The Pickle Boat House (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CRYPT KEEPERS

Van saw meeting with Margaret Douglas last night as an act of providence. Meeting someone with her expertise was pure serendipity. She couldn’t wait to tell Ryan, but she had no idea where he was.

To help pass the time, Van latched on to the most mindless activity she could find: watching Charlie edge her flower bed. He worked on his own clock, and it didn’t matter if a chore was finished today or stretched into tomorrow. All that he seemed to care about was that it kept him busy and that it would look right when he was done. What Charlie didn’t care so much for was anyone looking over his shoulder while he worked. He was just about to change chores and move out of Van’s sight when suddenly she spoke and broke the tension.

“Come sit with me, Charlie, and rest a minute. You look all kinds of tense. We haven’t talked in a while.”

He joined her on the porch, and they rocked for a while in silence.

“Charlie, you know how they say to be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it? Do you ever wish you could talk to your wife, even if it was just for a couple of minutes?”

“Sure, all the time. She wasn’t gone five minutes before I had a million questions I wanted to ask her, and things I wanted to tell her.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Yep.”

“I’ve often thought how wonderful it would be to pick up the phone one day, and there’d be James on the other end.” Van laughed. “Like a call from the hereafter. Oh, just to hear his voice again.” She sighed and looked at kindly old Charlie. “I’m not crazy, then?”

“You know, I’m starting to lose a lot of my dear friends,” he said. “I’m at that age. We old-timers kinda share and cope together. Naw, that’s pretty normal,” he said, and he reached out and put a suntanned hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. Ageless strength seemed to flow from the gnarled old hand.

“What if you could have her back, but just not in the way you would have expected? Like, what if she came back, but not as your wife? Suppose … she was just someone you bumped into down at the bakery one day? And you knew it was her? Of course, we know that isn’t possible, but what if it was? How would you handle that?”

Charlie’s serious face broke out into a huge grin. “Land sakes, girl, what are you talking about?”

“Wait, now, I’m being serious. Really, what would you do?”

“Well,” he said, pulling his lower lip up tight against the upper one and nodding slowly, “I expect I’d love her the same way I do right now, because true love, it lasts forever. It’s so real you can reach out and touch it when you meet the right person.” He stopped and mused a moment. “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head, “lasts forever.”

“Do you think it’s possible ever to meet them again—here on earth, that is?”

“Naw. I say a prayer that I can be with her a little in my dreams or just being thoughtful, but I don’t ask for any more than that. You take what the big man gives you.” Charlie got up and hugged Van. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” He went on down the steps in his familiar slow shuffle and headed around back, pulling out his handkerchief as he went.

* * *

Van rocked a little longer, and when she couldn’t think of a good reason to put it off any longer she got in her car and drove out to the cemetery. Trudging up the hill, she immediately started searching for the spot. There was no point of reference for finding her son’s grave—no big, beautiful archangel statue or little lamb perched on the top of a child’s gravestone. In fact, there was no point of reference for his death at all. She hated modern cemeteries—just acre after acre of dead people. No beautifully crafted headstones saying something about the lives of those who lay there and those they left behind. Just cold metal markers sunken in the ground like those they named.

She didn’t visit often. So many conflicting feelings: duty, love, loneliness. This was the memory place for her. She had always believed that the essence of James, his soul, was with God; all that remained here were bones. But sometimes she needed a place to focus, and in those moments, she came here. Today she needed soul-searching and advice to solve the newest wrinkle in her already complicated life.

When she finally found James’s grave she knelt and started right in on the task at hand: pulling grass runners away from the edge of the marker. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she gently wiped the dirt and debris from the face of the stone. There was a coldness to it that even the bright sunshine of a summer’s day couldn’t warm. Satisfied, she pulled a pink pebble out of her pocket and placed it between the first and last name. Then she sat down at the head of the grave to stare at the stone engraving. James Hardy. Teary eyes traced the beading of the rosary along the top. This marker had a story, a story about a little boy who kept a rosary tucked into his pillowcase at night because no harm could come to someone in prayer. The Celtic cross to the left told another story. It resembled the one James always wanted to have tattooed on his arm. It was the kind of tattoo that some good Catholic boys dreamed about and that others, like Sam, wore in remembrance of a childhood friend.

