Will Rise from Ashes

by Jean M. Grant

  I stood, wiped my raw, dirty hands on my jeans, and leaned against a tree. I was spent. The twenty stress-pounds I had put on after Will’s diagnosis nearly three years before had quickly withered away in the year since Harrison’s death. However, the pounds lost were not replaced with muscle tone. I was out of shape. Like many things in the past year, exercise lost its higher position on the priority list. I threaded my fingers through my knotty hair, pulling a few loose grays out with the brown. Yup, hair appointments, too. I drew the hair off my neck and wiped the sweat. I then let it fall. I lacked a hair tie, and it wasn’t quite long enough to pull back, so I tucked it behind my ears.

  Will approached and put his arm around my waist. “Let me help, Mom.”

  I smiled at him. He was great at puzzles, but neither he nor I had the physical strength to turn that damn tire iron. It wasn’t the larger X-shaped iron. No, this was truly an emergency-only tire iron, L-shaped and harder to use. “Let’s try again,” I said anyway. I had successfully, with Will’s guess, put the jack in the correct place and had lifted the car at least. I managed to take the spare off the rear gate after removing our bikes and rack. Brought also for emergencies. Yes, I was a notorious over-packer always ready with the what-ifs.

  He put his hands beside mine on the tire iron, and we tried. And tried. I heaved an exasperated sigh. “It’s no use, honey. We need more strength to turn this thing. The mechanic has an air-wrench to tighten the bolts.” Determination didn’t outweigh my lack of physical strength in this case. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, letting the release of three days’ stress buildup leave my body. A part of me was relieved for this momentary setback. A part of me was terrified.

  Harrison’s grumblings echoed in the depths of my mind. “Knock it off!” I mumbled.

  “Mom?”

  I swatted my hand in the air. “Nothing.”

  I returned to sit under the tree next to Will. Even with the shade that protected us from the blazing sun, I rested my arm across my face. Will hummed as he continued playing with whatever it was beside me—rocks, sticks, dirt—his youthful self-soothing a calming mechanism for me as well. I closed my eyes for just a moment.

  “Mom, Mom!” Will’s voice came through.

  I sat up, groggy. “Goodness, did I fall asleep?”

  “Yeah. Mom, there’s somebody coming!” Will pointed down the road.

  Even from far away, I recognized the man’s plaid long-sleeved shirt and the large backpack, but now he was walking alongside a bike on his approach.

  “Hey, look! It’s that guy you drove past this morning!”

  I shuddered inwardly. Well, karma just bit me in the butt.

  “How did he catch up with us?” Motherly instinct took over as I rose, my legs wobbly. “Will, stay there. Here, take this,” I said, handing him the tire iron.

  “We already tried that, Mom.”

  “Not for that, Will.”

  He scratched his brown hair, which was overdue for a cut, and looked at me, confusion wrinkling his brow.

  “Be my wizard, Will. It’s your sword.”

  “Wizards have wands.”

  “Will…”

  The circuit connected. “Oh…yes, Mom, I’ll protect you!”

  I smiled faintly. “Thank you, honey.” I didn’t want to explain further that it was me protecting him. I didn’t want to say that if something happened, to run and hide in the woods. Because he would run and hide. Then what? Who would come help?

  I shoved my hand into my front jeans pocket to nestle my fingertips around the pocket knife I had given Harrison for our wedding anniversary. The man slowed his bicycle as he drew nearer. He gave me an understated, yet significant, nod. The nod of understanding, of kindness. I didn’t buy it.

  “Hello, again,” he said.

  Ouch. “You’re resourceful. Found a bike, have you?”

  A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. “Yeah. I passed a bicycle shop in…” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Outside of Olean. The owner was kind enough to give it to me for forty bucks. It was an old one he found at a yard sale. A bit rusty. He said there’d be no use for them soon.” He added in an eerie nonchalant way, “Ash, and all that.”

