by L. L. Muir
She was getting used to the way her thoughts skidded and banged around in her head like cars in a demolition derby. One of these days, she wouldn’t remember what she was like before this assignment. But this assignment was nearly over.
When Kenneth finished with his human state, she’d be taking her place in the center of the circle and never see Jamison again. Jamison, who she loved—no, who she liked kissing. Once she entered the circle, of course, all thoughts of kissing would be over in less than a mortal second.
Would she go back to the way she had been? Would she want to? Would she have a choice in the matter? It was a pity that every time she traveled through the veil her memories were affected. On the other side, she remembered all. On the mortal side, she had fragments of past assignments, no more. If she were to be assigned near Marcus again, they would barely remember each other. Jamison, she wouldn’t remember at all.
She should welcome the relief from the emotional storm. She didn’t. She mourned the loss of them and they weren’t even gone yet.
When she got home tonight, would Jonathan be able to read her? Would he know how much time she'd spent thinking about Jamison, missing his nearness at school, wishing he would suddenly stop her in the hall with his hands on her shoulders, slipping them down her arms to link his bare fingers with hers? How much she ached to have felt it all the first time?
Would Jonathan tell Lucas all he sensed? But more still, would Jonathan understand what was happening to her and be able to help her through it? Would he or Lucas be able to restore her peace?
Skye’s hand froze, the key halfway inside the ignition.
What was wrong with peace? Peace was the prize, after all. Wasn’t it?
Without risking another thought down that road, she started her engine and squealed out of the parking lot, headed for home, to run headlong into the peace that awaited her...in her room, where Jonathan wouldn't find her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I don’t know what time I’ll be home tonight. They’re lighting a bonfire, for Homecoming.” Jamison pecked his mom on the cheek and headed for the door.
“Okay, I’ll try not to worry. Don’t get too close.”
Jamison froze. “To whom?”
His mom laughed. “To the fire. Don’t get too close to the bonfire.” She set down her coffee cup, frowning. “What about Daddy? He missed you last night.”
It was so weird, hearing her call him Daddy again, after all these years.
“I’ll be over to see him, I promise. There might be plenty of stuff going on later and I didn’t want you waiting up for me, you know?”
“Fine. I’ll probably stay late and watch TV with him. You know, like we would at home.” She got up and grabbed a tissue. “Go.”
“Loveyoubye!” He pecked her on the cheek again and tried not to think that it might be the last chance he’d ever have. Who knew what kind of hell he’d have to pay for what he was planning to do.
So much to do, so little time.
Jamison tried to look casual and bored as he walked into English class. He didn't want Skye to think it was anything other than a normal day.
Morning announcements were hard to hear over the chaos in the room; Mr. Evans was late.
“Everyone please come,” the kid on the PA pled. “The bonfire will be lit in the field to the West of the auditorium. And then we'll be watching a movie inside right after.”
Jamison looked at Skye and forced a smile. She looked relieved and smiled back. Since few other students were in their seats, he stood and moved to the back of the room and when he leaned against the wall, Skye turned in her seat, to face him.
“You are coming tonight, aren't you? To the bonfire?” He slid down the wall to sit on the floor. To most of the class it would just look like Skye was facing the empty rear of the classroom. “Please say you're coming.”
“I'll think about it.” Skye fidgeted with the tassel of her scarf.
“Oh, don't tell me you won't be allowed to come.” He leaned forward and grabbed her scarf, pulling it slowly from around her neck while looking into her eyes, daring her to stop him, daring her to say she'd come.
“I'm allowed.” She blushed, probably trying to think of everything else she was allowed to do. But surely, if the Somerleds condoned blowing people up, they'd condone just about anything.
“Good. Can you meet me there? I have to drive Granddad's truck over, with some old barn wood for the fire.”
“Yes. I'll meet you there.”
“Going to the Recovery Center today?”
“Yeah. I need to.”
“Me too. Maybe I'll see you there.” Jamison rolled up the scarf and tucked it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “I'll give it back if you come tonight.” Then he winked at her and made his way back to his seat.
Step one: get her scarf.
Step two: get her to come to the bonfire.
Check and check.
***
Mr. Evans walked in as the announcements wrapped up.
The kid behind Jamison poked him in the back and leaned forward.
“I heard he got called into Mr. Forbes's office this morning. He's busted. Been dating a student, if you know what I mean.”
“If that were true, he wouldn't be here this morning, would he?” Jamison rolled his eyes at the kid and turned forward again.
Rumors like that were never true. Some chick might have complained about Mr. Evans because he was too rude, or made her look stupid in front of her friends, but if she wanted to be believed, she should have come up with something else. The guy was 55 or 60. Students who dated teachers went for the young ones, not fossils with all white hair.
“Children? I hope you at least reviewed the notes of Jamison's friend, Cliff. Use as many pages as you'd like, and capitalizing on the rest of the class period, please write an essay explaining how old you expect to be when you decide wisdom, or something similar, will become more important to you than passion.
