Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

It was a large book, nearly two feet square and over six inches thick, with a heavy purple bookmark ribbon attached to the spine. The page edges were gilded, except near the top corner where it was worn away by decades of turning. He tucked the book under his arm and backed his way down the ladder.

When he’d brushed the dust from his jeans and washed his hands, he put the big book on Aunt Raby’s kitchen table and opened the cover. The first half-dozen pages were listings of family births, deaths, and marriages. It was somehow touching, he thought, that no consideration was given to possible divorce and remarriages. He scanned the listings, which began in 1803, until he found Forrest Swayback.

The date was June 11, 1912. On that long-ago day, Forrest Leon Swayback had been joined in holy matrimony with Bengenaria Oswald. Their three children, including Don’s own father, were listed under that. Don followed the line to the date of his own birth, in July of 1972.

Aunt Raby put one gnarled hand on his back. “Did you find what you’re looking for, honey?”

“I did, Aunt Raby. Did you ever know Grandma Benji?”

“I sure did. She was one of them Needsville Tufas, you know.”

“I know.”

“She could sing like the voice of heaven, that’s a pure fact. Only she wouldn’t sing a hymn to save her life. She’d sing country and western songs, even nigra songs, and of course those weird ol’ Tufa songs when she thought no one was listening. But she’d never praise the Lord, she sure wouldn’t.”

“Did you like her?”

“She was never nothing but kind to me. Sometimes it’s a shame to think about someone that sweet burning in hell, but the Bible says it true, and she never accepted the Lord Jesus Christ that I know of. She and Grandpa Forrest got married by a judge over in Mississippi, even, because she wouldn’t have a church wedding.”

Don nodded, copied down the dates of her birth, death, and marriage, then took the bag of garden tomatoes Aunt Raby insisted on giving him. As he drove home, he thought about the phrase weird ol’ Tufa songs. He’d never heard a song that was specifically Tufa; he wondered idly what they sang about that was so weird.

Brownyn stood propped on her crutches at the end of the hall. She stared through the living room into the dining area; it was really a single big room divided by the edge of the rug separating the hardwood kitchen floor from the couches, chairs, and TV. So she had an unobstructed view of the strangest thing she’d seen in a while.

Her wheelchair was on the table upside down, its big wheels removed and propped against the kitchen counter. Deacon’s toolbox sat open on a chair. But Deacon wasn’t the one working. Instead a dark-haired boy, tall and lanky and instantly familiar, adjusted the ball bearing mechanism as he hummed to himself.

Her heart began to pound, and another, more basic response swelled within her. Dwayne. Suddenly she could barely stand, and it had nothing to do with her injured leg. She fell against the wall and dropped one crutch, which clattered against the floor.

The boy, startled, dropped the wrench in his hand and spun around. They stared at each other, mouths open, words frozen in their throats.

Finally Bronwyn managed to speak. “Don’t just stand there looking like a damn carp, Terry-Joe, get my crutch before I bust my ass here.”

Terry-Joe Gitterman rushed over and scooped the crutch from the floor. He tried to push it under her arm, but that only caused her to stumble into him, and he caught her around the waist as she fell. He grunted at her weight, which made her scowl and say, “It ain’t all me, you know, it’s this damn office building on my leg.”

For a moment they stayed like that, gazes locked, each secretly ashamed of the way they enjoyed the other’s body pressed so close. Then Terry-Joe blushed and said, “Sorry.” He stepped away as she got her crutches in place.

As she steadied herself, she blushed as well, although for different reasons. Terry-Joe was Dwayne’s little brother, and he’d be sixteen or seventeen now. He looked distressingly like Dwayne from the back, but the family resemblance ended there. Dwayne’s face was always set in a smirk that said he knew exactly what you were thinking, especially if you were female. In Bronwyn’s case, it had been true damn near most of the time. His eyes had a twinkle that at first seemed to be mischief and laughter, but time revealed it to be the enjoyment of cruelty. He had matched her sexually, and in rambunctiousness, but ultimately his touch had disgusted her and his presence filled her with dread. She didn’t like who she was with him, and no matter how often she told him to go away, he kept coming back, like basement mold. He’d been one big reason she’d joined the army in the first place.

Now she laughed and said, “No, Terry-Joe, I’m sorry, I… you surprised me. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Bliss Overbay asked me to see if I could clean out the bearings on that chair so it’d move better.”

“Yeah. Well, look, don’t let me keep you from working, I’ll just hobble on out to the porch and soak up some sunlight.” She really didn’t want to go out, but if she stayed, she’d just make both of them nervous.

He rushed to push one of the chairs aside to make a clearer path for her. It caught on a rug crease and he fell over it. He jumped up so quickly, she burst out laughing, then choked it down when she saw the instant of hurt feelings on his face. He was so unlike Dwayne, who would’ve thrown the chair across the room in a rage for daring to make him look foolish.

“It’s okay, Terry-Joe, I can make it,” she said. He jumped to hold the screen door for her, but since it opened out, he had to stand with his back against the inner door, arm extended. She had to turn sideways as well, which meant they again pressed against each other as she passed. She sensed the heat of his body through her clothes, and the same distinctive tingle announced itself. She also thought she felt his erection through their jeans. Both looked anywhere but at the other.

Then she was outside, in the bright sunlight, looking down at the yard she’d grown up on. She dropped heavily into a rocking chair, and dragged another one over to support her leg. The pain of moving was still severe, but there was that added sensation, the itchy sense of the presence of strange metal things in her body. Did that mean she was, in fact, healing? Was Bliss’s timetable accurate?

“You’re looking perkier,” Deacon said as he came around the end of the house. He was dusty from the cornfield, and his shirt had big sweat rings soaked into it.

“Thanks,” she said. “I do feel better.”

“That’s not what I mean. Your high beams are on.”

She looked down at the front of her T-shirt, then blushed anew. “Dad,” she said, trying to sound scolding.

He tousled her hair. “Ah, your mom does the same thing whenever that Australian guy comes on the radio. Beats me how a foreign guy named Urban can claim to be a country singer, but hey, I don’t make the rules….” He went inside.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back into the sun. Well, the hell with it. It had been nice to feel like a live human being again, even if it was for an instant, even if it was due to a jailbait boy three years her junior. He was cute, and sweet, and apparently good with his hands, if he was working on her wheelchair. Why not get a little horny from that?

Then she recalled the handsome young minister and sighed with renewed shame. She never had much sense of propriety to begin with, but had she lost it all now?

“Hey, Dad!” she called. “Could you bring me a cup of coffee?”