Stranger is the Sail Ch. 01

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You were wrong when you said, "Everything's gonna be alright".
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Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 09/29/2022
Created 07/08/2011
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SirThopas
SirThopas
373 Followers

I'm tempted to slap the "novella" label on this one, but it's the most LW-type story I've written in some time, so what the hell.

Tuesday, March 15

RACHEL JOHNS

The snow melted early this year. That's a nice surprise.

Winter isn't quite done with us yet. I'm sure of that. She's always got her secret little plans, just like any of us. Schemes and wishes and a hoarder's dreams, carefully made and kept. Every one. Like a bunch of chubby, helpless children made with gentle love. And what can we do but keep them safe and help them to grow?

Winter especially likes to play the trickster. Her plans are always a little more cunning, and just a little bit meaner, than anybody else's. Even today, with the sun calling down and fresh birdsong floating from every tree, there's a whispered chilly breeze sliding across every willing surface. It feels like a warning. Like there's something more to come.

Still, it's nice to be seeing green at all, this far ahead of April's fabled showers. It lifts the soul right up, and makes you forget the creaking in your joints. Makes you feel energized, almost like you've been exercising.

Ben disagrees with me. But then he would. That man sees the world without a lick of poetry. Can't carry a tune, either, so there you go. He worries that this early thaw will be bad for crops. Well, maybe. It might indicate a hot, dry summer or, conversely, a late frost might still be in the works. But that doesn't matter much to me, and I can't make myself take it seriously. After all, no matter what the weather does or doesn't do, men around here always find some way that it's going to be bad for crops. If they ever found a time when they couldn't talk about that, I'm not sure they'd have anything to talk about at all.

And why should we care? We haven't been farmers in...oh, twenty years, now. Ben can talk and worry until his heart stops; it just doesn't affect us anymore.

Twenty years. Wow. Has it really been that long? Twenty-one summers since Kevin moved away, and left us on our own...and one more year for us to admit to the obvious.

That was a hard time, though. He was my baby boy. My youngest child. You know, it takes a while for a woman to learn how to find value in an empty nest. A lot longer than it takes a man. And maybe it takes her a while to find value in herself, too, when her babies have all gone. Maybe she never really recovers.

And Kevin leaving was doubly hard. It forced us off the farm. Even then, a generation ago, we were too old to manage everything by ourselves. Without Kevin and Michael around to help, it was just too much of too much.

I didn't really mind leaving. I still don't. Oh, I miss the scenery, the summer's green smells, and the eternal, peaceful calm, but I'm glad to be rid of all the attendant work. And I'm doubly glad to be rid of the damn animals. Having three males around was animal enough for this woman, thank you. Everything else just seemed like punishment.

Ben minded, though. He still mourns the loss. He was always so proud of that land. Almost like it was another child. His first-born. The apple of his eye. And decades later, enough time for our Michael to have married and raised a child in, he still doesn't know what to do with himself. He looks for excuses to work, or for other farmers to talk to about weather. Poor man. He's a wrinkley old orphan at sea, landless and lost and terribly unimpressed. All he knows, all that he values, is dirt. Dirt that he can stand on. Dirt that he can plant in. Dirt that he can live off of. And I'd give it him back, if I could. Even if it meant more goddamn cows.

I can't give it back, of course. We're stuck here. Nothing to say about it. Castlewood's a nice place to end things in, though, if ending things is what you've gotta do. It's not so small that there aren't children about, which is nice, but yet it's not so big that folks like us start to feel overwhelmed. Heck, we'd been driving in on weekends for years, so we were unofficial residents already.

Castlewood was always our one-stop for church and groceries. The steak house is the only real restaurant for miles. And of course Kevin and Michael went to school here. Once they got their cars, they were here all the time. I imagine that a great deal more of their happiest teenage moments took place in Castlewood than out on the farm. That's how they knew that they had to go.

Ben used to drive in to meet his friends at the bar, too, when he was still drinking. But that was before even the boys' time. They never had to see that side of him, thank god. He got it from his father. It killed that old bastard not so long after our wedding. Hurt Ben some, too. It took a little of his youth from of him, weakened him a bit. But he reigned it in of his own accord, and took control for no reason other than that it was the right thing to do. I'm proud of him for that.

