Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Not for being with you. Just for being stupid. I’d never mean to hurt you. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. I love you.”

  The world reeled. He held his breath in case he hadn’t heard her right, looked at her. She looked back at him. He didn’t know what to say, how to say what he felt, that he’d loved her for years and would stay with her forever. Because that’s what she’d want to hear. But he couldn’t promise forever. In the end, he said what he could, what was true.

  “I love you, too.”

  It’d have to be enough for now.

  By the time they started back to Cinda’s car it was late. Afternoon shadows had deepened to dusk. Chantry had the blanket slung over his shoulder and one arm around Cinda, hugging her close to his side. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow, just relish today and the way she made him feel, the way she eased all the emptiness inside him, made it bearable somehow.

  Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

  Another car had parked beside Cinda’s, and the first thrum of alarm tightened his belly so that he slowed down but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Hey,” he began, but she kept talking, telling him about a place called Katmandu that was somewhere she’d read about and wanted to go, and it wasn’t until he stopped at the edge of the bluff that she realized he wasn’t listening. She turned to look at him.

  “Chantry—?”

  He jerked his head toward her car and the vehicle parked beside it. It was a white Jeep with a green Park Ranger’s insignia on the side, and a man in a brown uniform leaned against it like he was waiting for them. He flicked on a flashlight as they approached, shone it in their eyes. Then, pushing away from the Jeep, he said, “This car belong to you?”

  Chantry answered, “Why?”

  “Just answer my question, son.”

  “Is it parked in the wrong place or something?”

  “That depends.” The ranger sounded impatient. “Are you Cinda Sheridan, little lady?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Because your daddy’s got the entire park out looking for you. Seems like you’re late getting back home.”

  Cinda made an annoyed sound. “Well, he knew I was coming here, for heaven’s sake. I’m just fine.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” The ranger’s eyes shifted to Chantry, then back to Cinda’s car. He leaned inside to the rear seat, and flipped open the cooler. “This here’s a dry county. Even if you were legal drinking age—which you’re not—you’d be breaking the law.”

  “You can’t look in my car unless I give you permission,” Cinda said sharply, and the ranger swerved his light back to her.

  “Don’t need your permission. This car’s in your daddy’s name and he gave me all the go-ahead I needed.”

  Chantry knew what was coming next even if Cinda didn’t, and said before she could say anything else that’d get her in more trouble, “It’s my beer. She didn’t even know it was there.”

  The light nearly blinded him, shining directly in his eyes now. “That right, boy? Who are you?”

  “Chantry Callahan.”

  From the way the ranger kept his light on him, he got the feeling he’d already heard that name even before he said, “Violating probation can get you in a peck of trouble, son.”

  Oh yeah. He was pretty sure it could. And would.

  Chantry would have spent the night in the Tate County juvenile detention center if not for Cinda. He’d never thought a girl who looked as substantial as cotton candy could be so hard-ass, but she bullied her father about getting him released into his temporary custody. Being a mayor had its perks even in Tate County, it seemed. Being the mayor’s daughter and the granddaughter of Bert Quinton probably had a lot to do with her expectations of fair treatment, but he could have educated her on that if he chose. As it was, he kept quiet and let her be the one to raise hell.

  “Chantry didn’t even want to skip today,” she said angrily, “but I talked him into it. And that beer? It’s not his. It’s mine. He just said that to keep me from getting arrested. The least you can do is keep him from going to jail.”

  Mayor Sheridan flicked a glance at Chantry but surrendered easily. “Very well, Cinda. I’ll do what I can.”

  Chantry wasn’t fooled. He’d seen a glitter in Sheridan’s eye that guaranteed disaster. He’d do what he had to do to calm Cinda, then the minute she was out of ear-shot, Chantry would find himself in that peck of trouble the park ranger had promised.

  Mrs. Sheridan stood rigidly in a corner of the room with her arms folded over her chest. If looks could kill, he’d be laid out on the floor already. After a few minutes of listening to Cinda, she walked over to Chantry where he sat cuffed to a chair, and stared down at him with disdain in her pale eyes.

