, ain't nothin' more important than waitin' for your gal to get her hair done."
Sam threw back his head a laughed, Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laura scanning the mall, a nervous, hurried look about her. He smiled and got to his feet. He put out his hand to the old man. "Ray, it's been a pleasure passing time with you."
Ray shook his hand, holding it tight for just a minute, as his glance followed Sam's to the rushing Laura.
"Sam, I'm sure this ole bench'll be watin' here for us again."
"You can count on it" Sam replied, as he turned to greet his wife.
Sam met her with a smile. She seemed surprised at his relaxed attitude. He pulled her into his arms, and her eyes opened wide, and she looked genuinely happy. Sam kissed her lightly.
"You smell great"
_________________________________
Bio: Tess Woodzell
I live in rural Virginia with my husband, am mother/stepmother to 6, grandmother of 8(yikes!). I don't remember a time when I didn't live with all of the many characters and situations in my head.
Sam tired of window shopping quickly. There wasn't much to look at in the quaint mall in the sleepy town, but it was the best the area had to offer. He'd lived here for more than a year, "imported in", as the locals called it, as a computer tech for a resort hotel. Laura, his wife, had settled in nicely, loving the small-town feel. They had made friends, enjoyed the few great restaurants, and, should the itch get unbearable, could drive the 60 miles to the nearest big city for the symphony or occasional concert.
He spotted a bench, occupied only on one end by an older man, who seemed intent on working on his pocket watch. Sam shuffled over and dropped to the opposite end, stretching out his khaki-clad legs in front of him. He crossed his ankles, looked at his watch, jingled the change in his pocket, uncrossed his ankles, crossed them again.
"Yessir. Kilt him, I did."
Sam froze mid-jingle. "Pardon me?",he queried, almost afraid to ask the old man to repeat himself.
"That ground hog in my garden. He was tearin'' up my stuff, so I kilt him. He won't be back." The man spoke in the way of old-timers, as if one had been privilege to to his thoughts, starting in the middle of a conversation, sometimes working their way back.
Sam visibly relaxed. "Well, that's for sure", he replied.
"You gotta garden?"
"No sir. We live in town, not much room for a garden." Sam had learned the response was the right one. The local folk didn't expect town-dwellers to have gardens.
The old man nodded knowingly. "Been farmin' my whole life. Still got a garden. You ever move out to the country, you look me up. Folk'll tell you I got the best garden around these days.Name's Ray." The old man stuck his hand out in Sam's direction. Sam had no choice but to scoot closer to accept the introduction.
"Sam". Ray's calloused grip was firm, the hand of a man still accustomed to work. Sam looked into the weathered face. The lines around his eyes bespoke not just the years, but life and laughter.
"I even got a flower garden", Ray winked. "My wife, she loves those flowers. Some of 'ems not just for lookin' good, though. You know marigolds'll keep bugs away from your vegetables? Don't like the smell.
Can't say as I blame 'em.", Ray cackled.
Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Is that right?"
"Even planted some rose bushes. Temperamental dang things. But you oughta see my Jeanie's face when I pick one, bring it to her." Ray's face softened when he spoke of his wife. "You married, Sam?"
"Yes, sir. Five years." Even now, Sam was surprised that Laura loved him, put up with his long work hours and sometimes impatient demeanor.
"My Jeanie 'n me been married over 50 years. She's a peach, that gal is."
Sam smiled. Ray was obviously still smitten with his "gal".
"She's dress shoppin', wants to get all gussied-up for our grandson's wedding. I told her,'Now, woman, I ain't buyin' no new suit.'. Got a perfectly good suit, navy blue. Wear it to church on Easter and Christmas, that's all. Rest of the time I reckon Jesus don't care what I wear to church. A man only needs one good suit. Easter, Christmas, weddin's, and to be buried in, the way I see it."
Sam wondered what Ray would think of the closet full of suits he had at home.
"Know what she told me? They ain't havin' no church weddin', gonna get married right down by the river. All us men gotta wear blue jeans, white shirt, and matchin' ties. Purple. No, not purple - "lilac". Ain't that somethin'?" Ray laughed out loud. "Well, least I didn't have to go rent no monkey suit. What about you, Sam. How 'bout your weddin'?"
Sam squirmed a little. "Monkey suit", he answered sheepishly, "mint green tie."
Ray cackled even louder, drawing a few grins from passing shoppers. "We gotta keep them little gals happy, now don't we, Son." Ray wiped his eyes. "Mint green. If that don't beat all."
"You got the look of a man waitin' for somebody, Sam." Ray raised his shaggy eyebrows in question."That wife of yours?", he asked with a sly grin.
"Yeah, Laura's getting highlights in her hair at the...beauty shop." Sam had started to say "salon", but said "beauty shop" instead, thinking Ray would appreciate it.
Ray nodded. "Highlights? You mean them blonde streaks?" He nodded again. "Don't go in much for them beauty shop streaks. I like what Mother Nature and the good Lord give 'em. Yessir, sunshine and the Lord do the best job. But, now, females are different, you know." It was a statement, not a question.
Sam smiled. "You don't have to tell me, Ray." He shook his head, thinking of how excited Laura had gotten at the prospect of a new hair style.
"Thing is, though, Son, is you gotta make 'em happy. Let 'em have them blonde streaks. Don't even blink when they want lilac or mint green ties at their weddin'. You pick 'em a flower, tell her how purty she looks, tell her how good she smells. You'll see."
Sam glanced at his watch.
"You got somewhere to be, Sam?", Ray asked.
"No, just a ballgame."
"You playin'?".
Sam shook his head. "On tv."
"You got money on it?"
Sam laughed. "No sir, just watching."
"Son, you sit on a bumblebee, it'll sting you on the ass every time."
"What....?"Sam looked puzzled.
"Just let it be, son. Quit lookin' at your watch. Don't make her feel like she's puttin' you out by bein' here with her. You got yourself into this marriage, for better or worse. Don't start somethin'. Just let it be. Right now, ain't nothin' more important than waitin' for your gal to get her hair done."
Sam threw back his head a laughed, Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laura scanning the mall, a nervous, hurried look about her. He smiled and got to his feet. He put out his hand to the old man. "Ray, it's been a pleasure passing time with you."
Ray shook his hand, holding it tight for just a minute, as his glance followed Sam's to the rushing Laura.
"Sam, I'm sure this ole bench'll be watin' here for us again."
"You can count on it" Sam replied, as he turned to greet his wife.
Sam met her with a smile. She seemed surprised at his relaxed attitude. He pulled her into his arms, and her eyes opened wide, and she looked genuinely happy. Sam kissed her lightly.
"You smell great"
_________________________________
Bio: Tess Woodzell
I live in rural Virginia with my husband, am mother/stepmother to 6, grandmother of 8(yikes!). I don't remember a time when I didn't live with all of the many characters and situations in my head.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Rural Ninja
Rural Ninja
By gina below
The giant willow tree branches danced in the afternoon breeze and reached out to touch me as I walked by. The birds called greetings to one another and the bees danced on the flowers. White clouds slowly made their way across a Southern blue sky, as the Humming birds flittered to the Mimosa tree blooms on the fence line ever searching for sweet nectar. Morning glories wound around fences and post, draping it in glorious green, with purple and pink blooms. Sometimes if you were lucky they would bloom blue. The Red Breasted Robin hopped in the green grass looking for a meal and paid no attention to my fuzzy brown companion and me. She trotted ahead of me as if charting our course. A green lizard darted from its hiding place and she stopped in her tracks to access the danger, sensing none she continued on her way, expecting me to follow. Occasionally she would look over her shoulder to confirm I was still there and if I had been waylaid by a flower to pick or an interesting rock she would sit and wait in whatever shade was available to continue on with our journey. Her sharp eyes scanning the seemingly benign back yard. But this was a rural landscape and danger could be as close as a snake in the grass, which was her specialty in more ways than one. Strangers were not allowed in her yard uninvited either; she seemed to know who belonged. She was not a large dog but her ninja tactics were fierce and she evoked her stealth to make up for her size. We were her girls and therefore under her protection.
Darkness was her best cover as she could pretend to be as big as necessary. More than one foolish intruder had attempted to sneak into our dark yard for nefarious reasons and regretted it. Her brown coat blended perfectly with the shadows, and stories of her ferociousness spread rapidly. Somehow a rumor circulated that she was vicious.
She and my Mother had an understanding, they both loved us and they barely tolerated each other. The pros outweighed the cons in their relationship. We could not go far from home without our shadow tailing us and our Mother was happy with that unspoken arrangement. If somehow we managed to wonder off without her knowledge, she had a nose like a bloodhound and would find us before our Mother could call out our names across the field. She would scold us fiercely when she found us, for making her worry and also to let our Mother know our whereabouts.
