What You Need Most: Finale

Following is the final installment of Tracy Hurley's Christmas story, "What You Need Most", which was published in Christmas is a Season! 2009. 

I hope you have enjoyed reading about Marshall, a recent widower, and how his wife influenced his first Christmas without her. Tracy was a very special person in the lives of many people, and it has been a pleasure to honor her this way.

What You Need Most

by Tracy Hurley

On the way home, Marshall pulled into the strip mall near his house to exchange the black boots for more practical Timberlands. He had a lot of yard work to do if he was going to sell the house. The mall was busy, so he had to park several stores down from the shoe store. Before he got of the car, he pulled out the Honey-Do list again and scratched off the last item. He crumpled it up and tossed it in the console, then grabbed the boots.

When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he activated a set of automatic doors. When they slid open, his heart clenched. He'd parked right in front of Pet Station. The last time he'd shopped there, he'd bought Buster's red rubber ball. He tucked his head and hurried up the sidewalk.

Behind him, he heard, "Santa! Santa, wait!"

Marshall remembered he was still dressed in the baggy red pants, holly covered suspenders, white shirt, and candy cane striped vest. He should have changed. He picked up his pace, sure he'd lose control if some nutcase asked to sit on his lap.

Too late. The nutcase tugged on his shirtsleeve. Marshall whirled, his fist clenched, ready to pummel the guy.

"Santa?" The young man wore a green Pet Station polo shirt. "I'm sorry, but when I saw you walk by, I had to ask you."

"Listen, buddy. I can't promise you'll get that tricycle you want. Or anything else."

The man laughed. "No, nothing like that. I'm Jason, the pet store manager. Were in a pickle, and you could really help us out." He steered Marshall back toward the pet store entrance. The door slid open again revealing the worst looking Santa that Marshall had ever seen. Painfully thin and no older than twenty, his cheap Santa costume hung lifelessly from bony shoulders. His cotton-ball beard drooped below his own dark stubble.

"Darryl stepped in when the real Santa cancelled," Jason said. "He's a great kid, but we're doing our Pet Pictures with Santa. It starts in twenty minutes, and the animal shelter people are already here for their annual adoption drive."

He glanced around, and his voice became a pleading whisper. "Kids come to this."

A tow-headed boy, holding a turtle stopped and stared at the awful. A puzzled line deepened between his hazel eyes.

"I'll do it," Marshall said. I will keep the magic alive.

"Great! I'll show you where you can finish dressing. You've saved our event, Mr. . . ."

"Santa Marshall."

"Name your price, Santa Marshall," Jason said, racing toward a woman holding a camera.

Most of the animals were well behaved. Marshall still got smacked, pinched, spit-up on, sneezed on, and peed on. And he was pretty sure that cranky bulldog thought he was "a bid old doo-doo head," but he was okay with that. Marshall smiled through dozens of photos with cats and dogs. He mugged with parakeets, turtles, ferrets, guinea pigs, a snake, and a goldfish in a plastic baggie. He beamed when a kid brought four boxers, one kissing his cheek, just as the flash went off. He was still smiling when he climbed into his car and headed for home. For payment, he'd picked out a puppy for adoption, a mutt with eyes the color of caramel.

After a quick turkey and stuffing sandwich, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He had some packing to do. He took Elaine's gardening Crocs out of his closet and set them in the Goodwill box. Shannon had left. By the time the news came on, the box was full. That's a start, he thought. Maybe more tomorrow. There was no rush.

When he folded his clean Santa pants over a hanger, ready for next weekend, a piece of paper fluttered form one of the pockets onto his bed. He had to hold it at arms' length to read the loopy writing.

Dearest Marshall, I know this gift isn't the one you most desired, but I knew it would be the one you needed most. All my love forever, Elaine.

Marshall kissed the paper lightly and slipped it into his shirt pocket.


 

A Very Merry Christmas to all of you. Thank you for being loyal followers and making our year bright.  Mahala

 

What You Need Most: Installment 4

Sorry to keep you in suspense. Here is more of Tracy's lovely story, a story that reminds us how hard it can sometimes be to bring joy into the Christmas Holidays.

What You Need Most

by Tracy Hurley

When Marshall got home from class that afternoon, he was met by the delicious and unaccustomed aroma of dinner cooking. Sarah, his youngest, had drawn the "Thanksgiving with Dad" straw.