“And I don't mean only physical passion, Miss Phillips. I mean passion for life, passion for your dreams, passion for business, perhaps. Passion of any kind. Poetry. Art. Music. Science. There are some among you who might have a passion for mathematics, or gambling.
“Just how long do you see yourself holding on? How bad must your arthritis get before you choose a pain-free day over picking up your violin? How many months or years might go by without you noticing the passion is gone? Will you even care? Maybe you've already let something go, Mr. Shaw.”
He winked and Jamison and continued his rant.
“If sacrifice is giving up something good for something better, when do you think the balance will shift? When will that pain-free day sound better than the music?
“I can see Mr. Cloward getting his hopes up. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm done talking. Start writing. Don't forget to tie in our beloved novel, Lost Horizon. Compare your prediction with what you have learned about Mr. Conrad or Mr. Mallinson.”
For Jamison it was fairly easy; he wrote about Granddad. That man was born with wisdom; he didn't need to give up his passions for it. He wouldn't have stayed in Shangri-La, he would have fought hard to get back home to his wife, his daughter and his grandson. He wouldn't have accepted any substitute for family. Kenneth Jamison was the fear and fight kind. He would have never cowered in Texas, no matter what he'd faced. He’d been John Freaking Wayne; he'd have found a way to fight.
For the first time, Jamison wrote about what happened deep in the heart of the Yellow Rose State. It didn't matter if it earned him a better grade or not, he just had to write it.
He dragged his feet, letting the rest of the class file out before he turned in his paper.
“Mr. Evans?”
“Mr. Shaw?”
“I can't give you my paper unless you promise to give it back. And you have to promise to keep what I've written to yourself. No one can be helped by it, and a few can be hurt.”
Mr. Evans's brows came together. “I'm sure i
t's not my place to stick my nose where it doesn't belong.”
“Thank you.” He stapled the pages together and handed them over.
“And Jamison?”
“Yeah?”
“If I can't...if I can't return it personally, I'll destroy it. All right with you?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“You have my word.”
Jamison nodded and left. That guy was friggin' weird.
Attend first period. Check.
***
Second period Jamison drove home. He hauled a pallet and some long ropes from the old shed and headed for the tree house. He was whistling the Irish Washerwoman's song, his granddad’s favorite, so it took some time to realize someone was calling out to him.
“Ho! Young Kenneth!”
Jamison took a deep breath and turned. Lucas was standing on something on the other side of the fence, the top of the boards hitting him around the waist of his white work clothes.
Jamison smiled a neighborly smile and didn't allow himself to think a hostile thought. “Oh, hello.”
“Good morning, young Kenneth.”
“Actually, I go by Jamison. I leave 'Kenneth' for my grandfather.”
“Well, then, hello young Jamison.”
“Hello. You Marcus?”
“No. Marcus moved to another farm. I'm called Lucas.”
“Nice to meet you.” Jamison took his hand off the ropes on his shoulder and gave a little wave before turning away.
“Is there something I could help you do, young Jamison?”
He turned, smiling. Shrugging the rope-ladden shoulder, he lifted that Ken Jamison eyebrow. “I guess I could use a little help, but can you spare the time?”
“I'm between projects, you could say.” Lucas jumped the fence and his large body landed lightly on odd leather boots. “What is it you mean to do with all this?”
“Well, this may sound silly, but I was thinking that old tree house might be a little too dangerous to have around. I can't quite bring myself to tear it down, but I thought if I boarded it up kids won't be tempted to climb up, you know?”
“That doesn't sound silly a'tall. What do we do first?”
“Well, there's all this wood, from the old pig shed. I thought I should haul up what I'll need into the clubhouse, then I can take the rest of it to the bonfire at the school tonight. Then I can get credit for cleaning up the pile of wood.”
“A sound plan. And maybe some money in your pocket?”
Jamison grinned. “Absolutely.”
An hour went by swiftly with Jamison keeping his mind clear of anything but the task at hand. If he could pull off being this close to Lucas without arousing suspicion, the rest of his plans would be do-able.
With a pallet, a pulley, and the help of a man obviously gifted in the strength department, Jamison was able to get plenty of wood up into the tree house. No mention of school was made until lunchtime arrived.
“Would you like to come inside and I'll make us some lunch?” He turned toward the house.
Lucas took off his work gloves and dusted off his still-white pants. “No, but thank you. My lunch will be waiting for me at home. How is it, young Jamison, that you are not in school today?”
“Oh, that. Well, I went to English, to take a test, but they cut me some slack so I could collect wood for the bonfire.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Yeah, anything for Homecoming.”
“And how is your grandfather?”
The need for smiles disappeared.
“He's not doing too good right now. They’re going to decide whether or not to try a different treatment. The last thing they did didn't work.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don't want him in pain, but I can't stand to see him stop fighting. Lots of people beat cancer, right? So why not him?”
“Yes, why not indeed.” Lucas started to walk toward the road, to walk around the end of the fence. “I think he's lucky to have you, son. I'm very glad you and your mother came back.”
After lunch it was quick work to nail boards across all the windows of the clubhouse. The drop door was a little tricky; he pounded old gray boards across the door without actually nailing the door shut. From the ground, however, it screamed “no access.”
