Thunder and Rain

by Charles Martin

  Dear God,

  Wow, that was fast. You’re good. I mean, I know you’re Good. But, you’re also really good. Momma just showed me what was in the sock. And it’s only been like ten minutes since we last spoke.

  Thanks, a lot. I won’t ask anymore today. You done a lot. You deserve a break. Maybe take a nap or something. We’re going off to dinner. Brodie said we’re going to Whataburger to celebrate. Dumps just put in his teeth and passed around a Mason jar with part of a bootleg in it so he must be going, too.

  Hey, can I ask you one more thing? Miss Georgia, she talks tough but she’s lonely and she’d really like a good man to take care of her. Sit with her while she eats dinner and scratch her back at night. Maybe rub cream on her feet. She’s got these bunions and she says they hurt her after a long day. She’s a real good woman, she’d make a good wife. You think you could find her someone? Haven’t you got somebody, somewhere, that needs a friend like Miss Georgia? What about Shawn down at the Ford dealership? He ain’t married.

  Oh, Turbo wanted me to let you know she’s doing just fine and she likes it here. She just walked across my notebook and dropped a turd. That means she’s happy.

  Dear God,

  Momma married Cowboy today. They stood beneath what’s left of the marrying tree while Mr. Dumps, Brodie, and I stood there staring. The preacher said some real nice words. Momma looked so pretty. Miss Georgia had done her hair all up. Momma was wearing jeans, her new boots, a white linen shirt, and a cowboy hat that Cowboy had given her. But Cowboy slipped it off her head when he kissed her. And she kissed him back, too. It was a good kiss. Not that I really know about such stuff. But they kissed a long time and one of her legs came off the ground like they do in the movies. Momma’s ring sure is pretty.

  Lots of people came. Bunch of men wearing white hats and silver stars. Cowboy hung his daddy’s Stetson and holster over the iron cross at his grave. Like, he wanted him there. I guess he was, too. Miss Georgia’s mascara ran all over her face. Looked like a raccoon with orange and purple hair. We all stood out there, circled around the tree. Cowboy said a few words, thanked everybody. He talked to Brodie. Told him, right there in front of you and everybody, how proud he was of him. Said every good thing he ever did and ever hoped was wrapped up inside him. That Texas ain’t never done no better than Brodie Steele. Brodie blushed. Then Cowboy talked to Momma, told her how he loved her. How he’s sure glad he bumped into us on the interstate.

  After the ceremony, Cowboy walked us all to the barn where he swung open the door and walked out Momma’s wedding present. A jet-black mare that stands a little over fourteen hands. Prettiest horse I’ve ever seen. Momma couldn’t believe it. Just stood there with her hands over her mouth. Dumps had found her an M. L. Leddy’s saddle. Fits her real good. Brodie said that’s a big deal. I just have to take his word for it. Momma said she was gonna name her, “Goodness.” ’Cause, she told everybody, that’s what she’d found in Tyler Steele. I kind of think it’s a dumb name but then so is “Turbo” so who am I to talk.

  But, that’s not the best part. Close, but not really. After Momma got Goodness, Cowboy came over to me, grabbed my hand, and led me outside the barn and around the back. Brodie walked alongside. He was smiling. Cowboy turned the corner and right there in front of everybody he put his hands over my eyes and said, “Don’t look.” And I didn’t neither. And when he took them away, Brodie was standing there with the prettiest bay mare I’d ever seen and they’d tied a red ribbon around her neck. I couldn’t believe it. She was beautiful. Had little white patches just above each hoof that looked like she was wearing socks. Cowboy picked me up, just like he done Momma and he set me on top of that horse and he fixed my stirrups and when he was done, he told me I could name her whatever I want so I asked him if he thought Socks was a good name and he said he thought it was a real good name. And then all four of us rode down to the river.

  It was the best day of my life.

  Anyway, they’re gone now. Went on a honeymoon. Momma and Miss Georgia had gone shopping for some new nightgowns. Momma told me that Cowboy would like them a lot. But I don’t know why. She’s the one that’s got to sleep in them. I saw them and they don’t cover up much. The bottom of her butt shows out the back. Might as well wear nothing but, anyway, they’ve gone up to a cabin in the mountains of Colorado. Be gone a week. Miss Georgia and Dumps are taking care of Brodie and me.

