Gather Her Round

by Alex Bledsoe

  “That’s kind of an insult.”

  “But you didn’t say no.”

  The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Jack finally said, “I don’t think we have much else to talk about. Except I should ask: Will I start getting tickets every time I leave my driveway? I’ll need to budget for that.”

  “Not as long as you obey the rules of the highway,” Darwin said flatly.

  He stood. “Thank you for the beer.”

  As he walked away, Jack realized every eye, not just Darwin’s, followed him. He was ridiculously glad when the door closed behind him.

  Then he remembered that Darwin was his ride.

  21

  Mandalay watched Junior look down at the bones of Adam Procure. The battery-operated clock hummed in the silence, punctuated by soft measured clicks as the minute hand moved. Bliss stood back, letting the two Tufa leaders have their privacy.

  At last, Mandalay said, “It’s him, for certain.”

  “Yep,” Junior agreed. “Is that why you called me here?”

  “I called you here out of respect for your position,” Mandalay said. If Junior noticed her annoyance, he gave no sign. “This is one of your people. You should feel his loss as much as anyone.”

  “Can you tell what happened to him?” Bliss asked Junior.

  “A pig ate him,” he said with a chuckle.

  “But is that what killed him?” Bliss pressed.

  “How should I know? You’re the damn paramedic.”

  “Come on, Junior,” Mandalay said. “Here’s his bones. What song do they sing to you?”

  Junior swallowed hard, but tried to hide it. He’d grown to rely on the messages in his head, the ones that whispered in Rockhouse Hicks’s voice and hinted at what he should do or say. But it always fell silent around Mandalay, and now was no exception.

  “You don’t hear a bone song?” Mandalay said.

  “Look, don’t fuck around with me,” Junior snapped.

  Mandalay did not respond, but just looked at him until he had to turn away and step around the table.

  “This isn’t helping,” Bliss said.

  “No,” Mandalay agreed. She picked up one of the long finger bones from the table and turned it over in her hands. It was coated with mud, pig manure, and the dregs of flesh and blood. She rubbed a spot clean down to the white. Then she picked up another one. “I’m taking these,” she said.

  “Why?” Junior said.

  “If you have to ask,” she said as she tossed one up and casually caught it like a toy, “then you’re not at all what you claim to be.”

  Junior’s face darkened, and he said, “Well, I’ll just leave y’all to your pile of singing bones, then.” He left, slamming the windowless firehouse door behind him.

  Bliss said, “That was—”

  Mandalay put a finger to her lips. She tiptoed to the door and yanked it open. Junior nearly fell inside.

  “Go home, Junior,” Mandalay said. He didn’t look at her as he scurried to his truck. Not for the first time did he remind Bliss of a rat.

  When they were certain he’d driven off, Mandalay turned back to Bliss. “What were you about to say?”

  “That you seem to be poking him with a stick a lot lately.”

  “I know. I can’t explain it, but he irks me. He doesn’t scare me, like Rockhouse used to; he just disgusts and annoys me. I hate that I have to deal with him.”

  “You had the chance to take over. You chose not to.”

  That moment of choice, in the chaos following Bo-Kate Wisby’s defeat, came back to her. Shit or get off the pot, she’d told Junior; take over for Rockhouse, or stop acting like you’re going to. She didn’t have to give him that choice; she could’ve moved to lead all the Tufa, and healed the breach between the two groups once and for all. But she had given him the choice, and now she was stuck with him. “I know.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  “As soon as the words left my mouth that night. I knew damn well you can’t make a heel toe the mark.”

  Bliss didn’t push the issue. Instead, she indicated the bones in the girl’s hand. “What do you plan to do with them?”

  “We have to know what really happened to Adam. And Kera, for that matter. We can’t face the danger if we can’t see it.”

  “And?”

  “And how do the Tufa face anything?” Again she tossed the finger and caught it. “With a song.” Then she sang, “Old Bangum, blew both loud an’ shrill, and the wild boar heard on top of the hill, drum-down-drum-down.”

