Sitting inside the large cabin of the military aircraft, his face illuminated only by the dull red bulbs overhead, Bono smiled.
A hundred miles was all that separated them. A hundred miles. He would crawl to Memphis if he had to. He was going to see her soon. He was going to see his wife. He was going to hold his little girl.
His stomach fluttered just like on that first day that he had seen her. Life was good. He was happy. He was almost home again.
Chapter Ten
Four Miles West of Chatfield
Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee
Something told her. She didn’t know what it was or where it came from but something told her and she knew. He’s thinking about me right now.
Caelyn stared up at the darkness. Okay, her husband, Bono, was still alive. That was good. But where was he? Iraq? Iran? Syria? Would he ever come home? Would she ever see him? Would she ever cling to him, press her cheek against his neck, and hear him whisper in her ear?
She wanted to cry, thinking of going through these dark days by herself. But she didn’t. There were no tears now, just resolve and determination as strong as the family oak that was swaying in the night wind out in the yard.
As an army wife, especially the wife of an army Special Forces soldier, Caelyn was used to being on her own. She had known she would spend a lot of time alone before she’d decided to marry him. Still, the decision had been a no-brainer—better to have him briefly when she could than not to have him at all. And she’d never once regretted her decision, even on the loneliest of nights, even when she worried for his life.
Still, there were too many nights now spent down on her knees, pleading with God to bring him back to her. “You promised me,” she would whisper to the heavens in the dark. “You promised. I believe you! Please don’t let me down.”
Moving slowly, she rolled toward her daughter, who was sleeping with her in the bed. A heart-wrenching sense of dread was building up inside her. She shook it off and sat up, placing her feet on the cold floor. Time to be strong, time to hold her fear in, time to brace herself for whatever it was that God had in store.
She looked at the dark window, then bowed her head and said another silent prayer. “He’s thinking of me right now. I know that. Will you please tell him that I’m thinking of him, too?”
Opening her eyes, she stood up. Morning was coming soon, and there was a lot of work to do.
* * *
Later that day, Caelyn and her mother were working in the basement of the old farmhouse. The blonde-haired army wife turned toward the older woman and forced herself to smile. “It’s going to be okay, Mom. We’ll figure something out.”
The other woman frowned as she turned back toward the shelves. Her hair was salt-and-pepper gray, her shoulders tired and smaller than they used to be, but her face was animated, her eyes defiant.
Looking at her mother, it was difficult for Caelyn to imagine how such a small woman could carry such a big stick. But it was true. Her mother was a fighter; she’d proven that all her life. Trouble was, sometimes she didn’t know what she was fighting for. As the years had passed, Caelyn had sensed the frustration building up inside her mom. The woman had
suffered a lifetime of battles, sacrifice, and unselfishness, most of it unspoken, and never known what it all was for.
If you’d only listen to me, Mother, I could help you. If you’d swallow your pride for just a moment, I could help you understand.
As Caelyn watched, her mother’s eyes faded just a little. Caelyn realized the real change that was taking place inside: The confidence was fading, the fire inside her mom was growing cold, leaving just a flicker where there used to be flame.
Sometimes, when she was younger, Caelyn had wondered what it would take to bring her mother down.
Now she knew the answer.
It would take something like this.
Caelyn stepped back, felt the wooden stool behind her, and leaned against it, watching her mother count the bottles of peaches, beets, beans, and corn. Her mother had canned all the time when Caelyn was a little girl, but it was a lost art now and she hadn’t done it in years. Why go through all the work and hassle? It didn’t save any money. In fact, by the time they paid for the bottles, food, and supplies, it ended up costing more than store-bought food, not to mention all the work.
Caelyn looked around the basement storage room. Some of the bottles were so dust-covered she had to wonder if the food inside them was even safe to eat, knowing botulism was just as deadly as starvation. She thought back, trying to figure out how long it had been since she’d seen her mother in the kitchen bottling vegetables or fruit. Sometime back in college—probably her sophomore year, she decided, maybe five or six years before.
The air inside the storage room was cool and musty, the cement walls damp to the touch, and she almost shivered, pulling her arms tightly around herself as she watched her mother counting the bottles of food that were probably spoiled anyway.
Her mother finished counting, stood quiet for a moment, her eyes searching as if for more, then turned around. “Forty-two,” she announced.
Caelyn forced another smile. “Okay, Mom.”
“I counted them twice.”
The younger woman stood up from the stool. “Good, Mom. Every little bit is going to help.”
The older woman hesitated, disappointed. “I thought there was more. There should have been more. I was thinking last fall, Gretta, don’t be so lazy. I know how much your father likes bottled peaches but it seemed like there was always something more pressing to do.”
Caelyn heard footsteps on the kitchen floor above her and turned her head to listen. “Come on, Mom, let’s go up and check on Dad.”
Her mother moved toward the cellar stairs. As she walked by, Caelyn noticed that the soft skin around her cheeks was patchy white. Her mother had already lost a lot of weight and she was growing frail. Caelyn tried not to think about it, but she was worried about her mom.
“I should have been more prepared,” her mother said as she started climbing the stairs.