  God, I know I’m always bugging you with little stuff that probably don’t amount to a hill of beans in your book but I think I’ve learned something. Something I think might be important. Like the kind of stuff grown-ups learn. Maybe it’s what makes them grown-ups. And it’s this—sometimes it’s hard to see what could be, what we hope for, through the hurting part of what is, ’cause sometimes stuff hurts so much that we can’t see nothing. But then sometimes what we hope for, well, seems like if we hope it long enough, hard enough, deep enough, it becomes what is. Not always, but sometimes. Maybe that’s the thing about hope. Maybe it’s sort of something special. Like it’s the thing that makes the difference. Maybe it’s the kind of thing that bad stuff can’t kill. Can’t get rid of. Not never. No matter who does what to you. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what Momma was thinking when she named me. Maybe she’d gotten here, too. Maybe she got here first.

  I may be getting ahead of myself, but I had one more thought and it’s this—while I think we need hope, I think you need it, too. Like, you need to know that we do. That we still do it. That we’re pulling for you ’cause, well, where else can we go? Who else is going to listen? Where else would I take it? And I think the older people get, the less they do it. I think they want to, but I think they’re afraid. It’s like they bit into a sour apple and now they won’t eat no more apples at all. Which is stupid if you think about it. That’s like saying that just ’cause you had one sip of sour milk that all milk is bad. Well, that’s crazy. I’ve had a few bad apples, even bad milk, but I’ve had lots more good. What if I’d have thought that back at the Ritz and never sipped the cream? Just where would I be? It’s weird. You got to figure this out to be a grown-up. But once you become one, you got to turn right back around and be more like a kid again. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? It does me. Like you got to be both when you can’t be but one. It’s tricky. Anyway, that’s what I think.

  I’m going now. I’ll write more tonight. Dumps is taking us to Whataburger. They got good cheeseburgers. And limeades. And French fries. And chocolate shakes. They put whip cream and a cherry on top. I like being with Brodie. He’s a good cowboy. You ought to see him on a horse. I ain’t never seen nothing like it. And now that he’s my brother, he don’t treat me no different. I was worried that he might, that maybe he was too cool to hang out with his sister, but he don’t. He opens doors for me, tucks his shirt in, takes off his hat when he walks inside, washes his hands before dinner, holds my foot when I’m trying to get it in the stirrup, lifts the seat before he does his business, shakes hands firmly, and looks people in the eye when he’s talking to them. He don’t cuss, he don’t spit around me, and he don’t never walk in front of me but always beside me. All this to say, that I like West Texas. Everything that’s good and right and is what it ought to be—well, that’s all wrapped up in this thing you made called a “cowboy.”

  EPILOGUE

  Dear God,

  I’m sitting here in Momma and Daddy’s house. On the end of Brodie’s bed. Lace and white silk draped about me. My train is nearly ten feet long. Daddy’s coming to get me in a few minutes. Walk me out across a sea of blue to stand beneath the old tree. Hand me over to Peter. There was a time when I thought this moment was not possible. That maybe I wasn’t worthy of it. Now it’s here and it seems surreal.

  Daddy’s so proud. You can see it on him. Momma bought him a new white Stetson. He looks so handsome. The gray hair above his ears just shows below the brim of the hat. And Momma made him a hat band out of Cinch’s tail. She’s been keeping it since he died.

  Th
is room brings back lots of memories. I used to play Legos over there. Watch movies up here. Talk on the phone over there. Brodie’s aftershave is hanging on the air. He’ll be graduating soon. Getting his appointment to DPS. Says he’s joining the narcotics division after he “pays his dues.” A fourth-generation Ranger. Have mercy. Says he’ll come home on the weekends and help Daddy run the business. The two of them got more cows than they know what to do with and every time land pops up for sale next to the Bar S they buy it. It’s nearly three times the size it was when I was a little girl. And Momma’s house is so pretty. Just look at all she’s done to it.

  Daddy said the governor’s coming to the wedding. And so is the actor who played Daddy in the movie about his life. Some of the cast and crew. I never imagined. A lot of people love him.

