Jilted (24 page)

Lynda's Makeup and Stuff.

The stenciling on my cosmetic case had faded, but I could still make out Velma's handwriting. When I was fifteen, she had labeled it for me with blue-and-yellow marker so my nieces would leave it be. The case sat high on the shelf above the toilet, and I frowned at it, wondering why I had kept it so long, but even while I wondered, I knew the answer.

As I sat alone in my dry bathtub, fully clothed, I let my mind wander. Velma had presented the plastic bin to me for my birthday, complete with my very own stash of cosmetics. Back then I shared a bedroom with two of my nieces, and at the time, I was proud to have something that belonged solely to me.

But of course, Ansel and Velma's children didn't need labels to make them feel secure in their home. Unlike me. Those four words had given me a sense of ownership, because that bin belonged to me and nobody else in the house. It was mine alone, and I could hide anything in it without fearing the other kids would get it. If they had tampered with
Lynda's Stuff
, they would've had to deal with Velma's wrath.

I shifted in the tub, trying to find a comfortable position, but the seam of my jeans kept digging into my hip. The wind raged outside the house, and occasionally I could hear the siren wailing from downtown. That siren always went off, though, so I didn't get alarmed. After pulling myself from the tub, I scurried to the bedroom, grabbed two pillows and a quilt, and resumed my station in the bathroom. This would be a waste of time.

Right before I left her house, Velma had cornered me about taking cover if the storm got bad, hence the bathroom hangout. No windows. No glass. Interior room. When Ruthie had been young, there were a few storms where we actually pulled her twin mattress into the bathroom on top of us, but I didn't bother this time. Tossing the pillows into the tub, I plopped back down, pleased to discover my backside was a teensy bit more comfortable. I sat on one pillow and leaned back on the other, resting my head against the tile.
Lynda's Makeup and Stuff
caught my eye again.

I suppose I had always had a private box. Even after I married, I kept my trinkets and mementos—and letters—in the firebox, where Hoby wouldn't mess with them. At least I told myself he wouldn't, but looking back I wondered if he had known about them all along … and if I had added to his insecurity.

Wind shifted through the attic above my head, sounding like air being let out of a tire, and when the lights quietly clicked off, goose bumps tickled across my shoulders like gnats. But it was only darkness. Nothing permanent. I reached over the tub and ran my palms across the cold tile floor, searching for my cell phone, and then I turned on the flashlight app and let its glow warm the room.

A crash of thunder reminded me of the night Clyde took me to see the windmills in the lightning storm, and I wished I were there now instead of stuffed in my tub. The wind in the rafters changed into a howl, matching the eerie shadows created by the dim light, and when a loud crash sounded outside in the yard, my heart raced. The house seemed to be breathing in and out with the storm, the walls creaking as though they might be ripped away from the foundation at any minute. Easing to one hip, I pulled both pillows over my head and squeezed my eyes shut.

This was worse than I'd thought.
My family crossed my mind. Velma's house was jam-packed without enough bathtubs or interior closets to protect everyone. And Dodd and Ruthie would be at the church building with Fawn and JohnScott. I gripped the pillows in hardened fists, trying to imagine where they would all take shelter. Dodd's mother didn't live too far from there, so maybe they would go to her house.

And Clyde. He had worked this afternoon. By now he would be at his trailer house, the most dangerous type of structure in high winds. But no, he would be at church with the others. Wouldn't he?

Another blast shook the house, and the wind howled even louder. A sharp crash two feet away rattled my nerves, and I cried out. But it was only the old makeup kit that had fallen from the shelf and scattered across the floor. I shone my light and saw that the kit's dry and hardened plastic had broken in pieces. Just as well.

I hugged a pillow against my chest. My family members were clustered in two separate places, but at least they were together. As usual, I was alone. A cramp tightened my stomach, and I wished I had stayed at Velma's.
Why didn't I?
It was just like me to run off by myself. That's what I preferred … usually. But this time I felt like it would have been better to be with them, smashed into the little ranch house, surrounded by love.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to block out the vision my imagination had conjured. Clyde crouched in his trailer as it whirled through the air, three hundred feet above the ground. A sob shot from my throat like a volcanic eruption, and I was so caught off guard that I inhaled and sat up straight. Crying wasn't something I did, but at the moment, it seemed like a very good idea. Another crash shook the house, this time seeming to have come from the back, and when I heard breaking glass, I assumed it was my bedroom window.

