Bryce scratched his head and looked confused. "Oh." Without so much as a good night, he stood up, disappeared into his trailer, and started banging around inside.
We cleaned up, cut the lights in the projector house, and hollered good night across the parking lot. If he heard us, he made no response.
WANTING TO PUT OUR BEST FOOT FORWARD, MAGGIE asked me to wear a coat and tie. I did, but I couldn't hold a candle to my wife. I descended the stairs out of the loft and found her standing in the middle of the barn, where the sunlight had broken through the slits in the walls and lit her from calf to halo. She stood heel to arch, hands in white gloves. I'd missed a belt loop and cut my face shaving, and my tie was crooked and too short. She was the canvas on which God had painted all the wonder and beauty of summer. I stood openmouthed. She touched my chin, closing my mouth, and smirked. "Well, say something."
I gulped. "Will you marry me?"
She straightened my tie and peeled the toilet paper off my cheek. "That'll do."
It'd been nearly a month and a half since the white flower of the cotton plant had bloomed, turned pink, faded into red, then grew deep purple and fell to the earth below. By rough calculation, time was drawing near, but how near was anybody's guess. While some farmers have attempted to make farming a predictable science, it is not. Never will be. You can beg, cuss, dance, even manipulate conditions, but she will grow, blossom, and produce only when she's ready. Nothing short of the hand of God can change that.
Evidently God thought it was time.
We walked out of the barn and were met by a hallelujah chorus of white. As if sprayed from heaven, the fields had exploded into a seamless sea of fluffy white. Hundreds of thousands of cottony white hands rose up out of the earth and reaching to heaven blanketed the landscape with texture, tenderness, and promise.
We eyed the cotton, Maggie's dress flapping gently in the warm breeze. She stepped into the field, snapped off a fistsized boll like a rose, and raised it to her nose.
Indomitable.
I held out my elbow, she slipped her hand inside, and we drove the back roads to Charleston.
ALTHOUGH WE ARRIVED EARLY, MR. SAWYER AND MS. Tungston were waiting on us. Kayla, the receptionist, led us into the conference room, where Mr. Sawyer pointed us to our seats and then rested his hand on his notebook, which had grown thicker. He tapped the vinyl cover. "We've received several letters in support of you. Many of them quite complimentary."
I nodded. "Yes, sir. Like your letter suggested, we asked a few of our friends."
Maggie sat listening, watching the proceedings, but I could tell she didn't like being under the microscope.
He was opening his mouth to speak again when the door behind us opened, and John Caglestock walked in. He was carrying a tape recorder under one arm and several folders under another.
Mr. Sawyer stood up. "Excuse me, sir, but these proceedings are closed."
John nodded and set his things down on a side table. He straightened his bow tie and extended his hand. "I'm John Caglestock. And that's part of the problem."
Maggie smirked.
John spoke softly to us. "Hi, you two, hope you don't mind." He addressed the committee. "Dylan called me a couple of weeks ago and asked me to write a letter in support of them. I said I would, only to find out that I could not. I'm good with numbers, not letters, and what I have to say, well, I can't make it fit in a letter."
Mr. Sawyer sat back down and waved his hand. "While unprecedented, please continue."
"I manage an investment firm. I met Dr. Styles here when our best client marched him into my office and told me that I was to do whatever he said. Needless to say, I wasn't too happy to have met him." John paced the room and looked at me. "I had a few questions. Like, just what did a farmer from the sticks know about investments and managing money? But when your best client, who's worth"-John looked at the ceiling and calculated in his head-"somewhere north of three hundred million dollars, speaks, you do what he says."
"You mean to tell me that Dr. Styles is a member at your firm helping to manage that amount of money?"
John waved his hand. "Not technically."
"You're not making much sense," said Sawyer.
John nodded. "Think I'm bad? You ought to meet my client. Let me explain: my client trusted Dylan, placed faith in his common sense. He instructed me to run every decision by him. In a sense, he tied my hands, and I could not move a penny without first consulting the man in cowboy boots at the table here."
