Keeping Promise Rock, page 22
Somewhere in there he’d stopped shoveling mud and started beating the horse with the shovel, and his foot hurt like he’d kicked something. It was probably Comet’s poor abused body, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop….
And then a groan… a crumbling rumble from the direction of the levee stopped him.
He turned toward the sound, squinted against the rain, and saw it. The sandbags came tumbling down like they weighed nothing, and there was a crack in the earthen part of the levee, and then another, and then the lip of the damned thing washed away. In a quick and ponderous roll, a four-foot-tall, fifty-foot section just disintegrated, and all that water heaved its way towards the inadequate sandbag shelf that Deacon had spent four days putting up between the place he loved and the wrath of God.
“Oh really?” Deacon screamed at God. “You want to play? You want to fucking play? I haven’t heard from Crick in four days, and you think this is what’s going to do it? Have I mentioned you can fuck yourself?” The water swelled up, ran into the ditch by the levee, overflowed, and powered its way across the road.
“You’re gonna wreck my walls, right? Do you think I give a shit? Try me, motherfucker! Just fucking try me!” He was standing in front of Comet’s ill-advised grave and hopping up and down, shaking the shovel at the water as it rose… rose so fast… came up over the sandbags, and heaved its way onto the lowland pasture.
“That it? Is that it, you bitch? I can fucking swim, motherfucker!” The water rose up to Deacon’s ankles, and he couldn’t seem to make himself care, couldn’t seem to want to run away. He just stood there, daring God to fuck with him one more goddamned time.
And God tried—the water rose, came up to his knees, his thighs, his hips… and then crested, there at his chest. Deacon was freezing; he couldn’t breathe. His feet came off the ground for a moment, and he was pushed backwards as the water battered at him, threatened his home, sucked out his breath and his hope and his anger and all the bitterness that he’d been tamping down like sour bile for the last twenty-one months, praying it would go away, go away before it soured his love for Carrick forever.
The flood stayed there as he struggled for footing, struggled for breath, dared God to take him, dared the world to just fuck him over one last time….
And then the water receded, falling down the slope that led up to the house and running down the blacktop of the levee road on either side, leaving his lower pastureland flooded, but the house, thank Deacon, it left alone. Deacon was left, panting, his throat sore, his hands bloody under his gloves, his whole body shaking from cold, from wet, from grief, from reaction, right there in front of the body of a dead horse—and a big glorpy hole in the ground.
Comet slid into it first, the ground under his vast body weakened by the water as it ran and took the mud away, leaving a fragile shelf. Deacon had worked hard and fast in his frantic time digging the grave, and Comet sank a good four feet right before the ground behind Deacon’s boots gave in for the same reasons, and he fell right on top of Crick’s dead horse, ass first, in the liquefied mud.
He floundered for a horrible, horrible second, his body giving out, reminding him that he hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t cared for his flesh and bone, and for a moment, he thought he was going to die there, in this mud pit, buried alive with a dead horse and what was left of his sanity. At least he’d see Crick again. And then his feet hit Comet, and he pushed himself up. His feet slid down Comet’s rump, but his knees finally hit something solid, and he pitched himself forward onto the solid, saturated ground and turned his head to the side and gasped like a fish.
All right, God, I’m done sparring. I’ll see you next flood, you pussy-assed bitch.
He might have lay there until he died of hypothermia and embarrassment, but two pairs of strong hands seized him, one on either side, and pulled him up, helping him to climb out of the mud pit that was now officially Comet’s grave.
“Heya, Jon,” Deacon sputtered, and Jon shook his head at him, at a complete loss for words.
“Jesus, Deacon,” Andrew said from his other side. “Did you know the levee broke? Why didn’t you get up to higher ground?”
“’Cause me and God were having a conversation,” Deacon mumbled with as much dignity as he could muster. “I called him a pussy-assed bitch, and he told me he didn’t give a shit. It was a draw.”
Jon took Deacon’s arm and slung it around his shoulder. “Deacon, where’s your horse?”
