After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  They’d duped him. Briefly. Them and their sickening goodwill. Trying to make him feel welcome. Feeding him home-cooked meals. They didn’t hide and ration the grub, like some places. They had a big house, big money. The perfect setup. So he let them drag him to church. He even sat in on their family Rosary, like Mr. Callaghan required. That tyrant always had too many rules.

  Nails had never joined in their repetitious prayers, but he sat and listened. He liked when Beth, the oldest daughter, led the Hail Marys. He didn’t focus on the words, just the sound of her honey voice. The softness of her face. Her curls sparking copper in the vigil candle light.

  He ground his teeth. Beth was only a year younger than him, but she’d had no idea what he was. She was too innocent, too good. He should have hated her. She was always smiling, eagerly caring for her younger siblings, baking, cooking, cleaning, never complaining. Like some nauseating saint. The stark opposite of him. Because of her, his defiance stood out like corrosion.

  And still, they kept him. Until . . .

  Refusing to finish the thought, he slammed open the door and stalked off into the night. Into the welcoming darkness.

  * * *

  The photo scare knocked all thoughts of Clay’s call from Charlene’s mind, and she didn’t remember it until coasting her bike to work the next morning. Though she had her car back, she enjoyed riding in the open air too much to drive such a short distance.

  Her peddling slowed as she reached Sam’s drive. Why had Clay called? A thick hesitance lay curdling her stomach as she entered the woodshop.

  Both Sam and Clay were already hard at work. Sam gave her a nod, then sent a board shrieking through the table saw. She threw on ear protection.

  Clay didn’t nod a greeting. He merely looked at her. Something about his tight expression made her stomach flip.

  She turned away to work, deciding not to bring up the call. She’d leave it to him. As far as he knew, she knew nothing about it.

  “Clay, Charlene,” Sam called about an hour later. “Come here.” He motioned them with a hammer to his workbench. They stood stiffly, one on either side of him. “Look, you two, after what happened here, I’ve been staying close, but it’s getting old. I can’t stay in the shop watching you every day, all day, and I don’t want to.”

  Clay looked monumentally insulted. “You don’t need to babysit us.”

  “I don’t plan to.” Sam pulled open a workbench drawer. Inside sat a black plastic case, which he opened to reveal a small gun. Several white boxes of Winchester ammunition lay behind the case.

  Clay frowned. “I don’t need a gun.”

  “I disagree,” Sam countered. “It could have saved you a broken jaw. It could have made sure that ex-con didn’t get away.”

  Clay drilled Sam with a look. “You’re forgetting something. I’m an ex-con, too. A felon. And felons aren’t allowed to own, use, or even touch a gun.”

  “Yeah, well that sounds real nice, but while you may respect those rules, the other felon might not. And you’re forgetting this isn’t just about you. You’re not the only one in the shop.” Sam glanced at Charlene. “I want you both to have a means to defend yourselves if that lowlife comes back.”

  He turned again to Clay. “Law or no, you’d use the gun to protect yourself or Charlene, and that would be the right thing to do. Don’t tell me you don’t want the option. The gun’s in my name. You don’t have to touch it, but it’s here if you need it. I protect my employees.” He seemed to stumble slightly over the word “employees.” She imagined he had wanted to say “son.”

  Sam regarded her. “What do you think?”

  She glanced at Clay’s scowl, then at the gun. “I think it’s a good idea.”

  Sam gave a satisfied nod. “It’s a .38 Special revolver. Small, easy to fire, not a lot of recoil, but definitely enough power to kill. If need be. It’s not loaded right now. You ever shoot before, Charlene?”

  She pictured Abner’s gun, a bigger one. Despite how close it had come to her, she’d never even touched it. She blinked to clear the image. “No, but if I had to, I’m sure—”

  “Not good enough. Tell you what, I’ve got to spend the rest of the day making deliveries. We’ve done a decent job catching up around here. Clay, take her to the outdoor range and teach her to shoot. Make sure she gets plenty of practice.” He began walking away and gave a short laugh. “It’s safety training day.”

