Dark River Road (88 page)

“Yes,” Colin said finally, the word coming out all hoarse and funny sounding. “He should have what he wants.”

“The best.”

Tansy glanced at Chris, then up at Chantry. “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted Daddy to say a few words over him.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or not, but ended up just nodding again. It didn’t seem as dumb as it should have, eulogizing a dog. Not when it was Shadow.

Dempsey had brought a Bible, and when they stood by the grave he opened it up to where he had a place marked to read, adjusting a pair of eyeglasses on his nose.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted. A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up
 . . .
”

Chantry thought about those words, thought about a lot of things when Tansy sang a song, a favorite of Dempsey’s, a song about Amazing Grace. It seemed like he’d been through so many seasons, but maybe now it was the time for him to heal. Then he’d take on the time to build up. To start fresh. To believe again.

Gravel under wheels sounded, and they looked up as Cinda pulled her car to the shoulder of the road. She got out and looked at him. The wind blew her hair away from her face as she came toward him across the gravel and the hard pods that had fallen from the black walnut trees near the road.

The final notes of Tansy’s song faded as Cinda reached them where they stood beneath smooth, bare branches of the mimosa tree. She carried a small spray of flowers in one hand, and knelt to place it atop the gentle mound of earth blanketing Shadow.

“Lavender,” he said softly, “Mama’s favorite.”

“I know. She always smelled so sweet. This is for both of them.”

Chantry didn’t know what to say then, just put his arm around her and held her close to him. Maybe he’d take some lavender to put on Mama’s grave, too. A peace offering. He owed her that. She’d married Rainey to protect him, stayed with Rainey to protect Mikey. A strong woman, determined. Maybe she hadn’t done everything just right but neither had he. No one did. But she’d loved him enough. And that was the best part of her legacy. It’d just taken him a lot longer than Mikey to realize it.

Saying good-bye was always hard
, some good-byes harder than others.

It was on a soft April day when skies were so bright a blue it hurt to look up that Chantry drove over to Liberty Road to visit Dempsey and found him lying out in the front yard. He slammed the Rover into Park, leaped out and made it to Dempsey’s side in about three long strides. Dempsey opened his eyes and looked up at the sky when Chantry cradled his head in the crook of his arm.

“So blue
 . . .
I swear
 . . .
I can almost
 . . .
see heaven.”

Fumbling for his cell phone, Chantry got out, “I’m calling for an ambulance—”

“No.” Dempsey gave a weak shake of his head. “Don’t
 . . .
do that
 . . .
to me
 . . .
”

Helpless, Chantry just looked down at him for a minute before he slowly nodded. “If that’s what you want.”

Dempsey relaxed slightly, his eyes briefly closing before he opened them again. This time his gaze lingered on Chantry. It got real quiet, the wind a whisper through trees, a light sound like tiny bells coming from the chimes Tansy had hung on the porch a long time ago.

Then from the road, music drifted through the still-open door of the Rover, the CD Chantry had been listening to rising above the wind chimes. Tansy’s voice sang someone else’s song, a poignant melody with sad lyrics about broken hallelujahs and lost love.

“Tell her
 . . .
” Dempsey said, holding Chantry steady with eyes that had seen too much in life, “she
 . . .
done me proud. Tell her
 . . .
I’ll watch
 . . .
over her. Always.”

It felt suddenly final. He didn’t know if he could stand it, if he had the strength to do this. This was Dempsey.
Dempsey
who lay here dying in his arms, and all the other deaths, the losses and sorrows and anguish, came crashing back in a weight too great to bear. He bent his head until his cheek rested against Dempsey’s forehead.

“Don’t go,” he whispered on a long sigh, “don’t leave me now. Ah, help me
God
.”

The last word was more of a prayer, slipping easily from his lips, a supplicant’s plea for mercy, for more time, for words to say what he felt inside when he’d never known how deeply he could feel. Everything tumbled through his mind so fast, images flying past of nearly forgotten memories, Dempsey teaching him how to bait a hook, how to reel in a catfish without getting stung, how to tell which weeds were harmless and which were toxic, how to save a Catahoula pup no one else wanted
 . . .
how to live by the truth when everything around him reeked of hatred, lies, and intolerance.

