The following year was full of changes. For starters, Clyde and I got married. We didn’t make a fuss, as that wasn’t our style. We simply got a license and had Dodd speak a few words before we made our promises. Ruthie and Velma stood by me, and Fawn and JohnScott by Clyde, and Nathan toddled back and forth between us. It was a good day. A healing day. Full of recovery and hope.
Clyde had stayed with Troy and Pam after the storm, making the necessary repairs to my house before we married, and then he quietly moved his things in. Not that he had much to move, because everything he owned—including his sedan—had been destroyed in the tornado. He didn’t seem to miss those things, though.
For the first month at least, I hid myself in my bedroom again, but this time with Clyde by my side. It had been built differently than before, with no ghosts or haunts from the past. No clumpy, chipped texture on the walls. It was our room. Mine and Clyde’s. I explored his tattoos, and he kissed away my doubts, and we clung to each other as much as possible, trying to convince ourselves that life was real. That happiness was real. That it wasn’t going to slip away from us again. After years of turmoil, Clyde and I were finally covered with a veil of peace.
Our little town had its share of lies and secrets, but I got the impression that God—in spite of His infinite love—had grown weary of waiting for the townspeople to acknowledge their faults and had opted instead to blow everything wide open Himself. When that tornado raged through Trapp, it left in its wake a strong group of people dedicated to saving their town. They came together, fighting against the odds, to rebuild and renew, and as they developed a common bond with one another, they gradually began to protect their own with the savage determination of a mother bear.
Clyde, along with the others whose homes were totally destroyed, was showered with food and supplies as well as offers of lodging, transportation, medical care, and anything else he might need. It was as if the storm acted as a great equalizer that leveled the playing field and brought us together.
All of us but one.
Neil had been pulled from the debris at the Dairy Queen and immediately placed in handcuffs and taken away. His trial lasted for months, but according to Hector, there was so much evidence stacked against him, he didn’t stand a chance. Even though his gun was never found, they were able to match the bullet in Hoby’s skull to two dozen others found in the side of the barn on the Blaylocks’ old home place. In the end Neil was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison without parole.
Clyde testified in Neil’s defense, asserting his innocence and relaying all that Neil had confessed to him that night in the freezer. But it didn’t matter. People will believe what they want to believe, regardless of the truth, the jury included. Neil knew that better than anyone. The day Neil’s sentence came down and he was sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, Clyde held me in our bedroom, and we wondered at the irony.
“Things always come back around, don’t they?” Clyde said softly.
For some reason I thought of the windmills, spinning constantly round and round, and I nestled closer to my husband. “I guess they do.”
Life had a way of repeating itself—sometimes a comfort and sometimes a curse—but because of the predictability, I’d learned to ride out the storm and let the wind die down. No matter what tempest I came up against, eventually the helter-skelter rotations would calm into gentle spirals that I could handle.
“We’ll need to visit him,” Clyde said.
I nodded reluctantly, not wanting to visit Neil but knowing it needed to be done. “And we need to look out for Susan,” I said.
Clyde pulled me closer and kissed the top of my head, and we lay wrapped in each other’s arms, staring at the ceiling. Waiting for our world to settle.
And eventually it did.
Once Clyde started making decisions, his confidence snowballed until he was firing off orders left and right. Building a restaurant on the Caprock was the biggest decision he made. A horseshoe-shaped deck filled with tables allowed guests to sit right on the rim while they ate, and those who didn’t want to brave the heat and wind could dine inside behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Clyde and I had more than one debate about which place was the better atmosphere, but even then, I got the feeling he preferred the kitchen.
Every Sunday morning we would set the rolls to rising before we went to worship, and we sneaked out after Dodd’s sermon so Clyde could have lunch ready when church let out. Pretty near the entire congregation would show up, along with others who had just crawled out of bed. Clyde’s down-home hospitality and good food swiftly became legendary, and after a while he was known for more than just his prison term. Hungry patrons came from surrounding towns, and travelers learned that a detour through Trapp would always be worth the extra time.
“This place is good for us, Lyn,” Clyde said one Sunday afternoon. “I’m glad I thought of it.”