John continued pacing. "I have an MBA from Harvard Business and a Ph.D. from Stanford, but I quickly learned that Dr. Styles knows a good bit more than his cowboy boots and farmer's tan suggest. I wasn't the only one who studied in school. Nor was I the only one worth listening to." He looked at me. "I've learned a lot from him. And I and my client have made a lot of money as a result. At last count, Dr. Styles has helped make my client somewhere around a hundred million dollars."
Maggie gulped. "You never told me that," she whispered.
Sawyer tapped the notebook beneath his elbow. "Dr. Styles, why did you elect not to include this? Obviously its omission was purposeful on your part."
I shrugged. "Well, sir, I'm not officially an employee for either John or Br-his client."
"Then just how do you get paid?"
"I don't."
"You mean to tell me that you helped a man increase his portfolio by some 30-plus percent over-"
He looked at John, who interjected, "Five years."
"Five years, and you've never been paid?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
Sawyer paused and looked at Ms. Tungston, then back at us. "y?
"Well, sir, " I said with a shrug, "I never figured it any other way."
Sawyer sipped from the mug in front of him and considered.
John plugged in his tape recorder and said, "I wonder if you'd allow me about two more minutes."
"Please."
"When this process began several months ago, Dylan called me, and this is a recording of our conversation."
Sawyer broke in. "Did you tell Dr. Styles that you were recording him?"
John shook his head. "Not directly, but if you call our 1-800 number, the answering voice tells you that all calls are recorded for quality assurance." John paused. "And to keep us out of trouble with our auditors."
Maggie grabbed my hand as John pushed play. We all listened as John offered me a one-day employment opportunity and I declined. When the conversation concluded, Caglestock clicked off the machine and rolled the cord around it.
Sawyer looked at me. "Dr. Styles, I don't understand. Why didn't you accept the offer?"
"I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because, sir." I looked at Maggie, at John, and back at Sawyer. "I gave my word."
Sawyer whispered with Ms. Tungston briefly, then said, "Thank you, Mr. Caglestock, for your input. You have confirmed that Dr. Styles is a principled man. But you haven't offered insight into the character of Mrs. Styles."
Maggie twitched uncomfortably.
A Scottish brogue barked behind us, "I can."
I turned and saw Bryce, clothed in all his military-dress glory, standing at ease in the rear of the room. Evidently he'd been there awhile. His chest was gleaming with medals, his saber clanked at his waist, his beret tilted down over his left eye, his boots were glistening, and his white dress shirt was starched and creased. Last of all, his kilt hung to his knees.
He approached the table, clicked his heels together, and quickly placed his beret under his left arm. Tied with twine around his neck, carried almost like a bugle, hung the worn rifle scope. He nodded. "Good morning to you."
Sawyer and Tungston sat back, eyeing the growing spectacle in front of them.
"Sir, my name is Bryce Kai McGregor. I understand the point of this hearing is to determine whether or not these people will make good parents."
Sawyer crossed his arms and said, "Yes, but for their sake, we don't usually
make these hearings public." He pointed at us. "For their sake."
Bryce pointed at Caglestock, who was leaning against the desk and smiling. "I'm the client. And I'm here for two reasons."
Sawyer's face told me that a lightbulb had just clicked on.
Bryce cut to the chase. "Is money the issue here?"
Ms. Tungston raised a finger, but Sawyer spoke first. "No, not really. Dr. and Mrs. Styles have satisfied this committee in that regard."
"Then what is?"
Ms. Tungston finally got a word in edgewise. "Frankly, Mr. McGregor, the issue concerning this committee is Mrs. Styles and her medical and mental history over the last twenty-four months."
I turned to Maggie and watched her bite her lip as she uncrossed and then recrossed her legs.
Bryce raised an eyebrow and scratched his head. "Are you talking about that lady right there?"
Tungston nodded.
Bryce walked over and put his hand on Maggie's shoulder. "This one?"
Maggie patted his hand and then folded her own in her lap.
Bryce walked behind us. "You two feel that she-Maggieis not capable of loving someone, like a child?"
Tungston didn't respond. If she intended to speak, Bryce didn't give her much time.