  * * *

  Poole Gowen shook his head and said to his little brother, “Never figured you’d get hitched before me. Son, don’t you know what causes that? You gots to wear a raincoat if you’re gonna dance in the storm.” He laughed and patted Duncan on the back.

  They sat on the same picnic table, at the same scenic overlook, that Duncan and Renny had visited the night they both couldn’t sleep. This night was clear, and in the west there was still a hint of sunset along the edges of the mountains.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Duncan muttered. He’d told Poole first, before his parents, because he needed to know he’d done the right thing offering to marry Renny.

  “Hell, Dunk, I’m just messing with you. Renny’s a hell of a girl. Do you know what she’s having yet?”

  Duncan shook his head.

  “Have you at least set a date?”

  “We’re bouncing some around.”

  “Well, Mom and Dad’ll be tickled to death. They’ve been itching to be grandparents ever since I got outta high school.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, shit yeah.” He looked more seriously at his brother. “What’s wrong with you? You feeling shotgunned?”

  “No, I want to marry her. I love her. It’s just … Adam.”

  “Ah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just means it makes total sense that he’d pop up between you two.”

  “Not the image I was after.”

  “You know what I mean. Hell, I can’t imagine.”

  Duncan fought down the image of that day, of the last look on Adam’s face. He took a long drink. “Do you think it’ll ever pass?”

  “Hell, man, I don’t know. I guess eventually it’ll fade into the background. Most tragedies do.”

  They sat silently after that. Poole stared out at the valley below, the lights of Needsville small pinpoints, like the stars above. Duncan gazed into his beer.

  “Ah, well,” Poole said at last. He sang softly:

  Now my trial has come on, and sentenced soon I’ll be.

  Duncan froze. It was another lyric from “Handsome Mary,” his earworm that horrible day when Adam had died. He turned to Poole. “What the hell you singing that for?”

  “It’s just a joke. You’ve been tried and sentenced to the life of a married man. Wow, Dunk, you’re really taking this seriously.”

  “Sorry,” Duncan said. He managed a little grin and clinked bottles with Poole. He wanted to join in, but this was more weight than he’d ever experienced in his life, and he just didn’t know how to handle it. And the secret, the truth of what had happened between Adam and Kera, and between him and Adam that day in the woods, bore down on him like a concrete slab.

  “You guys talked about names?” Poole asked.

  Duncan shook his head.

  “Poole’s a good name. Helluva name for a boy.”

  “What if it’s a girl?”

  “Poola,” he deadpanned.

  That made Duncan laugh, and momentarily the ghosts of Adam and Kera faded from his mind. But they never went far, and by the time he opened his next beer, they were back, hovering just out of sight.

  * * *

  “And, one, two, three, four…”

  Ginny hit the bass note, and Caledonia Wentworth eased into the surging chord that began the song. Mary Elizabeth “Mazzy” Gentry did a light roll on the drums, and Hiley Paxton strummed the rhythm. Ginny, her own
guitar slung behind her, stepped to the microphone and began to sing the aching first verse of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.”

  Little Trouble Girls practiced a lot. A lot. To Janet, there was no higher calling than getting good at your musical instrument, and she drove the other four hard, and often to distraction. None of them shared her prowess or her determination. But once they started, once the band found its pocket as it did on this song, none of them would rather be anywhere else than in the old garage beside Janet’s house.

  This was their traditional way to warm up. They did covers only in rehearsal, except for rare requests at the shows they played. Janet was a prolific songwriter, and she always had new songs for them to learn. They had a slot at this weekend’s barn dance, and everyone was always curious to hear what new tunes they’d come up with.

  At the chorus, Ginny stepped close to sing into Janet’s mike, and Caledonia harmonized. All of them could sing, but Janet was careful about who sang when: the blend of voices was as much an instrument as anything else. As they finished, she said, “Nice. Very nice.”

