Thunder and Rain

by Charles Martin

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I woke up and something wasn’t right. Not wrong in the universe but wrong as in something was warm next to me. My hand told me it was a person. A small person. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. I was right. Hope was lying next to me. Crashed out. Sprawled like a snow angel. I scratched my head and then looked at the end of the bed where Sam was staring at me. Wide-eyed. Tears welling up. I shook my head. “Ma’am, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t have nothing to do—”

  She wasn’t listening. “I saw it. With my own eyes. She crawled out after you went to sleep and got in with you. Said nothing to me. But—” She swallowed back the tears. “She slept… through the night.”

  “She doesn’t normally do that?”

  She shook her head. “She’s never done that.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever.”

  I had slept in my clothes so I pulled the covers back up her shoulders, slid on my boots, and checked the condition of my weapons—making sure they were both loaded and safe. Then I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, and used a washcloth to wipe down my pits—wishing I had a baby wipe. I unlocked the door and whispered to Sam, “See you at breakfast. You two come on down when you get dressed. Breakfast around here is a real… experience. You don’t want to miss it.”

  It didn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to realize that if I left them here—as in drove off without saying good-bye, which is what one half of me wanted to do—they’d be on the street before nightfall. Probably sleeping in a public bathroom or bus station. Like Will Smith in that movie with his son. The only difference between yesterday and tomorrow would be new clothes, a shower, and a full stomach. None of which would last very long. The conversation I was having with myself over coffee wasn’t much of a discussion but it was one I needed to have.

  The breakfast buffet on the club floor of the Ritz-Carlton is the stuff of an Audrey Hepburn movie. It’s a sea of white tablecloths filled with exotic fruits, world-class pastries, omelets made to order, three-inch-thick waffles, boutique bacon and sausage, fifty different types of cheese, several types of yogurt and cereal, fresh-squeezed juices, imported coffee. And all of this is blanketed in classical music that for some reason makes food taste better. Every time I eat here it reminds me of Templeton the rat at the fair in Charlotte’s Web.

  Sam appeared first, followed by Hope who had her notebook tucked under her arm, her new blanket around her shoulders, and crusty little sleepers hanging in the corners of her eyes. They turned the corner and Hope’s jaw dropped. Sam’s did, too.

  Sam led Hope down the buffet tables, helping her fill her plate. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. I had thought, because I am guilty of judging a book by its cover, that two filthy, down-on-their-luck, penniless loners wouldn’t know how to navigate a place like this—that maybe they’d clash with the social graces required to fit in here. Not that I’m the guru of social graces. It’s just that I’ve been here before and while here I had pretty good training so I can pass for a talented counterfeit. But, as I watched Sam quietly educate Hope, I got the feeling she was not new to all this. And the more I studied how she carried herself, how she spoke, how she lifted the spoon, the portions she took, how she stepped, the way she held her shoulders, how her chin never seemed to dip, her entire demeanor, I wondered if she’d had far more practice in this world than I. The kind you’re born into. Maybe, in truth, I was the poser. Maybe survival trumps class and once surviving is no longer an issue, the class creeps back in. I sat back, sipped my coffee, and realized that knowing this was the first good feeling I’d had about them since we met. Somehow, the thought that life hadn’t always been this bad was a comfort. ’Course, as I looked at the future, discomfort wasn’t far behind.

  They sat and Sam nodded at Hope. Hope folded her hands in her lap and looked up at me. Then she looked down. I asked her, “How’s the itching? The little red bumps?”

  She nodded, looked away, then picked up her fork and began eating in small bites looking everywhere but at my face.

  I tried again. “Is your cough better?”

  She covered her mouth and coughed once. Whatever doc had given her was working. The mucus had cleared.

  I wanted to ask her about the rest of her, and tell her that she’d be okay, and that the world isn’t all like that, and tell her that I’d thought a good bit about how to deal with the man that did it, but figured it was none of my business.

  Least not yet.

  I turned to Sam thinking maybe Hope needed to hear the conversation she and I had in the parking garage yesterday. I said, “I really need to get home. Got an eleven-year-old boy there that’s missing me.” Hope looked up at me. “If you all are game, I thought I’d take you with me and, because I’ve been there most my life, I know a good many people in town. I think we can get you settled, maybe get you a job, that is if you don’t mind relocating to West Texas.”

  Sam exhaled. From the sound of it, she’d been holding that breath for about a week. “That’d be great.”

  Hope made eye contact and held it, slowly forking eggs in her mouth while she studied me. Milk covered her top lip.

  I spoke softly. “You got a mustache.”

  Hope licked it off but never took her eyes off me. Sam dabbed the edges of her mouth with a napkin.

  I stood, folded my napkin and laid it on the table. “You two take your time. I’m going to go clear things with Marleena. I’ll meet you at the truck in just a bit.”

  I walked around the corner and rode the elevator down to the parking garage. I walked to the edge, where the cell signal improved enough to give me four bars and dialed. Dumps answered after the first ring. I said, “Hey… how you two holding up?”

  “Great. He’s got a teacher planning day so he’s home from school. I’m making him a bologna sandwich. How you?”

