Dark River Road (33 page)

“Respect Rainey?” He stared at her incredulously.

“No. Respect me enough to trust that I did what I felt necessary. You have a right to your feelings about Rainey and I won’t ask you to ignore that. I do ask that you not hurt your brother by your words or actions. He is too young to understand.”

“Not as young as you think. Neither of us is. We’ve done lived with Rainey too long.”

He really hadn’t meant to say it like that, and saw Mama’s back go rigid. It was implied criticism. He sighed. Mama looked at him like she’d just been slapped.

“If you’re going to insult me, Chantry, at least use proper grammar.”

He was on his feet. “Mama—I’m sorry. Sometimes I just say things and they come out all wrong.” He didn’t mean his grammar and saw that she understood that.

Her expression softened. “Yes. So do I. Perhaps that’s a family trait we should do our best to exterminate.”

It was as close as she’d come to saying she might be wrong, he figured, and he didn’t push his luck. He just nodded.

There wasn’t a chance to go down and talk to Dempsey for a few days, but finally late one afternoon after Mama had cooked supper and he’d done the clean-up, he said he had to talk to him and she nodded. While he was on probation he couldn’t go off with Donny anymore since all the trouble out at the Hideaway, but he could still have limited freedom once he got home from school and all his work was done. Usually he just stayed home anyway, reading or listening to music, but now it was too hard to get away from everything he was thinking if he didn’t stay busy.

Dempsey had been fishing. He had a string of catfish out back of the house on the old oak board he used for cleaning, and blood and fish parts speckled his old flannel shirt. It was one of those late winter days that had turned out sunny and almost warm, a promise of spring in the air but the reminder of how fickle the weather could be nudging up right behind it. His thin-bladed skinning knife flashed in the fading sunlight.

“Hungry cats this time of year’ll jump at almost any bait. I coulda thrown in an empty hook and they’d’a gone for it.”

“You’ve got more cats than just those fish on the table,” Chantry said, and nodded toward a thin gray and white cat squatted over by the woodpile. Whiskers twitched as it watched with intense interest.

Dempsey didn’t even glance that way. “They’ll wait their turn. Always do.”

Movement among the stacked logs indicated more cats. He caught a glimpse of reflected light in slitted eyes, white, orange, and gray fur.

“Since when did you take up with those kind of cats?”

“Didn’t. Tansy did. There’s probably a dozen ‘round here. Be more come summertime. I put food out for ’em sometimes now that she’s gone.”

He said it flatly, like it didn’t mean anything, but Chantry felt the pain in what he didn’t say. He looked over at the woodpile and the cats. It was a solid link to Tansy, a connection, like the photographs and letters his father had written bridged an empty space for Mama.

“How’s she doing?” he asked after a minute, and Dempsey shoved fish heads and cast-offs into a metal bucket before answering.

“Don’t know. She left my sister’s house. Got into an argument with her and one of her cousins. No one would say what about. Chicago police are lookin’ for her, but I get the feelin’ they aren’t lookin’ that hard. A lot of runaways, they said, girls just takin’ off every day.”

For a minute Chantry couldn’t say anything, just stood there and thought about Tansy off up north somewhere on her own. Scared. Pregnant. Alone. It took his breath away.

“Maybe she’ll come back home,” he said when he could speak, and Dempsey nodded.

“Maybe.”

They both knew she wouldn’t. Some girls might, but not Tansy. Whatever else she had, she had pride and determination mixed in with all her uncertainties and raw emotions.

Dempsey looked over at him finally. He’d never looked old to Chantry, save for the brush of gray hair around his face and maybe a few lines around the eyes, but now he did. Age seemed to have settled in sad creases that ran from his high cheekbones down on each side of his mouth. It suited him somehow, matched the impression of ancient wisdom that had always looked out from his eyes, like he’d seen too much and heard too much and knew too much.

“What’d you come to get from me, Chantry?”

That didn’t surprise him. Dempsey always knew.

“Why’d you marry Miss Julia?”

Dempsey’s hands stilled in the mess of fileted fish. He looked straight at Chantry for a long moment, then off across the empty field still holding the stubble of last year’s soybean crop. It stretched eastward to a line of trees in the far distance, remnants of neat rows like arrows that pointed to the rising sun every morning. Off to the right, dying sunlight glinted on the very tops of metal towers that looped wires along Cane Creek all the way to the power plant close to the river lying behind them, barely visible beyond the road and farmland.

He didn’t ask why Chantry wanted to know or what he’d heard. Maybe he didn’t care. He just stood for a moment like he was trying to remember before he said quietly, “I loved her.”

There was more to say, and Chantry waited while Dempsey took the fish parts over to the skittish cats, slopping it into empty pie tins on the ground and then shaking some kind of dry food on top. Most of the cats waited until he’d stepped away, but one big one, a lean yellow tom from the way he looked and walked, sauntered over to the dishes like he knew no one would stop him. He looked up only once, and stared straight at Chantry from yellow eyes that dared him to try. Then he went back to eating while the others crept out slowly to crowd around the other dishes.

They went inside, Dempsey taking the cleaned fish with him wrapped in white paper, and Chantry sat at the kitchen table while he heated up the oil and made the batter. He wasn’t hungry but food seemed to be the bridge to what he wanted to know, and he sat while Dempsey fried the fish and hushpuppies in a big pot that spat and hissed. Mama used a black iron skillet when she fried fish, but Dempsey had always used that deep iron pot. It sat on the back of the stove when he wasn’t using it, and Chantry couldn’t remember when it hadn’t ever been there ready to use.

