Into the Free (16 page)

“Too big a crowd, Millie. Jack was quite the star,” Hilda says.

Out my window, trucks and cars are trailing into the lot. Buggies and bikes, too. Even horses and mourners on foot. It seems the whole town has shown up to bid Jack farewell. The driver pulls as near to the entrance as possible and parks his car. He walks around to open the front passenger door, and then retrieves the wheelchair from the trunk. The two nurses help move me from the car to the chair, a very awkward maneuver with my rigid cast and swollen feet. Onlookers try not to stare, but their whispers burn me as they pass.

I’m just about to tell Diana I don’t want to do this, when Bump appears. “Mr. Tucker’s got a row of seats reserved for us right through here,” he says. “We won’t have to make it too far.” He takes my hand.

I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see my pain. Instead, I stare at the ground. A row of leather saddles lines the walk, a tribute to Jack and the many rides he survived before his final fall. It is difficult for Hilda to maneuver the chair along the uneven surface, where strings of straw-filled potholes and patches of gravel fight against the metal wheels. The air smells of cow dung and horsehair and burned fields. Fitting for Jack maybe, but Mama deserves more.

Bump takes control of the chair and pushes me up a small ramp, where the livestock are loaded, past a few tight turns, until we finally reach the designated spot. Hilda helps him park the wheelchair in the aisle, and she and Diana take their seats. The crowd is growing by the minute, and the large outdoor arena is already filled. I can’t imagine where all of these people are going to sit. Bump stands next to me, and Hilda tells him, “You better squeeze on in, cowboy.”

An announcer’s rehearsed voice punches the airwaves with precise diction. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending the services of Jack and Marie Reynolds. Please join us for an opening prayer.” He sounds like the ringmaster in the summer circus.

Everyone stands but me. I am injured, of course, but if I really wanted to, I could stand for the prayer. I just don’t want to. I want to sit and watch the thousands who have removed their hats and bowed their heads and closed their eyes to ask God to bless the souls of my mother and my father. Strangers who don’t know the first thing about Jack and Mama. Or me. Spectators here to witness a dual funeral in a rodeo arena. A show.

I am reminded of the beautiful gypsy telling her story in front of the campfire. The story of their queen and the legendary crowds who attended her lavish funeral. Jack’s funeral will go down in history too, no doubt. Once again, Mama rests in his shadow.

I want something to happen to make it all go away. But nothing will delay the inevitable. I listen to the prayer and fight the urge to scream out, like Jack at my brother’s funeral, “You pray to a madman. He’ll torture you, too. Just wait and see. Fools, all of you!”

Instead, I blink back tears as sets of champion Clydesdales pull two sleek wagons out into the center of the arena. Diana reaches down and pats my knee and says, “It’ll be okay,” as cowboys, awkwardly dressed in suits and ties, work in sync to draw the simple wooden caskets out of the wagons and onto a center stage. Jack and Mama are side by side, still, quiet, and at peace.

Thank goodness, no vendors are selling pickles and root beer. Mr. Tucker has managed to resist the temptation to turn the funeral into a moneymaking event, but still, I feel as though it’s all a big production. A spectacle for the masses. A lie.

Mr. Tucker gives Jack’s eulogy. Tells the story about how Jack first came to work for him in the rodeo. Calls him a son. “They’ll never be any rider better than Jack Reynolds,” Mr. Tucker says. “Jack represents the fighter in each and every one of us.”

Then Miss Harper, the sweet librarian, stands to say a few words about Mama. Shares her love of reading, how she knew the Bible back and forth. “Jack may have been a fighter. I can tell you that he was. But Marie, she was a survivor,” says Miss Harper. “Life threw hard blows her way. She did what she had to do. She got through one day at a time.”

By the time they both finish, there’s hardly a dry eye in the stands. Diana leans down to my ear and whispers, “That was really beautiful, Millie. Would you like to say a few words?”

I don’t know. Part of me wants to share all of my thoughts about Mama, and part of me wants to keep these memories private, locked secret within the shell of myself. And what can I say about Jack? No one here wants to know the truth.

I decide to leave things as they are. Pretend right along with everyone else. Convince myself that Jack was a hero. A perfect man who came home every night to hug his wife and talk to his daughter. A man who showed up. Stayed around. Stuck it out. A man who kept his promises and protected his family instead of forcing them to live in fear.

