Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Movement caught his eye, and he turned to see another human form in the air beside him. He squinted into the dimness until another flash of lightning illuminated the newcomer. This man had wings as well, and he watched Dwayne with the curiosity a child might have for an insect. It took a moment, but Dwayne recognized him: it was the man who’d challenged him at the Waffle House.

Dwayne desperately reached out and tried to scream for help, but the wind ate his words. Then the other man was gone.

Dwayne continued to scream. The wind seemed to lift him, raising him above the clouds toward the stars. Something writhed within him, like a tapeworm suddenly desperate to escape its host, as his long-ignored Tufa blood attempted to save him. He tried to think of a song, any song. But he’d long ago burned the music out of himself.

The wind sighed its disappointment and released him back to the world. He screamed all the way to the ground.

When Chloe, Deacon, and Aiden returned home the next morning, they found Bronwyn curled up asleep on the porch swing. Deacon picked her up and carried her inside to her bedroom. Chloe took down Deacon’s charm against death; it was no longer needed, since death had already come.

Then they prepared for their visitors.

The irony made the national news for a day.

Dwayne Gitterman, wanted for the murder of war hero Bronwyn Hyatt’s brother, committed suicide by jumping from a bluff that overlooked a Cloud County highway. In a gigantic fluke, he landed on Tennessee State Trooper Robert Pafford, who’d been urinating beside his car. Both were killed instantly. The long combined history of the two—Pafford first arrested Dwayne when he was ten—added to the weirdness. It was too much to be coincidence, some said, yet what else could it be? It was a dark and stormy night; Gitterman could not possibly have seen Pafford before he jumped.

In a week, the national news forgot about it. In a month, no one in Cloud County even spoke the names Dwayne Gitterman or Bob Pafford. None of the old songs were sung for him.

But a new one was written.

There were old songs for Kell Hyatt, though. Many of them. His body was released for burial, and Bliss brought it back home for a traditional “sitting.” The practice was technically illegal, since the body had not been embalmed, but folks tended to let the Tufa care for their own, even in death.

Chloe, Bliss, Bronwyn, and several other ladies washed Kell thoroughly and dressed him in his best suit. Chloe had broken down only once, when she saw the stitched wound where he’d been stabbed. But it passed, and she and the others worked in what passed for musical silence, humming or singing but seldom speaking.

The men gathered as well, on the porch and in the yard. Deacon led them through the woods to the Hyatt family cemetery. It was on a hillside, with little horizontal outbuildings over some of the graves. They took turns digging, using pickaxes on the rocky soil and hauling the stones aside. They sang as well, bawdy songs of men and women, tales of prowess and exaggeration. By midday, the grave was ready.

Major Dan Maitland called Bronwyn as she was about to put on her black mourning dress. “I’m very sorry to hear about your brother, Private Hyatt.”

“ Miss Hyatt. Unless you’re planning to stop-loss me.”

“I don’t think that would be good for either the image of the military, or for you as a person. Do you?”

“That may be the first thing we’ve entirely agreed on, Major.”

Her new assertiveness made him pause and regroup. When he spoke again, it was with the voice of an equal, not a superior. “Well, whatever the case, please express my sympathy to your family. They’ve certainly been through the wringer this year. How are you holding up?”

She looked at her lingerie-clad reflection in the full-length mirror. Her legs were more symmetrical and the scars were slowly fading. Only the elastic bandage around her ribs spoke of any recent trauma. “Wall to wall and treetop tall. Looking for love in all the wrong places.”

“Any plans for the future?”

“Lots.”

When she did not elaborate, he said, “Well, I won’t keep you, Bronwyn. I know this is a tough time for you. Please know you’re in my thoughts and prayers.”

“Thanks, Dan. For everything.” And she meant it. When she hung up, she added his number to the blocked list on her cell phone.

That afternoon, Craig parked at the end of a long line of vehicles and walked half a mile up the road to get to the Hyatts’ house. The afternoon sun was murderous through his suit coat. He was stopped at the gate by Aiden and two other preteen boys, all dressed uncomfortably in jackets and clip-on ties. They gave him a serious, challenging group stare.

“I’d like permission to go up to the house,” he said, playing along, “and offer my respects.”

“You haven’t passed the test,” Aiden said grimly.

“What’s the test?”

Aiden and the others huddled together, whispering. Craig tried to keep a straight face. Up the hill, he saw a woman dressed in black step out onto the porch and look toward them. Was it Bronwyn? The distance and the sun made it impossible to tell.

Finally Aiden emerged from the confab and again faced him. “You have to answer a riddle.”

“Okay.”

“How many cats does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“None. Cats can see in the dark.”

Aiden’s face fell. He sighed and, without looking at Craig, said, “You can go up.”

Craig resisted the urge to tousle the boy’s hair as he climbed the hill toward the house. The woman on the porch was Bronwyn, and she watched him until he reached the bottom of the porch steps.

“Hot enough for you?” she asked.

“It’ll do ’til hotter comes along,” he said. “How are the ribs?”

“Sore. But they’ll mend pretty quick.”

“For you, that’s saying something.”

She smiled wryly. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“Really?”

She looked down, shook her head, and grinned. “No, not really. Come on inside, I’ll get you some tea.”

Indoors all the women stepped aside for Bronwyn as if she was some sort of royalty. In fact, only Chloe met her daughter’s gaze; the rest looked respectfully away. Bronwyn did not acknowledge this, but there was a different bearing to her now, something regal that made the deference appropriate.

She poured Craig some tea and then nodded for him to follow. They went past the coffin where Kell lay in state, and down the short hall to her bedroom. When they stepped inside, she quietly closed the door behind them.

He faced her as she settled her shoulders back against the door. It might’ve been seductive except for the sadness in her eyes. “I’m glad you came, Reverend.”

“Craig.”

“Craig. I suppose we should talk about what happened outside the hospital.”

“If you’d like.”

She rattled the ice in her tea. “I’ve been pulled in several different directions since I got home. No, that’s not true, it’s been all my life. Some people wanted me to be one thing, some another. I’ve never taken well to that kind of thing.”

He merely nodded.

“But I think I know what I want now. It’s not what everyone else wants for me. Hell, it’s not what anyone else wants for me. But it’s what I’m meant to do.”

“That’s exceptionally vague, you know. Is that why everyone bowed and curtseyed to you in there?”

She smiled. “Yes. Some things have changed, besides Kell’s death. I guess the best comparison I can make right now is that I’m as certain of my calling as you are, except I can have sex if I want to.”