Waiting for Patrick

by Brynn Stein

  “Well something’s going on, Ellie, because you don’t look good.” She put her hands on her hips and even raised her voice a little.

  “Gee thanks, Cher,” Elliot teased, trying to get her to calm down because they were drawing the attention of picnicgoers at the closest tables, as well as people walking on the nearby path. “I don’t insult you.”

  She slapped him with the back of her fingers. “Yes, you do. All the time. But I’m serious, Elle.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on it. Okay?” He glanced around and really wasn’t comfortable with the attention they were getting. Two old women at one picnic table just off the path had stopped their chatter to watch them disapprovingly. A man at the table on the other side of the walkway had looked up from his grill. Elliot usually didn’t care what people thought, and he didn’t really now, but there was no sense to kick up this kind of scrutiny over this subject.

  “I guess it’ll have to be.” Sheri went on as if not noticing Elliot’s discomfort. “But I wish you’d get off the ghost kick.”

  “Some friend you are. Not believing me.” Elliot was joking, trying to release the tension he felt by being the center of unwanted attention. He had known she wouldn’t believe him. He had merely needed someone to talk to about the dreams. “Malcolm believes me. Maybe I’ll make him my new best friend.”

  Sheri gave them both a hateful look, and Malcolm looked as if Elliot had just volunteered him for a firing squad. “Leave me out of this.”

  Sheri gripped Malcolm’s arm and started toward the parking lot again. “Oh, it’s far too late for that. You’re not getting any for a month!”

  ELLIOT HAD been working on the plans for remodeling the house off and on the whole time he’d been in SC, and finally had something he felt pleased with. He would do most of the work himself, but he’d need help with the wiring and plumbing. So today he was taking the plans around to various electricians and plumbers to get estimates. When he got reasonably low bids from people who would follow his plans to the letter, he contracted them on the spot. The electrician would start next Monday and the plumber soon after that. He also called on a few carpenters for help with the bigger remodeling jobs, like building false walls for the laundry area to hide the modern appliances, and had toyed with plans that would conceal the dishwasher and microwave but leave them with easy access.

  Three of them were coming in for a walk-through in the next several days before giving quotes.

  Elliot had decided to stay on for a while and do the little things himself, since he liked the house and the feel of the area. He also enjoyed spending time with Sheri and Malcolm, and even Daniel. So he needed to get some supplies for the projects he had planned.

  He pulled up outside the hardware store and ignored the tired pull of his limbs as he headed out. Walking through the rows of lumber and power tools, he gathered supplies he’d need to start repairing the railing on the front porch. By the time he dragged himself and the items he wanted to purchase to the front of the store, he was huffing and puffing.

  Man, I’m out of shape.

  The young worker at the checkout insisted on calling someone to load the wood into his truck. Usually he would have argued that he could do it himself, but today, as bad as he was feeling, he gladly accepted the help. It occurred to him that he would have to unload it himself once he got home, but he didn’t think it would take long. He could probably manage with what was left of his energy. Afterward he had every intention of collapsing in that wonderfully comfortable recliner and not moving for a week.

  He pulled himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine, still not breathing correctly and his chest starting to hurt a little. He vowed to look into gym memberships as soon as he arrived at the house. Once he’d offloaded the building supplies, of course.

  After what seemed like forever, he pulled into the driveway. He could have sworn that the drive home took an hour more than usual. Realistically he knew that was because he was tired and wanted the day to be over. He slid out of the seat and grabbed the first armful of lumber off the back of the truck, struggled with the load the few hundred feet to the porch, and dropped it behind the rail to one side of the steps. Not exactly where he wanted it, but by now he just wanted to get finished with the task. He would straighten things up later.

  He slumped back to the truck and grabbed another armful of two-by-fours. Each of the next four trips seemed significantly longer, the lumber exponentially heavier. By the time he had all the wood on the porch, he was completely out of breath and had to stop and brace himself against the front wall of the house to keep from falling. He’d noticed his physical condition going downhill for a while, even though he tried to stay active and healthy, but he’d never been this out of shape before.

