Chapter 8 #4
Their rescuer laughs, deep and rusty, and helps them untangle themselves from the flaps of tent and broken guylines and soaked sleeping bags.
Malcolm snags his backpack, since it’s got their wallets in it, but the rest can wait until morning.
It’s all ruined anyway. Iggy’s gripe about pneumonia rings in his head as they stumble over muddy ground toward the distant headlights of a running pickup.
He doesn’t recognize the gravel road or the truck, and any thought that they’re about to be kidnapped dies when he catches a glimpse of the truck owner’s face in the approaching light.
Old McRainey is the town hermit, rumored to live off the land and only come into town twice a year for things like ammunition and kerosene.
How far down the creek did the water push them?
McRainey yanks open the passenger door. Malcolm helps Iggy climb inside first then joins him on the wide, worn bench seat.
He takes a few seconds to feel bad about dripping rainwater and mud all over the truck’s insides, until Iggy starts coughing.
McRainey drags a wool blanket out from under the seat and thrusts it at them, then shuts the door.
Malcolm does his best to wrap Iggy up in the blanket.
He doesn’t give a shit what McRainey thinks about him holding Iggy tight, willing every bit of body heat he has left into his boyfriend.
McRainey clambers in the driver’s side and cranks the heat up.
Instead of peppering them with questions, he just drives.
Bumps and ruts that jar down Malcolm’s spine combine with the crash of rain against the truck’s metal roof, and it’s almost too much noise.
The rain isn’t sheeting down as hard when the truck stops, but the noise of the rushing creek is just as loud. McRainey hustles them inside a cozy cabin and straight toward the cast iron stove in the far left corner.
“Git dose wet clothes off, boys. I got more blankets. Git warm.”
Malcolm does his best to comply, first making sure Iggy gets out of his soaked jeans and sweatshirt, and he’s wrapped in a dry blanket by the fire before Malcolm works on his own clothes.
By the time they’re both settled, McRainey’s got mugs of steaming broth for them to sip.
It’s hot and salty and kind of stale, but it heats up Malcolm’s insides like a kid in after a snow day.
McRainey settles in an old willow branch rocking chair nearby with his own mug. “You boys sure picked a piss-poor day tah camp.”
“No kidding,” Malcolm replies. “Didn’t expect a flash flood along the creek bed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Iggy says, face barely visible from his cocoon of blankets. “I’ve never been in something like that.”
“Can be scary, f’sure,” McRainey replies with a nod. “Been on this creek m’whole life. Been in a few. Jus’ glad I was out.”
So is Malcolm. “We’ve never met before, sir. I’m Malcolm Montgomery. This is Iggy Donohue.”
“Good t’meet you boys. Rich McRainey. You g’on’n enjoy that fire right good. No phone t’call yer folks, though. Tell ‘em yer okay.”
“My uncle’s out of town tonight,” Iggy says, “so I doubt he’ll suspect anything’s going on with the creek.”
“It’s Friday, so my parents are just glad I’m not at home,” Malcolm adds, unable to keep the bite out of his voice.
He doesn’t really care anymore that his parents would rather him be gone than around, but sometimes…
it hurts a tiny bit. Especially when his body hurts, like his sore knee. It reminds him his soul hurts, too.
McRainey grunts. “Then y’can stay here ‘til mornin’. Floor ain’t soft but’s dry.”
Malcolm catches Iggy’s eyes; Iggy nods. “We accept the offer, sir. Thank you, again. We promise to be quiet.”
“It’s fine, boys. Washroom’s through dere.” He points to a door left of a simple sink basin and ancient refrigerator. “Well water’s good t’drink. Don’t b’fraid t’share body heat.”
After hanging their clothes to dry on a wash line by the stove, McRainey retires behind a curtained area diagonal from the heat source—his bedroom?
Now that they’re alone, Malcolm takes his time studying the cozy, rectangular space.
There isn’t much furniture besides the rocking chair, and a pine table with two matching chairs that look handmade.
The most striking things are the two deer heads on opposite walls, as if staring each other down across the space, glass eyes glinting in the flickering stove light.
Then he notices the fox pelt on the wall above the stove, its russet fur art-like the way it’s hung.
A decorative rug hangs over what he assumes is a window, based on placement and height.
Three stuffed birds are chilling on a large branch nailed into the wall behind the front door.
He catches Iggy observing the same things.
“Guess he’s not so lonely, huh?” Malcolm asks. “With all these friends.”
Iggy laughs, and it’s his first smile in what feels like hours. It’s enough. Malcolm and Iggy make a nest of blankets, and they’re not afraid to share their body heat for the rest of the night…