Yeah, we've changed over the years. But the town sure hasn't. One church, one bar, one school, and one stop sign. That's Castlewood, the very last of the places in my life that I will call home.

I may not miss the farm like Ben does, but I do like sitting out here on the back deck with my coffee each morning. It faces away from the town and we're on the outskirts, as it were, so it feels like I'm out here all alone. Alone, but significant. Like back on the farm. Like at church. And that's what I'm up to, now. Sipping on the black, watching that breeze tickle the taller grasses. The only thing that gives my little illusion away is that damn stop sign.

Don't even know why it's out there. Nobody ever pays it any mind. Why would they? The amount of traffic we get in Castlewood on any given week is probably about the same as your average dead end alley. There are only a handful of people who visit, and most of those are transported residents or their spouses. The two lane that intersects the road into town I honestly don't know anything about. Comes from nowhere, and goes there again. I hardly ever see a car go by while I'm out here.

You speak of such things, though, and they do arrive. Adrian Burke's silver LaCrosse is cresting the hill on the other side of that stop sign right this minute, making its way into town. I cradle my coffee cup and watch him come.

Adrians a nice guy. Didn't grow up here, but his wife did. Laura Burke was a Dole, born and raised, and a pretty one at that. Her parents are good people, locals with a history. Well-liked and well-respected. Laura, too. She was a very popular girl. Beautiful, really. When she went off to college a lot of the local boys took it pretty hard. You would have laughed to see them. For weeks after she'd moved away, they just hung around their homes like sulky children. Without their mischief to keep it talking, the town spent a quiet June. I think even the pastor and sheriff were getting antsy for them to start misbehaving again, by the end of it.

I shouldn't pick on the boys that way, though. It wasn't just them. Some of the older fellows pouted a bit, too. They never really said anything. Just sat around in groups and, whenever their wives walked by, complained about the lack of rain. It was raining just fine, and we all knew what was really going on. Men.

Adrians the right one for her, though, and I'm glad they found each other.

You can tell these kinds of things. They just fit. She found him in college, and that was that. They live in Des Moines, now, which is a good three hours drive from here, but they do come visit. Usually, they come by on holidays...don't think Adrian has much family of his own...and sometimes on the weekend. Today's a Tuesday, though. I can't figure why they'd be showing up on a Tuesday.

They're really cruising, too. Must be doing ninety, or more. That's real odd. Don't know if I've ever seen either one of them speed, even once. Wow. I don't even think they're going to slow for the intersection.

Oh, geez. Here I am holding my breath. Silly woman...

No. Maybe I'm a silly woman, but I'm worried. Something has to be very wrong.

See, most people around here ignore that sign. They treat it like a landmark, or a welcome mat, and nothing else. But Adrian Burke always, always brakes for it. Doesn't matter that you can see for miles when you crest that hill, or that there's never anybody else on the road. He always slows. Hell, in the winter he stops entirely. A city boy thing, he likes to say. Rob Dunham jokes about it. "You can always tell when Adrian's driving," he says, "because he yields to oncoming breezes."

Today he's looking to blow right through that intersection. Like the Devil Himself is on his heels.

Is that a truck on the two-way, too? Talk about a rar-

Jesus Christ, that semi! It's gonna-

Adrian!

ADRIAN!

J.B. MATTHEWS

The heart concedes a beat, and I kick at the brake. Makes no difference. I never had a chance at stopping. A truck this big just doesn't slow too easy.

I get jerked hard against the seat belt and it hurts, but only a little. I'm not the one in real danger, here. It's them, in the LaCrosse.

The little silver sedan folds and collapses around my grill, looking for all the world like a paper toy. The sound is sickeningly concussive. I keep to the brakes, but it takes us god knows how many feet to finally come to a stop. I can't breathe. I can only stare.

The LaCrosse is destroyed. My hands are shaking. Move, I tell myself. Move. But I can't make myself undo the seat belt. Or open the door. Move.

I shouldn't even be here. I shouldn't be anywhere near this place. I'm supposed to have reached some wind turbine field... forty minutes ago, now. Got lost on the last run before a four day break.

This is supposed to be my weekend with the kids, too, and Makayla says if I have to cancel one more time I might as well stop coming altogether. I don't set my goddamn schedule. She knows that. And all I want out of this life is that little bit of time with my children. To be a part of their growing up. To know them, and to be known.