Caelyn reached out and placed a hand on the small of her mother’s back to brace her as she climbed. “No one saw this coming, Mom. There was no way you could have known.”
Her mother shrugged, walked to the top of the cellar stairs, then turned. Caelyn looked up from two steps below her, blonde hair falling in front of her eyes. Her mother frowned uneasily, staring at her only child. “Your people knew,” she answered. “We used to call you crazy.” She turned and walked into the kitchen, heading for the sink. “Guess we’re not laughing anymore.”
Caelyn followed. Hearing squeals of laughter drifting from the backyard, she walked to the kitchen window to look outside, where her daughter was playing with the dog.
It had been several years since she’d been home. Looking out, she noticed that the oak tree was fuller now, the pines a good ten feet taller than when she was a little girl, the grass a little thinner beside the path, the honeysuckle that lined the ditch as high as the detached garage. She inhaled deeply, taking in the smells of the old house: pine cleaner, fresh dirt from the fields, the air heavy with lilac and hay, a bit of musty odor drifting up from the basement. The house creaked with a sudden gust of wind, the floor joists creating the familiar sound of old wood under strain.
She had been born and raised in this house. In fact, she’d never slept under another roof until she’d gone away to college, never called anywhere else home until she had gotten married and started following her husband around the globe. Every sound, every corner, every smell was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.
She stood there thinking of the old house as she watched her daughter playing in the yard. Her mother moved beside her and for a moment they watched together.
“She looks so much like you,” her mother whispered, looking out on the blonde-headed child.
Caelyn smiled softly and answered proudly, “I think she looks like her dad.”
“Either way, she’s lucky.” Caelyn’s mother lifted onto her toes and kissed her daughter’s cheek.
The little girl was playing with the old bloodhound, Miller (named after her father’s favorite beer, though Caelyn would never tell her daughter that). The dog lay almost lifeless on the grass, the six-year-old draped over him like a blanket. The little girl rested her chin on his head and lifted his enormous ears against the sides of her head. The old dog endured the humiliation, lifting his eyes to the back of his head; then he rolled over, knocking the child onto the grass. He licked her face, his pink tongue covering her entire cheek, until the little girl
giggled and squirmed away.
For one fleeting moment Caelyn was transported back in time, back to the day before the world had been turned on its head. She had awakened early that morning, what was it, a week ago now. Walking outside to watch the sunrise, she had felt the morning dew between her toes. It had been a peaceful, easy morning and she remembered feeling good. But as she had watched the eastern sky turn from purple to pink and then to gray, she had almost heard a voice. “All of this is going to go away.”
She had shuddered, not understanding.
“What is going away?” she asked.
But the voice had not answered.
Of course, now she understood.
The old dog got up and lumbered toward the shade at the side of the house. The little girl, Ellie, laughed and followed. The screen door to the kitchen opened and Caelyn’s father plodded into the room, empty beer can in hand, the smell of smoke and pepper drifting in. Seventy-two. Gray hair. Small face. Her father was still a handsome man even if a little thin. Staring at him, she saw the simple innocence that seemed to keep him young. But she could also tell from his awkward walk that he was hurting with arthritis and it worried her, knowing he had less than two weeks’ worth of medicine to treat the painful disease. A couple of days before, she’d walked four miles into town to see the pharmacist, but it was too late, they’d already sold out of everything. It was shocking to see how bare the grocery store shelves had been just three days after the attack. No food. No medicines. None of the most basic supplies.
Turning to her dad, she asked, “How’s the jerky coming?”
Her dad coughed. “Pretty good. You’re going to love it. I’ve got some Cajun jerky. Some pepper. A little jalapeño and salt.”
Like most ranchers, Caelyn’s parents had a freezer full of beef, but without electricity to keep it frozen they’d had to do something to preserve it before it rotted. So her father had improvised a smoker, spent a full day cutting the meat into thin slices, marinated it overnight, and was smoking it now, creating long strips of beef jerky that would keep for months.
“Be sure to get it dried all the way through,” Caelyn reminded him as he walked through the kitchen. “We don’t want any of it to rot.”
Her father didn’t answer, and she realized he hadn’t heard her. “Dad,” she said again, taking a couple of steps toward him, “are you drying it all the way through?”
He sat on a plastic-covered chair and looked up. “I don’t know. You want to check it?”
Caelyn knelt down in front of him. “No, Dad, I don’t have to check it. I’m just asking. We don’t want to waste any of the meat.”
Her dad wiped a sheen of sweat from off his temple. “I want you to check it for me, okay? I can’t tell for certain. I don’t want to mess it up.”
Caelyn’s mom walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Len. I’ll check it for you. I’m sure you’re doing a great job.”
He reached up and touched her hand as she rested it on his shoulder. “A drink of water?” he asked.
Caelyn went to the container sitting beside the kitchen sink. Droplets had condensed on the metal can and she wiped them with her finger before pouring her dad a glass. Holding it up, she examined it against the sunlight. The water had been pulled from the small fishing pond down near the hay field, and though it had been strained and boiled over an open fire, there was no way to remove the tint of green from all the moss and vegetation in the pond. It tasted bad, even after being boiled, but she figured it was safe. Green or not, she knew what a huge blessing it was to have anything to drink. How many people out there had nothing now?
