Second Chances

By Daniel Cheuvront

What if you could do it all again?

Bill Miller lives a lonely widower's life. After the unsolved disappearance of his only child, followed shortly by the death of his wife, he's spent the past three decades gradually isolating himself from his neighbors, the news, and the world at large. When a thunderstorm blossoms into an unexpected tornado, he knows his dilapidated house won't stand up to its fury. He's more than willing to close the book on his earthly existence, anyway.

What would you do differently?

But when the furious winds fade, he finds himself waking up to a strange afterlife in the form of a moment forgotten in time, in a mysteriously restored house and the body of a younger Bill. A time when his wife and daughter should still be alive, yet are curiously absent. Armed with the knowledge of the ending that awaits them all, Bill searches for a path to a better outcome for his family.

Would anything change, in the end?

But to do so, he must dig deep into the shadows of the past, to face his own failings and seek answers to the questions that haunt his older self. All the while, reality shifts around him, with each step forward dredging up a new nightmare. Can he fight his wretched future by righting the wrongs of the past? Or will he find that his hands are tied by the threads of fate, and that you really can't go home again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Cheuvront
• Release date: Feb 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781734684858

Daniel Cheuvront

The author lives on a small farm in eastern Kansas with his wife, mother-in-law and two children. His incompetence at animal husbandry and equipment repair have relegated him to simple tasks that afford him space to brood and make up stories. He doesn’t set out to write about dark, gritty and awful things, but that’s usually what happens. Tanner’s Glen is his first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Bill Miller hadn’t planned on killing his best friend that August afternoon. Life is a string of unpleasant chores. He took his time closing the distance, not sure he could do it. His vision wasn’t what it used to be, his hands not so steady. Best to be close when the moment came.

Real sorry about this, Deacon. Wish it didn’t have to be this way.

Deacon did nothing to talk him out of it. He just stood there and stared at him, accusing, as if Bill had been the one to draw first blood.

With six paces between them, Bill chambered a round, shouldered the .30-30, and put a bead on Deacon’s ribcage. The barrel wavered as his former friend turned a forlorn gaze to the hedgerow and waited.

The locusts buzzed loud in his ear. A runnel of sweat ran down the end of his nose and his glasses began to fog. He took a deep breath, let it out slow. When the barrel steadied, he squeezed the trigger.

Bill didn’t see Deacon fall. When the old Winchester barked, both his eyes were shut tight. He remained blind for a count of three, grateful for the silence. No cries of agony or thrashing. Even the bugs were quiet. Maybe he’d missed.

But when he opened his eyes, Deacon lay dead in the dirt. Not so much as a twitch. If not for all the blood, one would think he’d just laid down for a nap.

Bill lowered the gun, a dull ache already settling in his shoulder. Well, that wasn’t so bad. He ran a hand over his brow, then cried like a baby.

Jesus, did he make a show of it. Stood in the drive and bawled his damned eyes out. The hitching kind of sobs that string you out and leave your ribs hurting. Like a good laugh. It took him several tries to get his act together. Ridiculous, it was. He hadn’t cried like this when Glenna passed. And he’d known Deacon, what, a couple of months?

He pulled a handkerchief from his bibs and blew his nose -- might as well do it right – then jacked the cartridge from the breech and sent it whistling to the gravel. He wiped his glasses, then lowered himself with cracking knees to pick up the brass, which he slipped into his pocket.

The locusts were already back at it. House wrens chattered from their nests in the corner of the yard. The pleasant, late afternoon was picking up where it had left off before the gun blast. One less hungry mouth in the world. Life goes on.

Bill pushed his glasses back onto his nose and turned to the house. Christ, Deacon. Will you look at this place? The sight was enough to dry his tears. Matt Hutchinson was supposed to put a new roof on it this summer, but it had never happened. The lazy buck had run off and enlisted because Emporia State hadn’t worked out for him. Bill had planned to ask Dale to do it, but so far hadn’t mustered the gumption. Dale Smith liked to bug him about moving to the retirement center in Eskridge, and this would just give him more gunpowder to light.

Still, something had to be done. A broken checkerboard of loose shingles made the house look as if it was grinning at him. Then there was the old maple. That limb reaching over the house like a hand ready to swat a fly was like to break soon. He worried about it every time the wind came up.

I know you can take care of yourself, Bill. But what about five years from now? Dale had thrown this at him just a week ago. Besides, you need to be around other folk more, and who knows? You might actually meet somebody who can put up with your crotchety ass.

Crossing that Rubicon was all well and good. Dale was right. But Bill would rather be shot dead in his own driveway than live among those corpses of what Bill liked to call the Eskridge Sundown Society.

Funny what you think about in certain moments. A body bleeding out in your yard and you find yourself fussing over home maintenance.

