Chapter Nine
Cox stepped out of his shower and wrapped his towel around his waist. He dragged the side of his hand across the mirror above the sink and stared at his spotty, streaky reflection. Then he closed his eyes and dropped his head.
This day had sucked every year of the past twenty, but today was sure to be worse than usual. His mother had struggled hard all spring and summer, and the small voice that had been whispering in the back of his head all these years was now shrieking. Every time he went over to his childhood home—and lately that was every day he possibly could—he prepared himself to find his mother’s struggle over.
She’d lost too much of her family. All she had left was him, and he was not enough. Conversely, all he had was her, and she was everything. If—when—she finally gave up he’d ...
He wouldn’t do that. He’d endure. But he’d be empty.
Emptier.
Well, for now, this day was what he had to endure, so he opened the mirror, grabbed his toothpaste, and got on with his morning routine.
He was just about finished, brushing his hair back from his face, when a scratching sound beside the sink drew his attention. Charlize, his seal point satin rat, was climbing the laundry hamper.
“Mornin’, pretty lady,” Cox cooed. He put his brush away and set his hand on the side of the sink. Charlize jumped onto the porcelain from the hamper top and stepped onto his palm. He set her on his shoulder, smiling at the pleasantly familiar grip of her tiny claws. “I’m gonna have to figure you out, Miss Houdini. That’s the third time this week.”
She answered by rising on her back feet and nibbling his beard.
Still wearing only a bath towel—he lived alone, so it didn’t matter—Cox left the bathroom carrying his toothy hitchhiker and went into his spare bedroom, which he’d converted into a paradise neither of his ratty babies was supposed to want to leave. But rats were smart, and Charlize was apparently smarter than most.
Traditional rodent cages depressed the fuck out of him, so when his neighbor had died and left a Russian blue standard rat behind and Cox had taken her in, he’d gotten rid of her tiny prison as soon as he could. Instead, he’d turned his previously empty second bedroom into a rat ‘environment,’ with areas for eating, shitting, playing, sleeping, and exploring.
He had no idea what Mr. Adderley had called his rat, but Cox had named her Cate, and he’d loved her at once. She was like a tiny dog, cuddly and loyal.
A few months ago, he’d picked up Charlize from a breeder when he’d learned that rats do better with a friend. Charlize was sweet, too, but—maybe because she was still young, the rat version of a tween—she was mischievous. She and Cate got along the way old dogs got along with puppies; Cate was patient, and Charlize tested that patience daily. But they played together and, maybe more importantly, cuddled together to sleep.
Cate was still curled up in the fluffy donut bed this morning; she lifted her head, sniffed a greeting, stretched, and gaped a yawn. Then she tucked her face under her paws and returned to her slumber. She had no interest in being an action hero. This room was paradise to her.
He set Charlize in the ‘playland’ area and turned around to study the room. “How’d you do it this time, missy?”
Around the room and across the walls, Cox had installed activities for curious rodents. There was a little ‘treehouse’ high in a corner by the window, and a twine-and-popsicle-stick bridge ran around the walls, directing to the treehouse and to various platforms and other stations as well. When he’d installed all that, he hadn’t realized how easily a rat with the will to do it could use that bridge to get to the doorknob, or that a rat could understand how a lever doorknob worked, but Charlize had schooled him. Last week, after the first time he’d found her relishing her free-range rathood, he’d taken down sections from either side of the door.
But Charlize had discovered freedom, and she’d taken it upon herself to win it daily. The second time, he’d figured out that she’d jumped to the doorknob from the nearest platform he’d left up, so he’d moved that, too. Today ...
“Well, fuck me blue. Did you do that by yourself?” He turned to Charlize, who stood on the maze house in the middle of the play area, on her back haunches, her cute little front hand-paws clutched together as if she were a good little girl saying her prayers.
He turned back to the door and studied the stack—the stack—of balsam blocks a few inches away. “How the hell’d you do that?”
He halfway expected Charlize to bat her little black eyes at him.
Picking her up and cuddling her to his chest, he said, “I’d leave the door open if I could, but you could get hurt out there. I’m too big to find all the places in this old house you could slip into. I can’t let you run loose when I’m not around. That’s why I made this room so nice.”
She twitched her whiskers at him.
He hated to do it, but he had to put some kind of lock on the outside of the door. At least a hook-and-eye. Sometimes the world was just too damn big.
