by Sharon Sala
“She has plenty to do keeping us all comfortable and fed. If she needs a night off now and then, then we should honor that.”
“You’re right. I’ll be happy to fry up some ham and potatoes,” Danny said.
Gideon looked at his younger son and made no move to hide his appreciation.
“Then we thank you, son, don’t we, Porter?”
Porter Monroe frowned. It wasn’t often that his father ever called him down about anything, but something told him now was not the time to push the issue about being thirty-seven years old and his own man.
“Yeah, sure, Danny. That would be great. I’ll go down in the cellar and get a quart of green beans to go with it.”
Gideon sighed. If only it was as easy to make peace with Ally as it had been his sons, he would be feeling much more relieved.
When he passed through the living room on his way to the bathroom to wash up, he noticed that his truck was gone. He sighed. At least she hadn’t gone off on foot. He didn’t like to think about her limping off down the road or up the mountain through the trees.
He washed up in haste, unwilling to look at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, well aware he wouldn’t like what he saw.
Ally drove without aim, her only intent to get as far away from home as possible. Still, less than three miles from home, she caught herself turning east on a narrow, one-lane road, instead of continuing down toward Blue Creek. Even while she was negotiating the road, her mind was already on the warmth and welcome that would be waiting for her at Granny Devon’s.
Granny wasn’t really her grandmother. She’d born no children, but in the mountains of West Virginia, being given the title of a family member, while being no blood kin, was an honor. In her younger days, she had garnered something of a reputation for being a seer, and it had held her in good stead, especially since she’d been blind since birth. But Ally hadn’t come to get her fortune told. She just needed the comfort of another woman’s voice and, hopefully, some of her wisdom.
An old gray tomcat missing one ear and two teeth came out to meet Ally as she parked beneath a stand of pines. His throaty greeting was somewhere between a cat’s meow and a growl, compliments of a dog fight years ago that he almost hadn’t survived. Ally bent down and gave him a good scratch between the ears.
“Well, hello to you, too, Mr. Biddle. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
Then she moved toward the porch and the little old woman who awaited her there.
“Granny Devon, it’s me, Ally Monroe.”
“Law, girl, you got no need to identify yourself. I saw you drive up,” she said, and motioned for her to sit down.
Ally laughed. It was Granny’s idea of a joke, although everyone always played along.
“Nice-looking bowl of beans you have there,” Ally said. “I’d be happy to finish them off for you.”
“What a sweet child you are,” Granny said, and relinquished the chore to Ally.
Ally sat down in the empty chair beside the old woman, smiled to herself at the rather youthful pink dress Granny was wearing, then began finishing the beans.
“These out of your garden, Granny?”
“No, honey. Didn’t plant no garden this year. My hands are getting too achy to hold a hoe these days. Anson Tiller’s boy, Duke, brung ’em over to me earlier.”
Then she lifted both hands to her head, and with the deftness of a woman who’d learned to see with her fingers, tucked a few flyaway strands into the bun she wore at the back of her neck and fluffed the ruffled collar framing her tiny face. Once satisfied that she looked presentable, she pushed off in her rocking chair as she turned her attention to Ally.
“Talk to me, sweet’en. How’s that Gideon doin’ these days?”
Ally sighed. “We had words, Granny.”
Granny nodded while riding with the motion of the chair.
“Better than tradin’ blows,” Granny stated.
Ally snorted softly. “We came close.”
Granny picked up on the sarcasm in the sound and frowned.
“You’re too easy on your menfolk. They take you for granted.”
Ally sighed, then let her hands go limp in the bowl.
“I know, but it’s too late to change.” She blinked back tears. “Oh, Granny, it’s too late for everything.”
The old woman reached out, took away the bowl of beans and set it aside.
“It’s never too late,” she said. “Now, give me your hands, girl.”
Ally scooted closer, then laid her hands in Granny’s lap. She knew what came next. She wouldn’t admit it, but it was, after all, the real reason why she’d come.
Granny’s hands were palms up, but the moment she felt Ally’s hands, she grabbed them tight.
Ally knew what to expect, and still her heart rate accelerated. She stared into those pale, sightless eyes and tried not to shudder. Even though she knew Granny Devon had never seen a moment of light on this earth, she would have sworn she was seeing all the way to heaven.
The old woman’s lips went slack, and she started to sway back and forth. Ally heard her moan, then exhale softly. At that point, she started murmuring in a high, singsong voice.
“Look to the family.
Look to the heart.
Danger around you.
Trouble will start.”
Ally frowned. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear, and yet it wasn’t enough to tell her how to prevent it, or save herself and her family from ruin.
“How, Granny? How will the trouble start?”
The old woman’s eyelids were fluttering, and her gaze was fixed on a point far beyond Ally’s mortal sight. Ally braced herself for the answer. “You are not your brothers’ keeper.”
Ally leaned forward until she was so close she could feel the old woman’s breath upon her face.
“Which brother, Granny? What’s happening to my brothers?”
But Granny Devon’s moments of sight were gone. She turned loose of Ally’s hands and fell back in her chair. Her breathing was shallow, her body limp and shaking.