But nobody gives two shits about me. Not Makayla, not her new husband, and not the courts. She's been so damn angry ever since the divorce, she's likely to take the kids to her mother's for the weekend just to spite me. Probably leave that jackass of hers to break the news. The kids call him Dad sometimes. Doesn't that just break your heart? My children call him Dad.

I'm hurried and I'm desperate, but I'm also a careful guy, so I wasn't speeding. At least I can say that.

In fact, I was cruising down the road and trying to guess at the name of the small town to my right when the LaCrosse showed up out of nowhere, right in my face. No time to react. I hit it hard.

My fingers finally find the release on the seat belt. I can't see into the demolished sedan, but flecks of dark, foreboding blood have splattered out as far as the crumpled hood. The silence hits me. The lack of screams, or cries for help.

Oh my God I just killed someone.

BEN JOHNS

Basement's dusty and humid. Cluttered, too.

We've got two decades worth of crap down here. Can't seem to talk that woman into throwing anything away. And on the rare occasion that she does agree to tossing something, I end up finding some quiet excuse to keep it. If she notices, she doesn't say a word. There are piles upon piles of it down here, though, providing good living to the insects. Most of it is genuinely worth keeping. Honest. But it does raise a stink.

Some people would disagree, or call us hoarders or whatever. But there's always a reason to hold on. Michael's old comic books, Kevin's tricycle. The tent we bought for that trip to Wyoming...the one that broke the first night out. Never even used it again after that, but here it is.

These things are useless things. These things are my life.

I'm actually looking for the old vacuum, though, right now. The new one's making a noise, and the brush roll ain't spinning. Thought I might be able to use the old one to try and fix it. They're not the same model, but it is the same company. At least it'll give me a purpose for the afternoon. Something to do with myself.

But Rachel's scream gives a purpose of its own.

I come running, such as I can, but she's just standing on the porch with coffee all over her jeans and her hands over her mouth. I reach out, worried she might be burnt.

And then I see the wreck.

Jesus Christ. Is that Adrian and Laura's LaCrosse? It's ruined. Been t-boned almost out of existence.

Are they in there?

Oh, God. Are they dead?

The door to the cab of the truck opens, and a scraggly middle aged man falls out. Lands on his hands and knees, looks disoriented. Could be he's hurt, or just scared. He vomits all over concrete, then smears it with his hands as he struggles to stand. Don't people sometimes vomit after a head injury? Seems like I remember reading something about that.

I look over at Rachel. She's just shaking, eyes wide. Probably in shock. "Go call for help," I tell her. "I'll see how bad it is." She doesn't move, so I grab her by the arm and turn her around towards the house. "Go!" I yell, and push, hoping that if I'm forceful enough it'll reach her. It works; she goes sprinting past the screen and towards the phone. I hope she didn't get burned by that coffee.

It's a good distance to the accident, and I'm an old man. By the time I get there, the truck driver is crouched over the LaCrosse with his hands reaching inside the wreckage. He looks stricken. Some of his vomit is trapped in his beard, and there's blood on his forearms. I don't think it's his blood. He looks up at me with horrified guilt.

"I'm so sorry," he says, and I doubt if anybody's ever said anything more honest in the history of this world.

"Are they alive?"

"It's just one guy," he says. "I...I think he is."

I look over his shoulder and see Adrian Burke. The air goes out of me. He's dead. Or dying. Has to be. His entire head is wrong. Just...wrong, like maybe his skull's been ruined. Eyes are wide open but not moving, probably not seeing a thing. The left one is clouded deep crimson red, and rapidly swelling. His face is littered with oozing cuts from the glass. Looks okay below the shoulders, but who can tell? He starts shaking spastically, and the truck driver's hands slip as he tries to hold him still. Adrian's lips are moving, but I don't think he's trying to talk. Looks more like a seizure of some sort.

There's so much blood. Always used to see a lot of that out on the farm, but its different when it's an animal. You get to where you don't hardly see that. But this is a man, a good man, and he's dying right in front of me.

"Adrian," I say, and I wish that I hadn't. It doesn't help anything...just makes it more true.