I inhaled ragged breaths as I feared for my life and the lives of my family. And Clyde. As the storm intensified, I eased back down to lay on my side in the tub. My knees wanted to habitually curl up to my chest, but the sides of the tub wouldn't allow it, so I pulled the pillow down over my ears and began to hum. Not a melody, just notes, sounds, something for my lungs to do besides whimper.

The bathroom door rattled as though a monster wanted in, but I didn't stop humming. Even when the commode gurgled loudly, even when the air seemed to be sucked from the room, even when I could no longer hear the sound of my own vocal cords over the fury of the storm. The oxygen I breathed seemed charged with electricity, and the hairs on my arms stood on end. Then the wind came closer, on the other side of the bathroom wall, as though my bedroom had been opened up and exposed to the rage. My humming turned to crying again, but I no longer held back the tears. My fears had given way to a primal instinct for survival, and I openly sobbed. And prayed.

God, please don't leave me alone. I don't want to die.

Something slammed against the opposite side of the bathroom wall and rang slightly as if it were metallic, and I hunkered down even more. But then, suddenly and eerily, I could hear the siren again, rising and falling on the wind, no longer drowned out by the storm's anger. In fifteen more seconds, the piercing howls had stopped completely, and an unearthly silence fell over the house.

I didn't move. Was it over? Was I safe? A low, rumbling thunder growled in the distance, but it sounded like the beast had been tamed.

The heels of my tennis shoes pressed against one side of the tub, and my elbows shoved against the other. Every muscle was taut as though I could hold myself in that slick-sided tub, just by my own willpower. In the distance I heard the wail of an emergency vehicle.

My fingers were clenched tightly into fists, but slowly I relaxed them and pushed myself up, fumbling for my phone. It wasn't bright enough to calm my nerves, and my hands shook, sending trembling shadows jittering across the walls. On shaky legs I stood and tripped over the edge of the tub, stumbling over makeup and broken plastic.

I paused with my hand on the doorknob, imagining the wind would still be raging on the other side of it. My brain felt foggy, and I blinked to clear my head, but it only made me dizzy. Jerking the door open, I shone the light into the hallway, then stepped toward the living room. A soft breeze came through my bedroom door, sweeping past my ankles like ice water. When I shone the light in there, I could tell the corner of the room was missing, but I couldn't see much else. It gave me the irrational feeling that the house was no longer grounded on earth but up in a tree, or on top of another house, or dangling from a light pole. I hurried to the front door, fearing the whole structure might topple at any moment, burying me alive.

The front door dragged along the hardwood floor, refusing to swing open more than a foot, but I squeezed through to the porch. I staggered down the steps and halfway to the street, where I turned back to peer at my home, fully expecting it to be visibly altered, but it wasn't too bad. The hatchback still sat in the driveway, but the carport had been peeled away like the top of a tin can, and the tree that Clyde had trimmed after the last storm had snapped off at the ground.

My arms and legs felt numb, and my ears seemed to have Styrofoam covering them. Everything I felt and heard was dull and muffled as though I were underwater. Neighbors stumbled from their houses. Someone was moaning. In the distance a child screamed. And through it all, a light smattering of raindrops fell softly, as if Mother Nature was teasing us, claiming the storm had never happened.

I clawed at my cell phone, desperate to check on Velma and Ruthie and the others, but I had no service. Even my flashlight was getting dim, its battery low. I shut it off and stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, not knowing what to do, not knowing if my family was alive or dead, not knowing if I could survive if something had happened. To Clyde.

Headlights came around the corner. A car moving slowly to avoid fallen tree branches and other debris in the street. I squinted when the glare hit my eyes, but then I got a better look at my house as the lights swept across. All I noticed was that the roof slanted to the left, and my groggy brain registered that I shouldn't go back inside. Not safe.

I wrapped my arms around myself, gripping my waist, and started to hum again as I rocked back and forth.

“Lynda.” A light pat on my shoulder told me the owner of the car had stopped. She now had her arm around me. She was talking, asking if I was all right, insisting we needed to go to the Dairy Queen.

“The Dairy Queen?” I asked, barely able to form the words for all the questions flooding my mind. Velma and her kids out at the farm. Dodd and Ruthie at the church. But Clyde wasn't at the Dairy Queen. No reason to go there.