I dumped a pan of warm buttered rolls into a basket and covered it with a cloth. “That’s not exactly the way I remember it.”
Nathan ran up to us, bouncing on his tiptoes and stretching his hands above his head. “Clyde! I wanna go up. Up!”
Clyde peered down at the two-year-old. “You know I’m too busy to carry you around.” His mouth quivered in a smile.
“I help you, Clyde.” Nathan stopped his bouncing and worried his brow as though they were sealing a deal on a major investment.
“Well, in that case …” Clyde reached down and slowly lifted the child like an elevator going to the top floor while Nathan’s Sunday shoes swung back and forth. He nestled the boy in the crook of one arm and picked up the basket of rolls with the other.
“Hand sanitizer,” I said, squirting a dollop into Nathan’s tiny palm.
As I made my way around the dining room, greeting friends and strangers and offering them menus, I watched my husband with his grandson. Clyde would greet the customers with his booming voice and ask them if they needed a warm-up on their rolls. He held the basket close to Nathan, who would pick up a roll and hand it to the customer. Depending on who was requesting it, Clyde might encourage the boy to pitch it across the table, or keep it to himself, or even take a bite out of it before passing it off.
“You’re teaching that kid to be as ornery as you.” I tried to frown, but my lips wouldn’t cooperate.
“The kid doesn’t need teaching, Lyn.” Clyde winked at me. “He’s a natural.”
I followed them out to the deck, where Dodd and Ruthie sat at a table with Fawn and JohnScott. Velma was there as well, and so was Dodd’s mother. Nathan scrambled out of Clyde’s arms and ran to the side of the deck, where he pressed his palms against the Plexiglas barrier and looked down at the town far below. His long, black curls swished on the breeze.
“Clyde?” JohnScott drawled. “I’ve been telling Fawn the kid needs a haircut, but she won’t listen.”
Fawn smiled. “Just because his grandpappy got a haircut doesn’t mean Nathan needs one.”
“Aw, now,” Clyde said. “I don’t reckon it matters none.”
“He looks like a little girl,” Ruthie quipped. “Just the other day at the Walmart in Lubbock, someone asked Fawn how old her daughter was.”
“But look at these curls.” Fawn reached toward her son and ran her fingers through his hair. “I just can’t.”
Clyde, still holding the basket of rolls, slipped his arm around my waist. It felt good to be with my family, sharing in their banter, but it felt even better to be standing next to Clyde, saying nothing at all. Gently I shifted my hip to bump his thigh, and he nudged me back.
Velma, sitting at the end of the table, shifted in her chair, and I recognized the look on her face. Obviously she had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to say something that needed to be said, and now that it was here, she wasn’t about to miss it. She leveled her gaze at her son. “JohnScott, it’s about time you and Fawn had another baby.” Her lips curved upward. “And try to make it a girl this time so Fawn can play with ribbons and bows.”
My nephew’s cheeks flushed red, but his mouth fell open and he laughed loudly, as did everyone else at the table.
The laughter dwindled, and Dodd cleared his throat. “Actually …” He eased to his feet—the preacher could never say much in a seated position—and he looked right at me. “Actually, Ruthie may be able to help with the ribbons and bows.”
Two long seconds of silence passed, and then the women at the table squealed. Including me.
More laughter followed, and slaps on the back, and question after question for Ruthie.
And I smiled, realizing I was flooded with happiness. Happiness felt so good. How had I ever thought I could live without it?
Clyde leaned over with his lips next to my ear. “You all right with this news?” His palm slid from my waist to my backside, and he squeezed. “Granny?”
“Yes.” Raising up on my tiptoes, I giggled but moved toward his tickling instead of away. “I’m just fine with it.”
And I was.
I had finally realized it didn’t matter if my glass was half full or half empty. That’s not what life was about. What mattered was that God stood behind me with a full pitcher, waiting to refill my plastic tumbler … if only I’d let Him. Since I had discovered that fact, my cup hadn’t ceased to overflow. Not with material possessions or money. Not with promises of fairy tales and happy endings. Not even with a secure knowledge that I would never be hurt again. I might. God simply gave me the hope that I could handle whatever life hurled at me, and then He filled me up with peace, joy, love.
And people.
All the important things.