Her hands tried to brush away the tears continuously rolling down her cheeks. She appeared to sit alone in her grief—the silent figure of a slight woman sitting cross-legged at a grave, head down, so immersed in sorrow that her surroundings had no substance. And yet, she was anything but quiet or alone. She sat in deep conversation with those she held closest. She beseeched her God to help her and asked her son to forgive her.

“Oh, James, you don’t know how much I wish I could have a conversation with you right now. You always gave me the best advice. No matter what, you were always honest. I need you. I can put my life back together … with him. But I’m not deserting you. I don’t want to hurt you. He can’t be you. It’s not possible. I know you’re with God, and I know I’ll see you again.”

Off in the distance, she watched the slow, almost regal strut of a peacock moving warily past her. As she fought to control her emotions, she watched swallows fighting the stiff breeze and noted how the blue of the sky deepened as her eyes followed it from the horizon upward to its zenith. It was always breezy here, and the cold went right through her. She pulled herself together, lowered her eyes to the ground, and began again.

“There is a part of me that wants to move on, with him, but I feel that I’m betraying you … forgetting you, deserting you. You’re not a memory. Every day brings me a step, not away from you, but closer. Who’s going to come and remember you—love you? I don’t want to hurt you or forget you.”

She put her hands to her eyes and burst into tears. “God, help me to bear this. I don’t know what to do. How can you possibly be both people? I can’t be with both of you. Which one of you do I give up? I can’t choose. Please, can’t you give me a sign? Talk to me, please. God, don’t desert me.”

She put her head down and listened with all her heart, and all was still quiet. She looked toward the Christ figure standing in the green, with his arms outstretched, embracing the world with his love. She felt his embrace, and it comforted her. When she needed him, he wiped her clean of troubled thoughts and overwhelmed emotions. She silently beseeched him.

All remained quiet except an internal feeling that spoke to her. It wasn’t like the voice she had heard so long ago, but it was reasonable, and it still spoke to her with authority. Even though she could not hear His voice, she could feel His presence, and it calmed her. And when He was finished with her she was able to dry her tears and get to her feet.

“Take care of my son, wherever he is,” she said. “And if this is a mistake, please forgive me and guide me. You know that I love you. I can’t handle this without you. Please help me.”

She walked quickly back to her car. As she pulled out she stopped for the peacocks while they slowly strutted across the road. Peacocks. Visitors complained about them all the time—that they were incessant pests who pulled flowers out of the grave vases, impeded traffic, and keened their eerie calls. Jean hated them—said they reminded her of “crypt keepers.” But for Van, they reminded her that there was a life better than this one and that God was seeing even when she couldn’t. With them, she knew James wasn’t alone here. And neither was she.

* * *

Van drove back to town and circled the block a couple of times before it occurred to her that this was farmers’ market day—she could do this all day and still not find a close parking space.

Reluctantly, she parked in a vacant lot close by and started to walk. She liked this section of town with its quaint old buildings and storefronts.
Sweet to the eye,
she thought as she gazed along the street. Even in its faded glory, it still called to her. She made a mental note to come back and just take it all in, write about it, maybe even sketch it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT

Ryan had never seen so many cars in Nevis, bumper to bumper along the curb, leaving him nowhere to park. When he finally found a space, he hit the sidewalk at a pace just under a run. Every other breath was a little prayer that he would find Van all right. Ahead, he could see several side streets converging into the main town circle.

At the traffic circle, he looked down the street to his right. Their eyes met at the same instant: the bulky shape of Officer McCall pushing away from the car he had been leaning against.