  “You chose not to take my advice after all, I see,” she said quietly. “That’s very unwise of you. Things can become much more unpleasant for you than they are now.”

  He just looked at her. How much worse did she think they could get? It’d be funny if it wasn’t so discouraging. Maybe he should tell her that he really didn’t give a damn what she did and see if that made her happy.

  Mrs. Sheridan was studying him, eyes narrowed, then she glanced over at Cinda again. In a moment, she looked back at him, and this time pure fury sparked in her eyes.

  “Did you touch my daughter?” It was a bare whisper of sound, more like a hiss. When he didn’t answer, she slapped him across the face, hard, the rings on her fingers cutting his mouth. His head snapped to the side, and the sharp crack silenced Cinda and her father’s argument.

  Cinda recovered first. “What are you doing? Mother, stop it. You stop that this minute.”

  Mrs. Sheridan still stared down at him. He looked back at her, unflinching, figuring maybe he owed her that much. Then she turned to look at her daughter, tone icy.

  “Cinda, be quiet. Philip, do what must be done to get this young man out of here tonight so we can go home.”

  That was unexpected. He’d thought she’d demand he be locked in solitary for the rest of his life.

  “Are you sure,” the mayor began, but she shot him a look that shut him up. It was plain to see who ran the show. And it wasn’t the mayor.

  “Of course, I’m sure. Don’t be an ass, Philip. Chantry will go home, and we will handle everything. There will be no trouble. Unless, of course, he ever so much as comes within six feet of Cinda again. Then I’ll personally see to it that he spends a good long time in Parchman prison. I believe that this time he may have the good sense to listen to my advice. Am I right, Chantry?”

  The taste of blood was in his mouth, but it was the blood in Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes that made him shudder. She’d do it, he didn’t doubt that for a moment.

  “What do you mean, this time,” Cinda demanded. “Did you—oh, wait. Of course you did. You said something to him before, didn’t you?”

  “Cinda, when you’re older you’ll understand that there are times parents do what they feel is right for their child. It may not always be perfect, but it’s done with love.”

  “Screw you.”

  Mrs. Sheridan’s mouth tightened. “Gutter language does not impress me.”

  “And you don’t impress me. You can’t make me stop seeing him if I don’t want to.”

  “Can’t I? Consider this. Chantry is still on probation, but even when he’s released, he’s living with the town drunk and a crippled child. Social services may well deem it better for them to be put into foster care, probably down in Jackson, as the courts here are overwhelmed. It would require no great feat to see it done promptly. Is that what you want for him?”

  Cinda looked stricken. Chantry felt sick. She looked over at him, and for one horrible moment he thought she intended to tell her mother exactly what they’d done that day. He could see in her eyes that she wanted to, but after a moment she said only, “No. That’s not what I want for him. If I have to
, I love him enough to let go. For now.”

  For Chantry, her words echoed a familiar refrain, Mama’s rare assurance of I love you enough that meant so much more than just the words. He closed his eyes.

  No one remembered his sixteenth birthday. He hadn’t really expected anyone to, but still, he found himself remembering the year before, the cake with the sixteen candles, fifteen for him and one for Mikey, and Mama so happy and laughing. Sometimes he wondered what he would have done if he’d known it would be his last birthday with her. And sometimes he was too angry to think about it.

  Late that afternoon, while Mikey was down at Dempsey’s with Shadow as he usually was on a Sunday afternoon, he found himself out by the garage. Heat shimmered, a wasp buzzed past his ear, and the ripe peachy smell of mimosa blossoms hung heavy in the air. Morning glories Mama had planted draped over a wire fence, purple blooms rich against glossy green leaves. He stepped inside the garage, into the cool shadows.

  The box lay up on a shelf, collecting dust. He looked at it for a long time before he pulled it down. This time he read all the letters, every one, the ones she’d received from his father, and the ones she’d written him that had been returned after his death. He looked at the dogtags with his father’s real name pressed into metal. Clayton Allen Chantry. They had the same initials if not the same name. He supposed it was the best Mama could do under the circumstances.

