A short while later an unwelcome knock came on my bedroom door. My muscles tightened, poised for flight. I forced myself to lie still and ignored it, hoping whoever it was would just go away.
No such luck. A young and inquiring voice called from behind the door. “Taylor?”
I didn’t answer.
“You in there?” More insistent this time: “Taylor?”
“Go. Away,” I growled back.
“Mama said you’re to come downstairs and say good-bye to your guests.” Miller sounded reproachful. When I didn’t respond, he said, “So get in trouble. See if I care.”
I couldn’t blame Miller for being annoyed. I heard his footfalls retreat and descend the stairs in angry thumps. I lay on the bed, unmoving, exhausted, praying for sleep that I knew wouldn’t come. I hadn’t slept well for months. I only had a long series of fits and starts clustered around horrific memories and worse nightmares. Why did the doctors think coming home was a tonic? No one here understood what I was going through. At least in the VA hospital I was among guys who were going through the same terrors I was. We didn’t need to talk about it. We read the communal histories in our haunted eyes.
A short while later I heard another soft rap on my door. “Taylor?”
I softly groaned, hoping my mother would just go away.
I heard the door creak open, and a shaft of light from the hall wedged into the room.
“Taylor, are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Can you come down, just for a minute? Your guests are leaving.”
“No.”
“Honey, you don’t want to be rude.”
“I have a splitting headache,” I ground out, my frustration and pain audible.
There was a moment’s pause, then a soft, apologetic “Oh. Okay.” I heard the door close with a soft swish of movement.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on willing my bowed-up muscles to relax.
Hours later I still wasn’t sleeping. I was lying in my childhood bed, feeling as lost and alone as any preadolescent. And just as afraid. The walls were closing in on me. I rose up on my elbow and reached over to turn on the bedside lamp.
Rubbing the crick in my neck, I surveyed my old room in the soft light. I’d inherited the four-poster full bed from my grandfather Morrison McClellan, a famed shrimp boat captain who was lost at sea. I’d painted this room myself, the Citadel blue and navy colors, in my senior year of high school in a burst of excitement after getting my acceptance letter. Over the bed I’d hung the insignia of the Marine Corps in a place of honor when I accepted my commission. The painted pine dresser that had held my elementary-school clothes now held the new civilian clothes I’d purchased since my honorable discharge. They were neatly folded, the socks were rolled, my war medals were polished. This was the discipline of the Marines I’d been trained in.
One window overlooked the front of the house and the narrow road that, if you turned left, led to the docks and the Miss Jenny. If you turned right, it would take you to Pinckney Street. I rose from my bed and walked to the back window, crossed my arms, and looked out. The trees, shorn of leaves, appeared as cragged fingers in the moonlit night of winter. The mighty Jeremy Creek was merely a blue mist in the distance. But in my mind’s eye it raced, glistening, under brilliant-blue skies. How many hours had I spent looking out at the creek winding its way far out through the waving grass on its way to the Intracoastal and the ocean beyond? How many dreams had I had, standing at this window, of traveling far beyond the borders of McClellanville, of South Carolina, even the South?
If I had known then that I’d travel to the other side of the world, to a place far from my beloved sea, to where water was scarce and sand dominated the horizon, would I still have gone?
The answer came readily. Yes. I was proud to have served my country. Yet standing here now, I knew that war was never the glory-filled battlefields of a boy’s dreams. War was beyond the imagination of a boy. Back here in my old room—a boy’s room—I mourned the loss of my innocence.
How did I end up back here? I wondered in weary dismay. All that I’d worked so hard for, all my dreams and ambitions, had been blown away that day in the Humvee along with my comrades. This broken body was still alive, but my spirit . . . my soul . . . had died that day.
In a sudden flash, the memories of that day flared up in my mind with the force of a bomb. I fell back onto the bed, my palms over my face as though to block out the view. But nothing could erase the images from my mind. They were branded on my brain, searing memories of smoke and screams, of burning rubbish and dismembered bodies. Dropping my hands, I pushed up to sit on the side of the bed, feet on the floor, elbows on my knees, feeling the heat scorching my body and sweating profusely. I rocked back and forth, a soft keening in my throat.
God help me, I was out of Afghanistan, here on US soil. Why couldn’t I shake the anxiety and stress of life in the war zone? I lived in perpetual fight-or-flight mode. It was a cruel irony to be in my childhood room where I’d once felt safe, when my instincts told me to remain vigilant, wary of everyone. The welcome-home party had taken every ounce of my hard-won discipline and waning energy so as to keep a stiff smile and make even the briefest utterances and replies. Clutching my blanket, I felt my anxiety levels rising off the charts. I knew I had to lie low, to cling to some semblance of control. I had to remain in my cave. Fight-or-flight was an instinct developed by humans to danger since the days of the cavemen. It was either that or get eaten alive.
The last guest had finally left and the house was quiet. I lay on my bed as the last vestiges of my panic attack eased and I could breath normally again. My mouth felt like cotton. I needed water.
