The In-Between Hour. Barbara White Claypole

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СКАЧАТЬ placed his laptop in the middle of his desk and stared at the drawing on the wall. Two colorful stickmen—one big, one small—were holding hands and celebrating the day they met. March 30. “Happy Our Day,” Freddie had said, jumping up and down. “Mommy helped me pick out the frame in a huge store. Huuuuuge!”

      Not so long ago, Will had believed that if his apartment were on fire, he would risk everything to save his laptop. But now it contained nothing more than a stalled-out, unnamed manuscript, and his only possession worth saving was Freddie’s drawing.

      Will flopped onto his leather sofa and covered his eyes with his right arm. Storytelling had always been his escape and his shield. His last line of defense against the truth. And for the first time in his life, he was without a story.

      * * *

      Jacob twisted his hands around the phone. Some thought—just out of reach.

      Where you hidin’, thought?

      It were warm in his room, too warm. All summer, it been too cold. Most non-Carolina folk didn’t understand how to live, wanted to be sealed up all nice and tight with air-conditionin’. He and Angeline never had no air-conditionin’. No sir. And now it were too hot. Couldn’t even manage his own goddamn heat. But them dickheads, they couldn’t control him. They could take away his bird call and try to take away his Wild Turkey—if they could find it. But they didn’t know what they was in for, ’cos Jacob Shepard, Jr., eighty years old with a mind shot to shit, were gonna fight.

      “Ha,” he said, liked the way it sounded and repeated it. “Ha!”

      If only he were outside sittin’ by a fire, punchin’ it with a stick. He’d use hickory on that thing, make it nice and toasty. That were his kind of heat.

      Jacob threw the phone on his bed, his narrow only-for-one bed, and heaved open his window. No moonlight tonight, no stars. No owl to call to. No trains. When Angeline disappeared into one of her spells, he would listen for the rumblin’ and the whistlin’ of the trains—sounds as soothin’ as real heavy rain on a tin roof.

      He inhaled the night. Couldn’t see the forest, but it were out there, waitin’. He could smell cedar. Sweetest smell in the world. You burn that stuff and mmm-hmm, fannnntastic. He made a smudge once that were just plum cedar dust. Willie used to love that. Said it were like Christmas all over again.

      A man could suffocate in this shithole of a hotel. Stank of bleach and death. ’Course that could be part of the plan to hurry the inmates along their journey to the spirit world. Death were comin’ faster than it should, thanks to them dickheads.

      Freddie were on his mind. Freddie.

      Freddie loved all them stories about his grave-diggin’ granddaddy. Like the time at the cemetery he’d...what? What had he done? What! He circled his room and concentrated real hard, but that trickster memory kept on hidin’ from him.

      He slapped the table. White, round, new, Will had bought it without permission. Why’d he keep buyin’ furniture and payin’ bills as if his daddy couldn’t afford to?

      He’d been happy in the shack with his memories of Angeline. The good memories, only the good memories. Why couldn’t he stay in the shack? He reached for the pen next to the phone and gouged a nice scar into the tabletop. There. Now the table was all scratched up, like him. Like his shack, like...

      Freddie were travelin’! Lucky little scamp.

      He’d wanted to travel, take Angeline places, but they couldn’t afford the gas to cross the state line. Heck of a woman, his Angeline. Loved a good adventure, yes sir. Best smile in Orange County. Woo-wee! Sweet sixteen and she’d had her pick of the menfolk. Day she stood by his side and spoke her marriage vows, he had to pinch hisself into believin’. But no, he weren’t thinkin’ about his Angeline, his angel...Freddie! That’s right, Freddie.

      Freddie were travelin’, going places his granddaddy couldn’t imagine.

      Jacob grabbed an unopened envelope and scrawled “Ask Will about Freddie’s trip” across the back. Look at that. Goddamn hand had the shakes. Better have another drink to stop them tremors. But first he was gonna stick his note on the fridge. Get to his age and you’d forget half your life if you didn’t write it down.

      C.R.S., can’t remember stuff. But this, this, he wanted to remember.

      He’d write another note, and another and another. Tape one to the phone on his nightstand, so he could see it at sunrise. And he’d buy a map. Heck, a big world map! Take the shuttle to the Walmart and buy a map. Nail it to the wall! That would annoy them dickheads. And he’d label it My Grandson’s Great European Adventure.

      Ha! Take that, Bernie down the hall!

      Maybe he’d follow Willie’s advice and get some sleep. Tomorrow were gonna be a real fine day. He had a project and it didn’t involve sittin’ on his ass in the arts and crafts room with tissue paper and a pair of safety scissors.

      Two

      An owl hooted in the forest, a mournful farewell to the night. Yanking the scrunchie from her wrist, Hannah wrestled her hair into a ponytail. Early-morning air—Saponi Mountain air—expanded her lungs and forced out the pollutants of LAX and the flights. Made her clean. Made her whole. Welcomed her home where everything was familiar and nothing was the same.

      The crispness of fall carried the silent threat of forest fires. All summer, with Orange County cycling through murderous heat and once-in-a-century drought, she’d prepared for brush fires like a general perfecting frontline strategy. Even her contingency plans had backups. But while she was busy figuring out how to rescue her animals, the real threat in her life had built. Silently. Unobserved. Until her firstborn staggered into the nearest E.R. and told the receptionist, “I want to open my veins and bleed out.” Less than ten words that allowed the state of California to lock up her son for seventy-two hours under an involuntary psychiatric hold—section 5150. A number she would never forget.

      Hannah flattened her hands across her chest. Her thoughts would not turn maudlin. For Galen’s sake, she needed to be strong and well rested, a mother at peace with her mind and her body. A mother who could heal herself and her son; a mother who could paste her shattered family back together.

      Top of her list? Good sleep hygiene. In the two and a half weeks she’d been in California, she’d slept only in snatches, jolting awake as anxiety marched through her chest and what-ifs scratched at her brain. Images of Galen strapped to a gurney. Screaming and struggling. He hadn’t been in restraints—at least, she didn’t think he had. It was hardly something she could ask. By the way, honey, did they restrain you during those three and a half days you were in the locked psych ward? And Galen wasn’t sharing.

      Parenthood started with such optimism: your child would achieve his baby milestones, collect gold stars, maintain a good grade point average, hang out with the crowd that didn’t drink and drive. And then, when you weren’t paying attention, it all stripped down to one horrifying truth: you just wanted your son to find the will to live.

      Behind her, a hundred acres of tangled forest waited to reach out and protect her, to pull her back into its bosom. Sunrise over Saponi Mountain with the blended light of day and night always lifted her spirits, but the clocks wouldn’t change for another month. In the meantime, she and the dogs were trapped in dark mornings. Once dawn came, however, they would hike up to the Occaneechi Path, the historic Native American trading СКАЧАТЬ