Thunder and Rain

by Charles Martin

  Until that moment, I had often wondered what my dad was thinking when he rushed into that bank. Now I knew. Rather than relay what did or did not happen, let me tell you what I do and don’t remember as best as I can piece it together. It’s easier that way. Although, while I won’t knowingly lie, I can’t promise you it’s all true.

  I don’t remember the impact of the bumper on the front of the building, or climbing out through the cracked windshield or crawling down the hall, below the smoke toward the sound of gunfire. I do remember turning a corner and finding four men at the foot of the stairs holding rifles and shotguns and that I was glad I saw them before they saw me. I don’t remember crawling up the stairs but I evidently did because I ended up on the second floor staring at a barricade of desks and chairs and Captain lying on the other side. When I got to him he was bleeding out of several holes and told me to do something that I wasn’t about to do, i.e, “Get the hell out of there.” I don’t remember throwing him over my shoulder and running down a back fire escape but I do remember hearing the alarm. I don’t remember shooting, I don’t remember reloading, and I don’t remember being shot in the leg. I do remember a bullet tearing through my shoulder because my arm went limp, I couldn’t hold the rifle with my right hand, and I wondered who just stuck me with a hot poker. I don’t remember the five guys that came around the corner, only that I stepped over them and that the smoke was black and thick. I don’t remember running the rifle empty, or emptying my 1911 and the four magazines I carried in my vest and the one on my belt. I only know that when I looked down, they were gone and the slide was locked back and barrel smoking. I don’t remember running out the back, carrying the captain over my shoulder but I do have a vague recollection of trying to get down to the river, thinking if we could make it there, we’d be okay. Lastly, I remember thinking that wolves travel in packs and that’s about when the lights went out.

  I think I must have been out a while because when I woke up, parts of my leg and back were warm. There was an odd, sucking sound coming from my chest and breathing was more difficult than it’d ever been. I remember somebody dragging me, then a flashlight, seeing several sets of hands and people speaking in loud voices. I remember the passing smell of smoke. I remember the captain cussing me for being such a “damn fool” and then him telling somebody to tend to me and not him. I remember my legs lying in the river and my chest propped up on the beach.

  I remember the sound of silence and yet I could see Sam, in my face, screaming at me. She was crying. Saying words that did not make it past my ears.

  I remember pressing my finger to her lips and whispering, “You talk… a lot.”

  I was so tired. All I wanted to do was go to sleep. I remember thinking I should be hurting but I wasn’t. I couldn’t feel a thing. The tunnel was closing in. She was screaming louder now. I opened my mouth. Pushed hard but the words were all stuck together. She kissed me. Blood on her lips. I didn’t like that. I wanted to wipe it off. I tasted tears. Salt and blood. I told her, “Bury me in the Brazos.”

  “I will not!” She cracked. “I’m not burying you.” She shook her head. “Don’t you do this to me. Please, Cowboy. Please.” She slapped my face. “You do this and I’ll kill you myself.”

  I remember laughing. “I think they already beat you to it.”

  She kissed me again. Wet. Tender. Salty tears. I remember staring at my chest and watching the red pour out. I remember having the thought, “That’s not good.” Then I watched it mix with the river. Carried downriver. By next week, or next month, I’d be in the Gulf of Mexico. And for reasons I can’t explain, I liked that.

  From there the perspective changed. I saw me not through my eyes, but from above. Sam slapped my face. Still screaming. I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear anything. She said, “No you don’t! Don’t you dare roll your eyes back in your head. You are not allowed to leave here without me.” She said some other stuff but it was all a jumble. Echoes without distinction.