  “No way, Sam.” Clay’s hand came down hard on the workbench. “Are you deaf? I just told you, I can’t even touch a gun. How am I going to teach—”

  “You’ll figure it out. Just talk her through it. I gotta go.” Sam exited the shop. A moment later, his truck rumbled out the drive.

  Clay glanced at her, then shoved the drawer shut with a bang.

  She stood rooted to the floor. Her eyes darted to the open door and the bright sunshine bouncing off the driveway. An outdoor range sounded nicer than staying inside. She looked at Clay.

  “Seriously? You really want to go shoot?”

  She lifted her eyebrows, gave a small smile, and shrugged. “I do. Next time, I’ll protect you.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Clay almost cracked a grin, then sobered and crossed his arms. “I’m not kidding. I’m not touching the gun. So unless you’re insanely good at following verbal directions, I can’t teach you how to use the thing.”

  “I want to do this,” she surprised herself by insisting, “but if it’s too hard for you, I’ll find someone at the range to show me.” She slid the drawer open and reached for the weapon.

  Clay’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. “Whoa, hold on.” His tone made her flinch. “Never take anyone’s word for it that a gun’s not loaded. Always treat it like it is.”

  Slightly unnerved, she swallowed.

  Clay released her wrist and pointed. “This here’s the hammer. Check that it’s down, not cocked. Pick the gun up so the muzzle’s pointing away from you and anyone else who’s around. Keep your finger away from the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  “Go ahead then, pick it up.”

  All kinds of nervous now, she lifted the silver-barreled gun slowly and carefully by the dark wood grip, sure to keep the muzzle pointed at the wall. The weapon felt heavier than its size suggested.

  “To be sure it’s not loaded, you’ll have to hit the cylinder release button right here.” Clay pointed. “Then pop out the cylinder. Try it.”

  Her right thumb pressed the button, her left nudged out the metal cylinder. Easy enough.

  “Good,” he said. “Now you can see that each chamber is empty.”

  True, no bullets rested inside the six vacant slots. She snapped the cylinder back in place. Her new knowledge, slight as it was, gave her confidence. She placed the gun gingerly back in the case and closed it. “So you’ll teach me how to shoot?”

  Clay’s eyes assessed her, darkening. “All right. But I can’t drive us. I can’t get caught transporting a gun, even if it’s not mine.”

  “Okay.” She respected his being a stickler for the law, and she didn’t want him ending up back in prison, either. She picked up the case and tucked it under her arm. Then she slid a couple boxes of ammunition in her purse.

  “We’ll need these.” Clay grabbed two pairs of eye and ear protection.

  When they walked outside, she realized she’d have to pick her car up at the apartment so she could drive them to the range. It wasn’t a terribly long walk, but she considered Clay, still healing, and asked, “You up for the walk to my place? Otherwise I can—”

  “It’s a broken jaw, not a broken leg. I can walk.”

  Ignoring a pang, she readjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. “Okay then.” She tried to make her words as breezy as the warm, winding air. They set off, side by side, yet a definite distance between them. Tiny embedded granite stones sparkled and glinted in the road. Birds sang. Now and then, a car passed by.

  They said nothing for
half the walk. Her underarms dampened and she shifted the gun case. She mulled over a few conversation openers, but dismissed them. They’d gone so long without speaking, she couldn’t start now.

  The thought of an entire afternoon at a shooting range with Clay’s tight lips began to loom uncomfortably awkward. When she used peripheral vision to glance discreetly at him, he appeared almost angry. Brooding. Turmoil building like a spring storm.

  Then the storm clouds burst and his words rained out, heavy and cold. “I don’t get it. I never would’ve pegged you as a careless, blabbing gossip.”

  Her stomach plummeted. She knew where this was going. She wanted to dive into the roadside weeds and wildflowers.

