by Lisa Wingate
I gave in. …
Forcing the memory to fade, I slowed the car, pulled in a breath, let it go, looked up and out. This journey was about moving forward, pressing through, facing the guilt, self-hatred, self-recrimination, finally pushing those things away after years of embracing them, feeding them, making them stronger, running from them only to turn around and embrace them again.
I saw the crossing as it was today—a quiet place, a lazy trickle of water winding over a bed of limestone the soft color of milky tea, the water narrowing to slip harmlessly through the culvert under the crossing. Trees lined the creek banks, the limbs painting a canvas of sunlight and shade. This was a beautiful place, a place I’d always loved. How many times had Kemp and I talked my father into stopping here so we could wade in the pool of water behind the culvert, hunt for fossils, chase dragonflies and catch minnows?
There were good memories here. I’d let them go, allowed them to be eclipsed by the blackness of a single terrible night. Time had moved the river onward, cleared away the debris and broken tree limbs, washed clean the mud-covered grass, planted a growth of sunflowers where they could lean over the water and watch their reflections passing by. God had made this place whole again. The brokenness remained in me only because I had clung to it.
I stopped the car, got out and stood at the crossing, gazing down the river. My mind thumbed through images of Kemp and me wading in the water, Danny and me crossing over the bridge coming and going from the ranch as we chased impractical hopes. Things weren’t always bad. We were happy in our own way. We were young, and starry-eyed, and foolish. We grew up and began to outgrow each other, and I think we both knew it. Rather than address the real issues, admit our mistakes, we pressed onward, pushed harder, pursuing an immature dream that, in the end, died painfully.
Time had moved on in this place, and I had to, as well.
Taking in the sweet scent of noonday, I let go of the idea that regretting what had happened would ever change it. I cast the burden of it to the wind like a dry leaf, allowed it to float away on the water. I watched it disappear into the distance, growing smaller and smaller until the image of what had been was replaced by the realization of what could be. Life held so many possibilities now. But there was one more thing to do. One more place to go.
As I left the crossing behind, I felt a lightness settle over me, an acceptance of what had happened, of being the one who was saved from the water.
The parking lot was just beginning to clear at Caney Creek Church when I pulled up and stopped under a tree near the road. Sitting in my car, I watched from a distance as Pastor Harve shook hands with the brethren at the door. Miss Beedie was handing out roses from a bucket of blooms she’d probably clipped from her garden. Miss Beedie’s flowers were legendary.
When the crowd was gone, Pastor Harve turned back to the door to lock up, his movements slow, his body hunched over as he struggled with the lock. The heavy bar of guilt lay over me again. Pastor Harve and Miss Beedie would spend their last years without their son to tend them. That responsibility would fall to the grandkids, O.C. and Teylina. Things could have been so different. …
Miss Beedie looked up from her flower bucket as I let my car drift across the parking lot. Shading her eyes with her hand, she tried to see who was inside. She called over her shoulder to Pastor Harve, and together they squinted toward my car.
They didn’t react at first when I opened the door and got out. The sun was behind me, and perhaps they couldn’t tell who I was. My heart pounded in my throat, grew large and painful and heavy with tears. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to inject sadness into their day. I just wanted to say I was sorry, and to tell them that when I saw Harvard coming across the water toward me, it gave me the courage to hold on. He was a remarkable man, their son, a hero.
But when I reached Miss Beedie, the dam burst, and all I could do was let the tears come. Setting down her bucket, she said, “Why, it’s Lauren, Harve.” Then she stretched out her arms and took me in.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, holding tight, circling her thin shoulders, surprised by the strength there.
“Oh, honey,” she whispered, and the two of us rocked back and forth, joined in shared grief, locked in a painful reunion that seemed to last far too long. Finally the tears faded, and she let go. We stood for a moment near the church steps, none of us knowing what to say.
“I should have come sooner,” I whispered, my voice gravelly and rough.
“It’s no matter.” Pastor Harve laid a hand against my cheek, swept away a tear with his thumb. “You’re here now. Harvard would like that. He always loved you a lot. He loved all you kids he taught in the 4-H.”