"You didn't have to cook," he said, tousling his grandson's white-blond hair. "I was going to take you out."

Both boys chimed, "McDonalds! McDonalds!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Clearly, it's been awhile since you've dined out with four- and six-year old wigglybutts."

"Wiggly butts?" Preston asked, wiggling in his chair.

Jayden, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, wiggled his bottom too.

"You're all wigglybutts," Marshall said, winking at the boys. "And when is Daddy Wigglybutts going to arrive?"

The boys giggled, but Sarah frowned. "He called. He can't get away. Something about a difficult client. He's going to the office on Friday."

"Then don't bother cooking Thanksgiving dinner," Marshall said, taking a slice of meatloaf. "While everyone else is dining at home, the Wigglybutt family will have the whole restaurant to ourselves."

"Da-ad," Sarah moaned. "The turkey's already defrosting, and I have pies in the oven. Besides I like to cook, and you'll have lots of leftovers after we're gone."

Marshall had taken a bite of mashed potatoes when Preston said, "Where's Buster, Grampa? I wanna play with him."

Marshall choked, but managed to sputter, "Sorry," through a coughing spasm. He pushed away from the table and headed for the kitchen, his eyes tearing up and still hacking into his napkin. He stood at the sink and sipped water while he caught his breath.

Although she spoke softly, he heard Sarah say, "Remember, I told you that Buster is up in heaven playing ball with Gramma. Talking about both of them makes Grampa sad, so let's not say anything else."

"Why does it make him sad?" Preston asked.

Because Grampa misses them."

"Can we come to live with Grampa? He wouldn't be sad then."

"No, but Daddy would be sad if we left him alone."

"Maybe Grampa can come live with us."

"Preston," Sarah said, "that's not a bad idea."

Marshall set his glass in the sink. He could sell the house and move closer to Sarah and the kids. He tapped the dog tags he'd hung from the hook that used to hold Elaine's spider plant. They spun, glistening in the fading November twilight. He' had spread Buster's ashes in Elaine's flowerbed just beyond the window. How could he leave Buster? How could he leave Elaine?

Fortunately, no one mentioned him moving again. Sarah cooked up a Thanksgiving dinner that would have made Elaine proud. While the kids were napping, Marshall took a cup of coffee and a slice of pecan pie out back. The barely-used, zero gravity chairs were put up for the winter. He sank into his old aluminum chair.

When he'd finished the pie, he pulled the Honey-Do list from his pocket and penciled out the next-to-the-last item, re-web chair. After his shift at the mall, he could cross out the last item on the list - Santa School.

*

On Sunday morning Marshall took Sarah and the kids to the airport before heading to the Remington Plaza Mall. He changed in the employee lounge and waited until Santa Carlos finished his shift. Marshall's stomach fluttered as he walked through Santa Land, a large expanse of fake snow with robotic, toy-making elves and animated snowmen singing Christmas songs. He sat in the large gold throne and pasted a smile on his face.

By the time the giant Santa Land clock struck his shifts end at 12:55, Santa Marshall had been smacked, pinched, puked on, sneezed at, peed on, and told he was "a big old doo-doo head." His head pounded and his cheeks hurt from forced smiling. Santa Ralph had told them seventy-five percent of children under the age of ten were terrified of Santa. By Marshall's reckoning, it was closer to ninety-eight. And those over ten didn't believe in Santa anymore, so they came for the fun of trying to make him break character. A couple almost succeeded.

When Santa Marshall finally trudged back to the employee lounge, he found Santa Ralph by the employee refrigerator eating from a Tupperware container. He took a big forkful and asked, "How did it go?"

Marshall sighed. "It wasn't what I expected." He pulled off the heavy black boots.

"It never is."

"Christmas isn't what it used to be. If the kids weren't asking for Xboxes or iPhones, they wanted hang gliders and ATV's and jet skis. What happened to baseball gloves and bicycles and pogo sticks?" Marshall slipped on his boat shoes.

"Mall duty is the toughest. In this economy, you're lucky the kids weren't asking for jobs for their daddies, winter boots for their sister or brother, or a sack of groceries. Playing a mall Santa isn't for everyone. My advice: find yourself a nice department store gig. Maybe a holiday parade. Office parties - now those are fun!"