The cowboys drape a flag over Jack’s coffin, and I try to pretend it all away. I think about River. Wonder if he’s coming back for me. I think about Mama’s stash and wonder if there’s anything left. I understand now, Mama’s desire to numb the pain.

CHAPTER 24

It is the end of December, and the air is thin and frigid. Now, the rain falls. A soft, slow drizzle slides through the gray afternoon.

The funeral has ended with another prayer, and we are supposed to drive to the burial site. I figure we’ll be going out to Hope Hill, the same cemetery that holds the gypsy king and queen. And my brother. But Mr. Tucker surprises me again.

He meets me at the car and says, “Millie. I know Jack wouldn’t want to be laid to rest in a crowded row of stones. He’d want to be out in the wild. Where the horses and the cattle roam with him. And from what I hear, your mama would have wanted the same. A field of wildflowers. So, I’ve made arrangements with Mr. Sutton, and he’s agreed to give you a little corner of his pasture. A shady place under a big oak. I hope that’s fine with you. I want it to be a place where you can remember the good times, Millie. I know there must have been plenty of those.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tucker,” I say, grateful for his kindness.

Mr. Tucker closes our car door, and we follow the caravan to Mr. Sutton’s plantation, the place I call home. My wheelchair isn’t able to make it up the hill in the thick pasture grass, so I watch from the car. I am glad not to have to hear the sound of dirt falling on Mama’s coffin. I think of the mama mutt dog, all those years earlier, and my frantic race to uncover her pups.

The coffins are carried up the hill, and I worry that the pallbearers, all tough-skinned cowboys, will slip on the slick grass and Mama or Jack will go tumbling down, tossed from their pinewood boxes and rolled through the weeds. Hilda leans over to roll up the windows in the rain. I leave mine cracked open and watch the water drip down the glass. Soon, I hear the crowd sing “Be Not Afraid,” another one of Mama’s favorite hymns.

Diana moves from the front seat to the back and wraps me in her coat. She pulls me into her warm chest and lets my tears fall over her. When the crowd disperses, visitors stop by the car to offer their sympathy and to wish me well. Some invite me to stay in their homes, but I don’t know who they are or what they would do if I actually showed up at their doors. I just try to smile and nod and shake hands and say thanks and do all the things I am expected to do to make them feel better.

Diana sits next to me, rubbing my back. “Have you seen your grandparents?” she asks.

I shake my head no. Diana’s probably been holding out hope that they would show up and give it one more shot. Try again to take me with them. What she doesn’t know is that Mama has been dead to them for years. That my grandmother doesn’t have the strength to defy her husband. To do the right thing.

The driver starts the engine. Mr. Tucker, Bump, and Janine stand in the rain next to my window. “Thank you for all you’ve done,” I say to them. “Jack and Mama would both be honored. I know the truck isn’t nearly enough. What else can I do to repay you?”

Mr. Tucker protests. “Aww, girl, I don’t need that truck. It’s all yours. If you can drive it, go for it. If you can’t, then sell it and use the money to do something good for yourself. That truck was Jack’s. And what was Jack’s is now yours.”

“But Mr. Tucker, I don’t have any money to pay you. If you don’t take the truck …”

He interrupts. “Look here, gal. I may be a money man. But some things just ain’t about money.” He tips his hat and says, “Now, if you find yourself in need of a job, you know where to find me.”

Janine nods, her bright-pink lipstick coating a sugar-sweet smile. Bump watches, quietly, and I sense he doesn’t want to see me cry. Mr. Tucker, with no way of knowing how happy he’s just made me, knocks the top of the sedan twice with his large fist, and the driver takes off in the rain.

In the distance, one man remains. He is wearing a long black raincoat with a black fedora pulled low over his brow. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing out the window to the man as we pass. Diana and Hilda look confused. “That man, over there. Does he need a ride?”

The driver slows and asks, “What man?”

“Right there. By the tree,” I sit up and point, showing them the man who stands alone in the rain under a dripping cedar. He is only ten feet from the car. He turns so that his hat no longer blocks his face. It is Sloth.

“Millie,” Diana says calmly. “There’s no one there. Probably just a sapling. Things look different in the rain.”

CHAPTER 25

We return to the hospital, where Diana and Hilda do their best to get rid of my chills. They crank up the radiator in my room and layer more blankets over me. I can’t stop shivering. Hilda brings me a thermos of hot chocolate and demands I drink it all, standing over me with her old sense of dominion. When the thermos is empty, my bones began to thaw.

