Marigold sat beside a teenage boy whose face turned red when she squeezed next to him. Helen sat beside a black woman who carried a baby on her lap. Rachel and Laughing Girl sat in the very back with a group of teenage boys in sport coats who all wore the looks of the recently deceased on their faces.
The ride was a long one, wrought with bumps and twists on one-lane dirt highways through the forest. Marigold had only ridden in vehicles a few times in her life. Just feeling the vibration of the motor beneath her was thrilling.
The sun was lowering behind the trees. The rural world was slowing down for the evening. They passed creek bridges, desolate farms, and places so far from town they had to mail-order sunshine. They drove past places Marigold had never seen before. And it occurred to her how little of the world she had experienced and how small her life was in such a big universe.
The van turned off the main road onto a dirt pathway. The vehicle followed two tracks through a scalped field toward a giant tent that stood atop a hill on the horizon. It was a bigger tent than Marigold thought it would be. It was already lit orange in the dim early evening.
When they neared the tent, she could see vehicles parked in haphazard clumps.
“What in the world?” said the young man who was driving. “What’s going on?”
“Beats me,” said the other holy roller. “Something’s not right.”
Marigold could see a crowd of people gathered outside the large tent, surrounding black-and-white squad cars. Lights were flashing, and people were huddled together.
“What in the name of . . . ?” the young driver said.
“What’s the sheriff doing here?” said the other.
The van rolled toward the crowd but was stopped by a man wearing a badge. Marigold craned her neck out the window to see. The man in the uniform rapped on the van’s window.
The driver rolled down the window and asked what was happening.
“Get these people outta here,” answered the man with the badge. “Ain’t gonna be no revival tonight. Sorry, folks, everybody needs to go home.”
“But what’s wrong?” said a woman in the back seat.
“Sheriff’s business, ma’am. Now, everyone just go on home.” The badge smacked the van door and said, “Take these people home, boys.”
“Is someone hurt, Sheriff?” Helen shouted.
The officer looked inside and said, “Helen Burlington? What in the world are you doing here?”
“What happened?” said one of the teenage boys.
“There’s been an accident, folks. A man was shot. We need this area cleared so we can get back to work. Now don’t make me tell you twice.”
Without warning, Marigold’s hands became hot. She looked at them; they were bright red, almost like she’d been burned. She glanced out the window but couldn’t see through the crowd of people.
“Sheriff,” said Helen. “I think we can help.”
The sheriff seemed annoyed by this. He leaned into the window. “You?”
“That’s right, us.”
The sheriff smirked. “Thank you, Helen, but these men don’t need that kind of help. Right now I just need this place emptied.” His voice was getting louder.
“Hey,” said Rachel. “She was only trying to help.”
Marigold stared out her window and saw a break in the crowd of onlookers. She saw a young man kneeling on the ground. Someone was hurt. She could tell that much. She looked at her hands. The skin had become so white that she could see the veins and arteries showing through. She flung open the door beside her. She kicked off her shoes and stomped through the field toward the group of people.
The sheriff turned to see her leave. “Miss!” he shouted. “Get back here!”
“Wait!” said Rachel, who had already leapt from the vehicle. “Wait, Marigold!”
Marigold turned to see Rachel, Laughing Girl, and Helen leaping from the van. They trotted through the mud in their heels.
“Marigold!” said Helen. “Wait!”
“Helen!” said the sheriff. “Get back here, I said!”
“The sheriff looks mad,” said Laughing Girl.
“Let him be mad,” said Helen. “He was never mad until his wife found out about us.”
“Helen!” the sheriff shouted again. “I said get back here!”
“You and the sheriff?” said Laughing Girl. “Really?”
“I was young. He was stupid. Besides, he’s gained a lotta weight since then.”
The girls laughed.
Marigold ran toward the scene of the accident. She shoved her way through the huddled masses.
Helen ran behind her, holding Abe by the hand. Laughing Girl ran as well, pausing to spin on her heel and stick her tongue out at the sheriff.
Rachel turned and yelled, “Helen thinks you’re fat!”
Seventy-Four
Mobile
Pete was nearing Mobile. He followed the highway until it led him through the large underground tunnel, plunging beneath the mighty Mobile River. It was the strangest structure he’d ever seen, this hole in the ground. It made him nervous to be beneath the water rushing above him. It seemed unnatural. He glanced behind him. In the rear window, he could see his dogs staring at the cars behind him, tails tucked.
He missed her. He’d never thought about how much he would miss her until this moment. He replayed his entire childhood while rolling beneath this tunnel. They had spent nearly every day of their lives together. Ruth was always there, in every memory and every scene in his life.
The city of Mobile was paved with cobbled streets and lined with majestic and colorful homes that looked like royal places. Iron balconies, hanging ferns, ornate trim work, and tall streetlights. It was more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. He felt a thrill at being so far from home. But he couldn’t enjoy it. Not without her.
He drove through the city, taking it all in, trying to forget the heaviness that gnawed at him. Paul had been the only father he’d ever known. He had guided the family through an uncertain world and ushered them through hell. Who would guide Pete now? Who would teach him about life, and people, and dogs, and how to be a good man?
