The Borrowed World Series | Book 8 | Blood & Banjos

by Horton, Franklin

  “All done,” he announced. “What’s next?”

  “Are you comfortable operating the cart?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty simple.”

  “Then I want you to go back without me and get the stuff I left on the porch of my cabin. That’s all the gear I’ll need for now. If the other kids ask when they’re coming, tell them it probably won’t be for a couple of hours. After you bring my stuff, we’ll start bringing the children’s stuff. We’ll haul the packed items from the dining hall and camp kitchen, then we’ll bring the instruments. The children will be able to walk from the camp to here and they can lead the goats with them while they walk. It’ll take longer to get the chickens because we need to make sure we have a place for them. That might take a couple of days.”

  Nathan smiled. “Some of the kids will gripe.”

  “That’s okay,” Sharon said. “It won’t hurt them. Try to play up the idea that they’re getting to take the goats for a walk. Maybe that will make it more entertaining.”

  “Will you be okay here?”

  “Are you serious?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I want to get a few things squared away before the children get here.” Sharon was so independent that she was almost offended by his question until she considered what motivated it. It was his maturity and sense of responsibility. He was starting to think like an adult. “And thanks for asking.”

  “Then I’ll be going. I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Be careful!”

  He raised a hand, waving in response to her comment. He reminded her of a teenager heading out in the family car, except he wasn’t old enough yet and the family car was a horse. She remained in the open doorway, watching as he settled into the golf cart, snapped his reins, and headed off down the driveway.

  When he was gone, Sharon backed through the door and sat there thinking. After a moment’s hesitation, she closed the door and locked it. She was uncertain of what to do next, so suddenly confronted with the enormity of what lay ahead of her. She was no stranger to managing big jobs so her reaction surprised her at first. Then she understood that she wasn’t just overwhelmed by the size of the physical task, but also by all the other things that came along with it. There was the loss of Oliver to deal with and the sense of aloneness that brought. She also felt the burden of being the only adult. Then there was the looming conflict with Kimberly that was bound to rear its ugly head again.

  Sharon headed toward the hallway, deciding she should at least move the guns from the bed to the closet. She was fairly certain the kids wouldn’t venture into the room, especially if she asked them not to, but she’d feel more comfortable with the weapons stowed. As she headed in that direction she regarded the old family photos on the walls of the hallway. It was tragic in some ways that this once large farming family had dwindled, but that was the way of things. Empires rose and fell. Even large and prosperous families could die out.

  In some of those pictures, the large family stood in the yard of this very house, faces somber. Others were taken around the property. Men were farming with teams of horses, men posing by logs they harvested from the forest, and men standing alongside kilns they used to bake bricks. There were men posing by cars, trucks, and tractors. Some photos were only men, others only women.

  One that caught her eye showed three men dressed in patched bibbed overalls but sporting rakish felt hats that would have been more suited to an evening in town. There was nothing in the photograph to indicate the occasion or where the men might be headed but the hats were not the only distinctive feature of the photos. Each man held a shiny black revolver and they were pointing them at each other in a manner that was definitely unsafe.

  She understood that times were different then. People were more tolerant of risk. Perhaps it was because they were more responsible and had more common sense than the people of today, so obsessed with doing things that would gain them visibility on social media.

  In those bibbed overalls, the men would have nowhere to carry those guns but their pockets. They wore no belts and had no holsters on display. She remembered that was how her grandfather had carried one at the store he operated, just shoved into his pocket like it was nothing more than a ring of keys.

  She screwed her mouth up in thought. That gave her an idea and she hurried to Oliver’s room. She opened the door and went to the foot of his bed, scanning the room. When she spotted what she was looking for—Oliver’s clothes, piled exactly where he’d left them when he last took them off.

  Everyone had their own rituals, especially an old man who’d been living on his own for a number of years. His clothes were draped across a very feminine dressing bench with pink padding that was probably a remnant of his late wife. She approached the pile and studied it. There were bibbed overalls and a stained white t-shirt. She could smell the clothes and they smelled like Oliver. It wasn’t a comment on his hygiene in general but more of a reflection of the state of things. No one was as clean as they wanted to be. Deodorant had disappeared as a concern in the early days of the event.

  She picked up his t-shirt and folded it neatly before placing it on his dresser. While she was there, she tucked everything back into the drawers so that they closed neatly. She returned to the bibbed overalls and picked them up from the bench. They were a heavy item of clothing anyway, requiring a significant amount of denim to make, but these were heavier than normal. It made sense in some ways. Why bother to empty your pockets if you’re going to be putting the exact same thing back on tomorrow?

  She started with the chest pocket. She slid a finger in there and found a stub of a pencil, along with a worn notepad. She flipped it open and found lists, notes Oliver had written to himself about things he wanted to do. She set those items aside to review later. In his back pocket, she found a wallet so worn that the leather was scarcely thicker than the paper in the notepad.

  She couldn’t bring herself to open the billfold. It was too personal. She expected there would be family photographs, a driver’s license, and some paper money worn smooth as silk from the carrying. She set that aside also.

