The Widow of Saunders Creek

by Tracey Bateman

  I would never see him again. Jarrod, the hero of my heart, was gone, and he was never coming back.

  “You jerk,” I whispered through tears. “They gave you a medal.”

  The chain groaned above me as the swing moved forward, then back, as though someone were pushing from behind. My eyes popped open, and I glanced, half-fearfully, around. There was no wind. Not even the slightest breeze. And drunk as I was, I knew I hadn’t moved the swing.

  “Jarrod?” I whispered. Had he somehow found a way to come back to me? If he wanted to be with me as a whisper of wind, a shiver up my spine, I’d take him any way I could get him. I sat up, my heart racing with fear, anticipation, excitement. The remnants of twilight were gone, and nothing was left except the stars and moon. It was so dark I could barely see the white railing in front of the swing. I hadn’t even bothered to turn on a light earlier, so there was no glow through the windows. Only the sounds of the tree frogs and crickets broke up the quiet of the hill on which the farmhouse sat.

  “Jarrod?” My voice shook and echoed so loudly in my ears it sounded like I was speaking through a bullhorn. “It would be just like you to break all the rules and come back to me. I’m freaking out a little bit, and to be honest, the brandy has me really drunk. If it’s you, make the swing move again.”

  I held my breath, waiting for … something. “Jarrod?”

  Still nothing. I had never felt so utterly alone in my entire life. “Aw, Jarrod,” I whispered, my throat choking with tears again. “For a minute there, I thought you were really back.”

  The rusty chains began to creak, and slowly, the swing moved back and forth. My heart lurched and I smiled—the first real smile to touch my lips in weeks. The songs of the night insects became a lullaby. I didn’t open my eyes, but I knew if I did, Jarrod would be sitting at the end of the swing, cradling my feet in his lap and swinging me to sleep.

  Eli

  I thought for a second she might be dead. Curled up in the swing, a strand of honey-blond hair stuck to her face, her skin so white it was almost pasty.

  She moaned and moved. I set down my coffee thermos, released the breath I’d been holding, and leaned against the porch rail, trying to decide whether to rouse her or let her wake on her own.

  The gentleman in me wanted to lift her and carry her inside. She was shivering and shouldn’t be lying there in the dewy, cool spring morning. She wore a pair of black exercise pants and a thin, long-sleeved shirt that might have been plenty warm for her to wear inside the house but didn’t cut it out here. What was she thinking?

  She moaned again and moved.

  I knew there was an afghan on the rocking chair in the living room, so I went inside and got it. When I stepped back onto the porch, she was sitting up. She didn’t act embarrassed when she saw me.

  “So, you’re the one I heard walking around,” she said, her voice strained. “I thought it might be Jarrod.”

  My heart went out to her. “You’ll be looking for him for a while. My mom said after Dad died she heard him in every room and saw him ’round every corner for months.”

  Corrie’s eyes widened. “Does she still see him?”

  I shook my head. “No. She never really did. She just wasn’t ready to let him go, so her mind played little tricks on her.”

  “Oh.”

  She shivered and reached for the afghan. “For me, right?”

  I handed it over. “You looked cold.”

  “I am. Thanks.” She settled it around her shoulders as I leaned back against the railing again.

  Corrie pressed slender fingertips to her temple. I could only imagine the way her head must be pounding. Her gaze found my coffee thermos next to me, and blue eyes flickered with interest. I lifted the container, unscrewed the top, and poured her some. She blushed, which I admit I found appealing, though I had no business thinking any such thing of my cousin’s widow. She took the steamy mug I offered. “Was I that obvious?”

  “It’s okay. You need it more than I do.” She smelled sour. The bottle of brandy sitting on the porch next to her feet was half-empty. And unless I missed my guess, this girl wasn’t a regular drinker.

  She took a sip and made a face. Then sipped again.

  “You don’t like it?”

  Corrie’s cheeks dimpled. “I don’t usually drink coffee without sugar.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Corrie took another sip and stared down the hill at the fog above the tree line. I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, and I wouldn’t intrude to ask, so I kept my mouth shut and left her alone with her thoughts.

