Dark River Road (41 page)

“There’s just some things a guy has to do on his own, Chantry,” he’d said, and sounded so serious that he hadn’t argued, just let him hobble off by himself, his gait wobbly and uncertain but not his spirit.

This particular Sunday it was quiet in the house, silence lying heavy in the empty rooms. Mikey was at Dempsey’s, Rainey at the Tap Room, and even Shadow gone with Mikey. It felt as abandoned as the Albertson’s old house. With Mama gone, nothing was the same. It looked the same, the furniture still where it’d always been, her pots and pans in place, even her clothes still hanging in the closet. He hadn’t been able to look at them, but for some reason, today he found himself in front of her closet door, staring at the bare wood.

Rainey’s clothes were strewn around the room, and the shades had been drawn instead of up like Mama had always liked them. She loved the brightness of the sunlight. So he’d raised the shades and now stood looking at her closet, at the squares of sunlight slanting through the windows and lighting up the room.

After a minute, he pulled open the door. The scent of lavender drifted out, subtle and sweet and bringing a lump to his throat. Her old blue bathrobe hung on a hook on the back of the door, and her few garments were neatly on hangers, skirts and blouses on one side, dresses on the other. Three pairs of shoes lined up on the wooden floor. Rainey’s clothes may have hung in here once, but now were all over the bedroom. No one cared much about doing laundry these days, so that Mrs. Rowan had begun to wash Mikey’s clothes for him every day. Chantry did just what he had to do to get by. He sure didn’t care about washing for Rainey. That wasn’t part of their bargain.

A few boxes were stacked up on the shelf, one a wide shoebox. He thought of the blue box tied with the yellow ribbon then, but didn’t know if he wanted to deal with that right now. It’d make him think too much of Mama, and how she’d looked, and what she’d said, and how it had made him feel to see the photos of her when she was young and happy. Maybe he’d just look through other things right now, and save that until later.

He pulled down the shoebox, and when he opened it, he saw the blue box in there anyway, as if it meant for him to look at it again. He set it aside. There were other things he’d look at first, then he might be ready. Mama had saved newspaper clippings and old letters, and his heart gave a thump when he realized some of the letters were from his father. Her personal letters, with the private things in them that men and women said to one another. He held them for a minute in his hand, then put them with the blue box. Not now. Not right yet.

There were maybe a half dozen letters tied with a dark blue ribbon, but they weren’t addressed to Mama at all. He lifted the one on top, saw that it was addressed to Dr. M.G. Callahan in care of The Orthopaedic Group in Memphis. The memory of a rainy drive to Memphis returned in a rush, the big empty house that was cold as a mausoleum, Mama’s face all pale and nervous, her distress when the doctor wasn’t in, then her despair when they got home. He looked at the letters, thumbed through them, and saw that they had all been returned unopened. Official post office stamps said
Return To Sender
, and
Refused
.

Maybe he shouldn’t, but maybe it didn’t matter anymore, either. He opened the letters, the one on top first since it was dated only a year and a half ago. Mama’s familiar scrawl, neat with feminine loops, raced across the page:

“Daddy, can’t we call a truce? It’s been so long. You won’t take my calls, you won’t read my letters. We’ve spent too long apart, lost too many years. I want you to meet my sons, your grandchildren. I’m so proud of them, and I know you and Mother would be, too. There are so many things I want to say that can’t really be said in a letter, so just give me a chance to say them. If you still feel the same, then at least I’ll know I’ve done all I could do to make it right between us again. I’ve learned a lot in these past years, about pride and stubbornness, and doing what’s right. Perhaps you taught me well, after all. Chantry is so big now, and he’ll be a fine man one day just like his father. Mikey—well, he reminds me of you in a way. I named him for you. Michael Glen Lassiter. He needs you. He needs your expertise, your talent, and most of all—your love, just like I do. I hope you read this letter.”

It was signed
Your loving daughter, Carrie
.

Chantry just stared at the lines for a moment, so unlike Mama in a way, not contained and careful but emotional. The letter answered questions, but created so many more. Was Mama’s daddy named Callahan, too?

