In the midst of battle, Mitch dodged mortar shells, praying to God to just get through this night. Had he been rash to tell the folks back home he was nearly done overseas?
In front of him lay Tony Wallace, who Mitch had known since this tour began. Tony still gripped a rifle, and Mitch grabbed it. Two guns might just be the ticket.
Thank God Grandpa Tommie had taught him to hit the ball with either his left or right hand. Using all of Tony’s ammunition, Mitch made his way to where, with night goggles, he saw the rest of the platoon. He and Tony had gotten separated, but now Mitch was within twenty yards. Twenty hazy and corpse-strewn yards that looked like a mile.
Mitch was rarely troubled. Fear clouded one’s judgment. If he’d been anxious, he might not have taken Tony’s gun, and then where would he be? Back out on the desert floor, like that dead bastard. Tony Wallace was going home in a body bag, but not Mitch Smith.
Not with twins to cuddle, Tanner’s ass to kick, his mom… Mitch wanted to see Liz’s face, revel in her soft voice, then hear his father admit that all of this was the biggest fucking mistake ever conceived. Just let those Washington SOBs come play this game for one day, or the assholes on the other side; Mitch assumed the insurgency’s leaders were like men in the Capitol, outside the diamond, completely unaware.
He had started using that phrase, his friends approving. Mitch got it from Will, who was writing a book about his experiences. A few of Mitch’s cohorts knew his cousin used to play ball; Will had sent autographs, making a few folks’ days. The book wasn’t a memoir, the last Mitch knew, but fiction, and he’d been told to keep that under his hat. But the title was the same that David had offered, Outside the Diamond. It was the only place Mitch wanted to be, far from this mess that was all about power and death. Mitch was sure if those in charge on both sides were thrown into this hellhole, it would all be over in a matter of minutes.
Seconds even, for in the dusty, calamitous scent of night, all Mitch wanted was to be in Liz’s loving arms, note from his dad a sense of apology. Not that his father had sent him here, but Mitch wanted Max to admit the reality of it all. There in secure, sheltered Oregon, hell, anywhere in America, no one really understood it. If they ever did, this sort of shit would never happen again.
Mitch threw Tony’s spent gun to the ground, but didn’t fire his own. Scattered pops littered the scene along with faint flickers of light. Then came steady breathing. For the first time Mitch trembled; had one of the enemy snuck up on him?
All his previous thoughts dissipated, his guts turning to liquid. Then a whisper slipped into his ears. “Hey Mitch, follow me.”
He didn’t move, wouldn’t turn. It was English, ethereal, and Mitch shut his eyes; was a voice from heaven calling him home?
“Mitch, c’mon! You have to come this way or you won’t see Tommie again.”
That name turned Mitch’s head; there in front of him stood Alvin Harris.
“C’mon Mitch! You need to get home, but you won’t do that standing so far from everyone else. I’ll get you back, but you need to move!”
Mitch stared right through Alvin. “What in the hell?”
“Here, give me that.” Alvin took the gun. “Now just hold my hand. You hold my hand and nothing will touch you.”
Mitch blinked at the dusty chaos. Troops were moving, battle lines shifting. Would anyone still be waiting for him?
Alvin tapped his foot, then smiled. “Just like your dad, pining over your mom all those years. But there isn’t much time. Now come on!”
At that order, Mitch snapped to attention, taking Alvin’s hand. They trekked through the bedlam, not speaking, gunfire and screams flying from both sides. Bullets shredded Mitch’s body, but to his shock, those punctures were only sharp stings. David had caused more harm with that one ancient punch than the barrage of ammunition blazing from both sides.
Within feet of Mitch’s division, Alvin stopped, then turned to the still trembling young man, squeezing Mitch’s hands. “It’s gonna be okay now, just fall in line. You’re just about done here.”
“I know who you are,” Mitch choked, staring at a man Grandpa Tommie had spoken of since Mitch was a boy. Then Mitch gripped Alvin’s shoulder. “Thanks for, for…”
“Go on, it’s safe now.” Alvin pointed to the shifting line of troops.
Mitch took a few steps, then glanced back. That tall blonde man remained, waving him on.
When Mitch arrived uninjured at the back of his regiment, his superiors checked their vision. Showing up there, just as the firefight died down; how in the hell had he found them, in one piece no less?
Questions were asked, but Mitch said little. When the group reached base camp, the first thing Mitch did after getting a shower and some food was find the chapel. Then he kissed the altar, fell to his knees, and began to bawl.
Three days later, in the middle of July, Will visited Chelsea. She had been ordered on bed rest to halt increasing contractions, but unlike her previous confined stretches, this was pleasant, men as well as women stopping by.
