The Telling (2 page)

She studied him for a moment, then nodded and reached out to wrap a warm hand around his biceps. Pulling his arm over her shoulder, she huddled into his
side. “Come on, bro; you might not mind getting rained on but I’m freezing! Truck’s that way.”

Her comment about the rain wasn’t entirely accurate since they were under a covered walkway and shielded from most of the moisture, but he
supposed that, being used to the climate, she took it for granted—something he vowed never to do again. Her light, pink sweater, blue jeans,
scuffed boots, and lack of jacket probably had a lot to do with her discomfort. Angie bore a strong resemblance to their mother in more than just
appearance. Dressing to impress some man, no doubt, as if it took more than batting her lashes over those sea-green eyes she’d learned to play up
from childhood and swishing that long curtain of coppery hair over her shoulder with a practiced hand.

It took several minutes before his sister finally located her aging Chevy S-10 in the airport’s massive parking garage. “Damn, girl;
you mean this old thing still runs?” he asked. Opening the passenger door— left unlocked— he stowed his bag in the little
area behind the front seat that optimistically promised room more passengers. Maybe for a small ten-year-old. He climbed in and futilely attempted to
adjust the seat to some semblance of comfort, only to discover that the latch didn’t work. One of many on a growing list of things broken on the
truck, and that was just from memories from his last visit. In all likelihood nothing had been removed from the list since then. The women in his family
lived by the concept of ‘driving ‘til the wheels fell off’ then buying a new vehicle, or rather, one a little better off than
the poor, unfortunate machine rusting out in the driveway.

“Well, it beats the hell out of what you’re driving,” Angie shot back as she arranged herself in the driver’s seat
and fastened her seatbelt while somehow managing to light a cigarette at the same time.

He ignored the jab about the Chevy Cavalier he’d totaled just before his enlistment and countered with, “Don’t tell me
you’re still smoking? Don’t you know those things will kill ya?”

“Yeah, yeah, yadda, yadda,” she replied, taking a deep drag and simultaneously flipping him off. He sighed. Some things never changed.

Cigarette dangling from her lips, she turned to look over her shoulder and dropped the stick shift into reverse to vacate the two parking spaces
she’d claimed. After navigating around the airport and paying the parking toll, she exited the mazelike roads to open space on the highway.

“Whoo-hoo! I knew you were good for something,” she declared. “With you in here I get to drive in the HOV lane.”
With a face-splitting grin she slipped the aging bucket of a bolts into the far left lane of traffic reserved for high occupancy vehicles with more than
one passenger, quickly passing dozens of single-occupant cars and trucks.

“Nice to know I still have a purpose in the world.” Settling into the seat, pointedly ignoring his sister’s
driving—which tended to involve sudden, unexplained jerking of the steering wheel—Michael fought the sudden, uncomfortable silence by
searching for a rather safe, for him, topic of conversation.

“So, have you seen Ruth Ann lately?” he asked. Ruth Ann had been his high school girlfriend, the proverbial girl left behind, in most
of the community’s eyes, anyway. In truth, he’d viewed her more as a friend than a girlfriend, but apparently his sister thought
differently. Ruth Ann had thought differently, too. Just another reason to enlist before becoming trapped into a life he didn’t want and
couldn’t escape from. As soon as Angie started talking, though, he wished he’d accepted the silence or chosen something else to
discuss.

Worried eyes shot his way. Angie exhaled deeply and extinguished her cigarette in the ash tray, then reached out to pat his hand. “Baby, you know
she moved on; don’t let it get to you.” Her rueful gaze suggested that this bit of non-news would somehow hurt him, misreading his
question as genuine interest instead of a desperate gambit for small talk.

“I’m just asking,” he shot back. Why didn’t he start a conversation about shopping instead, knowing Angie would
talk happily for hours and not try to find hidden pain in his every word? When Ruthie found a local boy, married, and had a kid or two, it lifted a weight
from Michael’s shoulders. He shuddered, considering how close he’d come to being that local boy now married to the former Ruth Ann
Dunwoody—if only to live up to the expectations of the community.

Angie’s gaze left the road again to observe him in sidelong glances. He grasped the edge of his seat. “Angie, don’t you think
you should keep your eyes on the road?”

