Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
VIRGIL
T he weather's wrong.
I know it the second I step onto the porch.
The air feels heavy. Sticky. Like the mountain's holding its breath.
Dark clouds boil over the western ridge, swallowing chunks of blue sky. The wind comes in fits and starts, rattling the aspens before disappearing entirely.
The storm’s building. Not unusual for September. Still, I don't like it.
I sling a bundle of split wood onto my shoulder and start down the path toward Clara's place.
School's been underway three days now. Three days of hearing Luke chatter about recess and Helen complain about math.
Three days of Clara pretending she isn't waiting by the window every afternoon before she dons a flannel and picks her way down the mountain path to the place where the school bus stops.
The woman worries herself sick. Not that I'd tell her that.
The smell of rain hits me before I reach the cabin. The chickens know it too. They're already restless.
I find Clara hanging laundry on the line. She freezes when thunder rumbles somewhere beyond the ridge. Only for a second. Most people wouldn't notice. But I do.
"You alright?" I ask.
Her clothespin snaps between nervous fingers. "Fine."
That’s a lie.
I glance toward the sky. The clouds have gotten darker. Closer.
"Kids get home soon."
She follows my gaze. Her shoulders tighten. Another lie forms on her lips. "I'm fine."
The thunder comes again. This time louder.
I watch her flinch. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for me, though.
The flood took more than her husband. It took weather. Rain. Thunder. Clouds. All the ordinary things people stop noticing.
Now every storm carries a ghost. I know because I see one standing beside me.
The bus arrives twenty minutes later. We walk down together, not speaking. Not looking at each other.
Luke explodes from the bus carrying three crumpled papers and what appears to be half the playground in his backpack. Helen follows at a much more dignified pace.
“Virgil!” they both exclaim like it’s Christmas morning.
Silly kids. They’d see me in about ten more minutes, anyway. But somehow this feels different. New. Like something I might repeat… with Clara.
The thought puts a tight knot in my throat that I have to swallow around. I tell myself it’s the storm that made me invite myself along. That I’m just keeping watch, keeping Bryson’s wife and kids safe.
And I am. That much is true, too.
The rest, I don’t let myself think about.
Instead, I look up, watching the sky darken further as Luke grabs my hand, swinging it against the breeze. By the time we reach the cabin, wind pushes through the trees.
Then the first drops begin to fall.
By dinner, rain drums steadily against the roof. Clara keeps glancing toward the windows. Toward the canyon. Toward places she can't see from here.
I finally set down my fork. “Road's fine.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “What?”
“You've checked the weather three times.”
Color rises in her cheeks. “I have not.”
“You have.”
Luke grins.
Helen nods immediately. “Busted.”
Traitorous little things.
Clara glares at all of us. Then another crack of thunder shakes the cabin. The color drains from her face. The room falls silent.
That's when I understand what’s going on. Not intellectually. Not in some abstract way. I understand because she looks exactly like Luke did during those first weeks after the flood. Terrified. Trying not to show it.
My chest tightens. “This storm isn't that one.”
I don't know if I'm talking about the weather or trying to convince both of us.
The words are soft-spoken. Her eyes fill immediately.
God.
I shouldn't have said it.
The room goes still. Then she nods. Just once. Like she's grateful someone finally said the thing haunting her.
After dinner, I head outside before the storm gets worse. I still have wood to stack beneath the lean-to. Still have work to do. Rain or shine, there’s always work to do.
Water soaks through my shirt almost immediately. The wind picks up. Thunder rolls overhead.
I keep working because standing still would mean thinking. And thinking has become dangerous lately. Especially where Clara is concerned.
The axe bites into a knot of pine. I steady it with one hand, driving through with the other.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
The fourth swing glances. My grip slips. Pain explodes across my palm.
"Son of a?—"
The axe drops. Blood follows. Bright red against rain-slick skin.
Deep though not terrible. But deeper than I would've liked.
The screen door slams open behind me. “Virgil!”
I close my fist. “I’m fine,” I say too fast.
“You're bleeding.”
“I see that.”
Clara marches across the yard despite the rain and the mud. Despite the angry storm.
The same woman who could barely leave her bedroom a little more than a month ago. Her hands grab my wrist.
I suck in a breath. Concern floods her face. So does fear. Not of blood, but of losing someone.
Again.
“It's deep,” she laments.
“It isn’t.”
“You probably need stitches.”
I try pulling away.
She doesn't let go.
For such a small woman she's surprisingly impossible. “Inside.”
Thunder cracks over the ridge. The sound makes her jump. Her grip tightens.
For one second more, I see it. The panic. The memory. The flood. Everything she's trying not to carry.
I glance down at the blood running between my fingers. Then back at her. And that’s when I finally surrender. "Yes, ma'am."
The relief that crosses her face hits harder than the axe ever could.
She drags me toward the porch and the cabin. Toward warmth. And for the first time in weeks, I don't argue.