I nodded, knowing it was true. Throughout the years of my childhood, Harvard had been the one who had shown up in the heat, the cold, the rain, to teach 4-H horsemanship, to help kids trim show steers, and clip sheep, and build transport cages so bunnies and chickens could be taken to the county show. No matter what the weather, how difficult the project, or how overstressed and mouthy the kid, Harvard could be counted on to be there, dealing out lessons in animal husbandry and proper 4-H behavior.
Miss Beedie picked up her flower bucket again. “I was just gonna take these to Harvard.” She looked toward the tree line, where an old wagon road led up the hill through the pecan trees to Caney Creek Cemetery. “This bucket’s heavy, though.”
“I’ll carry it.” I reached for the handle, then hesitated. Perhaps this was a private time. Maybe they wouldn’t want anyone along, especially not me. “If it’s all right.” I waited for the answer, feeling breathless, telling myself I would understand if they asked me to leave.
Miss Beedie nodded benevolently. “Why sure, sweetheart.” She handed the bucket to me, and the three of us started along the path—Miss Beedie walking with her cane, me carrying the bucket, and Pastor Harve with his elbow crooked in mine. We moved slowly over the uneven ground as the sun grew high and hot overhead. On the hill, Caney Creek Cemetery cradled aging monuments beneath a pecan grove. The aromas of honeysuckle and antique roses hung in the air, a comfortable blanket of scent that, were it visible, would have been soft shades of gray and blue, with lacy calico around the edges.
“Harvard’s over there by the big tree,” Miss Beedie said, but she needn’t have told me. I could already see the climbing roses growing over Harvard’s resting place, a rich spray of green and red twining over the milk-colored monument and spilling onto the ground, searching for new places to take root. When we reached the graveside, Miss Beedie picked up a vase of daisies that had wilted in the heat. I replaced them with the bucket of fresh flowers.
“There you go, love,” Miss Beedie said, then slowly bent and kissed Harvard’s monument. My eyes burned and spilled over. How hard must it be for them to come to this place every week, leave flowers on Harvard’s grave and miss him over and over again?
“I’m sorry,” I choked. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could … ” My voice snapped like a twig under too much weight. I wish I could go back and change things. We shouldn’t have driven across. It wasn’t worth it. I should have stopped Danny, made him turn around. …
I felt myself sinking, returning to the black space where the what ifs overshadowed everything, where the guilt made surviving just that—surviving. Nothing more.
Brother Harve took my hand, encased it in a circle that trembled, yet was strong. “Harvard’s work was done.” His voice was low and soothing, confident. “He’s up there, singin’ with the angels. He don’t hurt, and he ain’t tired, and he ain’t sad, and he ain’t ever gonna shed another tear. You know that, Lauren Lee.”
I nodded, because I did know. I believed it. I had faith in it, yet at the same time, I wanted things to be different. I wanted Harvard to be here with his parents, with his children. I didn’t want him to miss what was here for him on Earth.
“Only our heavenly Father knows our time to go,” Pastor Harve went on, and I wondered if he was talking to me or to himself
. “He who loves, and hopes, and forgives. You know you been forgiven, Lauren. You know you been forgiven by the Lord and by this man layin’ here in the ground. Harvard loved you so much, he walked into the water for you. If it was you or him, he woulda chose to go. He wouldn’ta wanted to live knowing he couldn’t save you.” He squeezed my hand, brought it to his lips, and brushed my fingers with the gentle kiss of forgiveness, then let go. He and Miss Beedie turned away and started down the hill arm-in-arm, leaving me there to make my peace with the man who’d given his life to save mine.
I sat down beside Harvard’s grave, said good-bye, whispered a thank-you that seemed inadequate. Then I closed my eyes, let forgiveness wash over me and drive away the voices that came from all the darkened corners of my soul. So many times, I’d tried to come to this point and failed. I’d tried to forgive myself for what had happened. But sitting by Harvard’s grave, I finally understood. It wasn’t within my power to forgive myself. I’d already been forgiven. All I could do was accept it.
The trees cast long afternoon shadows over Harvard’s resting place as I took two roses from the bucket and left the cemetery behind. Driving home, I stopped at the low-water crossing again, stood in the current and let it wash around my feet. I kissed the roses, smelled their scent, then lowered them to the water and let them go. They floated away like tiny ships on a journey to someplace new.
