Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

“Bengenaria? Everyone called her Benji?”

“That’s her.”

“That’s my great-grandmother.” He frowned, taking in Chloe’s comparative youth. Despite having three children, the woman looked younger than he did. “You knew her?”

“Knew of her.”

“That’s not what you said.”

She smiled. It was beautiful, dazzling even, and Don suddenly felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Mr. Swayback, are you calling me a liar?”

He smiled as well. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry it came out like that. I’m here because I’d like to make arrangements to sit down with your daughter and do an interview with her. I know she’s been badgered by the press, and I can appreciate that she still needs to recover from things. But I think the local readers have been ill-served by the national media, and I’d like to speak with your daughter about things other than the war or politics.”

Chloe smiled faintly. “‘Ill-served’?”

Don laughed. “Well, you know….”

Movement caught his eye. A tall young man with hair to his shoulders emerged from the house and leaned on the porch rail as he watched them. Don tried not to let it rattle him.

Chloe made a strange motion with her left hand, almost like she was trying to speak in sign language. He might not have noticed, except at that exact instant he felt a sharp pain above his left eye that made him wince. It faded immediately.

“So what would you want to talk to my girl about, if it’s not the war or politics?” she asked.

“What it’s like to be home, what she missed, what she didn’t miss, and what she plans for the future. Her favorite memories of Cloud County that helped her get through her troubles, that sort of thing. We’re not trying to beat the news channels at their own game. People read our paper for football scores and coupons.”

“Howdy,” a male voice called behind Don. He turned and saw an older man, dressed for farming, stride across the lawn. The young man now watched from inside the screen door. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” the newcomer said neutrally.

“This is Don Swayback,” Chloe said. “He’s a reporter. But Benji Oswald was his great-grandmother, so he’s one of us as well.” She said that with a wink, although Don noticed the man looked a bit puzzled. “Mr. Swayback, this is my husband, Deacon.”

“Well, pleasure to meet you, then,” Deacon said as they shook hands. “But our newsworthy family member is dead to the world right now, I’m afraid. She was up early, and after lunch she went out like a light. Just like she used to do when she was a baby.”

Don felt a sudden, embarrassing rush of relief. No interview today, and it wasn’t his fault. “If you’d do me the honor of passing on my comments, I’d be really grateful. You can reach me here.” He handed Chloe his card.

“You a musician, Mr. Swayback?” Deacon said.

Don blinked. “Er… funny you should ask, sir. I just dug my guitar out of the closet after about six years.”

“There’s a regular ongoing shindig some of us have every night around here. It’s a private thing, so we don’t advertise it or nothing, but I think you might enjoy it. Starts around sundown, goes until our fingers fall off. Bring your guitar and come sit in.” With a chuckle he added, “Nobody there expects anybody to be too good, and you might run into my daughter there.”

“I might do that,” Don said. “Where is it?”

“Just follow Spruce Line Road. You’ll know the turnoff.”

The pain above his eye momentarily returned. He would know the turnoff, just as he would’ve if he’d gone through with his plans last night instead of spending the evening with Susie. The emotional certainty overrode any intellectual skepticism. “Thanks for the invite.”

“We look out for our own,” Chloe said enigmatically.

As they watched the reporter drive away, Chloe undid her ponytail and shook her hair loose. “What’d you invite him to the barn dance for?” she asked.

Deacon shrugged. “Had a feeling about him. You spotted it, too. He’s got some of us in him, and it’s more’n just skin deep.”

“If it’s from Benji Oswald, though, he’s more Rockhouse’s people than one of ours.”

“Benji left. She knew what her blood was. I’d say that leaves him free to choose.” Suddenly he stepped forward and yelled, “Get outta here!”

He kicked at the plants. A brown and yellow snake turned and moved off across the yard toward the weeds at the tree line.

“That could’ve been close,” Deacon said.

Chloe chuckled. “That little bitty thing?”

“It was a copperhead.”

“And if it bit me, I’d have a sore for a while. There’s a patch of snakemaster growing right down the hill, it’d clear it right up.”

“Maybe,” Deacon said, continuing to watch the snake until it vanished. “You remember when we first saw Brownyn in the hospital down in Virginia? We knew she’d be okay, so even though it was hurtful to see, we didn’t get that ache that you get when you worry someone might die.”

Chloe said nothing, but put her hand on his back.

He continued to gaze after the snake. “I told her that if something happened to you, it was because the night wind called you and I was okay with that. But that was a lie, plain and simple.”

“I know,” she said.

He turned to face her. “You look so healthy, Chloe. So alive. If I start dwelling on what you might look like in a coffin—”

“Don’t,” she said. “Seriously. I worry about you, too, trying to keep it together without me. But it’s all signs so far, and we may be reading them wrong. Even if we’re not, I’m not going to stop living before I have to, you know?”

Before he could reply, Kell came down the hill saying, “Who was that?”

“Local newspaper guy,” Deacon said. “Wanted to talk to your sister.

“What’d you tell him?”

“That she was asleep.” He spit casually to one side, then added, “Say, why don’t you take your sister to the barn dance tonight?”

Kell blinked. “Because I’m tired? I’m running on four hours’ sleep, you know.”

Deacon waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, you can sleep when the night wind blows you away. It’ll do her good. And you’re the only one who could get her to do it without a fight.”

“All right,” he said wearily, and headed back toward the house. Deacon winked at Chloe; she shook her head and pinched his behind through his overalls.

When Kell went back inside, he found Aiden still watching TV, switching through channels with methodical boredom. “Man, there’s nothing on during the day. I might as well have gone to school.”

Kell sat down beside him. “What are you going to do when school lets out next week?”

“Die of fucking boredom,” Aiden said, then caught himself. “I mean…”

Kell laughed. “I know the word. Just make sure you don’t say it around Mom.”

Suddenly their sister’s picture appeared, and Aiden stopped switching. Beneath the photo of Bronwyn in uniform were the words, HERO NO MORE?

The news channel announcer said, “It’s been a week since Private Bronwyn Hyatt returned to her tiny hometown in Tennessee following her spectacular rescue. In that time, more sources have confirmed that her rescue was little more than a staged publicity event, even as the military continues to defend its actions.”

The image switched to a man identified as MAJOR DANIEL MAITLAND, U.S. ARMY. “Private Hyatt was severely injured in combat, was taken to an enemy hospital, and kept under armed guard. U.S. Marines risked their lives to bring her out of that situation. I’m sorry that some people feel the need to insert politics into this, but those facts are indisputable.”