The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek

by Jane Myers Perrine

  “Don’t know how that happened, sir.” The younger boy pointed toward the broken slider. “One moment it was fine and the next, it wasn’t.”

  The older kid scowled at him.

  They were cute kids with spiked red hair and burnt orange University of Texas T-shirts worn with jeans and athletic shoes. They had to be brothers. But at that moment, Sam didn’t care if they were good guys or gangbangers. His missing foot had started to throb again, something the VA medical staff called phantom limb pain but felt excruciatingly genuine to him. The raw agony made him want to scream, except he was a marine. Marines didn’t scream.

  On top of everything, he was here and his troops were…​how many thousands of miles away? The fact he wasn’t with them tore at him so badly he hurt inside almost as much as in the missing limb.

  And Morty was dead. He died every night.

  Gritting his teeth, Sam turned, balanced himself on the right crutch, and leaned over to pick up a fist-size rock. Shards of glass covered the floor and stuck to the curtain. By the time he’d struggled to stand back up, he saw the boys squeezing through the narrow opening and inside.

  “Don’t suppose this”—he tossed the rock into the air several times and looked through the broken pane—“had anything to do with the broken window.”

  The eyes of the shorter boy grew even rounder. “No, sir,” he said.

  The older brother shushed him and said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  The kid was either very polite or he knew Sam was military. Probably because of his camo sleeveless T-shirt.

  “Names.”

  “I’m Leo.” The older boy straightened his thin shoulders and stood at attention. “He’s Nick. Thomas. Our last name is Thomas.”

  If anything could, the sight of Leo’s posture would have made Sam laugh. “How old are you?”

  “I’m ten.” Leo pointed at himself. “My brother’s eight.”

  “When does school start?” The pain began to move up from the missing foot through his absent shin and settled in his shattered knee. He didn’t feel like chatting but couldn’t figure out how to get the two to leave. He could shout at them, curse at them, but even he had his limits. He couldn’t do that to kids.

  “In August,” Leo said.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She works, sir.” Leo pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them straight and flat against his side.

  “At the hospital, sir.” Nick squared his shoulders, mimicking his brother.

  Aha. If he didn’t hurt so much, he’d have figured out much earlier that these two redheads must belong to the luscious PT he’d met at the hospital. He grinned, inside.

  “And your father?” Might as well collect all the information he could.

  He hadn’t thought the boys’ eyes could look any sadder, but they did.

  Leo lowered his gaze. “Back in Chicago.”

  “With his stupid new wife Tiffany,” the younger kid muttered.

  Leo gave Nick an elbow to his ribs.

  “When my folks split up, we came back here.” Leo grimaced. “Is Butternut Creek the stupidest name you’ve ever heard of for a town, sir? All my friends back home—” He swallowed hard. “All the guys laughed at me when I told them we were moving to Butternut Creek, Texas.” His voice dripped with disgust.

  “Yeah, mine, too,” Nick added.

  “Shut up,” Leo said. “Your friends didn’t even—”

  “Yeah, they did. And I have as many friends as you.”

  “Do not.” Leo turned toward his younger brother and glared at him.

  “Stop.” The sound of squabbling made Sam’s head pound harder, in time with the throbbing of his leg. “Let’s get back to basics. One of you broke my window, but you both were playing in my yard where you shouldn’t be. Stop arguing and man up.”

  “Wow. He said man up.” Nick’s voice filled with wonder.

  “Okay, man up, squirt,” Leo said to his brother, then turned to Sam. “Nick broke the window.”

  “Did not.”

  “He was pretending to toss a grenade into the guardhouse to save me. He didn’t mean to hit the glass, but he did throw the rock.”

  “It was an accident,” Nick whispered. “It sort of slipped out of my hand.”

  Sam glared at the boys for a few seconds and wondered what he was getting into by talking to them, by allowing them to enter the silence he surrounded himself with. Nothing good. Nothing he wanted to get involved in. “What are you going to do about it?” he demanded because he couldn’t think of any other way to respond and he guessed it would kill their self-esteem if he mocked them or sent them away. Not that he had reason to care about their self-esteem.

