Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

She shook her head. “Keep the life preserver handy, though, in case I hit a drop-off.”

As always, the barn’s interior seemed bigger than it appeared outside. It was lit mainly by thousands of tiny white Christmas lights. Hay bales covered with heavy blankets provided rough bleacher-style seating. The band riser was made out of old shipping pallets covered with particle board, and a row of ancient stage lights hung from the rafters directly above it.

Two hundred people danced on the hard-packed dirt floor, played music onstage, or just watched and socialized. Couples twirled in old-style formality, and some individuals also danced flatfooted on battered pieces of wood. The noise was rhythmic, twangy, and dug into Bronwyn’s soul like a welcome parasite seeking blood from a host. And the itch it created was just as maddening.

Bronwyn surveyed the mass of dark hair, tanned skin, and wide, white smiles. Cliché said that all the mountain families were inbred, and to an outsider this sight would just confirm that; it looked like one enormous family, all close enough to share the same basic characteristics. But these were only the exterior signs; the real connection came at a deeper level, in the response to music that each of them experienced and shared. It was something so innate and deeply rooted that it was like drawing breath, and in a sense did link them as a single clan.

Heads turned toward her almost at once. She’d learned to dread that moment: lately, it was always followed by ridiculous praise, thunderous applause, and unearned standing ovations. But this time, except for some smiles of recognition and friendly nods, no one really reacted. It was as if she’d been away for days, not years. Or that she’d never left at all.

Kell led the way, making sure Bronwyn had plenty of room to maneuver her crutches. When the current song ended, old Mrs. Chandler stepped up to the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves some real royalty here tonight, Cloud County’s own hero, Bronwyn Hyatt. Why don’t you come on up and play a little with us, Bronwyn?”

Before Bronwyn could answer, Kell said, “Now, Miz Chandler, she’s just here to listen and visit tonight. Plenty of time for her to sit in later.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Mrs. Chandler said agreeably. “We’re just all mighty proud to see you back, Bronwyn. Mighty proud indeed.”

“I’m sure glad to be here,” Bronwyn called out, and waved. Then she turned to thank Kell for giving her a graceful way out, and let out a little yelp of surprise. Kell had vanished into the crowd, and now Terry-Joe Gitterman stood grinning before her.

“Hey there,” he said. “Surprised to see you here.”

“Wow, I mean… yeah,” she said. He looked strikingly handsome with his hair combed, in a dark blue polo shirt and faded jeans. There was surprisingly little resemblance to his brother. Dwayne loved to get dressed up and show off, but he always seemed peacockish, preening and performing for his perceived audience. Terry-Joe had simply dressed up for the dance. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Just had one of those feelings this might be a special night.”

Someone said, “Oops! ’Scuse me,” and bumped her against Terry-Joe. He caught her easily, their gazes met, and suddenly she was in one of those moments when everything seemed to be frozen except for the two of them. She wanted to speak, to break the moment, but instead he seemed to be leaning nearer, his lips slightly parted….

She blinked. He hadn’t moved closer at all; had she imagined it? It wasn’t impossible that he might want to kiss her; he clearly had a crush on her. But the fantasy had been hers, not his. She took a breath, forced herself back to the present, and said, “Thanks. Going splat wouldn’t be very dignified.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

The opening notes of “I’ll Twine ’Mid the Ringlets,” played on Mrs. Chandler’s autoharp, rang out. A fiddle and banjo joined in. The singer, an eight-year-old girl named Emaline, stepped to the microphone, which even fully lowered required her to tilt her head back and sing up into it. It did not affect her performance.

Terry-Joe nodded toward the dance floor. “Come on.”

“What, dance ?”

“Sure. Trust me.”

Bronwyn let Terry-Joe take the crutches away and prop them against the wall. Hopping on her good leg, she moved with him to the dance floor. The other couples gave them room and plenty of encouraging smiles. His hand went around her waist and pulled her close, forcing her to again look into his eyes.

He’s seventeen, and he’s never been out of the valley, she told herself. He’s a child, and not just legally .

He leaned close. She felt his breath on her cheek. “My wings can hold us,” he said like the wind sighing through the trees.

Emaline continued to sing:

It reminded Bronwyn how glorious being a Tufa could be. The music formed around them like a physical entity dancing on sparkling wings. And then they, too, danced on wings that left trails of sparkles in the air as they swooped and twirled in time to the tune, merging with the music to become magical, timeless beings. Bronwyn’s leg, unburdened by her physical self, no longer ached with the weight of injury and age.

And Terry-Joe was magical, too. He bore her into the music with the gracefulness of a true rider of the night wind. He may not have been a pureblood Tufa, but he was awfully close. His body felt hot and solid beneath her hands, and his fingers along her skin, even through her clothes, left little tingling trails. He brought her body to life like sunlight opening a morning glory blossom, banishing all traces of the numbness.

When the song finished and they again touched solid ground, Bronwyn threw her arms around Terry-Joe and let him spin her through the air. The crowd applauded the music and dancing, and Mrs. Chandler returned to the microphone. “That sure was purty, wasn’t it? Thank you, little Miss Emaline, and special thanks to Bronwyn Hyatt and Terry-Joe Gitterman. Now we’ll be hearing from our own Paige Paine, back from the music college in Nashville.”

As the next song began, Kell appeared holding two bottles of beer. He looked from Bronwyn to Terry-Joe, his face impassive. “Can’t turn my back on you for a minute,” he said as he handed his sister one of the drinks. “I thought I’d get the first dance.”

“You snooze, you lose,” she said, and took a long drink from the bottle. The beer was ice cold and felt amazing going down.

Kell turned to Terry-Joe. “That’s some fancy footwork,” he said, an edge of suspicion in his voice. “Didn’t know you Gittermans could dance like that.”

Terry-Joe shrugged modestly. “Your sister brings it out in me.”

“She has been known to get men to do some crazy things,” Kell agreed. He took a drink and added, “Men like your brother.”

“Kell,” Bronwyn quickly warned. From the time they were children, Kell and Dwayne Gitterman had disliked each other; in fact, one reason Bronwyn had first dated him was to tweak her overprotective big brother. It had been one of her poorer decisions.

“No, that’s okay, Bronwyn,” Terry-Joe said. He met Kell’s challenging gaze and said simply, “My brother ain’t me. And family only goes so far. You have a problem with him, he’s not hard to find. If your problem’s with me, I’m right here.”