Her reputation preceded her in our rural community and her deep cover as a poor pitiful ragamuffin served her higher purpose. No one but us wanted such a pathetic creature and she could go about her business uninterrupted. Occasionally some well-meaning soul would try to save her only to be outsmarted by her cleverness and uncanny speed. Only later when they realized their error and that we were hers would we hear the sordid details of her cleverness, and the fool she had made of them.
In her younger years she would follow us the half mile to church and wait in the parking lot for a ride home, at some point she decided she would rather be a heathen and that we could find our own way home without her assistance. We were sure she knew every curse word known to man.
She was my Daddy’s frequent companion in his pick-up truck on his treks to town; she was at her happiest when she was with him. On the days he left for work driving a semi-truck and he left her at home she would angrily try to follow him walking the many miles to town. We often wonder if she made it, many, many times a friend or neighbor or even one of us would pick her up along the route and bring her home. Needless to say she would pout all the way there and her smell was so unique you would have to ride with the windows down even in the winter months. Her perfume of choice was Road Kill de Jour or Cow Pie on the Green.
I was very young when she came to be our protector and she watched over us for more than 15 years before she moved on to her next assignment. One day she was just gone, never to return. That was like her though she was funny about good-bys. As they say ninjas never die, they just fade into the shadows.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Toxicity
Dear Readers,
Today the Dew has a special treat for you! CJ Lyons, author of Critical Condition, which will be reviewed here at the Dew on February 13th, has graciously allowed us to share a short story with you.
I think you'll really enjoy it!
___________________________
TOXICITY
CJ Lyons
Dr. Gina Freeman was used to getting what she wanted. A tall black woman—over six feet tall in the Jimmy Choo stilettos the police had confiscated—she had the power to quiet rambling drunks, disarm quarrelsome old men, and distract whining college boys as she popped their dislocated joints back into socket.
Usually. Right now these talents were useless. Might have had something to do with her being handcuffed like a common criminal.
"Do you know who my father is?" she demanded of the desk sergeant seated behind the bullet-proof lobby window of Pittsburgh's Zone Five Station House.
He didn't pause in his typing. They'd had this conversation twice already. "Lady, I keep telling you, what I need is proof of who you are. I really don't give a crap who your old man is."
"He's Moses Freeman. The lawyer. The very famous lawyer who is having dinner at Judge Sandler's house as we speak."
"Good on them. Hope they're having steak. Boy, what I wouldn't do for a nice steak. Wife's got me on this diet, all tofu and couscous and crap." He paused, gazing at his computer screen with a wistful expression. "Hell, I'd settle for a chipped-chopped ham sandwich. With a side of fries from The O."
Gina rattled the handcuffs, re-focusing him on the immediate problem. If this was her tax dollars at work, she was not impressed. The Zone Five station house was bleak—not totally surprising, given its location in East Liberty, not the nicest Pittsburgh neighborhood—but expecting her to sit on a hard wooden slab of a bench with her wrist shackled to a steel ring was absurd.
"I haven't done anything wrong," she insisted for the twenty-third time.
"Tell that to Jansen. His foot is swollen bigger than an elephant's nuts. And his nuts are swollen bigger than—"
"He shouldn't have grabbed me from behind like that. How was I to know he was a police officer? This is all a total misunderstanding. If you'd just remove these handcuffs and let me call my father--"
"Moses Freeman. Yeah, yeah, you said." He continued his hunt and peck across the computer keyboard. "Told ya, no phone calls until we get you processed."
"I don't need processed. I didn't do anything wrong."
"Those restaurant owners would disagree. Jansen said the bill you tried to run out on was over $500. With damages and all, that might bump things up to a felony. Add to it resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, drunk and disorderly…." He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Glad you're not my daughter, that's all I can say."
"I told you. My purse was stolen. Not my fault."
"Lost your purse, lost your date, lost your temper. Guess nothing's your fault is it?"
Gina decided to ignore the last comment. It had been her first date with Pierre—if that was even his real name. He'd seemed decent enough when they met at the gym earlier today, but obviously, once again her judgment in men was lacking. It galled her to think of him enjoying the expensive meal at the trendiest restaurant in Shadyside, swilling her favorite Chateau Neuf de Pape, and then driving off behind the wheel of her BMW.
She yanked on the handcuff. Designed to immobilize men much larger than her, it didn't budge. Anger crackled through her—at the cops, at Pierre, mostly at herself.
The spaghetti straps of her Roberto Cavalli cocktail dress drifted down over her arms, but she had more than enough of a bust to hold the dress up. Hmmm, unless letting it slip down might convince the sergeant to uncuff her?
Before she could put her plan into action, the doors opened and a woman around Gina's age entered, a drift of snow arriving with her. She had blonde hair, was made up for a casual date—hair done and sprayed into place against the March wind, nice sweater and jeans, makeup not over done, and just a whiff of perfume. Something cheap that made Gina's nose itch.
"Are you who I talk to?" she asked, approaching the desk sergeant with a wobbly gait, balancing on the kitten heels of black leather boots. Up close, Gina could see that her upper lip was bloody and swollen, making her lisp the tiniest bit.
"Lady, I'm who everyone talks to," he said with a pointed glare at Gina. "What can we do for you?"
"I think somebody is trying to kill me."
"Name?" the sergeant said, sounding bored and unimpressed by the girl's statement, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and drinking his coffee with the other. He hadn't offered Gina any. And he didn't look cold at all—probably had a space heater back there behind the glass, more of her tax dollars going to waste.
"Melissa Schultz." The girl opened her purse, grabbed a wallet and fumbled her driver's license through the slot in the window for the sergeant to examine. She tugged at the collar of her sweater. "It's hot in here."
Gina was freezing—but she had no coat, no hose, no shoes, only her wisp of a dress. The sergeant took another phone call and Melissa paced the small foyer with faltering steps. Finally she came to a stop, sinking onto the bench beside Gina.
Melissa closed her eyes, revealing blue glitter eye shadow and clumps of black mascara. Beads of sweat blossomed on her forehead. "I don't feel so good. I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Nerves. Put your head between your knees, see if that helps." Gina massaged Melissa's neck as she leaned forward. "Hey buddy, where's the ladies room?"
The cop pointed his pen across the lobby.
"Want to uncuff me so I can help her there? Or would you rather she puke all over your floor?" He hesitated and she shot him her best glare. "C'mon. I'm a doctor, she's sick."
Instead of coming to her aid, the sergeant picked up the phone again. Melissa made a choking sound and raised her head.
"Hard to breathe," she gasped.
The swelling around her lip had progressed dramatically, now her entire face was mottled and swollen.
"Hell." Gina pushed Melissa back up to a sitting position, keeping her head elevated and propping her up against the wall behind them. The girl's breathing was noisy, whistling with every inhalation. "Hell, hell, hell. Melissa, are you allergic to anything?"
Melissa's eyes were closed down to small slits and she couldn't talk, but she managed to nod her head and flail an arm in the direction of her purse that now lay on the floor between them.
"Epi-pen?" Gina asked, straining to reach the purse with her uncuffed hand. Impossible. She hooked a bare foot through the strap and pulled it closer then scooped it up onto her lap. "Please tell me you have an Epi-pen here somewhere."
The sergeant lunged forward, pounding on the glass wall between them. Gina ignored him, awkwardly unlatching the purse and dumping its contents on her lap. Wallet, lipstick, tampons, breath-mints, cell phone, wads of tissue, keys, pens, matchbook from a bar—ah hah! Her fingers closed on the grey tube that looked like a marking pen. The label read: use in case of anaphylaxis.
She pulled the cap off with her teeth and reached across her body to jab it into Melissa's thigh.
"Stop that!" the sergeant yelled just as the inside door opened and a man wearing a navy blue suit rushed out.
"What's going on here?" the man asked, ripping the Epi-pen from Gina's hand.
Melissa's body arched as the epinephrine—the same chemical as the body's own adrenaline—flooded her system.
"Let me out of these things," Gina demanded, straining to pull the handcuffs as she tried to keep Melissa upright. "She's going into shock."
"And who the hell are you?"
"Dr. Gina Freeman, I'm an ER resident over at Angels of Mercy."
"Hopkins said you were some kind of lawyer's daughter."
"Hopkins is a jackass, trying to teach me a lesson 'cause I embarrassed one of your cops. I really am a doctor."
The man, obviously a detective from his plain clothes and the gold shield on his belt, eyed the sergeant who shrank back.
"Call an ambulance," he ordered. Then he knelt beside Melissa, examining the Epi-pen. "Are you feeling better, Miss?"
Melissa barely had the energy to shake her head. She clutched at Gina's hand in panic.
"Peanuts." Her voice trailed off.
"Melissa did you eat some peanuts?" Gina asked. "You're allergic to peanuts, right?"
"Not-not me. Date. Must've--" Her breath whistled out her, the ominous sound of an airway being choked off.
The detective—who would have never have attracted Gina's attention under any other circumstances, he was too ordinary with brown hair and large brown eyes, just another Irish cop—glanced at Gina.