  I really must be getting old.

  He decided to leave the power tools locked inside the truck until tomorrow. Enough was enough for today. He entered the house, still somewhat out of breath, heart pumping heavily in his chest. Throwing his coat at the coatrack, he decided against camping out in the recliner after all. As he hauled himself upstairs to go right to bed, he vowed again to get in better shape than this.

  I’m definitely joining a gym… tomorrow.

  He undressed quickly, frowning at his swollen ankles.

  Really? Swollen ankles? Just from walking all day? Geez.

  He took a quick shower and fell into bed. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

  I WAKE again, and Patrick is arguing with a comely blonde woman. Probably the owner of the plantation.

  “Look, Mrs. Buckner, ma’am. I understand why you would be shy of trusting us, but we’re not trying to cause any trouble. We just need a place to lie low for a while. My friend is hurt pretty bad, and I could really use some bandages.”

  I guess she had introduced herself while I was still out. I try to lift my head so I can get a better look at her, but the hay beneath my head seems to want to hold on to me. I feel like it’s pulling my head deep within its grasp. It won’t let me go. Fanciful thought, I know, but I’m having a hard time focusing on anything in particular.

  “Mister.” The lady is still talking so I try to pay more attention. “I don’t even know your name.”

  Patrick sticks his hand out. “I’m Private Patrick Chandler, and back there is my best friend in the whole world, Private Benjamin Myers. We mean you no harm, ma’am, and your secret is safe with us.”

  I remember he told me about the slaves and an Underground Railroad stop, and I realize I’m not thinking too clearly, but I’m wondering if maybe he isn’t jumping to conclusions here. Just because the slaves were in her barn doesn’t necessarily mean Mrs. Buckner knew aught about it.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she says with that tone that my ma always got when she was trying to convince us that she didn’t know about something she obviously did. Patrick was right, then.

  “I’m sure you don’t, ma’am.” Patrick plays along. “And I don’t either. And Ben is so out of it he doesn’t know his own name. We’re no threat to you, ma’am. We just need a covert for the present.” She seems to be thinking about it, so Patrick presses his advantage. “We can stay out here. If someone finds us, you can pledge that you didn’t know we were here. I can say I stole the bandages. That is, if you’ll bring us some or allow me to get some.”

  She looks at Patrick, then looks past him to me. At length, she starts over to me and I don’t know what to do. Ma always said to stand before a lady, but I don’t think I can. I do try, but the pain in my stomach is unbearable and I want nothing more than to drop back to the hay and stay there forever.

  “Ben, lie still,” Patrick calls, almost panicked while he rushes over.

  “You don’t need to stand, young man,” Mrs. Buckner says, apparently realizing what I had been trying to do, “but I appreciate the gesture.”

  “My ma raised a gentleman, ma’am.” My voice sounds weak even to me, but she seems to hear the sentiment behind it anyway.


  She smiles and gestures for me to move my arms so she can get a look at the gaping hole in my gut. Even I can tell it’s not good. I’ve lost too much blood. I’m barely hanging on.

  She looks up to Patrick. “Can you get him inside?”

  He nods but says, “It will be harder to deny you know about us if we’re inside.”

  “I’ll worry about that later, son.” She looks at me again and lays her hand on the top of my head. “Bring him in.”

  I don’t understand her change of heart. I guess it’s something to do with how bad I look. It must be worse than I thought, which is doing something, because I already thought it was awfully bad.

  TIME MUST have passed because now we’re in a large bedroom. I’m on a comfortable bed with bandages around my stomach and chest. There’s a window to my right and dust motes are riding the sunbeams. My legs, hips, and part of my stomach are covered in a handmade quilt that must have taken ages to finish. I absently worry that I might get blood on it. It would be a shame to ruin such an heirloom.