  “Why’d you tell Brook all those things about me?” His sharp voice cut her. “You’re the last person I’d expect that from.”

  The sense of having betrayed him made her shrink farther from his side, but he slowed his steps and looked right at her, his expression demanding an answer.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “She asked. She wanted to know how I knew you, how we met.”

  Clay’s brows shot up, incredulous. “And you couldn’t have kept it simple? Said we met in the woods and left it at that?”

  “Sure, because that doesn’t sound weird at all.”

  She began moving with powerful strides, wanting this walk over and done with. She knew she should apologize, but his accusatory tone rankled, and an unpleasant pressure built in the back of her throat. The only way to ward it off was to strike back.

  “She wanted details, Clay. Girls are different, they talk about things.”

  “The wrong things.”

  Her hands clenched. “How was I to know it was some big secret? You never said. We never had an agreement, an understanding that we couldn’t discuss it.”

  “We shouldn’t have had to,” he practically snarled. “It’s common sense. It was bad. All of it. Nothing worth remembering or telling. So why, on earth, would you want to?”

  I didn’t want to. Her face scrunched tightly and she turned her head aside.

  “You had no right,” he went on, his words ripping her to shreds. “I came here to start over.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why do you carry that article in your wallet?”

  He flung her a look, eyes smoldering. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know.” Me and my big mouth. “The one about your sentencing. If you wanted to ‘start over’ I would think—”

  “How do you know what’s in my wallet?”

  “That day in the workshop, Lance stole your money. He found the article and—”

  “It’s none of your business. Just like all this is none of your business.”

  Her eyes followed the random black tar lines in the cracks of the road. Why had they walked?

  Having realized that silence was preferable, she was aghast when more words burst from her mouth. “You can’t build a new life on secrets. Your girlfriend deserves to know. I didn’t go into detail. You’re being unfair. She could have looked up any part of the story. It’s practically all online.”

  “But she didn’t. She wouldn’t have. Even if she does need to know, it should have come from me, at the right time, not from you.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I wanted her to get to know me first, without all that baggage. We haven’t been together long enough for something that huge. I didn’t want to freak her out. But you—you just charged in with no regard for—”

  “I’m her roommate. We have to talk sometimes.”

  “Then talk about something else. Anything else.” He shook his head. “You trying to scare her away, or what?”

  Mortified, she almost stumbled. “No, of course not! Never. Why would I do that? No.”

  “Then what? You want to give her nightmares?” His voice went gruff. “ ’Cause she doesn’t need that.”

  She swallowed a tremble in her throat, then whispered, “No one needs that.”

  Somehow, suddenly, they’d reached her car. She zapped the locks open and fairly wilted onto her seat, turning her head fully away from Clay. What were they even doing? She didn’t want to go to a shooting range with him now. He couldn’t want to either, so why did she hear him climbing into the passenger seat?

  She rested her forehead against the cool window glass, defeated. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She tried to sniff without making a sound.

  Why didn’t he reply? Surely he had at least a few more harsh words for her. She took a deep breath and focused on willing away the painful throb in her chest.

  “Charlene?” His tone was one she hadn’t heard in years, a pre-prison tone, something she hadn’t expected to hear ever again.

  He touched her shoulder. An odd feeling rippled through her.

  She blinked rapidly and hoped her eyes weren’t red. Keeping her chin steady, she turned slowly to see Clay looking at her with concern.

  “What’s the deal with these pictures?” His words prickled with restrained alarm.

  Her gaze fell to the photos. The creepy stalker photos. She had carelessly left them scattered on the passenger seat, and now he held them in his hands.

  “Charlene?”

  She scrunched back in her seat while a deep frown creased his forehead, growing deeper by the second.

  In a monotone, she explained how she’d found the pictures in her car when she picked it up in Woodfield the night before.

  He muttered under his breath, angry again. “So this is from when you lived in your last place?” He held the close-up photo, the one of her sleeping.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’m glad you moved. Not that that means you’re safe.” He cursed.