"Thanks for the tip." Marshall was too tired to change into his street clothes, so he gathered up his coat and hat and headed for the door.

"Don't forget your diploma." Santa Ralph handed him a red and green certificate. "I have to go cover Santa Brad's shift."

Join me next Monday for the unexpected conclusion of "What You Need Most".   Mahala

What You Need Most Part 3: Tracy Hurley

Today Marshall is off on another new journey as told by Tracy Hurley in December of 2009. Enjoy.

After serving his favorite dinner - lasagna and garlic bread - Sophie brought out a cake aglow with dozens of candles.

"Careful. You'll set the house on fire," he warned. He'd told her not to make a fuss - he was too old for such nonsense - but he had to laugh when she serenaded him with Happy Birthday.  What she lacked in pitch, she made up for in sheer volume. Buster huddled under the table between Marshall's legs until she was done.

They carried their cake into the living room. Sophie sipped wine while her father nursed a bourbon and water. Buster sprawled so close to the fire that Marshall worried his fur might get singed, but he figured the heat must feel good to the dog's aching joints.

"So are you really going to Santa School?"

Marshall polished off his drink. "I'm considering it." The cancellation deadline had slipped by a week earlier.

"So, do I get to see you in that outfit?"

"In what?"

"The Santa suit. Come on, model it for me." The reflection of the fire danced in her hazel eyes that looked so much like Elaine's.

"Sure," he said, "but promise you won't laugh."

He climbed the stairs  slowly. He didn't know when he'd decided to go through with this Santa School thing. But Elaine was right. He was becoming a hermit. He rarely left the house except to go to the store or to take buster to the vet. He missed being around people. Throughout their marriage, Elaine was the one who'd nurtured friendships and networked, as they called it these days. He'd simply been happy to tag along with her. Once she was gone, some of their friends called with invitations, but Marshall wasn't ready then. After he'd said "no" enough times, the invites dried up.

He sat on the bed and pulled out the worn Honey-Do list and a pencil stub from the pocket of his flannel shirt. He added, "Santa School" in his own cramped writing to the bottom.

After he donned the red pants, white ruffled shirt, red and white striped vest, and red coat, he checked himself in the mirror. Not too bad, he thought, twisting right and left like Elaine used to do. He'd better watch the French fries and ice cream, though, or he wouldn't need any stuffing. He tried out a quiet, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" and patted the sides of his belly. Something bulged in the coat pocket. He pulled out wire spectacles, a set of red suspenders, and a pair of white gloves - all the extras he needed to complete the outfit.

"Are you okay, Daddy?"

"Yes, honey." He slipped on the spectacles and said, "I'm coming."

When Marshall entered the living room still struggling with the tight gloves, Sophie leapt off the couch. "Daddy, you look great!"

Buster barked and tried to push himself up. After a few false starts, he got to his feet and staggered over to sniff Marshall.

"It's only me. Guess the old eyes are going, eh, Buster?"

"And his legs, too. Poor baby." Sophie scratched his ears, and he licked her hand.

"He still thinks he's a puppy. We both do."  Marshall helped the dog back onto his bed. When he straightened, Sophie was studying him. "You've got a head start on the beard too," she said.


"I keep forgetting to buy shaving cream."

Elaine had always taken care of those things. Truth was, shaving seemed unnecessary now.

Sophie caressed the white scruff on her father's face. "All  you need now is a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer."

"And a pair of boots." Marshall pulled up his pant legs and displayed a pair of hole-riddled socks.

"And new socks," Sophie added. "I should have gotten you some for your birthday."

He hadn't bought socks for himself since he got married. "Yup, there's nothing a man looks forward to more on his birthday than new socks."

*

The morning after Sophie left, Marshall discovered his top dresser drawer crammed full of new t-shirts, socks, and briefs. While he was deciding which color Fruit of the Loom he wanted to wear, he heard a low moan from the living room. Marshall raced down the stairs to find Buster laying half in and half out of his bed. He lifted his grizzled muzzle off the carpet and moved one paw as if trying to get up, then slumped back down.

Oh, no. No. Marshall lifted Buster to his feet, but the dog crumpled as soon as Marshall tried to let go. Marshall gently laid him back on the bed. He bundled Buster in an afghan he'd pulled from the couch and carried him to the car, all the while cooing into his floppy ear, "It's going to be all right." It had to be all right. Buster lay across the back seat, panting shallowly, as Marshall raced to the vet's office.

