Christmas at Twilight (11 page)

Another day passed and then another. Nothing changed.

He forged ahead, upping his game with more practice. Nada.

Frustration built. Why couldn't he do this? Why couldn't he speak? He considered going to a therapist, but what good would that do when he couldn't say a word?

To deal with his frustration, he spent the days cutting down overgrown trees on the property and chopping them into fireplace logs. He took a load of wood over to Dotty Mae Densmore. His neighbor was in her eighties and lived alone and he worried about her.

Dotty Mae thanked him profusely, and then just as he turned to leave, she said, “I remember who you used to be.”

Hutch paused and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“When you were a kid. Before you joined the military. Before your mama truly went crazy.”

Why was she bringing all that up?

He should have let it go, waved, left. Instead, when she offered him a cup of coffee, he nodded and sat down at her kitchen table. Not many people spoke about his mother these days. Not many people left who'd really known her. Not many who were comfortable talking about death.

But at her advanced age, Dotty Mae was staring death in the face. She understood, as Hutch did, as all soldiers with boots on the ground in foreign lands did, that death was an inevitable part of life and the Grim Reaper could be lounging around the next corner, whistling a while-away-the-hours tune, just waiting for you to show up.

“A shot of peppermint schnapps?” she asked after she'd poured the coffee and set a steaming cup in front of him. “To celebrate the holiday.”

Hutch wasn't a big fan of peppermint much less schnapps, but he hadn't had a drop of liquor since the ambush. He edged his cup toward her and she tipped in a hefty dollop of schnapps from the silver flask she produced from the pocket of her apron. She added an equal helping to her coffee as well.

“Some people can't be saved.” Dotty Mae capped the flask. “But you can.” She took a long sip of schnapps-laced coffee, sighed happily, and settled back in her chair. “And Jane. She can be saved too.”

Saved from what? What did Dotty Mae know about Jane that he did not? Christ, he wished he could talk. Hutch speared his fingers through his hair. He was getting shaggy, even for men in The Unit who did not have to abide by military dress code.

“Now Ashley?” Dotty Mae said and shook her head. “That girl . . .”

She didn't finish her thought.

Hutch drained his coffee, gave the elderly lady a tight smile, and scooted out of there. Once in a while, not being able to speak was a blessing.

When Jane got home from work, he had a fire in the fireplace and food on the stove. She gave him a grateful look and told him he didn't have to keep preparing supper. But what else did he have to do? Besides, he liked taking care of her and the kids. It made him feel useful.

In the days leading up to Christmas, they settled into a nice routine that revolved around taking care of the children. Occasionally, he'd catch her looking at him in lusty bewilderment, as if she couldn't believe she was attracted to him. Once, a glimpse of the old Hutch roused and he'd winked at her. She turned away with red cheeks and an oh-gosh-this-can't-be-happening smile on her face, and for a couple of minutes there he forgot everything else but her and the happiness in his belly.

Ashley never called, and when Hutch tried to text her, she never replied. According to Jane, she'd been gone almost two weeks.

Kimmie had stopped asking about her mother, and Hutch didn't know which was worse: the sadness that bit a chunk out of him whenever she asked, or the sadness that sank bone-deep when she didn't.

He was worried. Yes, Ashley had impulsively taken off before without warning or explanation, but she'd never been gone this long. He recalled one time when he was twelve and Ashley was eight that their mother had gone off with some random guy she'd met at a bar and hadn't come back for three weeks. Leaving him to take care of Ashley with no food in the house. He'd stolen vegetables from the neighbor's garden. They must have seen him, because after that, a basket full of food showed up on the doorstep. At least Ashley had left her daughter with a responsible person like Jane.

Saturday was the Christmas play at Kimmie's and Ben's preschool. Both children were playing wise men and Jane was trying to get them to settle down enough to put their costumes on, but they were wound up, chattering and hopping around.

“You guys wanna hop around, let's hop.” Jane turned on the boom box in the kitchen, selected a playlist, and Michael Franti & Spearhead bounced into the room with “I'm Alive.” The second the song started, the kids and Jane sprang into wild dancing, utter bliss on their faces.

