The Sound of Rain Page 7

  Chapter

  10

  On a Friday night in early October, Judd finally noted a hint of something cool in the air. He’d promised to go play cards with Pete and he wasn’t looking forward to the evening. He’d much rather be outside, enjoying the beginning of what felt like autumn. He sighed and resigned himself to listening to Pete complain. Spending a month in a cast would wear on anyone, Judd knew, but Pete really played it up, and Judd was pretty tired of hearing how rough life was. As he rode the bus out to Pete’s neighborhood, he thought over the past two months and how his own life just might be looking up.

  He’d come to enjoy working with Carlton, who gave him free rein to tinker with departmental equipment. He was particularly taken with the fire plows, which were not unlike the plows he and his neighbors used to break up the soil back home. Of course, these weren’t for planting corn and beans—the plows were to cut fire breaks in hopes of stopping wildfires. He’d also fashioned a two-row tree planter out of scrap that worked better than the nine-hundred-dollar store-bought one that only planted one row at a time.

  Thursdays and Fridays were spent working with the Waccamaw timber crew—fixing chainsaws, adjusting equipment at the sawmill, and supposedly passing along timber-management advice, although Judd found most of the boys poor listeners when he offered up information he’d learned earlier in the week. Still, Carlton and Mr. Heyward seemed pleased with the arrangement, and Judd just counted his lucky stars. Goodness knows it was the first time he’d felt lucky since he woke up in the hospital.

  He hadn’t seen Larkin for a couple of weeks—at least not more than in passing—which was probably just as well. There was nothing for him there and no need to get stirred up by pretty pink lips and a swaying ponytail. Although he did plant that sprig of a flower from the night he had supper at the Heywards’, and it was sure enough growing right on up the wall outside his window. Might even bloom before long. He’d heard Hank say Larkin was known for her green thumb—maybe it was catching.

  Judd got off the bus and walked a couple of blocks to Pete’s house. He turned in at the bare yard littered with castoff magnolia leaves. Man, he missed lush green hayfields and brilliant fall foliage.

  “About time you got here.”

  Judd looked up to see Pete leaning on a crutch on the other side of the screen door. “Good to see you too, Pete. I brought you a sandwich from the fish market.” Judd snagged the screen door and thought how its squawk sounded just like the homeplace in West Virginia. He pushed down a pang of homesickness.

  Pete almost smiled. “Hand her over. Sally’s a fine cook, but you can’t beat fried fish, and she says it messes up the kitchen too much.” He opened the grease-spotted bag and inhaled the aroma. “Appreciate it.”

  Judd nodded. He’d already eaten his food, though he didn’t understand why they called it a sandwich when it was a sack of two fish fillets with three slices of white bread. He couldn’t figure out the math, but he ate it all anyway. Pete was busy assembling his own sandwich of sorts, and Judd sat back to let him eat.

  Sally appeared with two glasses of sweet tea and a sweeter smile. “It’s so nice of you to visit Pete like this. And bringing him fish—don’t you beat all.”

  Judd felt his ears warm. “It’s nothing, ma’am. When I was laid up, more than one person helped me pass the time.”

  “Well, we’re awful grateful. Can I get you anything else?”

  Pete grabbed her arm and spoke with his mouth full. “Hey, how about break out that jar from under the kitchen sink? Judd and I might need us something a little stronger than sweet tea tonight.”

  Judd saw concern flicker across Sally’s face. “Are you sure you should be drinking while you’re still laid up?”

  Annoyance lit Pete’s eyes. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Now bring that jar and some glasses.”

  Sally set her mouth in a straight line and disappeared, only to return a few moments later with the requested items. She put them on the card table and left without making eye contact. Judd considered the clear liquid and debated whether he’d have any. He’d surely tasted corn liquor more than once, but it wasn’t always a good idea to drink it unless you knew the source. Pete reached over with greasy fingers and unscrewed the lid, pouring a measure into each glass. He held his up toward Judd.