  “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Pick up a bit. Make sure the sheets are clean.”

  “Which bed?” A pause. “The one you sleeping in now, or the one you used to sleep in?”

  “Used to.”

  He sucked through his teeth. His tone changed. “Cowboy… you okay? Sounds like you’re carrying a bit of weight.”

  “Yes, sir. But, it’s part of that story that’s getting longer all the time. I’ll tell you when I get there, but it’s gonna piss you off, so pour the bourbon and I’ll see you when I get home.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Barring any more surprises… tonight.”

  “Hold on, somebody wants to talk to you.”

  The phone rustled as it switched hands. “Hey, Dad. When you coming home?”

  “Today, big guy. How are you?” I tried to steer the conversation away from where it was going. “How’s school?”

  “Good. I got a hundred on a history test.” His voice rose. “Hey, Dad…?”

  Here it came—the runaway train. “Yeah?”

  “You get to see Momma?”

  Sometimes all the pain in life can be summed up in one question. I leaned against the edge, steadying myself. “Yeah… I saw her.”

  “She getting better?”

  “She’s doing well. Misses you. Said to give you a hug.”

  “Still thirty-two days and counting?”

  A pause. “Yep, she’s finished up there in a month.”

  “I’m taking Mr. B to the river. See you when you get home.”

  “Hey, Brodie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to ask your permission about something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want to know if it’s okay with you if I bring home a woman and her daughter.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause they don’t have a place to stay.”

  “Are they in trouble?”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Where’d you meet them?”

  “At a truck stop. Some guy tried to kidnap them.”
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  “What happened?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I didn’t let him.”

  “Would it be for very long?”

  “Couple of weeks I should think. Just until they get on their feet and I can find them a place to stay. You know we’ve got that extra room and…”

  “What about Mom?”

  I dodged it. “I think they’ll be gone before your mom starts thinking about coming home.”

  He thought for a moment. “It’s okay with me. Here’s Dumps.”

  “Hey, Brodie?”

  “Sir?”

  “Keep a watch out for snakes. And don’t trample the bluebonnets.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He laid down the phone and I heard him running across the kitchen and flinging open the screen door.

  A kid on a horse in Texas. All was right in the world.

  Dumps spoke again. “You know… you’re running out of ‘X’s.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It ain’t like you can just buy him another calendar.”

  I spoke as much to me, as him. “I know that.”

  “That’s a good boy. You need to talk with him.”

  “And just how do you expect me to explain all this to a fifth-grader?”

  “Look, I ain’t said it was easy. He’s your son. She’s your wife—”

  “Was.”

  “Whatever. You need to—”

  “Dumps.”

  He was quiet a minute. He scratched the whiskers on his chin. “I’ll get the sheets cleaned. Tidy up a bit. You need me to run to the store? We ain’t got much around here.”

  “Yeah, whatever you think. Thanks.”

  “Drive careful.”

  I hung up but the thought that kept going through my head was a question: If someone had hog-tied me, stolen something from me and put me to sleep in the far corner of a truck stop, leaving me face down in the mud and grass with no keys, what would I be doing right now? Fact is, it wasn’t the question that was bothering me, but the answer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dear God,

  We’re driving out of here today with our new friend, Cowboy. Momma got onto me about sleeping next to him, said we don’t know him that well, and then asked me why I did it. I told her that he had the gun and she got real quiet. That told me that she’d been thinking about getting down there, too. At breakfast he told us about where he lives. He said he lives in West Texas. He owns a little place. Says it’s not much but it’s his. Least, for now. He said it’s safe and best yet, Billy won’t find us. He said there’s a good school and he thought he could help Momma get a job. When he said that, Momma stood and walked to the bathroom. I guessed her stomach was still acting up, but when she came back, her eyes were red. I think for so long she’s been trying to protect me that to finally find someone to help her, well she just broke down.

  We finished breakfast and found him waiting on us at the truck. That woman, Miss Marleena, let us keep all the clothes we tried on. I got two pairs of jeans. I’ve never owned two pairs of new designer jeans. And Cowboy paid for all of it. He must be really rich. Miss Marleena also told us to keep the robes and the slippers. So we did, along with every shampoo and piece of soap in that place. She even brought us more.

  She was real sweet. Said we were lucky and that Cowboy had gotten her out of a real bad spot one time. Things have been real good since.

  When we got to the truck, Cowboy was rolling a cigarette. He does that sometimes, when he’s thinking, I guess. He’s always quiet when he’s doing it. But he doesn’t talk much anyway. He loaded up our stuff, then lit that cigarette and laid it on the concrete ledge next to the truck. It lay there, and the smoke looked like string climbing up. He’s funny. He rolls cigarettes but don’t smoke them. I guess when you’re rich you can do that.

  I been trying to think of a way to tell you what I’m feeling but even with this nice new dictionary that Cowboy got me I can’t find the words so, you know how sometimes you walk outside, like out of a cold room, and the sun is coming up and it feels warm on your face? And all you want to do is stand there and soak it up? Well, that’s kind of how I feel. I want to stand here and soak in this a while.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thirteen years ago.

