Authors: Virginia Brown
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Sagas
That’s how it felt the day he went back to Cane Creek, Mississippi.
It’d been over fourteen years since he’d left with a crippled boy on his back and a lame dog at his side. The boy wasn’t crippled now and the dog was old, but the same feelings he’d had then were still inside him. Like he was still sixteen years old, still wary. Still angry.
He shouldn’t be. There wasn’t much old man Quinton could do to him now. But he hadn’t forgotten what he had done, hadn’t forgotten how it’d made him feel, how it’d shaped people’s lives into something distorted and ugly. How it’d killed his mother.
Late June heat shimmered up from the blacktop road, blurring the air. Dust hung in a thin haze above cotton fields and soybean plants. He turned onto Liberty Road. It was still gravel, with a good roadbed that had never washed away even in the worst storm. Rocks crunched beneath the tires of his Range Rover. The Albertson’s old house squatted at the edge of the soybean field like a disreputable alley cat. Part of the roof had fallen in, and kudzu vines nearly covered it.
He passed it by, then he braked in front of the ruined house on his left. He let down the window and stared at it for a long time. Two people had died in that house, one he’d loved and one he’d hated. Now it was nothing but rubble, cinder block foundation barely visible under charred timbers and Mama’s purple morning glory vines. Behind the ruins the mimosa tree formed a huge canopy, pink blossoms fanning in the heat, spicing the air with that familiar peach scent he recalled from childhood.
There were always things he didn’t want to think about, old memories that had the power to ache if he let them. It wasn’t something he let happen often.
At the far end of Liberty Road, Dempsey’s house still stood, looking as it’d always looked since he could remember, comfortable and welcoming, weathered cypress planks that’d stand the test of time. The old tin roof had been replaced with a new one, a shiny green, but other than that he couldn’t tell that the years had made much difference.
He parked in front, still on the road, smiled a little at the new truck sitting in the driveway. Dempsey Rivers wasn’t doing too bad in his retirement. A new truck in front of a house up on old cinder blocks, a satellite dish bolted to the unpainted boards. So maybe some things had changed since he’d gone. Maybe too much. Maybe not enough. He got out of the Rover and shut the door, wondering if he’d made a mistake in coming back. But he was here now. And he wanted to see Dempsey.
By the time he stepped up onto the porch the front door swung open. Still lean, still straight, his skin reflecting his heritage as well as years spent in the sun, Dempsey stepped out onto the porch.
“Boy, is that you? Really you? Lord have mercy, after all this time.” Dempsey folded him into a bear hug, wiry strength in his arms for all that he had to be in his mid-sixties now, then stepped back to fix him with a critical eye. “Still look hungry, though. You got here just in time.”
“I can smell it. Catfish and hushpuppies.”
“Fishin’s pickin’ back up. Couldn’t get any river cat for a while, after that chemical spill in the plant upriver. Gover’ment raised a big stink about that one, and old man Quinton had to do a peck of explainin’. Come on in here, boy, and I’ll fix you a plate.”
Chantry followed him in. It looked much the same, the pot-bellied stove in the far corner still there but covered in a scarf for the summer months, Miss Julia’s memory living on in pretty statues on the coffee table and her lace doilies on the couch and chairs. A new big-screen TV sat against another wall. Dempsey had it tuned to one of the satellite music stations that played gospel music.
On the stove, the familiar black iron pot bubbled with frying fish and hushpuppies. He sat at the kitchen table and tried not to betray how awkward he felt. It wasn’t like he’d thought it’d be, but he wasn’t really surprised. Few things measured up to memory or anticipation.
“Here,” Dempsey said, and put a big platter in the middle of the table, “dig in. Still don’t stand on no ceremony here, Chantry. Just eat and enjoy.”
Food was always a good common denominator. It provided distraction and conversation, and gave him space to figure out what he wanted to say. Wanted to ask. So many questions, none with answers he’d want to hear, no doubt, but not having answers was much worse. He’d gone a lifetime without answers when the truth could have saved them all from a lot of heartache.