  I remember thinking I would miss her and how I’d rather be swimming under moonlight. Then I looked up, saw the clouds, and knew we’d have seen no moon. The darkness came as the breeze from the propellers washed over me. Sleep came heavy. I could hold it back no longer. I don’t remember them lifting me up, taking off, the sensation of flying, news crews, cameras, or lights. I don’t remember somebody holding my hand but do remember it had a familiar feel. I don’t remember the paramedic asking me if I was allergic to anything but I do remember telling him, “bullets.” I don’t remember him pushing the IV needle into my arm but I do remember him standing over me, squeezing the fluids bag with two hands and forcing them into my arm. I don’t remember them charging the paddles and screaming “Clear,” but I do remember my teeth clenching when the charge hit me. I don’t remember chest compressions, but I do remember staring at a tattoo of Donald Duck on his right bicep and wondering if his name is Donald. Why else would you have a tattoo like that? I don’t remember bright lights in the operating room, people screaming, more chest compressions, more white paddles, and I don’t remember the doctor standing back, his scrubs splattered in red, and recording the time. I don’t remember losing the feeling in my fingers and toes or the metallic taste in my mouth.

  The last thing I remember seeing was actually two things: my blue T-shirt lying tattered on the floor. Somebody’d cut it right up the middle, straight through the “S.” It was no good anyway. Prisoners had shot it pretty full of holes. The second thing was my boots. Some idiot had cut them off my feet and they lay on the ground in a puddle. They were a sorry sight. Not even Dumps would be able to resurrect them. I hoped they didn’t bury me in them. What is it with emergency room doctors and my good boots? Seems like I been here before.

  I’d always heard about people dying and seeing a bright light. Mine was different.

  I saw my life. Flashes of it. Like a 3-D screen but no canvas. Andie. Brodie. My dad. Black Baldies. Cinch. I was in a lot of them. And a lot of the pictures of me included weapons of some kind. Handguns. Rifles. Shotguns. Yet, here I lay dying. Ironic.

  Then the strangest thing happened. This little girl walked in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Dear God,

  They been in there operating on Cowboy for eight hours. They say he lost most of his blood. They’re asking people to donate. Even put it out on the local radio. I tried but mine don’t work. Wrong letter. Neither does Momma’s. Dumps’s does. He gave double.

  I met Cowboy’s wife. Her name is Miss Andie. She’s been crying a lot. She’s real pretty. I asked her if she wanted some coffee and she shook her head. Then nodded. I handed it to her and her hands were shaking so she grabbed it with two hands. Then she kissed me on the cheek. Her face was wet. Brodie’s over there now sitting next to her. He’s holding her hand. His face is real red and his eyes look bloody.

  There’s a bunch of other Texas Rangers here, waiting. Many were at the prison tonight. They’re standing in a circle. Maybe they’re talking to you, too.

  I’m real worried. Momma is, too. The reason my handwriting is real bad is ’cause my hands are shaking.

  We’re in a bad way here, but not as bad as Cowboy. They say he’s a fighter, but there’s a lot of whispering going on that I can’t hear.

  I’ll bet you can. And if you can, you need to be listening.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Dear God,

  Are you listening? If you’re not, I’m never talking to you again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Dear God,

  There’s people screaming at the end of the hall. A doctor just came out and shook his head. Momma’s on the floor. Dumps is crying. Brodie, too. Andie is screaming your name.

  I see pain all around me.

  Why weren’t you listening? Why didn’t you do anything?

  I got something I want to say to you but you got to be in there with Cowboy if you want to hear it. Otherwise, this is my last letter to you. What you do is up to you. But, if you want m
e to talk to you anymore, then I need you in there right now. That’s my deal with you. I’m going in there and you better be there. God? Are you hearing me? I can forget what Billy done but I can’t forget this.

  This right here… this is the thing between you and me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The flashes faded. Just before the lights went black, I remember watching a little girl—one I knew or had known—walk up next to me, and the messy table I was lying on. She was clutching something that looked like a notebook. Her eyes were big as Oreo cookies but she wasn’t afraid. Wasn’t shaking. I remember somebody yelling and pulling on her. I remember her pulling away, and returning to my side. She stood there, studying me. Bold as an August moon. After a moment, she lifted her hand and laid it across my forehead, like she was checking me for a fever. She leaned in, pressed her lips to my ear, and whispered over me like water. I couldn’t hear what she said ’cause my ears were coming disconnected from me. Or, I was coming disconnected from my ears. Not really sure. Anyway, I couldn’t hear too well. Least not what people were saying on this side of the grave. She stood there a minute, hugging my head, whispering in my ear. Talking to the man who used to be me. I watched from somewhere above the lights. Given that perspective, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in there anymore.