  I wasn’t looking for it. Not hardly. And I certainly wasn’t looking for her. Love was the farthest thing from my mind. I was twenty-eight and had one thing on my mind and, believe it or not, it wasn’t a woman. I’d just pulled a double—twenty hours straight. Dead on my feet. I needed to wash some clothes and get a few hours sleep before my next shift, which started in eight hours.

  The Fluff and Fold was twenty-four hours. Worn tile floors, buzzing neon showering down, dead flies on the windowsill. Cobwebs stretched high in the corners. Four machines spinning. Thursday nights were low traffic—easy to get a machine. I walked in, basket on my hip. She was lying on the ground in the back, a bloody lip, one leg folded and tucked under the other, three guys standing over her, a bad look in their eyes. She was breathing. The vein in her neck was rose-vine thick and beating fast. They motioned with the knife and told me to get lost.

  I didn’t.

  When she woke, I bought her a coffee and a piece of cherry pie at an all-night diner. Told me her name was Andie. A small-time barrel racer making the Texas circuit. She stared at the gun on my hip. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a narcotics agent with DPS.”

  She was attracted to the excitement. The strength it represents. Over my third cup, I’d asked her out. She’d raised an eyebrow and smirked, “You always pick up girls at the Fluff and Fold?”

  I looked around. Smiled. “Evidently.”

  Our first date was the drive-in. A Tom Hanks movie, Turner & Hooch. At her doorstep, I was fumbling with my hat, too afraid to try and kiss her when she asked me to come watch her race.

  Our second date was a rodeo in Fort Worth where she was competing in the barrel racing. Lord, that woman could ride a horse. Second place but her horse stumbled. She lost by three one-thousandths of a second. She was staying at the Stockyards hotel. I picked her up and took her out for a steak dinner. That’s when she let me hear her laugh. Easy. Gentle. A laughter you could see through. Or, into. It hid nothing. Deflected nothing.

  Months passed. I fell fast, hard, and you know how I told you I had a one-track mind and a woman wasn’t part of that? Well, forget I ever told you that.

  We had gone “looking.” I knew better. In truth, it was shopping. She came alive. Every girl’s dream. Glisten and glitter at every turn. She tried on ten or twelve different ones, different sizes, different prices. I had nothing. I couldn’t really afford to buy anything she tried on. ’Course, I didn’t tell her that. I had secured a line of credit with the bank for two thousand dollars. Another thousand I could put on a credit card. A few dollars in the bank. Figured I could pay it off in a year or two. She held it up, asking without asking. I told her that I liked them all—I wanted what she wanted. She smiled. Stared through the case at all the glitter—all the hope staring back. It was dark outside, dim inside. Lights danced around her face. She turned away. In the mirror’s reflection, I saw the tear. What’d I say? She pointed and the salesman pulled out one last item. She slipped it on, turning it. I edged in closer, afraid I didn’t have enough credit. The band was platinum. Simple. Round and plain. Not too thin. Not too wide. Not a diamond in sight. She held it close. Eyes glassy, she looked at me and nodded.

  I whispered, “But, honey…”

  The salesman stepped aside, gave us room. I shrugged. “You… you need… every girl needs a diamond.”

  She shook her head.

  I paid the man. We drove to the river. She waded in. Barefoot and leading me. The river spread around a small island. About as big as a master bedroom. A canopy of scrub oaks, bunch of rocks, soft sand, an old fire pit. We’d picnicked there. She climbed up. Laid the blanket down. Pulled me to her. Placed her hand flat across my chest. “I want two things.” Starli
ght blanketed us. She was trembling. She was all in. Her life had come to this. She tapped her finger just above my heart. “I want… this.”

  “Already gave it to you.”

  The side of her mouth twitched while her finger traced her name across my skin. “And I want you to promise me something with it.”

  “I promise.”

  “You don’t even know what it is.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Are all cowboys as headstrong and stubborn as you?”

  “Some are worse.”

  “I want you to promise me that, no matter what, you will—”

  “Done.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  I waited.

  She blinked, bit her lip. “Come for me. If I lose my way… you’ll… come back for me.”

  “I will.”

  “Always?”

  “Always.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  My great-grandparents, grandparents, and my mom and dad had married out beneath a sprawling oak up on a hill on a piece of property that had later become our ranch. None of the Steele men had enough money to buy the land until my dad. For good reason, we called it “the marrying tree.” Limbs grew parallel to the earth, dipped down, then rose back up like angel’s wings. The tree was a good bit wider than it was tall. Dad thought the tree tied us to the ground. Something permanent. I think he had it right.

  Andie and I stood there eight months later.

  I remember the wind tugging at a white dress. How the sun fell off her bare shoulders. Wide and round brown eyes. Long fingers wrapped around fresh-picked bluebonnets. Light brown hair in a ponytail that bounced when she turned her head. Boots that smelled of horses. Wispy hair at her temples. A small mole at the corner of her mouth like that cover girl on all the magazines. We said, “I do.” She stood on her tiptoes to let me kiss her and then I lifted her onto May, her wedding gift, and walked her out across a sea of blue.