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~oOo~
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About half an hour later, after he’d installed the hook-and-eye and was putting his tools away, his burner buzzed.
Angry at once, Cox sneered at the sound. All his brothers knew what today was, and that he was out of pocket for the whole day. He grabbed the phone and saw it was Mel, calling from his personal.
“What?” he barked as he answered.
“Hey, brother. Sorry to call today.”
Cox didn’t reply. He let the quiet sit there until Mel got on with whatever he needed to say.
“I wouldn’t call, but everybody else is on a job, and Abigail called for some help. I can’t handle it on my own.”
“Abigail Freeman?”
Mel chuckled softly, then cut it off, like he remembered Cox wasn’t in the mood for frivolity today. Not that he ever was.
“Only other Abigail I know around here is eight years old, Cox. Yeah, I mean Abigail Freeman.”
Abigail Freeman had a little place in the hills north of town, and a decent-size herd of goats she rented out as brushers. She also made soaps and lotions and shit like that. When she had new kids, she did tours, where little children could pet the babies and give them some milk. She also had a mixed fruit orchard, as well as the usual complement of chickens, and a couple herd dogs.
Her yard was full of whirligigs and windchimes, garden gnomes and stonework animals. Her house was bright purple with black trim. She dressed in flowing cotton dresses in bright colors, even when she was working with her goats. And as far as anyone knew, she’d never been anything but alone. Abigail Freeman was one of Signal Bend’s ‘characters.’
What Cox knew best about her was that nobody in the state of Missouri, or possibly the whole world, made better pies and jams.
She was a nice lady, one of the few people in the world Cox thought was truly decent. A loner, but not some Unabomber psycho. Just somebody who kept to herself unless there was a need she could fill. A hundred years ago, people probably would have called her a spinster. Four hundred years ago, they probably would have burned her at the stake.
She didn’t like to make a fuss, so it was unusual for her to call the Horde for help.
“What’s she need?”
“She was out with the goats this week, and when she came back, somebody’d trashed her place while she was gone. Looks like they drove straight through the goat barn. They tore up her yard, killed a bunch of chickens, spray-painted nasty shit on her house, made a whole damn mess.”
Mel’s voice had taken on a dangerous rasp as he’d spoken. Mel was one of the mellower patches and probably the most good-natured; it took a lot to get him mad. But when he got there, look the fuck out.
On the other hand, Cox was mad every day from the moment his eyes opened to the last blink of the night. Perhaps especially today, it took nothing to ignite his rage. “What the fuck?”
“She was cryin’, Cox. I can’t let that sit until everybody gets back tonight, but it sounds like it’s too much for one guy. I need you, brother. She needs us.”
“You know what today is,” Cox reminded him.
“I do, yeah. I’m sorry.”
Cox sighed. “I gotta go to my mom. If she’s doing okay, I’ll help after I get her back home. But if she’s not,” and he did not expect her to be, “I gotta stay with her. I’ll let you know.”
“Heard. Thanks, man. I’ll go over myself and do what I can until I hear from you.”
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~oOo~
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As Cox drove to his mother’s house, he passed the property Autumn Rooney and her company had bought a few months back. SBC had the construction contract, and they’d razed the old buildings. They were scheduled to break ground soon, after their current job—the last homes in a new suburban Springfield development—was complete.
For now, the large lot was a muddy hole. A big, cheerful sign stood up front with a rendering of the finished project and the promise: Coming Soon! Signal Bend Pavilion! A Heartland Homestead! Bringing the Best to You and Yours! A MidWest Growth it was about keeping home home.
But Autumn wasn’t wrong that the club’s control also made the patches more prosperous, or that some folks didn’t have much access to prosperity—though the Horde was there when they needed help—or that some, especially newer residents, without first-hand connection to the town’s history, didn’t like the Horde’s power.
Cox had bothered to talk to Badger and advocate for working with Autumn because he saw that the town was already changing, that expanding opportunities could indeed expand prosperity—and, most importantly, that the Horde needed to be on the right side of that change.
When Hopkins died and Kennerman took the mayor’s office, one of the first things he’d done was close the deal with Autumn. Whatever else he was, Kennerman had some balls. The club had lost the fight right there. Badger hadn’t been ready to concede, he’d been looking for leverage to get Kennerman to back out of the deal, but that would have gotten everybody mired in a legal battle at a time when the Horde needed to keep attention away. The bodies of two cops had been at the bottom of the quarry for barely a year. It was a bad time for the club to make a big noise.