The sun was settling toward the trees, draping the little yard in shadow and throwing a bloody cast to the western sky. The whippoorwills beyond the creek would soon take up their mournful cries. Time waits for no one. Bill Miller heaved a sigh and trudged to the house to get a shovel.

CHAPTER 2

God bless it. Bill’s guts took a plunge when he stood over Deacon and got his first good look at the young coyote since blowing a hole in him. The animal sure didn’t look sick. His handsome summer coat was glossy and clean. It ought to be glossy with all the table scraps he’d been eating. The eyes, though glassy and empty, were clear.

He jabbed the shovel blade into the road and eased himself to a knee, clutching the handle for support. He stroked the fine coat and got confirmation that Deacon wasn’t just healthy, but positively plump. Another irritating prickle of the eyes before he clamped his jaw shut and reminded himself that looks could deceive. You saw him, Billy. Do you really need a blood test?

And you didn’t need a veterinarian to tell you that if a coyote tries to tear off your leg, that animal needs to be put down, no matter how friendly they may have been before. Remorse wouldn’t do Deacon a lick of good now.

So how about you get him planted before the buzzards have at him?

It wasn’t going to be easy. But Bill Miller was in good shape for eighty-two. His heart had never given him trouble and his knees weren’t too bad. He could do this. He thought about what Dale Smith would say and got pissed all over again. Good. It would put enough starch in him to get this wretched job done.

He dragged the tarp over, straightened it out and rolled Deacon onto it. The bastard was heavier than he looked. Must weigh forty pounds.

Deacon flopped, stiff-legged, onto the cheap nylon and left a thick puddle of blood in the gravel. As Bill tugged on the forelegs, he saw Deacon’s belly and realized for the first time in their short friendship that the coyote wasn’t a he, but a she.

Damnit, Deacon! He stripped off his cap and stared hotly at the hedgerow, feeling sick and half expecting to see a passel of pups tumble out of the brush. Why’d you do that, mister? Why’d you go and kill our momma, huh?

The swollen teats on Deacon’s undercarriage said that they weren’t yet weaned. But he wasn’t the one responsible for damning an entire litter of pups to a slow death of starvation. That one was on the Good Lord. It wasn’t even the time of year for pups. Nor was it Bill’s decision for Deacon to go and get himself rabid. Herself. Those pups were as good as dead without Bill’s say-so. At least he’d spared their mother a long and miserable end.

He used his anger to shove Deacon to the center of the tarp and get to his feet. Then he dragged the carcass behind the house to Glenna’s flowerbed, which no one had touched in thirty years and grew nothing but weeds. Still, his wife would spin in her grave if she knew Bill was converting it to a pet cemetery.

He dug. The work was slow, not because the earth was hard, but because he wasn’t. By the time he had a serviceable grave, it was dark. The porch light cast its gaze over the hole, making it look like a pit straight into Hell.

The illusion vanished as he rolled the tarp over and Deacon fell into the grave with a woof; a final, trapped breath she hadn’t let go of before Bill had shot her dead.

He thought he’d have to arrange Deacon to fit, but the canine curled up like a babe in a cradle. In the shadowy bosom of the earth, Deacon slept peacefully while Bill covered him with a blanket of dirt. Her.

And if you hadn’t been feeding her table scraps, she wouldn’t have come into heat so late in the season, would she, Old Boy?

A barred owl serenaded him from the maple tree as he hosed off the bloody tarp. Who-cooks-for-you. Who-cooks-for-you-aaaaall. Which reminded him that he hadn’t eaten supper. The bird was close enough to be heard over the whoosh of the spray. By the time he had the tarp hung on the line to drip-dry, there were two of those feathered bastards squawking and raising hell at each other from either side of the yard. He used to love this closed-in asylum, the yard hemmed in by trees, where you couldn’t see a road or another house and with only the single, narrow gap of the drive leading out. The smell of honeysuckle wafting through the yard on warm summer nights like this from trellises he and Glenna had built along the north edge of the property.

Now the place felt like a prison.

Will you shut up! His bellow was more of a wheeze – the job had done him in, all right – but the two owls shut right down. And just what the never-mind had they done to him? On any other night he might have put up with their racket, might even have enjoyed it. He would often sit in the lawn chair of an evening to listen to the whippoorwills and owls, which was how he'd met Deacon.

The coyotes started in then, the living ones, as the first fireflies lit up and wove pale green paths through the timber. Their songs were somber tonight, wavering and desultory, as if acknowledging the loss of one of their own. After a time, Bill joined them in mourning, though silently.

Tarp hung, tools put away, he turned in, deciding he’d lost his appetite, and went to bed without supper. As he switched off the light and closed his eyes to the sound of night bugs outside his bedroom window, he thought he heard the soft, falsetto whimper of a lost pup.