"Ma'am, I am one of the most unlovable people I know. I have more issues than you've ever thought about. I've seen more death, more hatred, more acts of evil than any one hundred people put together, and I've committed most of them. I know issues."
Maggie grasped my hand. She had tucked a tissue in the palm of her right glove.
"I also know love and what it looks like, how it feels, and I know it when it's freely given." Bryce stood behind Maggie. "There was a time in my life when I knew what love looked like and how it felt. Then there was a long period of time when I forgot I ever knew it. When all the evil stuff covered up the good. When even the smell of it escaped me.
"Then I met these two people, and they reminded me. Both in how they love each other and in how they have loved me. I will stake my life, these medals hanging on my chest, and my honor that the finest two people I've ever met in this life are sitting in these two chairs right here.
"I watched my son, my wife, and our unborn daughter die in another country at the hands of very angry people. I held my son in my arms as he took his last breath, so I know loss. Please ..." Bryce choked. "Please don't give that to these two people here. Give it to me, but not them." A single tear fell off Bryce's face and splattered across the mirror toe of his boot.
Ms. Tungston opened her mouth to speak, but Bryce zeroed in on her and approached the table. "When an angel flies too close to the ground and clips her wings, she needs time to heal. But this one-" Bryce pointed at Maggie. "She'll fly again."
Maggie's bottom lip was quivering, but her eyes were sparkling.
Bryce brushed his stomach against the table, used both hands to place his beret on his head, nodded at the committee, and turned to leave.
Mr. Sawyer sat up and spoke softly. "Mr. McGregor?"
Bryce turned.
"You said there were two reasons?"
Bryce stopped, breathed deeply-his chest round as a barrel and his stomach flat-and looked at me. "As my friend John Wayne once said, `Words are what men live by.' And he kept his."
Without warning, Bryce clapped his heels to attention and saluted me. Standing wrought-iron straight, his hand shading the eye that had puddled with tears, Bryce blinked, and the corners of both eyes broke loose at once, sending long trickles down the sides of his freckled nose. After a moment he slowly released his salute, straightened his saber, and then lifted the twine around his neck that held the rifle scope. He eyed it several seconds, laid it on the desk in front of me, and strode out the back door.
I watched him leave, amazed at the complexity that was and is Bryce. Maggie patted my leg and kissed my shoulder. She was sniffling, so I reached in my pocket for my handkerchief, but a hand appeared over my right shoulder and beat me to it. I turned and found Amos, Amanda, and Pastor John sitting quietly behind us.
Caglestock collected his things, nodded at me, and then turned toward Mr. Sawyer. "Thank you again for your time and for allowing me a few minutes."
Tungston leaned in toward Sawyer and attempted to whisper something, but he waved her off.
"Sometimes we fail to get a complete picture. This may be the case here today. The committee-we had decided prior to your coming in here that we would not approve your application."
Maggie let out a deep breath, and her shoulders dropped slightly.
"But I wonder if we don't have an alternative." Sawyer pointed over our shoulders and said, "Sir, are you Pastor John Lovett?"
Pastor John, wearing a black suit and his clerical collar, nodded. "I am."
"In his letter here, Pastor Lovett offers to provide counseling. Mrs. Styles, would you agree to this over the next several months, and upon completion allow us to return here and reconsider this?" Sawyer looked at Tungston, then back at Maggs. "At such time, I think we'd look more favorably upon your application."
Maggie looked at Mr. Sawyer. "Yes, sir, I would."
He set his pen down on top of his notebook. "Let's put a hold on this for six months, at which time I'll confer with Pastor Lovett. Does that suit you?"
We nodded, and I spoke. "Yes, sir."
THE FIVE OF US WALKED OUT INTO THE BRILLIANT SUNSHINE, where Amos slid on his sunglasses and smiled at me. Amanda looped her arm inside his and said, "He's such a baby. Don't let the biceps fool you." She put her hand on her stomach. "How's everybody feel about some lunch? My baby needs some of Ira's biscuits."
We drove a glorious hour in my new-old truck back to Walterboro. Amos was so impressed that once we hit the city limits, he flashed his lights and gave us an escort. Having noticed the commotion, along with most of the rest of town, Ira met us at the door of her cafe. Today she was lime green, including her lipstick, eyeliner, and the scarf holding back her bushy, long red hair. If I hadn't known her, she'd have scared me half to death.