To turn the property sale into a win and keep Signal Bend as it should be, the Horde needed to be part of the deal.
That was why Cox had talked to Badger. It had nothing to do with Autumn herself. Even if he’d figured it all out while he’d sat up in her bed holding her while she slept off a serious drunk.
He also didn’t care if she’d be back in town soon for the groundbreaking. He never thought about that at all. Or if he did, it was nothing more than a passing curiosity.
Certainly, he never recalled her gold-flecked copper eyes, or her pouty little mouth, or the freckles she tried to hide. Or how she carried herself like she was a foot taller. Or that bright, eager look she got when she knew she had a good return in an argument.
He barely thought of Autumn Rooney at all.
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~oOo~
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Cox parked behind his mother’s forgotten Olds and sat in his truck for a few minutes, getting his head where it needed to be so he could face whatever he found inside. For so long now he could barely remember the time before, he’d girded himself each time he came home, but lately what he feared seemed inevitable and rushing at him headlong. One day, he’d walk into this house, and all that would remain of his mother would be what she’d left behind. He knew it, he expected it, but he feared it. There was no girding himself, try though he might.
As ready as he could be, he climbed out of his truck and headed in through the kitchen.
Just inside the door, he stopped. Something was different, but it wasn’t dread that pinged his senses.
The house was brighter. The curtains were open here in the kitchen, and he could tell from the ambient light beyond the doorway that the living room curtains were open as well.
That was rare in this house. In fact, at this time of year, latening summer, it had always been rare; his mother tried to ‘keep the cool in’ when the air conditioner was on. But since twenty years ago today, she kept the house dark around the clock and around the calendar.
Surveying the unusually bright kitchen, Cox saw that it was clean. No dishes in the sink, no dish towel messily discarded, no overflowing trash. He checked the fridge and saw a decent amount of actual food, and leftovers stored neatly in containers, rather than half-eaten plates moldering on the shelves.
He’d been here two days ago and brought the groceries; it looked like she’d actually cooked herself a few meals. Or Tally had, but either way, his mother had eaten real meals and taken care to save what was left.
Twenty years was a long time for a worry to harden into a reflex, so Cox was more confused by these signs than relieved.
“Momma?” he called as he crossed into the—also tidy and bright—living room. The television was off, the table beside the recliner was clear, the throw was folded neatly over the back of the recliner.
He even smelled something chemically floral, like air freshener.
“I’m here,” she called from the direction of the hall to the bedrooms and bathroom.
Her voice sounded clearer than usual, but no brighter. Ironically, perversely, the familiar downbeat tone eased his mind some. If she’d sounded happy, today of all days, he would have been worried something bad had happened in her mind. Something worse than what had already happened.
He went to the head of the hallway and stopped. “How ya doin’?”
His mother stepped out of the bathroom. She wore her black dress, the same dress she’d bought thirty years ago, for his father’s funeral, and the single strand of pearls that had been an anniversary gift from his father. Her iron-grey hair was clipped back with one of those weird gripper clips all long-haired women seemed to collect, and she had some makeup on. She looked tired as ever, but she’d made more of an effort today than she had in years.
“You look good, Momma.”
She gave him a half-formed smile and came to him. “No, I don’t. I’m old and broken down. But thank you.”
She raised her hand and set it on his cheek; Cox closed his eyes and pressed it tighter to him. Her touches like this, love without need, were rare anymore.
They stood like that for a long moment, then she freed her hand, giving him a pat before she pulled away. “I just need my handbag, and I’m ready.”
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~oOo~
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They stopped by Petals, Leaves, and Bows—a cutesy fucking name, but he supposed cutesy worked for florists—and he left his mother in his truck while he picked up the arrangements he’d ordered. Claire Svenhard, the owner, gave him the kind of pitying smile he despised as she took his payment.
“How’s your mom doin’ today?” Claire asked.
Claire had lived in Signal Bend all of about five years. She didn’t know his family, as it was now or as it had been. She only knew she made graveside arrangements for them on a set schedule.
Cox hated the cloying, fake sympathy, so he neither answered her nor acknowledged her with eye contact. He took his damn flowers and left.
