The Hum and the Shiver

by Alex Bledsoe

  Bronwyn opened her eyes and saw Kell standing over her bed. She jumped, startled.

  He smiled and said, “Boo.”

  She sat up and yawned. “Why are you watching me sleep?”

  “I’m not watching you sleep, I’m waking you up. Get dressed.”

  Then she saw the darkness outside. “Holy shit, how the fuck long was I out?”

  “You kiss our mama with that mouth? C’mon, wash up and put on some pants.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going for a drive.”

  She looked at the bedside clock. “It’s eight o’clock at night.”

  “And they said you had brain damage.”

  “Seriously, what’s the deal?”

  “Seriously, get your ass in gear and I’ll tell you.” He pulled a strand of her hair and winked. “Trust me.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her broken leg was ridiculously smaller than its mate due to the muscle atrophy, but it looked surprisingly pink and healthy around the incisions. She wiggled her toes; the tingling was almost gone. “Hand me my crutches, will you?”

  “Do you want your cast?”

  “Hell no. I’m taking a goddamn shower like an adult.”

  He nodded at the stitched places. “Are you supposed to get those wet?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Want Mom to help?”

  Bronwyn used the crutches to stand and tucked them under her arms. “No, I don’t. I’m twenty years old, I should be able to wash myself.” She looked down and added quietly, “But do me a favor, stand outside the door and listen for a loud thud, will you?”

  He laughed. “Sure.”

  * * *

  An hour later they were in Kell’s car, riding smoothly over roads guaranteed to rattle the bones of the non-Tufa. Bronwyn suspected she knew their destination, but hoped she was wrong.

  She watched the light from the dashboard play across her brother’s features. Kell had never been a skirt-chaser, being too focused on whatever task was before him, whether farming, studying, or working one of his many part-time jobs. But he’d grown into a handsome young man who no doubt drew the eye of many well-bred ladies on the UT campus. He knew full well the dangers of a Tufa man becoming too intimate with a non-Tufa girl, though; he’d seen Stoney Hicks’s life marked by the suicides of desperate girlfriends he’d dropped with no more thought than if they’d been empty soft drink cans.

  “So where are we going?” she asked finally.

  “Don’t be a moron. You know where we’re going.”

  She felt a sudden chill, not of fear exactly, but certainly apprehension. “I’d rather not, Kell,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I mean, I’ve only been home a week, and I just got the pins out of my leg on Saturday.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “But you need to do this, and you’re gonna.”

  She put her hands on the dashboard, fighting the panic. “I will, I promise, just not tonight, okay?”

  He turned to look at her. “Why not?”

  “Why not? Today was the first time I’ve played anything in two years.”

  He made a sour face. “I know, I heard you.”

  “Ha ha, smart-ass.”

  “Seriously, though, you weren’t bad. Your song was there. So if a toe-dip like today worked, just think what a full dunking will do.”

  “Drown me,” she said, but her real fear trumped her irony. “Kell, please, don’t do this. Don’t make me do this. I’ve got a bad leg, a haint on my ass, and all the worries about Mom. Let me figure out at least one of those first, okay?”

  “I’m not making you. I’m taking you, but not making you. What you do when we get there is your business.”

  She stared into the night. The road became a path she could almost drive with her eyes closed, as any real Tufa could. Ahead a glow rose above the treetops. Her mouth was dry and her chest hurt from not breathing.

  They rounded the last curve, and suddenly parked vehicles lined either side of the road. Past them rose an enormous old barn, with SEE ROCK CITY painted in huge letters on its roof. Light spilled out through spaces between the wall slats, and shadowy figures moved inside. Down the hill below it, young teens danced around a bonfire.

  Kell drove right up to the barn’s side door. A large man in overalls and a weathered Tampa Bay Buccaneers cap sat on an old crate beside the door. He held a cigar box with duct tape reinforcement along its seams. Beside him, a ten-year-old boy sprawled on the ground playing a battered Gameboy.

