“It’s you and the boys,” he continued in a voice that wasn’t his. “I know I am supposed to be here.”
Sara didn’t pull her hands from the table. She didn’t pull them back when Jacob talked about why he was there. Instinct would have had her run from him. It would have had her run to the Captain and the safety of the volunteers outside.
Instead, Sara closed her eyes to the touch of his hands. Something familiar took her breath. Chris was there. He was across from her as though he’d never left. She was suddenly struck with a completeness and wholeness of being one. She gasped and whispered Chris’s name and her eyes filled with tears. Sara pulled one of her hands over his, and held them tight. She squeezed her eyes and told herself, do not open them. Do not dare, or you’ll lose him again. A real fear of loss threatened to steal the moment. Sara consumed all of it. She left nothing to chance. She watched Chris in her mind. She talked to him. She told him she missed him. She told Chris she loved him.
“Chris?” she asked opening her eyes. When she saw Jacob across from her, she yanked her hands away. Sara fixed him a look of utter mistrust and contempt. The feeling of cruel hurt weighed on her as she searched the trailer with her eyes. How could he do this … make me think Chris was here. But he was Chris – wasn’t he, she asked herself. She was lost in the confusion and the hurt. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe desperation. She shook her head, knowing she could see and feel a husband that was lost to her and the boys and dead to the world.
“What is this? What kind of trick is this? Why are you doing this?” she cried. Jacob flinched. He bolted up in surprise.
“I didn’t do anything. What did you see?” he implored then asked again, “what is it that you saw?” he pleaded. But Sara just sat there a moment. She held a reluctant stare that masked what she was really feeling.
“I saw my husband,” she finally whispered.
“I mean I didn’t just see him,” she continued, “I could feel him. I could smell him … I think you were him.”
25
Jill pushed her hand over the left cheek of her rump and tried to rub away the pain that settled there. Hours of punishment from the passenger seat of the WJL-TV van burdened her bottom.
My first shot, she thought, and slipped a giggle as she worked her other hand to pull a cell phone from her purse. She couldn’t help but smile.
“My first shot,” she mumbled as a smile grew bigger and her cheeks moaned against the strain.
Abruptly she announced, “I got my first shot on camera.” Her words were loud enough for Steve to hear, but she didn’t care. Flipping the top of her cell phone open, she held her smile. She didn’t care who heard her.
“You say something, hon?” Steve asked. His voice sounded thin against the noise of the van. But he said it. She heard it. She heard him call her hon. The enthusiasm and excitement she was enjoying went somewhere quick. She didn’t like being called hon. She never liked being called that.
“I sure did, Dick-Head,” she offered back and then laughed.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Forget about it … Dick,” she answered, and laughed some more.
Steve waived off the words he missed and pulled his Styrofoam cup to his chin. She hated the smell of the chewing tobacco – almost as much as being called hon. The smell flipped her insides and brought back memories of being eighteen and a freshman at college. It was one of her first nights and she was already up three beers and working on another. And in a vain attempt to impress her roommates, she decided to try something new. Down the hall of their cinder block dorm rooms, they’d found some chaw. One of her new friends flashed a boob in exchange for a pinch of the stuff. When they all pulled their shirts up, they scored the whole bag. She remembered the expression on the faces of the boys who offered the chewing tobacco. Their eyes looked wolfish as they cheered on the quick peep show. One of the boys said they’d just seen their first real life woman part. She remembered laughing to the sound of his voice as it cracked in surprise. She laughed some more and thought it must have been fueled by the buzz in her head.
It wasn’t the taste or the texture of the wad of dip that bothered her. It wasn’t even the loose pieces of tobacco that crept to the back of her throat. If she’d known to spit from time to time, then maybe the room wouldn’t have started to spin. Maybe if she knew to never ever drink down the black juice, then she wouldn’t have been half carried and hurried to the bathroom. She wouldn’t have lost an entire day in the infirmary. Or endured a phone call home to her parents for all the world to know.
