Soon, even the sound of his truck faded in the distance and Daddy and I were alone together.
A new moon hung in the western sky, so new it was no more than the thinnest sliver of silver against the deepening blue. A bright planet—Jupiter? Venus?—gleamed nearby and I sent a mental kiss to Kidd, who would be coming this weekend to help me move into my new house.
Daddy finished his cigarette and came to join me on the wall.
We sat in easy silence for a long while, then, almost as if he was talking to himself, Daddy said, “Uncle Yancy over yonder, he died ’fore I come along but they say he could outfiddle the devil. I was always sorry I never heared him. And or Ham here, he surely did like peach brandy. He’d bring me enough pitted peaches ever’ summer to run him off a gallon or two.”
“Who was Mallie Crocker?” I asked, pointing to a nearby stone.
“Mallie? She was a Wiggins ’fore she married Ham’s brother. All them Wiggins girls had the prettiest yellow hair. Real thick and curly…”
His voice trailed off and I knew his mind was running back through the years to when the people beneath these stones had lived and loved and quarrelled and laughed.
I scooted closer and leaned my head on his shoulder.
“When I was a boy growing up, a lot of my friends was nervous around graveyards, didn’t like to be in ’em after dark. Myself, I always thought they was real peaceful places. Still do.”
“But not for a long time,” I said. “Okay?”
“Not till you’re a old, old woman,” he promised—as he’d been promising from the first day I realized parents could actually die—and his calloused hand squeezed mine with as much comfort as we’re allowed in this uncertain world.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 1adfe919-6f42-4cca-97af-9a01febf83fd
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 25.11.2012
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Margaret Maron
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