Leaving the crossing behind, I felt my lungs fill with breath, become buoyant for the first time in a long time. The day seemed bright, and perfect, and filled with possibility. I took my time driving back to the hotel, just enjoying the feeling of being back in this place I loved, of embracing it again, of finally being home.
My reverie lasted until I reached the Daily Hair and Body. Aunt Donetta, Imagene, and Lucy were waiting there. Before I was even in the door, Aunt Netta captured me and began relating the latest Horseman drama, and the fact that they were to meet “M. Harrison Dane himself” at the Daily airport and entertain him until Nate could find Justin and get back to town. So far no one had heard from Nate, and Dane was due in less than thirty minutes.
“You better run up and get changed!” Aunt Donetta fanned her hands in the air, then waved toward my soiled church clothes. “Land’s sakes, Puggy. Today wasn’t the day to take off wanderin’. Let’s go. Imagene, get the pecan pie. Lucy, you better grab a brush, a comb, and a wet rag … and an extra cowboy hat, just in case we need it. Let Bob know to get the barbecue out there. And call Harlan. Tell him Kemp’s back in town, and he said he’ll drive the school bus.”
I didn’t even bother to ask what the bus was for, or how my brother had somehow become involved. I just hurried off to my room to change clothes before Aunt Netta could blow a gasket. I’d tell her about my visit with Pastor Harve and Miss Beedie later. Right now, there was business to tend to, and somehow it involved pecan pie, barbecue, and a cowboy hat. In Daily, pretty much everything did.
Twenty minutes later, we were ready for the trip to the airport. My Durango was second in line after Imagene’s van, and behind us the squatty half-sized school bus the Dailyians lovingly called the Bean rumbled and whined in idle protest at having been awakened on a Sunday afternoon for special duty. The Bean was covered with finger-in-dirt graffiti after having been at baseball camp all week with Kemp and his team. Behind the wheel, my brother looked like a deer in the headlights. “You just don’t know what you’ve missed around here this week,” I told him, and he shook his head ruefully.
“Looks like it,” he said, his dark eyes droopy and tired as he watched Aunt Netta and Bob load the last of several coolers into the van. “What’s the food for?”
“You probably don’t want to know.” As far as I could tell, part of Aunt Netta’s plan was to ply the M. Harrison Dane contingent with country cookin’ and lots of pie if we couldn’t produce Justin Shay.
“I probably don’t,” Kemp agreed, pulling off his baseball cap and scratching his head. “Tell me why we need the bus again?”
Aunt Netta was passing by and answered the question. “You know them Hollywood types. It’s just like on TV,” she said, then buzzed away to make sure the pecan pies were securely positioned.
Kemp shrugged helplessly and relaxed in his seat, letting the chaos continue around him. Having been involved in a few Donetta Bradford schemes before, he knew it was usually better to sit back and keep your head down than to try figuring things out.
By the time we headed for the airport, Aunt Netta’s face was covered with perspiration, she and Imagene weren’t speaking, and Lucy was pointing and hollering at everyone in Japanese. Luckily, they departed for Operation Dane in three different vehicles— Imagene in her van, Lucy with Bob in the Daily Café truck, and Aunt Donetta in the Bean, which meant there wasn’t much chance of Kemp falling asleep behind the wheel.
When we arrived at Daily Air, Dane’s plane was just turning the corner by the hangar. The stairs came down, and a man who looked like a pro wrestler squeezed through the opening. He descended to the tarmac and checked out the lay of the land, his burly arms akimbo, as if he thought he might need to put someone into a chokehold. He seemed surprised that there was no gaggle of press and paparazzi on the runway—just a ragtag group of Dailyians gathered outside the Bean and several interested Herefords looking on from the pasture next door.