  “That’s a bit dreary. We’re not talking an apocalypse, here. I doubt it will come to that.” Really? Zombies and apocalypses…gosh, AJ. I covered my unease with a smile. Who was I kidding? Was I still floating in denial? I’d been robbed already and my gun had been involved in some altercation out on the main highway. And I was still in New York. My stomach churned with my own mental tally marks, much like Will’s charts. Jesus, I wanted to get out of this state.

  “You’ve got a few bikes there, too.” He gestured with his chin toward our two bikes beside the now removed bike rack. It had been a last-minute decision. Given what I’d read with Will through the years, we could hit a point where the car would no longer get us through the ash. Will wasn’t proficient on his bike yet, though. He still used training wheels. Who knew if the bikes would even work? For once, maybe my over-packing would pay off. Even Patsy frequently remarked that I packed too many clothes for the kids when they stayed with her for grandparent-bonding weekends.

  My fingers quivered on the knife’s handle in my pocket. “Are you local? Can you point me in the direction of a mechanic or roadside assistance?”

  “No, sorry.” The man dropped his pack, leaned the bike on the ground, and lifted his water bottle. He chugged it in two gulps, wiped the sweat from his deeply tanned forehead, and then passed his look between the flat tire and me. “I can help you with that. Just need the tire replaced? You have a full-sized spare there I see.”

  Will swung the tire iron around in wizardly-fashion, humming one of his mishmashes of made-up tunes. Lovely. I grabbed the tire-iron-turned-wand from Will. “Not the best choice, honey.”

  “You said to be your wizard. I said a protection spell, Mom.” He put on a slight pout but found himself easily distracted by a stick pile. He sifted through them. He picked a short, knobby one and stacked a few of the sticks. He flicked his wrist and said, “Ignite-o!” to the pile.

  I couldn’t help but smile at his spell.

  “I’m a decent hand with tires and cars,” the man repeated. He tapped the flat tire.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I said, to no believable effect.

  His face broadened into a smile. Days of black stubble speckled his chin and upper lip. “I can help. You’re the first person I’ve seen on this stretch of road. It may be a while.”

  The genuine warmth of his look caught me off guard. It’d been ages since I’d seen such a pleasant countenance on anyone who spoke with me. “I, earlier…” I stumbled over my words. His gaze was piercing and unnerving to tell the truth. He had that ruggedly handsome look, with slightly longer, smooth, nearly-black hair on the top, cropped closer on the sides, and a prominent forehead with thick, sharply angled eyebrows. I fought labeling him with a typical stereotype; he had a mild accent. Mexican, maybe? Puerto Rican? I was always evaluating people. Knock it off, AJ!

  The man deliberately looked at Will and then turned to me. He said, belatedly, “I understand.” A wayward strand fell over his coffee-colored eyes, and he brushed it back.

  Geesh, I had gone too long without a delicious cup of java…or a person’s kindness. Now this guy’s eyes reminded me of coffee. Harrison had been my coffee barista. Sure, I could brew it, but there was magic in his bringing me a cup after a long day, rubbing my feet, and…

  “Thanks.” I stared at the tire iron in my hand, wary. “We can’t get the lug nuts off.”

  I didn’t let on to my frustration with the task.

  “I used to work in a mechanic’s garage and had to deal with these tough ones without an air-wrench. They can be difficult.” He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them to his elbows, revealing a string of tattoos on his muscular right arm. A mixture of twirling dark black lines in a tribal design danced across his skin.

  I must have hesitated. He put o
ut his hand, palm side up. “I’ll need that.” I stared at a second tattoo across the inside of his lighter, more golden-colored wrist: Ne obliviscaris. Latin. Not sure what it meant though even with my two years of Latin studies. I handed him the iron.

  My inner radar went off, not that I held any prejudice against a man with a tattoo or two. My father had his own badges of memory from Vietnam inked on his body. He now lived the life of a hermit, I reminded myself. Even my stepmom couldn’t handle his delusions anymore, and she spent most of her time with the church ladies.

  This man traveled alone, and he wasn’t local. Everything in my gut said to get moving…but how? My car was going nowhere.

  I shoved my fingers in my pocket and refused to peel them from around the closed pocket knife. What good would that do against this clearly fit man? “Hey, Will, why don’t you wait over here? Gather your things, please.” Not waiting for him to help, I stooped and picked up Will’s picnic of cheese crackers and peanut butter.