  “Can we play it for live people sometime?” Mazzy asked. “You sound so great. Maybe we should make a video of it, and try to get Peter Gabriel to see it.”

  “Peter Gabriel doesn’t do covers,” Janet said, “and neither do we. Did you get the new songs I e-mailed you?” They all nodded. “Then let’s—”

  A cell phone rang. It was the generic, faux-jaunty tune that came built in.

  “Who is that?” Janet asked, annoyed.

  “Not me,” Mazzy said, holding up her drumsticks in deference.

  “Not me,” Ginny echoed.

  “Shit,” Janet muttered. “It’s mine. Hold on.”

  As Janet stepped out of the garage to take the call, Caledonia said, “Why does a woman so obsessed with music not use different ringtones?”

  Ginny shrugged, but she’d watched Janet drive herself to distraction trying to decide what song fit which person, before finally giving up.

  * * *

  Janet went cold when she saw the name on the screen. The wind blew the still-bare trees around her, and the soft rustle reminded her of distant soldiers rattling their swords. “Hey, Mandalay,” she said, trying to sound blasé.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your rehearsal, but I need your help again.”

  “Sure.” Her throat seemed to tighten around the words. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need a ride somewhere, and a hand doing something … questionable. But necessary.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Pick me up as soon as it’s dark, and dress to get dirty.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’ll be getting dirty, so don’t wear anything you’re too fond of.”

  “Okay.”

  “And bring a shovel if you’ve got one. See you then.”

  The call ended. Janet stared down at it, wanting to scream. What had she just agreed to?

  Ginny stepped outside, arms crossed against the chill. “Everything okay?”

  “That was Mandalay Harris. She wants me to take her somewhere again. She said, ‘dress to get dirty.’”

  “Dirty how? Like mud, or…” And here Ginny raised her eyebrows.

  “I assume the muddy kind, because she said bring a shovel.”

  “What are you going to dig up?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “And you didn’t ask?”

  “I didn’t think!” Janet said almost defensively.

  Mazzy joined them. “What’s up? We get a record deal or something?”

  “No,” Janet said. “Sorry, it was something personal. Let’s get back to work.”

  She led the two girls back in, and they continued rehearsing, although all of them could sense that Janet was preoccupied. It didn’t affect her playing, but they didn’t try to learn anything new. Instead, they played covers all afternoon, and it was the most fun they’d had in weeks.

  Except, of course, for Janet.

  * * *

  This time they didn’t drive in silence. Mandalay brought along a mix CD, and they listened to the Avett Brothers, Alison Krauss, and the Steep Canyon Rangers. And then, from nowhere, came Bill Withers singing “Ain’t No Sunshine.”

  “That’s out of left field,” Janet said.

  “He’s from West Virginia,” Mandalay said. The mountains the Tufa called home encompassed all of that tiny state. “He’s more genuine than Steve Martin.”

  “Steve Martin’s great!”

  “Steve Martin plays great. But there’s no soul in it. No spirit.”

  “Well, I disagree.” She risked a glance at the girl, but could not see her face in the dark. “Where are we going?”

  “Just turn left when this road dead-ends.”

  “That heads up to the Rogers place.” Janet had attended the funeral, including the graveside service where she’d heard the most moving version of the Doors’ “The End,” suitably revised for the occasion to leave out the oedipal section. “Do they know we’re coming?”

  “They do not.”

  “Why are we going there?”

  Mandalay said simply, “We’re going to dig up what was left of Kera.”

  Janet said nothing for a long moment. Then she said, “We’re going grave-robbing?”

  “Yes.”

  Chills ran up Janet’s arms, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. “I can’t do that, Mandalay.”

  “Aren’t you curious why?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “I can’t tell you yet.”

  Janet said nothing. She wasn’t scared; she was just totally overwhelmed. Nothing in her brief life had prepared her for being faced with this. How do you turn down the basically immortal leader of your people when she asks you to help her rob a grave?