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~oOo~
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The town cemetery was attached to the Lutheran church, near the heart of town. Cox parked at the back of the lot and went around to help his mother out of his truck. Then he gathered the two wrapped arrangements. He stuck his elbow out, and his mother hooked her arm around it. Together, they walked through the carefully kept lawn traced with granite markers.
The stone mementoes nearest the church were two hundred years old and pitted, mottled, and mossy with age, each passing storm smoothing the letters away a little more. As the dotted lines of markers progressed, the stones smoothed out and began to gleam.
Cox and his mother walked past the middle of the cemetery and stopped on a low hill, near the shade of an old sycamore. Two markers, identical in style but ten years apart in age, sat side by side. A grassy space the size of two graves made a gap between these markers and the next: a place for Cox and his mother to spend eternity.
Cox unwrapped the smaller of the red-white-and-blue floral arrangements and placed it on the ground before the older marker. He stood holding the larger arrangement and watched as his mother dropped to her knees and put her hand over the name on the older marker: William Daniel Cox, Sr.
In addition to his dates of birth and death, the rest of his father’s marker read: MSGT, US Army Reserves. Killed in Action. Brave Warrior, Beloved Husband, Devoted Father. Dearly Missed.
Cox stared at his mother’s bowed back. He’d been only eight when his father had been killed in an Iraqi ambush, but he vividly remembered the life he’d had before that day. His life was divided into three phases, and in the first, the sunny phase, his family had been complete and happy—a loving father, a doting mother, two sons charging through a brightly blissful country life.
Then his father’s reserve unit had been activated and deployed. The second phase of Cox’s life, colorless as a stormy afternoon, had started when two Army officers, one of them a chaplain, showed up on their front porch. After that, life had quieted and slowed, had dimmed, but had eventually continued on in something like a ‘new normal.’ Billy and Danny’s mom had held it together, tried to fill the hole and be everything for them, and she’d done an okay job. There had been good times in the grey years.
He shifted his attention to the marker beside his father’s: William Daniel Cox, Jr. Cpl, US Army. Killed in Action. Brave Warrior, Beloved Son, Revered Brother. Desperately Missed.
The full dark of a winter midnight had descended on Cox and his mother when Billy came home in a flag-draped box.
Though Billy had been killed in Afghanistan, ten years after their dad had been killed in Iraq, Cox didn’t make a distinction, and neither did his mother. The same fucking war had taken them both. Billy had enlisted because their father had been killed in action. He’d wanted to honor him and ‘finish his job.’
He’d been twenty goddamn years old when a missile had vaporized the transport truck he’d been riding in. Not even old enough for a legal drink.
The second time a pair of uniformed officers showed up on the porch, Cox’s mother fell to the floor, and she’d never really stood up again. Every day since, for a solid twenty years, Cox had been doing what he could to keep her going, and waiting for the day his efforts would no longer be enough.
The five horrible days of every year, the days they came here to the cemetery: the birth and death days of his father and his brother, and the date of his parents’ anniversary. For his mother, those five days meant ten weeks or more of utter misery. This year, those weeks had spread out to encompass most of the calendar. Cox could feel her slipping away from him. Maybe thirty years of grief was all she could endure.
He wished he knew how to love her enough, need her enough, be enough for her to want to live. But he’d only been able to manage keeping her alive. Often he wondered if he was cruel to fight so hard to keep her here, but he couldn’t imagine letting her go.
He unwrapped the larger floral arrangement and set its basket on the ground before Billy’s marker. Today was the twentieth anniversary of his brother’s death.
When he crouched before the marker, his mom shifted position, scooting over to kneel at his side. She picked up his hand in both of hers and held it to her chest.
Stunned, Cox looked over. She was crying, but she was also trying to smile, one of those sweet, maternal smiles, full of weary but potent love, that he remembered from the years right after his dad was gone.
“I’m so sorry, Danny. I love you so much. I’m sorry I haven’t been strong for you the way you’ve been strong for me.”
He clamped his fingers around her hands. “You have been, Momma. I see how hard you fight. Thank you. I love you.”
She leaned toward him, and he caught her and drew her close, tucking her in his arm and under his chin. When her arms came around his waist and squeezed, Cox almost cried himself. She had not reached out for him like this in well more than a year; such touch had been rare since the day they’d walked away from Billy’s fresh grave.
At his first chance, he was calling Mel and telling him to find somebody else today. Abigail Freeman’s house could be engulfed in flames—no, the whole damn town could be burning to the ground, and Cox would not leave his mother today to help.