He didn't waste time with words, instead immediately released her from the handcuffs. "What do you need?"
"Any first aid kit you got—preferably one with drugs." Drugs including more epinephrine and other medications to combat the allergic reaction before Melissa's airway totally closed off. "How long for the ambulance?"
The sergeant was still on the phone. "Ten minutes." He glanced at the detective. "I got Jansen looking for a first aid kit, Boyle."
Boyle nodded, wadding up his suit coat to place under Melissa's head, keeping his hands there to support her airway. Not a total idiot, Gina noted with approval. She unbuttoned Melissa's sweater, this was no time for modesty, and found hives blossoming across the girl's chest.
"Her respirations are slowing," Gina noted, wishing to hell she was anywhere else—like the well-equipped Angels of Mercy ER where she'd have everything she needed to treat Melissa. It was so aggravating, knowing what needed done and sitting here, helpless.
"That's not good is it?" Boyle rocked back on his heels, obviously as frustrated as she was. "What can I do?"
Melissa gagged, her entire body arching as she vomited. Then she slid to the floor, unconscious. To his credit, Boyle didn't waste time dealing with the smelly stomach contents spewed onto his lap. Instead he immediately flipped Melissa over before she could aspirate any of the nasty fluid.
Gina knelt on the linoleum, hiking up her short skirt so she could bend forward and open Melissa's airway. "She stopped breathing."
She tired mouth to mouth, her own stomach rebelling at the acrid smell and foul taste. She couldn't force any air in, Melissa's tongue and throat had swollen too much. Gina sat back up. "I need to cric her."
Boyle handed her a handkerchief—what kind of guy carried handkerchiefs these days, and a clean one to boot?—and she wiped her mouth clean.
"What do you need?"
"An operating room and bronchoscope would be nice, an ENT surgeon better." She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to still her rattled nerves. "Get me a knife. Anything sharp. And a plastic tube."
"A straw?"
She shook her head, her braids rattling free of their elaborate coiffeur. "Too flimsy. Something about that size around but stronger."
He dug a knife out of his pants pocket—a single bladed Emerson that looked wicked sharp—and handed it to her.
"How about this?" he asked, rummaging through the debris from Melissa's purse and coming up with a tampon. He stripped it free of its paper wrapping and unearthed the slim plastic tube that was tapered at one end.
"Perfect." She straddled Melissa, trying to feel through the swelling that had consumed the girl's neck. She had to find the small plateau of tissue below the thyroid cartilage. But all she felt was mushy, fluid-filled tissue.
Panic surged through Gina, throttling her own breath. Damnit, she couldn't just blindly slice into this woman's neck with no landmarks to guide her. That might be how they did it on TV but this was real life with a real person's life in her hands—hands that trembled uncon
trollably. Oh, this was not going to go well.
Boyle left her side for a moment, running to the restroom and returning with a bundle of paper towels, some wet, some dry. Melissa still had a pulse but she was turning an alarming shade of purple, highlighting the hives that had devoured her pretty features, turning her into something from a B-rated zombie movie.
"George Ramirez on crack," Boyle murmured as he knelt across from Gina.
She glanced at him, it was spooky the way he echoed her own thoughts and anticipated her needs. Her father always scoffed at cops, called them thugs licensed to kill, and her own experiences tonight seemed to reinforce that stereotype—until Boyle came along.
She aimed the knife as best she could. Only one chance to get this right. Her hand still shook. Boyle laid his hand over hers and she felt calmer.
"You ever do this before?" he asked.
Go HERE for the Full Story!_______________________________________________________________
About CJ:
As a pediatric ER doctor, CJ Lyons has lived the life she writes about. In addition to being an award-winning medical suspense author, CJ is a nationally known presenter and keynote speaker.
Her award-winning, critically acclaimed Angels of Mercy series (LIFELINES, WARNING SIGNS, URGENT CARE and CRITICAL CONDITION) is available now. Her newest project is as co-author of a new suspense series with Erin Brockovich. You can learn more at http://www.cjlyons.net and for free reads, "Like" her at http://www.facebook.com/CJLyonsBestsellingThrillerAuthor
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Degrees of Death
Degrees of Death
For about two months Daddy and I had been waiting for the trip to the Coosawhatchee River with Johnny Mixon and some of the guys from the plant.
Now Johnny Mixon, a friend of my Dads from out at the plant, who also was the Magistrate in the Talatha District of Aiken County had put together a fishing trip back to his home waters in the Coosawhatchee River down in Hampton County about fifty miles south of the plant where Johnny had been raised before moving to Aiken County to have one of the jobs out at the plant.
Now it takes a lot of effort to plan and pull off a trip like Johnny had in mind. Part the magnitude of it was because of the remoteness of the area where we planned to camp and fish while the rest of the complexity was due to the size of the party and the length of the stay. There would be about six or seven people, all from the plant except me and Johnny’s Uncle Kenny, and the fact that we would stay five or six nights in the swamp made the logistics sort of challenging. Think about the trucks, boats, bait, beer, ice and food, not to mention the tackle, camping and cooking gear. I was serving in the Army Reserves in Aiken and for a week end drill in an armory designed for the purpose for three hundred men there was nothing logistically to compare with our preparations for a half dozen of us going in that uninhabited swamp for a few days. It was clear to me that Johnny Mixon was in charge even though there was nothing official about his leadership; the guys from the plant just followed his lead since he was a natural born leader.
It seemed like forever, those weeks and days after the plan was laid and the date set, before the actual departure date arrived, time was just creeping by, slow as molasses dripping on a hot biscuit. I was in a situation where I had only been married about six months and this would be the longest time of separation from my beautiful wife since we had tied the knot.
Finally the departure day came. I couldn’t sleep well the night before due to the excitement, and so even though I was not supposed to be at Daddy’s till about five AM, I showed up there about four AM. He was frying eggs and had a pot of grits on the stove so I made toast and we had a whopper of a breakfast then went out to his garage to get the truck out. I think he had the truck pretty well loaded already and parked inside with the roll-up door down to keep the neighborhood kids out of his stuff. He went in the walk-through door while I pulled my vehicle over so I could move my stuff into the truck when he got it out of the garage. Just when I got out of my car, I heard ripping, banging, crashing noises and saw the back end of that Ford pickup come through the roll-up door. As daddy got the truck stopped with pieces of that door hanging all over it, hinges, springs, panels and such, he rolled down the window and grinned sheepishly at me, saying “I’m not excited”. I guess the excitement had caused him to forget to forget the tightly secured roll-up door before he backed the truck out. Not phased one bit, he got out and we removed all the debris and piled it off to the side then got my stuff loaded. We had bought five hundred crickets for that trip and cases of beverages, boxes of food and had several chests of ice. We had both of our boats stacked up on my trailer. We were supposed to meet Johnny Mixon at six AM and were ready by five fifteen or so for the ten minute drive over to Johnny’s house.
So there were about five overgrown boys in their mid-life and me in my early twenties starting off from New Ellenton, Orangeburg, Bamberg and who knows where else to meet up at the store at Early Branch which proved to be about five miles from the boat ramp on the east side of the swamp. There was one older man with us named Johnson, never heard him called by any name but Johnson. We all got to the Early Branch store ahead of time so I guessed everyone had had trouble sleeping the night before, kind of like a kid on Christmas Eve expecting Santa Claus to come down the chimney. Johnny said, “Let’s eat lunch before we get started because it will be a heck of trip once we commence”. I had never seen a man prepared with hot food on the side the road, but Johnny lifted the hood of his Chevrolet C-10 truck and there it was. He had a line of canned goods resting in the crack between the exhaust manifold and the engine. “Vienna sausages anybody?” he asked, “How about some oil sausage? Potted meat?” He got a sleeve of soda crackers and opened some of those hot cans and we had a decent hot meal right there by the highway, mostly served with pocket knives. Well filled with meat and crackers, all seven of us unloaded the trucks, then loaded the boats, and went into the Coosawhatchee Swamp area known as Highhill Pond to camp & fish. There was Spring Lake in there also which was a finger off of Highhill Pond filled with crystal clear spring water. The Coosawhatchee itself was blackwater stained dark by tannic acid from the Cypress trees and centuries of rotting vegetation, leaves and such. Johnny Mixon led the way for several miles where the river split into channels and sometimes was completely obscured by overhanging bushes. I had no idea how he navigated through the jungle like he did but it was even more impressive that he could do it at night when it was dark as the devil’s hip pocket and the runs of the river were crooked as a snake crawling. After a couple of hours of swamp running, we emerged into about a fifty acres swamp lake that was long and skinny. Johnny led us to set up camp in a place where his daddy and granddaddy had camped when Johnny was a boy and probably a generation or two before that had used this same place and Indians before they were run out of the swamp. We got a fine camp set up and prepared to set out bush hooks and do a little night fishing.