  It doesn’t take long for Patrick to come into view as he kneels by the bed. “There you are.” His voice sounds relieved but his eyes still look worried. “I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up.”

  “Where am I?” I try to raise my head to look at the rest of the room, but it’s still the same heavy weight it had been in the barn.

  “Mrs. Buckner had me carry you to a second-floor bedroom. You’re in the plantation house.” I don’t know what to say to that so Patrick continues. “She cleaned your wound a lot better than I could and bandaged you up. She’s been giving you some special teas that’s supposed to help with your fever”—he puts a hand on my forehead—“but you’re still burning up. The wound looks awful too. I think it’s infected. You’ve been asleep for two days now.”

  I try to sit up, but Patrick puts a hand on my chest. It doesn’t take much effort on his part to keep me down. I feel so weak.

  “One good thing,” I tell Patrick, “the wound doesn’t hurt anymore.” I thought he’d be pleased about that, but he doesn’t look happy. I pull the quilt up over my chest and try to change the subject. “How’s your arm?”

  He tries to whitewash it. “It was never that bad. It’s getting better.” He looks like there’s more he needs to say but doesn’t want to say it. “A young’un was running around to all the plantations yesterday, warning the owners that a platoon of Union soldiers was heading this way. Mrs. Buckner and I talked about it.” He’s found my arm and is absently stroking from elbow to wrist and back again, not meeting my eye. “If we freely admit that I’m here, and I act like I’m in charge and have, uh, forced Mrs. Buckner to help me, then they’re less likely to search the house. They’re less likely to find you.”

  “But they’re our troops.” I don’t understand why finding me would be a bad thing.

  “I’ve heard what they do to people they think are deserters, Ben.” Patrick looks up then and his eyes seem worried. “I have my kit packed and I’ll be halfway out the door when they get here, like I was heading back anyway. I would have left yesterday and met them on the road, but I wanted to wait until you woke up. I wanted to tell you what was going on.” He brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes. “If they don’t believe me, I’ll take whatever they want to dish out, but I can’t risk them finding you. You’re in no condition for any kind of rough treatment. And even if they treated you with kid gloves and took you to a medic, they don’t know what they’re doing any more than Mrs. Buckner does. And I don’t think you can handle the travel. I won’t lose you, Ben. You’re my other half. I can’t live without you.”

  “But if you leave….” I’m confused and clutch at his hand. “You’ll have to live without me if you leave me here. We said we weren’t going to be separated.” I’m getting upset now. I don’t want him to go.

  “I’ll get away from them first chance I get, Ben.” He’s trying to reassure me but I’m still beside myself. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise. I’m coming back. You just make sure you’re here when I do. You wait for me, you hear me? I’ll be back.”

  I look down at my bandages and back to him. “What if I can’t wait, Patrick? What if I have to go—”

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere.” He sounds angry, but I can tell he’s scared. He grips both my arms and locks his gaze with mine. “Don’t you dare! I’m coming right back. I expect you to be here.”

  I smile. “I’ll try.”

  “You better do more than try. I swear, Ben—”

  There are unmistakable sounds from outside. Sounds of a large group of people marching in unison. “They’re here. I have to go. This is going to work. I’ll be back soon.” He leans over me with a tear in his eye and kisses me. “Please wait for me.”

  “I will,” I promise him. I will find a way. If there is any way possible, I’ll be here when Patrick gets back.

  ELLIOT JERKED awake coughing, panting for breath. He sat up, allowing the breathing to ease, but his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. He lurched his way to the bathroom.

  Calm down. Calm down, he told himself, but nothing seemed to help.

  He splashed water on his face, then sat on the toilet lid, trying to slow his breathing. Gradually he got everything under control. His heart rate returned to normal and he could breathe again, but he was still shaken and didn’t think he could get back to sleep. Not in that bed, in that room. The same room where Ben had lain in the dream. Elliot was sure of that now. Even the three-quarter bed frame looked the same as the one in the dream—at least the footboard did. That was about all he remembered seeing. The mattress had probably been replaced numerous times and the quilt was long gone, but the window was the same, and the configuration of the room, where the door was.

