Fay Robinson - Mr. And Mrs. Wrong

“I can’t think of any better reason than having a baby.”

“How about…you love your wife and want to be with her?”

“That, too.”

“Please be sure. This is such a major decision.”

“I am sure. Look…I can’t pretend I’m thrilled about living in that cramped cabin again, but if that’s what it takes to be with you during this pregnancy, then I’ll manage until we can come up with a solution. I’ve lived in worse places.”

“When you stayed with your cousin?”

“Who?”

“Your cousin. You said last night that you lived in the back of your cousin’s store while you worked for him.”

“Oh, yeah, I stayed there for a while after high school. It was pretty awful. No shower. No kitchen.”

She frowned. Hadn’t he said it’d been after his parents died? He’d been sixteen, not out of high school. And the way he’d told it before…he’d gone into the army right out of school.

An uneasiness settled over her, the same uneasiness she felt each time his past came up. Nothing he said about his early years ever seemed to mesh. But why?

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Lucky guided her small fishing boat into an isolated slough, turned off the motor and let it drift. Dusk was when she was most likely to see the panthers she’d been watching the past several weeks, but she hoped at least one would appear earlier.

She took a drink from her water bottle and wiped off the sweat that had formed under the brim of her Kiss A Bug cap. Jack and Cal were probably at the cabin by now, moving Jack’s clothes. The rest of her family would arrive soon.

Looking back, she couldn’t remember ever telling Jack he could move back in, but discussing it with him wasn’t worth the stress that would undoubtedly create. Peace and calm were what she and the baby needed right now, and the river provided it. She always felt better after a few hours with her old friend.

Most people only saw the main body of the Black Warrior and its headwaters, the Locust, Mulberry and Sipsey rivers, but its heart lay in places like this, the hidden ones, where the water seemed bottomless and the adjoining land appeared virtually untouched since prehistoric times.

The area wasn’t completely virgin, but she liked to think it was. Settlers, her ancestors among them, had planted cotton and corn in the low areas, harvested trees from the forests and dug coal from the banks and shoals. Before them, the Creek and Choctaw Indians inhabited these lands, and the river, or Apotaka Hache as the Choctaw called it, had been a border between the nations.

Before the modern Indians, the land was home to mound-building people in whose culture women, fertility and the river all played major roles. Lucky sometimes dug up their flint points or pottery shards when she planted her small garden.

She’d explored extensively the river and its forks, but it would take several lifetimes to see everything. The state, federal government and the University of Alabama all owned thousands of acres of trees and swampland she’d never walked. Probably few had in modern times. A surveyor or two, perhaps, or an occasional logger or pulpwood harvester.

This was her home, but more than that, it was a vital part of who she was. Take her outside the county and nothing about her was special. But here, on the river, she could name each insect, fish and bird. Here, she felt connected to her past and the generations of Mathisons who had come before her.

Her tie to the river was strong and unbreakable, something Jack could never understand. Giving it up wasn’t an option. She’d wither if she had to live in town again. And to leave Potock altogether, as he’d suggested more than once during their arguments, would surely kill her.

Maneuvering the boat closer to the bank into the shade of the trees, she stretched out on her stomach so she could watch the insects zigzagging across the surface of the water and observe the acrobatic dragonflies. Birds rustled in the underbrush. The water lapped gently against the side of the metal boat, almost lulling her to sleep.

Far off but coming closer, the heavy crunch of leaves intruded on the stillness. Something large was moving through the woods.

As quietly as she could, she sat up and brought the camera to her eye. She’d probably get only two or three shots of the panther before the sound of the autowinder scared him off. Each shot had to count. Except…this couldn’t be an animal; it was making too much noise. Only a human thrashed around like that.

The land sloped to the water down a hill tangled with plant growth. On her way out of the cabin, Lucky had grabbed her old Canon with its zoom lens, and she used it to focus on the faintly discernible path made by the tread of deer.

A man emerged with his head down, unaware of her presence, and went straight to the water. He crouched as if to take a drink, but instead, sank his bare arms in the water to the elbows. He brought them up, then slapped the surface several times, letting out a squeal each time.

Lucky continued to watch, feeling a bit anxious at the peculiarity of it. He seemed to be almost…playing.

Suddenly he sensed her and jerked up his head. Her viewfinder framed a face that represented every nightmare she’d had since the age of nine.

Terrell Wade.

She sucked in a breath. Fear kept her frozen, unable to move. She’d known the autistic man was back in Potock. Leigh had written a story at the time of his relocation.

He wasn’t supposed to be out unsupervised. The idea of him wandering around by the river and only a couple of miles from her cabin sent a chill running along Lucy’s backbone.

No more than fifteen feet separated them. If he took a few steps to his right, he’d be close enough to the bow of her boat to get in.

She lowered her camera bit by bit so as not to startle him, until it hung heavily by the strap around her neck. If he made a move, she wanted to be able to grab something to defend herself. She might have time to get the motor cranked if he came at her, but maybe not.

For what seemed an eternity, he did nothing but stare back from his catlike position. That in itself was enough to unnerve her. She’d never seen his eyes before. She couldn’t recall him ever holding his head high enough that anyone could see his eyes. He’d always kept his face down when you came near, as if ashamed or afraid.

Did he remember what she’d done to him?

Did he even recognize her as the child who had condemned him?

He cocked his head, then sprang upright. Lucky jumped just as quickly and lunged forward, but her sudden movement upset the boat and set it rocking. For a heartbeat she held on to the paddle and her balance, but then she lost both. The paddle flew out of her hand into the water and the lens of her camera bounced up and smacked her above the left eye, nearly knocking her out.

What people said about seeing stars was true. They sparkled for a second in front of her, then gave way to pain. Blood clouded her vision.

The boat drifted. She scrambled for the motor, pushed the primer button and pulled the cord, but it didn’t crank. Desperately she hit the button again. A second and third pull of the cord produced no results.

Terrell moved, coming along the bank as she feared.

Ten feet away.

He had something in his hand.

Five feet away.

He stepped into the boat and reached out toward her.

Once, when Lucky was small, she’d picked up a pretty black-and-red-striped ant that had promptly stung her hand. She’d screamed so loud that her granddaddy had said she’d blistered his eardrums.

The scream she let out this time was louder.

WITH CAL’S HELP, Jack hauled over what personal items he needed for the next few days and set about replacing the old fan in the living room with something that actually stirred the air. He’d bought a second unit to install in the bedroom.