“Crick’s horse.” Oh, Christ—that hadn’t changed. “Crick’s horse is dead, Jon. He broke his leg and I shot him. And then I dug a pit, and God thought he’d do me a solid, and buried the poor bastard. Crick’s horse, Crick… they leave. They leave me. It’s what they do.”
Jon and Andrew looked behind Deacon into the pit they’d pulled him out of, and Jon left Deacon’s side for a minute to grab the shovel, which was still at the side of the mud pit. Gingerly, he probed the liquid mud with the shovel and grimaced when it hit something solid with enough give to be a body.
“Jesus,” Jon muttered. “No wonder you’re off your rocker. God really had it in for you today, Deacon.”
Deacon felt suddenly lucid. Cold and weak, but lucid. “I haven’t heard from Crick in four days, Jon.”
Jon nodded, and touched foreheads with his friend. “I know, Deac. We’re praying for him, right?”
“I think God’s too busy beating the shit out of me to listen.”
“Yeah, well, you’re still standing, champ,” Jon told him dryly.
“Only because you’re here to help me up,” Deacon told him with so much reverence and gratitude that even Jon couldn’t find a witty comeback.
“Took you long enough to lean on me,” was all he could manage, and there was no response to that. Together he and Andrew wrapped their arms around Deacon’s waist and started to urge him up to the house in what felt like the longest walk of his life.
They dragged him into the tiled washroom by the kitchen and started to strip off his clothes. Jon invented new swear words when they saw his blisters, and his toes would be bruised and black for days afterwards. Andrew had just brought him a blanket—clean and dry, because the double layers of sandbags had worked, dammit, they had!, and the only water in the house was what they’d just tracked in themselves—when the phone rang.
“Oh my God,” Deacon said in wonder. “I keep forgetting that damned phone works.” His head hurt. It was pounding, in fact, and he couldn’t decide if it was the muddy, bruised cut on his forehead or the lack of food or the lack of sleep or even the hangover…. Maybe it was all of it, but for a moment, all that seemed to matter was that his brain was threatening to ooze out his ears.
Benny barged into the mudroom then, the old-fashioned cord from the kitchen stretched as far as it could possibly go.
“Jesus, Benny, give a guy a little priv—”
“It’s Crick,” she said breathlessly. “It’s Crick. He left his BlackBerry on a helicopter, and he got to use the satellite phone to tell us he’s okay.”
Deacon grabbed the phone from her before she could finish and let the cord pull him back against the wall of the mudroom. His feet slid from underneath him, and he flopped abruptly on his ass, chuffing into the phone.
“You’re okay?” he asked dreamily. “Please tell me you’re okay.”
“God, Deacon—I’m fine. You sound like hell. Benny was worried sick. What happened?”
The laughter was uncontrollable, bubbling up from some bitter place in his gut, and he couldn’t seem to stop it. “What happened?” he giggled. “Damn, Crick… that’s the fifty-bazillion dollar question. How ’bout ask me what didn’t happen? Or let’s narrow it down a bit… maybe the best and the worst of it… how’s that sound?”
“Deacon.” Crick’s voice went very quiet. “You’re scaring me.”
“Backatcha, baby,” Deacon said, suddenly sober. There was a heartbeat of silence, and he tried to pull something coherent from his aching head. “Let’s just say I almost drowned in a mud pit with your dead horse, and because I thought you were dead too, it was just about the best part of my day.”
“Oh God… Deacon I’m so… so….”
“Don’t say it,” Deacon told him, surprising himself with how mild he sounded—how mild he felt. “Please—not because it’ll make me mad, because I’m not anymore.” And that also was a surprise, because it was the truth. “I’ve got all the mad out, okay? The mad’s all gone, and I’m clean and shiny inside, right? You don’t ever have to apologize again… that part’s over, hear me?”