  I searched for small-talk topics and was just about to ask her about her trip the day before when she spoke up first.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Eli?”

  The question took me aback. I didn’t like talking about spirits. The house held memories I’d just as soon forget. Too much family folklore that whispered of visitations and dreams and slamming doors. But she had asked an honest question. And she didn’t seem spooked, which encouraged me. “You mean like if someone dies they don’t leave until they get their unfinished business wrapped up?”

  She nodded and took another sip.

  “No. I don’t.” I had no evidence from the Bible or from reality that supported the existence of the dearly departed.

  “Then how do you explain haunted houses? And ghost hunters on TV?”

  I had my own theory about ghost hunters but kept that to myself. “I don’t claim to have all the answers,” I said slowly, gathering my thoughts. “But I imagine if there is an entity in a house and it’s not an angel, it’s probably a demon.”

  Corrie’s expression dropped.

  I frowned. “Is everything okay?” I asked. “The house isn’t—”

  She shook her head. “No. Just thinking about Jarrod. Wondering if he’s thinking about me.”

  “He’d be an idiot not to.”

  She gave a short laugh. “He could be idiotic at times. Like blowing himself to kingdom come.”

  Her words startled me. “Most people think he’s a hero for that.”

  A shrug lifted her shoulder, and the blanket slid down over the thin shirt. Absently, she pulled it back up, keeping her gaze fixed on the horizon. “I guess a lot of Iraqi families are glad he was so brave.”

  “But you don’t see it that way?”

  “It was heroic. I see that. But when a man has a wife waiting for him, I think he should consider the cost to her before he makes a choice like that.” She pursed her lips, then spoke again. “If he’d been shot instead of sacrificing himself, I might feel a little differently.”

  I knew she spoke from a place of deep grief and not from a rational mind. She had to go through the process. Clearly she was in the angry stage of grief, and I didn’t begrudge her feelings. I stood. “I best get busy.”

  “What were you planning to start on today?”

  “The upstairs bathroom.” That one had flooded several times, and the whole thing needed to be gutted. The floor had to be pulled up and replaced. It would take awhile to finish. “Unless you would prefer I take off a few days to give you some space and quiet time?”

  She shook her head. “No matter how long we wait, I’ll never be ready to let him go, so there’s no reason for you to delay your work on my account. Let’s just get on with it.”

  Once more, my heart went out to her. She was working through anger, grief, and acceptance. “All right. I’ll plan to work on the upstairs bathroom, then.”

  “Before you get started on that, can I ask a favor?”

  I stared into her pixie face and nodded. “What do you need?”

  “Could you secure the swing better? I think you’ll need new chains. It’s just that I don’t want to press my luck on this thing, and I’d like to enjoy the spring weather on the porch.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll have to run into town and pick up some supplies at the hardware store. But that shouldn’t take too long.”

  Her fac
e lit up and she smiled at me, flashing those dimples and blue eyes. My heart responded to the sweetness of her face, and I smiled back.

  The thermos at my feet slammed over, jerking my attention away from Corrie’s pretty face. I picked it up and handed it to Corrie. “You need this more than I do,” I said. “I’ll grab a cup at McDonald’s.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s strange that it fell over like that.”

  I smiled at the way her furrowed brow wrinkled her nose. “The porch is slanted,” I said, although the tilt wasn’t pronounced enough to make the thermos fall without a nudge or a gust of wind.

  But given our ghost discussion, I didn’t want to spook her. “I’ll be rebuilding the porch soon.”

  “Sounds good, Eli.” She stood up, wrapped in the afghan like an Indian princess, then wobbled. Even with my gimpy leg, I got to her before she tilted backward. I grabbed on to her, feeling her tiny bones. “Steady,” I said. “You might want to take it slowly until you get your sea legs.”

  She let out a soft sigh and pulled back, pushing her palm against my chest. “Thank you, Eli. I should never have touched that brandy. I’m paying for it now.”

  I chuckled, keeping my hands on her forearms to make sure she stayed steady before I let her go. “I’m sure you are.”