  It was definitely the same room Elliot slept in. And Ben had died there. Elliot was certain of that too. As weak as Ben felt in the dream? There was no way he could have lived through that. Not in the Civil War era.

  Elliot decided he couldn’t truly avoid his bedroom, but he didn’t want to be alone.

  He dragged himself back toward the bed and looked at the clock. Five o’clock. Not that long before he would have gotten up anyway. He knew Sheri wouldn’t be awake yet, though. Who else did he even know in SC?

  Daniel.

  But was he the kind of friend you could call on for something like this? Was he even really a friend?

  Elliot decided he had nothing to lose as he slumped onto the mattress. He snatched up his cell phone from the nightstand and scrolled to where Daniel had put his number into it. He smiled when he saw the listing. Daniel had input Daniel as his last name so it showed up in the right place under the Ds, but as his first name he had typed “aka Darrell.”

  Elliot pressed Call and a cheerful voice answered. “Hey, Elliot! I never thought you’d call.”

  “Yeah, um, I hope I didn’t wake you.” He fiddled with the edge of the sheet that peeked out from under his legs as he sat on the bed.

  “Naw. Never went to bed.”

  Elliot knew what he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know if he had the right to ask it. He worried the folds in the sheet a moment longer, then finally blurted, “I was wondering if you could come over.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Elliot started to say something else but noticed that telltale dead feeling you get when you’re talking to nothing. Daniel had hung up.

  It occurred to Elliot that Daniel would have very different expectations but finally decided a little early-morning nookie might be exactly what he needed to get his mind off everything. If he could get his heart rate to cooperate and not start up wild again for no reason. He still wasn’t sure what that had been about.

  DANIEL ARRIVED in ten minutes. Either he happened to be relatively close by instead of at his house, or he had broken land speed records to get there.

  Elliot answered the door and immediately took charge. “What took you so long, Darrell?”

  “Really?
” Daniel raised an eyebrow but was smiling ear to ear. “You call me at five in the morning and get my name wrong?”

  Elliot knew he was teasing. Daniel had said he liked it.

  “Says Darrell in my cell phone.” Elliot smiled but then adopted a stern persona. “Besides, my house, my rules.” Daniel shivered in response to the commanding words and tone, and Elliot leered. “Strip.”

  AS ELLIOT kissed Daniel good-bye, he felt rejuvenated and ready for the day, the shaky start all but forgotten. Since he was feeling better, he decided to get right to work.

  He spent the morning sawing wood for the front porch railing, stopping only for a light lunch before rejoining the project. The afternoon didn’t go by as quickly as the morning had, however. As it dragged by, Elliot started feeling the pull of fatigue again. His arms were becoming leaden and his back started hurting badly.

  Great, I pulled a muscle.

  When he couldn’t stand the pain anymore, he went inside to get some liniment, leaving the tools where they were. Barely inside the door, his heart started racing and he gasped for breath. His chest was in a vise, pressing his lungs flat, not letting them expand.

  He fumbled his phone out of his pocket but it dropped on the floor. Reaching for it, he fell on his hands and knees, desperately trying to draw in air. This wasn’t a muscle pull. It wasn’t overexertion, and it wasn’t a response to a bad dream. He needed help, and his cell phone was a foot and a half out of reach.

  He collapsed to the floor, partly on purpose, trying to reach the phone, partly because his arms and legs wouldn’t hold him anymore, but the phone was still well beyond his grasp.

  Stretching as far as he could, he still came up eight inches short. It was maddening, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

  Suddenly the phone lurched toward him a couple inches. He felt himself tense in surprise, not believing what he saw. It inched forward again, and again. Elliot’s body jerked each time the phone moved. He was in so much pain and needed to call for help, but he couldn’t understand how this was happening. Finally it was close enough that Elliot could scrabble his fingers over the surface and pull it closer still.