  I looked at my hands. Or saw them. I’m not sure. I didn’t lift my head ’cause I was looking down on me and I didn’t move. Anyway, they appeared before my eyes. They were cut. Bloody. Splintered with glass and pieces of wood. I couldn’t move my fingers. No matter. They didn’t hurt. I remember wondering, how many thousands of rounds had they fired? Tens of thousands. Each one measured. Each controlled. Each intended. Then I thought of Andie. How I loved that woman at one time. How I wanted to give her all of me, yet only gave her half. Then something tore us apart. Something I couldn’t see. I was sorry for that.

  The moment she had passed Brodie into my arms, for reasons I can’t explain, I’d shaved off half my heart. Lived out of one half. The tough, Ranger half. Why? ’Cause it was easier. Now, as that half lay dying, the other half started thumping again. The half of me that Andie had wanted and needed all along. The half that knew love and gave it—no matter the cost.

  I hadn’t felt this alive… ever. And yet, by some accounts, I was already dead. The blue flat line and single tone above me said so. I’d trained so hard. Wrapped my life in the study of weapons craft. Ever ready for the rescue. Willing to die, in order to live. Lying here covered in holes, my life draining out of me, it hadn’t really worked out the way I’d hoped. It’s a tough world. And no, it’s not fair. This right here is the price we pay. I know all that. But, how then do I live? How do you really live on the other side of the rescue?

  Life felt so good in the few seconds I had to live it.

  When she finished, she kissed my head and closed her eyes. My blood had smeared across her cheek. I can’t tell you what she said. I have no idea. I wasn’t in me. I just know that something about her words, the way she spoke them was like a hook. It snatched me off the lights and shoved me back into me. A roller-coaster ride in reverse. All the current of those white paddles couldn’t hold a candle to the power of whatever she whispered in my ear.

  Whereas I’d been staring down on me, now, I was staring through me. My eyes. A black-and-white screen. It flickered. Sparked. The gray faded. Color bled in. The oil was mixing with the water.

  I do remember that.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Dear God,

  Thanks. Thanks a lot.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The rest is a little fuzzy and you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t get it just right. The word “hysteria” comes to mind—people shouting, some laughing, and lots crying. Sounded like somebody was banging pans or… anyway the noise was real loud. Even in my bad ear. I wanted to tell everybody to calm down, but my mouth wouldn’t work right. Neither would my eyes. I pushed and pushed but couldn’t get them to crack. Then that little girl kissed my bloody face and my eyes flew open.

  The doctor was hollering, “Tyler! Tyler! You with me? Blink your eyes if you can hear me.”

  I pulled the mask off and whispered. “I’ll do most anything if you quit screaming in my face.”

  I remember the sound of laughter. The sight of people hugging. Of tears shed and wiped. But the strangest thing was the sensation inside me. My heart was pumping. Both halves. That may not strike you as a big deal, but when you’ve lived life with half a heart for so long, to all of a sudden have the spigot turned on full… well, you should try it sometime.

  Time passed. I don’t know how much. An hour. A day. Maybe two. I couldn’t tell you. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a big room. Flowers everywhere. People whispering. A man stood over me. White coat. A smile. He held out his hand and dropped two small lima bean–shaped items into my hand. He said, “We took these from your leg. One new. One old. Thought you might keep them as souvenirs.”

  I clasped my hand around them.

  I closed my eyes. Tried to remember. How’d I get back here? Last thing I remembered I was in some place with white lights and sounds and sights like I ain’t ever heard or seen and… I can’t even put it into words. Don’t know how. All I know is I was there and then somebody spoke words in my ear, and now I’m here and I’m wondering how I got back.