His sister shrugged and turned back to the task at hand. Moving her hand from his to shift gears, she suddenly exited the HOV lane and crossed three lanes
of traffic to make her exit, in the nick of time. The blaring horns from passing cars had no effect on her whatsoever, and it occurred to Michael that home
might not be such a safe place after all.

Oblivious to the blood draining from her passenger’s face and his hand frantically clutching the ‘oh shit!’ handle for dear
life; she continued her narrative of the life and times of Ruth Ann Simmons, nee Dunwoody. “She’s due in August; says it’s a
girl this time.” Angie snickered before adding, “Better her than me.”

Suddenly Michael was doubly sorry for bringing up that particular topic, as the smile and laughter didn’t quite meet his sister’s eyes.
Angie laughed at other women’s pregnancies and told horror stories about the kids she dealt with at the hospital where she worked, calling them
little monsters, snot nosed brats, and other unflattering but equally disgusting names. But she’d been devastated when she’d lost her
own baby. Pregnant at seventeen, she’d dropped out of school, married a kid barely older than herself, and then miscarried. Her new husband
waited all of a week before dropping her off at their grandparents’ house and never looking back.

Once the initial shock wore off she went to work for minimum wage at the local burger joint. It took three years and three bad relationships for her to
decide that she wanted something more out of life. Once she’d made the decision to better herself she worked hard, saved up, and with the little
help his mom and grandparents could manage, earned a high school diploma and put herself through nursing school at the local community college.

Her first taste of nursing suited her so well that she went back for more; she was currently enrolled at Avery University and due to graduate at the end of
the spring term. And he’d be there for her graduation, proudly cheering her on.

Angie rambled on about Ruth Ann, her worthless husband, and her adorable son while pointing out the kid would be much better looking if Michael had been
the daddy. That was Angie, always sticking up for him even when he didn’t want or need her to. She could berate him all she wanted, but no one
else better try while she was around. It reminded him of a flea defending its dog.

She went on to rail about how Ruth Ann was a fool to leave him and how unpatriotic it was of her to abandon him when he was joining such a noble cause,
even though they both knew that he’d been the one to call it quits.

Tired eyes drooped and he finally gave in to his fatigue, certain that even if his sister did notice, once she was on a roll a little thing like having no
coherent audience wasn’t going to stop her. Her thick southern accent buzzed pleasantly in his brain and combined with the soothing rhythm of the
truck motor to lull him into a light but welcomed doze.

Chapter Two

Michael had dreamed of his homecoming for months, all that he wanted to do and see once back on American soil. A meal at one of Atlanta’s premier
restaurants figured largely in those dreams. When he woke and noticed their direction, it was obvious that fine dining wasn’t on the agenda. A
medium rare steak at The Riverboat would be nice, especially since he’d be able, at last, to legally order a drink named after a famous Southern
hero. When he’d graduated high school he, Angie, and their mother (sans her loser-of-the-moment) had gone there for a private celebration before
the ceremony. He could still remember every detail of that memorable evening, just weeks before his departure for boot camp; he’d replayed that
memory often while a home-sick recruit far from home.

But of all the wonderful restaurants Michael remembered, Angie had to take him to one that, though familiar, hadn’t entered his mind at all.

“The Sausage Shack, Ang?”

She shrugged her pink-clad shoulders. “As much as I’d love to spend the afternoon with you, I have to get to work. Besides,
it’s cheap.” She killed the engine and hopped out of the truck without bothering to wait for him, wrapping her arms around herself to
ward off the cold.

He’d fully intended on paying, having racked up a nice little bank account of paychecks that he hadn’t had the opportunity to spend
yet, but if she wanted to treat he’d make it up to her. He followed his sister across the parking lot, focusing on her to avoid the creepy-crawly
skin tingles from being outdoors. Once he caught up to her he earned a glare for attempting to hold the door. Apparently, her ‘I am woman, hear
me roar’ philosophy to ‘outdated chauvinistic gestures’ still lived and breathed.

“I suppose it would be too much to ask that the menu changed while I was away,” he muttered. They claimed a booth away from the windows
and perused grease splattered plastic laminates on the table.
Nope, no changes here.

