tHIS tHEN
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aMY “Hello,” said Amy. She hoped it was Vern. It wasn't. “Hello, Amy. This is Rachel. I loved those red roses. Machos gracias! Vern wants to tell you what happened.” In the pause between Rachel's voice, before Vern took the phone, Amy felt Vern's whole life flash before her eyes. Rachel? Of course, Rachel! Not to be melodramatic, she asked, “Was it you, or the roses?” Amy let Vern know how delighted the news made her feel before she asked about Shute. His laugh was still in her ears when she hung up.
mARLEY The flies were buzzing louder this time. Marley tried to breathe slowly so as not to attract them with her scent. She waited for them to crush her head. Waited for them to puncture her arms and legs. She must have been sick. She could feel the vomit that stuck to her chin and arm. Her head throbbed! Was this the pain her mother had? Before she passed out again, before the noise stopped in her brain, she thought her mother was rocking her. She lay quiet so as not to frighten her away.
cINDER “It's amazing, isn't it Miss Smythe? People stopping what they are doing to brave the Northern woods in late fall to search for someone they might not even know or care about in ordinary circumstances? I hope they ain't disappointed,” said Billy in his slow, serious voice. He handed Cinder a cup of coffee, made to her unique liking: half coffee, half milk. Cinder studied his rather bedroomy eyes ... as in the college phrase used by she, Carla, and Charissa toward older, seasoned and sexually conducive men ... in sharp contrast to the situation at hand. She blushed; but he had not noticed. He had already spun around upon his crutches to make way toward the crowd of people coming through the firehouse doorway. Among them were Amy, Vern Paselli, and Rachel from Murphy's. Billy and Vern moved aside together in deep conversation. Cinder went to join Amy and Rachel. “Did you bring good news? You sure look especially well. Both of you.” Before congratulating Rachel on her engagement, Cinder took a long sip of coffee.
sHUTE By the time Shute made it to the post, it was crawling with men and women in green clothing. Six or seven of them. They stood around looking at charts. Scratching their heads. Shute hit the ground running. “Where's Arnold?” A tall, skinny man whom Shute did not know, pointed to a heavy set man leaning against a shiny green pickup. As Shute approached, the man turned belligerent on him. “What the hell you think you're doing, dropping a young girl off in the woods to fend for herself? You better have something decent to say to me right now, mister, or you can just pack yourself out of my face.” “What the hell you doin' standing around, A?” Shute's muscular thin body showed no backing down. “Vern as much as told you where she was. Came over the squawk box. Leave the rest of that shit be, A. I know the spot. It's in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Know something, Arnold? You can't get there from here less'n you cross that chasm below the loop. Logging truck took a flip there when the tires blew out three years back. Gonna need ropes to get a stretcher down there. You got any walkies? Get the medicals and let's go.” Arnold let his hackles show. “We're going to stay organized, Shute. There are people on the way. You park your ass .... ” Shute backed away. Saluted Arnold. Did an about face. Walked over to the skinny guy and began to bark orders. “Arnold wants you people to mark your maps. Right here. See? The Loop. This is where we need to search. You gotta set up right about here. I need three able bodied people to come with me. We're going down the chasm. We need water, ropes, walkies, and medicals. My jeep's over here. It'll get us close. Take an hour to reach her. Send the crews just as soon as Arnold can get them organized. Turn here, see? On the map. Come on. Move.” There was a flurry of activity while Shute barked orders. Before Arnold had any idea of what was happening, Shute's jeep was flying down the Golden Road toward the old narrow logging road used once before to rescue a trucker and what was left of his logging truck. Shute's mind was set. He was after his tent. And she better be with it! Shute stopped just before the loop, before the chasm. Two truckers and a game warden were with him. He had one more direction. “We need a marker for the turn off. I got some white paint in the back. Anything else you can find that will work? Go for it.”
fLY “Arnold's on the horn.” Fly nodded. It was the third contact from him. Fly told him straight out the last time to not call him again unless he had something. Of course he had something. “It's something about Shute.” Fly had to take it. “This better be good. I'm on a half hour of sleep in twenty.” “We got a wild card up here. Name of Shute. The one who lost the girl in the first place. Took three good men and headed to the loop. Turned on a side road. Said he'd mark it. It's about twenty miles from the loop. Closest way in to where Paselli's plane spotted the tent. I've got another crew on the way. They'll be waiting for you on the Loop. According to Billy, Shute knows what he's doing.” “Right,” responded Fly, ending the conversation. Spaulding shook his head. “What's that, Spaulding? You on to Shute, too?” “Well no, Fly. I'm on to Arnold.” “Just drive, Spaulding. Let me sleep.” Seconds later, Fly was on the horn to Billy about Shute.
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About the Book
Dear Reader, Welcome to Crossing Place, where Cinder Smythe tells her High School students she doesn't feel experienced enough to know more than that she misses her National Guardsman; yet, her Country Chatoyant (shaw-toy-awnt) newspaper columns inspire readers on the triangle, including soldiers in Iraq and these very students. In this year, Frieda Young, afraid of death, takes in a family to care for hers, writes a poetry book for her twins, is pleased her mother wants to marry again, yet has trouble communicating with her husband. If Racine can laugh over toilet paper and kids can gleefully hug a lady in a pink parka thrown over her housecoat, you, Dear Reader, can try to understand why Amy respects Fly because of what happens on the mountain. For the same reasons, tHIS author expects Josh to find the sum of the parts inside the people of Crossing Place next in tHIS tIME. Also, Dear Reader, in those early months of 2006, Sammy will no longer be slow. Fly will be there to think out of the box over it.
About the Author
This on NANCY, the Author, from Terry Philbrick Smith
Back in the fifties, attending our two room school in Knox, I remember when Mr. Harris turned Friday afternoons into a Literature party. Everyone, from grade four to eight, had to share something. Mom always helped me, or I never could have done it. Joan and Nancy, my big and little sisters, loved it. Once, Joan wrote a scary poem and performed it in her black costume and huge mask like she was the Witch from Lost Halloweens. Kids laughed and screamed and hid under their desks! Nancy's first offering was a funny story about Cowboys and Indians. She even had sound effects. Everyone clapped, especially the boys because they hated this day as much as I did. But I like remembering what happened after school. We came in from our chores and saw what Mom had written under the A+ on Nancy's paper. “Who wrote this? Fix your spelling.” Nancy did, with Joan's help. I couldn't believe it. So I asked why. Mom said, “If it is worth writing, it is worth writing well.” Joan said that Nancy had a long way to go, but she would get there someday. Mom looked at me and said, “Just like those bedtime stories you tell the kids, Terry. When you or Joan fall asleep, I can hear Nancy finishing them.” I guess Nancy, the author, stayed awake and got there ... with tHIS!