With a chainsaw, starting at the top, he cut the center out of all the ladder rungs while trying not to give the old trunk new wounds. About six or eight inches of wood still surrounded each railroad spike. If asked, he would explain that to take the spikes out would be not only difficult, but would shock the tree. But with the greater portion of each rung missing, it would take a rock climber to get to the tree house, and then they couldn't get in.
Step 4. Check.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jamison drove the pickup to the Recovery Center and asked if he might take his granddad for a ride. A short while later, and with an IV hanging from an old rifle rack, the two struck out for parts unknown. The nurses had tried to dissuade them, but once Jamison had suggested it, Granddad's mind was set.
Only the large grumpy nurse, whose bark was much worse than her bite, had the balls to dress down the Scotsman all the way to the truck. Right before they'd driven away, however, she'd winked at Jamison with a teary eye, then threatened to call the police if he didn't have the old coot back in an hour or so.
His granddad waved the woman closer, digging in his pocket. “I’ve got something for you, Madame.” When he pulled out his hand, his middle finger was raised and he waved it at her.
Jamison sped away before the silly Scot could come up with another insult, and in the rear view mirror he watched the big woman bend over, laughing.
Granddad cleared his throat. “That's no way to treat a woman, me boy.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Nurse Harmon is no woman. She's my auld drill sergeant, painted wi’ lipstick and dressed in his sister's knickers.”
Granddad’s laughter was loud and rude, as if it, too, had been saved in that shirt pocket for a chance at some air.
A few minutes later, after the man caught his breath, they settled into a comfortable silence and listened to the sound of the old engine.
“I spent many a year of me life in this trook. ‘Twas a grand idea, goin' for a ride.” Granddad rolled down the window. He struggled, and it took him a good minute, but it looked like he didn’t want help. When the old clouded glass was finally down, he leaned out to face the breeze, smiling into the sunlight that felt anything but warm to his driver.
“I'm taking a load of wood over to the school,” Jamison hollered, “for the Homecoming Bonfire.”
The old man pulled his head back in, looked into the truck bed and laughed. “That the wood from the auld pig shed?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, that will make for a fair pungent fire, laddie, if'n the rain and snow from last season didn’t wash the away the stink.”
It didn’t take long to get to the school. Granddad grinned and waited patiently while the ominous wood was unloaded. Next, they rolled around town, talking about townspeople Jamison barely remembered, or pretended to remember. At last, the talk turned to Grandma and what the couple had planned to do when they’d retired.
“What seriously pissed her off was dying just before the retirement checks were to start. If someone could stay alive out of spite, she'd have done it.”
It seemed as if thoughts of Grandma drained his energy faster than anything else and Jamison turned back toward the Recovery Center. The big woman was standing there with her hands on her hips, as if she hadn’t taken a step while they’d been gone. She whistled and two men came outside, one pushing a wheelchair.
“Drive around the car park once, me boy, just to piss in her tea.”
Jamie did what he was told. His grandfather giggled the whole time.
“Thank ye for the adventure, Jamie lad.”
“You're welcome, Granddad.” Jamison grabbed the man’s arm before he could open the
door. “I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to do it a hundred times.”
Granddad looked at him for a long minute, then his eyes got wet. “Sometimes, son, one good ride is worth a hundred others.”
All the way to the mall, Jamison fought to swallow the boulder in his throat. This was no day for emotion.
Step 5. Check, damn it.
***
Jamison had cash. No one would trace his purchase, and if the guy at the counter had been sober enough to remember any specific customer that afternoon, it would have been the blue-haired, nose-pierced, tattooed thirty-year-old-trying-to-look-eighteen who was standing in line behind him.
Besides, the store had been dim. Other than his blond hair, there was really nothing memorable about him, or his purchase, compared to the raunchy stuff everyone else was there to buy. Thankfully, Jamison looked a bit older than he was and the wasted employee hadn't asked for ID.
Step 6. Check.
The list was a great idea. Not only did it keep him from forgetting anything, it kept his head clear; there was no need to keep reviewing things he'd already worked out. He only needed to do everything as planned. An added benefit was that it kept him calm enough to choke down some food. The last thing he needed was for his stomach to growl at the wrong moment, or his strength to give out.
While pounding down a Big Carl and fries, he drove around town, looking for the right sucker to help him with step seven. It was just after four—plenty of time to walk if necessary—but he'd rather stick to the plan.
He was about to give up and head back to scour the mall parking lot for the second time, when he spotted her.
Miss Phillips from English class. Alone. Coming out of the old-fashioned music store.
Granddad's truck wasn't the sexiest vehicle, but it would have to do. Jamison pulled up behind her car and rolled down, by hand, a very unsexy window.
“Miss Phillips, I presume.”
She spun around and smiled. “Mr. Shaw, as I live and breathe. The Southern gentleman who is so humble he believes himself to be a coward.” She prowled over to the truck as seductively as any Southern belle, clutching her bag in both hands.
He realized she was pushing her boobs together on purpose. Interesting.
