by K. B. Draper
“Can I have the keys?” Danny asked, as he reached for his bag. “I want to check on Michael. I’m sure they—” His phony-baloney explanation was interrupted as I pulled Woody’s keys out of my jacket pocket and tossed them at him, with not so much as a W, T, or F muttered. I did this partly because I like to jack with him, keep him guessing and all that, but mostly because Danny was vibrating with anxious energy. And Danny wasn’t known for his anxious energy.
I mean he got a little itchy that one time in Eureka Springs, when I almost lost him in a bet over a cornhole game to a big biker dude named Ernie, but otherwise Danny is the calm to my tornado. He is the life jacket to my goggles and keg stand. That was probably a “had to be there” example, but I think you’re picking up what I’m throwing down. Danny didn’t normally do anxious. But today his cup runneth over and I already had enough anxiety for me and a teacup full of tweakers in the It’s a Small World ride, so I wasn’t feeling like borrowing any more at the moment.
Danny blinked at me, then at the keys in his hand. “Okay. Yeah. Cool. Thanks. I’ll touch base.” And he was gone.
“Miss Mattox, I would like a word,” Miss Larsen started.
I was already pulling Ashlyn toward the door by her elbow. “A word? Just one? Okay. Then I choose colitis.” I kept moving while her jaw tried to pick a position. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open.
“Is this going to be a running theme everywhere we go?” Ashlyn asked when we made it to the front steps.
“What?”
She rolled her eyes. “Now what? Do they have Uber here?”
“Nope, they have something better.”
Twenty minutes later, I spun just enough to meet Ashlyn’s eyes through the protective shield of my helmet. “You good?”
“Do I want to know why you named him Thunder?”
“Her,” I corrected.
“Sorry. Named her Thunder?”
I smiled, then kicked Thunder to life with a throaty roar. My father kept Thunder, my pristine 1971 Triumph 650 twin café racer, for me in a climate-controlled storage space a few blocks from his shop. He made sure she was started, tuned, and her battery was tenured, so she was ready for a ride whenever I happened to pop in for a visit. Riding her was my second-most favorite thing to do in this world. My first favorite thing snuggled closer, with her arms wrapped around me.
I dropped Thunder into gear, and we took off for the hillside. Most people think Missouri is blahville, all vacant, level plains like its neighbor Kansas. Sure, it can be a little flat-chested in the northern parts, but in the booty region, she was all curves and rolling mounds. Dense forests lined the roads, the same roads where you might not meet another car for several miles. Bridges that capped streams and rivers cut through the unpopulated parts. I always loved this part of my small-town life—the escape into vast aloneness.
I took Ashlyn on the scenic tour of my childhood. The backroad where at fifteen, the brakes went out of my first motorcycle, and I crop-dusted the gravel and dirt road with my elbows and knees. Five stitches and one often-repeated lecture about wearing pants versus shorts when riding motorcycles was duly noted, and my four-inch scar served as a constant reminder. I took her over the creek down from our house, where my sister, mom, and I had waded and splashed around on hot summer days. Also, where we’d gotten Jaws, a crawdad, that we thought would be a fun addition to our fish tank. The fish didn’t think so. Let’s just say there were funerals. Lots of fishy funerals.
We moved on to a happier memory, my great-grandparents’ land. Eighty acres on the northside of the road and three million acres of national park on the other, 78,000 of which is dedicated to natural wilderness. A vast majority of which was directly across from my great-grandparent’s porch. Or at least it had been. The forest remained untouched, but my great-grandparents’ house was now a shell of its former self and had long been reclaimed by nature. A tree grew where the porch had been, not even caring that there was still a metal bench in its way as they were now one and the same.