Hutch stood in the doorway arms folded over his chest, watching.

“Dance, Unca Hutch, dance!” Kimmie cried.

Jane smiled and crooked her finger, inviting him closer, into their little madcap circle of wriggling and giggling.

Ben darted over, took his hand, led him to the middle of the kitchen floor just as the song changed to “Best Day of My Life” by American Authors.

Jane did an innocent bump and grind around him, swinging those luscious hips, her eyes sparkling bright. “C'mon, big man, let's see your moves.”

Knock her socks off
, thought Old Hutch. Forgetting all about rule #4, he grabbed her by the hand and swept her off her feet, spinning her around the room. An old girlfriend had made him take ballroom dancing with her, and Hutch knew his way around a dance floor.
Here we go, sweetheart.
Hutch dipped her deep.

Jane's eyes flew wide and her mouth formed a happy, startled O. Apparently, she'd forgotten about rule #4 as well.

For one brilliant second, they were frozen in a picture-postcard moment.

The kids wanted in on the joy. They hopped up and down, begging to be included, and then there were four of them, laughing and dancing in a circle, hands joined. A unit. Whole.

Just like a family.

Except not.

The music changed tempo, slowing into a wistful but hopeful “Everything's Okay” by Lenka. The musical shift had Jane dropping her hand, stepping back, looking away from him.

“Okay, kids, energy burned off. Let's get into those costumes.” She clapped her hands. “Chop, chop. The show must go on.”

All the way up to the school, excitement tingeing her little voice, Kimmie kept saying, “My mommy's comin' to see me. Mommy's comin' to my play.”

He glanced over at Jane and she met his gaze, her dark blue eyes worried as she nibbled off her lipstick. He shook his head, hoped his eyes didn't show the tears he couldn't allow himself to shed.

They sat together in the audience as adorable four-year-olds acted out the birth of Jesus. They took lots of pictures and applauded like mad people when the fifteen-minute skit was over.

The woman seated next to Hutch leaned over to ask, “You and your wife look so happy. It's so sweet of you to come with her to a children's play. I can't blast my husband out of bed until noon on Saturdays. How long have you two been married?”

Hutch shook his head, pointed to his bare ring finger.

The woman nudged Hutch in the ribs. “What are you waiting for to make an honest woman of her? You'd be hard-pressed to find someone else you're so compatible with.”

Hutch just smiled.

“Men.” The woman muttered under her breath and as she was leaving, leaned over to tap Jane on the shoulder. “Honey, he's not going to buy the cow as long as the milk is free.”

Jane gave Hutch a what-the-heck-was-that-all-about look. He shrugged, winked.

Her cheeks pinked.

Kimmie came running off stage toward them, a long beard glued to her chin, a wooden crook clutched in her pudgy little hand, swiveling her head from side to side, going up on tiptoes to survey the crowd of adults getting to their feet. “Where is she? Where's my mommy?”

“Who's up for hot chocolate when we get home?” Jane asked as Ben joined them.

“Unca Hutch?” That white beard trembled and a tear trickled down Kimmie's cheek. “Where's Mommy?”

He couldn't answer. Couldn't even speak to comfort his niece. Dammit! He had to conquer this muteness shit. Hutch curled his fingernails into his palms, anger, frustration, and guilt punching him with a hard upper cut.

Jane crouched, eye level with Kimmie, and took her hand. “Sweetie, your mother couldn't be here, but I took lots of pictures to show her what a wonderful wise man you were.”

His niece flung herself into Jane's arms, buried her head against Jane's breast, and sobbed her little heart out. Jane stood up and carried Kimmie to the minivan, Hutch and Ben bringing up the rear.

The ride home was somber, filled with the sound of Kimmie's soft cries. Jane sat in the backseat with the kids, gently rubbing Kimmie's back and kissing the top of her head.

“I sorry, Kimmie,” Ben said. “I sorry 'bout yo mommy.”

When they got home, Jane sent the kids to their rooms to change out of their costumes and they went into the kitchen to prepare lunch, the solemn mood in sharp contrast to the earlier joy they'd shared in this same room an hour ago. From the refrigerator, Hutch pulled the brisket he'd cooked in the outdoor smoker earlier in the week, and started slicing it. Jane stood beside him at the counter, slathering mustard on thick slices of rustic Italian bread.