  “To a pair of gimps playing cards.”

  Judd wasn’t sure he wanted to drink to that, but he took a tiny sip and found the liquor to be much better than he’d expected. Pete watched him intently.

  “Good, right? You probably thought it’d be little better than paint thinner.” He took a deep swallow. “Yes sir, my source makes the finest, smoothest ’shine around. He does a peach wine Sally in there isn’t opposed to sampling now and again, but this . . .” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “This is what men drink.” He tossed back what was left and poured another measure.

  Judd lifted his glass to Pete and took a proper swallow. He was surprised by how good it was. He didn’t plan to drink any more than what was in his glass right then, but he found he didn’t dread getting the portion down. Pete, apparently, intended to make up for Judd’s caution. He took a swig and smacked his lips.

  “You gonna deal them cards?”

  Judd began dealing the ten cards they’d need to play gin rummy. If Pete kept drinking the way he was, he wasn’t going to offer much competition this evening. Sally appeared with a plate of hoop cheese and Saltines. Judd thanked her and took some while Pete pretty much ignored the food. Play started and Pete seemed to need all of his focus just to make out his cards, leaving conversation at a standstill, which suited Judd just fine. He was more than content to provide silent companionship.

  After losing three hands in a row, Pete threw his cards down in disgust and sloshed some more moonshine in his own glass as well as Judd’s. “Aw, let’s just drink and talk. Don’t get to talk much these days.”

  Judd tidied the cards and crossed his right ankle over his knee. He picked up his glass, but it was mostly just so he could look at it. He ate another cracker with some cheese. “What you want to talk about?”

  Pete leaned in as close as his leg, still in a cast, would allow. “How about them Heywards? Hear you got invited to the big house a while back.”

  Judd took a small sip. “I did. Mrs. Heyward fries a mighty fine chicken.”

  Pete swatted at the air, and it occurred to Judd that if it were possible, he would have missed. “Not talking about food. Tell me about old man Heyward.”

  Judd shrugged, not sure what there was to tell.

  Pete emptied his glass and leaned his head back. “He ever run that prodigal Ben to ground?”

  Judd had been thinking about how to extricate himself from the situation and head back to the boardinghouse, but Pete’s words drew his attention. “Who’s Ben?”

  Pete got a cagey look and wagged a finger at Judd. “Now, now, don’t you go thinking you can get me to let the cat out of the bag.” He swung his head toward the kitchen. “Sally, bring me one of them knitting needles so I can scratch this leg.”

  Sally appeared, and Judd decided this was probably his best chance to leave. “Ma’am, sure do appreciate the refreshments, but I’d best be getting on back now.”

  Sally squeezed his arm and looked like she understood. “We’re surely grateful for the time you spend with Pete. Gets awful lonesome around here with just me for company.”

  Pete gave his wife a stricken look. “Why, Sally, you’re the best company a man could ask for.” Tears pooled in his eyes and he looked at Judd. “And you, Judd. You’re the only one who gives a hoot about me.” Tears escaped. “I don’t deserve either one of you.”

  Sally slid the remainder of the moonshine out of Pete’s reach and gave Judd a pleading look. Judd nodded and stood.

  “Right you are, my friend. You’re one lucky man to have a wife like that. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Something hardened in Pete’s eyes as he watched Judd walk to the door.
“I am lucky. Not like that sorry son-of-a-gun Heyward. His luck will run out one of these days. Things could be a whole lot different around Waccamaw Timber Company if he ain’t careful. Especially if I get my hands on a certain something out there on that land he stole from my daddy.” He squinted. “You ever go treasure hunting?”

  “Never had occasion to.”

  “Well, you ever take a notion to lend me a hand, you just say the word and I’ll make sure you get your fair share. To blazes with George Heyward.”

  Judd clicked the screen door shut behind him and started the walk back to his bus stop. It had been a strange evening. He wondered who Ben was and what exactly it was Pete had against George Heyward. He wished he’d left before Pete got started on treasure talk. Judd figured he was deep enough in Pete’s business without offering to help him dig deeper, but dang if he wasn’t curious.