  In all the busy-ness, I hadn’t seen him much, so a few days ago, I went looking for him. Wanted to try on the dress and let him be the first man to see it. I pulled on my jeans and started looking. Took me nearly an hour. Found him down at the river. Sitting in the middle as usual. Surrounded by his Bradfords and Black Baldies. His head and shoulders the only thing sticking above the waterline. I laughed. He stood up. The Marlboro man soaking wet. Walked over to me, picked me up, and carried me out into the middle. We sat there, just the two of us, leaning into the water.

  I got to thinking. About Daddy and how we all met. I found myself shaking my head. Where would I be without that man? Where would Momma be? There is no telling. And Brodie? You would know better than anyone how lost I’d be without him. There was a time when I was worried that he might be upset that I was marrying his best friend but I think he’s okay with it. Actually, think he likes it. Maybe, in some way, he feels responsible. I think my marrying Peter allows him, in a way, to pass me to another. Hand me off to someone he trusts.

  There in the water, I got to watching Daddy. Still so handsome. Still skinny, still strong, still loves Momma, still brings her down here under the moonlight, still makes her smile, still brings her flowers, still loves riding with her, still. Little has changed. I was thinking back today, way back, and I could not remember that guy’s name that Momma was dating. The one that made the movies of me and Momma. I think it was Bob or Brandon or seems like it starts with a “B” but, no matter, Daddy got rid of him, too. Last we heard he was still serving his first lifetime.

  We’ve come a long way. All of us. Sometimes I just scratch my head. I am amazed.

  I was at a wedding party yesterday, stealing a few minutes to myself, when my ring bearer walked by and asked me about this notebook. He’s so cute I could just eat him. He fingered the worn edges, turned his nose up and said, “What’s that?”

  I said, “My journal.”

  “What do you do in it?”

  “Write letters.”

  “To who?”

  “God.”

  He chewed on his lip, looked down, then up at me. “You know him?”

  I nodded. “A little.”

  He looked over each shoulder, then lowered his head and asked, “What’s he like?”

  About then Daddy and Brodie walked by. Such presence. One a spitting image of the other. He watched them, jaw open. I pointed. “He’s like them.”

  “Oh.” Eyes wide. “Wow.”

  Gotta go. Daddy’s knocking on my door.

  Turn this page for a preview of

  UNWRITTEN

  by Charles Martin

  Available in hardcover in May 2012

  CHAPTER ONE

  Christmas Eve, eighteen hours earlier

  I rubbed my eyes, blew the steam off my Waffle House coffee, and steered with my knees. I was neither passing nor being passed. Just fitting in. Drawing no attention. Something I was good at. My speedometer was hovering around seventy-seven miles an hour as was the rest of the northbound herd of nighttime travelers. Hypnotized by the dotted line, I counted back through the days. Nine years? Or, was it ten? At first, they moved slowly. Each minute a day. Each day a year. But, sitting here, the days lined up like dominoes outside the windshield. Time had been both a blink and a long sleep.

  In a little over seven hours, I had crossed from the southwestern-most tip of Florida to the northeast corner. I changed lanes, wound through the spaghetti junction where I-10 intersects I-95 on the north bank of the St. Johns River, drove south across the Fuller Warren Bridge, and exited beneath the shadow of River City Hospital—a collection of a half-dozen or so buildings that rose up and sprawled along the Southbank. Jacksonville may not be as well known as Chicago or Dallas or New York but its nighttime skyline is one of the more beautiful I’ve seen, and the hospital features in that sight.

  I spiraled up the parking deck to the sixth floor just prior to the nine p.m. shift change. Twice the people moving to and fro made it easier to blend in. I checked my watch. I had plenty of time.

