To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  Talk about feeling awful. What a self-centered brat you are, Danni McAllister. What makes you think that life is always about you? I turned all the way around in the seat and reached over and took him by the hand. “No, Rick. I’m the one who’s sorry. I ...” Suddenly I was fighting this huge lump about halfway down my throat. “There I go again. Queen of Stupid. Miss Insensitive. Danni the Dork.”

  He smiled. “Are you hoping for a contradiction in there somewhere?”

  I swallowed, then swallowed again. “Are you up for this, Rick? How are you doing? I mean, really doing? You know that you don’t always have to be Mr. Tough Guy.”

  “Who, me?” But I could see the pain behind the smile, and that his face had a gray pallor to it.

  I squeezed his hand gently. “Thank you. Thank you for what you did for me. And I don’t just mean taking the bullet. For always being there. For being the kind of friend that others would die for. For always taking my crap and being patient and—” I brushed quickly at my cheeks with the back of one hand.

  At that moment, Cody opened the door and started to get out.

  “No, Cody!” I barked. “Not yet.”

  Rick had started to turn too, but he turned back as Cody pulled the door shut again. “It’s all right, Danni.”

  “No, it’s not. I want to say something. No, I need to say something, and I should have said it before this. Maybe a hundred times so you’d know I really mean it.” For a moment, I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He just waited.

  “Underneath this tough-talking, butt-kicking, Super-Chick front I put on, I’m just really... scared. And—”

  I had to stop. I was starting to lose it and I couldn’t do that. If the floodgates opened, I might not get them shut again. And with all of Hanksville just outside the window, this wasn’t a good time for the dam to break. So I took a quick breath and finished. “I need you, Rick. Like Mom says, you’re our rock in the river, the stone that deflects the flood, keeps the rest of us from drowning. So—” I sniffed quickly a couple of times. “So, thank you.”

  For what seemed like a long time, his eyes pulled me into his, expressing so much without him saying a word. Then that slow, cowboy grin stole across his face again. “Does this mean you’re sorry that you shot me?” he asked.

  I half laughed, half sobbed. “More than you can ever know. More than you can ever know.”

  About then, we saw Rick’s dad and Mayor Brackston pushing their way through the crowd toward us. I nodded at Cody, and he opened the door. The mayor was hollering for everyone to get back. They did so, moving back maybe an inch or two. Beyond the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Officer Shayla Blake leaning against her Utah Highway Patrol cruiser. She saw us and waved before the crowd shut her off from view again. I wondered if that was Clay’s doing too. Maybe provide a little crowd control. It surely wasn’t normal for her to be hanging loose here in our town.

  But then, Cody jumped out, grinning like some clown in the circus. He pushed the door all the way open so those closest to the car could see inside. Rick had started to get up, but fell back a little as a roar went up. People applauded, laughed, yelled, shouted out questions at him, and pushed their way in closer.

  He turned and looked at me, almost bewildered. “Would you like me to call out the Royal Guard, your Majesty?” I asked.

  That won me a blistering look. I laughed. Maybe this wasn’t going to be all bad after all.

  “Danni,” barked my mom, “don’t just sit there. Help Rick out of the car.” She was opening her own door even as she spoke.

  By the time I got out and pushed people back enough for me to get around the open door, Charlie Ramirez was to us. The mayor was right behind him, looking a little flushed. With good reason. In addition to the temperature approaching a hundred degrees, this was a pretty big day in sleepy little Hanksville. “Get back, people,” he shouted, wading into the midst of the crowd. “Give him some air.”

  Oh, that was rich. As if the crowd were sucking up all the oxygen in Wayne County or something. But it worked. Quieting, the crowd fell back, forming a semicircle around the 4Runner. With more room to maneuver now, I went around to the back of the SUV, opened the rear window, and got the crutches out. By the time I came back, Rick was standing up, leaning heavily on his father’s arm, holding his left foot a little above the ground. He took the crutches, slipped them under his arms, wincing noticeably as he did so, then stood alone.

