Cemetery Road

by Greg Iles

  “I’ve got some papers for you to sign, Duncan.”

  Dad squints at him, the malevolence in his eyes burning right through the drugs. “You get out of here. I already signed away my life’s work. I’ve got nothing left for a vulture like you.”

  Pine steps closer to the bed. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. This agreement formalizes the full return of the Bienville Watchman to you and your family. Also your home. Blythe owns it free and clear now.”

  Dad blinks in confusion, as if this is some cruel prank.

  “Marshall, this is upsetting him,” Mom says.

  “Dad, it’s true,” I say quickly. “You’re getting the paper back. And the house. Mom owns it now.”

  “But—” He blinks like someone coming out of anesthesia. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Watchman is coming back to our family,” I tell him. “Debt-free. I’m going to go downtown and open up the doors today. Bring the whole staff back on. And as soon as you can walk, I’m taking you down there to sit in your office.”

  He’s shaking his head as though worried he’s having another hallucination. “But . . . how?”

  “Turns out your son here is a hell of a businessman,” Pine says. He holds out the contract and a Montblanc pen.

  “Don’t worry about it now,” I tell Dad. “Just sign your name, and the Watchman’s yours again.”

  “Not if you bought us out of the hole,” he says, shaking his head on the pillow. “I won’t stand for that.”

  “Marshall hasn’t paid a cent,” Arthur says with ironic bonhomie. “I can assure you of that.”

  I grab an Architectural Digest that my mom was reading and slip it beneath the contracts so that Dad has something to press against when he signs. Still bewildered, he looks over at Mom, who nods and says, “Sign it, Duncan. Take your paper back. For old Angus McEwan.”

  “Well then . . . all right.” He takes the pen with his trembling hand and, after some struggle, signs a semblance of his name.

  Arthur flips some pages and has him go through this struggle twice more. “That’s it,” says the attorney, handing me a copy. “You’re back in business, Duncan, and close to two million dollars better off than you were yesterday afternoon. I’d stay to help you celebrate, but considering the circumstances—”

  “You’ll get the hell out,” I finish.

  Before he leaves, Arthur gives me what I can only describe as a smile of grudging respect. He’s screwed enough people to appreciate a good fucking when he’s on the receiving end.

  After he’s gone, my father says, “What the hell just happened?”

  “Poetic justice,” Mom says with satisfaction.

  His jaundiced eyes seek me out, then settle on my face. “How the hell did you do this, son?”

  “The Charles Colson method. I got them by the balls, and their hearts and minds followed.”

  Dad closes his eyes and mumbles something I can’t make out. Then in a stronger voice, he says, “You gave up something. You had to. They wouldn’t have given it back to us. Not free and clear.”

  “I gave up nothing.”

  “Did you hurt your career?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Did you bury something for them?”

  Jesus . . . “Do you remember your Greek proverbs, Dad? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “We’re not Greek. I always look gift horses in the mouth. That’s what journalists do. If something sounds too good to be true, it is.”

  “Dad, you could ruin a—hell, I don’t know.”

  “I know it. There’s only one way this is worth it to me.”

  Oh, boy. Here it comes. “How’s that?”

  “You stay here and run the paper. I’m too old now. Too damn sick. You make it what it should be. If what your mother told me about this morning’s issue is true, then you’ve already made a good start. You don’t answer to me anymore. The Watchman’s yours. I’ll sign it over right now.”

  My mother walks to the edge of the bed and lays her right hand on my father’s arm. “Let’s stop talking about the paper. There’ll be plenty of time for that later on.”

  Will there? I wonder. Looking at Dad’s waxy yellow skin, I feel like I’m seeing a preview of what he’ll look like in death. We stand in silence for a few minutes, and his eyelids slowly fall closed. His breathing sounds shallow and irregular.

  “I’m going to see if they’ll let us bring two chairs in here,” Mom says. “Jack said he’d speak to the nurses.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You stay with him. I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  After she tiptoes out, I stand at the foot of the bed and speak softly, voicing words I should have said years ago. Decades, even. The problem is, I didn’t realize that until I’d been drowned on a bench in the Bienville jail.

  “I’ve hated you most of my life,” I tell him. “You made my last three years of high school hell. You acted as if I didn’t exist. You blamed me for Adam’s death. I blamed myself for it, okay? But I didn’t kill him. I know he got in that river to look out for me, but that wasn’t all of it. He had his own reasons. Anyway . . . I know what it means to lose a son. And you lost two children. I can’t imagine that.”

  I pause, feeling short of breath, only half hoping he’s heard me. He lies there with his mouth open, his arms jerking every few seconds as his brain misfires. Stepping closer to the bed, I lay my hand on his cold arm. He doesn’t stir.

  “I’ve always said you blamed me all my life,” I go on. “But the truth is, you blamed me for three years. After that, I got the hell out of here and slammed the door behind me. You never reached out to me. But if you had, I wouldn’t have listened. That’s the truth of it. I blamed you for blaming me. And now . . . it all just seems stupid. A waste. I’ve spent years trying to prove I’m better than you were at this job, and you’ve drunk yourself to death. And for what? Nothing I can see.”