  “I want to play,” he moaned as he built a structure with the scattered sticks and then waved his stick-wand and said “Illuminate!” with associated sound effects.

  I was in no mood for this, even if it was hotter in the car. “Will, now, please. You can take the sticks with us.” My breath grew short, and I paused in my gathering. My anxiety couldn’t already be flaring because of my pill shortage. It would take a few days before I felt that effect. Or I hoped. I was proud of how well I’d done so far with driving and keeping my cool. Maybe I didn’t need the pills after all…

  Will persisted with his moans and mumbles, but I shot him a “listen to me, now” glare. He understood those looks well enough. Nonetheless, he moved like molasses. Harrison used to say he behaved like a floppy rag doll or wet noodle. Either way, I had to light a fire under his butt.

  I limited my pacing as the man finished with the tire. He got the nuts off easily enough, pulled off the flat, and was now working on the spare.

  Will approached with his group of sticks. “Where’s your car, mister?”

  The man paused in his work. “It broke down near Newburgh.”

  “Why didn’t you get another car or fix yours?”

  Sometimes I loved Will’s questions, for I’d been thinking the same thing. Questions from the mouths of babes come off as less intrusive. The man turned to me when he answered. He paused in his work. “I like bikes.”

  Will gave him an incredulous glance.

  The man muffled a chuckle. “My car was beyond repair. No rental agency was nearby. Here I am with old Rusty.” He pointed to the blue, and aptly named, rusty bike. “He’s got potential, though. Might give him the royal treatment at the shop back home.”

  “Bikes don’t have names,” Will observed. “And bikes aren’t boys.”

  “Hmm,” I said, unconvinced, but it was a logical explanation. I wondered where “home” was if it wasn’t here.

  “So, you’re biking all the way to…where are you going, mister?”

  “Will, please take your sticks to the car.”

  He slowly gathered the sticks but didn’t move toward the car yet. More humming.

  I was grateful for the man’s good sense to not discuss hitchhiking to my impressionable child. He lowered the jack, easing the car down with its new tire.

  The man rose, wiped his hands on his jeans, and looked at me. Silence. I stared at the grease on his jeans and felt guilty for being the cause of that.

  “Do you have a tire pressure gauge?”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  He mounted the bike rack on the now busted tire while I dug through the glove compartment. “Here,” I said, returning to him and assisting with the rack and bikes. “Let me check the manufacturer recommendations,” I added after handing him the gauge, and then I returned to the driver side. I looked inside the door, then at the man. “Thirty-two PSI.”

  He measured it. “It looks okay, but you may want to check it at your next gas station.”

  He drew his hands through his hair and then reached into his backpack.

  I retrieved the tire iron, hesitating to return it to the trunk.

  He pulled out a lollipop, removed the orange wrapper, and then paused. “Oh, hey, would you like one, buddy?” He glanced at Will, who was already getting in the SUV, then turned to me. “If Mom says it’s okay?”

  Will said, “Nope, I can’t have them. Those have the chewy chocolate centers. I have these expander things on my teeth. See?” He opened his mouth to show off the metal spacers arched on his upper palate and the floor of his mouth, the orthodontic work the insurance company had initially balked at covering. But I had weaved through that red tape.

  “Bummer,” the man said.

  “Thanks for helping,” was all I could muster. I didn’t want to ask his name. I wanted to be gone. My courage was withering.

  He didn’t ask. I didn’t offer.

  I turned on the car, my heart pounding. Stories of women or children abducted, tortured, and murdered flashed before my eyes. Harrison’s gun was now in the hands of some thugs. I needed to go. Now. Breathe, AJ. Breathe.

  The man righted his bike. “Have a safe journey, wherever it takes you.”

  Will leaned out his open window. He’d already put his helmet back on. “Where are you going?”

  Thank goodness for Will.

  “West,” the man said.

  “On a bike?” Will probed. “That’s going to take weeks or months. By car, it’s only about four or five days. An airplane is three to six hours, depending on where you’re going. Of course, airplanes aren’t flying west now. You need to find another car, mister.”