  They reached the intersection, but Janet didn’t turn. The car sat there idling, the turn signal softly clicking, until Mandalay turned off the music and said, “I know it sounds crazy.”

  “I’m glad you know,” Janet said honestly, staring straight ahead.

  “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. Usually for these things I ask Bliss Overbay to do it, but I have to start taking responsibility for things myself. If I want something done, I should do it, or at least organize it.”

  “Sounds sensible,” Janet said to fill the silence.

  “I already have some of Adam’s bones. I need at least one of Kera’s. With them, I think I can help them rest in peace.”

  “I didn’t know they were restless.”

  “They’re not. Yet. They’re waiting to see if justice is done.”

  “And what would justice be for them? They were killed by a wild animal.”

  “That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a human hand in there somewhere.”

  Janet took a deep breath. “I’m pretty scared right now, Mandalay.”

  “I’m a little nervous, too.”

  “You? You know everything.”

  Mandalay chuckled. In the darkness, it sounded like the cackle of an old woman. Janet’s head snapped around, but only the thirteen-year-old girl sat beside her.

  “Imagine,” Mandalay said, “that all the knowledge in the world was printed on a single sheet of paper, but you could only read the parts that were under your magnifying glass. That’s how it is for me.”

  “So you know everything, but not all at once?”

  “Exactly.”

  Janet smiled in the darkness. Then she put the car in gear and turned. As they neared the Rogers farm, Mandalay said softly, “Kill the lights.”

  22

  It didn’t take long, which was good, because the work was horrendously hard. Janet had been smart enough to bring gloves and a flashlight, but hadn’t thought of water, so by the time they’d opened the grave—really, a hole about three feet across but the standard six feet down—she was exhausted.

  “I don’t think … I can lift any more dirt,” she said as she climbed out of the grav
e and lay on her back on the ground.

  The Rogers ancestral graveyard was up the hill from their farm, and held seven generations of their family. A few hadn’t made it—Casper Rogers died on the fields of France, blown apart in a trench in 1917, and Old Roy Castellaw, who’d married a Rogers girl, had been buried at sea—but the rest were here. Some of the graves had little houses built over them, an affectation that had perplexed anthropologists and sociologists. Most of the headstones were worn and faded, their inscriptions visible only to those who could see through the glamour’s patina.

  “It’s okay, I think we found it,” Mandalay said. She’d shoveled as much as a thirteen-year-old could, but sounded like she hadn’t exerted herself at all. She lifted a two-foot wooden casket from the hole, put it on the edge.

  Janet offered her a hand up. “This is hard work.”

  “Desecration shouldn’t be easy,” Mandalay said as she climbed out.

  “Did you have to use that word? Now I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t worry, any divine retribution’s on my head.”

  Janet fell back onto the ground, and Mandalay sat on the edge of the hole, both breathing heavily. Then suddenly Mandalay grabbed Janet’s leg.

  “Ow!” Janet said. “What are you—?”

  The flashlight went out, and Janet felt one of Mandalay’s small, dirty fingers across her lips. She tasted dirt and wanted to spit, but froze when she heard voices.

  Two figures approached from down the hill, silhouetted against the glow from the Rogers house. It was a man and woman, and they walked unsteadily.

  Janet looked around. There was no place to really hide, except behind a tombstone, and there was no way these folks approaching could miss the fresh hole.

  Mandalay pulled her hand away, stood in plain sight, and made a series of gestures. Janet had never seen them before, and in the darkness she couldn’t follow them. But she realized who the two approaching figures were: Spook Rogers, Kera’s brother, and her sister Harley. Both were older, but like a lot of young adults Janet knew, had never truly separated from their childhood: they still spent most weekends at home, and thought nothing of bringing loads of laundry for their mother to do. They were harmless, but they were also doomed; until something traumatized them, they’d stay half-children.