  Somebody raised the head of my bed. Electronically. Sat me up. I glanced in the corner and saw that little girl standing there. Clutching her notebook. She was the one whispered in my ear. Hope. That’s her name. Hope. I think that’s a good name for a girl. Whoever named her sure knew what they were doing.

  She walked over. I swung my head left. I was real tired. Any movement at all exhausted me. I opened my hand. She slid hers in mine. It was small. Warm. Tender.

  I think some people take all the pain they’ve been knowing their whole life and pack it down inside them where it festers, oozing pus. Gangrene of the soul. That sore then becomes them. It’s what bubbles up. You can smell it. Then there’s others, others who ain’t never done much of anything wrong. Maybe we once called them innocent. And maybe a great wrong was committed on them. Maybe worse than most anything we can imagine. And yet, for some reason, they take that wrong and don’t pack it down. Don’t hold on to it. Instead, They let it go so that it can’t sour them. Like a mist, it rises up and evaporates ’cause it’s got no place to call home. And out of that place inside them something else bubbles up and they offer that instead. I can’t tell you what that little girl spoke in my ear. I’m not sure I was in there to hear it. I think I’d already left. All I can tell you is that when she did, a crack appeared in the universe and where evil had tried so hard to pull me out, something else reached in and pulled me back. A tug of war. And evil lost.

  That’s a good feeling.

  I whispered, “Come here.” She leaned in. “Closer.” She pressed her ear close to my lips. “Thank you.”

  She looked at me. Surprised. “For what?”

  I smiled. “For coming…” I swallowed. My throat was dry. She placed ice on my lips and I pushed it around with my tongue. “… to my rescue.” I raised my good arm, or at least the one that hadn’t been shot, pressed her cheek to my lips, and kissed her. She nodded, squeezed my hand, and stepped back.

  Captain Packer rolled his wheelchair in, banging the door. An angry nurse ran behind him. His boots rose up below his hospital gown. He rolled up next to my bed, extended his arm, pinned my cinco peso to the pillow and sat back, breathing heavy. He was pale. He’d lost a lot of blood, too. He nodded. “You dropped that. Thought you’d want it back.” He tried to laugh. “It’s a little charred. And there’s a dent in it, but… it still means what it means.”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  I woke up a while later and it was dark. I saw a bunch of tiny blue and red lights and numbers that I assumed measured some aspect of my being alive. A fluorescent glow spilled out under the bathroom door. Water was running. Somebody was ringing out a rag or to
wel. My sheets were slid off me, my skin was cold. Wet. Part of me felt clean and part did not. Part felt sticky. I smelled soap. Perfume. I thought, Lord I’m dying again and here they are preparing me for burial.

  A nurse stepped out of the bathroom with a small bucket and a rag. She set it next to me, and gently sponged my leg and foot. Then my stomach, groin, and arms. There was another woman, a second nurse judging by her colorful scrubs. She was helping move me around. Somebody moved the catheter coming out of me. I grunted. “Please, whatever you do. Don’t pull that.”

  Quiet laughter rose above me. I opened my eyes and the nurse was smiling. She said, “Don’t worry.”

  My eyes focused and Sam was sponging my leg and stomach. Wiping the blood off me. I shook my head. She leaned in. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I just had this figured different in my mind.”

  She smiled. “Me, too.”

  I whispered, “Either of you know how to shave a man?” They shook their heads. “When you can, would you put in a call to Georgia and ask her if she’d come shave my face. I’d be grateful. This stuff is about to itch me to death.”

  The next time I saw sunlight, I cracked open my eyes and focused across the room. Brodie was coiled up in a chair looking at me. I nodded at him and spoke in a cracked whisper. “How’s my boy?”

  He unfolded and stood up. “I drew you a picture.” He handed it to me. It was a crude picture of a man on a horse, tending cows. The man had an “S” on his chest. “Thought you’d like that.”