“Thomas,” the officer yelled. He was not in uniform, though nothing else about him was casual. Every step toward Ryan reeked of tough-guy attitude.

“Fuck a duck! He’s all the trouble I need right now,” Ryan said to himself. McCall’s approach forced him to choose the middle street, and he whipped around and started across, freezing in his tracks as he recognized the approaching figure of Hector Young Jr.

“Ryan!”

“Make it
two
ducks,” Ryan said to himself. And he turned to the left side street only to recognize the figure of Van approaching in the distance. The sight of her, obviously alive and well, was a blessed relief, but she was so far down the street that Hector would reach him long before he got to her. Hector called to him again and accelerated his pace. Ryan took a couple of steps forward until he could no longer see Van, then stayed there in the pending vortex of forces bearing down on him.

“How was New York?” Hector asked as he drew close.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing from you. Talked to the boss—laissez-faire
.
I’m looking for your girlfriend. I have a proposition for her.”

“Stay away from her; she’s not interested.”

“Guess I’ll find out. What woman could resist a proposition from me once she sees what I have to offer, eh?” Hector laughed.

“I’m not going to let you hurt her. Stay away from her,” Ryan repeated, and he stepped forward to check Hector’s advance. From the corner of his eye, Ryan could also see McCall approaching. While Ryan’s body moved in apparent slow motion, his mind raced through a number of options for keeping his body in one piece. He braced himself as the hulking cop closed in on him. He didn’t have to wait long.

“What part of ‘I don’t want to see your face again’ did you not understand, Mr. Thomas?”

Ryan turned to face him. “Why, Officer McCall! Imagine us running into each other here! I was just headed to your office to let you know that unavoidable business has brought me back to Nevis. I was going to give you the courtesy of check—”

McCall stepped in front of Hector, grabbed Ryan by the shirt front, and drew him in close. “You dumb little shit. I don’t like having my instructions ignored.”

The smell of onions, garlic, and kielbasa was overpowering, and the tight grip of the cop’s fist on Ryan’s shirt pressed uncomfortably against his windpipe. Ryan was standing on his toes, but in another moment he could be dangling in the air.

“What the hell,” said Hector, regaining his balance and coming back at McCall with raised fists.

It was as if Hector had not existed until that moment. Officer McCall instantly dropped Ryan and whirled to defend himself against the new and unknown threat. Ryan regained his footing and slowly backed up.

“Officer McCall, I’d like you to meet the temporarily drowned, no longer dead Hector Young. Hector, this is Officer McCall.”

Hector immediately dropped his fists. “Officer … as in
police
?”

McCall uncocked the fist he was about to launch at Hector’s face. “Hector Young?
The
Hector Young? Son of a bitch, I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted to talk to you! How ’bout you and I have a little chat about your recent death?” As he spoke, McCall grabbed a fistful of shirt and pulled Hector in the direction of his car. “You can come, too, Mr. Smart-Ass,” he said, talking over his shoulder to Ryan. But by now Ryan was almost out of earshot. After making the formal introduction, he had wasted no time in sprinting across the circle and down the third street, toward Van.

“We’re not finished, Thomas!” McCall yelled after him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DARK AND DIRTY

Van stopped walking as the figure of a man appeared at the end of the street. She could swear it was Ryan, but before she could call to him, he disappeared. No, she thought, if he was back in town, he would surely have called. She quickened her pace, but before she could close the distance to the corner the man reappeared. This time he was running full speed, straight for her, jacket flapping in the breeze and hair flying. It was a desperate, scrambling kind of run in which the body was trying to do too many things at once, none of them well. Relief swept over her as she recognized that it was indeed Ryan.

She began to run toward him.

Ryan was breathless when he reached her. She tried to wrap her arms around his neck, but he peeled them off none too gently in one sweeping motion. Without stopping, he grabbed her by the elbow and rushed her back around the corner she had just come from.

“Keep walking,” he said. “Let me catch my breath. Where’s your car?”