He turned the packet of letters over and started from the beginning. This one was written when he was two years old.

“Dear Daddy, I hope this finds you well. It’s been three years since we’ve spoken, and I’m not at all sure this letter will smooth things over between us, but I’ve got to try. When I left we both said some harsh things to one another. Perhaps time has softened my anger, but not my resolve. I’ll never be sorry I kept the baby. He’s so beautiful. He looks so much like Clayton, and yet he has your eyes. “Irish eyes” you always called them. I love him so much, and now at last I think I understand why you were so hurt and angry when we last spoke. You want the best for your children, and the thought of them being hurt can make you do and say things you never thought you would. That’s how I feel about Chantry. He’s smart, and such a happy little boy, though very intense. I know you’d love him as much I do. I have my teacher’s certificate now and have been offered several positions, but before I make a final decision, I’d like to come home again. To try and see if we can sort through our hurt feelings and forget the angry words. I want to reconcile with you and with the church. I want to start over, to see you and Mother and let you meet your grandson. I love and miss you both terribly.”

Again, it was signed
Your loving daughter, Carrie
.

Chantry realized he was sitting on the floor, the box beside him, the letters in his lap, but he didn’t remember moving there. Who was Clayton? What did she mean about keeping the baby? Had there been one before him? He scanned the letter again, then reached for another one. They were all similar, pleas for her father to understand, anger that he kept returning the letters. Some were addressed to the office in Memphis, some to the house on Peabody Avenue. One was sent to her mother, but it was returned unopened as well. He looked at the stack of letters between his mother and father, and slowly reached for them.

The return address was to a Lance Corporal Clayton A. Chantry, U.S.M.C., along with a string of numbers and letters. Clayton Chantry. Not Callahan. His head and heart pounded hard.

Maybe it was a violation of their privacy, but once he opened the letters he couldn’t stop reading. Some were letters from Mama to his father, sent back after his death, he guessed. Sweet intimacies were shared, memories only they would cherish, until the letter telling his father that she was pregnant. Her fear came through the scrawled words, not her usual careful speech he remembered, but disjointed sentences, hope and determination in phrases like “I want this baby no matter what, but want you to want it just as much.”

There were a lot of letters, and it seemed he’d only just begun reading when he heard Rainey’s truck outside. He looked at the box, and quickly threw everything inside it and took it to his room. He hid it in the back of his closet. Secrets. Lies. Hidden away but even more powerful.

All these years with Mama had been a lie. She’d never told him she wasn’t married to his father, but had lied to him. How could she? His entire life had been a lie and she’d never given him even a hint. He could accept the truth. It was the lie he couldn’t fathom.

That night he lay in his bed while Mikey slept beside him, and stared at the closed door of his closet. It was as if a burning ember lay behind the door, waiting to ignite a fire that would burn out of control.

The next morning before school, he got up and moved the box out to the garage. He didn’t read any more letters, didn’t look inside it again. Not now. Maybe never. But he knew, with awful clarity, just what Bert Quinton had used against his mother to keep her in Cane Creek. He just didn’t know why it had mattered so much to her.

Cinda met him at the front door of school. It was a pretty day, with the sun already warm, promising a hot June. “Ready?” she said, and he just looked at her.

“For what?”

“It’s Sophomore Skip Day, remember? Don’t tell me you forgot.”

He had. “Can’t go. I’m still on probation. And I’ve already missed too much school.”

“Don’t be silly. Besides, I’ve got plans and if you don’t come, it’ll ruin everything.”

“Look.” He shoved a hand through his hair, blew out a heavy breath and looked across the school yard. “I probably wouldn’t be very good company today, anyway.”

“Not much different than other days lately. And don’t look at me like that. I understand. Or I’m trying to. But you can’t just forget you’re alive, Chantry. You can’t forget that I’m alive.”

He looked at her, at the way the sunlight gleamed on her hair and face, all pink and blonde and pretty green eyes, and thought how nice it’d be to just forget everything for a little while. He didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want any expectations or disappointments. He just wanted to be with Cinda and not think about anything.

“Let’s go,” he said, and she grabbed his hand.