Vomit was everywhere. Huge belly-deep heaves painted cinder block walls and the dorm room floors. And as Jill’s insides came up and exploded out, the guys and some of the girls laughed harder and harder. One good thing did come of it. Just one thing gave her pleasant solace today. The only silver lining she remembered – she heaved chaw and beer onto the beds of the girls who laughed the loudest.
The smell of the Styrofoam’s juice drifted in Jill’s direction. Her stomach flipped as she bounced the passenger window down. She welcomed the cold air and pulled it in through her nose and mouth until her stomach turned right.
When her cell phone rang Jill hit the green button to answer but the call died before she heard anything. Steve moved his eyes to her cell phone.
“Bad spot,” she yelled over the noise and shrugged. “I think the Connely’s place might have been better. My cell’s signal is in and out. Probably need a mile or more before we can call back to the studio.”
“Cell is out, but I think we’re clear to pull over and send the story. There is a clearing up ahead. I’m going to pull in and set up the dish. OK?”
“That’s fine. I might be able to get a call in … we’ll see. After that, we have to go back and get Jacob,” Jill finished and closed the phone as Steve targeted the opening along the side of the road.
As the van slowed to a stop, Steve pulled the parking brake. He then drummed his hands against the steering wheel with an eagerness that startled Jill, but his excitement made her laugh.
“Tell you what hon, I’m runnin’ with money in my pockets,” he whooped and hollered then winked in her direction before continuing, “I earn and burn and right now burgers and beers is on the menu. What d’ya say?”
“You mean right now?” Jill questioned sounding annoyed.
“Well no … not right now. How about when we turn back for your boyfriend? I think I saw a roadside grease-spot a ways back.”
“Fine,” she started to answer and then followed up, “but it’ll have to be quick. I want to get back to Jacob and get out of here.”
“Don’t worry – but, per your suggestion, just a quickie,” he said with a wink, “and then we’ll get your boyfriend.”
Jill flipped him her middle finger, to which he let out a hearty laugh. She liked hearing the word boyfriend. A warm feeling settled in her but then faded as she thought of Jacob’s seizures. She was excited by what was happening to them and afraid of what was happening to him. Images of Jacob on the floor of the ‘Rust Bucket’ played in her head. Their weeks of dancing around one another was building up to something good. She wondered if it could be the little bit of wonderful that she was looking for. That everyone is looking for, she thought and smiled.
The van’s motor turned over more than a few times before finally giving up. Once Jill was sure the van stopped, she opened the door and threw her legs over the side of her seat. Without thinking, she leaned into her first step. Before she could stop her fall, she felt air rushing up her skirt as she slipped from the passenger seat. She landed with a thump that sounded a crunch from her knee and the gravel. Pain rushed in like water filling a void. Her leg collapsed as most of her weight fell onto the top of her knee.
Jill had to stay on the ground. She couldn’t move. The ache in her leg erupted while she held her hand over her mouth. Her breath was eaten up by the pain. It became too great for her and she squeezed her eyes while biting down on her hand. A m
oment passed and a throb set in like waves crashing – quiet followed by violent erosion she had to fight. Soon the throb steadied like a migraine she could manage.
With her other hand back on the van’s door handle, she was able to pull up against the strain. Alone and embarrassed, Jill brushed at her hair and hesitated before looking down at the damage on her leg. The van’s door handle held her while she brushed at her blouse and skirt and at her good knee. When she moved, her leg screamed as though a hot dagger was pushed through the back of her knee. She felt cold perspiration rise on her neck and brow. Jill tightened her grip on the door handle and let out a muffled scream as the throb grew and began to devour her thigh. Her knee was broken. She was sure of it.
She wanted to rush her hand over the skin and brush away the dirt and stones. Fast, she thought. Like pulling the Band-Aid off so it hurt less as her momma always said. But her momma lied. It still hurt. It always hurt.
As Jill worked to clean her knee and stifle the need to scream, she heard Steve scoff from around the side, “Newbie, bunch a Newbies.” Jill poked an annoyed look in his direction. She stayed there until she was certain he saw it.
