Stew and bread set before him, he looked down at the feast and found it hard not to fill up with emotion, wishing that Makala was here as well. He felt guilty that such a meal was before him.
“John Matherson, don’t let that get cold!”
He looked up and saw Linda gazing at him not sternly but with a glint of affection, as if reading his thoughts. “There’s more than enough to go around, and I’ll have a bowl and a slice of fresh-baked bread for you to take home to your good wife.”
He could not find the voice to reply and simply nodded, not used to such maternal gestures, especially now that Jen was gone.
He ate in silence and barely listened to the family chatter, teasing of a brother to their daughter implying she might be expecting, the grandchildren announcing that they planned to go sledding down the driveway, Ernie admonishing that there was still the wood splitting and hauling detail to see to.
As for the students now living with them, Linda, without any overt show, just quietly walked behind them with a steaming ladle and put a bit of extra stew in each of their bowls. No one else at the table complained about this second helping, and John felt a flood of emotion as Samantha looked up at Linda, whispered a thank-you, and then struggled and failed to hold back tears of gratitude for a meal unlike any she had most likely seen in years. Linda leaned over to hug her, and the girl began to cry openly.
No one spoke, and then, to help cover the girl’s embarrassment with her emotional display, one of the grandchildren insisted she go sledding with them after the meal was done.
It was the most John could recall having eaten in weeks—or was it months? Perhaps the meal the evening after the battle that had taken out Fredericks when he and those who had fought that day were each handed to eat at one sitting, at John’s insistence, an entire MRE from the stockpile they had captured. Nearly four thousand calories of food all in one sitting.
As he looked around at those gathered with him, a favorite hymn came to mind that Aaron Copland had titled “Simple Gifts.” As if there were some sort of mental prompting, with the meal done, the daughter got up, went over to the piano in the living room, thumbed through a layer of sheet music, picked out a piece by Debussy that John recognized, and began to play.
There was a moment of silence from the others as they listened appreciatively. It flashed John to the day he was in Gaither Chapel with Makala and a student was singing the haunting song “Try to Remember,” a song that so symbolized to John the world they now lived in. The daughter just simply playing a song took John to the thought of a world that must have existed even before his own time, when a family would gather for Sunday dinner, and then afterward someone would play the piano and perhaps others might even sing.
We’ve lost so much, he realized, but then again, maybe we are learning again about the simple gifts of still being alive. The gifts of a warm, filling meal, family and friends together, and rather than the cluttering noise of some ridiculous game turned up too loudly on a television afterward, it was instead a family entertaining themselves while the cold wind of winter swept down from out of the mountains and across icicle-coated orchards and snow-drifted fields beyond.
He realized, that at this moment, whatever was about to come… it was good to be alive.
CHAPTER TEN
“John, wake up. Wake up! We’re under attack!”
It was the dream, the jumble of dreams that always ended with him bolt upright in bed, sweat soaked, shivering. Out on the desert, the Bradley up ahead burning, racing forward to find the medics already pulling out the charred bodies, two of them still alive, faces burned black, red mouths open, screaming, and he stood helpless, could do nothing other than stare in shock… Doc Kellor pulling back a blanket revealing Ben, the father of his grandson, features contorted in the agony of death… then Jennifer…
“John, wake up!”
He was sitting up, shaking, the room freezing cold, Makala’s arms around him, kissing him awake. He opened his eyes. This time, there was no soothing, kissing his forehead, wiping the sweat from his face, whispering it was okay; it was just “the dream” again.
“You’ve got to wake up now. Reverend Black’s on the phone. We’re being attacked!”
He nodded, standing up, bare feet hitting the freezing-cold floor, shocking him, Makala helping him to put on a heavy bathrobe, steadying him as consciousness returned.
“Who’s calling?”
“Reverend Black. John, there are helicopters circling.” She started to lead him to the sunroom where the phone was.
“Who? Where?”
She picked up the receiver of the phone, an old-fashioned black rotary unit, and handed it to him.
“Matherson here.”
“John, it’s Black. I’m at the campus office. We’ve got three Apaches overhead. Can’t you hear them?”
That finally startled him awake, and he realized the room was reverberating with a low, steady rumble. He walked to the sunroom window, which was half-covered with frost, looked out, and caught the glint of flashing rotors sweeping by overhead.
“Any shooting?”
“Not yet.”
John continued to look out the window. The choppers were staying high, circling out along the crest line of Lookout Mountain. He watched them for a moment, catching glimpses. “Any come in low over the campus?”
“Not yet.” He could hear the nervousness in Black’s voice.
“Get on the phone to downtown Black Mountain, Asheville, any connections we have. Tell them not to shoot unless fired upon first and report anything they’re seeing. I’ll be right up.”
He hung up. Makala was already scrambling to fetch clothing and boots, helping John to get dressed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Not sure, but if it’s a surprise attack with intent to kill, they’d already be hitting us.”
Pulling on his boots, he heard a vehicle outside, and opening the door, he saw that it was Maury in his jeep. John ran out to him, looking up, the distinct thump of a helicopter rising in pitch as the chopper raced by overhead, still keeping altitude.
“What the hell is going on?” Maury shouted as John climbed in, brushing snow off the passenger seat before sitting down.
“They’re military, desert camo pattern. They must be with General Scales. Get me to the office.”
Maury spun the jeep around through the deep snow and set off downhill to Montreat Road, the vehicle skidding as he hit the base of the road and went sideways onto the main street through the village without slowing. Maury edged off the road to get around a tree that had fallen in the last storm and had yet to be cleared and then turned to race up to Gaither Hall. As they skidded to a stop, John looked up again and saw that there were several Black Hawks as well, slowly circling at more than a thousand feet above the narrow valley.
Black was at the office door, motioning for John to come in. Out on the snow-covered front lawn, a dozen or more students were looking up, all of them with weapons. One of them was Grace.
“Do not point your weapons at them! Everyone get the hell inside!” John shouted.
“Someone on the ham radio, asking for you.”
John went to the radio, the tinny-sounding speaker crackling.
“Matherson, this is Bob Scales; please respond.”
John picked up the old-fashioned handheld mike and clicked it several times before replying.
“Matherson here. Bob, are you overhead?”
A momentary pause.
“Affirmative, John. Assumed you were in that jeep.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice vehicle. I’d like to see it up close.”
John hesitated for a moment. “You’re welcome to land, but flag off those Apaches and send them home.”