Easter In Dry Creek

Allie turned to look, and Clay seemed as stunned as she was. His eyes were wide and his jaw slack.

“They’re not brothers,” Allie swiveled and told her father crisply, ignoring Clay’s question. She needed to put a stop to this nonsense. She hadn’t been to see Mark for several months, but she hadn’t heard him mention Clay before that. Of course, it was only recently that her brother was able to speak very complicated thoughts. And her father said Mark had improved since she’d seen him last.

Finally, she turned back to Clay. “Sorry, but that’s the way it is. I don’t know what went on between the two of you, but a brother doesn’t do their brother harm.”

Clay smiled grimly. “Believe me, I wish I’d tried to stop things. But I didn’t know what he was planning to do that night. I certainly never meant for him to end up like he did. I worry about him just like you do.”

Allie had watched Clay as he spoke. He wasn’t lying. It didn’t mean he was telling the complete truth, though. Maybe that was the way he thought it had happened, she told herself. He could have set everything in motion and then wished later that he had pulled back.

“I know you didn’t mean for Mark to end up in a coma.” Allie could give him that much. And she knew Mark liked Clay; her brother had spent many of his evenings out in the bunkhouse since that was where Clay slept. They’d sit at one of the tables and play checkers. Their father hadn’t liked it, but no one had stopped it.

Allie supposed it was money that had prompted Clay to plan that robbery. She had always thought that when he turned eighteen, he’d just stay on as a regular ranch hand. But maybe he was worried about his future. Then again maybe all he wanted was more beer to drink and he hadn’t known how else to get it.

Clay hadn’t responded to her, and she looked up at him. Lord, what do I do? she prayed.

Her father was right. She needed to be kinder to Clay. She wished she had known he needed more money; she could have turned over her allowance. After all, he hadn’t had the advantage of having parents to raise him as she had. If the parole board was sending him back to where the crime had been committed, they must have their reasons.

Clay met her eyes, but his expression didn’t soften. He certainly didn’t act like someone who needed her charity.

“I still don’t see what I can do for Mark, though,” Clay finally said. She could hear the skepticism in his voice as he eyed her father. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what to do about a coma. I don’t believe in miracles, and I don’t pray. God would never grant a request from me. I’m not a faith healer. There’s not one thing I can do but say I am sorry that Mark is hurting.”

Allie couldn’t believe he was not going to at least pretend to help them. Not when it meant he’d be out of prison. She remembered now how stubborn he’d always been.

In the silence, her father spoke to her. “Mark told me a few weeks ago that he asked Clay to help him with the Easter sunrise processional.”

She heard Clay gasp, but she focused on her father. He spoke slowly and deliberately, like he wanted a certain response from her. “You remember how Mark had been talking to everyone about that processional before the accident?”

“I do,” Allie acknowledged as she reached over and put a hand on her father’s arm. The poor man had aged two decades in the last four years. She was concerned about him. He carried a burden that never seemed to leave him. At least she was distracted from their family problems by working long shifts at her job.

“I doubt Mark means for you to worry,” she said to her father.

“That’s what he says,” her father agreed. “And I know he doesn’t know so much time has passed.”

“I can’t believe Mark is communicating,” Clay said.

Allie suddenly realized that Clay still had that sheepskin coat wrapped around him. It had been cold outside, and she wasn’t sure the heater in that old pickup worked very well. He must have been frozen when he stepped inside the kitchen.

When her father didn’t answer, Clay turned toward her.

Allie nodded. Clay’s eyes widened.

“So what, does he blink his eyes at you?” Clay asked her. “You know, the old ‘once for yes and twice for no’ kind of a thing?” He kept looking at her, but she gestured to her father, suggesting he was the one to answer. Clay turned to him. “I’ve heard of things like that—people pointing to letters in the alphabet. Is that the kind of thing Mark is doing?”

“Oh, no,” her father said as he shook his head. “Nothing like that.”

Allie could see the excitement leave Clay’s face again. He was disappointed.