  In the left front pocket she discovered a ring of keys. It reminded her of a ring of keys she’d found after her father died. Despite the durability and strength of metal, nothing polished keys and a keychain like carrying it in a pocket every day. The ring would eventually wear thin. The keys would become polished until the teeth disappeared and the edges wore smooth.

  She tucked those keys into her pocket, hoping they went to some of the doors she planned on securing. Returning her hand to the pocket, she found an elastic capo, a device for changing the key of a stringed instrument. There were probably a dozen loose picks for guitars and banjos. Some were flat plastic, others metal and designed to fit over the fingertips. There was also an Old Timer pocketknife, the bone scales worn nearly flat, the original blade profile long ago lost to countless sharpenings.

  In the front right pocket she found exactly what she was looking for. She was expecting it the closer she got, from the way the garment hung in her hand, but she intentionally left that pocket for last. When her hand slipped into the pocket it touched the cool steel of a pistol frame. She closed her hand around the grip and extracted the gun, holding it up in front of her.

  It was a .38 Colt revolver. She’d handled one before but it had been a while. It took her a moment to remember how to open the chamber, but she figured it out. She dumped the rounds into her hand and confirmed that they were all good. No spent shells. She hoped there was a box of them somewhere because this wasn’t many.

  She tucked the revolver into the pouch that hung from the right side of her chair, then proceeded to carefully fold the overalls. She placed them on the dresser, then stacked the t-shirt on top of it. That was one small mystery solved.

  Oliver’s closet door was still open from Kimberly’s explorations. Sharon stared inside. She was surprised to find that it wasn’t like modern closets at all. It was sh
allow, perhaps only a foot deep. People of the era when this house was built wouldn’t have owned hundreds of items of clothing. They might have owned a half-dozen if they were lucky. Those would be hung on nails inside the closet. No need for hangers, bars, or elaborate custom closets. Anyone of sufficient wealth to have more clothes would store them in a wardrobe.

  The closet only contained a few sets of bibbed overalls similar to what Oliver always wore. She knew he had nicer clothes because she’d seen him wearing them. They must be folded into the dresser drawers or stored in another closet elsewhere in the house. This one must have been strictly for overalls and guns. Sharon carefully leaned all the rifles and shotguns in the closet and closed the door.

  She decided she’d try to find a hasp and padlock at some point so she could lock it. If she could find a couple of them that might give her a way to lock the house when they were gone to the camp. It was kind of a redneck approach to locking a house but she had to work with what she had.

  She straightened the bed and made certain everything was in order. She backed out of the room and closed the door behind her. Nathan would be back with another load soon and she needed to figure out which room she was staying in.

  41

  Tazewell County, Virginia

  The stay at Orbin’s farm had been good for both Lloyd and Jim. After the experience at Laurel Bed Lake, it was nice to have a social experience that didn’t end in bloodshed. Jim also felt good about his talk with Orbin. It reaffirmed a lot of the things spinning around in his head since he’d left home. It confirmed that going home after they were done at the camp in Bland County was the right thing. He’d take his chances with his family. He’d stay put there in his valley until there was absolutely no other option.

  His head was in the right place now. Sometimes it took putting some space between yourself and those you loved to gain that perspective. It was hard to see the totality of your surroundings, of your life, when you were immersed in it. Maybe it wasn’t that way for everyone, but it was certainly that way for Jim. In the past, he’d gotten that experience when traveling on a work trip or backpacking in the mountains. There were fewer opportunities for that perspective now since everyone was so engrossed in struggling to survive.

  Jim had planned on getting up early and hitting the road. He’d made Lloyd aware of his plans before the two settled into sleeping bags the previous night but Lloyd had been noncommittal. Jim knew what that meant. He’d have to shake Lloyd out of his bag to get him moving.

  Instead, Orbin and his family took care of that. The people working the hayfield started early and they started with a hearty breakfast. Jim was already awake and packing his gear when Orbin strolled into the barn.

  “You staying for breakfast?”

  Jim stuffed his sleeping bag into its sack. “I’d love to but we need to hit the road. I’d feel bad about taking your food when I can’t give you a day’s work.”

  “I got ham, eggs, and bacon,” Orbin threw out, fully aware that he was using one of the most powerful lures in the tackle box.

  “Bacon?” Lloyd groaned.

  “He’s alive!” Orbin said.

  “He’s alive. Just lazy,” Jim confirmed. “But like I said, we can’t give you a day of work.”

  “Ain’t asking for it,” Orbin said. “Every family in this valley has been raising hogs and chickens. Ain’t no shortage of eggs and pig meat around here.”

  “We’ll take you up on it,” Lloyd said, suddenly energized and sliding out of his bag.

  “It’s a miracle,” Jim said.

  “It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Orbin said. “Come on over.”

  Jim gave him an appreciative nod. “We’ll be there then. Thank you.”

  “Bacon. Bacon.” Lloyd was reciting it like a mantra as he hurriedly dealt with his gear.

  “Didn’t know you were so partial to bacon. You have a spring in your step and you aren’t even stepping yet.”