Early on the morning of the second day, Daddy and I were up near the mouth of Highhill Pond where the river came into the lake when we heard an outboard motor coming down the run. The motor shut down about a 1/2 mile or so, maybe, up the run. It was far enough up the river to be suspicious as to why someone would cut their motor off and start running silent. I looked at Daddy with a knowing eye. I was thinking game warden and so was Daddy. It would be unusual for them to see that many pickups at the put in and not be curious about what was going on down in that swamp. This was before the days of computers and tag checks used routinely these days. Law enforcement had to figure things out for themselves in those days.
Daddy and I had fished from the mouth down the east side of Highhill Pond all the way to Spring Lake then fished a round in Spring Lake and came out about dark right at the camp. Probably the only illegal activity I know of on that whole trip was what daddy and I did up in Spring Lake. The water was so clear that the big fish that were in there would get way back up under the willows whenever there was the slightest disturbance to the water so that those fish were not just difficult to catch. they were just about impossible to catch. That is, impossible using legal means.
On the second day, we went to the mouth of Highhill Pond where the run came into the lake and started fishing down the west side and hadn't gone far when we heard that motor coming and then it shut down. I eased back upstream fishing, catching jackfish and wanting to be near the mouth when that boat drifted out from the run into Highhill Pond. We weren't violating any laws, but we didn't want to be harassed in any way down in that swamp. We just naturally didn’t take to game wardens. We learned fishing and hunting in an era when you got your gear and went afield taking game and fish whatever way was most productive and wherever you found it. I guess game wardens weren’t as numerous as they are now and we pretty much fished and hunted whatever way worked. There was little if any posted land and a man could stop and turn his bird dog loose most anywhere, put his boat in whatever water he came across and gather the bounty of the land as he chose. Game wardens were few and far between and as far as we knew they were all white men in South Carolina. Sure enough, after a bit, a boat drifted out the mouth and in it sat two game wardens. I stood up on the seat in my boat and yelled loud enough to be heard from one end of Highhill Pond to the other, Game Warden!!! GAME WARDEN!!! GAME!!!!! WARRRDEN!!!!!!, then I sat down and waited on them cause they were now motoring straight at us. As they pulled up they asked why I made the announcement of their presence like I did. I told them we were law abiding sportsmen but there were some down the river we didn't know much about so I wanted to give them a heads up. I asked them why they felt it necessary to come sneaking into a place like they had snuck into Highhill Pond. One thing that was really disconcerting was that one of them was a black man. Now I knew I could deal with that but I was afraid daddy would cause trouble because him being subject to a black law enforcement officer was a brand new experience that could cause him to show himself for what he was, a racist that had no use for blacks being in authority over him. They gave us a good going over and finally left without wishing us well and we didn't have any pleasantries or well wishing for them either. I knew it had taken a major effort for my daddy to not say something offensive to the black guy so I said, “Well I am glad that’s over”, and daddy replied, ”Well, I can tell my grandchildren something I never thought I would have to tell in my lifetime, that I was checked by a black Game Warden in a South Carolina swamp”. The game wardens worked all morning checking everybody they could get to, finally coming up to the camp just about lunch time.
We had predetermined to have a fish fry that day at one PM and Johnny Mixon who was a lawman himself was getting it together warming the peanut oil for frying, starting a pot of grits and mixing up the hush puppies using corn meal, flour, onions, bell pepper and seasonings. The game wardens came around and dipped fish out of our hoop for fifteen or twenty minutes checking their mouths for hook holes and never found one that was not caught with a hook, even the ones daddy and I had caught in Spring Lake on live crickets on the set hooks had hook holes in their lips. Then they got a long stick and poked under the bank from our camp for two or three hundred yards in both directions looking for fish traps which were illegal and the went through to Spring Lake looking for limb lines with crickets on them. Meanwhile Johnny Mixon got a huge pot hot on the fire and started frying hush puppies while some of us got the fish cleaned and ready to fry with salt & pepper and corn meal mix.
Now Johnny Mixon could cook and while he was a man of few words, the ones he spoke were chocked with wisdom and listened to well by all who knew him. The game wardens asked him some questions about who he was and where we were from and so forth while hinting around that they might like a plate of fish, hushpuppies and grits. Every time they would ask Johnny if he knew someone they knew he would say “yes, I know him and he is a SOB”; only Johnny said the words and they didn't sound sweet. On about the fourth one the Game Wardens asked him if he knew and he still was saying yes he knew the SOB, they figured out he was not warming up to them so they asked whose truck had the law tag on it at the put in. Nobody replied till Johnny said, “it's mine and I have a badge with more authority than yours. I try the people that you catch. I am the judge in Talatha District appointed by the Governor. Now we would like some privacy to finish our meal”, and they left without further comment. They went down the drain drifting hoping to bag a couple of swamp rats, or maybe those Marines. Finally about two hours before dark they came up out of the drain with the motor running and ran all the way up into the mouth and on out of hearing. I told Daddy that we would be lucky if any of the truck tires had air in them when we got back to the hill.
Late that night we were back in from running bush hooks and heard another motor coming down the run in the dark, hitting a stump every now & then and sometimes revving up to sling grass off the prop. I asked if that would be the game wardens coming back. Johnny said no, that’s Uncle Kenny he's coming in to camp with us for a night or two. Now Johnny was about fifty so I would say that Kenny was at least seventy or seventy five years old, and he ran his boat in the dark all the way into that camp without ever shutting his motor down having nothing but a two D cell flashlight for guidance through a jungle that we could barely navigate in daylight. Kenny’s propeller blades were broken down to a nub and he jumped out in ankle deep water and lifted up the motor to show it to us. He installed a new propeller right there by the firelight and he & Johnny went back up the run to check the bush hooks again. They woke us up coming back into camp and putting monstrous big catfish in the hoop. I asked Kenny where he had caught a particularly big one and he looked thoughtfully at me and said, “Right where Leonidas shot the deer in the face”, as if I knew where that location was and who Leonidas was and maybe had been there when it happened. I didn't ask for more location or event details but I did ask if Leonidas killed the deer. Kenny paused for a moment and looked me in the eye and said sternly with emphasis, graveyard dead! I had never considered degrees of death before but after that lesson Kenny gave me with his stare and sternness, I have to believe that graveyard dead must be as dead as something can get.
After about 5 or 6 nights we loaded all those fish into our then seven boats and could barely haul them all out. When we got to the hill everything was ok. Johnny said when people saw the trucks and looked them over they weren't sure who they would be messing with if they tampered with anything so they left them alone. We divvied up the fish and headed home. I have recorded this as close to how it happened as I can remember. It was forty two years ago this spring.
© Blackwater Bill Prince, November 28, 2010
For about two months Daddy and I had been waiting for the trip to the Coosawhatchee River with Johnny Mixon and some of the guys from the plant.
Now Johnny Mixon, a friend of my Dads from out at the plant, who also was the Magistrate in the Talatha District of Aiken County had put together a fishing trip back to his home waters in the Coosawhatchee River down in Hampton County about fifty miles south of the plant where Johnny had been raised before moving to Aiken County to have one of the jobs out at the plant.
Now it takes a lot of effort to plan and pull off a trip like Johnny had in mind. Part the magnitude of it was because of the remoteness of the area where we planned to camp and fish while the rest of the complexity was due to the size of the party and the length of the stay. There would be about six or seven people, all from the plant except me and Johnny’s Uncle Kenny, and the fact that we would stay five or six nights in the swamp made the logistics sort of challenging. Think about the trucks, boats, bait, beer, ice and food, not to mention the tackle, camping and cooking gear. I was serving in the Army Reserves in Aiken and for a week end drill in an armory designed for the purpose for three hundred men there was nothing logistically to compare with our preparations for a half dozen of us going in that uninhabited swamp for a few days. It was clear to me that Johnny Mixon was in charge even though there was nothing official about his leadership; the guys from the plant just followed his lead since he was a natural born leader.
It seemed like forever, those weeks and days after the plan was laid and the date set, before the actual departure date arrived, time was just creeping by, slow as molasses dripping on a hot biscuit. I was in a situation where I had only been married about six months and this would be the longest time of separation from my beautiful wife since we had tied the knot.
Finally the departure day came. I couldn’t sleep well the night before due to the excitement, and so even though I was not supposed to be at Daddy’s till about five AM, I showed up there about four AM. He was frying eggs and had a pot of grits on the stove so I made toast and we had a whopper of a breakfast then went out to his garage to get the truck out. I think he had the truck pretty well loaded already and parked inside with the roll-up door down to keep the neighborhood kids out of his stuff. He went in the walk-through door while I pulled my vehicle over so I could move my stuff into the truck when he got it out of the garage. Just when I got out of my car, I heard ripping, banging, crashing noises and saw the back end of that Ford pickup come through the roll-up door. As daddy got the truck stopped with pieces of that door hanging all over it, hinges, springs, panels and such, he rolled down the window and grinned sheepishly at me, saying “I’m not excited”. I guess the excitement had caused him to forget to forget the tightly secured roll-up door before he backed the truck out. Not phased one bit, he got out and we removed all the debris and piled it off to the side then got my stuff loaded. We had bought five hundred crickets for that trip and cases of beverages, boxes of food and had several chests of ice. We had both of our boats stacked up on my trailer. We were supposed to meet Johnny Mixon at six AM and were ready by five fifteen or so for the ten minute drive over to Johnny’s house.