  The man’s leathery face lit up when Bronwyn opened the car door. “Good gosh a’mighty, it’s the Bronwynator!” he exclaimed. To the boy at his side he said, “Go in there and pass the word.”

  “Uncle Node, please,” Bronwyn said as she eased her leg out. Kell got her crutches from the trunk and brought them to her. “I’m just here to listen and see people. We’ll just slip in the back, that way we won’t bother anybody.”

  “Bother, hell, this is an occasion.” The boy had not moved, so he slapped him gently on the back of the head. “What’d I tell you?” The boy jumped up and scurried off.

  “I’ll go and park the car,” Kell said. “Wait for me.”

  Noah Vanover, known to everyone as Uncle Node, stood and took Bronwyn by the shoulders. “You sure been missed here, Bronwyn. It does my old heart good to see you.”

  He released her and made a sign with his hands. She smiled and gave the appropriate sign back. Then she leaned up and kissed his cheek. It smelled of freshly turned earth after a rain. “I’ve missed you, too, Uncle Node. And this place.”

  Kell returned. “Anything special happening tonight, Uncle Node?”

  “Just your baby sister coming back to us.”

  “I may not be all the way back yet,” she warned.

  “Well, if you ain’t, you soon will be,” Vanover said with certainty.

  She followed Kell into the barn. As soon as the door opened, the music that had been barely audible outside hit her chest with a thump like a shell exploding nearby. For just a moment she smelled the desert’s dry air, and burning blood, and cordite. Then she was back in the present, and the impact spread through her far differently than any mere ordnance concussion.

  Kell sensed her change and patted her hand where it held the crutch handle. “Drowning?” he said over the music.

  She shook her head. “Keep the life preserver handy, though, in case I hit a drop-off.”

  As always, the barn’s interior seemed bigger than it appeared outside. It was lit mainly by thousands of tiny white Christmas lights. Hay bales covered with heavy blankets provided rough bleacher-style seating. The band riser was made out of old shipping pallets covered with particle board, and a row of ancient stage lights hung from the rafters directly above it.

  Two hundred people danced on the hard-packed dirt floor, played music onstage, or just watched and socialized. Couples twirled in old-style formality, and some individuals also danced flatfooted on battered pieces of wood. The noise was rhythmic, twangy, and dug into Bronwyn’s soul like a welcome parasite seeking blood from a host. And the itch it created was just as maddening.

  Bronwyn surveyed the mass of dark hair, tanned skin, and wide, white smiles. Cliché said that all the mountain families were inbred, and to an outsider this sight would just confirm that; it looked like one enormous family, all close enough to share the same basic characteristics. But these were only the exterior signs; the real connection came at a deeper level, in the response to music that each of them experienced and shared. It was something so innate and deeply rooted that it was like drawing breath, and in a sense did link them as a single clan.

  Heads turned toward her almost at once. She’d learned to dread that moment: lately, it was always followed by ridiculous praise, thunderous applause, and unearned standing ovations. But this time, except for some smiles of recognition and friendly nods, no one really reacted. It was as if she’d been away for days, not years. Or that she’d never left at all.
<
br />   Kell led the way, making sure Bronwyn had plenty of room to maneuver her crutches. When the current song ended, old Mrs. Chandler stepped up to the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves some real royalty here tonight, Cloud County’s own hero, Bronwyn Hyatt. Why don’t you come on up and play a little with us, Bronwyn?”

  Before Bronwyn could answer, Kell said, “Now, Miz Chandler, she’s just here to listen and visit tonight. Plenty of time for her to sit in later.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine,” Mrs. Chandler said agreeably. “We’re just all mighty proud to see you back, Bronwyn. Mighty proud indeed.”

  “I’m sure glad to be here,” Bronwyn called out, and waved. Then she turned to thank Kell for giving her a graceful way out, and let out a little yelp of surprise. Kell had vanished into the crowd, and now Terry-Joe Gitterman stood grinning before her.

  “Hey there,” he said. “Surprised to see you here.”

