Zeke’s eyes were focused out the window, and the first lady’s head was down in her notes, unaware of his words to the second agent in the car. The car came to a stop and Zeke’s body tightened.
“Mr. Neary,” she said. “Is everything okay?”
“No, ma’am. I got a bad feeling, so stay close to me,” he told her as the car came to a stop. “We move as one.”
The six agents in the car ahead of them moved in standard pattern to the main vehicle, opening the door to allow their charge to step out to greet the crowd who’d gathered for a glimpse of the First Lady. By regulation, Zeke stepped out first, surveyed the crowd as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It was too late.
He prayed silently. “If my life is spared on this day, order my steps in Your service,” Zeke said.
On the corner of the building to the left, he spotted a flash of metal in the sun. The crowd began to push inward, trying to touch the First Lady. Poised, she waved to the aggressive crowd as her agents moved quickly, to get through the mass of people. It’s too late. It’s too late.
He spotted the first gunman.
Zeke drew his weapon, flipped off the safety while yelling “Gun! Get her back to the car!”
The first bullet hit him square in the thigh, nearly lifting him off his feet. Zeke fired back as his body stumbled. Down on one knee, the second assailant took aim, shooting him twice in the left leg, nearly knocking the wind out of him, but he was on his feet, running backward, his eye on the blue silk dress. She was moving as quickly as she could, but it wasn’t fast enough. The fourth bullet tore through his arm as the bad man bore down on him.
The gun pointed in his face.
The small black circle aimed at his eye would cease his brain function once the trigger was pulled. Today, he knew was his last day on the planet. The bad feeling was standing over him, but when the trigger was pulled, only a click was heard. One simple click which saved his life.
Zeke pulled the trigger on his service piece, nicking the assailant in the neck as strong hands grabbed him, pulling him into the vehicle. Everything was black. His eyes were open, yet he could see nothing. Her soft voice was heard as her hands touched his hair, begging him to hang on, to not die.
“Save him!” he heard her say but the blackness was winning.
It called to him, covering him with a feeling of numbness. His body seemed lighter as he floated along the river on a bed of dry leaves that carried him towards a window with faint light. The light began to get brighter the closer he became. Hands pulled at his body, at his clothing, while the weightlessness returned. He could feel his body being lifted, but he was helpless to do anything about it, so he closed his eyes to sleep. She was safe.
That’s what mattered.
She was safe.
I did my job.
The First Lady was safe.
ZEKE WOKE UP IN A HOSPITAL bed with Mary Neary, his mother, holding onto his hand. His father, Josiah Neary, nodded quietly in the chair as his brothers Gabriel and Isiah stood watch.
“Hey, look who’s awake,” Mary said softly, kissing his forehead. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“Hey, Ma,” Zeke said. “How long have you been in Rwanda?”
“Whatever they put in that IV tube, I want some,” Isiah, the youngest of the three Neary boys said.
“Leave it to the ATF man to want the drugs,” Gabriel, the middle son, said as he walked over to the bed. “You gave us a scare there, big brother.”
“I scared myself,” Zeke mumbled, looking at his father. Josiah Neary was a straight shooter who pulled no punches and gave everything to you straight, no chaser or warm up. “How does it look, Dad?”
“You look like a pile of semi-warm shit smeared on some white sheets,” Josiah Neary said to him. “You’ll live, but recovery is going to be tough.”
“Good enough,” Zeke said, leaning back into the pillow.
“Josiah, let’s go down to the cafeteria for some coffee,” Mary suggested, pulling her husband up from the chair. She wanted to leave her sons alone so they could form a plan for Zeke’s recovery.
“Man, you talk in your sleep,” Isiah said first.
“Did I divulge national security secrets?” Zeke asked, looking for something to drink. Gabriel, at his bedside, held up the cup, placing the straw to Zeke’s lips allowing his brother to sip at the water.
“No, but Mom and Dad now know that you slept with Tameka Robinson, our babysitter,” Isiah added.