Stringbean snored in the seat beside him. He rested a hand on her. She moaned when he did.
Once he made it through the city, he followed a new stretch of highway the prisoners were still working on. Men wearing blue denim and swinging hammers and pickaxes stood in the ditches. They were guarded by men on horses bearing shotguns. One prisoner waved at Pete when he crawled past them. Pete waved back to him. The man had red hair and no teeth.
Pete pulled over to glance at the map in his lap. His route was outlined with red pencil. He turned the paper sideways. Stringbean made water beneath a large oak tree in a cotton field. Pete walked into the field and observed the acres of white. He breathed in the smell of it. It was the smell of dirt and foliage and summer air.
He drove again. He rolled down empty dirt paths and passed more men in denim swinging pickaxes. He passed more stretches of new highway. He passed hayfields lit orange in the dusk, a county work camp lined with fences of barbed wire, and bunkhouses with bars on the windows.
He almost missed his turn. It was a nondescript dirt road in the middle of the forest.
He rolled into the driveway and was greeted by a team of Labradors who followed his old vehicle down a long path. Then he saw it.
It was a home that nearly took his breath. The estate was bigger than anything he’d ever seen. It had stately columns, fat and white, towering over a brick patio. The house was surrounded by live oaks and azaleas. There were so many pink azaleas. It was beautiful.
Pete drove beneath the canopy of manicured trees and whistled to himself. Stringbean sensed their journey was coming to an end, and she sat straight in the seat.
“You seeing all this, Bean?” said Pete. “This fella must be awful important.”
Stringbean saw it.
Pete parked in front of the home. He leapt out and leaned back to g
et a view of the tall house. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Tall as a mountain and wide as a county.
He saw a man wearing a pale yellow suit with a cigar poking from beneath his thick brown mustache. The man was rocking in a chair, legs crossed, surveying the countryside that was behind the house.
Stringbean stepped out of the truck and followed closely.
“Evening,” said Pete.
“Evening,” said the man, rising onto long legs.
All of a sudden Pete felt very underdressed. His crumpled shirt and stained coveralls were rags compared to the man’s clothes. Pete removed his hat, though he wasn’t sure why. It was something he’d seen Paul do in the presence of important people and ladies.
“Evening,” said Pete again. “I’m looking for Mister Ryals.”
The man smiled. “Call me Ferris. The only folks who call me Ryals are men who owe a debt to society.”
“You mean like those men by the road?”
“The very ones.”
“You mean you’re their . . . their . . .”
“Their warden. The prison belongs to me.”
Ferris met Pete at the rear of his truck. He eyed the dogs and grinned at them, then stuck his finger through the chicken wire to touch their faces. He spoke to them in a high-pitched voice.
“These’re handsome dogs, son.”
“Yessir, I hate to see them go.”
“I know you do.”
“They’s sorta like my family, you know.”
“I know.”
Pete ran the dogs hard. He showed the man how the dogs could work in tall grass after laying trails. He demonstrated how unafraid the dogs were of gunfire by firing a scattergun beside them. He showed the man how the biggest bloodhound, Leroy, could track through standing water.
When the demonstrations were over, Ferris patted Pete’s back and said, “Your daddy was right about you, you know that?”
“Sir?” Pete said.
“When we made the deal, your daddy told me you were a good trainer, but I didn’t think you’d be this good. I didn’t think anyone could be this good.”
“He wasn’t my daddy. He was just a friend.”
“Really? Because he called you his son when I met him.”
“He did?”
“He sure did. He bragged on you so much it irritated me. But now I see he wasn’t bragging. He was only telling the truth.”
Ferris removed a roll of bills from his breast pocket and paid Pete a hundred dollars more than Paul had agreed upon. Pete counted the money twice to be sure, just the way Paul had taught him.
“I think you overpaid me,” Pete said, handing the man a hundred-dollar bill.
“No,” said Ferris. “That’s for your daddy. Folks around here know he was the greatest gun-dog man in the state.”
“Really?”
“When I was a boy, my daddy took me hunting with the governor. He had these dogs that did whatever he said. They were the best gun dogs I ever seen. I asked the governor where he got them dogs, and he told me they come from your daddy. I never forgot it. Best dogs in the state.”
“He wasn’t my daddy. He sorta adopted me and my sister, but we ain’t blood kin.”
Ferris lit a cigar and said. “Well, blood is just a liquid. He was a good man, your pa.”
“He was that,” said Pete.
“And there aren’t many of those left.”
“No, sir.”
Pete loaded Stringbean into his truck. He watched the dogs run in the countryside behind the sprawling estate, and he whispered goodbye to them. He fired the engine. He waved to Ferris and left with an empty truck bed.
He cried. Not just for Paul, but for life. It was so short. Too short. And it made him feel an urgency inside. He drove past the prisoners again and the new stretches of highway, and when he reached the tunnel, he knew he would ask Ruth a very important question when he returned home.