He starts shaking harder, low guttural sounds coming out of him, and the truck driver tries to find an angle that will let him both restrain and support. I move in next to him, close as I can. Gently, like birthing a calf, I take Adrian's broken head into my hands. I don't know what else to do, except apply the softest amount of pressure possible and hope that I can keep Adrian's fractured skull together until help arrives.

"I'm so sorry," the truck driver says again. And what do you say to that?

RACHEL JOHNS

I could just slap myself. Stupid, stupid woman!

Everybody wants to believe that they will something other than useless in the event of an emergency. But Ben had to scream at me to get me moving, and then I stood around useless while the ambulance rushed in from the county hospital and the men kept Adrian still. Worse, it isn't until the paramedics had shown up and managed to get Adrian into the ambulance that I notice half the town standing around gawking at us.

I look at them looking at me, and that's when it finally occurs to me that Bill and Amanda Dole probably haven't been told.

"Ben," I whisper, "they're not here. I don't think they know."

And I may not be thinking clearly, but he is.

He hurries off without another word, and twenty minutes later the Doles are in a car and on their way out of town. Bill's driving and Amanda's on her cell phone, talking animatedly to someone. You've never seen paler, more fearful faces. I tell them to call me when they know more. Amanda says she will. I'm already making plans in my head to come out and join them.

Bill pauses to ask Ben a question about the route, and Amanda leans out of her window a bit to give me a hug. She's crying. But then who isn't?

The townsfolk are gossiping. They're quiet, respectful and mournful, but we're all so used to calm. People like us aren't equipped to understand these things, without talking. Rob Dunham's voice sails over my way.

"What on earth was Adrian doing in town on a Tuesday?" he asks. "And where the heck is Laura?"

AMANDA DOLE

It took us three hours to get to the hospital. Three silent, impossibly-built hours that went by at half speed and stretched out like the highway we rode on.

So can someone tell me how in God's name Bill and I still managed to get there before the trauma helicopter?

When the lady on the phone from Hamlin County Hospital told me that Adrian was getting airlifted to Mercy in Des Moines, I figured that he would for sure be there within the hour. I mean...what's the point of airlifting if it doesn't reduce the travel time? Yet here we are, almost four hours since Bill Johns first hammered on our door, and he's still listed as "in transit."

I'm told that, when he does arrive, he'll be delivered directly to the trauma center and taken immediately into surgery. The overweight and bored-looking bitch (well, that's what she is) at the nurse's station won't divulge any more than that, nor will she explain to me why they can't seem to get him there any faster.

Well, she can stonewall me, but she can't stop me from pushing. "Do you know exactly what his injuries are?" I ask for the third time. "Is he even going to make it to the hospital? Can't they operate on him during the flight?" She gives me the kind of look that teachers save for particularly troublesome students and sighs. I glare back, give her a look only another woman could hope to read, and think 'Listen, lady, this is my family we're talking about. I stand before you, desperate and old, with sweat stains growing under my arms and breasts. I'm begging for any morsel. I'm a thief of small details. That's what I am to you.'

"Ma'am, I assure you," she says, no longer attempting patience or concern, "both the county hospital and the transporter are well equipped to care for a patient's immediate needs. Your son-"

"Son-in-law," I say again. "My daughter's husband."

"...is being given the best possible care, and that includes taking our time to make sure we do things correctly. You'll know more about his injuries as soon as we know more about his injuries." She purses her lips, turns, and tries to look busy.

"Well, I don't see how doing things correctly can involve nobody knowing any goddamn information!" I snap. She clenches her jaw, but stubbornly continues looking busy.

I glance over my shoulder, through the glass door, to where my husband stands shading his eyes with his hands, scanning the sky. Oh, Bill. You're getting so skinny in your old age. Old men should be fat, like babies. And you should be sitting down.

I look back. "Listen," I say in softer tones, "can you please just-"

There's a rhythmic thudding sound behind me, and I spin around. Bill is hammering on the glass, pointing up into the sky. I hurry out, hopeful.

"There," he points.

"I don't see anything."

"It's right there. Here it comes."

"Bill..."

"Trust me," he cups his hands over his eyes again. "It's there."

I wrap my two chubby arms around his one, and lean my weary head on his shoulder.

SirThopas
SirThopas
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