“Gotta watch that first step there … it’s a bitch,” he punched back throwing chaw juice to the road.
Jill watched him wipe his chin as he asked, “you need help?”
“I’m fine. Just a scraped up knee,” Jill panted, not letting on that it was worse.
“Any luck pushing the story out?” she asked, trying to move the conversation away from her leg. Steve was easily distracted; she knew she could count on that.
Steve pointed a hand up to the sky, “Pumping the boom up now. Shouldn’t be another minute is all.” Jill saw the antenna boom rising from the top of the news van – inching up and grabbing the sky until high enough.
“Anything I can do while you send the story?”
“Might want to get off that leg,” he offered, and pointed to the ground where her knee left a divot in the gravel. Jill waved him off as he continued the work to forward the story.
Under most circumstances, her caring if the story got to where it had to go wasn’t first on her mind. Today however, it was her story, and a little pride and ego carried in the eagerness to help Steve. She wanted to see the van’s boom up and above the trees and see it forward the millions of ones and zeros that made up her face for the world to see.
Jill bit her lower lip as she worked her way to the back of the news van. The throb became more manageable and she thought she might be okay. At least until we get Jacob, she told herself. With the cell phone open, Jill saw the first of the green-black bars blink on and then off. The hot metal she felt turning inside her knee reminded her to slow her steps. She grimaced and moaned as she moved. Two more green-black bars blinked on her cell phone. She remembered, a single green-bar was just enough for anyone. It’s digital – right? She questioned, and then dialed the number to the station and Andy’s office. The faintest of rings told her the phone was trying. She didn’t hear the second ring of the station’s phone. She heard raspy static and hisses one second and in the next, Andy’s voice spoke to her.
“Andy? -- Hi. Yeah, it’s Jill,” Jill pulled the phone from her ear and steered a smile toward Steve as Andy grumbled loud enough for the both of them to hear. He carried on about what time it was and wanted to know where the report was.
“Steve is setting up the link now and should have the report over in a few minutes,” she yelled. Steve gave her a thumbs-up.
“Listen. Hey Andy, listen to me,” she continued, and stopped as Andy asked more questions.
“No. No, Jacob isn’t here. He’s still at the Connely’s place,” she yelled and then turned to put a finger in her ear as a passer-by slowed his truck on the road. For a moment, pride masked the pain in her knee. They were ready to spit up the soup of digital ingredients she and Steve put together.
“We couldn’t get a signal. So we drove back until we could send up the story. Once the story is in, we’re going back to get him. Andy, listen to me. He’s sick, Andy,” Jill spoke and then paused as emotion crept up on her when she heard her words aloud. From the corner of her eye she could see Steve rolling his hands forward, telling her to keep going.
“Andy, he had another seizure. It wasn’t as bad as the other ones, but still…”
To Jill, Andy sounded anxious. She pushed the phone closer to her ear as he spoke up. “What’s that Andy?” she asked as her tone rose.
“Huh? What?” She listened. Jill’s eyes widened then narrowed. All of Steve’s activities ceased. And now he listened. “Okay, Andy, I hear you. We’ll get the feed out and then pick up Jacob … Yes. Okay. Uhh-huhh. I’ll call back and check in again in a few,” Jill told Andy as a frown formed and she hurried the call before hanging up. By the end of the phone call, the pain in her leg was a dull ache. She felt panicked by the news Andy delivered. And she could see Steve was hungry to know the news too as he motioned with his hands.
“What’s going on? What is it, Jill?” he asked with full attention.
“Andy said something about that hurricane. Hurricane Dani I think … and the latest forecast,” she answered him and started mouthing numbers as if counting.
“What?” he yelled.
“Governor is going to evacuate.”
“Where?”
“Andy said … everywhere. We need to get moving. We need to get Jacob and get out of here.”
