what to say. Kids our age didn’t have any experience with this kind of thing. Some of the parents
brought Mandy’s friends with them, which annoyed the crap out of me. The last thing I wanted was a
house full of screaming kids. Mandy wanted nothing to do with them—she clung to Sylvie like the girl
was a life vest. My sister wept in Sylvie’s arms until she was so exhausted she fell asleep.
Most of the adults, especially the men, repeated Deputy Smalley’s words to me, stating I needed
to be strong for my mother and sister. That I was the man of the house now. It became a clear theme
throughout the evening.
The funeral director, Mr Paul, came that night. In a small town, the funeral director came to your
house. You didn’t even have to call him, at least not when you were the sheriff’s family. I sat with my
momma, choosing flower arrangements, caskets and all sorts of other shit I wanted nothing to do with.
I did it, though, because my usually vocal mother couldn’t form a sentence without choking up again.
Sylvie was there somewhere, a passive but needed presence, bringing people coffee, rubbing my
mother’s shoulders, holding my hand or rushing back to Mandy’s bedroom to check on her. At some
point, a plate of food appeared in front of me.
“You have to eat, Cal,” she said against my ear.
She said the same thing to Momma. Hell, I think she might have even fed her. My momma was
grieving something serious. My father and her had had this crazy, magical romance with each other. I
had always made fun of it, but I knew even at fourteen that it wasn’t a common marriage. They were
always singing, dancing or kissing. He was a great husband, a loving father… He was the best man
there was. What were we going to do? What was I going to do?
People wanted to stay over, but Momma sent them away. She wanted to rest and she sure as hell
didn’t want a bunch of people hovering over us. I walked into the kitchen and noticed all the dishes
were done. Sylvie must have cleaned up.
“Momma, you should go to bed,” I said, taking her hand.
“Cal, I loved him so much.”
“I know. Me too.”
“He was so proud of you, son. He was just telling me this morning, he couldn’t believe you were
the starting quarterback.”
A few hours earlier it was all I could talk about, but now that she said it, I wanted nothing to do
with it. I put her to bed and tucked her in, kissing her cheek. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d
kissed her cheek, always saying I was too old for that.
I wished I’d hugged my father more. I should have told him how much I loved him, respected
him and emulated him. Now I’d never get the chance.
Feeling the full weight of exhaustion that always followed deep sorrow, I walked into Mandy’s
room to check on her. She slept on her side and Sylvie lay next to her with her arms wrapped around
my little sister. Even in the dim hallway light, I could see that both their faces were red and puffy
from crying. I hadn’t noticed Sylvie crying. In fact, I’d ignored her for the most part, but she was still
there for me in every way. I crawled in, next to Sylvie, too tired to go to my own room. I was still
wearing my shoes and day clothes, but I didn’t care. I needed sleep. The three of us shouldn’t have fit
so comfortably on Mandy’s twin bed, but we did.
“Cal,” Sylvie whispered. I must have woken her.
“Yes?” My voice was raspy, but I’d managed not to shed a single tear. I was determined to be
strong, even if it killed me.
“You can talk to me. I know what you’re going through.”
“I’m fine, Sylvie.”
“I don’t think you are.”
We lay there in the quiet with only Mandy’s breathing breaking through the stillness. “Does it get
any easier?” I asked.
“Not easier, but the pain is like a knife. It’s sharp at first, and tears through you. It’ll always be
there, but after a while it dulls.”
* * * *
I went through the motions at the funeral. I greeted people, I murmured sentiments of gratitude,
accepted embraces and kissed cheeks. I wasn’t there, though. I was a zombie or perhaps a ghost. The
visual of my father laid out inside the shiny coffin in his Sunday suit almost did me in, especially
when everyone commented that I was as handsome as he was. Still, I didn’t cry. I had to be strong and
give the eulogy. It seemed an impossible task. That was when Sylvie held my hand, and squeezed it
tightly.
“You can do this. You loved him. Just pretend you’re speaking to him and telling him that.”
I don’t know why that simple statement gave me the strength I needed, but I was able to walk to
that podium and say all the wonderful things about my father that I needed to say.
The wake was the worst, though. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, neighbors, cops, cops and more
cops. They came from every county in the Tri-State area to grieve with us. I hadn’t really noticed
them all at the church, but our small house looked ready to burst open at the seams with the amount of
people in it.
I didn’t want any of them there. I just wanted to be alone. If one more person told me I had to be
strong, I thought I might puke. I hadn’t cried. I’d managed that. Why couldn’t they leave me alone?
They expected me to be the rock that my momma and Mandy clung to in this period of sorrowful
misery. My father was a boulder, but I was a fucking pebble. How could I replace him?
Sylvie clasped my hand and pulled me outside. She dragged me toward the woods. I followed
like a child being led by a grown-up. I finally snapped out of my trance when she stopped a good
distance from the house.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked her. I was actually relieved to experience irritation. I’d
thought the only feeling I would ever be capable of was anguish.
“We’re going to the woods.”
“I can’t leave.”
“You can. Just for a little while. You need to.”
I let her lead the way until we came to the familiar place where a majestic oak had once stood
before a violent storm had ripped it out of the ground, leaving only a wide stump in its place. She
pushed my shoulders down until I sat on it.
“Are you crazy? I have to get back in there.”
She bent down so we were at eye level. She traced the silver chain around my neck until she
reached the medallion hidden under my shirt. “It was my father’s,” I explained. “It was supposed to
protect him, but he wasn’t wearing it that day. It’s supposed to be—”
“St Michael, patron saint of protectors. I didn’t think Methodists believed in patron saints.”