“What?” Zeke said unclear.
“Based on that dream, he did a lot more than sleep with her,” Gabriel added.
Zeke wanted clarification.
“It seems that our former babysitter spent some quality time with you when no one was looking, Zeke. I tell you the truth! You can keep a secret, ‘cause based on that dream, she must have worked you over really good,” Isiah said with a grin.
“Hell, I am not going to even tell you what that girl taught me,” Gabriel said.
“You too!” Isiah said, grinning.
“Stop it!” Zeke said. “Are you telling me that you two were also with Tameka, our babysitter?”
“Yeah, I was about fifteen,” Isiah said. “It was the overnight trip that Mom and Dad took to D.C., and they wanted someone to stay at the house with me. She really wasn’t like a real babysitter.”
They both looked at Gabriel. He shrugged, not wanting to share any of it, but a moment was happening between the brothers, and he would take part.
“Okay, okay. I was fifteen as well, but she wasn’t babysitting me, she was at the house to look after Isiah,” he said with a grin. “The question is, Zeke, why are you dreaming about her at this late point in your life?”
He swallowed hard. “I don’t know. Truly, I don’t,” he said with a dry throat. His mind went the beautiful young woman whom he had his first sexual experience. She was a patient, caring, and almost a teacher.
“When I went to college, I looked her up,” Zeke said.
Gabriel stepped forward, “Hold up − by then she was married to that football player.”
“True. A man who traveled a great deal,” Zeke said with a weak smile. “Zeke the man was a whole lot more skilled than the 15-year-old pimply faced kid she knew.”
Isiah moved forward a bit to the side of the bed, “Zeke, why are you dreaming about her now?”
“I don’t know. I think, she was the closest thing I ever had to a relationship and the first woman I loved,” he said.
“Dude, you work too hard and that is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Gabriel said to him.
“Well, now I have some time to recover and take it easy,” Zeke said, looking at the bandages over his shoulder. His left arm was in a cast and pain greeted him from every muscle in his body. The cast served as a new reminder of his poor life choices and lack of meaningful relationships.
“I’m thinking, once you get up on your feet, that maybe you should head down to the cabin in Georgia, you know, spend some time with your thoughts, get clear of all of this,” Gabriel said to him. “I made a new friend who lives close by, believe it or not. I can have him stock the place up, get you some wood for the stove, petrol for the generator, gas for the tanks. This way you can heal in your own time.”
“I may take you up on that,” Zeke said. “When did I get back to DC?” he asked looking around the hospital room.
“You came in this morning,” Isiah told him.
They knew the question without their brother even having to ask.
“She is safe and unharmed,” Gabriel told Zeke.
That was all he needed to hear right now, so he lay back in the bed, closing his eyes. The small one-bedroom cabin in Georgia flashed in his head, suddenly calling to him. A quiet place to come to terms with the upcoming changes to his day to day, waking up, with no purpose other than working out to get well. A prisoner in his own home and his own head, of what he could have done differently to stay a part of the big show. Today, was t
he first reminder that the show was over and the curtains were drawn. He was no longer on center stage, but a has been that once had a chance to do something great and make a difference in a life.
What will become of me now?
I have no exes to call, except the one psycho who wanted to have sex with him at gunpoint. Nope. Not calling her.
No long-term girlfriends.
I don’t even have a weekly booty-call to try and make it into something more significant.
I have nothing.
Alone.
I no longer have a purpose.
I need to get away.
“I think I’m going to go to Georgia when I am able,” he said, looking at the cast. He would have to wear it for a least a month. A long month of one-handedness and his mother under foot, picking over every little detail of his life.
By the end of the month, he threw in enough clothing in the suitcase as well as canned goods to be gone for a year. He simply couldn’t stand another day of his mother fussing and fawning over him. “If you had a girlfriend or a wife to take care of you, then I wouldn’t have to be here,” Mary said.
“Ma, I’m going to make this easy for us both. I’m not going to be here either, so you don’t have to feel like it’s necessary to come over here every day to check on me,” he told her.