Ally sat without moving, waiting for Granny to recover herself. Even though she seemed close to apoplexy, Ally knew from experience that she would come to in her own time.
The old tomcat wandered up onto the porch, paused to look at Granny Devon as if he knew what was happening, then leapt up into her lap and curled himself into a ball. Ally could hear him purring from where she sat.
A few moments later, Granny inhaled deeply, then sat up, felt the cat in her lap and smiled.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Biddle. Real thoughty of you to come visit me like this,” she said, then laughed out loud.
Ally smiled, but she couldn’t laugh. Not after what she’d just heard. Her silence must have alerted Granny that all was not well.
“Girl…you still here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Granny’s hands stilled on the cat as her smile faded.
“Was it bad?”
Ally sighed. Another thing about Granny that was somewhat unusual was that she never remembered what she said when she had her visions.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Granny frowned. “I’m right sorry, girl.”
“It’s all right, Granny. You don’t make stuff happen, you just give us a warning of what to expect, right?”
Granny nodded slowly. “Best I can figure. I don’t rightly understand it myself.” Then Granny dumped the cat from her lap and stood up. “Let’s go inside. I’m right hungry for my supper. Have you et, girl?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then you can sit at the table with me. It’s been a while since I had company for supper. It’ll be a pleasure.”
Ally shook off the anxiety of Granny’s predictions and followed the little woman into the house. Soon the kitchen was filled with the homey scents of baking corn bread, frying chicken and fresh corn on the cob. Ally finished setting the table, then took a plate of sliced tomatoes from the refrigerat
or and put them on the table.
“The table is set, and the tomatoes are out, Granny. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“I reckon you can come look at this chicken and see if it’s as brown as you like it.”
Ally peered over Granny’s shoulder and shook her head in disbelief. It was all she could do to time cooking a meal like that and make it work, and she could see.
“Granny, I don’t know how you do it, but it looks amazing.”
“Good, then fork up that yard bird and get it on the plate. My belly feels like it’s gnawing on my backbone.”
Ally grinned.
“Why don’t you sit down and let me finish dishing up the food?”
Granny wiped her hands down the front of her apron.
“Well now, I believe that I will. Seems like my days just keep getting longer and longer.”
Ally dished up the food as Granny took a seat at the table.
“Iced tea is already poured and to your right,” Ally said.
Granny started to reach for the glass, then stopped and frowned.
“Reckon did you sweet it?” Granny asked.
Ally smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Is there any other kind?”
Granny laughed and nodded as her fingers curled around the glass and lifted it to her lips.
“Umm-hmm,” she said, as she took a good long sip. “That’s fine. Right fine.”
“And so is this meal,” Ally said as she sat the last of the bowls on the table. “It’s very kind of you to invite me to stay.”
“It’s my pleasure, girl,” Granny said. “’Sides, sometimes we women just need a break from the menfolks of this world.”
“That’s the truth,” Ally muttered as she slid into her seat.
Granny reached for Ally’s hand.
“Bow your head, girl. We bless the food before we put it in our bellies.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ally said, and closed her eyes in quiet submission.
The prayer wrapped around her, comforting in its message and promising an ease to her worries that she sorely needed. When Granny ended with a hearty amen, Ally felt renewed and suddenly hungry.
“Since you’re here, I’ll take advantage of your kindness and ask you to fix my plate.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Ally said.
Granny nodded. “I like the back piece of chicken, my corn plain, and my corn bread buttered.”
Ally stifled a chuckle. “Granny, you know what?”
“What’s that?” Granny said, as she felt along the platter of chicken until she found some crumbles of the fried chicken batter and popped them in her mouth.
“I want to be just like you when I grow up.”
Granny laughed and then slapped her leg as if Ally had made a good joke.
“First of all, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re done grown up and we both know it. Your childhood ended when your mama died. As for wantin’ to be like me, no, you don’t. My womb was barren, and my eyes aren’t nothin’ but plugs for the holes in my head.”
Ally covered Granny’s hand with hers. “No, ma’am. You’re wrong about some of that. You may not have born a child, but there’s not a child on this mountain who doesn’t love you as if they were your own blood. As for your eyes, I think you see more than anyone. You don’t need eyes to see into our hearts. You are precious to all of us, Granny. Don’t ever doubt that for a minute.”
Ally could tell that her words had pleased the old woman, but she didn’t comment other than to let go of a small smile.
“About that corn bread…” Granny said.
“What about it?” Ally asked.
“There’s four corners in that pan and I’d like to have one of ’em. It’s got more crust, and I like the crust best.”
This time Ally giggled aloud. Granny sure did like her food.
“I’m cutting it now,” Ally said.
“And the butter…don’t forget the butter,” Granny said.
“Who’s doing this…me or you?” Ally said.
Granny slapped her leg and giggled.
“Danged if you ain’t right. I’m sorry, girl. You fix it just like you like it, and I’ll swear it’s the best I ever had.”
“Of course you will,” Ally said. “You cooked it.”
Granny was silent for a moment, then picked up her fork. “That I did. That I did.”