Will would have visited regardless, but before he had been playing baseball, which he watched only when it happened to be on, whether he was at his parents or Uncle Tommie’s. That day at the Schumachers, it was just siblings, and Chelsea cried in her brother’s arms not only for her babies, but a dream she’d had about Mitch; did Will know anything new?
“I saw Uncle Max a couple of days ago, seems he’s still coming home next month. Probably not before you pop though.” Setting his right hand on Chelsea’s large bulge, Will smiled.
She wiped her eyes. “I just want him here! That and these babies, you listening to me? I don’t care if there’s still another ten days. Come out now!”
Will laughed, feeling a few soft kicks. “Someone’s listening to you.”
“Probably my daughter,” Chelsea giggled. “God, when will it seem real?”
“Man, doesn’t it yet?”
She shook her head. “I’ve spent plenty of days stuck in bed, bloated and miserable.” She laughed and Will did too. “No, I just mean, do you feel like a father, like someone’s parent?”
“Like a father yes. Like a parent, not yet. Maybe when I have to tell her no.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s it. Will, it’s just that I never thought, I mean…”
“I know Chelse. I know.”
She nodded. “And now it’s so close. They’re so close.” Chelsea looked around the room, a changing table waiting in the corner. The nursery held two cribs and another changing table, so many baby items that Chelsea thought her house had turned into a department store.
“Chelse, I’ve been thinking about this, about why it happened.”
“Oh God Will, don’t tell me it’s a miracle.”
He smiled. “Okay. How about that our pop spent most of his life living on that farm, never knowing what it was all about until Mom showed up, and Dad was the same up in Portland. Those two guys were just going through the motions, then here comes one woman…”
Will sighed; something had happened to Jenny, more than just the new morality of the sixties and seventies having brought her to Arkendale. “Mom shows up and changes everything, first for Pop, then for Dad. Sort of like you. These babies just appeared out of the blue, and now you and Andy are finding your whole lives altered. It doesn’t have to be a miracle, just that sometimes life plods along and you think it’ll be that way forever, then…”
“An accident happens.”
“Yeah.” Will made a fist with his right hand. If he did it fast enough, the bones still hurt. “Then everything’s swept away, never the same. People don’t call accidents miracles, but maybe they are Chelse. Maybe they are.”
Will had been working on his book since Louise’s colic ended. Another marvel to Will was how around the age of four months that previously whiny baby just smiled as if nothing had ever bothered her. Now she was everyone’s delight. Two more would steal some of her thunder, but Will carried a quiet pleasure for g
iving his parents their first grandchild. He accepted Louise’s change of mood as he had the accident, and now his book; it wasn’t a memoir as he had rightly written to Mitch, more of thinly veiled fiction. If he finished it, he would dedicate it to a man Will felt as close to as his dad. This book was for Uncle Tommie; only Bethany and Mitch knew it wasn’t about Will himself.
“Chelse, our whole lives came about due to unforeseen circumstances. How different are we than these babies? Not that much really.”
“I never thought about it that way.” She gazed at her belly, then traced the fabric. “There’s one for you and one for me.”
He laughed. “Yeah.”
Then Chelsea stared at her brother. “But not just us. Eric too.”
Will took a deep breath. He didn’t remember their father’s car accident, one as awful as Will’s, from which Sam had simply stepped away. “I never think about that.”
“You were pretty young.”
“I guess. You think Mom and Dad thought about it when I got hurt?”
“I can’t see how they didn’t.”
He set his hand along her face. “And see, Dad walked away from that. I’m okay and you’re huge.” He smiled. “It really does work out all right.”
She nodded as her brother took her in his arms. Neither spoke of other losses, or of Mitch and Tanner.
Tanner’s apartment was small, but he didn’t need much room. When he did sleep, sometimes he woke alone, or at times to a girl who looked familiar, but the names changed, and Tanner wasn’t always sure how they ended up in his bed. Most times he stirred by himself, but it wasn’t always morning. Sometimes it was the middle of the afternoon, or early evening. Usually if Tanner woke at those later hours, no one rested beside him.
He had seen Jackson, but that man hadn’t made any overtures, which surprised Tanner; if nothing else, wouldn’t Jackson want his money? But then, Jackson’s very presence seemed suspect; if Tanner wanted to finger him for kidnapping, he could, Andy had told him so. Yet if Tanner did, his current drug usage might be questioned. Tanner hated Jackson, but was somehow indebted to him. Jackson had introduced a painkiller worthy of all Tanner’s heartache. Now Tanner used something that made the whole world disappear.