So there were about five overgrown boys in their mid-life and me in my early twenties starting off from New Ellenton, Orangeburg, Bamberg and who knows where else to meet up at the store at Early Branch which proved to be about five miles from the boat ramp on the east side of the swamp. There was one older man with us named Johnson, never heard him called by any name but Johnson. We all got to the Early Branch store ahead of time so I guessed everyone had had trouble sleeping the night before, kind of like a kid on Christmas Eve expecting Santa Claus to come down the chimney. Johnny said, “Let’s eat lunch before we get started because it will be a heck of trip once we commence”. I had never seen a man prepared with hot food on the side the road, but Johnny lifted the hood of his Chevrolet C-10 truck and there it was. He had a line of canned goods resting in the crack between the exhaust manifold and the engine. “Vienna sausages anybody?” he asked, “How about some oil sausage? Potted meat?” He got a sleeve of soda crackers and opened some of those hot cans and we had a decent hot meal right there by the highway, mostly served with pocket knives. Well filled with meat and crackers, all seven of us unloaded the trucks, then loaded the boats, and went into the Coosawhatchee Swamp area known as Highhill Pond to camp & fish. There was Spring Lake in there also which was a finger off of Highhill Pond filled with crystal clear spring water. The Coosawhatchee itself was blackwater stained dark by tannic acid from the Cypress trees and centuries of rotting vegetation, leaves and such. Johnny Mixon led the way for several miles where the river split into channels and sometimes was completely obscured by overhanging bushes. I had no idea how he navigated through the jungle like he did but it was even more impressive that he could do it at night when it was dark as the devil’s hip pocket and the runs of the river were crooked as a snake crawling. After a couple of hours of swamp running, we emerged into about a fifty acres swamp lake that was long and skinny. Johnny led us to set up camp in a place where his daddy and granddaddy had camped when Johnny was a boy and probably a generation or two before that had used this same place and Indians before they were run out of the swamp. We got a fine camp set up and prepared to set out bush hooks and do a little night fishing.
Early on the morning of the second day, Daddy and I were up near the mouth of Highhill Pond where the river came into the lake when we heard an outboard motor coming down the run. The motor shut down about a 1/2 mile or so, maybe, up the run. It was far enough up the river to be suspicious as to why someone would cut their motor off and start running silent. I looked at Daddy with a knowing eye. I was thinking game warden and so was Daddy. It would be unusual for them to see that many pickups at the put in and not be curious about what was going on down in that swamp. This was before the days of computers and tag checks used routinely these days. Law enforcement had to figure things out for themselves in those days.
Daddy and I had fished from the mouth down the east side of Highhill Pond all the way to Spring Lake then fished a round in Spring Lake and came out about dark right at the camp. Probably the only illegal activity I know of on that whole trip was what daddy and I did up in Spring Lake. The water was so clear that the big fish that were in there would get way back up under the willows whenever there was the slightest disturbance to the water so that those fish were not just difficult to catch. they were just about impossible to catch. That is, impossible using legal means.
On the second day, we went to the mouth of Highhill Pond where the run came into the lake and started fishing down the west side and hadn't gone far when we heard that motor coming and then it shut down. I eased back upstream fishing, catching jackfish and wanting to be near the mouth when that boat drifted out from the run into Highhill Pond. We weren't violating any laws, but we didn't want to be harassed in any way down in that swamp. We just naturally didn’t take to game wardens. We learned fishing and hunting in an era when you got your gear and went afield taking game and fish whatever way was most productive and wherever you found it. I guess game wardens weren’t as numerous as they are now and we pretty much fished and hunted whatever way worked. There was little if any posted land and a man could stop and turn his bird dog loose most anywhere, put his boat in whatever water he came across and gather the bounty of the land as he chose. Game wardens were few and far between and as far as we knew they were all white men in South Carolina. Sure enough, after a bit, a boat drifted out the mouth and in it sat two game wardens. I stood up on the seat in my boat and yelled loud enough to be heard from one end of Highhill Pond to the other, Game Warden!!! GAME WARDEN!!! GAME!!!!! WARRRDEN!!!!!!, then I sat down and waited on them cause they were now motoring straight at us. As they pulled up they asked why I made the announcement of their presence like I did. I told them we were law abiding sportsmen but there were some down the river we didn't know much about so I wanted to give them a heads up. I asked them why they felt it necessary to come sneaking into a place like they had snuck into Highhill Pond. One thing that was really disconcerting was that one of them was a black man. Now I knew I could deal with that but I was afraid daddy would cause trouble because him being subject to a black law enforcement officer was a brand new experience that could cause him to show himself for what he was, a racist that had no use for blacks being in authority over him. They gave us a good going over and finally left without wishing us well and we didn't have any pleasantries or well wishing for them either. I knew it had taken a major effort for my daddy to not say something offensive to the black guy so I said, “Well I am glad that’s over”, and daddy replied, ”Well, I can tell my grandchildren something I never thought I would have to tell in my lifetime, that I was checked by a black Game Warden in a South Carolina swamp”. The game wardens worked all morning checking everybody they could get to, finally coming up to the camp just about lunch time.
We had predetermined to have a fish fry that day at one PM and Johnny Mixon who was a lawman himself was getting it together warming the peanut oil for frying, starting a pot of grits and mixing up the hush puppies using corn meal, flour, onions, bell pepper and seasonings. The game wardens came around and dipped fish out of our hoop for fifteen or twenty minutes checking their mouths for hook holes and never found one that was not caught with a hook, even the ones daddy and I had caught in Spring Lake on live crickets on the set hooks had hook holes in their lips. Then they got a long stick and poked under the bank from our camp for two or three hundred yards in both directions looking for fish traps which were illegal and the went through to Spring Lake looking for limb lines with crickets on them. Meanwhile Johnny Mixon got a huge pot hot on the fire and started frying hush puppies while some of us got the fish cleaned and ready to fry with salt & pepper and corn meal mix.
Now Johnny Mixon could cook and while he was a man of few words, the ones he spoke were chocked with wisdom and listened to well by all who knew him. The game wardens asked him some questions about who he was and where we were from and so forth while hinting around that they might like a plate of fish, hushpuppies and grits. Every time they would ask Johnny if he knew someone they knew he would say “yes, I know him and he is a SOB”; only Johnny said the words and they didn't sound sweet. On about the fourth one the Game Wardens asked him if he knew and he still was saying yes he knew the SOB, they figured out he was not warming up to them so they asked whose truck had the law tag on it at the put in. Nobody replied till Johnny said, “it's mine and I have a badge with more authority than yours. I try the people that you catch. I am the judge in Talatha District appointed by the Governor. Now we would like some privacy to finish our meal”, and they left without further comment. They went down the drain drifting hoping to bag a couple of swamp rats, or maybe those Marines. Finally about two hours before dark they came up out of the drain with the motor running and ran all the way up into the mouth and on out of hearing. I told Daddy that we would be lucky if any of the truck tires had air in them when we got back to the hill.
Late that night we were back in from running bush hooks and heard another motor coming down the run in the dark, hitting a stump every now & then and sometimes revving up to sling grass off the prop. I asked if that would be the game wardens coming back. Johnny said no, that’s Uncle Kenny he's coming in to camp with us for a night or two. Now Johnny was about fifty so I would say that Kenny was at least seventy or seventy five years old, and he ran his boat in the dark all the way into that camp without ever shutting his motor down having nothing but a two D cell flashlight for guidance through a jungle that we could barely navigate in daylight. Kenny’s propeller blades were broken down to a nub and he jumped out in ankle deep water and lifted up the motor to show it to us. He installed a new propeller right there by the firelight and he & Johnny went back up the run to check the bush hooks again. They woke us up coming back into camp and putting monstrous big catfish in the hoop. I asked Kenny where he had caught a particularly big one and he looked thoughtfully at me and said, “Right where Leonidas shot the deer in the face”, as if I knew where that location was and who Leonidas was and maybe had been there when it happened. I didn't ask for more location or event details but I did ask if Leonidas killed the deer. Kenny paused for a moment and looked me in the eye and said sternly with emphasis, graveyard dead! I had never considered degrees of death before but after that lesson Kenny gave me with his stare and sternness, I have to believe that graveyard dead must be as dead as something can get.
After about 5 or 6 nights we loaded all those fish into our then seven boats and could barely haul them all out. When we got to the hill everything was ok. Johnny said when people saw the trucks and looked them over they weren't sure who they would be messing with if they tampered with anything so they left them alone. We divvied up the fish and headed home. I have recorded this as close to how it happened as I can remember. It was forty two years ago this spring.