“Hurry!” She sounded frantic. “It missed the church building, and Ruthie heard from Velma. Your family is all right. They're safe, but Clyde's in trouble at the Dairy Queen.” She tugged on my waist. “Come with me, Lynda.”

And then my ears popped, and the Styrofoam fell away, and I was no longer numb, no longer seeing things through a fog. I was alert and adrenaline charged, but my heart tightened into an immovable mass of clay. Clyde was in danger. If something happened to him, I would be alone for the rest of my life.

I yielded to the gentle pulls of those two soft hands. The person who came to get me. The one who knew I belonged with Clyde, and the one who understood what it felt like to be alone for so very, very long.

Susan.

Thick darkness wrapped around Clyde like a wool blanket, but it did nothing to shelter him from the cold temperature of the freezer. The metal floor felt like needles of ice poking through his jeans, and his head and shoulders pressed against a wall that reminded him of an igloo. Another box. Another cell. After the storm had banged against the door with ferocity worse than any prison riot, the abrupt silence smothered him. He could hear nothing but Neil's ragged breathing, and after the intense volume of the tornado, the small sound echoed through his head like a bass drum.

“Is it over?” Neil yelled the words, and his voice bounced around the enclosure, ricocheting off the frozen walls. “It sounds like it's over, but there's no way to get out of here!”

A knifing pain sliced across Clyde's thigh, radiating all the way down to his toes, and when he gingerly felt his leg, his fingers came away moist and sticky.

“You idiot.” Neil cursed in the darkness, and Clyde could hear him bumbling against shelves and knocking over boxes. “We're going to survive a tornado just to freeze to death. Or suffocate.”

“We can get out, man.” Clyde felt dizzy. “The door opens from the inside.”

“Thank God.” Neil clawed for the latch, apparently ready to abandon Clyde in his frenzy to escape.

Clyde didn't care what happened to Neil. If he managed to evade the Texas Rangers, the highway patrol would catch up to him before he made it to Mexico. And even if they didn't, that was fine, too.

Neil pulled the latch, and a sliver of gray appeared against the blackness. “It's stuck.” He slammed against the door, grunting like a wild animal, but the sliver of gray only widened to a crack. Neil must have shoved his hands through and gripped the door, because Clyde heard him pulling and shoving in an attempt to free himself.

Clyde wondered if the rest of the building was still standing. Just before the door closed, it had sounded as though the roof was ripped away.

Neil stilled his frantic movements. “Something's wedged against the door, and it won't open more than three inches.”

“Is it the grill?” Clyde asked, knowing it didn't make a difference but thinking his voice might calm Neil.

“Feels like the jukebox from out in the dining room, but there's something on top of that. There's debris piled higher than the freezer. I can't tell what it is. Might be a table. Maybe the cash register or something.” He cursed again. “We're going to die from this cold.”

So they were buried beneath piles of machinery and furniture.
“Power's off,” Clyde reassured him. “The freezer's not running, so now that you got the door open, it'll warm up in here. We'll be just fine.”

“But I've got to get out!”

Clyde tried to push himself up to a seated position, but his palms slipped in thick wetness on the floor, already freezing to a slushy consistency. “I think I'm bleeding.” He felt as though a magician were twirling a wand inside his head, and he closed his eyes to still the movement.

Neil scurried toward him, bumping Clyde's sore leg and feeling his way from Clyde's shin to his hip. He moved away momentarily, then pressed something soft against the wound.

Clyde gritted his teeth. “What is that?”

“My shirt. It won't absorb much, but if you hold it tight, the bleeding might stop.”

“We need light,” Clyde said. “You got a phone?”

“Do you honestly think I wouldn't have already called for help if I had a phone?” His answer burned like acid, but then he sighed helplessly. “I left it in the truck.”

Clyde held his hand against his leg, but even through the fabric of Neil's shirt, liquid oozed between his fingers. “You hurt, Neil?”

“Bump on the head.” He grunted as though he had touched a wound. “Goose egg. And I feel like I have glass fragments embedded in my skin, but other than that, I'll live.”

He would live.

Clyde closed his eyes, wondering who else would live. Fawn and the baby would be with JohnScott, but where was Lynda? The coldness crept farther under his skin, all the way down to his heart. Most likely she would be home alone, holed up by herself, scared.