  Why was he acting like such a nice guy when he did not care about people and pain throbbed through his missing leg? The brothers looked at him then at each other. They shrugged.

  “Don’t know,” Leo said.

  The tendrils of the headache had started to move down Sam’s neck. He had to get the boys outside so he could close the drapes, settle on the sofa, and do his exercises. He needed darkness, not sunshine. For a moment, he tried to gather his thoughts and consider how he could get them out of there. He turned away from the slider and leaned against the table.

  “Look,” the younger one whispered. “He’s got tattoos.”

  “Tats, idiot,” the older brother said. “He’s got barbed wire on his right arm.”

  “And something marine-y on the other,” the younger one said. “Look at those muscles.” A note of awe filled the whispered comment. Sam would have laughed but that would hurt his head. Instead he glared at them and said, “Have your mom call me.”

  “Oh, no, sir. Please don’t make us tell her.” Leo’s voice quivered. He cleared his throat. “We’ll do anything if you won’t tell my mother.”

  “She gets sad and really disappointed in us.” Nick’s lips trembled.

  “Have her call me,” Sam said in his command voice. “Seven-one-four-four.” In Butternut Creek, everyone shared the same prefix so he didn’t bother with it.

  “Seven-one-four-four,” they repeated simultaneously.

  “If you don’t tell her, I’ll call her. You won’t like what happens after that.” With those words, he pointed toward the slider. “Now. Go!” As they dashed out, Sam slid the door shut as far as he could and closed the curtain. Then he steadied himself on the crutches as he stumbled toward the sofa in the living room with glass crunching beneath his shoe. Once there, he fell on the cushions and took a bottle of pills from the end table. He popped three in his mouth and swallowed them dry, in too much pain to stand and get water.

  He leaned his head against the back of the sofa, closed his eyes to relax, and began to imagine himself going down in an elevator while he read the floors. “Ten,” he said. “Nine, eight…” The pain lessened with each number.

  As the muscles of his neck loosened, the phone rang. The jangle made his shoulders tense up and increased the pounding of his headache. Hadn’t thought it could hurt more.

  Probably the general or a wrong number. No one else knew where he was. He’d let it ring, because he didn’t want to talk to the general. Actually, he didn’t want to talk to anyone but most of all, not to the general.

  As much as he liked the solitude, Sam hadn’t planned to be alone here. The general had meant to be here when Sam arrived in town, but he’d had a mild heart attack. At the time, Sam had felt relief not to have the general close. Not that he could imagine the old warhorse fussing as he took care of his only and deeply disappointing son, but he hadn’t wanted him there at all. Ever. His presence would have intruded on Sam’s privacy.

  The general had improved greatly, but the cardiologist refused to release him from his care for another month. Good old Dad always followed rules and commands, usually at the expense of his family.

  Sam knew he should have outgrown that bitterness years ago.

  He closed his eyes and started counting down again. “Ten�
� nine…”

  When he felt better, he’d call the insurance agent about replacing the glass in the slider. The number should be somewhere, maybe in the box of stuff his aunt’s lawyer had left.

  Then he’d call the liquor store and arrange for another delivery.

  “Preacher?”

  Adam looked up from his Bible, attempting to bring himself back to the present from the time of David. Maggie stood at the door. “Yes?”

  “I need the hymns for Sunday.”

  He picked a piece of paper from the printer tray, glanced at it, then grabbed the list of Miss Birdie–approved hymns and a pen. With that, he crossed out his choices and changed every hymn to one of Miss Birdie’s choosing.

  That should make her believe she’d broken him in, which should make his life easier. His plan was, little by little, to slip in some of the newer hymns and drop most of the Fanny Crosby hymns and several of the old favorites she enjoyed. “Jesus Is Tenderly Calling Me Home” had always made him feel as if he were at a funeral. However, allowing Miss Birdie to win the first skirmish seemed like an excellent strategy.