I pulled over to the side of the road, as their drive was no longer navigable. I could still imagine it as it once was, perfectly tended with its nearly half-acre garden, which they’d tilled by mule. Growing up, I’d thought why work so hard when there were stores where you could get whatever you wanted. Now, I could appreciate the care they’d given to the land and animals that fed and maintained their humble existence. I found some temporary peace here with the memories of my great-grandparents, Ernest and Opal. And though I hadn’t had them long, I remembered liking to spend time here. My great-grandfather was a nice man. I was told he had quite the sense of humor back in the day, but in his later years, I only witnessed a quiet, reserved version. Most of my memories were of him in his chair in front of the small television, waiting for my great-grandmother a.k.a. Granny Mattox to call him for dinner. I did remember being annoyed by that arrangement as a kid. Granny Mattox had worked alongside him in the field all day, and then he sat while she cooked and served him. I’d popped off once, airing my young grievances, while helping set the table. We’ll just say I learned a powerful lesson that day: you don’t talk smack on Granny Mattox’s man.
“I like it when you smile like that,” Ashlyn stated, breaking into my playback. “What are you thinking about?”
“My Granny Mattox. My great-grandmother on my dad’s side. She was …” I searched for the right descriptor, not sure there was one that captured all of who she was so I settled on “tough. This was her and my great-grandfather’s farm.”
“You can remember your great-grandmother? Nice. All of my great-grandparents were gone before I was born.”
“I was fortunate to have all my grandparents until a few years ago and was even able to remember three of eight of the greats. My Granny Mattox I remember the most. I spent a lot of summer days out here with her.”
“Tell me about your grandparents and about your Granny Mattox. You were obviously very fond of them.”
“Yeah, I think it must be a thing with grandmas. Mine were so different, but each totally cool in their own way. My grandfathers too of course. Just something about grandmas. My grandma, my dad’s mom …” I smiled at her memory. “She was,” my eyes filled with tears at the mere thought of her, “she was my very favorite human in the history of ever. She was all soft-pillow hugs and happy smiles. She had this knack of making you feel like you were the most special person in the world. Oh my god,” I chuckled. “She had the best laugh too.” I paused to let the memories play out. “I loved to make her laugh. She was … she was everything to me.” I wiped at my tears. Ashlyn leaned into me, offering me a little mental and structural support. “Anyway, Granny Mattox was the complete opposite. She wasn’t the huggy-lovey type. She was more the ‘there is work to be done’ type. When eggs needed collecting, we collected eggs. When cows needed to be brought in from the field, we herded cows. When green beans needed to be snapped, we snapped. I didn’t mind, though. I never was one that shied away from work, especially with her, because I got the stories.”
“Stories?”
“Yeah. She was quiet. Reserved. But when it was just us, her and I, and we were doing whatever needed doing, she would tell me these stories. What are the ones that always have some built-in lesson?”
“Fables?”
“Yeah, flip flop fables.”
“Aesop fables?” Ashlyn asked hitting both syllables of the old dude’s name.
“You say tomato; I say breathable footwear.” When I got the expected headshake, I continued. “But hers were of different worlds and realms, often about a woman, a princess fighting against surreal foes.”
“Little ironic since you grew up to fight surreal foes minus the princess part.”
I snorted in response, “Right?”
Ashlyn looped an arm into mine. “I like knowing about the AJ before–”
“Before all the demons and apocalypses?” I asked.
“Single apocalypse, please. And yeah, tell me about the before. Th
e happy stuff. Tell me about your childhood days here. Tell me more about your Granny Mattox.”
I looked out over the new scene before me, finding only small snippets of the old, the memories of my days here having long been pushed to the back of the file cabinet. I closed my eyes to the current, hoping I’d find what I wanted in the darkness. It took a beat for the memories to find their way to the surface, to weave themselves back together, but the farm and the land, as it once was slowly began to re-create itself.
The blank canvas was painted with a lush green yard, tree branches full of leaves, and vines of the garden ripe with their harvest. Purple lilacs filled a small bed that sat beside the back door, another bigger patch alongside the barn and the small drive. Two lilac bushes bursting with bloom always welcomed guests with their rich floral scent.