And oh, God, it was true. Standing in the pissing rain, shrieking at God, daring the world to fuck him just one more time—it had scoured him right out, and he had no room in his heart left for bitterness or anger. Crick was there, Crick was on the other end of the phone, and he was alive. Deacon was cold and naked and alone on the floor, and all that mattered was that Crick was alive.
“Okay, Deacon,” Crick said, sounding lost and a little confused. “What do you want me to say?”
“Mmm.” Deacon’s whole body relaxed just hearing his voice, and he slouched down on the floor a little more until his head was resting on one arm and he was holding the phone on his opposite ear. “Just talk to me, baby. Just tell me what happened, tell me you’re all right again. Tell me about your day.”
And now that voice, that dear, dear, far away voice, was gentle and sweet, almost rhythmic. “The thing was, we got caught in some fire and the bus rolled. We’re fine, some bumps and bruises mostly, but we were there, ass to ass, waiting to be rescued, and we heard the Black Hawk, right?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Deacon mumbled, content to let Crick’s voice wash over him. The story wasn’t exactly comfortable, but the moment was pure comfort, and it soothed him, eased him, let his mind stop raging at the world, let his body settle itself down to rest.
He didn’t even feel Benny’s hands as she picked up the phone and told Crick he was asleep, and he certainly didn’t know to pose for the photo she sent Crick over the phone when he’d recovered the damned thing a week later. The picture was of Deacon, fast asleep on the floor of the mudroom, smiling slightly as he dreamed of Crick’s voice in his ear.
Chapter 16
Unnecessary Business
It took two weeks for the six-page letter that explained the entire shit-in-the-blender day to arrive and another week for the follow-up letter, and three days for Crick to get through the whole thing, because some of it was just so awful he had to walk away.
Crick—
I almost had to write this to you from the county lockup—it’s a good thing I’m friends with the best defense attorneys in town.
Crick chuffed, reading it again. County lockup—Deacon!
Anyway, it turns out, Driving While Gay is NOT illegal, just like Jon said, and so Becca’s boyfriend got to get fired and go to jail, which I have to say was kind of fun to watch. Jon almost got a contempt of court slapped on him when the judge asked if I really was gay or not—seemed to think the question was intrusive. The judge explained that if I was, and Jason knew it, then he’d be arrested and all sorts of bad shit, and if I wasn’t, it was just trash talk and a grudge for sleeping with Becca. The fun part was when the guy asked why, if I actually were gay, would I be sleeping with Becca. Explaining the doctored drink and the equal-opportunity pecker was just damned embarrassing, let me tell you. But all in all, it’s no big deal—you came out at a funeral, I came out in court, and together, we’re town legend. Go us.
Crick thought about Deacon and his incredible shyness. “No big deal”—right, Deacon. Crick knew the man—he probably went home and slept with the horses after that just to wash away the mortification. He’d never been ashamed of his sexuality—it wasn’t that—it was the being open to the public that would hurt him and hurt him deeply.
But I’m sorry about the Becca thing. I’ve got no excuses here. I should have spit the gin out—and probably thrown it in her face too. You know, I keep thinking about that picture you drew of me once—the one where I look like a god. Some god. I’m sorry I’m such a mess—I’d give anything for me to be the man you thought I was. I just hope I’m still the man you want to come back to.
Crick read that passage, and then read it again. A week after he’d called home and found Deacon half dead and the place barely standing, the pilot of the Black Hawk that had bailed him and Lisa out of the shit had returned his BlackBerry. Crick had given him a box of paperback books for his trouble and spent three days Twittering in every spare moment with Benny to make sure Deacon was okay.
Now, he took out the damned piece of irritating technology and pulled up the picture Benny had sent him right after the whole thing went down.
Deacon was asleep—naked to the waist and asleep on the mudroom floor. He’d wiped some of the mud off his face, but there was a line of it back against his hair, and his hair was stiff with it as it dried. His head was pillowed on his arm, and the pose was a lot like Crick’s sketch from the hotel room in Georgia, right down to the expression. His body was skinny and battered, and Crick could see the bloody blisters on the palms of his hands from the sandbagging and the shovel as well as the bruise and cut on his forehead from that bastard cop, but his face as he slept… it was peaceful. There was a faint smile on his still-handsome mouth, and Benny had told him that he’d fallen asleep with Crick’s voice in his ear.