  In the cab of my truck, shrouded in the darkness of the parking deck, I changed into my dark blue maintenance uniform and slid on one of several pairs of thick-framed prescriptionless glasses. I twisted my sun-bleached hair into a tight ponytail and tucked it up under a matching ball cap. I pulled a white breathing mask over my mouth, dug my hands into elbow-deep yellow rubber gloves, and clipped Edmund’s credentials over the flap of my chest pocket. At first glance, the credentials looked professional but anybody with a computer could determine rather quickly that Edmund Dantes was not and never had been employed with River City Hospital. ’Course, my plan was to not be around when whoever that was figured out that Edmund Dantes was really the Count of Monte Cristo and not a man working the trash detail. I fed earplugs up under my shirt and let them dangle over my collar while the unplugged end snaked around inside my shirt. With increased security concerns over the last decade, the hospital had been outfitted with dozens of live-feed, twenty-four-hour HD cameras and a host of rent-a-cops. The trick was knowing where they were, when to turn your back, lower your hat, or hug an exterior wall. Truth is, none of that explains my disguise but it had worked for years and would continue to do so as long as I did not draw attention to myself or stand out from the hospital’s more than one thousand employees. The trick was simple: Be vanilla, not Neapolitan.

  For the most part, people are not observant. Experts have conducted studies on bank robberies from actual eyewitnesses. Seldom can two or more agree on who actually robbed the bank, what they were wearing, what they took, and whether it was man or woman. Point being, being invisible isn’t all that tough. In the last ten years, I’ve learned a good bit about being visible yet unseen. It’s possible. Just takes a little work.

  On the ground floor, I grabbed a yellow trash cart stowed outside the loading dock. About the size of a Mini Cooper, it looked like the bed of a V-shaped dump truck on wheels. I leaned into it and followed it onto the service elevator, where I turned my back to the first camera. The cart served several functions: It gave me a reason—most folks don’t argue with a man who will take out the trash; it gave me a place to stow my duffel until I needed it; and it gave me something to hide behind. It also gave me something to shove between me and anyone after me, but I’d never needed it for that.

  The children’s wing was located on the fourth floor. The bell chimed with each floor as the camera above me filmed the top of my hat. The doors opened and the smells flooded me. I filled up, welcomed the memories, emptied myself, and filled up again.

  River City Children’s Hospital is considered one of the finest in the country—as are those who work here. What they do isn’t easily measured as kids aren’t easy patients. Most walk through the front door with two ailments—the one you can diagnose, and the one you can’t. Knowing this, the doctors attack the first, then slowly work their way deeper. To the real wound. Doing so gives the kids reason to smile when reasons are tough to come by. It’s slow work. Painstaking. And the endings aren’t always happy. Despite their pedigrees, technology, and best of intentions, there are some hurts that medicine simply can’t fix.

  That’s where I come in.
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  I’d wrapped each gift in brown paper, tied it with a red ribbon, and attached a simple card—a squared, preprinted white sheet of paper. Each read, “Merry Christmas. Found this on my ship and thought you’d enjoy. Get well soon. I’m always in need of new mates. You’re welcome on my ship any time. Pirate Pete.” I added a gift card to the TCBY yogurt store on the first floor of the hospital. Fifty dollars would buy them yogurt for months on end and since most of the kids could stand to gain a few pounds, it was a good fit. The guy that ran the yogurt place, Tommy, was a big, Santa-looking softy with two chins, hands the size of grizzly paws, a smile that could light up most any room, and the wingspan of a zeppelin. And since he was a hugger, he hugged everybody that stepped foot through his door. Figured if the kids didn’t like his yogurt, they could at least get a hug. Most got both—along with a double scoop of gummy bears or crushed Oreos.

  I exited the service elevator, routed around the nurses’ station, hugged an exterior wall, and emptied the first of several trashcans. I took my time—hunched, slow, a slight limp—looking at no one and inviting no one to look at or speak to me. Circling the fourth floor gave me eight cans to empty and a constant view of the nurses’ station. After the third can, the nurses vacated their desk, and I turned ninety degrees toward the library.

  Around here, hats are a big deal. It’s not required but the walls are lined with hat hooks and most everybody wears one that can change daily. Literally, there are hundreds. All shapes, sizes, personalities, and attitudes. From umpteen styles of cowboy hats to ball caps to feathered things to visors to painter’s hats to stockings to berets to watchman’s beanies, to you name it, this place is spilling with hats. It began years back, when one of the patients—a young girl—started wearing a large, flamboyant purple hat with an even larger peacock feather spiraling out the top. Didn’t take long for the trend to catch on. Whenever she was asked why she wore it—which was often and usually on television—she’d flip the feather and say with a mile-wide smile, “Because what I can imagine is bigger than what I see.”