She kissed me on the cheek. "Hey, sugar, ya'll come in here, and I'll have the food out in a minute."
About ten minutes later, she delivered plates filled with steaming eggs, biscuits, bacon, grits, and pancakes.
While we talked, I watched Maggie change like a chameleon before my eyes. The wrinkle was mostly gone, some color had returned, and if hope really does spring eternal, then a trickle was coming up through her eyes. Under the table, she hooked her heel around my leg and pulled my foot a little toward her.
We walked out into the sunlight, where Amos's dad waved to us. He was sitting on his tailgate and holding something little. Its feet were too big for its body, its ears were long and floppy, and its wrinkly body seemed to follow its nose like a slinky. It lay half-asleep and looked like a chocolate chip cookie.
We stepped off the curb, and Mr. Carter walked over to me. He extended his hands and placed the puppy in my arms. "Ten weeks old. Badger's son." He sucked through his teeth. "He's certified bluetick hound. I haven't named him. Thought I'd let you do that."
I looked down, held the puppy to my face, and felt his wet tongue lick my cheek. "I'll call him Tick."
Mr. Carter nodded and pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket. "It's a good name."
IT WAS WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AND WE'D BEEN PAINTING the better part of three days. We'd started in the kitchen and then moved down the back hall and into our bedroom. When we got to the door of the nursery, holding a paintbrush and a roller, we looked at each other and scratched our heads. Neither one of us wanted to tackle the real issue-guest room or nursery. Amplifying our dilemma was today's date-a fact that was not lost on us.
I looked at Maggie, who was staring blankly into the room, and said, "I'm tired of painting."
She dropped her brush in the bucket. "Me too."
The sun was disappearing, the tree frogs were tuning up down at the river, the wood ducks were jetting like F-16s overhead, and daylight w
as almost gone. Maggie and I watched in amazement as an enormous moon, as big as Christmas, rose directly in front of us and popped its glowing head over the treetops.
We sat on the porch teaching Tick how to eat the last of Old Man McCutcheon's produce. Maggie sat on the top step, feet spread, watermelon between her knees, and her face, hands, and cutoff jeans covered in red juice. When the wind blew, the frayed edges of her shorts flittered like tiny fingers. She took a bite, chewed, leaned back, funneled her lips, and then blew like Shamu out across the front yard. Messy but effective.
The shiny seed spun like a football some fifteen feet across the yard and into the grass where about fifteen other seeds lay. In the process she'd pretty well covered the porch steps, and me-sitting downwind-in spit spray. I looked at the yard and knew in about three months we could quit stealing from McCutcheon, because we'd have watermelon growing right here at the base of the steps.
Given everything that had happened, Dr. Frank had held off starting Maggs on a low dose of oral hormone therapy. But now that life had returned to mostly normal, he'd scheduled an office visit. Tomorrow. Maggs didn't like the idea, and neither did I, but she'd been moody lately. Knowing this, and seeing its effect on me, she agreed to try it a month and see what happened.
Because eating watermelon makes me have to pee a lot, I walked inside. When I came back out, Maggie was staring out across the cotton, looking at the river, white paint caked on her forehead and red watermelon juice smeared across both corners of her mouth. Resting at her feet were two clean, folded towels. She looked at me, the river, then back at me. "You want to go swimming?"
With all the pregnancy stuff the last few weeks, I hadn't really pressured Maggie to be with me. I just figured that was not what she needed. I looked from the river back to her. "Do you mean swimming or ... swimming?"
She smirked ever so slightly, waved her head back and forth as if she were weighing the options, and said thoughtfully, "Swimming."
I scooped Tick into my arms, and we raced barefoot through the grass-corn on one side and cotton on the other. Midway down, we spooked two deer that were feeding through the corn, and then Pinky spooked us. She was rooting along the edges of the corn rows and looked up as we passed by. Her mas- sivejowls, caked with mud, shook like jelly rolls as her lower jaw ground the kernels of corn against the top.