26
Minutes faded to more minutes and then they faded into hours. Kyle opened his good eye for a moment and then closed it. The morning’s damp air left him feeling wet and cold. How long had he been asleep? How long had he been in the woods? It seemed like days or weeks maybe. But he knew that couldn’t be right. Was there really a baseball game? Kyle thought so, but as the cold wet of his clothes urged him to pee, he wasn’t sure. He reached across his chest and laid his arm there while he tried to decide what he wanted to do. Maybe he should go back to sleep. Asleep, he thought. There he was safe from the monster that was the forest holding him captive. Just five more minutes, he told himself. Another minute passed and his reservations faded. He felt the heat from the cut that swelled his arm. He was only vaguely aware of peeing as warm urine grew beneath him. He did feel relief, like the emptying of his bladder, the pain in his arm was almost gone.
But now, lying on his back, something was wrong. Instead of pain, he felt something else. He felt what he thought were butterfly wings that fluttered air kisses inside his arm. He felt as though something was in the Boar cut. And that it was exploring, moving and twisting about. A tickle begged him to scratch the cut. The tickle told him to start scratching until the cut lay wide open – spilling out blood and butterflies and whatever else. And keep scratching, the tickle insisted, just as long as the itch stays away.
There was no baseball game. He knew that now. There was something wrong with his arm. He knew that too. Kyle felt the heat of his skin on his fingers. He pushed against the crust of the wound just enough to turn the itch to something more painful. He could deal with the pain.
Warm liquid moved out of some of the scabby openings and cracks. It wasn’t a clear liquid. Not anymore. The leaky goo was clouded and yellow or maybe green and it felt sticky.
“Indeckded,” he mumbled as tears began stinging his eye.
He had a memory of winter fevers. Like the ones he felt come up under his arms and sometimes around his chest. The thermometer in his mouth blinked a hundred or more and his mom would say, “You’re home to heal.” She’d tell him no school for you. And that means, no xBox, no Nintendo DS, no Internet. You can read and maybe some TV, but you’re home to heal.
“Hone to heal,” Kyle whispered as he moved his hand under his shirt. He felt around his chest and then under his arm. And when his skin felt normal, he moved his hand to where his Mom always checked first, his forehead. Only she used her lips. A gentle and magical mom-kiss that told her everything about the type of sick that made her boy ill. He imagin
ed his mother’s lips against his forehead as he pressed the tips of his fingers to the skin above his eyes.
“Tenderture normal … I dink, not dure,” he mumbled an announcement to the trees and the animals scurrying about. Relief was only brief. Something moved in his arm. From the scabby cracks leaking infected goo, something moved under his skin. Pus oozed and ran down his skin leaving a cold trail while fear and disgust rose inside him.
Terror tripped his heart and settled in his belly as he tried to catch his breath. His good eye sprang open wide as a realization hit him. The butterflies he imagined were real after all. Kyle shot his eye back and forth trying to see what was moving beneath his skin. Maybe it was raising the heat in his arm or maybe it was working up that old food smell he caught through his broken nose. More movement came from under his skin. His stomach rolled. A need to vomit passed in a small heave of hot liquid that spewed steam and made his face hurt.
The burn and itch was growing again. The nausea and some of the terror passed as the itch began to consume his thoughts. “Dis is gonna hurd”, he warned. He slammed his hand over the Boar cut. At once the tickle was slapped away while more infected ooze trickled out of the cut. Red pin stripes painted lines on the cold path alongside the yellow ooze. Movement under his skin slowed and he thought for a minute it maybe stopped.
Kyle’s mind raced to vampires and sunlight and he imagined this must be what they feel when the sun comes up. He almost expected as more daylight filled the space around him, he’d see wispy streams of gray smoke drift up from his arm. He even considered it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. And that he might like it. Plumes of the decaying smoke would erupt through little portal holes that opened as the daylight touched his flesh. He’d see his arm ignite in a fireball of red and orange flames that danced and crested in blue. He’d see the remains of his burning and charred arm breaking under the strain. It would fall to the ground and ignite the floor of the woods and burn every last thing. All around him would burn down so that none of this sheathed prison of brown and green would remain standing between him and his momma and Jonnie.
Superman's Cape Page 15