© Blackwater Bill Prince, November 28, 2010
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Thirteenth Month
The Thirteenth Month
by David Dyer
It was hot, powerful hot. Somebody had hanged a Merita Bread thermometer touting the Lone Ranger astride his fiery horse Silver beside the doorless garage. With the red-tinted mercury threatening to burst through the top of its glass-tubed prison, we heard the shout to break for lunch.
“Ya’ll just as well eat your dinners now,” Doc lamented. “You fellers been movin’ ‘bout as slow as black-strop[1] molasses poured on an icy winter morn.”
“I ‘spect dis blisterin’ heat’d slow mos’ anybody down Mister Doc,” Motel slowly drawled while removing his sweat-drenched hat and squatting on his haunches much like those Vietnamese folk do, his rear end poised but a few inches off the ground.
Motel was a big man, perhaps in his middle fifties, strong as a pair of oxen pulling two abreast, with taut, smooth swarthy skin so black it had a purple sheen. He was especially well mannered, soft-spoken and stood solid on his ‘old black-backed Book’, oftentimes alluding to scripture. Many a time, I’d heard him cite what must have been his favorite Bible verse, “Iffin a body’s gwine to has friends he’s gotta show hisself friendly.” Some folk allowed he was a preacher, or had been one, but as far as I could tell, he was just a mighty fine man. The sort of man our country could use a lot more of, especially nowadays.
“I’ve never let a little hot weather slow me down,” mocked Doc, having spent the better part of the morning in the air conditioned upstairs in conversation with Mr. Hankins, who’d driven away less than an half-hour earlier.
I was seventeen, and ole Doc Hamilton had hired me as a laborer, an unskilled helper of sorts, in his remodel of Toad Hankins country cabin. While it wasn’t really a cabin at all, that was what Toad, and subsequently Doc, called it. It was a nice, moderate-sized house located on a goodly piece of acreage in a rural area of east Knox County. Having weather-whitened, vertically planked wooden walls, it sat atop a full-size, unfinished basement. By unfinished, I mean it lacked even a concrete floor.
One of our tasks was to remove excess dirt from this basement, leveling the area to allow for at least six inches of fill gravel for drainage and four inches of finished concrete. Having completed the excavation using a pickaxe, spade and square-point shovel, we were employing rubber-wheeled wheelbarrows to tote crusher-run rock from a pile dumped along the roadway. Toad, Mr. Hankins, had the rock delivered in early spring. The fifteen-ton tandem dump truck, unable to negotiate the sodden landscape, dumped the rock some two-hundred-fifty yards or so from the basement. This required traversing some rough, fairly steep terrain and with the unusually blistery August heat, we were perspiring profusely.
Turning over an empty wheelbarrow for a makeshift seat, I watched as the large black man thumbed the twin clasps of his metal lunchbox upwards. His short-cropped, inky-hued hair was wiry and streaked silvery-gray. His whiskerless, squared-jawed face seemed always to break into broad, friendly smiles.
“Hey Motel, whatcha got in that lunchbox today?” I queried.
“Two onion sammitches[2] and a bowla pintos,” he replied, afterwards taking a healthy-sized bite of one of his light bread sandwiches.
“Onion sandwiches,” I loudly repeated, surprised that anybody would eat such a thing.
“Yessur Mister David, the missus made ‘em fresh dis mawnin’ and they’s mighty tasty.”
Motel always called everybody Mister and when addressing a lady, he’d remove his hat and say Miss or Missus. He was fond of using sir and ma’am too. I always reckoned his upbringing was similar to my own, his parents allowing that saying sir and ma’am was the proper thing to do. I’m thinking most folk born in the south back in those days just naturally used terms of respect when addressing others.
Pondering those onion sandwiches, I grimaced, shrugged my shoulders and pulled open my own brown paper lunch-sack. Peering inside, I considered the still mostly green Early Harvest apple and two cellophane packages of Lance sandwich crackers (the round, buttery ones spread with a thin layer of peanut butter). Thinking my fare was not much better than Motel’s; I broke open a pack of crackers, polished the apple against my sweat-soaked shirt and began eating.
As was his custom, Doc hadn’t joined us yet, but two fellers Toad had hired to ‘rough-in’ the plumbing for a new downstairs bathroom, had knocked off for lunch as well. They’d been there all morning piddling about and I didn’t see any evidence they’d got much work done. Their lack of progress would be holding us up if they didn’t hurry up and get their drainage pipes set. Doc said they were aiming to use that plastic stuff, PVC they called it. I doubted it would work as good as the old reliable cast iron but ole Doc allowed it was much better. Anyway, I figured Toad, who seemed to have plenty of money to toss around, was paying these two by the hour and they couldn’t care less how quickly they worked.
“Ya’ll care if we join you?’ the taller and older of the two asked.
He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, his mostly gray hair thinning and sharply receded at the temples. Lankily built, he had prodigiously big hands, hands that seemed way over-sized for his body. He was shirtless beneath a pair of charcoal-gray striped overalls. With the side flaps left unbuttoned, displaying a goodly portion of his gaunt, alabaster thighs, he flirted dangerously close to nakedness. Like the rest of us, he was drenched with sweat.
“Find yourselves a seat,” I answered.
“Yessurs, youin's sho ‘nough welcome to jine us. Mister David an’ me’d be mighty pleased havin’ ya’ll’s company,” chimed Motel, his castaneous[3] eyes closely studying the two plumbers’ faces. Turning towards me he continued, “Like the Good Book say, “Always be mindful to entertain strangers ‘cause some’s has entertained angels un-bewares.”
The plumber’s helper, much shorter than his cohort, in his early twenties I supposed, spoke nary a word. Bare-chested and sweaty, dressed in blue jeans faded nigh colorless with both of his pasty-white, knobby knees poking through threadbare legs, he bended sharply and dragged the four-foot long plumber’s toolbox over to where Motel and I sat. Then he and the lead plumber sat down and opened their dome-topped, lunch pails.
“Damn, it’s a hot one,” the elder of the two bemoaned while unscrewing the lid off his thermos. “Hell, I thought yesterday was bad, but today is a real scorcher.”
Glancing at Motel, I noticed a faint frown crawl across his face. He was not a man given to swearing or using cuss words of any sort. The closest I had ever heard him come to cussing was an occasional “Shucks” or now and again a “Dad-blame-it.” Come to think of it, I don’t recall him ever getting angry or even speaking poorly about anyone. I reckon ole Motel just might have been the kindest, most even-tempered feller I’ve ever known.
“It’s all them damned nuke-kleer tests what’s causing it,” the younger fellow opined.
“Hell, them sons of a bitches in Washington D C’s gonna blow ever-body offin the damn map if ‘ey keep it up,” quipped the older plumber.
“Well, my preacher said the Bible says this kinda shit would happen in the last days.”
I chuckled inwardly at the young plumber’s remark. His use of such crude language while alluding to the Bible reminded me of the time Doc and Big Don (a mutual friend of Doc and me) were looking into the Scriptures.
Doc was reading over in the Book of Genesis about Abraham, who fearing King Abimelech might kill him in order to take away his beautiful wife Sarah, tried passing her off as his sister.
When Doc read that portion of scripture, Big Don yelled, “What?”
Doc carefully explained what Abraham had done, and Don angrily shouted, “Why that son of a bitch!”
Ole Doc and I shared many a laugh throughout the ensuing years about that one.
Doc, in his middle to late thirties, ran a small construction business out of his home. Thinly built and diminutive in stature, standing around five foot two or three, I reckon he never weighed as much as a hundred-twenty pounds a day of his life. He was what I’d refer to as ‘wiry’ and when sufficiently riled, had an explosive temper. He was a self-assured man, perhaps bordering on ‘cocky’, never encountering a task that he considered beyond his ability. I numbered him among those few men that I greatly admired.
The ninth of eleven children born to humble parents just outside the unincorporated community of Washburn in rural, northern Grainger County, he typified a southerner – or more so, a genuine East Tennessee hillbilly. (Now Washburn is the main town in this rural area and lays surrounded by smaller communities such as Powder Springs, Thorn Hill, Tater Valley and Liberty Hill, all little more than wide places in the road. Actually, in those days, Washburn with its US Post Office, Bank, School and Grocery Store, was not much to brag about either. I’ve heard that this town was formed sometime during the 1890’s decade with the building of the Knoxville-Cumberland Gap Railway. In needs of a rail yard and depot along its line, they chose that area, calling it ‘Washburn’ after the man who helped to make the railroad possible in that he had successfully secured the necessary legislation authorizing it.)