  Maybe he’d understand it better one day, but right now, all he could think was that he’d been deceived. He knew Mama hadn’t meant it that way, but that’s the way it felt. There were other letters in the box, too, a polite but indifferent letter from his father’s sister that said she saw no point in meeting since Clay was gone, and a letter from the Marines that said Lance Corporal Chantry had requested some of his personal effects be sent to Miss Carrie Callahan. It was brief and impersonal, like so much in Mama’s life.

  After a while, he put the letters back in the box and returned it to the shelf. It was too sad to think of how she must have felt, alone and pregnant, with no one to turn to for help. Then he thought of Tansy, off somewhere in Chicago. Maybe she’d had the baby by now. He hoped she was okay.

  Not long before dark, he walked down to Dempsey’s to bring Mikey home. He found him out back, just sitting on a stump, surrounded by all of Tansy’s cats. They rubbed against his legs, purring, tails flicking around metal and leather braces while he stroked their heads.

  “Dangdest thing, ain’t it?” Dempsey said behind him. “Those cats are plumb wild, but he charms ’em right up to him.”

  “Did he rub fish oil on his hands?”

  Dempsey laughed softly. “Don’t have to. I think the cats know he won’t hurt ’em. They always come to him. Don’t even seem to mind when the dog’s with him, either.”

  As Chantry watched, the yellow tom picked a graceful path across the top of the woodpile and jumped down to perch beside Mikey. Battle-scarred, with one ear torn, he sat regally and yet patiently while the child inspected him for new hurts, all the time murmuring soft words Chantry couldn’t hear, that no one could hear but the cat.

  “Come on,” Dempsey said after a moment. “Mikey’ll come in when he’s ready.”

  Chantry followed him inside, Shadow tagging along behind him. He didn’t come often anymore, too miserable to attempt small talk, too wary to answer questions. It was all he could do to get through the days. Nights were the worst, though. Long hours lying in the dark, not wanting to sleep because he might dream, not wanting to stay awake because he was so tired.

  “Here,” Dempsey said, and held out a Mason jar of sweet tea, “you look thirsty.”

  “Thanks.” He sat down at the kitchen table, watching Dempsey do familiar things like wipe down the stove, put away dishes from the drainer. To his relief, no questions were asked, no small talk expected. Music played on the radio, Dempsey’s favorite gospel station, and they sat in the dim light of a single lamp listening for a while as light dwindled outside.

  When Mikey came in, Chantry stood up to ruffle his hair. “Ready to go home, sport?”

  “Sure. I got you something, Chantry.”

  “You do. What have you got for me, more fleas?”

  “No, that was only one time. I got you a present.”

  Chantry looked at him, and Mikey smiled. “I wouldn’t forget. Anyway, Cinda reminded me when I saw her at church this morning. She said I was to give this to you for your birthday dinner.”

  The careful stillness inside him wavered, and for a moment he couldn’t say anything or move, even when Mikey held out a small wrapped box. His throat got tight and his lungs worked to drag in enough air.

  “Don’t you want it, Chantry?”

  “Sure. Sure, I want it, sport,” he got out finally, and took the slender box from him. It was light, wrapped in thick white paper and tied with a thin gold ribbon. He held it for a minute, then stuck it in his pocket, ignoring Mikey’s disappointed expression. “I’ll open it later.”

  “Damn, son,” Dempsey said, “it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

  “No big deal. Just one more year.”

  “Sixteen is a pretty big year.”

  “Yeah. Well, come on, Mikey. We gotta go. I have to be at the clinic early tomorrow.”

  “I’m gettin’ tired of going to Mrs. Rowan’s all the time. Her mean ole daughter watches me during the first part of the day while her mama sleeps. She won’t let me watch cartoons. She watches people kissin’ on TV. That’s gross.”

  “Oh yeah? You won’t always think so.”

  As they walked out the front door, Chantry hefting Mikey onto his shoulder despite his protests that he could walk, Dempsey handed him a small square box.