She stopped in mid stroke, laid the mustard-covered knife down on a paper towel. “This can't keep up. What are we going to do about Ashley? It's horrible what she's putting her own daughter through. I can't understand why she hasn't called. What if something's happened to her? Shouldn't we report her missing?”

Hutch didn't like the situation any better than she did, but she didn't understand that this was how Ashley operated. She would do something impulsive and/or irrational, get into an undesirable situation, but was loath to admit she messed up. Once, when he caught Ashley stealing money from his wallet, she begged his forgiveness, saying, “I'm pond scum carpet. I don't deserve to breathe air.”

There was so much pain in her eyes he knew it wasn't simple melodrama. She truly believed she was not worthy of forgiveness. She truly believed that if she made a mistake she didn't deserve to live. She truly believed that if he was mad at her in the moment, he would be mad at her forever.

He tried to soothe her. Tell her everyone made mistakes. But unable to tolerate the misery of her distorted belief system, she got angry and lashed out at Hutch, saying that if he gave her a bigger allowance, she wouldn't be forced to steal from him.

“You've humiliated me,” she declared, her face burning the color of cinnamon jellybeans. “It's all your fault.”

Hutch had blinked, confused, caught in the whiplash backdraft of his sister's emotional illness. It was the first time he truly understood that he could never win. The best way to handle her was simply to disengage his emotions and refused to be pulled into her delusion. It might look cold to others, but it was a basic survival technique. He only wished he had learned the art of detachment years ago. It would have made life with his mother so much easier.

But Jane had a point. What if Ashley had gotten in over her head? What if it was a case that she couldn't call or come home if she wanted to? Then again, what was he going to do? He had no clue where to start looking for her and it wasn't as if he could pick up the phone and have a chat with the airline or hotels, much less fly to Mexico and start asking questions, scrawling on that stupid Magic Slate in English.

Goddammit. The time when his niece needed him the most he was completely useless.

“I can't believe a mother would do this to her child.” Jane sank her hands on her hips, glared at him.

He knew she was mad at Ashley, not him, but guilt, dark and heavy, crawled up inside him.

“You need to do something.”

Hutch made a fierce slashing motion across his neck, glowered back at Jane. He was just as pissed off about this as she was. More so. It was his family, not hers. He was so steamed that he opened his mouth to tell her precisely that, and then snapped his lips together.

Do it. Talk.

Inhaling deeply, he propelled the air up through his lungs, into his throat, felt the familiar tightening. Keep going. He pressed on, and the sound exploded from his mouth in a soft, raspy pop. “Baa.”

Baa.

The noise he'd been practicing for the last week, over and over. The simple syllable he'd been unable to make. He should be thrilled he managed that much. Instead, he was pissed off. He sounded like a damn sheep.

Baa.

He gritted his teeth. Months of anger, guilt, despair, turmoil, and depression had come to this.

Baa.

Jane went for the Magic Slate lying on the table, trotted back over, and shoved it into his left hand, her eyes sparking flint. She was pissed off too.

They weren't mad at each other. He knew that. They were frustrated with Ashley and worried for Kimmie and they were taking it out on each other. But he couldn't seem to stop himself from reacting out of hurt.

Hutch hardened his jaw. He took the tablet, intending to toss it back on the table. Writing on that stupid children's toy couldn't begin to communicate what he was feeling, but his second finger hadn't yet learned how to act as an effective index finger. He misjudged how much pressure it took to toss the tablet over the cooktop and onto the kitchen table beyond.

The slate flew off the tip of his second finger, bulleted over the cooktop, rocketed past the table, slammed into the wall, and with the peculiarities of force and geometry, spun off the wall and came boomeranging back, whizzing over the top of Jane's head as she ducked, and smacking the center of Hutch's chest.

F
ear flooded Meredith's body and she was jettisoned back five years ago to a time just days after her honeymoon, when Sloane had knocked her across the room for slightly singeing his steak, and broke her nose for the first time.