  Larkin dragged herself from her car toward the house. Lill was failing fast, and the effort to remain bright and cheery was about to do Larkin in. Not that she was fooling Lill, who sometimes seemed downright excited about coming to the end of herself and the beginning of something new. Still, Larkin felt the need to put a good face on the situation, and it was exhausting.

  She thumped down on the bottom step leading to the back door and stared vacantly at a camellia blooming there, dropping spent blooms at her feet. It was a Debutante Camellia—her mother planted it the year Larkin had her debut. Oh, that seemed ages ago now. She sighed, thinking she’d cut some blooms for Lill.

  Something fluttered beneath the bush, and Larkin leaned down to get a better look. Pushing a branch aside, she saw a Carolina wren lying there. It fluttered one wing and then subsided. Larkin gasped, fearing she’d just seen it die. It must have crashed into the plate-glass window above. Hands shaking, she reached down and cradled the bird. It was warm, but she couldn’t feel any movement. Was it possible to feel a bird’s heartbeat? Cupping her hands, she held it to her own breast and tried not to cry. It was only a bird. Everything died eventually. She’d bury it if nothing else.

  But even as Larkin tried to think where to lay the little bird to rest, she thought she felt something. A Scripture she’d heard once, maybe in Sunday school—goodness knows her recent church attendance had left much to be desired—came to her. It was something about how not even a sparrow died without God knowing it. She couldn’t remember exactly how the first part of the verses went, but she did remember the last bit: “You are worth more than many sparrows.”

  She’d never questioned her worth before. Of course, she was worth more than any number of sparrows—or wrens. But sitting there, feeling what she dared hope might be life stirring in her hands, it occurred to her that life was precious. Period. This bird was a miracle. And yet, if the Bible was to be believed, she was worth more than the miracle she felt moving against her palm.

  Larkin eased her hands open and saw a black eye blinking up at her. She crouched down under the camellia and nestled the bird in some ivy growing there. It sat for a moment without moving, then turned its head from side to side as though trying to get a better view of her. It ruffled its wings. Hopped once, twice, and flew, landing in a live oak deeper in the yard. Larkin heard it sing and felt her own heart take flight.

  As soon as she walked in the house, Larkin could tell something was different. “Mother?” she called.

  She heard a rustle in the den and Larkin pursued it. Sticking her head around the corner, she saw her mother dab at her face with a handkerchief while tucking something away in her embroidery bag.

  “Mother, are you crying?”

  “Just some dust in my eye. It’s nothing.” She stood and smoothed her skirt. “I was thinking we might have chicken salad for supper. Your father called to say he’d be late, so I thought we’d keep it simple.”

  Larkin cocked her head. “And I’m early. What were you reading?”

  Larkin’s mother moved to look out the window as though admiring the perfectly groomed landscaping. “Nothing important.”

  Touching her mother’s elbow, Larkin leaned around to look her in the eye. “I could have sworn you were holding a letter.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. Your father would have a fit if he knew you’d seen . . .”

  “What? Seen what?”

  Mother whirled back to her chair and fished the letter out, thrusting it toward Larkin. “It’s from Ben.”

  Larkin shrank back. “But Daddy said we weren’t to communicate with him.” She eyed the letter with longing and reached out a tentative hand.

  Her mother pressed the paper into Larkin’s palm. “There are others. He sends them to a post-office box so your father won’t know.” She choked on tears. “How could I not keep in touch with my only son? The hardest part is never being able to share what he writes.”

  Larkin sank onto the floral-patterned sofa and unfolded the letter with trembling fingers. It was dated a week earlier.

  Dear Mom,

  I’m in the eastern Kentucky coalfields now. The raw need among these good people is enough to convince me I was right in defying Dad. They have strong faith, sure enough, but it’s a sort of superstitious, hellfire and brimstone faith. I’m trying to convince them God is good and loves them, but they have suffered so much I can understand why they think He must be angry.

