Chapter 13
736 Words
Chapter 13
RYMAN STUMBLED INTO the living room, his shirt and jeans stained with dirt, his cap c****d to one side. The number of people in the house had increased fourfold. The crowd filled the living room and spilled out into the front hallway.
“What the hell happened to you, boy?” Rhetta asked.
“Damnedest thing,” Ryman muttered. “Too weird. Too f*****g weird. One strange f*****g day.”
Muriel stiffened.
“You watch your damn language in this house, boy,” Rhetta ordered.
Nardell hastened to Ryman’s side. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, sure. Just fine. Just…damn, it’s all too weird. I need a drink.”
“Don’t look like he needs a drink to me,” Rhetta observed. “Likely he’s got some ’shine stashed out there somewhere, drank a few pops to his old man’s memory, and fell down the hill. Damn fool. Patti, come help me get them sandwiches ready. We got more people to feed.” Patti obeyed and followed Rhetta to the kitchen.
Ryman pushed Nardell aside and teetered toward the liquor cabinet.
“Thumper, Crispie!” Nardell said, aghast at the welt on the side of Ryman’s head. “He’s been hurt. Do something.”
Thumper moved to block Ryman’s path. “Ry, what happened?”
“Screw this cheap-ass Bowman’s crap,” Ryman said. He reached around Thumper and started searching through the dust-covered liquor bottles. “Where’s the good stuff? I know the old man kept some top shelf scotch in here for his special friends. Ah, here it is,” he said, lifting the chosen bottle. He filled a glass and took a sip.
“Ryman,” Thumper said again, firmly this time, “tell us what happened. Are you okay?”
“Weird, Thumper. f*****g weird. I need a few minutes.”
“Sure, sure.” Thumper nodded toward Crispie who came to Ryman’s other side.
“Maybe ya’d best sit down, Master. Here, let me help ya,” Crispie said as he grasped Ryman’s forearm.
Ryman looked down at Crispie’s hand and jumped as if a live wire had touched him. “Holy s**t!” He dropped his glass and it shattered into pieces. Scotch splashed across the rug.
Ryman grabbed Crispie’s hand. “What’s that?” he demanded, pointing to a large ring on Crispie’s finger, an ornament Ryman had never seen before.
“It’s…it’s something me sister sent me,” the startled Irishman replied. “She said it would help keep me from forgettin’ the Old Sod now that I’m fully American.”
Ryman held Crispie’s hand up and stared closely at the ring. A large silver base supported an oblong black stone on which was set an ornate white cross with a decorative circle at the intersection. “The design. What’s this design?”
“It’s the Celtic Cross,” Crispie replied, surprised at the strength of Ryman’s grip, the intensity of his gaze, and the urgency of his question. “Supposed to be a symbol of Ireland, or the Catholic church in Ireland, or some such thing. I’m not sure exactly.”
Ryman continued to stare at the ring, turning Crispie’s unwilling hand at different angles. “That’s it! That’s f*****g it!”
Thumper reached over and put his hand on Ryman’s. The distraction allowed Crispie to jerk his hand free. “What is it, Ry?” he asked gently.
“The buck! That’s what’s between the buck’s antlers. I knew I’d seen it somewhere, but I couldn’t get a good enough look at it. But now I know. It’s a goddamn Celtic Cross, or something like that. A cross anyway, hanging right between his rack. Like the one on the Saint Hubert medal. Son-of-a-b***h. What do you think that means, Thumper?”
“I don’t know, Ry.” He adopted a calm, non-threatening tone, as if he were a shrink trying to talk down a distraught patient. “What do you think it means?”
“Damned if I know. But that sumbitch has been following me all day. Flipped me off a horse this morning. Then he’s there along the side of the road when I almost got smashed by the Mac Tools truck. Like he knew I was coming. Then my old man drops dead. And now this. Talking. He was talking. Wycroft too. Not real words. But sounds. And then…like I was a hound, like I was Wycroft. Running with the pack. This is too f*****g weird, Thumper.”
“Ry, you’re under a lot of stress.” He motioned toward Josh Preston and gently led Ryman toward a large stuffed chair. “And it looks like you’ve had another blow to your head. Two in one day, not good. Here, sit down, rest a bit. Let Josh have a look at you.”
“My drink…I spilled…”
“S’okay. I’ll get you another one in a minute.”
Josh Preston, a family practice physician, began to give Ryman a thorough going-over.
Rhetta returned carrying a tray of food. Patti trailed behind with another. Nardell and Marva were on the floor collecting the broken bits of glass and trying to soak the scotch up from the rug with paper napkins.
“What the hell happened here?” Rhetta asked.
Nardell looked up. “Oh, just an accident. Someone dropped a drink.”
“That someone wouldn’t be my clumsy fool of a son, would it?”
“He’s hurt. He’s not himself,” Nardell said.
“Yeah, right.” She held out the tray to those standing around her. “Sandwich anyone?”
- Writer