  She gave me a wobbly attempt at a smile. “Thanks, Eli. And thanks for going into town for the chains. I know it will derail your plans.”

  I grinned. “You’re the boss.”

  As I drove slowly around the sharp curves and steep declines down the road toward town, my mind drifted back to Corrie’s question: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  I heaved a sigh. Are we doing this again, God?

  Corrie

  My head felt like I’d been sentenced to death by squeezing. I slumped against the side of the shower, and I’m sure I didn’t get the soap rinsed out of my tangled hair. But at the moment, I didn’t even want to live, so what did I care about soap? I stepped out of the shower, but I didn’t feel any better after rinsing off yesterday’s pain. I guessed I was experiencing my first ever, and I hoped last ever, hangover.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of the blow-dryer screaming in my ear, so I wrapped a towel around my hair and slipped on another pair of workout pants and one of Jarrod’s old flannel shirts. The soft black pants were the most comfortable I owned. And comfort was what I needed most today.

  Eli hadn’t returned from town by the time I got to the kitchen. I knew I should try to get something down besides coffee. Maybe some dry toast. Wasn’t there some kind of hangover concoction made with tomato juice and raw eggs? Was there something about Tabasco sauce? Where had I heard that? Some movie probably. Surely no one would actually drink that. I shook my head. How could that possibly help when just the thought … ugh. My stomach roiled. Of course, the more I tried not to think about nauseating dishes—runny fried eggs and globby oatmeal—the more those images stayed in my brain. I ran for the first-floor bathroom.

  Thirty minutes later, I still couldn’t bring myself to get off the bathroom floor, even though there was absolutely nothing more that my stomach could try to eject. My entire torso was clenched in the kind of muscle cramp we used to call a charley horse back in my track-star days. Maybe I’d be getting my wish after all and was about to be reunited with Jarrod. I could see our double tombstone now. “Jarrod. Beloved husband. Died a hero. Corrine (because Mother would insist upon my full name even though I hated it). Drunken wife and disgraceful daughter. May she rest in peace.”

  “I’m comin’ to join you, Jarrod,” I said out loud, in my best imitation of Fred Sanford of Sanford and Son. We used to watch the old seventies sitcom and laugh our heads off. I figured he’d appreciate the gesture.

  I heard the front screen door swing open and then slam shut, and relief floated over me. Eli was back. I waited for him to call out for me. Listened carefully for the sounds of chains being dropped on the kitchen counter, but nothing happened. I frowned. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even heard his footsteps. I’d only heard the door open and shut.

  “Eli?”

  No answer.

  I shrugged, figuring I must not have heard the door after all. Did hangovers cause hallucinations? I made a mental note to ask Eli when he really did get back from town. I also made a mental note to dump the rest of that brandy down the drain the second I could stand to smell it. Just the memory of the smell …

  I fought my churning stomach, still too weak and shaky to even care that I was sitting on the floor inches from the toilet.

  Tucking my legs into my chest, I wrapped my arms around my shins. The position helped my stomach cramps, and for the first time since I woke up on the porch swing, I felt optimistic that I might actually live to see tomorrow. I pressed my forehead against my knees, closed my eyes, and wished like anything I’d used a little more self-control the night before.

  I must have dozed off, because I woke to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Then the telltale sound of the rusty hinges, followed by Eli’s voice. “Corrie? I’m back.”

  “In here,” I called, not at all sure he’d hear my thin reply. How could I possibly feel any worse now than I had earlier? My legs trembled and my head hurt so badly I wanted to cry, but I knew it would only make the pain worse. It seemed like every nerve ending in my body shook just below the surface of my skin, like a hyperactive version of restless leg syndrome. The good news was that my stomach had settled down, and despite the cramping, everything else was letting up. “Eli?”

  “Coming,” he replied, and I was never so glad for parchment-thin walls. My spinning head stopped me from standing. If Eli hadn’t been there, I’d have had to crawl all the way to the living room.