CHAPTER 3

Bill Miller had met Deacon in the spring of that year, when the redbuds were coming on and the hedge leaves were as big as squirrels’ ears. It had been a gorgeous evening with a soft, mellow sunset that had turned the horizon gold after a day of bluebird skies, not unlike the night he shot Deacon five months later. He’d been thinking of driving to town to rent a movie. Julie Cross from down the road had brought him a DVD player a couple years back, after he’d let slip to Dale that he’d sworn off reading the newspaper for good and had canceled his subscription.

Why in the name of Grace would you stop doing something that makes you happy? Do you actually like being miserable?

It’s all politics and bad news, Bill had said morosely. I’m happier not knowing.

Word must have got out, because the player showed up two days later. Bill had tossed it into the closet where it gathered dust until he discovered that Bryan’s IGA carried Clint Eastwood movies and gave it a go. It wasn’t a bad way to spend an evening, actually, losing yourself in a story instead of dwelling on how lonely you were. Eventually he'd expanded his repertoire, experimenting with comedy, drama, and even suspense thriller and horror. He'd soon been forced to abandon a former conviction that not one good movie had been made after nineteen sixty-nine. One of his most recent adventures in modern cinema had been a rough one called The Notebook. Overcooked bullshit, it was. But it made him miss Glenna terribly and opened him up like a faucet.

After that, he’d soldiered through a series called The Hungry Games. The first movie had sucked him in because the lead actress reminded him of his daughter, Christina. But the further in he got, the more addicted he'd become. He'd even made a late-night rush back to Bryan’s to secure the final episode of the series. But the movie remained unfinished. The next day he'd met Deacon and the cinema spell was broken. He forged his first real friendship in forty years.

That spring evening, on his way to empty the trash, Bill had caught movement in the driveway, a blink in the late sunlight. He squinted, shielding his eyes, and saw what proved to be a coyote loping down the draw toward the house.

His first thought had been that one of Butler’s Brittany Spaniels had broken out of a kennel. He was about to fetch the pellet gun and send the mutt back home, but the animal didn’t move like a dog. Realizing what it was, Bill went very still, surprised when the coyote held its course. Head down, shoulders hunched, the little canine looked like it might stride to the front door, give a knock, and ask Bill if he knew his personal savior. This one had to be sick. Healthy coyotes didn’t do this.

It had obviously had a tough winter. He could practically see the ribs through its coat, and those haunted eyes testified of weeks of hunger. The last three months had been a bitch, long and bitter cold – his pipes had frozen twice and he’d had to call Dale to help him thaw them before they busted and flooded his house again. The unusual cold had probably put a hurt on the varmint population, too.

He felt a wave of pity for the coyote. His was one of the few dog-free homesteads in the area. But only starvation could drive a wild animal to do something this rash.

When the coyote was fifty yards from the garage, he'd raised his muzzle and sniffed the air hopefully. The hamburger Bill had fried up for supper that evening still clung to the air. The little scavenger crept along the hedgerow until it reached the edge of the yard, where it spotted Bill skulking near the trash bin.

It did not run. Head up, ears pricked, it stood very still and watched.

Ballsy, aren’t you? Lucky I don’t have my rifle or I’d put you out of your misery.

He doubted that. He hadn’t the heart to kill things anymore – except for packrats – and hadn’t fired a gun in years.

Then the coyote had done something that really surprised him. It sat on its haunches and licked its chops.

By God, you are a desperate chap.

Only when Bill stepped out of the garage had the animal fled. Still enough gas in the tank to rocket into the trees and disappear.

He might not have ever seen the creature again. It may have wasted away and perished in some tangled thicket had Bill not done what he did next. He went inside, found what was left of supper, put it in a dish and left it out on the drive, in the very spot from which his visitor had fled.

Next morning, he'd picked up the empty bowl, sure that a possum had gotten to it, and thought nothing more of it until that evening.

The coyote came back. Around seven-thirty, Bill looked out his living room window to find the creature sitting in the drive as if he were waiting to be served.

I’ll be damned. Bill found a package of pickle-loaf in the refrigerator, which he took, along with the aluminum bowl, onto the front landing.

The coyote was immediately on its feet and poised to bolt.

Hungry, fella? He kept his voice low, movements subtle.

The question elicited no answer. Neither did it instigate flight. Bill made a show of peeling out the strips of lunchmeat and shredding it into the bowl.

Mm, mmm. Smell it? Bet you can. He didn’t know if the coyote could smell it or not, but the animal’s eyes suggested he knew perfectly well what the performance meant, especially when Bill took a piece and popped it in his mouth and chewed theatrically. See? Tastes like shit.

Bill took two steps toward the drive, and the coyote ran. He wasn’t concerned. He set the bowl where he was supposed to and went back to the porch and waited. And waited.