I opened my eyes at the memories of the animals in the fields. The well house where we got their water. The creek behind the house that ran along the bottom of the ravine that I’d always desperately wanted to explore, but “I was too young and Granny Mattox was too old” to traverse the steep tree and rock-laden ground. I could picture places we’d sat together. Worked together.
“The barn used to be there.” I pointed off to the right. “It hadn’t been painted in years, if ever. It was that gray of weathered wood. It was huge. Or at least felt that way as a kid and I crawled all over that thing. There were three or four stalls when you walked in. Those were for the mules to come in, cool off, and get fed and watered. Then on the other side, they had stalls for cows that were sick or prego. Oh god, speaking of which, one day Granny Mattox and I were snapping green beans ’cause I swear to god they had to have grown thousands of them. Anyway, she was telling me one of her stories. Ugh, I wish I could remember the details. I think it was one about the princess, again not like a girlie bring me some tea kind.”
Ashlyn laughed. “I can’t imagine a princess being brought tea would keep your interest.”
“Hey, I watched The Crown.”
“You watched for three minutes and then made fun of Danny in a bad English accent the rest of the night.”
“Oh right. That’s why that was fun.”
“Your grandmother’s story?” Ashlyn prompted.
“Right. I remember it was something about the princess had to leave her family.” I paused, giving my brain time to dust off the memory. “To escape something she didn’t want to do or have happen?” I shook my head. “I can’t remember the rest.”
“You remember the moral of the story? You said they all came with lessons.”
“That I do remember or I should say I remember not getting to the moral of the story because one of the cows interrupted us. One minute Granny was sitting there talking, and then the next, the green beans went flying and she was off running toward the barn. She leapt the fence and by the time I got there, she was already elbow high in a cow’s rear entrance. I mean, they were IN-timate, if you know what I’m saying.”
“I think I have the idea.”
“I’ll fast forward through the icky, slimy, gross parts, of which there were a lot.”
“Thank you.”
“She twisted, pulled and fought for what seemed like hours to save the mother of what turned out to be two calves. Which of course, I’d later adeptly named Juicy Jeff and the Not So Fresh Prince.
“Of course you did.” Ashlyn chuckled.
“You should’ve seen her; she was amazing.”
“Sounds like it. You said she ran, leapt the fence, and then pulled two calves? She had to be in, what, her seventies at least? You sure she wasn’t the princess warrior of her stories?”
Already shaking my head at the ridiculousness of the idea. “Just an incredible farm woman.”
“It would make a great plot twist,” Ashlyn offered.
I chuckled. “That it would. You ready?” I asked, throwing my leg over Thunder.
The next stop on our tour was the lake and Big M Marina, where I’d once skipped school, stolen the family boat, forgot to set the parking brake on my Blazer, and had to call my grandfather to pull my tailpipes out of the water. I went with lighter stories and memories this go-around, needing to distance myself from the memories of the loss of my grandparents.
Ashlyn smiled and laughed at my stories, and the mix of her and my past did mushy things to my insides.
“I love that I’m getting to know this part of you,” she said as we looked out over the gentle ripples of the water.
“I always thought I would live here,” I admitted to Ashlyn, or maybe to myself. “Build a lake house on the cliff overlooking the water.”
“You’ve given up so much.”
“I’ve taken so much,” I countered.
Ashlyn leaned into me, knowing it was a fruitless conversation. She’d been there, tried that. I didn’t care what Grand, Norm, and the Chief said about me being chosen. I’d taken something that was Danny’s after he’d lost his mother, father, and unborn sister, because of it. Then to add insult to injury, he’d never be able to fully revenge their deaths. Sure, he’d fought and killed countless demons over the years, but he did it without Norm, without the power that pulsed in my veins. Which only proved just how worthy of this gift he truly was.
And speaking of worthy, despite the consequences, the very human death consequences, Ashlyn shoulder bumped me. “Knock it off,” she ordered.
