Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Chloe’s smile grew into a grin, as if she’d followed his thoughts. “I’ll pour you kids some iced tea,” she said, and went back inside.

Craig turned to Bronwyn. “So… what sort of music do you listen to?”

She didn’t want to give him the same answer she’d given Terry-Joe; a non-Tufa might not get it. She tapped her temple and said, “Things are still a little scrambled up here. I’ll have to take a rain check on answering that. What about you?”

“Ironically, my favorite musician is John Hiatt.”

“No relation to us, I reckon.”

“Well, it is spelled differently.”

“Not exactly religious, though, is he?”

“You think religious people can only listen to religious music?”

“I thought professionally religious people had to, yeah.”

“Maybe at one time, and maybe some still. But I don’t hold with isolating yourself from the world. I may not watch MTV or play on the computer every night, but I try to leave myself open to new things. If I disagree with something, I like to be able to explain why. To myself, if no one else.”

“So do you agree with the war?” she asked, then mentally slapped herself. Why was she trying to pick a fight?

He didn’t seem offended. “Me? No. The whole ‘thou shalt not kill’ rule is pretty clear.” Suddenly he remembered whom he was talking to. “I hope you don’t take that personally.”

She laughed. “No. I’ve seen plenty of Christian killers, and Muslim killers, and the occasional Jewish killer. As near as I can tell, believing in their various gods just eggs them on.”

“What denomination are you?” he asked as casually as he could.

“My family’s Tufa, Reverend. We believe what we’ve always believed.”

Smiling, he pressed on. “And what’s that?”

“That it’s not polite to discuss religion with company.”

He leaned a little closer. “And how long until I’m not company?”

“I’m afraid you’ll always be company to most of the Tufa, Reverend, even if you married me.”

Instantly she blushed bright red and looked away. Where the hell had that come from?

Craig stood, brushed off his jeans, and said, “Well, I didn’t mean to be rude. It was nice to see you again, Bronwyn.”

Chloe came out with two glasses of tea, and looked puzzled when she saw Craig on his feet. “Not leaving so soon are you, Reverend?”

“I don’t want to tire Bronwyn out. Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Hyatt. I’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course. You’re welcome any time.”

Chloe watched Craig get into his car and drive away. “He is a handsome man, isn’t he?”

Bronwyn said nothing, instead staring at a viceroy butterfly as it danced across the yard. She’d seen the flash of hurt in Craig’s eyes, and had let him go without a word. Was the Bronwynator, who’d once propositioned her sexy-bald high school principal, suddenly ashamed she found a man attractive? Had she deliberately driven him off?

Chloe sat down, sipped the tea she’d intended for Craig, and said, “You think you’re up to doing it?”

Bronwyn’s eyes opened wide. “What, with the preacher ?”

“No, learning to play again. What did you think I meant?”

“Never mind. And it’s not like I have a choice, is it?”

Chloe looked down. “I reckon not. You have to take it on.”

“Because you’re ready to die.” It came out as an accusation.

Chloe sighed. “No, Bronwyn, I’m not ready to die. I’m not like you, I never sought it out to see what it felt like. And it beats me where you get it from; your daddy’s the most sensible man I ever met, and your brothers are both level-headed, even Aiden. I never thought I was a wild one, but it had to come from somewhere, and you and me, we’re Tufa women, so we’re pretty connected.”

“Don’t feel guilty for me, Mom,” Bronwyn said with no sympathy. “I did what I wanted, every day of my life. The time to turn me from that road was when I was little and still scared of you. It’s too late for both of us now.”

“No, ma’am,” Chloe said seriously. “It’s never too late, not for a Tufa. We got all of time to play in, if we want it. You don’t like who you are, change it.”

“Do you like who you are?”

“I’ve got a good man who loves me, two fine sons, and a war hero for a daughter. I know my songs, I know my stories. Yeah, I like who I am.”

“You never wanted to be more than that? More than some Tufa jukebox?”

“You seem to think that ain’t enough. It is for me. Lots of people never know their purpose, never know their songs or their stories. Rich ain’t just about money.”

“So you’re rich.”

“You may understand that sometime. You might even feel the same way. I sure hope you do, Bronwyn, because it’s the sweetest feeling in the world. I ain’t in no hurry to give it up, but if the night wind wants me, I’ll go with no regrets. When them Iraqis had you, could you have said the same thing?”

Bronwyn started to get angry. “No, Mom, I couldn’t because I was too fucking busy fighting to stay alive. I didn’t just sigh and accept the next song on the playlist, like you’re doing. You want to leave Aiden without a mother? You think that’ll make him rich?”

“I think you need to calm down,” Chloe said. Her voice was even, but Bronwyn heard the edge to it. “You left. You made your choice. You really don’t have the high ground on this.”

Bronwyn wanted desperately to leap up, stomp inside, and slam the door. She wanted to hop into her truck, tear off down the road with the radio blasting while she smoked a joint to calm down. But she could only sit and look at her mother, at the unaccustomed anger simmering in her face, and endure it.

“Maybe there is no high ground,” Bronwyn said after a moment. “Maybe the night winds don’t carry us anymore. Maybe they just drag us along.”

The road between the Hyatt farm and Needsville was empty except for one tractor pulling a rusted old combine. The driver was kind enough to pull aside and let Craig pass. He waved at the farmer, turned up the music on the radio, and headed into Needsville on his way back home.

He was fuming, although he wasn’t exactly sure why. Sure, the “even if you married me” bit could’ve just been a joke, but Craig was pretty sure Bronwyn knew he was attracted to her. If so, why would she be so snotty about it? Had that cruel state trooper been right? Was this the real Bronwynator, only now reemerging from the haze of her wartime experiences?

He saw the Needsville post office ahead on the right. Even though the building was closed, Rockhouse Hicks sat on the porch, his eyes resolutely straight ahead.

Impulsively Craig whipped his car into a parking place, stopping so hard, the belt yanked tight against his shoulder. The old man did not acknowledge Craig until he settled into the empty rocker beside him and said, “Morning, Mr. Hicks.”

Hicks grunted a reply. His chair squeaked rhythmically as it went back and forth.

“What’s been happening in town today?”

“Sun came up, you sat down,” he said with no inflection. “That’s about it.”

“Pretty much all that ever happens, isn’t it?”

“During the week the postman raises the American flag.”

Craig sat back and rocked in unison with the old man for a few moments. “Missed you in church this morning.”

“Didn’t know you were shooting at me,” Hicks said.

Craig chuckled. “That’s a good one.” After more silence, he continued, “The town sure looks different than it did when Bronwyn Hyatt’s parade came through.”