  “Got this a while back. Been meanin’ to give it to you; guess now’s as good a time as any, seein’ as how it’s your birthday anyway. Now go on, get on home. And take that mangy dog with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ain’t much of nothin’. Happy birthday, son.”

  He hadn’t forgotten either. Maybe it was stupid, but Chantry felt better knowing he’d not been totally forgotten.

  Rainey still wasn’t home when they got back to the house. He set Mikey in a chair in the kitchen while Shadow curled up in a corner. These days there wasn’t much home cooking. About all he could manage was grilled cheese and soup, though in a pinch, he could do a pretty good hamburger. When Rainey brought home groceries, that is. Most of the time, he just brought home a hangover.

  “Aren’t you going to open your presents?” Mikey asked when he’d eaten a grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of tomato soup. He slid a large envelope across the table and gave him a sly smile. “I’ve been workin’ on this one a while.”

  Chantry pushed aside his soup bowl and reached for the envelope. “Don’t drop your g’s,” he said automatically, then froze, his hand still atop the blue envelope. He’d turned into Mama. If Mikey noticed, he didn’t say anything, just waited with growing impatience for Chantry to open his gift. He pulled it to him and opened it, pulling out a sheet of thick paper.

  He’d painted a picture with water colors. Red, blue, yellow and white formed a rainbow, and under it stood a boy, a dog, and a girl. In the top corner, a sun with a face beamed down. Beneath that, Mikey had written a verse.

  I don’t mind goodbyes as long as there’s a hello.

  I don’t mind the rain as long as there’s a rainbow.

  I don’t mind the darkness as long as there’s light.

  But I’m glad I have sunshine and I’m glad I have you.

  “Thanks, sport,” he managed to say after a minute, “this is really cool.”

  Mikey looked pleased. “The picture’s you and Shadow. I worked all week on the poem. Mindy helped me, mostly with the spelling.” Mindy was Mrs. Rowan’s eldest daughter, who watched Mikey while Mrs. Rowan slept after her night shift at the diner.

  “You did good, Mikey. But who’s the girl in the picture?”

  Mikey smiled. “You’ll have to figure
that one out.”

  He stared at him, remembering what Mama had once said about wise old souls. There was a lot of wisdom in Mikey, far too much he thought sometimes, for a six year old.

  Later, after Mikey was asleep, Chantry took out the two boxes he hadn’t yet opened. He saved Cinda’s for last. Dempsey had given him a thick leather leash and collar imprinted with Shadow’s name. It was fine leather, smooth and sturdy. He could almost see Dempsey carefully choosing it, having Shadow’s name put on, and he smiled.

  When he held Cinda’s gift in his hand, he stared at it for a long time, uncertain if he wanted to open it just yet. He hadn’t even known she knew his birthday. That she’d remembered and made sure he had a gift from her, helped ease his sense of loss. After a few minutes, he pulled the gold ribbon, unwrapped the box, and lifted the lid. In a nest of cotton batting lay a silver ID bracelet. CAC had been engraved on the wide band. He lifted it out, watching the silver links catch the light from overhead. When he turned it over, he saw engraved in a fine script on the underneath, Chantry &Cinda 4ever.

  He hoped it wasn’t like Mama’s forever with his father. Sometimes forever could be far too short.

  The next Sunday when he took Mikey to church, he waited outside. He leaned up against a light pole jutting up from the sidewalk, watching, but never saw Cinda go in. She could have gone in from the back way, where parking spaces were all marked out on new black pavement, he guessed. He might not get to see her at all. Maybe she hadn’t even come to church today.

  Heat rose from the sidewalk out front, hymns penetrated the stained glass windows, and finally, he heard Reverend Hale begin his sermon. It was a wonder the windows didn’t rattle. It was a bigger wonder that the roof didn’t fall in on a man spouting the perils of sin when he was probably still banging the choir director every chance he got. Just not at the Albertson’s old house. It had stayed empty since the day he’d told the good reverend about his “dream.”