Only Mrs. Marvin and Reverend Wright actually stay to eat a Thanksgiving meal with the boys, although there was a flurry of activity from the other two women from the old biddy committee, including bringing food, drinks, cleaned clothes, and even coloring books, drawing paper, pencils and crayons. The table is set for five with as many holiday treats as the women and the preacher's church ladies could whip up or donate on such short notice. Sammy is ecstatic, naming each one like it is a treasure he's never expected to have.
"Look, Dean! A roasted turkey, stuffing with walnuts, mashed potatoes and gravy! And rolls! Ooo, they're still hot, Dean. Look, Dean, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and corn! It's just like the Pilgrims! They had corn too." Sammy's enthusiastic naming is infectious to the two older people, but not to Dean. Each dish, each pronouncement from his little brother, is a nail driven through his flesh. Proof that strangers are doing a better job of taking care of his little brother than Dean managed.
"Dean! Look, Dean. There're pies for dessert." Sammy continues to break Dean's heart because he has never felt less like eating than he does right now. Not even pie, and he misses pie, like his mom made.
The grownups cannot help but smile at the little boy with his mop of chestnut curls and his great big grin. His brother has given up trying to get Sammy to stop talking. Sammy has babbled about Pastor Jim from Blue Earth, Minnesota, who is Daddy's friend and their godfather. He has yakked about how long Dad has been gone, and how they had run out of food and money, and Dean how has been washing their socks and underwear in the bath tub, and he ran out of pencils. He tells them his mom is dead and that he doesn't remember her at all.
"She died in a car crash when I was a baby. That's what Dean said. Right, Dean?" Sammy knows something is wrong. He knows he's doing something that has his big brother upset, but he can't contain his nervous energy. He scampers over to his brother and tugs at the blanket.
Dean stays quiet and sullen, huddled with his knees up to his chest under a blanket in the corner of the couch, chewing on his bottom lip and wiping tears and snot on the sleeve of his shirt until Mrs. Marvin tugs it off him and hands him a box of tissues. She stares down at him wondering how to fix this. This little boy is obviously heart-broken that he has been deemed not capable of taking care of his little brother. His pride is hurt, but it's more. Not just angry either, but, yes, that's part of it too. It's like he thinks that he has failed at his life's work.
And he's only nine.
The old woman sighs heavily and considers leaving this problem to the men of God, the reverend and the boy's pastor who is on his way down from Minnesota, but it seems to her that maybe the boy could use a little womanly comfort. She just knows she has never been especially good at it. This boy though, Dean, he has grit. She sees a lot of herself in him, and she knows what she wishes her younger self had learned. She sits down next to him, and he peers at her through half-closed and tear swollen eyes.
"It's okay to need help sometimes, you know. Okay to ask for help when you need it." His eyes flash his denial. "Harrumph. I guess I don't expect you to learn that so quick. But here's another for you. Think about this a minute. When nothing you can do will change something, you've got to learn to put away your personal feelings or you'll suck the fun out of everything for everyone else. That's not what you want for your brother, is it?"
Dean sits a little straighter and looks over at Sammy. "No, Ma'am. I don't. I mean I want Sammy to be happy, and I want Dad to be happy too." He chews on his lip a while longer. "But…I don't think I can make them both happy."
"They're my family." He defends, and she shakes her head tiredly. There's no fixing this one, not easily anyway.
A sharp rapping at the door has Sammy jumping up yelling "Pastor Jim" before the door is even opened by Reverend Wright. Jim Murphy is still wearing his clerical collar, not having stopped to change after getting the strange call. The ninety mile trip from his place in Minnesota to Mason City took seventy-five minutes, and he knows that means he was driving too fast on snowy roads.
Pastor Jim has an armful of squirming Sammy, as the five-year-old starts reciting the menu again breathlessly. Jim laughs and swings Sammy onto a seat at the table. "Looks like you've been waiting on me. Let's eat before it gets cold, and we can exchange what we know while we partake."
His plan is agreeable to the other adults and Sammy, and after a stern glance Dean joins them at the table. Jim starts off apologizing to the other adults, saying he would have been there a lot sooner if anyone had let him know what was going on. His pointed look at Dean has the boy pushing away his plate uneaten. Jim pushes it back in front of him.
"How long since your Dad left Dean? And when was he due back?"
Dean's cracked voice is the first indication Jim has that the nine-year-old isn't well, and his brow furrows with worry. "Dad left on November second. He had some work he had to do in Missouri and he had paid for the room for three weeks and enrolled us in school." Dean trails off.
"When did he say he'd be back?" Jim presses, but Dean shrugs. He doesn't remember if his dad said. He just knows that Dad wouldn't leave them without money for rent unless something bad happened. He tries to swallow some turkey, but it hurts too much. Jim frowns at him.
"Daddy said we were going to see you for Thanksgiving," Sammy adds, mostly to deflect attention away from his brother who looks miserable.