“My grandmother was Catholic before she converted. She gave it to him the day he entered the
Police Academy. My momma gave it to me. It’s pretty stupid.” I wasn’t too keen on wearing jewelry,
even if it was religious, but Momma had smiled when I put it on so I wore it.
Sylvie slipped it back under my shirt. “It’s not stupid.”
“No, I’m stupid because I’m sitting out here with you in the middle of the fucking woods while
my father’s wake is going on.” I moved to get up, but she gripped my shoulder.
“You haven’t cried, have you?”
“I don’t need to cry.”
“Yes, you do. You loved him very much. You can’t keep it inside or you’ll explode. You have to
let it out.” She stood up and placed her hands on her hips, but didn’t move away from me.
“I told you, I am fine. I need to be strong for Mandy and Momma. I’m not going to cry like some
candy-ass pussy.” I pushed her hand away. She responded by placing both her hands on my chest.
“Get the hell out of my way, Sylvie.”
“I won’t. You need to do this.”
“No, what I need is to kill that motherfucking bastard who shot my father.”
“Tex, I know how angry you are, but that won’t make you feel better. Crying will.”
“Who the fuck are you? You think because your mom died you’re an expert on grieving?”
She winced, but made no attempt to move away. I knew what I’d said was cruel and I instantly
regretted it. “I’m an expert when it comes to you, Cal Tanner.” Her voice was wavering. She’d done
nothing but help me through the worst days of my life, and here I was yelling at her.
“I told you. I need to be strong for them. Just leave me alone.”
I stared up at her face, which was looking down at mine. She ran her fingers through my hair.
“You don’t have to be strong for me. It’s just you and me. No one will hear you out here.”
That did it. I felt the first hot tear slide down my cheek. I grasped her waist and pulled her
toward me, burying my face in her stomach. My tears soaked through her dress, but she didn’t say
anything. She just let me hold her. She rubbed my shoulders and tousled my hair while I bawled like a
baby. In fact, I hadn’t cried since I was a baby. Not even when Nate clocked me in the head with his
fastball that time in Little League.
I pulled her down so she was on my lap. She let me. I cried against the soft skin at her neck and
she held me tightly. I cried for a long time, until I was physically exhausted, but she was right. It did
make me feel better.
When my arsenal of tears was spent, she took out a lace handkerchief from the cuff of her dress
and wiped my face. She didn’t say anything. I was appreciative of that. There were no words that
would have healed me like her touch did. Instead, she kissed my forehead, stood up and held out her
hand to me.
We walked back to that house together. It was better after that. I was able to be in my body. I
even managed to make Mandy smile. Sylvie had done that for me. She let me cry. She let me be
myself.
It all went to shit, though, when Mona Simms brought up that my father’s birthday was next
week, causing my mother to break out into fresh hysterics. What the hell was wrong with that bitch?
Why couldn’t she have kept her fat ass on the piano bench and played some more of those God-awful
hymns she’d been singing all day? I think she took up residence there just to make sure she’d have a
place to sit.
I started to comfort my mother, telling her it would be okay. I really had no deep profound words
for her. My words were hollow at best, and they did nothing to alleviate her pain. It was Sylvie who
did that. She walked over to the now-vacant piano bench and sat down. Mandy followed her as she
always did. Sylvie smiled at her. Then she started playing.
The tune was easily recognized. Don McLean’s
American Pie
was not the most appropriate song
for a wake, but it was definitely one my father would have appreciated. One of his favorites in fact.
He’d taught it to both Mandy and Sylvie. My mother calmed down like the music was a magical
medication for her ills. It worked on me too. I walked over and sat there on the bench with them.
Mandy was in between us. Sylvie smiled at me. I knew this was hard for her. She never let anyone
hear her sing or even talk really except for my family.
The thing was that particular song was infectious. Mandy and Sylvie were singing and I added
my less than harmonious voice to theirs. My mother joined us next, squeezing Sylvie’s shoulder in
appreciation. Then more people came, standing around the piano and lending their voices. Someone
took my father’s guitar off the hook and started strumming along. We misquoted some of McLean’s
poetic lyrics, and we were definitely no show choir, but in that moment, I totally got what my dad
always said about music having the ability to heal. I stared at the beautiful girl with the long cinnamon
hair and eyes so deep you could fall right into them.
She was more than my friend. She was my family.
I could admit it to myself finally, even if I didn’t have the courage to tell her.
I loved Sylvie Cranston with all my heart.
Chapter Eight
Excerpt from
Raven Girl
Age 15
“Cal, you are such an idiot!” Sylvie said for the twentieth time since we’d been walking home
from school.
“It’s not a big deal, Sylvie.”
“Not a big deal? Look at your face.”
“You should have seen his,” I said with a cocky smile.
She stopped and shook her head at me. “Why did you get into a fight with Nate?”
“He deserved it.”
“Y’all are best friends.”
“Girl, you’re so cute when you try to sound Southern.”
She squared her shoulders in a stance I recognized as pissed-off Sylvie mode. “But you’re
wrong,” I said, tugging on one of her pigtails. “He’s not my best friend. You are.” She shook her head
at me, but I could see the smile curling at the edges of her beautiful mouth.
“Are they going to suspend you? Oh, my God, are you going to get kicked off the team for this?”
“Are you on crack? We’re in Texas and I’m the reason we’re in the state championships. They
are not going to kick me off the team. They care more about us winning than Nate’s busted nose.”
I hadn’t thought I could play football after my dad’s death. The whole town had rallied around
me, trying to persuade me, but it had been her encouragement that had made it possible. Everyone was
saying I had to play for my dad—it was too much pressure, until Sylvie told me that I should just play