  Finished, he handed the list to Maggie and headed out to call on Sam Peterson. Easily finding the right house, Adam picked up all the papers—two weeks’ worth—and placed them on the porch next to the front door, then rang the bell.

  He didn’t hear the sound of the chime inside, so he knocked. And knocked again. No one came, and it seemed as if no one would. If Captain Peterson didn’t want visitors, Adam had to respect that. Besides, even a minister could hardly force himself on the man. Adam backed away from the door and turned to step off the porch.

  He’d keep trying. He wanted to meet this man and he knew Miss Birdie wouldn’t let him forget his duty.

  Chapter Five

  Friday evening Adam lay half-on-half-off the sofa, watching some action program he couldn’t concentrate on.

  The time since his arrival had gone well. Most of the congregation liked his preaching, although the pillar—Miss Birdie—made several suggestions. He’d made a number of much-appreciated hospital and nursing home visits and met the ministers of the Lutheran and Episcopal churches, spent a few hours at the food pantry every week, had coffee with Father Joe, and done a lot of ministerial stuff. But books and boxes still covered the surfaces and floors of the office. Someday he’d get to them.

  As busy as he’d been with all those activities and events and meetings and services to fill time, Adam felt on edge. For the past few days, he hadn’t been able to sit still. In the parsonage, he’d paced through the parlors and up and down the hall several times, even up the stairs to wander into empty bedrooms and the attic, then back down, over and over. None of that movement brought relief.

  Adam stood and moved to stare out the front window.

  Somewhere out there lay what he needed. Could he find it tonight? How would he be able to locate his fix in a new town?

  Where to start?

  He didn’t know, but he had to find something to get him through the night, to allow him to sleep, to take the edge off.

  He had to find a pickup game of roundball.

  After changing into athletic shoes and sweats, he found his basketball and dribbled it down the stairs, across the hall, and outside.

  During Daylight Saving Time, sunlight in Central Texas lasted until nine thirty. If he could find a court, he’d have about an hour to shoot hoops.

  Some people ran. Others walked or swam. Adam played basketball. He’d always needed the physical demands of the game to release all the pent-up tension and nervous energy his body built up with inactivity. Add to that the stress accumulated over the days without exercise, the jitters of being a new minister, the strain of knowing Miss Birdie watched his every move. His body screamed for a hard game of basketball.

  He missed the competition, the moves, the jukes, and the almost chess-like thinking that took place in nearly every game, even pickup games.

  Easy to find a game in Kentucky where basketball was pretty much another religion. If no one at the seminary was playing, he’d cross the street to the university or to Prall Town, a nearby neighborhood.

  He jogged down streets lined by crepe myrtle. Heavy with flowers, their branches stretched up and up before crashing down in cascades of pink or purple or cottony white. Every now and then, a dog came to the fence and sniffed or growled. Several barked loudly enough to be called back by waving neighbors.

  “Good evening, Preacher,” a man called from his yard.

  Recognizing the voice and face of a church member but not remembering his name, Adam wandered over to the fence.

  The member of the congregation glanced at the ball Adam carried. “Looking for a game?” He pointed. “Over yonder. A block south and a couple more east. Goliad Park. Always a game going on.”

  Adam followed the directions. As he got closer, the noise and the glow of lights blazing through trees drew his attention.

  On the court, two teams, players of different sizes and colors, worked hard, sweat dripping down their faces and bodies causing dark skin to glow like ebony. Near the fence stood several more guys and a couple of girls, all watching and cheering. On a court farther south, young women played.

  If this had been a party or social hour, Adam would have walked away, uncomfortable because he didn’t know anyone. But this was ball. He didn’t lack confidence here. “I’ve got next,” he yelled. Did the rules and phrases from Kentucky work here?

  The games stopped. Everyone—those on both courts and those watching—turned toward him. Adam knew exactly what they saw: a newcomer, a tall, skinny old guy carrying a ball. Most of the players outweighed him by thirty pounds, and Adam had at least five or ten years on them. A few snickered. Others grinned and laughed.

  “I’ve got next,” he repeated, undaunted.