  The glass door slides open behind me, and Mom leads in a male nurse carrying two folding chairs, which he sets up on the opposite side of the bed.

  “Y’all must rate pretty high around here,” he says. “They don’t usually let us do this for folks, but Dr. Kirby called somebody and laid down the law.”

  “He’s a good man,” Mom says. “Thank you for setting these up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After he goes out, Mom says, “Did I see you talking to your father?”

  “Not really. I was just letting him know he’s not alone.”

  She gives me a long look, but she asks no questions. “Well, I’m glad,” she says finally. “I hope you had a good talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We sit in companionable silence for about ten minutes. Then the nurse returns to tell me I have a visitor in the ICU waiting room.

  “Male or female?” I ask.

  “Male. Said his name is Mr. Russo.”

  Tommy Russo? Shit. Now I regret leaving Nadine’s gun in the Flex.

  “Is everything all right?” Mom asks, with her preternatural perception of danger.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll just be a minute.”

  I find Russo chatting up a young nurse in the ICU waiting room. He’s smiling at her, but when he sees me, he says something in a low voice and she scuttles down the hall.

  “What can I do for you, Tommy?” I ask.

  “I hear your father’s not doing good.”

  “That why you’re here?”

  Russo looks around the waiting room. “What a dump. Can you believe this is the best they can do?”

  “Tommy—”

  “That deal you made this morning. With Buckman and the others.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can live with most of it. But you gotta tell ’em to forget that community development fund. That million-a-year bullshit.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Buckman says I gotta fund that whole nut out of my new c
asino. I can’t do it. My partners won’t stand for it.”

  At this moment the concerns of Tommy Russo’s partners don’t interest me in the slightest. “That’s your problem, Tommy, not mine.”

  He shakes his head once. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. What you gonna do with that money, anyway? Repave some streets for the moolies, do some drainage projects? Their cars are for shit anyway. I should know. They fill up my parking lot night and day, while the owners gamble away their Social Security.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Tommy. What’s a million to you? If that’s the price of a new casino, it’s cheap.”

  “It’s a mil I don’t need to pay, Doc. I ain’t your only problem, either. Beau Holland ain’t goin’ to jail. I’m just telling you. He’ll kill you before that happens.”

  My image of Russo as a snake with its fangs folded back returns, because now I sense the fangs being deployed. Tommy steps into my personal space, and I get a strong wave of his cologne mixed with sweat.

  “Listen,” he says. “I feel bad about your old man. But he just got his newspaper back, right? He’s whole again. Your mother’s happy, I know. Now, that article you ran this morning, that got me in some hot water. You run another story like that, you dig deeper, you’re gonna set some things in motion.”

  So much for Russo’s understated threats.

  “It’s like Newton’s law, right?” he goes on. “Yeah, I went to school. Every action has an equal but opposite reaction. In other words, you fuck me this way, you get fucked right back.”

  I don’t know what to say to this.

  “I hope you don’t lose your old man,” he says. “But if you do, look at it this way: you still got your mother, right? God bless her.” Russo grips my shoulder like we’re old friends from the neighborhood, then walks to the open door, turns, and looks back with an altar boy’s face. “Think about that, Doc. I’ll be seein’ you.”

  “I want out of here, Marshall! Get me out!”

  I blink awake beside my father’s bed. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but my left arm and leg are both asleep, and there’s a painful crick in my neck. With Dad’s limited vocal volume, there’s no telling how long he’s been trying to wake me.

  “Marshall?” he rasps. “Wake up, son! I need to get out of here.”

  “Dad, you can’t,” I tell him, getting to my feet.

  My mother touches my lower back, and I feel as though she materialized out of the ether. “You’re in the ICU, Duncan,” she says. “You have to stay here and rest.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead,” he says with a spark of his old gruffness. “Get me out of here. That’s what I want. That’s all I want. Get Jack Kirby in here! He’ll understand.”

  Mom turns to me, imploring me to think of a way to calm him down, but we both sense that nothing short of a sedative will bring that result.

  “Dad, Jack’s going to tell you the same thing we are. You can’t just walk out of the ICU.”

  “Jack will tell you to go jump in a lake,” Mom says, trying to lighten the moment. “How about some ice cream? Marshall can run and get you some Blue Bell.”

  “I don’t want any damned ice cream,” he growls. “I’d give a thousand dollars to jump in a lake. Get Jack on the damned phone.”

  “Where is it you want to go, Dad? Home?”

  “No.” The immobile mask of his face seems somehow filled with emotion. “I want to go to the cemetery.”

  I feel Mom’s gaze on my face. “The Bienville City Cemetery?” I ask.

  “That’s right. I want to see Adam’s statue. And you’re coming with me.”

  Mom clenches my hand below the line of the bed. She’s worried that this fit of agitation might be the last burst of life before a final heart attack.

  “How long has it been since you were out there?” I ask.

  “Too long.” He looks at Mom. “Isn’t that right, Blythe?”

  “Too long,” she agrees, and I realize that she’s crying.

  “I know you have Jack’s cell number,” Dad says. “Call him.”

  Mom’s iPhone appears in her hand. Holding it close to her face to see the numbers, she presses a few buttons on the screen, then passes it to me.