Fine. Asshole.

He went inside, and by the time he pulled back the living room curtain, his new friend had his muzzle in the bowl.

It raised its head, licking its lips as if to say, Jesus, man. Is that your idea of charity? before sprinting into the underbrush.

Bill let the curtain fall, then went to search the freezer for more worthy entrees than half-spoiled bologna.

CHAPTER 4

He'd brought it all on himself, by Jesus. The gripping conclusion to Mockingjay went unresolved. Bill spent each evening with his new friend, sitting on the lawn chair and watching the furry beast eat him out of house and home.

Spoiled little shit. Dale would lose his mind if he knew I was feeding you that. Backstraps of a doe Dale shot last fall. Bill should have been grateful, but he hated venison. Anyone who said venison didn’t taste like dried monkey balls was either a liar or insane. His guest seemed to like it all right. Beggars and choosers and what not.

At the sound of Bill’s voice, the coyote looked up and glared at him. Why don’t you shut up and get me more of that ground chuck instead of this freezer burnt boot leather, you cheapskate? It never took him long to annihilate an offering. And then vanish without so much as a backward glance.

That’s the thanks I get? Next time I’ll salt your supper with strychnine. He laughed as he said it, gratified for the visit, brief as it was. But he had an idea of how to fix that.

He spent the next day in his workshop devising wicked schemes. He cobbled together a small barrel-trap to keep his dinner guest occupied longer. A wooden cylinder with holes small enough to make him work for it. He grilled more of Dale’s charity shit steaks and stuck the cubes inside the trap and left it in the road.

Worked like a charm. Mutt worried that barrel like a thief picking a lock, pausing occasionally to glare at Bill, as if he understood a trick had been played on him.

Think your meals should come for free, Champ? Learn some gratitude.

The mutt would learn no such thing, but he did stay longer. And got good at his craft, solving Bill’s little Rubi-Cube with ever greater speed, first pawing, then digging at the barrel, trying to tear it open. He learned fast that this was useless and that the best method was to roll the barrel over and over until a goodie fell out one of the holes.

They made a little game of it, the two of them. Bill built other, more complicated traps to up the challenge. Instead of a hole, a flap with a simple hook. Nothing that a little paw finesse couldn’t manage. If it was too tricky, Mutt would yowl and leave in a huff.

Once Bill put a cord on the lid. You had to jerk the cord to release a lever inside. He didn’t think Mutt would manage it, but he did. He took the cord in his jaws, gave it a good shake and out popped the prize.

Bill had to think to keep coming up with ways of keeping the coyote around. A good preventative to Alzheimer’s, no doubt. Maggie Baxter would be proud. Better than rotting your brain in front of the tube watching kid’s movies. Or staring at old pictures wishing you still had a family to care about. Bill hadn’t been this happy in years.

CHAPTER 5

The storm that ended Bill’s life came the day after he’d buried Deacon. The morning started out hot and muggy, and had that feel that said all hell would cut loose before the sunset. By nine-thirty a.m., the air was thick as applesauce and uncomfortable enough to put Bill on his ass on the back porch with a glass of iced tea. KSNT news was forecasting severe weather come evening, but he didn’t need Dave Relihan to tell him that. He could feel it in his joints.

That afternoon he walked to the end of the drive to check his mail and saw the front coming far to the west. He took his cane because his knees were bitching. No letter from Maggie Baxter, the RN who’d taken care of Glenna during her final days. Mags seemed to think it was still her job to look after him, even after all these years, and though she could just pick up the phone and call, which she often did, she still had a thing for letters. Her next was due any day.

How old was she now? She’d been pretty back in the day. Had to be at least sixty now. Christ, but time sure screws you over.

He shambled into the road where the trees gave way to open pasture. The muscular cloud bank was still faint on the horizon, just a suggestion, reminding him of the way the Rockies looked about an hour past the Colorado border on I-70.

He rang Dale Smith, but nobody answered and he hadn’t expected an answer. They’d talked earlier that day when Dale had called to ask him what the hell he was doing shooting up the place the day before. I heard a gunshot last night. Was that you?

Bill told him a raccoon had wandered into the yard and looked like he might be up to mischief, maybe taking an interest in the garbage cans in the garage.

In daylight? That’s not good.

No, it wasn’t. Which was another reason why you should shoot such animals on sight instead of making friends with them and having to shoot them later, when it hurt.

You get him?

Nah, I missed the little creep. Scared the bejesus out of him, though. He won’t be back.

Bill sat in the chair where he used to feed Deacon and felt miserable, not just because he ached to his toes. He worried about the maple over the roof.

He used to like storms. When he'd been young and more ambulatory, he'd never had to ask for help. He'd never had to worry about getting blown out of his bed and left to flail around in the yard, trapped under the