Father God, please keep her safe.

He felt in his pocket. “I've got matches. If we started a makeshift fire, we would have both light and heat.”

“And smoke inhalation,” Neil snapped, but in spite of his argument, he groped for Clyde's hand and took the matches.

“If you build it next to the door,” Clyde said, “it will vent out.”

“What can we burn? Boxes?”

“They wouldn't last long. What else can you find?”

The crack in the door let in just enough light that Clyde could make out Neil's shape as he fumbled around the shelves, mumbling about frozen food, and then the rancher felt around outside the door. “There's a box out there, above my head. I don't know what it is.” He grunted. “Can't quite reach it.”

Clyde knew Neil wasn't handling the stress well, because he had lost the ability to problem-solve. “Get a couple hamburger crates to stand on.”

For the next few minutes, Neil worked, slamming packages of frozen food so he could reach the box just outside the freezer. “I don't even know what's in it.”

“Whatever it is, it's not frozen.”

Neil reached through the crack again and ripped the box open, and then it sounded as though he pounded his fist against the doorframe. “It's just bags of chips. A lot of good those will do us.”

“Fritos?” Clyde chuckled softly. “That'll work.” A few seconds of silence followed, and Clyde squinted into the darkness. “Seriously, those things burn like a torch.”

“You think you know everything.” Neil spoke in a desperate whine. “That doesn't even make sense.”

Clyde inhaled deeply, trying to muster the strength to explain, but then he heard the crinkle of a Frito bag and the scraping of a match.

As soon as the flame leaped to life, Clyde could see that Neil was pale, frantic, terrified. But probably not worried about suffocating or freezing to death. Neil Blaylock was trapped with fate spiraling around him.

The fire licked at the corner of the Frito bag, engulfing the yellow plastic. Neil seemed transfixed by the flame, then quickly set it down next to the barely open door as the fire settled into the chips, crackling and popping as it slowly consumed the oil.

Clyde inspected his leg in the dim light and found a deep, gaping wound with blood seeping around the shirt, even when he kept his hand firmly shoved against his thigh. He looked around the small room and pointed at the shelves. “I could use some of that tape.”

Neil reached for a box of hamburger patties. Stripping the packing tape from the seams, he knelt by Clyde's side and wrapped the plastic around his leg and the shirt. When he tightened it, the bleeding slowed.

Clyde clenched his fists against the shooting pain. “Thank you.”

Neil pushed the burning corn-chip bag with the toe of his loafer. “The smoke seems to be getting out somehow, so maybe we're not in too bad of shape.” He dropped to the floor to sit cross-legged, folded over the fire, but his actions seemed a degree off. Even his compassion was out of character, and Clyde hoped if Neil warmed himself by the fire, it would help to settle him.

The blood on Clyde's jeans was turning to ice, and he tried to push himself toward the fire, but he didn't have the strength. Instead, he reached one palm toward the heat.

Neil noticed him, then stood and gripped Clyde by one arm, dragging him to the fire. He dropped him roughly near the door, where a shelf dug into Clyde's shoulder.

Clyde settled against the doorframe and bent his good leg to keep from sliding back down, but his other leg lay lifeless. He motioned to two jackets hanging on a hook and chided himself for not thinking of them sooner.

Neil laid one across Clyde's chest and wrapped the other around his leg, tying the arms tightly. Then he settled back on the floor in front of the fire, fidgeting like a caged tiger. “You think the church got hit?”

The church.
Fawn and Nathan would be there. And JohnScott. Clyde wiped his forehead. How could he be sweating in a freezer? “Was Susan at the church building?”

“Without a doubt.”

Clyde stared at the flickering firelight. He didn't know the path of the twister, but Velma's ranch was farther from town. Maybe Lynda had been out there and missed the worst of it. Maybe she was safe. Alive. Maybe his world wouldn't be snuffed out.

“What if they're all dead?” Neil's palms covered his head. “What if this is how it ends?”

“How what ends?”

“The nightmare.”

Clyde didn't have to ask what he meant. Both of them had been living a twisted nightmare for two decades, and it wouldn't surprise him if it ended like this, with Trapp, Texas, and all its gossip, drama, and lies wiped off the face of the earth. If he and Neil were the only two left alive … that would be just what they deserved.