  She cringed.

  “Sorry.” He turned to her. “And I’m sorry I lashed out at you. That wasn’t fair. Things have gotten complicated . . . but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You’ve got more than enough to deal with yourself.”

  “It’s okay. I understand why you were upset. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  He slapped the pictures onto the floor. “Let’s get you to that range. The sooner you learn to shoot, the better.”

  A few silent minutes into the drive, he glanced around and remarked, “You would have a car this clean.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Just an observation.” He rolled his window down, and warm air whooshed in noisily, tugging and tangling her hair and making further conversation pointless.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Hold the gun steady with both hands, lift it, extend your arms like this, and aim,” Clay directed loudly, to be heard above the firing guns and through the ear protection. His ability to speak so strongly with his mouth wired shut impressed Charlene.

  She was also exasperated with him. Shooting was harder than it looked, and his weaponless demonstrations weren’t helping. So far he hadn’t come close to touching the gun, and his obsessive carefulness grated on her.

  She adjusted her safety glasses.

  His explanations were thorough, but after she repeatedly missed the target, and with her wrists sore from the repetitive recoil, she was ready to give up. Not a lot of recoil, indeed. Ha, Sam, what a joke.

  Clay shook his head. “You’re flinching really bad and that’s throwing your aim way off.”

  Struggling for patience, she adjusted her stance and tried again. She barely hit the edge of the target, and it was only fifteen feet away. Oh well. “Good enough.” She set the gun down, ready to lose the unwieldy glasses and clunky earmuffs. Might as well be back working in the shop and actually accomplishing something.

  “No.” Clay took her off guard by setting her hand back on the weapon. Conscious of his touch, she barely felt the gun.

  “You can do this, Charlene. We’re not leaving till you get a bull’s eye.”

  “They won’t be open that long.”

  “Look, watch me.” Again, he acted out shooting a gun, arms raised and tense, eyes focused. Impressive
acting, but it was more distracting than anything. Finger cocked, he pulled an imaginary trigger and absorbed a fake recoil. “Bullseye.”

  “No!” She clapped a hand to her chest and fanned her face with the other. “And here I was holding my breath thinking you might actually miss. Bravo, Robin Hood, bravo!”

  Clay slanted her a look. “Robin Hood shot a bow.”

  “Then bravo, Annie Oakley.”

  He faced her head-on. “You just call me a girl?” His eyes flashed, but she was fairly sure she caught a spark of amusement.

  She shrugged. “I called you a sharpshooter.” A smile escaped her. “You should be honored.”

  “I’m not.” His eyes narrowed. “Daniel Boone, Buffalo Bill, Davey Crockett, Jesse James. Take your pick.”

  “Jesse James was an outlaw.”

  “Even more fitting.”

  No longer amused, she lifted the gun and shot rapid fire, blowing off smoke in a literal sense.

  “See, all you need is motivation. Unfortunately, your anger didn’t translate to accuracy.”

  She stomped her foot. “Then help me. Real help, not pretend. Please, Clay. No one’s going to know or care.”

  He studied her a long moment and frowned. “I thought you always played by the rules.”

  “I try. I do. But I just can’t figure this out on my own.” She dampened her lips and lifted the gun into position once more.

  “Fine.” Clay’s sudden closeness surprised her. As he positioned his head beside hers, he brought his right hand over hers, guiding her fingers where they needed to go, all without even grazing the gun. “Hold it steady like this.” His warm, firm grip tightened.

  Despite being disconcerted by a strange current of energy, she stabilized her hand. Somehow, she caught a faint whiff of pine wood and varnish.

  “Line up the front sight in the notch of the rear sight. Put the pumpkin on the fencepost.”

  She choked on a laugh. “Put the what on the what?”

  “Put the pumpkin on the fencepost.”

  “As opposed to putting it under the fencepost? Or baking it in a pie?”