“What?”
“Whatever you got rolling around in that hard head of yours. Stop it.”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
Ashlyn gave me a narrow-eyed assessment. “Danny is more worthy. He should have the hunter’s spirit, despite what all of the others have said.” She paused, giving me another up and down for effect. “And now you’re thinking that I’m giving up so much. It’s dangerous … blah, blah.”
I gave her my own narrow eye. “Okay, freak of nature. Now, what am I thinking?”
“You wish they’d bring back Pudding Pops,” she said with zero hesitation.
I gasped. “Lucky guess. How about now?”
“If that guy down at the ramp wasn’t jacking with his jon boat for the last six hundred years, you’d be kissing my face off for being so cool.”
“Ha!” I poked at her, “I was thinking he was taking eight hundred years.”
“No, you weren’t,” Ashlyn stated, all cock in her talk.
“Fine. You know me. And seriously, what is that dude’s issue?” My heart was doing a Stomp performance in my chest as I headed down to the boat ramp to help jon boat boy get his damn boat on his trailer, so I’d be clear to kiss my GF’s face off.
Which five minutes later, I did. Diligently and shamelessly. I stepped back before clothes started coming off. “We’ve got about an hour before we need to meet Dad for lunch. Want to go back or?”
“I want to see the bridge,” Ashlyn said.
“Of Madison County?” I asked, “Seems random. And a little 1995, but …”
“Your bridge. The bridge. Please. I want you to take me there. I want to know that part of you, too.”
The bridge. The bridge and the scene that started it all. I nodded, fired up Thunder, and drove us to the bridge that did jumping jacks in my nightmares and drop shipped my ass in the middle of this party. A party that had me bellied up to the bar with Danny, Grand, Norm, Michael, Apoc, and the warm body that was currently Velcroing itself against my backside.
I hadn’t been back to the bridge since the night my demon-possessed GF jumped. I couldn’t really say I missed it all that much.
It hadn’t changed. Its towering steel crisscross supports, still the rust color of age, jutted into the air. The wood slats were worn slick by years of use. It was quite the showcase of industrial engineering of years past. Which had been the reason I’d first been drawn to this particular location. I’d been intrigued by the display at the library, a timeline of accomplishments caught in pictures of men building such a massive structure without the assistance of modern machinery. Now long-a
bandoned, the once well-traveled route was isolated and quiet, minus the roar of the river below.
Ashlyn swung her leg over Thunder, taking her helmet off as she did. I dittoed her movements. She took a moment to take in her full surroundings. “This is where it all started for you.” Not a question, a fact, learned recently from my trip to the underworld. And again, I wasn’t talking about the badass trench coat-wearing Kate Beckinsale version, for those of you that haven’t been paying attention.
“Apparently,” I muttered, dropping my helmet onto a handlebar as I took a tentative step toward my past. Ashlyn met me at the front of the bike, slipping her hand into mine, connecting me to the present.
We stepped over the “Bridge Closed” barricade with a half dozen beer cans artfully arranged along its top, giving an “ish” vibe to the simple statement. I didn’t need to provide Ashlyn with the sideline commentary of the events that had played out here. We’d already gone over the “I pulled up. Erika was standing on the bridge. Erika leaped. I went in after her, yadda yadda” parts of the story. We walked out approximately thirty feet when my boots slo-moed even more. Ashlyn looked at me, then out over the river, as she walked to the edge. I’d been there, done that, so I stayed where I stood. “Here.” Again, no question mark needed. She leaned out, looking down over the ledge, taking a quick measurement from bridge to water below. Forty-five or so feet, I’d guess.
The water was moving rapidly today, the aftereffects of all the rain they’d gotten recently. I didn’t remember what it was like the night I’d landed in it, just knew that Grand had pulled me out a good hundred yards downstream. I looked in that direction to the small spit of sand and rock barely visible due to the bend in the river. Ashlyn followed my line of sight.