“Did you always love her?” Neil asked. “Lynda?”

Normally Clyde would have told him it was none of his business, but if having a conversation would keep Neil tethered to reality, Clyde would be honest with him. “Yes, always, but I wasn't going to split up the two of you.”

“That's awful sentimental of you.” Neil snickered, sounding more like himself. “As if you could have split us up anyway.”

Clyde closed his eyes and said softly, “I split you up in the end.”

“Was that your intention when you dated Susan?”

“Of course not.” Clyde's answer came sure and certain, but he didn't care to go into detail.

Neil leaned forward, his eyes wide as if he were watching a gory movie and enjoying it. “Do you regret being with Susan?”

Suddenly Neil was an annoying inmate, a rookie, stupid and panicky. Clyde felt as though claustrophobia was closing in on him. Twenty years of imprisonment should have made him immune, but blood loss amplified the effects of the tight space and the stress. Not only did he need to keep Neil talking, but he also needed to keep himself conscious. “That's not a yes-or-no question.”

Neil leaned back on his palms and stared at the ceiling, watching the smoke swirl and seep out the door. “No, it's not.”

“I regret all that happened, and I regret going to prison.” Clyde took a deep breath, trying to keep the room from spinning. “But I can't regret Fawn.”

“No,” Neil said. “I can't regret Fawn. Or Nathan.” He shoved another bag of chips on the fire.

“Did you always love Lynda?” Clyde's words slurred.

“No. I loved her in high school. I thought I loved her enough to marry her, but when it came down to it, I guess I didn't. Not that kind of love anyway. My parents—my dad especially—wanted something different for me. He told me that some things were more important than love … and then Susan's family offered me all those things.”

Anger sparked at the base of Clyde's spine, but it fizzled instantly from lack of fuel.

“If I had loved her as much as she deserved,” Neil said, “I wouldn't have chosen a cattle ranch over her. And a near stranger for a bride.” He cackled. “A stranger fat with another man's baby.”

A drop of sweat trickled into Clyde's eye, stinging. “You've sure given Lynda a lot of grief over the years.”

Neil grunted, and his words became daggers. “When Hoby married her, I thought I would explode. Not just because he had Lynda, but because they were free. They got married because they chose to, and they had Ruthie because they chose to.” He hissed. “They had everything.”

“You couldn't stand it.” Clyde struggled to keep his eyes open.

“I know I drove them mad.” Neil stood and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I was insane with jealousy. As though Satan had thrust his talons deep in my chest and wouldn't let go. And I had so much guilt. For leaving Lynda, for marrying Susan, for not being the dad Fawn needed, for hating Hoby.” He pressed his fist against his lips. “For putting you away.” His movements stilled, and he wilted. “I wanted to die, Clyde. So many times over, I wanted to die, but I'm too much of a coward.”

Above them and to the side, thumps and clanks could be heard, then silence again.

A jolt of energy caused Clyde to open his eyes. “Need to bang. Let them know we're in here.”

Neil was already shoving items to the floor, yanking at the shelving, knocking boxes over.

Another muffled sound came from outside.

Clyde leaned his head against the door, spent. “Use your belt buckle.”

Neil didn't hear him, and Clyde had to repeat himself, but then the rancher slid off his belt and clanged the shiny buckle against the metal shelves, the walls, the ceiling.

Clyde held his breath, listening for any sound that might indicate the rescuers would help. He thought he might have heard voices calling, but his ears were ringing so badly, he couldn't be sure. He leaned to the side and rested his temple against a box. It was cool and smelled of cardboard, and for a moment he thought of the back room of the Trapp Door, where everything smelled like books.
He couldn't pass out.

“I heard something!” Neil shoved against the door again, but Clyde didn't move. “I hear a rumble. Probably a tractor pulling this pile of junk off us.” Neil put his mouth to the door. “I'm in the freezer! Get me out of here!” He paced a few more times, then threw himself back to the floor. His gaze jerked from the four corners of the enclosure to the crack in the door, and then he rubbed his knuckles.

Undoubtedly Hector Chavez would be out there—if he were still alive—with the Rangers, ready to arrest Neil for Hoby's murder. Clyde thought of Lynda, and a wave of grief washed through his lungs. Lyn had been through so much. She didn't need anything else. Except God. Clyde only hoped he lived long enough to help her see that.