The freshly resurfaced Dickinson County road spit gravel at four plastic wheel-wells. A young passenger, unaffected by the blitz and riding shotgun, sat asleep, his head against the warm window. Feverish brakes—assaulted and battered for five miles—seemed to squeal, “Achtung.” The VW graveled to a stop, and the motor shuddered, “Caput.” The driver buzzed open his window, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize Jinny’s features—a penciled sketch, framed, smeared, and faded by time. No breeze paraded through open windows, but an aging, leafy sycamore played kaleidoscope, shafted sunlight through its magnificent canopy, and bid welcome to the strangers parked in the driveway.
Lance stood out of sight on a fifteen-year-old flatbed truck behind his home, unaware of the late-model Avis rental parked out front. Shafted to a horizontal drum in the loft, a Baldor motor purred and commenced winding the inch-thick rope, attached through a peak-mounted pulley to steel hooks thrust into a waiting bale on the truck. Lance climbed aboard the bale, and the rope snapped taut as the motor—remotely set in motion by Albert—spooled as if it had snagged a record-sized catfish, or a bound-and-gagged soldier.
Riding to the loft was the fun part. Lance jumped to the hay mow floor, swung the suspended bale inward, released the clutch, and dragged his catch to the back. Then he wiped his sweaty forehead on a torn, plaid hand-me-down and stared at Albert, who sat in a wicker rocker eating lunch outside the back door. From time to time Uncle Al had paused to give advice, either not knowing or not caring that with his mouth full his pickled words were unintelligible and, therefore, had a short shelf-life.
Doors slammed out front. Lance looked down and watched two men, headed for his front entry, disappear beneath the roof-line. Megan heard, “bang-bang.” She dried and shelved the last dish, wiped her hands on an appliqued dishtowel, hustled through the house to the screened back door and—to keep out the flies—opened it just a tad.
“Oh, Uncle Al, sorry. Did I startle you? Was lunch okay? Can I bring you anything?”
He swallowed and replied while picking his teeth with a fingernail needing trimming, “Nope, yep, and nope. Thank you, Meg.”
“Lance, did you hear the car pull in the driveway?”
“Yes, Megan, I heard. And I’m busy, so hold on; you’ve got eyes, don’t you? I’ll be there in a minute, but let’s make darn sure it’s a short visit, whoever it is. I still have one, two, three . . .” he counted, “maybe got a dozen bales to string up, and it’s Havana-hot out here. But Megan, don’t unchain the bar-latch until I get there. I don’t recognize the BUG. Looks like a rental.” Lance grabbed the loft rope and, hand over hand, adroitly dropped to the flatbed, jumped to the ground, and took off his cowhide gloves.
“Be right back, Uncle Albert. Somebody’s at the door. It better not be . . . ”
“Yep. I heard.” He hadn’t. “I’ll ride this rocker until I’m off mine. But remember, I’m leaving for vacation soon.” Only Albert smiled. Only Albert rocked. Lance double-timed his march through the house and accidentally elbowed George Washington in the face. The General and his men spilled into the icy Delaware, landed on the linoleum, and broke the frame.
Megan beat her husband to the front door and asked, “Who is it?” The barricade swung slowly out of the way, and she backed into Lance, who indignantly stood his ground. A brief, unproductive staring contest ensued. The two men standing out on the stoop were dark eyed, dark complected, dark haired, well-groomed, and clean-shaven—both apparently in excellent physical condition. Like Lance they were suntanned. Unlike Lance, they wore collared Ralph Lorenz shirts, pressed tan slacks, and sockless sandals. The younger stranger had interwoven his slim fingers chest-high, as if he were trying to prevent his heart from leaping out and bouncing off the same screen that had left hash-marks on Jinny’s nose.
“Excuse the intrusion, but we have come to call on Virginia O’Dwyer, if you please.”
“We hope she’s here,” cheerfully added the shorter of the two strangers, who nervously swung a black nylon bag back and forth with his left hand.