“Son,” Dempsey whispered then, and Chantry knew what he meant,
who
he meant, and took the hand the old man held up and curled his own around it, his so strong covering the familiar hand that had known too much work and not enough care.

“Son
 . . .
” he said again, the word softer this time, the name on his lips a benediction and promise, and even when his arm relaxed and his breathing stilled, Chantry held on to him, held the only father he’d ever known as if he could never let go, could never say all the things he’d meant to him, just the words that came from his soul.

“I love you
 . . .
”

Tansy sang at his funeral,
her glorious voice lifting high above the crowd gathered at his grave, rising up to heaven so he could hear it. Half the town turned out to say their good-byes and, while some had come just to get a look at Tansy, maybe, most were there because of Dempsey. He’d earned respect and love from a lot of folks in Cane Creek.

Mikey was there, and Miss Pat and Doctor Mike had come, too, just to pay their respects, they said, but Chantry thought maybe it was to show support for him, too. They knew how much he’d loved that old man. He surprised his grandmother by giving her a hug, and when he shook his grandfather’s hand, he held it a little longer than necessary. A look passed between them then, and both knew what the other thought. Years of regret, of missed opportunities, of anger that had somehow supplanted love and been such a waste. The reasons for it seemed foolish now. But it wasn’t too late to start over. Not too late to make the best of the next years.
Mama would have liked that
, he thought, and saw in his grandfather’s eyes that he was thinking of her, too. They looked at each other and smiled.

For the first time since that April day so long ago, Chantry walked in the mist over to where Mama was buried behind the New Cane Creek Baptist church. Fresh lavender grew by her headstone, the one that marked the years of her birth and death but couldn’t begin to mark her worth. She’d left behind a lot more than two sons.

The week before he died, Dempsey had told him that God answered every prayer, but not always like folks expected. “Sometimes you just have to wait till it’s the right season to figure out you got the right answer after all.”

Chantry reckoned that was true. He remembered praying that he’d be able to keep Shadow, and he had, but not quite the way he’d thought it’d be. Like Mama. She’d said all things came to those who wait, and maybe that was true too. Somehow it seemed like it was saying the same thing. Maybe God answered prayers, after all. It was something to think about.

When he turned to leave the cemetery, he saw Chris Quinton not far away. He stood by the huge monument that marked his grandfather’s grave, new and ornate, a big piece of carved marble that Colin and Cara had erected in his honor. He walked over out of curiosity more than anything else.

Chris looked up and nodded. “Hey, Chantry.”

“Hey, Chris. How’s married life?”

“Good.” Chris smiled. “Damn good. Maybe one day I’ll live up to the person she thinks I am.”

“Maybe.”

Chris looked down at the grave. A low wrought iron fence made a square around the foot of the headstone. Nearby lay a new grave: Ted Quinton’s bones had been found in the backwash behind where the Hideaway once stood, and brought home to rest. Like a few others, men who’d been missing for generations. Found again, and brought home.

“He hurt a lot of people,” Chris said. “Did a lot of mean things.”

“Yeah. Guess we all do in a way.” Just not like Quinton had done. But he didn’t say that out loud. There wasn’t any need to, anyway.

“True, but most of us don’t do it on purpose.” Chris shook his head. “Sometimes I think I might end up like him.”

“You won’t. You’ve got Tansy to keep you straight.”

“And you’ve got Cinda.” Chris looked at him again. “Hope you don’t do anything to mess that up.”

“Is that a warning?”

“No. Friendly advice.”

He nodded. “I asked her to marry me and she said yes.”

Chris looked surprised, then grinned. “About damn time.”

“A season for everything.”

“Since you’ve gone into partnership with Doc Malone, I guess you’ll be staying in Cane Creek a while.”

“Looks that way.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, looked over the rolling hills of the cemetery where generations of Quintons lay beneath green grass and pink blooms of laurel trees. At the end of the cemetery, beyond a low stone fence, lay the “colored” section, segregated even in death. Things were changing, but not everything. Not all at once. Maybe some things would never change.