With only a third-grade education Doc was a prime example of the unlimited opportunity folk enjoy in this great nation of ours. Now don’t think he was illiterate by any means. While he might not be able to read as well as most folks, and his mathematical skills were woefully lacking, he could, like so many of the rural undereducated, ‘figure’ things out. I have heard this sort of hillbilly thinking called ‘stump logic’ by some of the more enlightened folk, those sophisticated people holding degrees from institutions of higher learning. Well whether Doc had ‘stump logic’, just plain common sense or pure old dogged determination, one will likely never know. Albeit, he in his simple manner, achieved more success than a lot of those college educated folk peering down their noses at the ‘ignorant, lesser endowed’ will ever realize.
“Ain’t yo eatin’ Mister Doc?” Motel inquired, perhaps asking mostly in hopes of ending the coarse conversation in which the two plumbers seemed so enthusiastically engaged.
He turned his gaze towards me while answering, “Nah, I ain’t hungry but I’ll take me a cup of coffee if somebody’s got any,”
Doc never ate ‘brought from home’ food. If we were working on a job anywhere near a restaurant, one of those inexpensive sorts that serve home-cooked meals, we’d drive there and eat. On occasion, Doc’s wife Dora (he called her Doe) rode in with us so she could use the truck. In those instances, she’d bring us plates of food she’d fixed at home. Otherwise, Doc would just abstain from eating lunch (or dinner as we southerners call it – in the South, dinner is the midday meal and supper is the evening meal.)
“Mister Doc, ain’t it a might too hot fo coffee drankin’?” Motel asked.
Laughing, I stood and headed towards Doc’s truck, an old 1950 Ford Panel Truck[4] made especially for the Bell Telephone Company. It still had factory paint; the ugliest, drabbest olive green I’ve ever seen (and I’ve seen plenty olive drab on US Military vehicles). I fetched the quart thermos I had brought from home that morning, which I knew was still yet half-full.
When home, Doc drank instant coffee and was it ever strong! He’d add so many heaping spoonfuls of coffee powder to his cup of scalding hot water that it was nigh syrupy. Despite that, he liked my much weaker coffee mighty well.
I fixed it on the stovetop in a real, honest to God percolator. I reckon nothing sounds, smells or tastes better than coffee brewed in an old-timey percolator. First, a body slips the ‘pump’ (the part with the hollow stem for the boiling water to travel up) into the pot; then after placing the basket on (the part that holds the ground coffee); the pot is filled with cold-water – not lukewarm water, but cold water – really cold water. After adding two or three heaping tablespoons of coffee, JFG is best, and a dash of salt to knock off the bitterness, the ‘spreader’ (a flat piece filled with holes that allows the upwards pumped water to fall evenly over the grounds) is placed on the basket ere affixing the lid with its hollow glass bulb on top.
I always turned the stove-eye control to high as I’d seen my mama do. In no time at all a body would hear that first bluluuup, followed by another bluluuup, then bluluuup, bluluuup. With rhythm of delightful perking sounds dancing upon one’s hearing and nostrils filling with wafts of wonderful coffee aroma, those bluluuups would soon run closer and closer together; bluluuup, bluluuup, bluluuup, bluluuup. When the sounds grew nigh continuous, leaving the pot on the burner, I’d switch the control knob to off. As the stove-eye cools, the bluluups gradually decrease, finally ending, signaling the coffee is ready.
Returning with the thermos, I saw that Doc had fetched a wooden chair, one of those low-seated Adirondacks, from off Toad’s deck and was interacting with the midday diners. Nearing the foursome, I could hear Motel speaking.
“Yessur Mister Doc, sho nuff, in all my sixty-seven years I ain’t never seen it no hotter than today.”
I was astonished that this man could be that old. He certainly didn’t look it. Why, ole Doc looked every bit as old, if not older than Motel. And aside from that, Motel was strong – powerful strong. Why, I reckoned he could easily do the work of two men, maybe more. I poured the still hot coffee into the pull-off insulated thermos cover and handed it to Doc.
“My grandma said she’d never seen it this hot neither. And I reckon she’s eighty-something or more. She says all this fouled-up weather’s justa ‘nother sign of the times. Ya’ll know, like what the Bible says,” the younger plumber interjected.
Doc laughed, then, sipped at his coffee before speaking.
“This heat hain’t nothin’ son. I recollect back when I was a young'un, it’d get so powerful hot in August that folk’s corn’d get so overheated it’d go to poppin’ right out there in the fields. Them kernels would pop and pop ‘till they’d finally burst right through the husks. Back in them days, many a bowl of popcorn got picked up from off the ground. Heck, some folks’d carry a Sally Miles saltshaker with ‘em and eat popcorn out in the field. Yeah, it got plenty hot back then.”
A hush fell over the gathering as Doc was telling his tale, and I’d swear that young plumber’s eyes grew nigh big as saucers.
“Wow!’ he exclaimed, “Reckon it’ll get ‘at hot this month?”
Finally, the older plumber and I couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. After a bit of hesitation, the younger plumber, still not convinced the story was untrue, joined us in a kind of nervous chuckling.
Motel remained silent through this yarn, his somber face showing nary the suggestion of a smile.
“If it was that hot back then, I reckon ya’ll had stewed ‘maters on the vine too, huh Doc?” I chaffed.
“Well, not as I recall,” countered Doc, “But I did hear tell that some folks on them lake-bottom farms sometimes had their ‘arsh taters to bake ere they could get ‘em out of the ground.”
He smiled, proud that he had topped my notion. Indeed, he was a masterful tale-spinner with an imagination unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Yes, he and ole Jess Haire[5] were the best storytellers ever to cross my path.
“‘At same summer, I can’t recall what year, womenfolks’d gather hen-aigs afore daylight else they’d hard boil right in the nest,” he continued. “An’ worser still, cow an’ goat milk clabbered in the sack.
The young plumber’s helper said doubtingly, “I ain’t never heared such as ‘at. I’ll ask my grandma. Where’d you say you was from?”
The gray-haired plumber and I laughed so as to cause the young questioner’s face to blush.
Again, both Motel and Doc sat stolidly, showing no emotion at all.
When the laughter died, Doc asked, “Well boys, did any of you'ns see on last night's news ‘bout the latest legislation President Johnson’s proposing?”
With this query, his countenance grew stern, his dark eyes drawing into narrow slits, obvious concern radiating from every aspect of his person. Even his slender shoulders slumped as his arms dropped and his palms fell opened in apparent disappointment.
I sat transfixed, knowing that Doc was formulating another of his patented ‘leg-pulling’ narratives. I reckon he liked nothing better than to spin some yarn and fool folks into believing something outlandish.
It was true that since the assassination of President John Kennedy in November of ‘63, it seemed (at least to some folk) that every piece of legislation the late president had favored sailed through Congress virtually uncontested. One seldom picked up a the local newspaper or tuned into either Huntley and Brinkley or Walter Cronkite’s television broadcast without finding that another bill had passed or was being introduced in Congress. It was obvious that Doc was parlaying this into the foundation for his latest tale.
“Ain’t nothin’ ‘at damned Johnson’d do what’d surprise me,” the older plumber responded.
“I don’t pay politics much mind,” Motel divulged, his demeanor and tone suggesting neither apathy nor unconcern but rather a sincere desire to remain above the fray so often associated with partisan politics.
As if anxious, the young plumber piped, “My grandma says all these new laws are just another sign of the times. She allows we’re in them ‘last days’. Says that damn antichrist’ll take over soon.”
“I heared plenty folks sayin’ Kennedy’s the antichrist,” the older plumber inserted.
“But he’s dead!” his workmate practically shouted. “Hell, damn near everybody in the whole world seen that!”
“Uh-huh, so they say,” the elder retorted. “I’m tellin’ you, it wouldn’t be the first time our guv-er-mint’s lied to us. Ya’ll ‘member ‘at U-2 spy plane what them Russians shot down? They sure lied ‘bout all that. Hell, they’ll lie ‘bout most anything! When I was over in Korea, them damned officers’d lie to us ‘bout ever day.” His face reddened in obvious anger as he practically spat out his words.
Again I marveled at folk’s ignorance, thinking, Don’t any of these people ever actually read the Bible? Must they believe every ridiculous rumor and conspiracy theory that comes along? I sighed heavily and bit into my apple.
“My daddy said he were’nt a-tall upset when Kennedy got hisself shot,” the young plumber proudly announced.
“Can’t say ‘at I was neither,” his older companion flatly stated.
A momentary hush fell over the assemblage with those brash announcements. I glanced over at Doc and then at Motel. Neither of them cracked a smile and one could easily see they did not share in such a perverse notion.
Still chewing on a bite of apple, I interjected, “One good thing a body can say for President Kennedy, he sure did back ole Khrushchev and his missiles outta Cuba.”
“Hell, boy, you ain’t even old enough ta vote. What in hell do you know ‘bout anything?” the older plumber practically shouted. A body could easily see he was approaching rage level.
Chuckling Doc said, “Well, this new bill President Johnson’s proposing’s the craziest one yet.”