  That broke things open again. “You okay, Rick?” “Welcome home, Rick.” “Hey, Rick, can we autograph your cast?” At that last one, Rick reached down and touched the leg. The clinic in Page had cut off the left trouser leg of his jeans to make room for his bandage. It was now about the same length as a pair of shorts. This left his bandage clearly visible to all. “It’s not a cast, Kenny,” he called back. “Just a bandage.”

  Mary Anne Jessup, who was the same age as me, waved a hand with a pen. “I’ll sign it anyway.” Everyone laughed, and it did give me some pleasure to see Rick flush a little beneath his tan.

  “Sorry, Mary Anne,” I called out. “Doctor’s orders. No girls over two years old autographing the bandage.” The crowd loved that, and applause broke out again.

  Mayor Brackston waved his arms. “Okay, folks. Let’s get Rick over into the shade. We’ve got a chair over there for you, Son,” he added to Rick. Then back to the crowd, “Rick’s agreed to say a few words to you, then his father is going to take him home. Let him get some rest.” He flashed a quick grin at me. “And that is the doctor’s order.”

  People were already moving before he could finish. No surprise. Anyone with half an eye knew instantly that only about half the crowd was going to fit in the shade of the service station. The rest would be in full sunshine.

  I stepped up to Rick. “Here. Let me help you.”

  He gave me one of his looks. “Okay,” he whispered, “but remember, head lower than the king’s at all times.”

  If I hadn’t been still pretty choked up from before, I might have brained him at that point. But I also decided that the Royal Subjects might not take too kindly to one of the lowly maids smacking the king on the back of his head with her fist. Without waiting for me, he moved off, carefully keeping his left foot off the ground.

  The crowd was mostly quiet as he sat down heavily in the folding chair that had been set there for him. His father took the crutches and stepped back a foot or so. I stayed beside Mom and Cody on the front edge of the crowd. Rick looked around, saw me, then said, “Oh no you don’t, Danni.” He pointed to a spot beside him. “You’re right here.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” I murmured, then moved up beside him.

  Mayor Brackston, beaming broadly, looked directly at Rick. “Okay, Son. All we’ve heard is that there was an accident on the houseboat. Tell us what happened.”

  Rick glanced up at me briefly, then turned his attention to the circle of faces. “Well, there’s not that much to say. We were on the houseboat, me and the McAllisters. We had been ... um ... doing some target shooting on the way down to the lake earlier, and—”

  “Come on, Ramirez,” someone called from behind us. “Spit it out.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Rick said. “So ... um ... anyway, we were ... uh ...”

  Ezekiel Howell, whom everyone called Zeke, cupped his hands to his mouth. “Whadja do? Shoot yourself in the leg?”

  Some laughed, thinking it was only a joke; then they saw Rick’s face. I heard another woman gasp. “He shot himself?”

  Rick gulped a couple of times, then smiled. “I tried that, but I missed both times. Nearly shot off my toe, though.”

  More laughter rippled through the group. The audience was getting their money’s worth. This was turning out to be entertaining as well as informative. I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Just say it!”

  He ignored me and went on. “So, anyway, we we
re in the houseboat, just sitting around ... um ... and—” From my position standing above him, I could see beads of perspiration forming along the line of his dark hair and around his temples. I decided it was time to end his agony and mine.

  I took a step forward, cleared my throat, and jumped in with both feet. “What Rick is trying very hard to say, without actually saying it, is this. I had just finished cleaning my dad’s pistol. I reached for my rifle, which I thought I had unloaded when we got back to the boat.”

  All around me, eyes were growing very large, and the crowd had gone completely still. I rushed on. “My hands were slick with gun oil. When I picked up the rifle, it slipped out of my hands and hit the floor. Hard. It went off. Unfortunately, Rick was directly in the line of fire and took the bullet in his upper left thigh.”