“Then what is it?” Clay asked.

No one answered. Allie wasn’t sure what kind of a deal the prison officials had made with her father, but it would have to be canceled. They didn’t need someone around asking probing questions about Mark. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay a ranch hand. And, there was no need for one anyway. The corrals and barn were empty. There were enough repairs to keep a man busy for months, but that work would have to wait.

“We don’t talk much about Mark,” her father finally said. “The doctors say to keep it quiet.”

“You’re going to have to tell me,” Clay said then, his voice insistent. “You brought me all the way over here. And I’m not going anywhere until I understand what’s going on with Mark.”

Allie could have told her father that this would happen. But they couldn’t protect Mark if they told everyone all there was to know about his condition.

Clay looked at her.

“My father knows more about it than I do,” Allie said. She’d leave it up to him to walk through this minefield.

“But you can tell him better than me,” her father protested, looking over at her in alarm.

She shook her head. She wasn’t the one who had invited Clay here; it was her father. She was tired of being the one who handled the problems in the family, especially when they were not of her making. She should go check on Jeremy anyway. She had heard the closet door open in the far bedroom some time ago. The boy was likely back there playing with those plastic horses of his. It wouldn’t hurt if she stayed out here a bit, though, and saw how much her father was willing to share with Clay.

“One of you better tell me,” Clay said.

He looked at her, pale blue eyes searching hers for answers. He wasn’t afraid to push for what he wanted to know. A muscle along his jaw tightened, and she knew he’d not be discouraged.

“It’s not my place to say,” she finally managed to tell him.

She wondered if Clay had any idea how complicated life had become in the Nelson family since the day of that attempted robbery. There were many times since then when she wished Clay was still around so she could talk to him about the problems she had. He’d always seemed so steady in his advice. The truth was that she had relied on him more than Mark and certainly more than her father. Her brother had refused to acknowledge any issues in their family. Her father, when he was drinking, had been no help as he had often been the source of her concern.

After her mother died, Allie felt like she was the one in charge of keeping the family together. So far, she hadn’t done very well.

Allie didn’t like being on the spot again, because one look at Clay’s eyes and she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with some half-truth that she would tell him, hoping to satisfy his questions.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clay said to her softly then. “Your father will tell me.”

Allie could only hope that would be true.

Chapter Three (#ulink_3e838a88-44ae-5e8d-bcf3-5be946724407)

The kitchen was gaining light, Clay noticed as he stood there in the silent room. The clock read seven o’clock. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched since he left here four years ago. The same beige paint was on the walls, and the windowsills were a chipped white. He had noticed a nail by the refrigerator. It held last year’s calendar, and it didn’t appear like the months on it had even been changed.

“Tell me about Mark,” Clay finally asked again as he turned his attention to the older man. “If he doesn’t make some hand motions, how does it work?”

Clay figured the rancher must be imagining some kind of response from his son. The signs of depression were all over this kitchen. Even in prison, the officials became concerned when something as simple as a calendar wasn’t kept updated. Clay guessed Mr. Nelson was telling himself he knew what Mark thought. It was like people who decided their cat was an opera fan because the animal sat there and purred when a song was being sung. He supposed it was very human to imagine that one could know the thoughts of a being who couldn’t communicate.

Mr. Nelson didn’t say anything. Allie, on the other hand, was standing there with a blank look on her face that was so uncharacteristic of her that Clay suspected she was unwilling to tip anyone off to her father’s strange beliefs. Maybe she was embarrassed.

“I know it’s been hard,” Clay said, trying not to let his disappointment show. He might be having those flights of fancy, too, if he was father to someone in a coma. But desperate hope could mess with a man’s mind; no one knew that better than men who had spent time behind bars.

“Oh, no, Mark is talking,” Mr. Nelson said with strength in his voice. He seemed to have understood what Clay was thinking. “It’s not easy. He has to come up with the words, and it’s slow. But he’s talking.”

“He says actual words?”

Mr. Nelson nodded. “More now than when he started.”