“What’s it say?” asked the young plumber, his grayish-green eyes, half hidden beneath straying strands of mouse-brown hair, beginning to once again widen.
Doc, seeing the ‘game was afoot’ moved to slow the pace. A practical joke is a lot more effective when ‘dragged out’ as long as possible. Doc was a master at stretching a yarn to the limit.
“Now, I’ll betcha the y’ears right offa my head it’ll pass Congress same as all them others,” he baited. “All he has to do is tell them representatives and senators ‘at it was President Kennedy’s notion and they’ll shoot it through quicker than a body can say lickety-split.”
With everyone’s attention resting squarely on ole Doc, slowly munching the last of my Early Harvest, I carefully studied each face.
The older plumber’s mind-set seemed easily discernable, with his dark piercing eyes and downwardly curled lips reflecting anger and distrust. One might conclude he was a concerned citizen with an increasing anger towards the current state of politics. I doubted there was a politician alive that this man trusted.
His helper’s suntanned face glowed in the bright sunlight and one could sense his eagerness and childlike anticipation as to what ole Doc would next disclose. He was unthinking and as gullible as ole Jack of ‘beanstalk’ fame. The wonderment in his glistening eyes virtually shouted, ‘Fool me! Fool me!
Motel, still squatted, remained stoic, his thick, tightly drawn lips neither smiling nor frowning. Nothing in his visage showed he had the faintest hint of interest in Doc’s narrative. However, searching his face further, probing those magnificent eyes – eyes darkly shimmering as the indigo-black waters of a fathomless lagoon, one could sense, perhaps discern, a scant genesis of curiosity.
“What’s it say?” repeated the young plumber the resonance of his voice raised an octave.
Ole Doc smiled his dancing eyes passing from face-to-face. He was in his element now, and he aimed to play this audience for all it was worth.
“Yeah, what’s this new legislation all about?” asked the older plumber.
“C’mon, tell us Doc,” I urged, thinking I’d help move this ruse along.
“Well,” Doc began, his demeanor matching the gravity of his purposely-somber voice, “It seems Johnson’s aimin’ to change the calendar.”
“Change the calendar? Whatcha mean, change the calendar?” queried the tall plumber.
“Yeah, whacha mean?” his young helper echoed.
I smiled as the maestro conducted his unsuspecting sinfonietta.[6]
“I mean Johnson’s wantin’ Congress to pass a new bill changin’ the calendar,” he repeated, conducting his beguiled audience masterfully.
Glancing towards Motel, noticing his attentiveness and the intensity of his gaze towards ole Doc, I realized the seeds of interest had germinated and were now taking root. Indeed, an inquisitive expression despoiled that normally benevolent face.
“Yeah, but how’s he aimin’ to change it?” questioned the young plumber, the inflection of his voice displaying his impatience.
The younger plumber parroted the elder with “Yeah, how?”
Ole Doc cleared his throat, and took a long sip of his coffee. He eyed each face carefully, reading each countenance, perhaps to determine the tempo of his timing. “Well, it seems he’s wantin’ to add another month to the year. 'Stead of twelve months like we got now, there’d be thirteen.
“Damn! What’ll they think of next!” exclaimed the elder plumber as he snapped his lunchbox shut and stood up. “C’mon Clarence, we have work to do.”
The young plumber arose from off the toolbox as well, turning towards Doc to half yell, “Hell, ‘at’s crazy! Damned politicians!”
But neither plumber made a move towards leaving. They both just stood there, no doubt awaiting a final word from Doc.
I watched as Motel sat pondering, his dark eyes lifted upwards as if studying the heavens. Raising a heavily callused hand, he scratched a few seconds at the edge of his hair. I reckon he held that posture for what seemed like a full minute. A body could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he lowered his gaze and peered directly into ole Doc’s nigh squinted eyes.
Everyone had turned his attention to Motel.
Inside I was screaming, Don’t do it Motel! Don’t do it! Don’t say a word! Hoping against hope that he would not fall victim to ole Doc’s carefully laid snare, I sat holding my breath.
Alas, the silence was at last broken as the venerable old saint began to speak. Apprehensively, I watched as those dark, fleshy, lips moved.
“Yes-sir Mister Doc, that’s just like ‘em. And knowin’ how thems politicians is, they’ll likely put it right in between July and August – dey’s already the two hottest months we’s got.”
Everyone laughed, and I suspect I laughed as well, but deep down inside, in the depths of my heart there was neither laughter nor glee – only sadness and sorrow. Two men I held in highest regard had by chance entered the arena of ‘combat’ that sultry August day. While the sympathy engendered within my being for Motel did nothing to diminish the respect I had for him, a dab of tarnish settled upon the high esteem in which I held ole Doc.
[1] Blackstrap.
[2] Two slices of light bread, mayonnaise and a thick slice of onion.
[3] Chestnut colored.
[5] Another storyteller introduced in ‘Scales of Justice’.
[6] A symphony that is shorter than usual or that calls for fewer than the usual number of instruments.
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David Dyer is retired and resides in Knoxville, Tennessee and where he has been, for the most part, a lifelong resident. Having dabbled in writing poetry for several years without seeking publication, he has only recently ventured into writing short stories.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Disparity
Disparity
in that house red beans & rice
cooked every Monday for four
generations until the water
washed it away.
cooked every Monday for four
generations until the water
washed it away.
it floated down Forgotten Street,
clapboards splintering like frail old
bones in the jaws of the beast.
clapboards splintering like frail old
bones in the jaws of the beast.
the land where it stood’s going on
five years empty now, sacred ground
bleached with the salt of bitter tears
but still loved with a fierceness that
would amaze the unbaptized.
five years empty now, sacred ground
bleached with the salt of bitter tears
but still loved with a fierceness that
would amaze the unbaptized.
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Author: Charlotte Hamrick
The first poem, "Disparity", I wrote a couple of months before the fifth anniversary of the storm known as Katrina. Here in New Orleans, it's known as The Federal Flood.
My name is Charlotte Hamrick and I write fairly often on my blog Zouxzoux. I've been published in The Dead School of Southern Literature, MediaVirus Magazine and St. Somewhere Literary Journal, among others, and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize by St. Somewhere. I live in New Orleans, the most magical city on earth, and wild horses couldn't drag me away. Much less a hurricane.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
"I'm Glad You're Still Around"
Layne shivered each time the November winds waltzed past our bodies. She hugged herself. She was a sort of subtly reckless girl: drink one too many shots of warm Captain Morgan on a weeknight, smoke her Camel menthols within fifteen feet of building entrances, go out into fifteen degree weather in black soffe shorts, flip-flops, and a boyfriend's hoodie. I'd been getting ready to leave campus for Thanksgiving break when she'd called me and asked if I could meet her. We sat together on one of the aging wooden benches outside her dorm and listened to the scratching sounds the dead leaves made as the wind pushed them along the sidewalk. For a long while, neither of us spoke.
"You didn't say anything about my bandana today," she said. She looked up at me, blue fabric with a white floral pattern wrapped around her forehead, something lifting at the corners of her lips. The lamppost to our left hummed a hymn.
"It's pretty," I said. "What put you in the bandana mood?"
"I don't know. You wear one every day. What's your excuse?"
"My hair tickles my ears when I walk." I paused to light my cigarette. I admired the blues and grays of the smoke as I blew it from my lungs. "The bandana is practical."
"I think it's cute on you," Layne said. She rubbed her thighs to warm them. The last classes had let out hours ago. Campus was mostly empty. A few acorns fell from the branches above us, breaking open on the sidewalk, and the menthol smoke of my cigarette took its place up in the trees. Layne took the cigarette from me and placed it between her lips.
"Did you call me to talk about bandanas, or is there something more important? I'm expected home in a couple of hours."
"I went to the doctor today." Layne looked up toward the top of her building. She took a drag from the cigarette. "It's not just a headache." The smoke hung above her like an industrial halo.
"Oh." I gripped the seat of the graying bench.
"I'm going back to Wilmington," she said, "for awhile." Layne passed the cigarette back to me. A campus police golf cart crunched down the gravel path to our left. We both looked over as the blue and white cart squeaked to a full stop. I matched stares with the aging police chief. A slight nod passed between us. Satisfied that there was no wrongdoing, he turned and drove past us. Layne forced a smile his way.
"Do you remember when we tried to steal that golf cart?" she asked. We both shared a small laugh. The wind started to pick up again. We heard it in the dry leaves of the tree above us before we felt it against our faces. I tossed the smoked cigarette and we watched as the last of the tobacco burnt itself into an ash of many grays.
"Layne," I began, "I'm sorry. This must be awful to deal with. Is there anything I can--"
"Don't say it," Layne said. She took her small hands out of her pocket and wrapped them around my own. "Please."
Years later, I still wonder. Was it the pre-winter chill in the weather? Was it the cigarette smoke blackening her pink throat? What was it that made her voice crack when she said that?
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