An hour later, Marshall walked out, carrying only a leash and dog collar. He sat in his car for a long time, unable to drive.

Santa School was out of the question now. He had no interest in going there - or anywhere else for that matter. What was the point?

*

Marshall stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. So, what was he doing here at the Econo Lodge? He scratched his chin. The last time he'd grown a beard, it was as black as his boots. Now his whiskers were almost completely white with only a few streaks of gray matching what was left of his hair. The beard looked Santa-like, but the dark circles under his eyes gave him away. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, dried it with a thin paper towel, and headed for Conference Room B.

Marshall expected the class to be made up of old fogies like him, and there were a few, including a couple of older women. He was surprised, however, that most of the people sitting in folding chairs around the stuffy room were young or middle-aged.

He was more surprised when one of the old fogies stood up and introduced himself as their instructor, Ralph Salisbury. "Tonight's meeting is an opportunity for us to get to know each other. I spend most of the year in Reno performing in a ventriloquism act, but starting tomorrow, I will be Santa Ralph. My number one rule is that once you put on The Suit, you never break character. Ever. Kids can sniff out a fake a mile away, and once that magical illusion is broken, there's no fixing it."

He paused to scan the room. "How many of you remember the moment you realized that Santa isn't real?"

Marshall raised his hand. So did most of the others.

"And how many of you wished almost immediately that you could go back to believing?"

Everybody's hands shot into the air.

"Ralph Salisbury nodded his head. "What's done can't be undone. It's up to you to keep the magic alive."

 

The next morning they arrived at the Econo Lodge to find Santa Ralph in full costume standing at the front of the room. For the entire day and the next two weekends, he showed them how to become the world's most beloved character. Santa.

Ralph taught them everything from using their diaphragms to produce the deepest "Ho! Ho! Ho's," to obtaining liability insurance. They learned all the reindeer names (it's Donder not Donner), Santa's favorite cookies (whatever the child likes), balancing a child on your lap (use your whole arm to cradle them), and how the magical sleigh works (they were sworn to secrecy).

Before Marshall knew it, it was the last day of class before the practicum, and Santa Ralph sat on the edge of a table and reviewed the guidelines for Mall Santa behavior.

"No drinking or drugs before shifts. Come clean and tidy - trim those nose hairs and buff those boots. And for Santa's sake, brush your teeth and stay away from the garlic. Accepting gratuities is not allowed. Show up on time. Stay in character. No grousing to the Santa's helpers or mall staff. Oh, and I gotta say this one nowadays. For your own protection, keep your hands visible at all times. Most important of all, never promise the kids that they will get what they ask for. Now repeat the Santa Pledge with me."

They all said in unison, "I will keep the magic alive!"

"You have your schedules," said Santa Ralph. "See you this weekend."

For his first official Santa shift, Marshall pulled Sunday at eleven o'clock. 

Join us Friday for installment 4 of this lovely story on Friday the 12th.  Mahala

 

Remembering Tracy: What You Need the Most

Taking a note from cj, my thoughts turn to Christmas. Since our fellow blogger, Tracy Hurley, moved to Heaven on December 1, 2010, memories of her abound this time of year. The consummate editor who taught many writers how to look deep inside their work and bring forth the kernels of emotion and truth, Tracy never used harsh words to critique our work. She guided and taught us how to be more articulate writers, producing stronger scenes and characters. It amazes me how often her name crosses my lips four years later as I teach and talk at workshops. It amazes me how often I hear her name cross other writers' lips as they talk about critiquing and revising their work to meet Tracy's standards. It amazes me the huge number of people she touched with her humor and kindness. Tracy, you are very much alive in our hearts and memories!

Following in cj's footsteps, I decided to share a Christmas short story that Tracy wrote and had published in Christmas Is a Season! 2009.  I open with her comments about why she wrote the story, because it tells so much about who our friend was.

"Every day for two weeks this past April, I sat in a lawn chair in the backyard with our dog, Riley. [ he was a very rambunctious boxer.] He'd been diagnosed with inoperable cancer and wanted to spend his last good days lying under his favorite tree. I spent many bittersweet hours enjoying his company and journaling while he watched the squirrels., listened to the mocking birds, and snuffled the various scents wafting on the spring breezes. The seed of "What You Need Most" was planted then as I contemplated facing the coming seasons and holidays without him."