No, Deacon wasn’t a god. He was just a man, stubborn and flawed, shy with everyone but the people who loved him, tough, compassionate and hammer-and-nail practical, and brave—so brave—to take on the world, to carry The Pulpit and all the people who looked to him on his shoulders.
He wasn’t a god, but he was still the man Crick had left in the hotel in Georgia, if a little worse for the wear. He was better than a god. He was Deacon.
Your mama came and got your little sisters after the trial, which was too bad. We had them set up in Benny’s room, and got a bed for Benny in with the baby, and I think they enjoyed themselves. I know Crystal is looking to take the same path as Benny if something doesn’t happen soon—unfortunately, Driving While Gay may not be an actual crime but it doesn’t make you really popular with the social workers either. We had a tough time convincing them that Benny and the baby would be better off with me and not a foster family—that was a pretty nasty scare right there.
Oh Christ. Deacon loved that baby, loved Crick’s sister—they were his family. Crick wanted to howl. He should be there. If he were there, she’d just be living with her brother and his boyfriend—dammit, he should be there!
But they got to stay—Benny kept threatening to run away and I think she scared the social worker a little. Scared me too—damned kid. She’s smart and capable, but Jesus, Crick—so much like you.
The whole shebang has hurt our business a little—a bunch of people tried to pull their animals out of the stables and not pay us. Again, Jon saved the day—apparently there’s a reason for that contract, right? But still—that money’ll be gone in a couple of months, and we’re going to have to find a way to replace it. Benny put up a website (here’s the link if you want to check it out) and we’ve been shipping Even Star’s Wonder Sperm all over the country instead of just to local farms, which is good because some jackass started a rumor about ‘horse aids’. Swear to Christ, Crick, sometimes I see why you wanted to get the fuck out of here so bad. We’ve got yearlings I can sell, and we had a fairly big batch of newborns (another reason it took me so long to write—you know that season, you’re up to your chin in laboring mares and afterbirth) that are promising, but I need to keep a few to train up to stay solvent next year. Anyway, forget it. Not to worry. You’ll be home in four weeks, and it will all be golden.
Crick took a shuddering breath. Funny thing about time—his first months had crept by. The next big chunk of it had flown. These last two weeks had stretched strangely, like a hallway in a horror movie, and Crick wasn’t sure he could make it to the end.
I’m sorry about your horse, Crick. It wasn’t his fault—between the lightning and the snake, he just did what horses do and came down wrong. It wasn’t his fault. When the ground got drier, we brought in the backhoe and buried him right, with some quicklime and a marker. Had to kill two more snakes that day—I swear, if I had the littlest bit of capital, I’d buy that vacant property next door just so I could turn the pigs loose and keep the rattlers away.
Benny’s text on the matter had been more succinct. Every night he starts for the door to give that damned horse a carrot. I swear, Crick, it’s like losing you all over again.
Crick had loved Comet—his even temper, his sweetness. He always swore that if Deacon were a horse, he’d be just like Comet, only better looking. He knew—hell, Deacon had told him—that the horse had gotten him through the worst of Crick’s absence. How could the damned stupid animal have deserted them when Deacon needed him most? Crick asked the question and then cringed at the irony.
It’s weird, Carrick—I gave up school for The Pulpit, but after almost losing it to the flood and getting you instead, I think God and I have come to an agreement. If it’s a choice between you and The Pulpit, I’ll take you, alive and well, any day.
Jesus, Deacon, Crick thought, learn to ask more from life, would you?
Only one more care package between now and you coming home. I’m almost afraid to say that. Feels like it will jinx it somehow. But I’ll say I love you, Carrick, just to make sure you keep your head above the dark water, okay?