Turning, she took the glass of water to her dad.
“No beer?” he asked with disappointment. He’d been a two-beer-a-day guy for almost forty years. One in the morning, one at night. Never more. Never less. It was one of the peculiar habits he’d picked up after the accident.
“Nope, Dad, no more beer. Isn’t that great! I’ve been trying to get you to quit that nasty stuff for how long now?” She patted him on the shoulder. “Looks like I get the last word.”
Her dad took the glass of water and drank half down. “I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore,” he said sincerely. “Life without beer. No TV to watch the Yankees. Might as well be dead.”
Caelyn smiled, hoping he was kidding, but not really sure. It was another peculiar habit of her father’s—he was brutally honest, the connection between his brain and his tongue as straight and sure as any truth machine.
Her mother watched them, then turned toward the screen door. “I’ll check the jerky,” she said.
Caelyn gently rubbed her father’s shoulders, feeling his thin muscles and tired bones.
* * *
Everyone who met her parents thought they were an extremely unlikely couple. And it was true, although Caelyn knew that hadn’t always been the case.
Her father was from Buffalo, New York, and held a master’s degree in chemical engineering from NYU. Graduating magna cum laude, he was on his way to a very successful career when he met the young woman who would become his wife. Her mother was a southern belle, her family roots going back to the gentlemen’s South of Charlestown and the Civil War. Her mother’s parents, the grandparents she’d never known, were the last of the old southern heritage. Solid, frugal, and pampered by old money until the Great Depression came and took it, her grandparents had been left with nothing. Without financing for proper upkeep, the old family farm, plantation house, and outbuildings fell into decay, forcing her grandparents to sell. They moved to Memphis, where her grandfather bought a much smaller farm and eked out a humble living while raising nine kids, Caelyn’s mother being the youngest one.
Part of a song-and-dance troupe during her freshman year in college, her mother had met her father on a weekend trip to New York City, where the group had performed for a local talent show. Three months later, to the dismay of both families, they were married. Scandalous to marry a Yankee, a man who had never even visited the South; her mother’s family had nearly gone into shock. Wanting a fresh start, the young couple had moved to California, where Caelyn’s father took a job with an up-and-coming pharmaceutical firm. Big money was on the horizon. Soon there would be children, one day a big house with a pool. Life was good and getting better and there was no reason to expect that anything would ever change.
Eight months after they had moved to L.A., her father’s car was struck head-on by a drunk driver coming at him on the exit ramp of the 101 freeway. Two cars, each traveling forty miles an hour. Eighty miles an hour between them. Metal on metal. Engine on engine. Glass on glass. The drunk driver was killed, the steering wheel of his Plymouth compressing his chest against the back of his spine. Her father wasn’t wearing a seatbelt—no one wore seatbelts in those days—and the collision sent him crashing through the glass. The police found both men in the front seat of the drunk driver’s automobile.
At first the doctors told her mother that her husband had been killed. Then, even with the sheets pulled up over the patient’s head, an intern had found a pulse, weak and erratic. Frantic work from a brilliant team of doctors seemed to bring her father back to life.
Three months of coma followed, each day full of fear and dread. Then one Sunday morning he opened his eyes, told his wife he loved her, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then
rolled over and fell asleep again.
But it was a sleep, not a coma. He snored. He moved. He even mumbled once or twice. That night, Gretta stood beside his bed, desperately holding his hand. In the morning, he woke up and rolled over. This time he tried to smile.
Five months after the accident, he went home from the hospital and started another journey, learning to walk and talk and feed himself again.
Two years later, he proudly struggled through a first-grade book of Dick and Jane. Gretta smiled at him broadly as he read, but inside, she was weeping like a child, knowing he would never work as a chemical engineer again.
The years came and went with very little to note their passing. They sold the new house down in Huntington Beach and moved up to Ontario, not as nice, but much cheaper. Her mother worked as a receptionist while attending night school, then started teaching first grade. Her father took care of the neighbors’ yards. Five years of teaching came and went. Her father learned to ride a bike. Her mother turned thirty, then thirty-five, and still no children. Her father got a job as a custodian at the school. Forty came. Not much changed. Her father worked weekends in the yard.
Then something happened to stir things up a bit.
Back in Memphis, Caelyn’s grandparents fell sick and died within five days of each other. None of the other children wanted the family farm so, after almost twenty years in southern California, her parents decided it was time to make a change. Caelyn’s mother packed up their belongings, sold the house, gave up the California sunshine, and moved back to the family farm twenty-one miles outside of Memphis, where they settled in to grow old. She got another job teaching school. To her great delight, her husband seemed to thrive taking care of the old farm.
Caelyn’s mother accepted things for what they were, thinking this was as good as her life was going to get.
Then she received another piece of astounding news. For weeks she lay awake at night, smiling at the darkness, far too happy and excited to sleep.
The Great and Terrible Page 122