She leaves to get a refill, despite my opposition, and Diana just giggles at the sight of Hilda’s determination to take care of me. “I’m seeing a whole new side of Hilda,” she says. I watch the rain fall harder against the window. Diana turns to the window too and notices the Christmas tree in the sill. “You have one more present,” she says.

I squirm my way up higher in bed and fake excitement as I accept the gift. I am too sad from the funeral. And I feel guilty. Everyone has gone out of their way to make me feel better. I wish I hadn’t put them through so much trouble. “I’m sorry I climbed that tree,” I tell Diana. “That was kind of stupid.”

“Not at all,” Diana answers. “I think I would have done the same thing.”

No sooner would Diana have climbed a tree than skinned a hog; she is far too prim for that. But I let her kindness wash over me unchallenged. I start to remove the bright-red bow from the rectangular package, but Diana puts her hand over mine and says, “Wait just a second. There’s a story that goes along with this one.”

I relax into the pillow and think of Mama’s stories. I listen as Diana tells the tale.

“Have you ever heard of Pandora?”

I nod.

“And her box?”

Again, I nod, thinking of the box of secrets Mama had buried. I’ve read the Greek myths with Mama. She taught me about Pandora and her locked box.

“Well, do you remember what was in her box?”

“Death. Disease. Sorrow,” I say. “All the evils of the world.”

“That’s right,” Diana continues. “It all started with a trick.”

Diana sits next to me and tells the story of Prometheus and Zeus. I pretend she is Mama. Her voice is like a long sip of sweet tea. “Zeus ordered Hephaestus to craft a woman out of clay and to give her a human voice. When Zeus’s daughter saw the masterpiece, she liked the woman so much that she breathed life into her. She taught the woman how to weave. She gave her clothes. Aphrodite gave her beauty. Hermes taught her to lie and deceive. One by one, the gods offered her their gifts. She was called Pandora.”

“And she became the first woman to join mankind,” I interrupt, shifting my position in bed.

“But remember,” warns Diana, “Zeus had created Pandora as a way to punish Prometheus for returning fire to mankind. So he sent this beautiful woman to Prometheus’s brother, Epimetheus, and even though Prometheus warned his brother never to accept a gift from Zeus, because it was probably a trick, Epimetheus couldn’t help himself. He fell in love with the beautiful Pandora.”

“And they were married,” I add.

Diana nods. “Now when Zeus heard the news of the wedding, he sent a gift, a box with a lock and a key. Then, he ordered Pandora never to open the box. But over time, she became more and more curious. She couldn’t understand why anyone would give her a locked box and then tell her not to open it. Just as Zeus suspected, she could not resist the temptation for long.”

Diana takes a sip of water, so I continue the story. “One evening, while everyone else was away, Pandora sneaked to the box and slipped the key into the lock.”

“Yes. And then she opened the lid. And before she could stop it, the whole world was filled with troubles. Hatred. Jealousy. Greed.”

“Violence. Disease. Famine,” I add.

“Just like you remember, Pandora had released all the evils known to mankind, with the simple turn of a key. But Pandora still had one thing left in her box,” Diana continues. “Do you remember what that was?”

I nod again. I know the answer. But I want Diana to keep talking. I want to listen to her tell me stories forever. “It was hope,” Diana says. “Hope. And that’s what I’m offering you here, Millie. The gods have tricked you. They gave you gifts of beauty and knowledge and strength and endurance, but they continued to throw one bad thing after another into your world. Remember, no matter what they throw your way, you still have hope.”

With that, she lets go of my hand and nods for me to unwrap the gift. It is a polished wooden box with a hinged lid and a miniature golden key. Shiny and clean. Nothing like the box Mama buried under the sycamore tree.

Inside the box is a letter. I unfold the ivory-colored paper and read Diana’s words. They are written in beautiful calligraphy, like a genuine invitation.
Please come live with us. We would be honored if you would join our family.

The letter shakes in my hand.

“I know it may be too much to take in right now. You don’t know me too well yet, Millie. But you need a safe place to land. My husband, Bill Miller, and I have one daughter. Her name is Camille. She’s nine and she’d love more than anything to have a big sister. She’s prayed for one her entire life, in fact. We have a room ready for you, right across the hall from Camille’s. We don’t want to pressure you, we just—”

I can’t put her through any more. I interrupt, “I’ll come.” I mean it to sound sure and happy, but it comes out as a tiny whisper.