  “Wow, I mean … yeah,” she said. He looked strikingly handsome with his hair combed, in a dark blue polo shirt and faded jeans. There was surprisingly little resemblance to his brother. Dwayne loved to get dressed up and show off, but he always seemed peacockish, preening and performing for his perceived audience. Terry-Joe had simply dressed up for the dance. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Just had one of those feelings this might be a special night.”

  Someone said, “Oops! ’Scuse me,” and bumped her against Terry-Joe. He caught her easily, their gazes met, and suddenly she was in one of those moments when everything seemed to be frozen except for the two of them. She wanted to speak, to break the moment, but instead he seemed to be leaning nearer, his lips slightly parted.…

  She blinked. He hadn’t moved closer at all; had she imagined it? It wasn’t impossible that he might want to kiss her; he clearly had a crush on her. But the fantasy had been hers, not his. She took a breath, forced herself back to the present, and said, “Thanks. Going splat wouldn’t be very dignified.”

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  The opening notes of “I’ll Twine ’Mid the Ringlets,” played on Mrs. Chandler’s autoharp, rang out. A fiddle and banjo joined in. The singer, an eight-year-old girl named Emaline, stepped to the microphone, which even fully lowered required her to tilt her head back and sing up into it. It did not affect her performance.

  I’ll twine ’mid the ringlet

  Of my raven black hair,

  The lilies so pale

  And the roses so fair.…

  Terry-Joe nodded toward the dance floor. “Come on.”

  “What, dance?”

  “Sure. Trust me.”

  Bronwyn let Terry-Joe take the crutches away and prop them against the wall. Hopping on her good leg, she moved with him to the dance floor. The other couples gave them room and plenty of encouraging smiles. His hand went around her waist and pulled her close, forcing her to again look into his eyes.

  He’s seventeen, and he’s never been out of the valley, she told herself. He’s a child, and not just legally.

  He leaned close. She felt his breath on her cheek. “My wings can hold us,” he said like the wind sighing through the trees.

  Emaline continued to sing:

  I’ll sing and I’ll dance,

  My laugh shall be gay;

  I’ll cease this wild weeping,

  Drive sorrow away.…

  It reminded Bronwyn how glorious being a Tufa could be. The music formed around them like a physical entity dancing on sparkling wings. And then they, too, danced on wings that left trails of sparkles in the air as they swooped and twirled in time to the tune, merging with the music to become magical, timeless beings. Bronwyn’s leg, unburdened by her physical self, no longer ached with the weight of injury and age.

  And Terry-Joe was magical, too. He bore her into the music with the gracefulness of a true rider of the night wind. He may not have been a pureblood Tufa, but he was awfully close. His body felt hot and solid beneath her hands, and his fingers along her skin, even through her clothes, left little tingling trails. He brought her body to life like sunlight opening a morning glory blossom, banishing all traces of the numbness.

  I chose not to love him,

  Though he called me his flower

  That blossomed for him

  All the brighter each hour;

  But I woke from my dreaming,

  Took my life from his sway;

  My visions of love

  At last faded away.

  When the song finished and they again touched solid ground, Bronwyn threw her arms around Terry-Joe and let him spin her through the air. The crowd applauded the music and dancing, and Mrs. Chandler returned to the microphone. “That sure was purty, wasn’t it? Thank you, little Miss Emaline, and special thanks to Bronwyn Hyatt and Terry-Joe Gitterman. Now we’ll be hearing from our own Paige Paine, back from the music college in Nashville.”

  As the next song began, Kell appeared holding two bottles of beer. He looked from Bronwyn to Terry-Joe, his face impassive. “Can’t turn my back on you for a minute,” he said as he handed his sister one of the drinks. “I thought I’d get the first dance.”

  “You snooze, you lose,” she said, and took a long drink from the bottle. The beer was ice cold and felt amazing going down.

  Kell turned to Terry-Joe. “That’s some fancy footwork,” he said, an edge of suspicion in his voice. “Didn’t know you Gittermans could dance like that.”

  Terry-Joe shrugged modestly. “Your sister brings it out in me.”