“You should have learned to cook, then I wouldn’t have to check on you,” Mary retorted.
“I can cook, but you seem to beat me to it,” Zeke said, pulling out his suitcase. Georgia was sounding better and better with each passing day. If he were in Georgia, none of his friends could drop in unannounced to give him sad, pitiful looks. Callum White didn’t need to stop in and say he was sorry for the fiftieth time. His ex-lover, who seemed to show up at the perfect moment, showed up when he was at his lowest. She, of course, said he could use the gun on her if it helped in his recovery.
Instead of commanding her body to respond to his bidding as he had on many passionate nights together, tonight, he simply lay beside her, holding on, trying not to fall over the edge. A dark edge, rimming around a cavernous hole of dimness which still called out to him. This time, when he peered over the edge, the glimpses of a face began to materialize.
“I gotta go, Ma,” Zeke told his mother.
“Where are you going? You are not well,” Mary said.
“I’m headed to Georgia, to not only get well but to heal,” he said, throwing the suitcase into the car. “Lock up when you leave. I’m going to be gone a while.”
He almost didn’t make it Georgia. The traffic on the I-285 was backed up to the Whitehouse. The beltway was frozen with fiberglass models of cars driven by bobble-heads of lost souls not smart enough to carpool. Leaving one hour earlier would cut down much of the traffic if only half the people would rideshare.
“I hate this fudging town,” Zeke mumbled. “Next exit, I am getting off, going home and then telling my mother that I am in Georgia.”
Twenty minutes later, he made it to the next exit, but it was closed. A State Trooper waved at him, pulling him out of the crowd of cars, pointing at an open lane which he gladly took. Giving a toot of his horn to the officer, he merged into the free lane and drove unencumbered, connecting to I-85, and driving down into the North Georgia mountains. Rain started to come down in a drizzle as he climbed the mountain, but by the time the car pulled into the garage, a deluge came, soaking him to the bone. Coming in the back door, he was amazed to find a pot of warm stew on the stove and a fire crackling, welcoming him home.
“Nice, peaceful and quiet,” he said. It only took a few hours to clean most of the dusty shelving, and the smelly bathroom.
However, three days later, the rain had not stopped. He stood by the front door, peering out the window as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He didn’t sense danger, but something else.
It wasn’t a bad thing coming towards him.
Hurt. I can sense its hurt.
He paced in front of the window for a second, then darted to the backroom, going to grab his piece. Whatever was coming may have been hurt, but it wasn’t going to kill him. In the distance he heard Michelle whimper. She needs me. Zeke jumped startling himself, waking up.
In his sleep, he was replaying the events which brought him to the cabin and which brought him to her. This Tameka. This woman, This child.
“Order my steps in Your service,” he said, as he sat up in the chair.
“I prayed something similar when I left that shack Jimmy Don kept me in,” the soft voice said.
“And here we are,” Zeke told her. “I’m going to make us some lunch- then we need to get to work.”
Day Six – My What?
TAMEKA AWOKE, MOVING slowly, listening to the aches and pain in her body dictate how fast she would be able to get up off the couch. The fire crackled low and would need a new log relatively soon. Her eyes roamed around the small cabin from the front door, to the rear entryway, taking in everything from the two large chairs which also faced the fireplace to the single bathroom. The space was not personal, but a getaway from the city or lives which had become too busy to enjoy the simpler things, like a cozy fire or marshmallows roasted over the open flame.
The kitchen, if it could be called that, consisted of a farmhouse sink, a table which comfortably seated five, and a potbellied stove. She wondered if it also served as the hot water supply and heat source for the bathroom. One of the overstuffed recliners, which had seen better days, rested against a short wall. She assumed on the other side was the bedroom where he slept. It wasn’t anything fancy, but to her, it was a little slice of Heaven.
She heard the baby cry as her breasts tightened and began to leak. The child would need to be fed. The small cries got louder as Zeke appeared from around the corner. His sandy brown hair was sticking up on his head, his eyes weary, but he carried the baby as if she were the most precious item in his whole world.
