Mark Tufo - 'Til Death Do Us Part

“Truck coming!” Mark, Ron’s son, said from his guard station in a turret some thirty feet off the ground. “Military truck,” he clarified.

Whoever hadn’t heard the truck outright had most definitely heard his warning cry. People streamed out the front door of the house as Tony and I went back in through the back door and out the front to stand on the lawn with everyone else.

“Halt!” Mark shouted as he pointed his rifle down at the truck.

Ron came out from the woods on the passenger side. Tony had his rifle up and pointed squarely at the truck. I did not see Travis and Justin until later. They were in the woods far enough back to not be seen, but close enough and with good enough firing angles to take out anybody on the driver’s side.

The large military truck came to a stop.

“Hands!” Mark shouted. “Identify yourself!”

I could see arms the size of heavy tree limbs poke out the side window. My heart leapt. It was BT—it had to be—they were back! And as if to prove my point, the passenger side door opened and Mrs. Deneaux got out. She was her normal pleasant self.

“Oh for the love of God, who else do you think we are? Who else would come down to the middle of damn nowhere?” she said as she lit up another cigarette.

“BT?” That you?” Travis said as he made his way out of the woods, putting his rifle back up.

“Good to see you again, boy,” BT said with genuine sincerity as he opened his door and hopped down, extending his hand for Travis to shake it.

“Where’s dad?” Travis asked, looking around the bulk of the man as if Mike were hiding.

Even from thirty yards away I could see the tight-lipped, imperceptible shake of BT’s head. I felt like someone had pulled a heavy weighted veil over my entire body, the pressure nearly sending me to my knees. I was cognizant enough to see Gary come from the back of the truck and thought that surely Mike was right behind him.

Gary’s head was down. He walked past Ron and Justin, who had converged to give their greetings. He was walking towards me and Tony; I felt myself wanting to turn and run into the house. If he could not catch me, he could not tell me. Tony stood stoically, but I could see his white knuckled grip on his rifle. Instead of slinging it across his shoulder, he kept it across his chest. Maybe that was his barrier against the encroaching news.

Gary was ten feet from the both of us when he spoke. Tears were streaming from his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said. It was difficult to discern who the apology was directed to, but it didn’t really matter.

“No,” Tony said, shaking his head. “NO! I cannot lose another child!” he yelled, the force of which stopped Gary in his tracks still some five feet away.

“I did everything I could, dad,” Gary moaned.

“NO!” Tony said, taking one hand off the rifle to point an accusatory finger at his son.

Tony did what I had hoped to do and retreated back into the house. I stepped forward and hugged Gary. He sobbed long and hard against my shoulder, it was difficult to figure out who was holding who up.

And even enveloped within my mourning, I was able to hear the rest of the miserable little drama as it unfolded. Erin (Paul’s wife) and Perla had been out on the pond fishing when the truck had rolled in. Cindy (Brian’s fiancée) had gone down to tell them someone was coming. The trio came up from the side of the house. Erin saw me with Gary. She took a few steps forward and saw BT and Travis, and then Deneaux by herself. “Paul?” she asked of anyone that would listen.

Gary sobbed even harder if that were possible. That was all the information I needed in regards to Paul’s fate.

“Paul!” Erin screamed, running towards the truck. She did a complete circle around the entire vehicle. “Paul!” she screamed again.

“Really, don’t you think he would have responded by now if he were here?” Deneaux answered.

“What…what are you talking about?” Erin asked. “When are the rest of them coming home?”

“This is it, sweetie,” Deneaux said without any soothing effect.

Cindy had waited behind. Her hands had been to her mouth as she waited for Erin to do her route around the truck. When she realized no one else was getting out, she turned and headed back the way she came. Perla was right behind her.

BT was now coming my way. Travis seemed to stagger off, lost in his own grief. Ron had a set to his jaw that would have cracked diamonds and Justin seemed to be somewhere in the middle of emotions—from stalwart to stricken.

His arms opened up and he swallowed me and Gary up. His sobs were added to our own. Erin was screaming incoherently. I did not know it then, but she had gone insane at that moment. Something inside of her mind snapped. Two nights later she would walk out of the house to never be heard from again. I hoped that whatever end she found was a quick and peaceful one.

It was a few hours later and everyone except for Deneaux and Erin were in the living room. BT related the majority of the events as they had unfolded. It sounded as if we were receiving the heavily edited version. That was fine with me, I didn’t need the details. As it was, it felt like I was walking through the world through a fog; the only thing that kept me grounded was Henry. The dog seemed completely unaffected by all the emotions that were in that room. He knew something that none of us did, and since he was the only one that offered hope. I decided to throw my lot in with his.

Gary would not pick his gaze up off the floor. He wouldn’t look Tony or me in the eyes. I don’t believe Tony blamed him, and I certainly didn’t, but Gary blamed himself and that was a bigger burden then he was prepared to carry. It was difficult to see someone who was always so upbeat and positive that far down in the abyss.

Nicole had slept through the group’s initial homecoming, but she was inconsolable as she sat there, her head was in my lap. I was absently stroking her hair as I tried to listen. It was almost impossible, though, as I felt as if I were underwater. I had to believe Talbot was still alive.

What was the alternative?

And the damn dog, he knew something…and he wasn’t telling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mike Journal Entry 8

“Hand-cut jean shorts and a white tank top,” I said as I picked up the clothes that Mirabelle had found for me. I shook my head. I’d had as much luck with clothes lately as I had with cars—which pretty much meant none at all. The only thing I could say positively about the shorts was that they fit well around my waist. Whoever had cut them looked like they had severe palsy. The hem went up and down like a cross-eyed orangutan had gone at them. Add to that the fact that they they were way too short. Someone was apparently very fond of showing off their inner thighs; the white material of the pockets hung a few inches below the frayed line of the shorts.

The shirt was a couple of sizes too small. It was something that, a few months ago, I would not have been comfortable wearing as it would have showed all my years of soft living. Now it displayed the hard starkness of definition. At this very moment, I longed for my poncho.

“You look good,” Mirabelle said as I came down the hallway. “Want some breakfast?” she asked.

I was self-conscious about my new digs, but in Mirabelle’s world I fit right in. “Sure what do you have?” I was hoping for a three-egg cheese omelet, with a side of bacon or maple breakfast sausage, maybe an English muffin or some toast slathered in butter, a pile of hash browns and a pancake or two would be divine and a giant glass of orange juice to wash it all down with.