A Soldier's Promise

by Cynthia Thomason

  “Oh, sort of a ding or a ping.”

  He got out, walked to the front and angled his head close to the hood. “I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary,” he said.

  “That’s odd. It was quite noticeable this morning.”

  Mike suspected that something was noticeable, but he doubted it was a sound from Brenna’s engine. He was pretty sure that what Miss Teacher noticed was Carrie’s absence. Leaving the car purring gently, he said, “According to the sticker on your driver’s-side door, this automobile has been serviced regularly. I noticed the odometer reads just sixty-five thousand miles. This car is a honey for a seven-year-old vehicle. So the only problem you have is possibly its owner. I myself only buy American-made vehicles.”

  She gave him an exasperated look.

  He smiled to himself. “As I mentioned, a ping or a pong or a clink would be pretty rare on a car that has been maintained like yours has.”

  “That’s why I was concerned,” she said. “I meant to ask Carrie if you were working today, but...”

  “Miss Sullivan...”

  “Brenna.”

  “Brenna.” He turned off her engine. “Let’s go into the office. Let me buy you a drink.”

  “A drink? I don’t think so...”

  He pointed through the picture window into the customer waiting room. “See that machine? I was offering you a Mountain Dew or a 7-Up.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  They settled at a small table. Mike took Brenna’s order for a Diet Coke and brought the can to the table. He popped the top on his Mountain Dew and sat across from her. “Why are you really here, Brenna?”

  “I told you. I heard a ping...”

  “Or a ding, right?”

  She didn’t respond, and he figured it was time to eliminate pings and dings from their vocabulary. “I’m thinking this visit has everything to do with my daughter’s absence from school today.”

  She sighed, turned the can in her hands without opening it. “Okay, fine. I realize I’m transparent, but I don’t really care. I am wondering why Carrie was absent.”

  He purposefully didn’t answer for as long as he could stretch out the silence. If that made her nervous, so be it.

  “Let’s be totally up front with each other,” she said after a moment.

  “Usually the best way to be.”

  “I’m concerned about Carrie.”

  “So you said Friday night.”

  Brenna folded her arms on top of the table and leaned slightly forward. “I want to know why she missed school today.”

  “Is the school board having teachers double as truant officers now, Brenna?”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she said in a teacher voice that made Mike remember all the knuckle raps he’d gotten in Catholic school.

  “You should be thankful someone cares enough to ask about Carrie,” she added.

  He would be if he wasn’t so certain that Miss Sullivan had her own devious theory about why Carrie was absent, and he was looking like the Evil Mr. Langston. He glanced at his watch, knowing he was still on the clock. How much more time was he going to devote to this witch hunt? Despite the view across the table, which was pretty darned attractive, he knew he’d be better off cutting it short. “She’s not feeling well,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You really want me to tell you?”

  She sat stone-still and waited.

  Should he reveal a private detail of his daughter’s life to this stranger? Oh, well, at least she was a woman, which made the delicate subject easier to broach. He released a long breath. “Okay, here’s the story. About one day every month Carrie misses school and stays in bed with a heating pad on her stomach. This started when she was about eleven. If you can’t figure out why that is, I suggest you go to the local library and take out a book on the subject of puberty.”

  Her face flushed. She cleared her throat. Mike got a perverse sort of pleasure out of seeing her discomfort.

  “I see,” she said. “That is an acceptable reason.” She straightened her spine and said, “Was telling me that so hard?”

  Well, yeah, it was. He’d only recently learned about this part of Carrie’s life, and the day she’d talked about it with him he’d felt about as capable of handling the discussion as he would have been teaching a quilting class. To answer Brenna’s question, he merely shrugged.

  “I don’t think we need to be on opposing sides here,” she said.

  “I’m on my daughter’s side,” he snapped. “Whose side are you on?”

  “I’d like to help Carrie,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “She seems lost and lonely. I’m sure you’ve noticed that.”

  “We’re doing fine.” Maybe if he kept saying that, it would eventually be true.

  “I’m glad to hear that, but I’d still like to make myself available to Carrie if she needs to talk.”

  They were going down this road again. Why did every woman he’d ever met think they had to repeat everything? Did they believe all men were born with poor hearing?

  “I already told you that talking to Carrie is okay with me. Just don’t push. Let her initiate these conversations. I don’t want anyone pressuring her.”

  She honestly appeared shocked. “I would never. We have rules in the school system that we have to follow.”

  “And I have rules as a father that I intend to follow. No taking my kid to places I don’t know about. No digging for information, and no making her uncomfortable.” He should have stopped there, but something inside him made him blurt out the very thing he shouldn’t have said. “And no trying to be a substitute mother.”

  She stood, her can of soda still unopened. “I assure you, Mike, I have no interest in being anyone’s mother. I’ve said what I came to say...”

  “And found out what you came to find out?”

  “Yes. I’m going to take your word for the reason for Carrie’s absence.”

  “Swell.”

  She walked out the door and got into her perfectly running silver Mazda. As she pulled out of the parking lot, he was still thinking about how she looked marching to that car. Determined, offended and, he smiled, cute.