Cinda had her own car now, not a brand new one but a nice Firebird she’d bought over in Clarksdale. Chantry guessed the Sheridan feud with Dale Ledbetter had never been resolved, but he admired the sleek white coupe with T-top roof. It’d been a fifteenth birthday present even though her birthday wasn’t until September. This way, she’d said, she’d have it for the entire summer.

He called Doc to tell him he’d be late but he told him to take the day off, then they headed for the lake, the time-honored destination for sophomores skipping class the last week of school. It was a lot easier not to think about anything but the moment with the wind and sunshine coming through the open T-tops and Cinda turning up the radio. A cooler of beer sat in the back, along with some blankets, towels, and her suntan lotion. Yeah, the day might turn out okay.

A sandy beach edged water that gleamed blue under the sun, but washed up with bits of grass and leaves over rocks put down by the Mississippi Corps of Engineers. Gazebos had been erected in some of the parks, and concrete picnic tables and benches were bolted to slabs. Tall pine trees lined the roads that wound through the park and along the top of the Sardis dam. In the middle of the week, very few people were there.

They went down on the sand with other sophomores from Cane Creek, spread blankets out and hid their beer since Tate County was dry. Chantry took off his shirt and lay down beside Cinda, squinting against the sunlight while he sipped beer from a plastic cup.

Mariah Sewell came over after a few minutes, and knelt down on the edge of the blanket close to Cinda. She had dark brown hair and blue eyes, and always seemed too cheerful. Except for right now, when she looked puzzled.

“Hey, Cinda. What’s up with your cousin?”

Cinda shrugged. “I don’t talk much to Chris these days. Why?”

“He’s gotten really weird these past few months. I dunno. All—angry.”

“Maybe that has something to do with the fact you’ve been hanging out with Justin a lot lately.”

“Well, I’d like to think that, but Chris doesn’t seem that interested. I asked him to come with us today, but I don’t think he’s going to show up.”

“It’s still early. He might.”

Mariah brightened and looked all happy again. “Yeah. He might.”

Chantry would just as soon he didn’t, but he didn’t say anything. Mariah gave him a look that said she suspected how he felt, but after a few more minutes of saying nothing much except that Treena Thompson looked fat in her bathing suit, she got up and wandered back to her blanket spread close to where the water made brown and white lace against the dun-colored sand.

He kinda wished Donny were here, but since he’d been held back a year, he was still at school with the other freshmen. Most of the other kids still steered clear of Chantry, like he had some kind of contagious disease. If it wasn’t for Cinda, probably none of them would talk to him.

“Here,” Cinda said, and handed him a plastic squeeze bottle of sun lotion, “put this on my back for me.”

It smelled like summer when he opened the sun lotion, that distinct scent that always meant hot summer sun. Cinda had worn her bathing suit under her clothes, a pretty black and white striped bikini that left a lot of skin bare. Chantry felt awkward smoothing the lotion over her back out here in front of everyone. He knew they were watching and wondering just why Cinda was with him when she could have her pick of almost any boy at school. He wondered that, too.

She was so pale under his fingers, skin so soft and creamy it was like touching silk. He got through spreading the lotion on her without making a complete ass of himself, even though he got all tight in his pants like it did when he thought about her too much. He hoped no one noticed.

“All done.” He handed her back the bottle, and she smiled when she took it from him.

“You look hot. Take off your pants, too.”

“Right. That won’t be happening.”

“Chicken.”

“Fully-feathered, like I intend to stay.” He let her run her hand over his bare chest down to his stomach, sucking in a sharp breath when she reached the waist of his Levi’s. She tugged at the button until he put his hand over hers to hold it. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Um hm. And I know you have too many clothes on. Just looking at you makes me feel all hot.” She dragged her tongue over her lips, gave him an arch smile. “Really hot.”

It made him think of Cathy Chandler and he didn’t like that, didn’t like her acting that way when he knew she wasn’t. He scowled.

“Stop it.”

She blinked at him with a surprised expression. “Stop? I thought—well, it looks like you aren’t interested after all.” Yanking her hand away, she grabbed for her plastic cup of beer but knocked it over. It spilled atop the blanket and she said, “Shit.”