  Lloyd looked around for the stuff sack for his sleeping bag. “Ain’t just that. It was nice to play music for folks again. You have no idea how much I miss that.”

  “You play for folks in the valley.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the same old people and half the time I just feel like they’re humoring me. They’re sitting there to be nice but don’t really care about the music.”

  “I didn’t know that was such a big deal to you,” Jim said honestly.

  “That’s because you’re not a musician. If you were, you’d understand.”

  “You could try playing in town.”

  Lloyd shuddered. “Are you kidding? I’m halfway afraid to even set foot in that town the way they treat you folks. If people figure out I’m from your valley, I’m liable to get killed.”

  Jim didn’t respond to that. There was an element of truth there and it was his fault. There was no escaping the fact that his choices about the power plant had alienated him from much of the community.

  “Then there’s the whole teaching thing. I miss that too. I had dozens of students back before this whole thing happened.”

  “I didn’t realize.”

  Lloyd found his stuff sack and hurriedly shoved the bag inside. “Because individual aspirations aren’t acknowledged in your community, Jim. Every day turns into some dramatic life or death struggle. There’s very little discussion as to how people feel or how they’re dealing with it. You’ve built a strong group but there’s not much emotional support.”

  “I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation,” Jim said. “Emotional support? You think I’m a fucking social worker?”

  Lloyd pointed a finger at his old friend as if he’d hit the nail on the head. “That’s exactly it, Jim. You set the tone for the whole thing. Every person in your community, everyone you’ve brought together, has emotional needs. They have things they want out of life and things that bring them joy. You’ve got the basic needs taken care of. You can feed your people and kill anyone who threatens you, but do you ever wonder if your friends are happy? I can answer that question. No, you don’t. Those kinds of things aren’t even on your radar.”

  Jim didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t worry about that kind of crap. In the scheme of things, in the face of keeping everyone alive, he didn’t think things like that mattered. People needed to eat. They needed to be safe. Someone had to take the lead and make those things happen.

  He hadn’t wanted to be that person in the beginning. He’d resisted it. He wanted to be left alone, but it didn’t work that way. He became the default leader of his tribe. The minute he owned that, the minute he started taking the lead in the decision-making, they ended up destroying the power plant. Now they were paying for that and the struggle for survival was even more intense. That was the kind of thing he had to worry about, not feelings.

  Lloyd tightened the drawstring on his stuff sack, then worked the bag into his pack. He didn’t meet Jim’s eye or offer anything else. Jim figured his old friend was afraid he’d made him angry with his honest admissions of how he felt. Maybe Lloyd was afraid Jim would see this as a sign of weakness and he might be right. Perhaps he did.

  Then Jim had one of those revelations that hit him like a bolt of lightning. He felt so stupid that it almost made him sick. Why was he so blind? Why didn’t he have more self-awareness? How could he not see the things that seemed so obvious to others?

  Lloyd was right.

  Reeling, Jim grabbed his bridles and headed for the corral to catch his two horses. He felt anxious, his heart racing as he turned his friend’s words over in his head. He was so bad at this, so inadequate at taking care of the needs of his clan. There was never a moment when he felt that he was doing them justice. While he’d managed to keep them safe, he did just as many things that put them at risk. Though he’d helped organize his group through a summer of growing food that just might sustain them through a long winter, his best friend had just pointed out that he was an inconsiderate asshole who was unconcerned about the
feelings of those around him.

  At least, that’s what it felt like Lloyd had said to him.

  The degree of truth there was why it stung so badly. He did believe that emotions were tied to weakness. He did believe that what people felt was secondary to nearly everything else in their lives right now. If they had time to dwell on emotions, they weren’t working hard enough. It was one of his core beliefs and it could quite possibly be alienating him from everyone he cared about. He felt like an idiot.

  He had no treats with which to bribe his horses but they stood calmly and allowed him to bridle them. He led them back to the barn and tied them off to posts. He passed Lloyd heading out into the corral to gather his horse. It was an awkward passing, the two neither speaking nor meeting the other’s eye. Jim efficiently saddled his horses and loaded his gear. He was done and headed off for breakfast before Lloyd made it back.

  42

  Jim’s Valley

  Hugh was no psychologist but he knew a bit about human nature. He’d been around the block a few times and he’d been a young man once. He knew there had to be some reason why Charlie had ventured into town last night. Compounding the strangeness of it was the fact he hadn’t taken Pete with him. What would he have been doing that he wouldn’t have involved his best friend in it? Maybe the place to start was with Pete.

  Since Pete had stayed at home last night, Hugh wanted to get to him before he and Charlie had a chance to talk. Breakfast was a big meal in the valley, fuel for a long day of physical labor. Folks usually had a good dinner at the end of the day, a reward for their efforts. Lunch was whatever you could scratch up in between.

  Hugh usually took his breakfast at his place, but he’d been eating with Jim’s family since he’d been staying in Jim’s shop. He caught Pete when he went inside that morning. “Pete, when you fill your plate, come meet me at the fire pit. I want to talk to you about some projects.”