What You Need Most

Tracy Hurley

For Riley

Marshall lowered himself onto the lawn chair, gripping the aluminum arms until he was sure the frayed seat would hold. Replacing the worn webbing had been on his Honey-Do list for months. He'd intended to get it done over the winter, but, as with everything else, he thought he'd have more time.

The chair settled into place, stable for now. Buster, who'd been fervently sniffing underneath the barbeque grill limped over to Marshall and lay down across his feet. He dropped his red rubber ball  between his front paws and panted contentedly.

When buster looked up at him, his caramel-colored eyes dulled by a milky sheen, Marshall rubbed his head. "When did we get so old, eh, buddy?"

A squirrel dashed past them and skittered up the trunk of the old sugar maple by the tool shed. Buster woofed once, but didn't stir. Last year he would have scampered gleefully after the trespasser, who now teetered on a low branch, chattering at them.

While Marshall wasn't paying attention, the buds on the maple tree had burst into leaf clusters. He remembered he'd had to wipe off a thick, yellow coat of pollen from the small cedar patio table before setting down his glass of Sprite. Spring had snuck up on him. The paper white crocuses in Elaine's flowerbed had come and gone, the bright yellow daffodils too. Already the heads of the late-blooming tulips drooped, red petals littering the flower bed. He'd planted the bulbs last fall while Elaine was getting treatments, savoring the look of surprise that would cross her face when her favorite flowers emerged. He sighed. He was old enough to know that things rarely turned out the way you expected them to.

The old chair lurched sideways. Marshall grabbed the arms and planted his feet, ready to abandon ship if the last of the webbing gave way. But the chair only listed to the left, sinking into the rain-softened sod he'd laid when he wasn't at the hospital. Buster picked up his ball and cocked his head at Marshall, now with a little surge of energy, ready to play.

"Sorry, buddy. False alarm." Marshall bent and scratched buster's back, and his stubbed tail wagged furiously.

Buster's tail would have been a menace had the breeder not docked it before Elaine picked him from a litter of seven puppies. Elaine had refused to clip his ears, thought, saying it was cruel. Besides, she'd told him the long floppy lobes were more expressive. Marshall hadn't cared either way. Twelve years later, he couldn't imagine Buster any other way. Elaine had dubbed him Otto's Maximilian of Ulrich on the AKC forms, but after Marshall kept referring to him as Buster, as in "Stop chewing my shoes, buster," or "listen, buster, if you pee on my pant leg one more time...," the name stuck.

A soft breeze scented by cut grass, loamy earth, and sweet lilacs ruffled Marshall's thinning hair. A leaf blower droned in the distance. He should lime the grass, clean the rain utters, sharpen the lawnmower blades. Instead, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his flannel shirt and unfolded it. As long as items remained unchecked on Elaine's last Honey-Do list, Marshall could pretend he still had time to take her on a cruise to Alaska, remodel the attic bedroom into a craft room, or go dancing at that fancy hotel at the beach. The should-dos were easy to ignore; it was the should-have-dones that kept him awake at night.

"Come on, Buster." He pushed himself out of the chair. "We shouldn't keep Shannon waiting."

To be continued on Friday, December 5, 2014   Mahala

It's been a tough day

cj Sez:  Well, I’m not flying on the wings of eagles today . . . I had gallbladder surgery yesterday. I’m doing okay and planning to go to a critique group meeting tomorrow if the nausea goes away. It’s amazing how much pain and nausea rises up from four little cuts. The surgeon did a laparoscopic procedure so it wouldn’t be so invasive. The general anesthesia is pretty invasive on my memory. HOWEVER, I did remember to post something this weekend. What follows is an excerpt from the middle of a short story (“Hobbes House”) that was published in the anthology CHRISTMAS IS A SEASON 2009. Hope you find it an easy read.

“Hey there! Welcome to Hobbes House.”

“Any relation to Calvin and?”

“One and the same. My favorite cartoon. Well, that and Charlie Brown.”

Trey dropped down out of the pickup pointing in the direction of the pine trees. “Look. A wolf.”

Merrill saw the bushy tail of a fox disappear into the grove of pines. “It’s a fox, Trey. He’s looking for something to eat. Probably a field mouse in the woodpile.”