  * * *

  “YOU KNOW BETTER, Brenna. This is your own stupid fault.”

  She consciously eased off the accelerator. She didn’t need to get a ticket on top of everything else. But she didn’t stop scolding herself.

  “This is why, since Jefferson Middle School, you’ve kept a strict nonintervention policy with regard to your students. You learned the hard way to let the Dianas of the world provide their shoulders to cry on while you just did your job and concentrated on your own problems.” She grimaced. “Of which there are enough, I might remind you.”

  She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and tried to think of anything but the past fifteen minutes with Mike Langston. No use. “What is going on with that family, anyway?” she said. “Did Carrie’s mother die? Did she leave them? Is she still in their lives but only on a temporary basis?” Brenna was familiar with divorcing parents who used their children as pawns in a power struggle. She hoped that wasn’t the case with the Langstons.

  Truly that scenario didn’t seem likely. Mike had said on Friday that he wasn’t married. And Mike and Carrie had recently moved to Mount Union and definitely seemed to be struggling to adjust to each other and their new home. And another thing...why would Mike choose a place so far out of town to live in? Was he hiding something? Was he purposely trying to keep his daughter out of the mainstream? She was just a kid. She needed contacts, friends.

  “That’s easy enough to figure out,” Brenna said. “Diana knows the history of every person and building in this town. She’ll know about property by the old mill.”

  A
n image of Mike’s face appeared in the back of Brenna’s mind and provided some details of his character. Strong lines curved around his mouth and eyes. Eyes like his had usually seen life at its most basic levels and experienced tragedy. And Mike’s was an obstinate face. Ruddy from weather and wind and so serious that the man almost appeared as if he was afraid to laugh. His features weren’t classically handsome, but Diana was right. He was interesting in a bold, daring way that made a person want to delve deeper, to learn more.

  Brenna nodded to herself. Strange. A tall, fit man like Mike afraid to laugh. Why? Well, maybe because in her dealings with him, she’d given him precious little to smile about.

  “Why should you care so much?” she asked aloud. A few minutes ago she’d been so angry she’d walked out on him. Now she was wondering if she might be the one who could crack that granite exterior and get to the man underneath. For the sake of his daughter, of course. “But, girl, you have enough to deal with without having these two—”

  Brenna’s cell phone vibrated on the seat beside her. She glanced down. Great. Speaking of dealing... She pushed the button to her car speaker. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

  “Hello, darlin’. I was just thinking about you.”

  Her mother’s thick Southern drawl seemed to permeate the air-conditioned cool of Brenna’s car like warm maple syrup. Brenna took in a deep breath. She wasn’t particularly fond of maple syrup.

  “How are you, sweetie?” Alma Sullivan asked.

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Brenna’s pat response. She never answered any other way. “Is everything all right at home?” She knew it wouldn’t be.

  “Your daddy and I are doing good, honey. My ironing jobs have dwindled down some, but that’s okay. I don’t much like ironing in the heat of the summer anyway.”

  “Mom, don’t you have the air conditioner on in the trailer?”

  “Not right now. It’s not too bad. Tonight if your dad can’t sleep, I’ll turn it on.”

  Brenna wanted to ask what her parents were doing with the two hundred dollars a month she sent them in the summers so they could run the AC in their single-wide trailer, but she refrained. Her mother would just list the other necessities the money had gone toward, and Brenna would only feel worse than she did now.

  She clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles went white and said, “So any news?”

  “Well, yes. There’s good news.”

  Brenna held her breath.

  “Your dad got a few hours of work with that fella who moved into the unit next door. The man got hired to paint the inside of the Waffle House and he asked your father to help him. It was a godsend, really.”

  “Daddy’s back wasn’t hurting him?” Brenna asked.

  “He took some of that twelve-hour pain medication and did okay.”

  Her mother paused, and Brenna waited for what was to come.

  “But it’s not all rosy here, Brenna May,” Alma said, “and that’s partly why I called today.”

  She tried to keep the edge of impatience out of her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “The brakes on the truck went out. Wayne at the shop wants almost five hundred to fix them. We gotta do it, of course.” Her mother emitted a nervous chuckle. “Can’t be driving around with no brakes.”

  “Do you think it’s a fair price?” Brenna asked. Mike’s face popped into her mind again. She almost said, “I know a good mechanic.”

  “Oh, yeah. Wayne would never cheat us.”

  Cut to the chase. “How much do you need?”

  “We’ll pay you back. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “We’ve got two hundred and forty left over from the paint job, so...”

  Brenna did the math. “You need two hundred sixty.” She had that much in her checking account. At least she wouldn’t have to raid her savings. “I’ll send a check out tomorrow. You’ll get it Wednesday. Tell Wayne to go ahead and fix the car.”

  “I’d use your dad’s Social Security check, but we need...”

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  She disconnected as soon as possible and continued toward home. As she approached her comfortable cottage, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she wasn’t still living in that nine-by-nine trailer bedroom with its leak-stained ceilings, built-in drawers and tiny closet with a plastic shower curtain for a door. She’d grown up in that room. She’d worked her way through college living in that room.