  They nodded before resuming their games.

  While they played, Adam dribbled toward one of the baskets outside the court and tossed up a few shots, then moved farther away and put several more in.

  “You shoot like that when you’re guarded?”

  Slowly and deliberately, Adam took another shot, missed, rebounded, and put it in before glancing at the speaker. The kid outweighed him and was stronger but Adam had more experience, a few inches’ advantage in height, and longer arms.

  Sweat glistened on the player’s dark skin, which meant he must have warmed up and been playing already. Should be good competition.

  “Try me.” Adam tossed the ball to him.

  Expressionless, the kid watched him for a second, then put the ball on the cracked asphalt and dribbled, glancing left, then right, and from Adam’s feet to his eyes, watching and judging his movements. With a fake to the left and a drive to the right, the other player broke toward the basket. Like a hustler, Adam gave him that one. An early score made the other guy overconfident and cockier.

  The kid turned with a big grin. With swagger and attitude, he tossed Adam the ball. The preacher had the guy exactly where he wanted him. Before he could react, Adam put the ball in the air for a long shot. The ball didn’t make a sound as it passed through the metal chain of the basket. All that swagger and attitude disappeared, and the two got down to playing ball.

  For the next thirty minutes, they fought. Despite the breeze, sweat poured down them both. They threw elbows, tripped each other, shoved and talked trash. Adam’s trash talk consisted of “Oh, yeah?” and “Who’s your daddy?” among other tame taunts, but it worked okay for him. The kid used tougher phrases filled with words the preacher hadn’t used in years, but they didn’t bother him. He didn’t really hear them. All he cared about was the game, the competition. When he played ball, Adam wasn’t clumsy or uncertain or too young and inexperienced. He was in the zone.

  Within a few minutes, a small crowd had gathered, including the guys who’d been playing when he arrived. After a hard-fought game, Adam won thirty to twenty-six.

  “Hey, Pops, you play pretty well for a skinny guy,” his opponent
said.

  Adam read the subtext: pretty good for a skinny white guy. The nickname showed the kid recognized the preacher as being older, but he didn’t care. He’d more than held his own against the youngster. That felt good.

  The other guy spun the ball on his finger and studied Adam. “I’m Hector Firestone.”

  “Hector.” Adam nodded but didn’t say more for a few seconds. He was so winded he could barely talk, but darned if he’d let Hector know that. “Just call me Pops.”

  As he walked home that night, dribbling the ball in front of him and making moves toward phantom baskets, Adam cooled off and considered the next day.

  Sam Peterson. He had to visit him again. Or try to.

  Sam groaned, inside. He didn’t want to face intake with a PT who had read his eyes and understood what the redness meant. But here he sat, in her office, waiting for an interview and for the therapist to lay out a program to fix him. He looked out the window between her office and the treatment room.

  As if feeling his gaze on her, Willow glanced at him, then away as she chatted with a patient. He grinned as he considered what he’d say to her. He noticed again the brackets between her eyes and understood them better. Moving to Texas, a cheating husband, and two active boys, as well as a new job, could wear a woman out. Maybe a year ago, he’d have sympathized, but compassion no longer made his top twenty list. In fact, compassion came well below “attempt to function” and “could care less.”

  As she entered the office, Willow Thomas turned a friendly smile at him but still didn’t react like other women. Her lack of response probably was good but still odd in a life-is-pain sort of way. The only woman he’d seen in months whom he might like to attract didn’t respond to his charms. Not at all. Not that he wanted to attract her, not now, but a positive response, the usual my-my-my-aren’t-you-hot reaction, would feel good.

  With another surreptitious glance at the redhead, he realized what a bunch of bull his desire not to attract her was. He’d like her to find him attractive and not only for the ego boost.

  Once in her office, he’d shoved the crutches against the wall and settled into the chair, glad to take the weight off his shoulders. Aware of the warning from his doctor and the PTs in other hospitals not to cross his legs, he did exactly that, right over left, to see if he could get a rise from the professional and gorgeous therapist.