A harried-looking, middle-aged waitress approached and asked, “What can I get you folks to drink?”

Like she had to ask? Michael was a tried and true Southern boy who’d been away far too long. His doctor recommended limiting caffeine, but the
devil on his shoulder effectively bound and gagged anything wearing white and looking out for his best interests. Without hesitation he replied,
“Sweet tea.” Angie nodded agreement.

As far as he was concerned the glass of amber liquid placed before him was the nectar of the gods. Yeah, maybe Angie hadn’t chosen poorly after
all in bringing them here.

“Good, huh,” his sister commented, grinning, as he raised the glass and nearly drained it before setting it down and gesturing to the
waitress for a refill.

“Some of the guys in my unit thought I was crazy when I’d talk about sweet tea—they’d never even heard of such.
Hell, some of them only drink tea hot.” They shared a grimace.

“One of my roommates does that,” Angie replied. “She never could grasp that a good glass of sweet tea is a thing of
beauty.” She sighed, a dreamy expression on her pink-glossed lips. “Grandma’s could probably be used as pancake syrup in a
pinch.”

Yes, there was sweet tea and then there was Grandma’s sweet tea, the epitome of sweet tea. “Ya know what else I missed?”
Michael asked. “I missed grits, and biscuits and gravy.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Angie fanned her face with one hand, donning her best Southern belle voice. “I do declare! However did
you survive?”

With an equally dramatic sigh, in keeping with his sister’s performance, he replied, “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you
that.”

“Well, they serve breakfast here 24/7 so you no longer have to be deprived. What were they thinking?” The twinkle in her eyes belied
the outrage in her voice. “Depriving a poor Southern boy of the basic necessities of life like that.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with a nod of his head. “Whatever were they thinking?”

The waitress returned and Michael gave in to his cravings, ordering grits, eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy. Then he and Angie sat in companionable
silence for a while, Angie sipping and Michael guzzling tea. He’d turned up his third glass before their meals arrived.

Still tired and hung over, he chewed mechanically, barely tasting anything but his beverage, which he took the time to savor. Maybe he’d sleep a
bit on the drive down to Cookesville, caffeine high notwithstanding. He now understood the wisdom of his sister’s restaurant choice; he
wouldn’t have been able to appreciate a steak and trimmings in this state.

“Michael? Mikey?” Angie’s concerned voice broke through his weary haze.

“Huh?” Michael jerked upright, head falling off the hand he’d been propped on.

His sister smiled and shook her head. “I guess we need to get you home and let you get some sleep. I take it you got a decent going away
party?”

He mentally revisited the sendoff from the night before—both the official and unofficial ones. He ducked behind a napkin to hide his flushed
face. Last night’s goings-on had best be put away for a while. It wasn’t a good idea to be hashing over those details with his brain so
fuzzy. Later, he’d pull them out and examine his memories at length; now was neither the time nor the place.

“Yeah, it was all right,” he replied after a too-long hesitation. He put excessive energy into an accompanying grin. If he appeared
happy, maybe she wouldn’t pry.

She didn’t, appearing more intent on getting back to Cookesville than in tormenting her brother. After summoning the check, she paid the bill and
herded him out to the truck, her good-natured fussing once more reminding him of their mother.

Having missed a good deal of sleep the past few nights and, with his belly comfortably full, Michael slept most of the way to Cookesville, too tired for
the caffeine to have much effect.

“Michael?” Angie’s voice cut through a sleep-induced fog. “Hey, construction held me up and I need to get to work
soon. Is it okay if I drop you by the house and get one of my roomies to drive you to Mom’s?

“Are you sure they won’t mind?”

“I’m sure. They all owe me favors.”

Angie pulled her truck into the driveway of a huge older home, one of many vehicles strewn haphazardly around the tree-shaded yard. Most of the old houses
on the street had been divided into apartments or torn down, but this one remained intact. Michael had always loved the aging three-story building, from
its rusting tin roof to its constantly damp basement. Unlike the other surviving houses on the street, it hadn’t been updated to siding, and the
peeling white paint today would fall in brittle flakes and cover the porches like snow tomorrow.