  They’ve begun mechanizing the work in the mines in earnest, which means there are fewer jobs and the ones available are more technical. Too many men have too much time on their hands without gainful employment. It is easy for them to make poor choices.

  In addition to sharing the Good News with those who will listen, I urge locals to let me help them patch their roofs, mend their fences, and feed their children. But convincing them to let me help is often more work than tarpapering what passes for a home here. I have rarely encountered such stubborn pride. Not that they don’t have reason to be proud of their heritage, their passion for family, and their willingness to do hard work when given the chance—rather, it is their unwillingness to allow an outsider to offer them so much as a dipper of water. I often have to “trick” them into allowing me to help, convincing them that they are actually doing me the favor.

  It helps that I have become good friends with a local matriarch they call Granny Jane. I was able to offer her relief from terrible bunions by providing her with a pair of loose-fitting slippers and some aspirin. She is by no means healed, but tells me she feels so much better she could “dance a jig.” As a result, she has forbidden anyone to treat me shabbily and so the locals suffer my presence for her sake. I wish I could introduce Granny Jane to you—though from very different backgrounds, I think you would charm one another.

  I hope that you, Dad, and Larkin are all well. I’m glad to hear Larkin is volunteering at the hospital. I would ask you to give her my love, but know you likely won’t for fear Dad will find out we are corresponding. I will continue to pray for the day he forgives me for following my calling and we can all be together again.

  Your loving son,

  Ben

  Larkin read the letter so quickly, she wasn’t sure she even knew what it said. It had been two years since Ben finished college with a degree in business and then . . .

  They’d been having a celebratory party with friends, family, and some of Daddy’s most important business associates. The backyard had been a wonderland with flowers, tables of food, punch, and probably something stronger for the men who gravitated toward Daddy. Larkin remembered the delight she felt seeing her father with his arm around her brother, slapping him on the back and introducing him to important people. Everything had been perfect until Daddy tapped his heavy crystal glass with a fork and drew everyone’s attention.

  “It’s entirely possible I’m the proudest man on the face of the earth today,” he said, beaming at Ben. “My son is now in the perfect position to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps and in mine, as well. Waccamaw Timber is his legacy and his future.”

  Larkin glanced at Ben and saw a look of pain cross
his face. He started to lift a hand, then simply hung his head, as though waiting for a fatal blow.

  “I’m proud to introduce you to the new vice-president of Waccamaw Timber, Ben Heyward.”

  Applause and even a few whistles rang out as Daddy reached for Ben and tugged him up in front of the crowd. Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, then held up both hands, calming the crowd.

  “Folks, I appreciate your enthusiasm and your well-wishes. I’m deeply honored that my father would entrust me with the company my grandfather trusted him to run.” He looked toward his father, whose smile was slipping. “But as I discussed with him when he first mentioned this possibility, I feel strongly led to enter the mission field. As much as it would please me to remain here with my family, there are other people who can run Waccamaw Timber better than I can.” He took a deep breath. “But there aren’t nearly enough people to carry the Good News to people in need all over the world.”

  By that time, Larkin’s mother had joined her and was holding her hand so tightly it hurt. Larkin watched her father’s face turn red. She thought, for a moment, that he would simply turn and walk away, but something set him off. Maybe he couldn’t stand to see the pity in the eyes of men whose respect he craved.

  Daddy threw the crystal glass in his hand against the trunk of a live oak tree, sending amber liquid spraying over several guests who gasped and sidestepped. “No son of mine would dare dishonor his father and his heritage like this.” He stepped closer to Ben and held a shaking finger in his face. “You are no son of mine.” Then he turned and stomped into the house.

  The next twenty minutes were among the most uncomfortable of Larkin’s life as guests either slunk away or tried to offer comfort that was really just a thinly disguised attempt to get more information. What would Ben do now? Who would George name to be second-in-command? Was there anything they could do to help?