When Dempsey sat across from him, a platter between them, he couldn’t resist one of the hushpuppies. Dempsey knew how to do them right, golden and crisp on the outside, moist on the inside, tiny bits of onion adding just enough flavor. A bottle of vinegar with a spout sat on the table, too, and a jar of piccalilli that Mama had sent down to him and Tansy last summer.

It wasn’t until Dempsey had finished his fish and reached for his pipe that he finally got around to finishing his answer to Chantry’s question, and then he had this look in his eyes like he was seeing it all again for the first time.

“Julia Makepeace was the most beautiful woman in all of Quinton County at one time. She had that soft look about her, but underneath she was strong as steel. Ev’ry man around wanted her, even a lot of men who shouldn’t. It’s like that sometimes, wantin’ what you ain’t s’posed to have and wantin’ even more ‘cause you know you can’t. That’s how I felt, anyway. Lord, that woman could sing, too. Sunday mornin’ preachin’ hasn’t been the same since she passed. She’d take you right up to heaven with her voice, like you was hearin’ the heavenly choir.” He shook his head, a faint smile behind the pipe stuck in one corner of his mouth.

“Julia’s kin lived over in Coahoma County back then, and she come here as a kid to work for Bert Quinton. Julia took care of the house, and I took care of the grounds like I do now. Used to watch her from the outside, and just wish, even though she was near fourteen years younger’n me. Mercy, she was a pretty woman.”

Chantry could almost see what Dempsey was seeing, the man standing outside the house and longing for something beyond his reach. He’d felt it all his life, too. There really wasn’t much difference between them, he guessed.

“Then one day, just outa the blue, Bert Quinton called me inside the house and told me he had a proposition for me. Said he’d give me a house, make sure I always had a job and enough to eat, and see to it that when I got old I’d be cared for. All I had to do was one thing: marry Julia. Well hell, I wasn’t about to ask too many questions. I’d about give up ever finding a wife. So we got married and I thought it was the best thing ever happened to me.” He sucked on the pipe a moment. “Still think that. I knew even then though, that she hadn’t married me for love. It just took me a while longer to figure out how I’d got so lucky.”

For a moment, silence fell. It was quiet in the house. Outside, night had fallen and the windows reflected the inside lights. Dempsey looked at him and he looked back. There really wasn’t any need to say it aloud. Both knew why Julia had married him.

He thought about his mama, about how she’d married Rainey because of old man Quinton telling her to, and still didn’t know why. Mikey hadn’t been born for five years after they married. He just didn’t see any good reason for it. Maybe he had an answer now, but it still wasn’t to the right question.

After that night, he took to helping Dempsey with Tansy’s cats. It seemed like something she’d want done, and without either of them saying a word about it, they put out food and water and kept an eye out for them. Chantry trapped them one by one and took them to Doc to fix them so they wouldn’t keep having babies that got killed by foxes or carried off by coyotes. All but that big tom. He was too smart to get caught. He’d just sit off a ways and watch, like he really enjoyed the show but wasn’t fooled a bit. He intended to keep his balls right where they were.

Doc was in the back
when Chantry arrived at the clinic one afternoon. An emergency case, the new girl behind the desk said. She looked a little rattled. He sympathized. It wasn’t easy at first learning to deal with hurt animals. Her lower lip quivered.

“There’s blood everywhere. I
 . . .
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.”

He looked at the bright red splatters on the tile floor. “I’ll clean it up. You just answer the phones and tell anyone who comes in for an appointment that Doc will be with them soon.”

He got the mop and bucket from the back and cleaned up the front room, then followed the trail of blood back to surgery. Doc had blood all over his tee shirt and open scrubs, and when he saw Chantry, he said something to a man hovering near the stainless steel table. That was when some awful premonition curled deep inside, and even before the man turned to look at him, he knew who it was and why he was there.

Dale Ledbetter nodded. He had a look in his eyes that warned Chantry not to interfere.

That didn’t stop him. He stepped into the small surgery. A dog lay on the table, a needle in one of his forelegs, a tube stuck down his throat. It was obvious Doc had been in a hurry. Bloody gauze lay everywhere, surgical instruments scattered on a steel tray. The dog’s back leg was open from hip to hock, an ugly wound, jagged and torn, with muscle and ligaments tangled like a wad of spaghetti.

“What happened?” It didn’t even sound like his own voice.

“Bull caught him. It happens.” Ledbetter said it calmly, but there were white lines creasing his mouth, and a set to his jaw like he didn’t want to believe it had. “A new man screwed up, left a gate open. Just cost me a damn good dog.”

“Doc can save him. Can’t you, Doc?”

“His life? Yes. His leg? That’s another story.” Doc looked at Ledbetter, then Chantry. “We were just discussing
 . . .
options.”

He knew what Doc meant by that. Something cold gripped his belly like sharp teeth. “There are no options. You’ve got to save him.”

“It’s not that simple, son,” Ledbetter said. “He’s a stock dog. What would I do with a three-legged dog? It’d be better to put him out of his pain.”

“Fuck you.”

Doc lifted a brow and Ledbetter’s face turned red. Chantry didn’t care. He took a step forward, fear and anger making his words sharp.

“There’s a whole hell of a lot of us who’d be better off put out of our pain. He’s got a good bloodline. Breed him.”