Free A Swollen Red Sun by Matthew McBride

pumped beneath the surface of her bulky jowls. She blew out a deep breath that brought tears to her eyes.
    “You ought’n know better than try some shit like that on me, woman. We done been down this road before, and if my mind serves correct, you don’t like where this road goes.”
    Mama pulled herself up and put her back to a tall stack of old newspapers. She held her tit with both hands and drew quick tight breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth. With every breath, her cheeks would puff and jiggle.
    The preacher grabbed his rifle and walked to the front door like a man with purpose as headlights bounced up the rutted drive. Butch saw it was Jerry Dean bringing home the goods. Yelled out, “The prodigal son hath returned to his flock. Mercy me, we have been delivered. We have been blessed with this glorious bounty.” He rambled on. “Thank you, Lord Jesus. Amen.”
    Jerry Dean shut the truck off and stepped out.
    Butch Pogue approached with the rifle. Said, “We have been delivered, Brother.”
    He gave Jerry Dean a hug.
    Jerry Dean stood solid like a big stump. Wide in the hips and thick in the waist and shoulders. He had a tank that hung over his belt, which gravity seemed to have gotten the better of.
    The preacher was of similar build. Stocky with a great chest and an ample gut that rubbed hard against Jerry Dean’s while Butch squeezed him and kissed his cheek.
    “We have been delivered,” the Reverend repeated.
    Jerry Dean said, “Praise the Lord,” uncomfortably, and Butch Pogue nodded.
    The boy came around the corner with an ax.
    Voices called his name in hushed whispers and warm breath washed over his face and neck. Sounds called to him in distant echoes. He saw his boys when they were young. Small faces and big eyes and fair hair untouched by a comb. They ran through tall yellow fields and waded through shallow creeks. He saw his wife, working in a flowerbed that had long ago sprouted weeds.
    Olen Brandt saw his family in still pictures. Snapshots his mind forgot. The light was strong behind Arlene, it was evening, and in that moment her crown of golden curls became a halo.
    “Look, Mom.” There was Gil, so young. Such a beautiful boy. “Mama, look, watch . ” Gil shouted to her again, his kite taking to tall wind. Not just floating, flying , really flying. The wind pulled him hard across the yard.
    She looked up, the halo illuminating her in a soft blonde glow.
    “I wanna try, Gillie.” Olen saw Gil’s brother, Wade. So small and happy. Before prison. Before he was unrecognizable to the eyes of his father. Here, now, he was small and innocent and free.
    Gil worked his kite and fought the wind, powerful gusts that jerked the string north, then south. Gil yelled with joy and beamed with pride. He’d saved for weeks to buy that kite.
    “Here comes Dad,” Wade yelled, and there was Olen. Pulling through the field on a Ford 8N, a tough old tractor that refused to die but had long since retired and become a yard ornament.
    His family was right there. Waiting for him. All of them together now. Smiling and waving. He saw Sandy, too, sprinting after a rabbit and jumping a two-strand fence. Gliding smooth. Her coat sleek and fresh.
    They called and waved. Said come home. Told him they loved him and missed him.
    “Mr. Brandt, can you hear me, sir?”
    His wife smiled and tears stained her cheeks and he wanted to kiss them. He reached for her, and her lips came together and said, “I love you.” But then …
    “Mr. Brandt, can you hear me? Mr. Brandt, come on, buddy, talk to me.”
    They were gone. Replaced by bright lights and strange voices.
    “Olen, can you hear me? My name’s Rayna. I’m a paramedic, and you’re in my ambulance.”
    His eyes blinked and flickered, but the dark felt safe. Pulled him back.
    “No … I don’t …”
    She rubbed a hard tool across his chest that smarted and his eyes popped open.
    “There you are, Olen. Stay with me, buddy, OK?”
    His head hurt