The adults at the table look at each other. John checked them in before Halloween, left a couple days later, and has been gone three weeks. From what Sammy just said, John meant to leave the boys – a five-year-old being cared for by a nine-year-old - with no clear idea of when to expect him back except a promise of a holiday. And Jim, the former Marine and John's friend, finds he just lost his appetite. That information is bad enough. The fact that the boys haven't even heard from him probably means John is hurt, or worse.
In his worry, Jim lashes out at Dean. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"
"We were fine. We're safe, and Dad'll be mad at me if I can't handle something simple like watching Sammy." Dean croaks out. It has the ring of something the boy has heard, so Jim snaps his mouth closed on a retort.
"He'll be mad at you for not calling me sooner." Jim says in a warning tone.
Cradling his forehead in his hand, Dean looks directly in Jim's eyes for the first time. "I guess I'm screwed either way."
. . . . . . .
Nov. 15, 1988
The Mark Twain National Forest takes up 1.5 million acres of Missouri's highlands. The trees cover the worn down stubs of the ancient volcanic mountain range now known as the Ozarks with their ground fed springs and more than five thousand caves. The forest is old and beautiful, and only the intrepid wander further in to uncharted areas. It is not as cold as Iowa where John stashed the boys, and the tree cover is too thick to worry about snow except in the rocky clearings.
John woke cold and alone this morning. The four hunters had gone after whatever this thing is – and John still thinks it's a Wendigo – three days ago. This morning when he woke up in his government surplus sleeping bag tuck into a pup tent the first thing he noticed was the silence. No one else was moving around. The other hunters are missing from their tents, the ones without protective runes. All three. But their rifles and gear are still here in the campsite. John is here, deep in the woods, alone.
"Goddamnit." John grouses as he packs up his tent and gear, feeling the whole time like something is watching him. He downs a power bar and a drink from his canteen, knowing it's important to stay hydrated and fueled. He pulls out his compass and map to take a reading, reminding himself which way is out. It's hard to tell in the hushed woods that seem to be weighing down on him, and John doesn't know if he's paranoid or that the monster is out there watching.
After an hour of hiking, John hears a noise and whirls toward the sound, lifting a flamethrower, only to find nothing. He sees a knob of rock ahead of him and heads toward it hoping the increased altitude will allow him to get a better look around him. The rock is slippery, icy in spots, but John climbs the outcropping, slowly turning to get a 360 degree view of trees and more trees.
He feels more than hears the rushing of another body at him, and steps back, slipping on the rocks. He feels his ankle break before he's falling.
. . . . . . .
Thanksgiving evening
Sammy's practically flying around the room on a sugar high from eating two pieces of pie. He's unhelpfully helping everyone pack.
"Dean. Don't make me tell you again. Get this stuff packed up!" Pastor Jim Murphy wishes he didn't sound quite as angry as Dean turns haunted eyes to him. The boy's got red rims and dark circles. His eyes are glassy bright, and it just occurs to Jim that maybe this is fever, flu not a cold. Dean certainly looks sick enough. Jim's stomach lurches when he goes to feel Dean's forehead and the boy flinches like he expects to be hit.
"Settle down now buddy. I'm just checking," Jim soothes. Mrs. Marvin can tell that Jim's concerned, and she figures out why quickly, kicking herself for forgetfulness. She knew the older boy was ill. She excuses herself and heads to her place to get a thermometer and some Robitusson.
Jim ushers Dean over to the couch again and lets him wrap himself in the blanket. He's relieved when Sammy climbs up next to his brother, leaning into Dean's side as he opens the coloring book and crayons. Jim Murphy heads over to huddle with the other man of God, offering thanks again for taking the time to find him.
"I don't know what's up with the boys' father, but believe me when I tell you, I will find out."
Reverend Wright is packing up the last of the leftover foods. The adults decided to the preacher could take them to some other of his congregation in need. "I'm still hesitating about this," he says pulling on his ear. "There's no denying he meant to leave them alone for a few weeks. That older boy? He's not really old enough to mind himself and the little boy that long."
"I was doing fine. We were doing fine. Weren't we, Sammy?" Dean's hoarse voice puts a lie to his words, but the adults ignore him. He's obviously grumpy and sick. He ducks his head before anyone can see the tears in his eyes.
Seconds later, Mrs. Marvin taps his chin to get him to lift his head. She pops in a thermometer while holding on to his gaze. "I see you." She whispers. "I watched you. You were doing fine until you got sick." A grateful tear falls, but she shakes her head and wipes it with her thumb. "No. Stay strong, youngster. You need to."
Dean snuffles back tears and gives a small nod. He can stay strong. A few minutes later, dosed with the cough syrup and Tylenol for a 101.5 fever, Pastor Jim loads the boys into the back of his sedan. He needs to get them home to Blue Earth and make some calls to find out what and where John was hunting. Something has to be wrong for John to have abandoned his boys.