been sitting in the adjacent dining room, sipping iced sweet tea with lemon, listening patiently this whole time, barely uttering a word. “If he says it’s crazy, you know it’s gotta be—”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “This is family-only. Either we’re all in, or we’re all out. Right on our asses, too.”
My brothers and sisters-in-law chew on that. So do Nick and J.D., two retired Marines Stevie served with in the Middle East so long ago, who became as close as blood. Especially in recent years, they’d become like big brothers to Alex, taking him on hunting and fishing trips for some critical male bonding. They were in the second row at his funeral, two burly ex-soldiers dabbing at their eyes.
I explain one final time exactly what I’m proposing. My plan is a long haul with short odds. It might cost us everything. But doing nothing definitely would.
After a tense silence that feels like it goes on forever…
“In,” Stevie says simply. Marines don’t mince their words.
“Semper fi,” says Nick, stepping forward. He and J.D. both give stiff salutes.
Kim clasps her husband’s hand. “That makes four, then.”
Debbie nervously twirls her yellow locks, blinking, unsure. I like Debbie—or, should I say, I’ve grown to like her. We probably wouldn’t be friends if she weren’t married to my brother. Debbie’s sweet, but timid. Tries a little too hard to please. She’d rather go with the flow than rock the boat, especially when her husband’s in it. She looks to Hank for guidance; she doesn’t get it. So she does something surprising. She goes with her gut.
“This place, after all these years…it’s become my home, too. I’ll do it.”
Hank throws up his hands. He’s the final holdout.
“You’re asking me to pick my family or my conscience. You understand that?”
My eyes flutter to a framed, faded photograph on the wall of Alex at age six. He’s sitting in a tire swing hanging from the branch of a giant oak tree on our farm, smiling a gap-toothed grin. He looks so little. So happy. So innocent.
So alive.
“Sounds like an easy choice to me,” I say.
At last, with a heavy sigh, Hank nods. He’s in, too.
And so the vote is unanimous. My plan is a go.
“Just one little problem,” Debbie says nervously, bending down now to pick up the pieces of the antique plate her husband broke.
“Where are we gonna get seventy-five grand to pull this thing off?”
5 minutes, 35 seconds
In the ten weeks since my son died, I’ve probably slept less than ten hours.
During the days I’m bone-tired, shuffling from room to room like a zombie. But at night, rest rarely comes. I toss. I turn. I pray. I cry.
My mind keeps replaying my every memory of Alex over and over on a loop. But they’re never chronological. They always jump around.
First I might remember watching him when he walked across the stage in his adorable little cap and gown for his kindergarten “graduation” ten years ago.
Then I might think of the joyful look on his face the time he scored a winning goal for his junior-high soccer team.
Then I might see him taking his first tottering steps in the kitchen of our farmhouse.
The same farmhouse my family and I have lived in for decades upon decades.
The same one that could be taken away from us very soon.
Right now I’m lying in bed, sweating through the sheets thanks to the west Texas air, still blasting strong at 1:10 a.m., according to the old clock radio next to my bed.
But I’m not thinking about Alex.
Instead I’m jumpy with nerves. My entire family, nuclear and extended, blood and not, has just agreed to my “hell of a plan.” It still hasn’t fully sunk in. Tomorrow we start putting it into—
Hang on. I hear something. Outside. A metal clank, distant but distinct.
Having been awake most nights for over two months, I’ve gotten familiar with the sounds at these hours. Like crickets. The occasional coyote howl. Other than that, there aren’t any sounds. Our farmhouse sits on ten secluded acres.
Maybe it’s just an animal. Or maybe…it’s an intruder? Or maybe I’m just hearing things, my mind is just playing—
Clank.
There it is again. I have to find out what it is.
I slip out of bed and into some slippers. Then I creep down the hall.
I pad right past the shut door of Alex’s room, which I haven’t set foot in since the day he died. I don’t know when I will again. Maybe never.