The scent of pine and cinnamon potpourri floated in the darkened hall as I followed the glow of under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. Stepping into the room, I stopped short, surprised to see my mother standing at the sink with a teakettle in her hand. She spun around at the sound with a gasp.
“Taylor! I didn’t hear you.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She seemed flustered, even nervous, clasping her robe close at the neck. It was the first time we’d spoken to each other without a crowd of people around us in over a year.
“I couldn’t sleep. I’m making a cup of tea.” She raised the kettle in her hand. “Would you like one? Chamomile will help you sleep.”
I shifted my gaze to the back of the kitchen, where I knew my father used to store his stash of booze. “I’m looking for something a little stronger.”
“Oh. Well, there’s beer in the fridge.”
“Doesn’t Daddy usually have a bottle of bourbon around?”
Her smile slipped. “Uh, yes,” she stammered. “But I don’t know how much is left after the party. It’s over . . .”
Her voice trailed off as I was already walking to the far cabinet by the rear windows. Many nights in high school I’d sneaked a swallow from the bottles I found in there. If my father had ever discovered the levels of his amber liquid lowered, he never questioned me about it. Opening the cabinet, I almost smiled with relief. There were two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, one almost finished, the second unopened. I reached for the full bottle.
I could feel her eyes tracking me. It made me nervous. “This’ll help.” I indicated the bottle in my hand. I headed toward the door and my escape.
“Don’t you want a glass?” she asked.
“I’m good.”
“How’s your headache?” Her voice was full of concern. “That will only make it worse. Dehydrate you. Do you want some aspirin?”
“Got some.”
“Taylor?”
I stopped to look over my shoulder. Even in the low light I could see worry etched across her tired face. She’d grown thinner. Her face had a few new lines.
She said comfortingly, “Are you all right?”
No, I wanted to tell her. I am not all right. I was anything but all right. My hand squeezed the neck of the bott
le and I tried to allay her fears with an attempt at a smile. “I’m just tired. I, uh”—I ran my hands along the short, stubby hairs on the crown of my head—“I wasn’t expecting a party.”
“Oh.” She was crestfallen at the implied criticism. “I wanted to surprise you.”
My head thrummed and I felt my thirst for bourbon intensify. “You did.”
She smiled weakly, unsure of how to take that. “Well, go on to bed.” She gave a quick wave of her hand. “I hope you feel better in the morning.”
I nodded curtly. Just that small gesture sent ricochets through my brain.
As I walked from the room, I heard her voice call out behind me, “I’m so happy you’re home!”
The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.
—A Christmas Carol
Chapter 8
Jenny
The following morning I made a breakfast fit for royalty, which to me Taylor was. Lots of thick bacon, home-baked corn muffins, and fluffy eggs. I poured myself a cup of coffee, breathed deep its heady scent, and looked for the hundredth time toward the stairs.
“When’s he coming out of his room?” Miller asked, reaching for a muffin.
Alistair glanced at me, equally curious.
“When he’s ready,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. “He isn’t feeling well.”
“He must be dead if he can’t smell that bacon,” Miller said.
“Don’t say such a thing!” I said, appalled. “Why, that was heartless. His being alive is an answer to our prayers.”
“Sorry,” Miller mumbled, muffin crumbs flying from his mouth. I couldn’t be too angry with Miller when I also thought the scent of bacon would have drawn Taylor out.
“Is he just going to sleep all day?” Miller wanted to know.
“He’s just returned from war. With injuries,” Alistair said sternly. “He can sleep as much as he damn well wants.”
Miller’s eyes narrowed at being reprimanded.
“Eat up,” I said to Miller. “You’ll be late for school.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Miller glanced at the clock, then pushed back his chair and rose, sticking another piece of bacon in his mouth. “Gotta go.”
“Your lunch!” I shouted after him, a paper bag in my hand.
Miller grabbed the bag, enduring my kiss the way only a ten-year-old can.
“Come straight home after school.”
“I wanna go to Dill’s.”
I shook my head. “Not today, honey. It’s your brother’s first day home.”
“Mama . . .”
Alistair lowered his newspaper and said with finality, “You heard your mother.”
Miller’s face darkened, but he nodded in compliance before stomping out the back door.
I grabbed the dirty dishes and carried them to the sink. “He’s still holding out hope for that puppy. I can’t bear to think of him going back there and playing with him again. It’ll be too hard on him.” My hands stilled at the sink and I turned to face Alistair. He was reading the paper again. “I’ve got some money put aside. It’s not enough, but if I don’t buy you anything for Christmas, and you don’t buy me anything . . .”
Alistair snapped the newspaper shut and set it on the table. He said in measured tones, “You know buying that dog’s the cheapest part of owning it.”
I turned back toward the window. “I suppose. But we’ve always made do before.”
“No, Jenny.”
I heard the warning in his voice, but I couldn’t let it go. I turned toward him. “He’s such a good boy. . . .”
Alistair shut his eyes for a moment, pained. “Don’t you think I want to buy him that dog?” He opened his eyes. “You know all the boats are hurting now. The captains are trying, but they can’t give me enough work. As it is, I’ll probably have to go to Florida in January.”