Bradley walked up with a suitcase in each hand. “Don’t try to get to close to him, Trey. He’s a wild animal and might bite.”

“Your father’s right.” She took a longer look at Bradley. Almost-black hair, clear blue eyes, a warm, broad smile that revealed a slightly crooked front tooth, close to six-feet tall, good-looking. My gosh. I’m looking at Prince Charming. Oh stop. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“Not at all. Your good directions and a GPS made it easy. Mapquest showed gravel and dirt roads so I brought the pickup just in case.”

Of course, he’d have more than one car. “Great. Let me show you around.”

“Grab your backpack, Trey”

The boy was walking toward the pier. “Aw, Dad. I wanted to see the lake.”

“We will in a minute. Let’s get our stuff in the house first.” He turned to Merrill and spoke quietly. “It’s his first Christmas without his mother. She’s in Atlanta. Said she wanted to spend some alone time with her next victim. Sorry, that was pity party shot,” Bradley said as Merrill’s lips parted in a little “O.”

“Sounded like hurt to me.”

“Not for myself. For Trey.”

“I understand.” More than you know.

Merrill walked her renters through the cabin and saw to it that Bradley knew how to start and bank the fireplace. “If the temperature is forecast to drop into the twenties, leave the cabinet doors under the sinks open. Keeps the pipes from freezing. Any questions?”

“Nope, I think we’re all set.”

“I left my cell phone number on the kitchen table if you need anything.”

“Wait, there is one thing. Is there some place we can get a small Christmas tree and decorations to go with those pretty lights you strung on the porch? Nice touch, by the way.”

Her face warmed at the compliment. “There’s a gas station cum Grab ‘n Go Market about five minutes from here. Stocks everything. Go to the blacktop and turn left. You can’t miss it.” She slipped on a green barn coat. “I’ll stack the firewood while you’re gone and then get out of here,” she said as she pulled a pair of tan deerhide gloves out of her coat pocket.

“Got a pair of gloves for me?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Merrill smiled. “I think I can find a pair.”

He shrugged on his coat, helped Trey into his, and followed her out. She opened the trunk of the Honda and pulled out a pair of her father’s gloves. “These should fit.”

Fifteen minutes into the task, Bradley noticed Trey was gone. “Trey.” He whistled through his teeth.

“The pier,” Merrill said and tossed a log on the pile as she started toward the house. “Trey? Trey? Where are you?”

She heard the boy scream and started running. Bradley passed her then stopped dead in the middle of the pier.

“Don’t move, son. Stand very still.”

Crouching at the end of the pier, snarling, teeth bared, the normally shy fox was ready to attack. Trey had somehow managed to get between the fox and the animal’s escape route. 

“It feels trapped, Bradley. It’s likely to attack.”

“I’ll kill it first.”

“Not before it bites. Trey, don’t look at the fox,” she said softly. “Just back up.”

The boy was too terrified to move.

“Back up, son.”

The boy took a step and then stopped.

Merrill grabbed Brad’s arm. “We’re too close. Back away.”

“Not without—”

“If we back away, maybe Trey will follow.”

Brad looked at her intently for several seconds then slowly moved away from the pier. “Trey, the fox is afraid of you. That’s why he’s growling. You have to get out of his way and let him past. Back up.”

“I’m scared.” The boy was crying softly. “I can’t see backwards.”

“One step at a time, Trey,” Merrill said. “A baby step.”

The boy took a step, found his footing safe then hurriedly took three more before his foot slid off the pier. He toppled screaming into the water.

Brad lunged forward, but Merrill held him back. “Wait! The water is only about a foot deep right there.” Trey’s arms flailed and splashed then he sat up sputtering.

 The fox raced down the pier and into the trees. Merrill, nearest to the pier, reached Trey first. She grabbed his uplifted hands and pulled him into her arms. He clung to her, shaking violently and sobbing into her neck. Bradley peeled him out of her arms and ran back to the cabin where he wrapped him in the down throw.

“Brad. I think he’s in shock. We should take him to the hospital and get him checked out.”

After Brad deposited Trey on the front seat of his pickup, Merrill held out her hand. “I’ll drive.”

He handed her the keys, slipped in beside his son, and pulled him close.

# # # #

That’s all for now. You-all guys keep on keeping on, and I’ll try to do the same. Comments? Questions? Drop me a line.

cj