  After three rings, Jack Kirby says, “Blythe? Is everything all right?”

  I turn from the bed and walk into the corner, wanting to get some distance from Dad, but not wanting the nurses beyond the glass to see me using the phone. “It’s Marshall, Jack.”

  “Has Duncan taken a turn for the worse?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve got an unusual question for you. He wants to leave the hospital.”

  “Oh. Hell. I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s a common request at this stage.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a request.”

  The old doctor chuckles. “Where does he want to go? Home?”

  “He wants me to drive him out to the cemetery, to sit with Adam’s statue.”

  There’s a long silence. Then Dr. Kirby says, “I see.”

  “What would that do to him, Jack?”

  “Marshall, he’s in failure now.”

  “Heart failure?”

  “Yes. And his liver’s close to failing, as I’ve told Blythe. I’ve just seen some new cardiac numbers. There’s a lot of muscle damage from yesterday’s infarction.”

  “Speak up!” Dad says from the bed. “Or let me talk to him.”

  I lower my voice still further. “Are you telling me that no matter what we do . . . ?”

  “I think you know I am. I’m sorry.”

  I close my eyes, grimly absorbing his funereal tone. “So you don’t have any problem with me taking him for a drive downtown?”

  “Well, I can’t recommend it. And I don’t know if he’ll survive it. But if you’re asking me whether I think my old friend would rather look his last over the Mississippi River or at a blank wall in the ICU—I think you know the answer.”

  My last resistance gives way. “Okay. How do I get him out of here?”

  “To take him anywhere but home, you’ll have to check him out against medical advice. He’ll have to sign something.”

  “No problem there. I’ll talk it over with Mom, but I have a feeling she’ll agree.”

  “I do, too. Let me call admissions and try to smooth the way for you.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “By the way—I really enjoyed my newspaper this morning. That’s the way to stick it to the bastards.”

  “It felt pretty good.”

  “You still carrying that pistol like I told you?”

  “I am,” I tell him, even though I left it in the Flex.

  “Good. Head on a swivel, boy. Remember.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After staring through the thin curtain at the nurses sitting before their monitors, I turn back to the bed.

  “What did he say?” Dad asks.

  “We’re going to the cemetery.”

  My father’s eyes shine with pleasure. “I told you. Jack’s a good egg.”

  Mom looks from Dad to me, then back again.

  “Are you coming, Blythe?” he asks. “Are you up for it?”

  She gives him a smile that must have taken immeasurable strength to summon. “No, darling. I need to run back to the house and check on some things. To be ready for your homecoming. You two go ahead. You need this trip. It’s been a long time since Marshall went out there.”

  Dad looks at her for a few seconds, then nods. “Just the men, then. Let’s pull out these tubes and hit the road.”

  Chapter 48

  In the end, it’s Jack Kirby himself who helps me lift Dad out of the hospital wheelchair and fold his rigid body into my passenger seat. Thankfully, the Flex sits lower to the ground than any other SUV, but still my mother stands to one side, waiting to grab him if he starts to fall. After I close Dad into the vehicle, Jack takes Mom’s arm and walks us to the rear bumper.

  “Anything could happen at this point,” h
e says, his eyes on my mother’s. “We all know that, right?”

  She nods silently.

  He turns to me. “I’ll be here a little longer, then over at my office. If something happens, just head back this way and give me a call. I’ll meet you here.”

  Mom squeezes his hand. “We appreciate this, Jack.”

  The old doctor smiles and give her a hug, then walks back into the hospital.

  “I think this is the right thing, Mom,” I tell her.

  “I do, too. Call me if you need me.”

  “Are you really going home?”

  She shakes her head slightly, and I see the truth in her eyes. “I’ll just wait here. I’ve got a book to read.”

  And with that we part.

  There are basically two ways to get from the hospital to the Bienville Cemetery, and they take roughly the same amount of time. Most people would take the bypass to the river, then drive along the bluff, through the Garden District, and up to the cemetery. But you can also skirt the town until you hit Cemetery Road, then drive in east to west, the way farmers and soldiers and slave traders came in during the heyday of the town. I choose that route, because it will take us past many of the landmarks of our lives, both nostalgic and sorrowful.

  Dad doesn’t speak as I take Highway 61 around the eastern edge of town. He shifts in his seat as I turn onto Cemetery Road, which grumbles under the tires, a dozen layers of too-thin asphalt and pothole patches, eroding under the weight of log trucks rumbling between the Matheson sawmill on the river and the north-south artery of Highway 61. In a few minutes we’ll pass the turns for the barn and my parents’ neighborhood. Then we’ll enter the city proper, transect the northern quarter of town, and arrive at the rear of the cemetery, where the road sweeps in a great circle around the lush green hills of the graveyard. An unbroken wall of gray cloud stands to the west, towering over the river. I hope the rain will hold off until our pilgrimage is concluded.

  Without turning to Dad, I say, “Sometimes I feel like Cemetery Road is the only road in this whole town. You know?”

  He grunts but doesn’t comment.

  “No matter where you’re going, you either cross it or end up taking it at least part of the way.”