  The buzz of shock and surprise rolled outward as people gaped at me. Again, individual voices seemed to jump out from the general noise. “It was Danni?” “Danni shot him?” “Oh, my goodness.” That was from Elmira Peterson, who was eighty-something and had never said anything harsher than “Oh, my goodness,” in her entire life.

  I raised my hands, and gradually the noise died out again. “I am not proud of what happened, and for reasons I think you will understand, I find it very painful to speak of it. So I will not be answering any questions. I have apologized to Rick profusely, and, knowing Rick as most of you do, you will not find it hard to believe that he frankly forgave me.”

  I turned and gave Rick my sweetest smile. “Of course, once he met a very lovely nurse at the Lake Powell Medical Center, he found that much easier to do.”

  His face instantly turned beet red. “Not!” he blurted, as the people roared with laughter and clapped their hands. Turning back to the crowd, I raised my hands high over my head, holding them together as if I were handcuffed. “And with that,” I cried, “I am surrendering myself to Officer Shayla Blake of the Utah Highway Patrol, who will put me in chains and drag me off to jail, where I will await trial and sentencing and possible execution.”

  For a moment there was shock, then the laughter broke out again. I smiled. “Seriously, folks. This is Rick’s day. Not mine. I’m going to bow out now.”

  “Poor Danni.”

  I turned, my stomach dropping like a rock. I knew the voice as soon as it spoke. It was Lisa Cole. Standing with her were three of my other so-called friends—Angie Roberts, Megan Davis, and Brianne Linford. I suppose Lisa’s look was meant to be sympathetic, but to me it was this awful, condescending smirk. I pushed past them, pretending I hadn’t heard.

  “Way to go,” Lisa said. Then she put her cupped hand up to her mouth and whispered to the others, but loudly enough for me to hear, “Danni Oakley rides again.” The other three burst out laughing.

  Danni Oakley? What was that supposed mean? Then it hit me. Annie Oakley. Star of the old Buffalo Bill Wild West Show back in the late 1800s. Most famous for being a crack shot with pistol and rifle. I whirled on Lisa. “Cute. I didn’t know they had summer kindergarten going right now.”

  Not waiting to see her reaction, I pushed my way through the crowd, anxious to be out of all this. There were some other smirks and critical expressions, but mostly the faces were sympathetic and understanding. A few reached out and touched me as I passed. There were murmurs of condolences and “It could happen to anyone.” Which only made things worse.

  In a moment I was clear and joined Mom and Cody, who were with Officer Blake now. I was seething underneath, but I kept throwing little smiles at those who were staring at me like I was in a zoo. After a moment, everyone turned their attention back to Rick, who was saying something I couldn’t hear.

  Mom came over and put an arm around me. “You did well, Carruthers. It can’t be easy, trying to make yourself look stupid.”

  I made a face. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

  Cody grinned and poked me. “You can say that again.”

  Mom glared at him. “Not funny, Cody. Not now.”

  But even as I was tempted to hit him with a blistering put-down, those more tender feelings came over me again. I stepped forward and put my arms around him. “I love you, Little Bro. Warts and all.” Then, before he could answer, I turned and said, “Hello again, Officer Blake.”

  “Shayla,” she said, coming forward to shake my hand. Then she gestured toward the crowd. “Big day in Hanksville, right?”

  Mom laughed. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you.”

  I nodded, only half listening. Danni Oakley? There had to be a good answer to that.

  Then Shayla was shaking her head. “Oil on your hands? I don’t think so. Was it El Cobra who shot him?”

  I leaned back against the white cruiser, still smoldering. Lisa and her groupies had pressed in right around Rick now. So Mom answered for me. “Yes. Danni made him so angry, he smacked her across the face. When Rick saw that, he went after him like a heat-seeking missile, and El Cobra shot him.”

  “I thought so,” Shayla said. “Clay told us about his plan to keep the lid on things for a while.” To me: “I wondered how you would pull it off.” She gave me a warm smile. “You did good, Danni. It was very believable.”