  I couldn’t chide Will for being chatty. In fact, I’d grown tired of my incessant and negative thoughts as company during the past few days. A bag of pretzels and two apples sat in the passenger-less seat beside me. I grabbed an apple and the bag and rolled the window down.

  “Well, it will take a while,” the man said. “Maybe I can find a cheaper car somewhere along the way.” In the afternoon sun, his eyes glistened pleasantly as he squinted, and he grinned again. Will always had a way of affecting people with his sweetness.

  “We’re going to Denver to get my brother, Finn. Well, that’s if his plane from Salt Lake City landed there and he’s okay. The blast zone didn’t reach that far, but the ash did and there was a 7.4 magnitude earthquake. Mom says he’ll be okay. My uncle will take care of him.”

  “I hope you find them, buddy,” he said to Will. The man then gave a tactful nod.

  “Can I at least offer you something to eat?” I stretched and handed the apple and pretzels through the window.

  He stared blankly at my offering.

  I spoke in a rush. “I have more. In my trunk…”

  He took them, his fingertips grazing my mine for a few seconds. “No need. This is great, thanks. Be safe,” he said as he hopped on his bike.

  I called a humble thank-you and drove away before Will would offer him a ride.

  “He should have come with us,” Will said belatedly.

  I always found Will’s observations interesting. He didn’t ask me why I hadn’t offered the man a ride, though a slew of explanations hovered on the tip of my tongue to appease that potential question. No, that would’ve been Finn asking me those questions. As we drove, Will returned to spouting off facts about the supervolcano.

  I blinked away my own self-reproach and refused to look in the rearview mirror.

  ****

  That evening, after my detour around Pittsburgh, I pulled over in a big-box-store parking lot off Route 70 in Ohio. An RV with an elderly couple was set up on the far end. Seemed safe enough. Visible, but not a target. I eyed our route in the atlas. “Hello, Peregrine,” I said to the aptly named book.

  Once, when Harrison and I had gotten lost on a detour to his parents’ house in Virginia and I cursed at his smartphone’s inaccuracy, the reliable atlas had been our saving grace.

  “The phone doesn’t like me,” I’d said, dropping it
into the cup holder like it was a venomous snake.

  “Nope,” Harrison had teased. He squeezed my knee but didn’t take his focus off the road.

  I knew that he hankered to be the one looking at the atlas and not me. He loved maps. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree with our cartographer son.

  “Doesn’t Peregrine mean something like ‘traveler’?” Harrison asked.

  I replied, “You may be thinking of the falcon. From one of those shows the boys watch.”

  “Here, check.” He handed me his phone while he navigated the beltway around DC. The phone was an alien rock in my hands.

  “Just type it into the search engine box,” Harrison said patiently.

  I did, and I laughed, showing him the image. “A falcon, see!”

  “Keep reading,” he urged.

  Dammit, he was right. “How do you remember these things?”

  His lips curled into his signature smile. The sun sparkled on blond stubble above his lip. I loved how the sunshine and warmer weather accentuated the golden hues in his now-earthy-brown hair. I’d seen the adorable photos of him as a kid. He’d been a blondie during his childhood years in California, but then his family had moved to the Midwest and his hair had grown darker. Goodbye Cali sunshine, hello winters. The glimmer of ego danced in his blue irises. I poked his arm. “Okay, you’re right, Mr. Encyclopedia.”

  Now, I flipped through Peregrine’s Atlas as the last tendril of memory dissipated. Harrison’s long cursive notes were scribbled on a few of the pages. I traced a finger over them, evoking his spirit.

  Will and I had begun our turn south today, which required us to travel on slower roads, but it would allow us to avoid metro areas like Chicago. Not that Route 70 was less busy, but it would take us west. Tomorrow, we’d hit Columbus, followed by Indianapolis, and then St. Louis. Avoiding cities was hard. I had to try to stick to the easiest routes until I couldn’t anymore. I highlighted the route and then put Peregrine away.

  I pulled out my journal and reread my last entry and pondered the man we’d met today.