by J. Lee Butts
She broke the kiss and said, “Guess what.”
“Been gone so long, I can’t even imagine, girl. You buy another business of some kind? Have you purchased a meatpacking concern, during my absence? Are we going into the cattle-buying business?”
She tilted her head away from my chest and toyed with my bandanna. “No, silly. Something much more important than any of that.”
“Oh, another bank? That’s it. You’ve bought another bank.”
Playfully slapped me on the chest. “No, no, no. You made a baby last time you were home, Mr. Tilden. You’re going to be a father again. It’ll be a boy. I can tell.”
Can’t recall a time, up till that very moment, that had such a powerful emotional impact on me. Not even the unfortunate deaths of my good friends Harry Tate or Billy Bird. Had looked forward to the day, ever since my son Tommy died. Thought my knees would give way. Elizabeth had to hold me up and help me into her chair.
When she knelt in front of me, I cupped her face in my hands and said, “Would you approve us calling him Billy, Mrs. Tilden?”
A single tear formed at the corner of her eye and carved a sad path down her cheek. Think it matched mine.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Yes, darlin’. I do miss him, and Harry, too. Could be our way of keepin’ their memory alive. Don’t you think?”
“Well, then. We’ll do it. How would you like a son named William Harry Tilden, called Billy?”
“I think that’s an absolutely capital idea.”
And so, almost exactly seven months to that very day, a towheaded, chubby-faced, blue-eyed William Harry Tilden came smiling and laughing into the world. He was the joy of my life. And for more years than I care to recall, my beautiful son’s presence pushed all memory of Charlie Storms, the Dawson bunch, and what they did, into a closed, seldom-visited corner in the darkest recesses of my mind. I hadn’t given those monsters much in the way of thought, until Captain Merchant’s ghost came to visit last night.
Gonna close my eyes now. Try to get me some undisturbed sleep. Want to get going early in the morning. Have to beat Leona to the sun porch. Smoke my stinky cigar in peace. Just hope the ghosts will leave me alone.
One night is all I ask, Lord. One night of childlike sleep without a spectral visit. I know. I know. Fat chance.