Four
Nine months later
A short busybody of a nurse used her hip to shove the door to Wes Holden’s room inward. Upon entering, she set a stack of fresh towels and washcloths on the end of the bed, then moved to the windows, pulled the curtains back and patted the mound of covers over Wes’s feet as she headed for the sink with a washcloth. She noticed as she worked that Colonel Holden’s eyes were open, but he neither acknowledged her nor behaved as if he even knew she was there.
“Good morning, Wesley. Did you sleep well last night? I didn’t. My knee hurts like a big dog. I swear the weather is going to change. Mark my words. It’ll rain before nightfall.”
She dunked the washcloth beneath a stream of warm water, wet it good, then wrung it out and headed for the bed.
“Let’s wash that sleep right out of your eyes, what do you say?”
She swiped the warm, damp cloth across Wesley’s face as a quick wash and wake-up, ever aware of his blank, sightless stare.
“After breakfast, I’ll give you a shave. It will make you feel like a new man.”
She pushed buttons and plumped pillows, then readjusted Wes’s posture until she finally had him sitting upright in bed. What was driving her crazy was that in all the time he’d been here, she had never seen one moment of life in his eyes.
He opened his mouth when she told him to, and chewed when food was put in his mouth. He was shaved and bathed and wheeled about as if he’d lost the use of his legs, when in reality it was his mind that was lost. She knew his story, but he wasn’t the only soldier who had lost a loved one in the commissary bombing, and that had been almost a year ago. She figured this stemmed from something deeper. She knew what the doctors said about his PTSD, and she’d also heard the rumors that they were convinced he might never return to reality. But she was in the business of helping to save people’s lives, and in her opinion, he was a man worth saving.
Once she was through washing his face, she pulled the guardrails down from the bed and swung his legs off the mattress, letting them dangle.
“Okay, mister. Bathroom for you. Get up.”
Somewhere inside the shell of Wes Holden’s mind, he was still able to respond to orders. He stood.
“Go do your business, soldier. When you come out, breakfast should be here.”
She pushed gently, aiming Wes toward the bathroom. A short while later, he exited. She made him wash his hands, then sat him in a chair near the window, rather than back in his bed.
“Breakfast is served,” she said, and pushed the small table with his tray of food in front of him. She put the fork in his hand. “All right, soldier, I’m too damn busy to sit here and feed you every day. Eat up.”
But Wes didn’t respond, and she was afraid to leave the food with him. Something told her that, if it was up to Wes, he would gladly starve and that death would be welcome. She patted his back and pulled up a chair.
“It’s okay, honey. I’m not that busy, after all.”
She took the fork out of his hand, scooped up a bite of scrambled eggs and aimed them at his mouth.
“Open wide.”
To her undying relief, he not only chewed, but swallowed.
After months in the psych ward, the nurses had gotten used to Wes’s inactivity, and for her, it was just another day.
When she’d finished feeding him, she got a basin of warm water, shaving soap and a razor, and began their morning routine. For a while, there was silence in the room, with only the occasional sound of the razor being swished through water and the soft notes of a song she was humming. Just as she was pulling the ra
zor up the sharp angle of his right cheek, a loud clap of thunder suddenly rattled the windows. She jerked and flinched, and when she did, the razor nicked a spot on Wes’s cheek.
“Oh, honey…oh, darn…I’m so sorry,” she said, and grabbed the wet washcloth from the bed rail, pressing it firmly to his cheek. “It was the thunder. I told you it was going to rain, didn’t I?”
She dabbed at the cut over and over until it began to clot, then dropped the washcloth into the shaving water.
“I’m going to get some antiseptic. I’ll be right back.”
Wes’s unfocused gaze was turned toward the window as she left. Suddenly a shaft of lightning hit the parking lot just outside the window. The flash was violent and bright, and followed by another clap of thunder so loud that it sounded like a bomb.
Wes threw up his arms. As he turned to throw himself onto the floor, he saw the basin of bloody water. Then he froze, his gaze fixed as he stared at the red stain. It was only seconds, but for Wes, it seemed like an eternity. In the time it took for his breathing to resume, he was aware of everything. The sound of his heartbeat was so loud that the throb hurt his ears, and he was shaking from the inside out.
There was blood in the water.
There had been blood all over Margie.
It thundered again. He looked down at his hands, then up at the window. Wind was blowing the rain against the glass. The turmoil outside was as wild and violent as the feeling inside his chest. Kill or be killed. That was what a soldier was taught. Someone had killed his wife and little boy. He’d killed one of them, but there could be more. Trust no one. The enemy could be hiding anywhere.
“Here we are,” the little nurse said, dabbing some antibiotic on the cut, then quickly applying a small circle-shaped plaster.
Wes shifted his gaze to a corner of the floor and willed himself not to scream. The way his heart was hammering, she was bound to hear.
“I’m really sorry about this,” the nurse said, then gathered up the shaving utensils and wet towels, and quickly left the room. Thanks to this mess, she was already behind.
Wes exhaled slowly, then got out of the chair and crawled into bed, pulled the covers up over his shoulders and closed his eyes.