  The sound of his heavy boots echoed in the hallway of the nearly empty home. Our small apartment on base didn’t have enough furniture to fill this place, so all I had was my kitchen table, a couch, a couple of rocking chairs, my bedroom furniture, and the futon that I noticed someone—Eli, probably—had set up in one of the spare rooms. I’d finish furnishing when we were done renovating.

  He tapped on the bathroom door. “Corrie? Do you need help?”

  For the first time today, I had the presence of mind to be embarrassed. He was about to open the door and see me sitting on the bathroom floor. I tried to at least stand up, using the wall as support, but my head and legs were having no part of my attempt at movement.

  “I can’t stand up.”

  He hesitated. “Are you … decent?”

  “I’m sitting on the floor in front of the toilet wishing I were dead, but yes, I’m fully clothed.”

  The door opened and he wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

  “That’s the way you talk to a sick person?” I tried to be irritated but couldn’t drum up the energy.

  “If you were really sick, no, I wouldn’t talk like that.” He bent down and slid one arm under my knees, the other at my lower back, and lifted me effortlessly into his big, contractor-strong arms. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t give you a hard time anyway. You’ve had a tough year.”

  “Can you carry me with that leg?”

  He smiled. “I’m not carrying you with my leg.”

  I would have laughed, but it seemed too much effort. “Don’t make jokes. I’m sick.”

  “It’s just a limp, Corrie. I’m not crippled.”

  I nodded, hoping I hadn’t offended him but sensing he’d rather drop it.

  My head protested my attempt at holding it up, and the pain became unbearable in seconds. “Can I put my head on your shoulder?” It felt intimate, and I didn’t want him feeling awkward when he was doing me such a kindness.

  “Sure, honey,” he said. His tone was so kind that I felt safer than I had in a very long time. He carried me out of the bathroom. “Your bed or the couch?” he asked softly.

  “Bedroom, please,” I mumbled, already almost asleep again. “If it won’t bother your leg.”

&
nbsp; I felt myself being lowered to the bed and then a soft, warm chenille throw floating over me. Eli’s boots thumped as he left the room and descended the steps. I rolled to my side and pulled my legs up into the fetal position, hoping to stop the stomach cramps as I had earlier.

  As I drifted to sleep, I felt the mattress move, as though someone had stretched out next to me. Breathing in deeply, I shook it off, chalking up the feeling to my spinning head and an active imagination. There! I felt it again. Movement on the other side of the bed. I jolted awake. That definitely hadn’t been my imagination. I sat up quickly—too quickly. Blood rushed to my head, and nausea hit me full on. I closed my eyes and lay back down. I knew there was no one there, but I also knew what I felt. My mind returned to the night before, when I felt the swing move. A shiver ran up my spine, and my jitters got the better of me. I had to get out of that room. Jarrod or no Jarrod, I couldn’t lie next to a ghost.

  Eli

  I didn’t know how on earth I got the new chains hung on the swing without waking Corrie. Most people would have woken up a hundred times from the drilling and hammering, even from her bedroom upstairs, but she slept soundly, although for some reason she had come downstairs and passed out on the couch.

  My heart hurt for Corrie. I, of all people, knew what it felt like to be under the spell of Jarrod Saunders. And his death had done nothing to stop the admiration people had for him, especially since his death had been so heroic. Jarrod would forever be the favorite son of Saunders Creek, Missouri.

  I sat on the swing and shoved back, then let loose, looking up at the new chain and hooks. They would hold.

  Jarrod should have been here helping with this kind of stuff. He hadn’t even really wanted to join the army, but September 11 brought out the patriot in him, and he dropped out of his second year of college to enlist.

  I had known better than to try again. Even with a war on, they didn’t want guys like me. I stared at my twisted leg. With the naked eye, you couldn’t see anything wrong. The problem was under the skin and muscles, in the bone, where my horse had fallen on me during a race with Jarrod. We were only eighteen years old at the time, a week and a half away from graduation. I was only two weeks away from boot camp. I’d signed up and was just waiting for graduation. I already had my orders and was headed for Fort Sill, Oklahoma. And then the accident changed everything.