  “Thanks,” I said glumly. Mom moved closer and slipped her arm through mine. As I was about to say something to her, the crunch of tires on gravel sounded behind us. We turned as a large SUV pulled off the highway and came toward us. It skidded to a stop, and instantly the doors popped open and a bunch of kids my age started tumbling out. Two-thirds of them were girls. I took one look and groaned. “No! Tell me this isn’t happening.”

  “Who is it?” Mom asked.

  “Kids from high school, from Loa and Bicknell.” Those towns were about an hour away. How could they have heard about this so quickly? But I instantly knew the answer. Facebook. Twitter. Cell phones. Texting. This was the day of instant communication, especially among my generation. With my luck, the exploits of Danni Oakley were already beaming out across the ether.

  Suzanne Callas was a senior and good friends with Rick. She was driving. As the kids piled out of the car, she saw me and waved. “There’s Danni,” she called, and they all turned and started toward me.

  I raised my hand and pointed. “Rick’s over there,” I called. “By the building. He’s answering questions.” Like a flock of birds in midflight, they spun and headed the other way. I looked up at my mother. “Can we just go home now, Mom?”

  Her eyes darkened momentarily. “I think we owe Rick more than that, don’t you?” Then, more softly, she said as she patted my hand, “I know this is hard, Carruthers, but eventually the truth will all come out.”

  Maybe so, but “eventually” wasn’t much comfort at the moment.

  For the next ten minutes, we stood there watching. Gradually, the crowd began to disperse until it was mostly older teens, including the carload from Bicknell. From the occasional glimpse I got of him, I could tell Rick was getting tired, and it surprised me that his father didn’t end it. But I thought I understood why. As Clay had suggested, this was pretty sensational stuff for our little community. So the best thing for it was to get it all out now, then let it die away.

  Just as that thought came, I heard Suzanne’s voice rise above the others. “So, Rick. I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t be going to the school dances this fall. That would be a real tragedy.” General laughter, mostly female.

  Then Lisa’s mousy whine broke through it. “And I’d suggest you not ask Danni Oakley to any of them. Wouldn’t want you getting shot in the other leg.”

  The others loved that and howled with laughter. What really hurt, though, was that Rick was laughing too. That did it. I started away. “I’m walking home, Mom. See you there.”

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. And she didn’t do it gently. “You will not leave, Carruthers. Not until Rick does.”

  And with that rebuk
e, the thoughts came flooding in again. Look at him, Danni. See how tired he looks. The smile is there, but it’s strained. Why not worry about his wounded leg instead of your wounded pride. Do something for him. He needs you for once.

  Suddenly this simple but brilliant thought came into my mind. I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and started to call up SIRI. Then I saw Mom and Shayla’s looks of surprise. “Excuse me,” I said, and walked away a few yards.

  Once I was alone, I got the phone up, then held my thumb down on the home button for two or three seconds. In a moment, SIRI’s dispassionate voice came on.

  SIRI is one of my very favorite features on the iPhone. It is a speech-recognition software application that serves like a “personal assistant.” It allows you to tell the phone what you want it to do, and it pretty much does it. Rick had showed me how to use it. He used it so much, I told him once I was getting jealous of SIRI. That made him laugh, and, in response, he pushed the button and brought her up. “SIRI, will you marry me?” he said. “I’m sorry,” came the dispassionate response, “but I am not the marrying kind.” After that I forgave her.

  “What would you like me to do?” SIRI asked.

  “Send a text.”

  Almost instantly her pleasant but dull voice responded, “To whom shall I send it? I need a contact name, phone number, or email address.” The microphone again lit up and beeped twice.

  “Can you make it come from CNN or Fox News?”

  “I’m sorry, I do not know how to do what you ask.”

  I punched the button again. “Just do it, SIRI,” I barked.

  There was a long pause, then, “Please give me a moment. I am working on your request.”