  She got out of her car, walked to the front porch that greeted her with planters of geraniums and pansies and delicate wicker furniture. When she opened her door, a blast of cool air welcomed her as she stepped inside.

  She’d escaped that room in that single-wide trailer. She’d never told anyone about that room, not even Diana. And she’d never go back.

  * * *

  DIANA FROWNED DOWN at her plate of watery spaghetti. “There’s just something not quite right about cafeteria pasta,” she said, spreading her napkin on her lap.

  Brenna smiled at her and added dressing to her salad. “I have to ask you something, Di.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What do you know about a house beyond the gristmill?”

  Diana stopped twirling spaghetti around her fork and looked up at Brenna. “Did you say beyond the mill?”

  “Yes.”

  Diana thought a moment. “There’s only one house out there that I know of. A cabin, really. Not very fancy. In fact, almost primitive. It hasn’t been occupied in a long time.”

  Bingo. “Who owns it?”

  “Let me think. The last person to stay out there was a part-time resident, an older lady who used to come for the winters. But she hasn’t been there in, I don’t know, maybe ten years.”

  “And the cabin belonged to her?”

  “I think so. It’s one of those older places that some people say should be on the historic registry. It’s what we used to call a pioneer cabin and was home to some of Mount Union’s original citizens.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I know it’s been modernized. The old lady had plumbing and power. You can see the wires running out that way from Con Electric. And phone cables, too.”

  “What was the lady’s name?”

  “Oh, jeez, Bren, I don’t remember. I think it was Emily or Amy. Something old-fashioned like that. Her last name started with an L, I think.”

  “Could it have been Langston?” Brenna suggested.

  “Could have been.” Diana lifted her spaghetti to her mouth. Her eyes widened as she chewed. “Wait a minute.” She swallowed, took a drink of water. “Langston? Isn’t that the name of your new student, the one who came to your house?”

  “Exactly. This family, the mysterious mechanic and his daughter, must be related to old Mrs. Langston somehow.”

  “And they’re living in her place.”

  “Away from town, out of sight,” Brenna said.

  “Do you still suspect the worst about the father?” Diana asked.

  “No, not the worst. He’s not hurting his daughter, at least in the way I thought when he picked her up at my house on Friday. But something is going on. That girl is unhappy. She’s lonely. She needs...” Brenna couldn’t say the words. They were still alien to her vocabulary.

  Diana grinned. “You, Brenna? The girl needs you?”

  Brenna sighed. “Yeah, she needs me.”

  “Well, holy cow. Look who’s suddenly getting involved. I thought your volunteering to chair the renovation of the Cultural Arts Center for teens was the only extracurricular activity we’d get out of you this year.”

  Brenna smirked. “Yes, and it’s a monumental activity, you must admit. I have you to thank for matching me up with that little job.”

  What Diana said was true. Maybe Brenna
had seen too much of herself in Carrie Langston. Maybe she’d seen just enough of the girl’s reticent, brooding father. Maybe she was ready to move on from her past. Whatever the reason, she was becoming emotionally involved with a student again.

  “I’m thinking I need to go to the farm stand on White Deer Trail,” Brenna said.

  “I don’t suppose your longing for fresh, local vegetables has anything to do with the fact that the old mill is on White Deer?”

  Brenna pretended surprise. “It is? What a coincidence.”

  Diana smiled. “You should know, Bren, it’s a little hard to do a drive-by of Mrs. Langston’s cabin. As I recall, once you drive in, the only way out is to turn around and leave the same way.”

  Brenna smiled. “I’ll figure something out. I just have to go. I’m developing quite an interest in one of Mount Union’s pioneer cabins.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, seven days after Brenna first met Mike Langston, she called the garage and asked to speak to him. One of the other mechanics told her to hold on, and he shouted Mike’s name. At that point Brenna said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Someone’s at the door. I’ll call back.” She had gotten the info she needed. Mike wasn’t at his cabin.

  She checked her watch. School had been dismissed an hour ago. The buses had all left within ten minutes. Carrie would be home, but if Brenna were careful, she wouldn’t run into her. And now she knew Mike was at work, so there was no chance of running into him. She’d see old Mrs. Langston’s cabin and draw her own conclusions about its livability.

  She drove into the country, past the Montgomerys’ house, the farm stand and the old mill, one of Mount Union’s most historic buildings and a favorite field trip for elementary students.

  Slowing her car just after the mill, she noticed a narrow drive winding into a stand of live oak and magnolia trees. The rutted path was overgrown. Brenna debated the wisdom of navigating it in her Mazda but decided her trusty little car could make it.

  She progressed slowly, holding her breath at each bump in the drive. She’d gone about three hundred yards when she saw the roof of a house and a brick chimney covered with ivy and moss. There being no place to pull over, she stopped in the middle of the path and got out of her car. She hadn’t gone too far into the trees that she couldn’t back out safely and return to White Deer Trail.