  “She has been known to get men to do some crazy things,” Kell agreed. He took a drink and added, “Men like your brother.”

  “Kell,” Bronwyn quickly warned. From the time they were children, Kell and Dwayne Gitterman had disliked each other; in fact, one reason Bronwyn had first dated him was to tweak her overprotective big brother. It had been one of her poorer decisions.

  “No, that’s okay, Bronwyn,” Terry-Joe said. He met Kell’s challenging gaze and said simply, “My brother ain’t me. And family only goes so far. You have a problem with him, he’s not hard to find. If your problem’s with me, I’m right here.”

  Kell started to say something, then stopped. He nodded. “I reckon you’re right. Everyone’s their own. Sorry about that.”

  Bronwyn turned at the touch of a feminine hand on her arm. Bliss Overbay stood beside her. Her black hair hung in two braids beside her face and her tank top displayed the snake tattoo on her arm and shoulder. “Quite a dance,” she said.

  Bronwyn nodded at Terry-Joe. “Thank him; he held me up.”

  Bliss nodded approvingly. “He’s true, all right.” Then she turned to both men. “I need some private girl-talk with Bronwyn. If you’ll excuse us?”

  Both Terry-Joe and Kell made the hand gesture that signified respect for a First Daughter. Bronwyn took her crutches from Kell and hobbled after Bliss, past the hay-bale bleachers and out a side door into the night.

  They moved away from the barn into the darkness at the edge of the forest. The teenagers’ bonfire, where they pounded drums and danced around the flames, provided enough light for them to see each other. Bliss turned to her and said, “Was it a good idea leaving those two alone? I could smell the testosterone burning.”

  “They’ll work things out,” Bronwyn said. “Kell doesn’t hate Terry-Joe, just Dwayne.”

  “That’s not an exclusive club.”

  “No, not even among the Hyatts.”

  Bliss looked at her closely. “Are you sure you’re over him? He had a mighty tight grip on you once.”

  As she said the word, she realized its truth: “Absolutely.”

  Bliss didn’t seem convinced. “Have you seen him since you got back?”

  “He came by the house last night after everyone left. He was drunk, probably stoned, and just wanted to fuck. I didn’t even let him in. He’s the past I’m not real proud of.”

  Bliss cocked one eyebrow. “Don’t tell me the Bronwyna
tor is ashamed?”

  She was in no mood for teasing. “Did you bring me out here to lecture me on boys? When’s the last time you had a date, huh?”

  “Ouch,” Bliss said.

  Bronwyn sighed. A girl at the bonfire took off her T-shirt and began dancing in her bra. That kind of freedom seemed a million miles away. “I’m sorry, Bliss. I’m just tired of everyone knowing what’s going on in my life. Being the center of the whole world’s attention will do that to you.”

  Bliss continued to look at her with the penetrating, steady gaze. “Are you done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because you know things are happening. How goes the music?”

  “It’s there, finally. Terry-Joe gave me a lesson Sunday morning, and then when Kell came home, everything kind of broke loose. I’m still rusty, but I’m not helpless.”

  “Also good.” She stepped closer and spoke more softly. “The First Daughters are meeting at the next full moon, this Thursday. You have been specifically invited, to talk about the future.”

  Bronwyn nodded; this wasn’t unexpected, but it was part of the whole reality of her mother’s impending death that she didn’t want to acknowledge. “I’ll be there.”

  Bliss smiled. “And for your information, I had a date with a session guitarist two weeks ago, just before you got home.”

  “Really? Will there be a second date?”

  “Maybe. I think I intrigue him, but he doesn’t understand me. Kind of like you and that Reverend Chess, I imagine.”

  Bronwyn was glad the firelight hid her blush. “Him? He just keeps showing up. I don’t encourage him.”

  “I think you should be careful.”

  She laughed. “Bliss, I can barely walk, I don’t think I’m up to anything more strenuous.”

  “I’m not worried about what’s between your legs, Bronwyn. I’m worried about what’s in here.” She tapped Bronwyn’s chest over her heart.