“Oh, no . . .”
Alistair’s face was creased with despair and he said loudly, “What else can I do?” He paused, then lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to tell you this till after Christmas. I kept hoping something would turn up.” He met my gaze. “We could lose the house.”
The sponge dropped from my hand. “Not the house. But how?”
“The usual way,” he said darkly. “When you don’t make the payments, they foreclose.”
I slumped against the sink, filled with dread and a new fear. I let my gaze sweep over the kitchen, my colorful pottery collection on the shelves, my sweetgrass baskets collected over many years. I gazed out the windows facing the river. I couldn’t lose my house . . .
“I’m trying,” he said, a flush creeping up his neck. “I’m looking for carpentry work, handyman jobs, anything I can find. But it’s tough during the holidays. People put house projects on hold. I feel like I’m banging my head against the wall every day, going around town with my hand out.”
I could see in his face how demoralizing this was for him, a man once held in the highest of esteem.
His voice rose. “Hell, yes, I’d like to get my boy a dog! But we can’t add anything more, hear? Not one thing. We’re hanging on by our nails.” He looked down at his hands and added with a roughness in his voice, “Miller might as well learn now as later that life is tough. Money don’t come easy.”
I didn’t respond. I hoped my boy would never have to learn that harsh lesson. When Alistair was in this mood, I’d learned that it was best to let him settle himself down rather than corner him. He was quick to flare and his temper was fearsome, but he was also quick to cool.
He reached out to me. I sighed, recognizing the movement as an apology, and swiftly crossed the room to step into his embrace.
“We’ll get by,” he said reassuringly. “We always do.”
“I can try to get more cleaning jobs. Demand picks up during the holidays. I’ll put the word out.”
“I never meant for you to clean houses.”
I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty scent of his skin. Back when shrimp was king, I ran a small shop by the dock to sell product to the public and a few local restaurants. There was shrimp, of course, but I also sold a few specialty items such as my cheese straws, key lime pies, stone-ground grits, and lemons. During the holidays my pickled shrimp in red sauce did a good business. We weren’t rich, but we brought in enough so I could be close to home when Taylor and Miller were young. And the shop gave me my own niche in the close-knit shrimping community that I could be proud of. Though shrimpers were independent by nature, they banded together when the chips were down. Their wives were like that, too. Always at the door with a hot dish and a helping hand when someone was sick, a baby was born, or a family member died.
When the imported shrimp began being dumped on local markets at a ridiculously low price, the local shrimpers began to feel the pressure of a shrinking market. I hung on as long as I could, but eventually I had no choice but to close my shop. I didn’t know what else I could do for work. Substitute teaching was spotty at best. When a friend asked me to help out in her housecleaning business I thought it was good money, and I was accustomed to hard work, so I agreed to give it a try. With each passing day, the temporary position was becoming more permanent.
“It’s good, honest work,” I told him.
He gave me a tight squeeze. “I don’t want you to buy me anything for Christmas. If you have some money set aside, buy something for yourself. God knows I can’t get you anything nice.”
I saw the regret wash over his face and slipped my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. I whispered, “I don’t want anything from you that I don’t already have right here in my arms.”
He squeezed me harder, holding me near. “I don’t know how you put up with me.”
I felt my heart lurch and kissed his cheek again. The skin was freshly shaved and leathery. He was a proud man. A good man. I slowly rose, letting my hands slide from his shoulders. “I don’t either,” I quipped.
I laughed and returned a sloe-eyed glance when he reached out to p
layfully swat my retreating bottom.
“The school is not quite deserted,” said the Ghost. “A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still.” Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.
—A Christmas Carol
Chapter 9
Taylor
The afternoon was waning, but my hunger wasn’t. For the past several days I’d avoided the family, grabbing food when the coast was clear and bringing it up to my room. I found fewer ghosts lurked in my dreams if I slept in the daytime. I splashed cold water on my face, and lowering the towel, I caught my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. My hair was growing back, looking as if a beaver pelt covered my scalp. My jaw, too, was covered with the dark stubble of two days’ growth.
I slipped into my robe, put a pack of cigarettes in the pocket, and made my way downstairs. The scent of pine lingered in the living room where swags hung at the mantel. Signs of Christmas were everywhere—my mother’s collection of Santas on tables, bowls of pinecones and holly were everywhere, a kissing ball hung in the foyer. I could see and smell the cheer of the season, yet none of it reached my heart. As I walked toward the kitchen, I heard a muffled groan coming from the dining room. Curious, I followed the sound to find my little brother hunched over the table, chin in one palm, a pencil in his other. A book and lined paper were strewn over the table.
“I hate this book,” he groaned, and tossed the pencil across the room.
“Need some help, pal?”
Miller swung his head and looked at me with surprise that quickly shifted to uncertainty. I knew I looked like a homeless reprobate. I probably smelled like one, too. I had always been an early riser, early dresser, never letting the sun catch me unready. Seeing repugnance and not the swift shift to joy spark in his eyes that had always been his hallmark when he spotted me, back when I was his hero, hurt me more than anything else had in a long while.
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