Crystal meth was another kick altogether, and if Tanner wasn’t so strung out on it already, he would wish to be so. On meth, the high kept spiraling toward the sky. Not as expensive as smack, it lasted longer, and as long as Jan’s money held out, Tanner wouldn’t have to leave this euphoria ever again.
He wasn’t working, no jobs to be had. He didn’t know how his father was doing, didn’t care. Tanner’s life revolved around ingesting a drug and he alternated the manners by which it got into his bloodstream. He preferred shooting it, but then he would recall that method from his Jackson days. Then he might snort it or maybe inhale the fumes. But the how really didn’t matter. What mattered was its relatively cheap cost compared to his last endeavors to drown out the pain, and that it kept him away from Jackson.
Tanner’s supplier was Pickle Rhett, that nickname due to Rhett’s fondness for dill pickles. Rhett Hartman was also an addict, having slipped into his habit after graduating from high school. Rhett hadn’t wanted to continue his education, and steady employment had seemed too demanding. Like Jackson, Rhett had found other avenues.
But Pickle Rhett’s motives were far less sinister. He also knew Tanner’s whole story, but didn’t demean his family, had played ball with Will when younger. Pickle’s name also sprang from his quickness on the plate, as he was never in one. He stole bases as Will pitched strikes, two teens bringing three consecutive state championships to Arkendale High School. For Pickle, selling drugs was a way to get by. With Jackson it was a manner of control.
Pickle didn’t drive a late model Mustang, only a beat-up Honda Civic. Pickle didn’t have a pit bull, but a soft old tabby who curled around Tanner’s leg when he went for another fix. Pickle’s girlfriend Tandi looked like a goddess except for her missing teeth. She didn’t use meth anymore, but the rotted appearance showed the depth of her previous habit. Pickle and Tandi had a daughter, two-year-old Anna Nicole, named for the actress, and she reminded Tanner of Janessa when she was small. Anna’s eyes were wide-spaced and didn’t seem to focus correctly. Tandi had still been using when Anna Nicole was born, and no one was sure what might account for her Down’s syndrome facial structure.
Tanner wasn’t sure if that little girl was like his sister, wished he could ask Alana to have a look at her. That was the only time Tanner wanted to see her, a woman that since he had moved out was never considered his mother. His mother was Jan Watson, Tanner dropping her married name. Jan Watson had taken the divorce money, blood money Tanner thought of it, and never spent a penny. Jan Watson had her son’s best interest at heart, waiting for the day when he would need it, need her. Tanner needed a mother. Under the influence, he chose the wrong one.
By the end of July, Chelsea felt constant contractions. Andy had two weeks of vacation accrued, then they would depend upon family. Rachel would be living with them, at least in the beginning. The extra bedroom had a twin mattress for her, the nursery ready and waiting. At the end of the month, everyone was waiting for something.
The Schumachers anticipated their babies while Mitch dominated Max’s family’s thoughts. Then the hopes filtered to ones more personal. Sam and Jenny hoped Eric and Dana’s new lives in Oregon wouldn’t be marred by any interference. Andy had a description of James Browning, knew he had harassed Dana, but only that. Eric hadn’t wanted that much exposed, but Andy had needed a reason to be vigilant.
Tommie and Rae hoped Tanner wouldn’t spend all of Jan’s money that summer. Tommie knew about Rhett Hartman, having heard about him from Fred Hooper of all people. Walking Jackson’s pit bull on a thick leash, Fred had made a point of stopping Tommie just outside the hardware store. Tommie said little to a man he now hated, only wishing Fred well.
Jacob and Debbie wished Tanner could cut those same ties, but Jacob carried more insight than Tommie, his alcoholism wrapped into his own father’s enduring troubles. Jacob wondered if somehow this had been fated from long before Tanner was born; if Jacob had been a better father to his children, maybe Scott wouldn’t have let Alana get away. Maybe Jan Watson and Tim McGillis would never have touched this clan.
Scott’s family worried about Tanner. The older girls possessed more scorn than concern, while the younger kids fretted that their unstable brother had gotten into more than he could fight. At thirteen and a half, Susannah knew what Tanner was taking, even Janessa was anxious, which also bothered Scott and Alana, who kept their own deep fears under wraps.
The rest held apprehensions within households all across Oregon and the surrounding West Coast states. From David in Washington to Travis in Southern California, everyone did know everything.
Or most things. Jenny and Sam’s deepest secrets rumbled along the surface, mirrored by Eric and Dana’s issues. But two men were biding their time, Jackson Hooper and James Browning eliminating the space between themselves and their prey.
Chapter 18
Alvin's Farm Book 5: An Innate Sense of Recognition Page 17