A little Asian girl appeared in the doorway of the plane. Seeing the Bean, she pointed and tugged someone’s arm, trying to get down the stairs to the big yellow vehicle. The arm led to Dane’s wife, Monique, whom I recognized from countless movies and magazine covers. She was smaller than I thought she’d be, slender and willowy, dressed in a silk tank top, loose cotton pants, and sandals. A spray of long dark hair swirled in the breeze of the dying engines and circled her shoulders. She smiled as the girl pulled her down the ramp, then at the bottom, Monique scooped her daughter up and listened while the child chattered. Three more Dane kids of varying sizes and different nationalities, several nannies, more security, and various other personnel followed her off the plane.
Dane exited last. He was more unassuming than I’d expected, dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, sunglasses, and loafers. A blond-haired boy of about seven walked beside him. I’d seen the boy in a People magazine article about Dane’s family. He was their eldest, adopted from an orphanage somewhere in the former Soviet block. He held his father’s hand and looked timidly around the airport, his gaze settling on the wandering welcome committee of Hereford cows, then snapping toward us when Aunt Netta called out a greeting.
“Howw-dee-ee-e!” Her voice echoed across the empty space and reverberated off the buildings, causing the Dane babies to swivel in the arms of their nannies, following the sound.
Completely unintimidated by the gaggle of security, Aunt Netta marched across the tarmac and performed the Daily, Texas, version of a Hawaiian welcome, handing out kisses and handshakes. Instead of dropping leis over the children’s heads, she crowned them with Amber Anderson souvenir cowboy hats. While the stunned group tried to figure out how to respond, Aunt Netta waved toward the Bean with a grand flourish intended, I guess, to present our redneck limo with some amount of flair. “We brought along some transportation we thought the kids’d get a hoot outta. Y’all come right on, y’hear? We’ll just pile in like nuts in a squirrel hole. The more the merrier. Welcome to Daily, Texas!”
Chapter 22
Nathaniel Heath
If not for the teenage clerk at the Wall’s Pharmacy counter, all hope would have been lost. There was no sign of Justin when I got to the store, and the clerk rolled her eyes when I asked if a prescription had been filled for Justin Shay.
“Yeah, right,” she said. “George Clooney was in here a while ago, too. It’s been a big day.”
I told her Justin Shay was my uncle who had dementia and wasn’t supposed to be out alone, and yes, I realized he had the same name as the famous guy.
Her mouth opened in a silent Oh. She took pity on me and made some phone calls, then located Justin�
�s prescription at another store on the other side of town. He hadn’t picked it up yet. She was even kind enough to draw me a map. I gave her the number to my cell phone, even though the low- battery indicator was beeping. She said she’d call me if she heard anything more about the prescription.
I tried not to theorize on why Justin, who was an hour ahead of me, hadn’t picked up the meds. Maybe he’d changed his mind … maybe he was lost or stuck in traffic, maybe he’d stopped off for a burger, maybe he was headed for the airport, maybe the Horse-manmobile had broken down. …
Maybe he’d found enough pills in his luggage to zone out completely. Maybe he was passing out behind the wheel somewhere right now. Maybe he was about to drive off another cliff. I wouldn’t be there to stop him this time.
I pictured the monster truck lying in a ditch, a heap of twisted, smoldering metal.
He wouldn’t do that. He’d do what he always did when life got too heavy for him. He’d medicate himself until he couldn’t feel anything.
What if this was the time he took one pill too many and didn’t wake up?
The PHD truck belched and wheezed, zipping through neighborhoods and around cars like a stunt vehicle in an episode of Miami Vice. A metallic squeal announced my passing as the post drill created a pendulum above the bed, causing other drivers to move out of the way and gape in sheer amazement.
I rocketed over a hill and saw the second Wall’s Pharmacy ahead, as my phone rang. “Hey.” The girl from the first store reported, her voice high and excited, “Your uncle just picked up his prescription. It showed up in the computer as filled. I called the store, and they said he used the drive-through.”
“Thanks.” I hung up and stepped on the gas. The truck coughed and flooded out, then roared back to life with a screech of tires and a rattle of tools. One more block, just one more block …
Please, I know he’s an idiot, but let him be all right. Make him stay put until I get there. Send down a flat tire. A flat tire would be good. I realized I was talking to someone. God, I guessed. He was probably shocked to hear my voice coming from the PHD mobile, but then, He was probably shocked to hear my voice at all.