“Well, she’s not here,” snapped Lance. He was sorely tempted to open the screen door and confront the strangers nose to nose, but for Megan’s sake he elected to perform racial profiling from inside the house. “Who are you, and what do you want from Jinny? You look like the FBI, minus the shades, but those bungling bulahs got their comeuppance long ago.”
“Oh no, we’re not FBI. We’re normal. Can you tell us when Jinny might return? We kind of wanted to surprise her.”
Megan slipped her hand into Lance’s back pocket and squeezed. “Perhaps we should invite our visitors to come in and sit down.”
“No, I think we’re good right here,” Lance replied curtly, bracing himself and broadening his stance. Megan felt his vibes, chilled, and swallowed her smile.
Gemma had paid for the karate lessons after all.
The younger visitor limped forward and shaded his eyes with his hand. “I am sorry. This isn’t going as we had hoped. Pardon us for showing up unannounced. My name is Asif, and this is my brother, Asad.”
“Asad? Asif?” The screen door almost unhinged. “I don’t know what in the ding-louie I was thinking. Sorry guys. I am Lance, Jinny’s brother, and this is my plump, pregnant wife, Megan. Come on in and sit a spell—uh, there on the couch, if you like. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
Comradery replaced confrontation, and all shook hands like team captains after the coin toss. Megan was so excited she even shook Lance’s hand. Relieved, the brothers symbiotically replied, “thank you,” settled on the front edge of the worn leather love-seat, and Asad dropped the black bag between his feet. Megan collapsed into Caleb’s old, cushioned recliner; Lance wheeled in and straddled a noisy secretary’s chair. The O’Dwyers didn’t hold hands, but Megan and Asad trembled with excitement.
“We knew Jinny during the Great War. To you, it may seem out of place, but to us she will always be Mama; at least, that’s how it is spoken in English. She has spoken well of us, we hope?”
From not far upstream someone opened a floodgate and channeled bitter-sweet tears down Megan’s rosy cheeks. “Oh yes, yes, she did indeed speak well of you. Jinny told us so much about you; and she wept, like I am, at each telling . . . what a happy day . . . if only we had words to describe how much your visit honors us.”
Asif acted like he’d just been introduced to the woman who invented ice cream. “We, too, have looked forward to this day for many years.” From the street, your home looks just as Mama described it—even the barn.”
Asad could barely contain his joy. “Perhaps you will want to know—three weeks past we entered the United States of America on student visas. We have come to study at the Southern Methodist University in Dallas, you all.” He grinned.
“My brother’s English is good, yes?” asked Asif, a wry smile on his face. “But where is Mama—a—Jinny?”
“JINNY.” Lance felt ill-prepared to pull the punch he was destined to deliver. He was ill-prepared. “Jinny is, well, after honorably completing two tours during the Great War, she came home and married Marvin Gunnerson, a real son of a . . .”
“Marv is a good guy.” Megan grabbed the torch before Lance could douse it. She looked away, moistened her lips, nervously tucked her golden hair behind her ears, and reached pleadingly for her husband’s withdrawn hand. It was an embarrassing moment. “Well, like I say, he and Jinny were happy.”
Lance managed to keep his crusted animus at bay. Megan perceived a heightened anticipation in the water-colored eyes of both brothers and hastened to fill in the blanks—not fire bullets. “Until last year, Jinny hadn’t been able to get pregnant. Then came the long-awaited announcement—twins.”
“Really? TWINS? The brothers high-fived one another. “Are the babies here? Now?”
Every muscle in Megan’s face tightened involuntarily; she breathed rapidly and plead, “Lance, help; please dear, help.”
Asad and Asif knew something was amiss, something neither wanted to hear. Lance made a guttural sound, nervously cleared his throat, looked at the floor, and blurted, “Sometime toward the end of the second trimester . . . I’ll spare you the details . . . I rushed Jinny to the hospital in Abilene, but the babies died on Independence Day. A month later . . . Jinny committed, well, she took her own life.”