Seventy-Five
Angels
The deputies tried to hold the red-haired woman back, but she could not be held. She broke through them and walked toward Coot. He was startled to see her. He felt he knew her, almost. It was the way her face was shaped. It was familiar. It was almost as though he’d met her before.
The chatter of the crowd died into a hushed whisper when she approached Joseph’s cold body. She knelt beside the man. She pinned up her bright hair behind her head and looked at Coot. She asked, “How is he?”
Coot said, “He’s not . . . He’s gone.”
The woman said nothing. She only bit her lip and touched Joseph’s face. She let her eyes sit on him, like she was searching for something.
“I just took his pulse,” said Coot. “He’s no longer . . .”
“He’s not dead,” she said. “He’s only sleeping.” A faint smile ran across her fair face. “What’s his name?”
“Joseph,” said Coot. “His name was Joseph.”
Her eyes were closed. Her nostrils widened slightly with each breath.
The crowd of onlookers had fallen completely silent. Even the noise from the crickets and frogs had faded.
“Joseph,” she said. “Now that’s a nice name.”
The woman pressed her hands on Joseph’s belly. She laid them so gently, Coot wondered if she was even touching Joseph at all. She breathed in a slow rhythm. The sounds of the world had ended.
“Hello, Joseph,” said the woman.
A stillness overtook Coot. And the world seemed brighter. Even though the sun had almost set, it seemed as though it were midday somehow. He closed his eyes because the sincerity of the moment seemed to demand it.
All he could hear was the sound of breathing.
Coot opened his eyes and saw Joseph’s chest rise, then fall. The old man lurched forward and coughed like he’d inhaled a fist of flour.
There were gasps from the crowd and several hallelujahs, along with a few screams. One baby started to cry.
The deputies had removed their hats. Even the sheriff stood with his hat pressed against his chest. Then applause. Then the light clapping turned into the roaring sound of voices, chattering in what sounded like another language. People pressed in to get a better look and began to lose their minds.
The deputies did their best to hold them back, but failed. The crowd was pressing in and about to suffocate them. People started clawing at the redheaded woman. Someone pulled her hair. Someone tugged on the woman’s powder-blue dress so hard the sleeve tore.
But the woman didn’t seem to be affected. She only moved her hands to Joseph’s chest.
She held them there until his cough died into a gentle wheeze. Joseph’s eyes opened. He wore a look of confusion. “Myrna, Myrna,” said the old man. “Is it you, darling?”
“No,” said the woman. “My name’s Marigold.”
Then she collapsed and passed out, and the wild crowd almost trampled her to death.
Seventy-Six
Going Home
It was late when Pete’s tires rolled into Miss Warner’s drive. The familiar farm welcomed him even though it was dark and he could see nothing but its outline against the sky. The little home was surrounded by buckshot stars, and the night seemed so quiet it was almost perfect.
He’d only been gone a few days, but those days had been long ones. Stringbean jumped out of the vehicle after him. He was careful to shut the truck door without making too much noise. Everyone would be asleep at this hour, and no lights were on in the house.
He walked through the yard, past the sleeping chickens roosting on the fence posts.
Pete stepped toward the barn and removed his hat when he looked at the place where he’d found Paul’s fallen body. He bowed his head.
“You woulda been proud of me,” said Pete in a quiet voice. “Least I hope you woulda. The dogs impressed that old man real good.” He swallowed and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Paul. I’m just so sorry. I wish you coulda been there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
He imagined the
sound of Paul’s voice. “Quit your sorryin’,” he would’ve said to Pete with a stiff slap on the back.
Pete felt arms around him. He could only see a figure in the darkness. She wore a nightgown, and her hair was down. For a few minutes they held each other.
“You’re home,” she said.
“I can’t live without you,” he said.
Seventy-Seven
The Big House
Marigold awoke on a cot. Her knees were drawn into her chest and her back hurt. When she opened her eyes, she was surrounded by brick walls and iron bars.
She was not alone in her cell. Beside her was the young man she’d met earlier. He sat with his back against the wall. Beneath her cot slept the old man she had touched. He was snoring.
The county courthouse had two cells in the building, which were actually one large cell divided by iron bars. Marigold focused her lazy eyes on the adjoining cell. The big man was in it, sleeping in his cot, one large leg hanging off his bed. His suit was torn, covered in dirt and blood.
She tried to remember what had happened, but she couldn’t get past her tiredness. She was depleted. Her head hurt, her neck stiff from sleeping on an unforgiving cot that was hard enough to qualify as a medieval torture device.
The deputy in the jailhouse was listening to a small radio on a desk. He leaned backward in his chair with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The sound of singing was coming through the small speaker. “Savior, like a shepherd lead us, much we need thy tender care . . .”
Marigold got lost in the music. And so, it seemed, did the young man in her cell. The sound of the tinny voice was so honest it sounded like a child singing.
The young man was seated at the foot of her cot, listening with his eyes closed. When he felt her stir, he looked at her. The young man’s face was bruised, and his lip was bloody. His two brilliant eyes seemed to grin at her before his face did.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
“You were out like a light.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
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