“Good morning,” he said to her. “Let me get Michelle fed and changed. Then I will scramble us some eggs, fry a couple of slices of ham, and get you some applesauce as well.”
“Thank you,” she said, pulling back the covers. She needed to pee and looked down to see the catheter bag filling up. “Can we take this out this morning?”
“Sure, let me get her taken care of first. After that, I will come and take care of your twinkle spot next,” Zeke said to her, his eyes focused on her face.
“My what? Are you referring to my vagina as a twinkle spot?” she asked with her face moving about like Jim Carey trying to hold back a scream.
“What are you doing with your face?” He asked, frowning as he watched her expressions twitching, trying to distort itself into some form of facial countenance.
“I think my facial muscles are trying to form a smile,” she said, looking back at him confused. “You do know it’s okay to call it a vagina.”
“No. No, it’s not,” he said firmly. “I am a man. In my lifetime I have had a pleasurable, healthy relationship with the word vagina and have even had the enjoyment of taking care of a few in the traditional manner. However, in the past five days, I have had to extract from your ‘twinkle spot’ a child. After the birth of the child, I had to force it to spit out what looked like a sac to house the oncoming of an alien race. I have had to clean it, shave it, delouse it, sew it up, and change the diapers and padding on it. So, if you don’t mind Tameka, allow this man the benefit of associating the word vagina with a pleasurable memory, versus what I have encountered in the last five days.”
“Umm, okay then,” she said, her face still twitching.
“Go ahead, have a laugh at my expense, but as far as I’m concerned, between changing her diapers and yours, I am totally non-enamored of the female twinkle spot,” he said, pulling down Michelle’s diaper to see a green smear. “I didn’t even know a tiny little butt could produce so much and in so many colors.”
The frown on his face as he cleaned the infant actually broke through the barrier of stoicism on her
face, eliciting a black-toothed smile. He needed to remind her to soak her teeth again today with the peroxide cotton balls, and get to the bathroom for a good tooth brushing. The child kicked and cooed as he hummed while he changed her bottom, and collected a premade bottle from the fridge, setting it in a metal bowl on the stove. He moved about, adding a small log to the potbellied stove, forcing the room to warm incrementally.
“Here, hold Michelle,” he said, shoving the baby into her arms.
She didn’t want to hold her.
She didn’t want to look at the child.
The baby was a reminder of an ugly memory she was pushing to the back of her mind. A memory she wasn’t ready to face. I’m a mother.
That scoundrel made me the mother of this child. His child.
If she had her way, she would leave the baby and the man in the cabin and take off down the mountain as fast as she could, but her feet were bandaged, and more than likely unable to wear a shoe. His back was facing them as he squatted in front of the fireplace, stoking the embers, clearing away the ash to a bucket, and then adding two fresh logs.
“Let me check on that bottle first and get on some gloves to remove that catheter. You need to move around today,” he told her. “Those teeth are going to need to be scraped after you gargle with some peroxide to loosen that gook up on your teeth.”
Zeke pointed to the suitcase on the floor.
“I cleared you out some space in the closet to hang your clothes there.,” he said, taking the bottle from the metal pan. He tested it on his inner wrist, handing it to Tameka. “I have the two top two dresser drawers and you have the bottom three. Once you feed the little lady, burp her and such, I can put her down for a nap while you take care of your needs.”
“My name is...,” she started to say, but his fingers came to her lips. He drew them back as though he’d touched something hot. Feeling like an ass for violating her personal space, he took two steps away from her.
“Your name is Tameka Neary. My name is Ezekiel Neary and this is our daughter Michelle Marie Neary. She is three months old. We came down here to help me heal after I got shot in Rwanda. The stress of my near death made you go into labor early, but the city and being in DC was too much for me, so my dad suggested we come here to bond as a new family,” Zeke said, staring into her eyes.
On a Rainy Night in Georgia Page 5