When the platter was empty and Dempsey took out his pipe, the old signal that the meal had ended, Chantry sat back and looked at him. He looked almost the same, a little older maybe, with new creases around the eyes and mouth, but his hair had only a bit more gray in the close-cropped wiry brush.
The sweet, heavy scent of cherry tobacco eased the silence. On the TV, someone sang an old gospel song about the River Jordan. Chantry looked out the window and saw a scruffy cat sitting near the woodpile, probably lured by the smell of frying fish. Tansy’s cat. Or probably a descendent.
“How’s Tansy?”
Dempsey peered at him through a layer of smoke for a moment, then nodded. “Doin’ just fine, Chantry. Travels a lot. Doesn’t get home often.”
“She’s a pretty famous singer now.”
“Guess you could say that. Got a couple of real hits, though I don’t cotton much to the kind of music she sings. I like it best when she sings the old songs, like her mama did.”
“Tansy always could sing.” He remembered how he’d always liked to hear her sing, her voice clear and true and powerful. And he remembered suddenly her standing up on the stage of a redneck bar, a frightened girl with more courage than sense, singing to a club full of rough men and women. She’d had them in the palm of her hand, too.
“She deserves success.”
“So tell me what you’ve been up to since you left the Marines. You didn’t say much more in your letters than you do sittin’ here. Makes an old man work too hard to find out what’s goin’ on.”
“You always know what’s going on.”
“Maybe.” Dempsey’s brown eyes narrowed slightly against the smoke. “If you’re talkin’ about here in Cane Creek, anyway. But you been gone a long time now. Too much has happened since you been gone to tell it all.”
“Same here. Did a stint in the Marines, went places I liked, some I didn’t, saw things I’d never want to see again, and some I would.”
“And got a Purple Heart, so’s I heard.”
He went silent. That was one of those memories he’d just as soon forget. The Gulf War.
Khafji.
Fresh out of boot camp, weapon in his hands, sand in his eyes, and his heart in his mouth, trapped under a burning LAV-AT with only one way out. People said that when you faced death your life passed in front of your eyes, but it was his father’s death that had flashed in front of him then, like a movie streamer, things he’d never really seen only imagined, but the outcome always the same. He didn’t remember what he’d done then, but others did, and told him how he’d gotten out from under the armored vehicle with his rifle spitting hot rounds, pulling his buddy with him, getting them out of there somehow before Iraqis swarmed all over them. He took a bullet before he made it, but he’d made it. All he remembered clearly was the sand and the drumming of his heart in his ears.
“That was a long time ago,” he said quietly. “I don’t think about it much.”
“So what brings you back to Cane Creek, Chantry? Can’t be the summer heat.”
There it was. The question he knew everyone would ask. And he couldn’t answer. Not the way they’d expect.
So he just said, “Doc needs some help for a while. Told him I’d do what I can. Payback. He never let me pay for everything he did for Shadow.”
“So how is that dog?”
“He’s half-blind, half-deaf, still lame, and living with Mikey. He calls him the Immortal, says he’s the Highlander’s dog. I’m not sure what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but it’s like most of the things Mikey says. Obscure.”
Dempsey chuckled until he began to cough, bending over and wheezing until his eyes ran. Then he shook his head and wiped his sleeve over his eyes. “That child could always see things no one else saw, though.”
Chantry didn’t say anything to that. It was pretty much the truth.
“So Mikey’s doing fine then,” Dempsey said after a minute.
“In college. He says he likes it so much he’s going to make it his career. I don’t think that is quite what our grandparents had in mind, but so far, they just let him do what he wants.”
“There was a time I didn’t think he’d live that long, I swear I didn’t. He s’prised me. Had that hole in his heart, those clubfeet. Got a lot of steel in that little body.”
“He’s not so little anymore. Six feet and probably still growing. Miss Pat says he reminds her of a weed.”
He still called his grandmother Miss Pat instead of Grandmama or Mama Pat like Mikey did. It just hadn’t seemed right back then when his own mama hadn’t been dead but a few months. Miss Pat and Miss Bettie, who did all the cooking and snuck boys sugar cookies, were on the same level in some ways, both of them loving and caring, both wanting more from him than he’d ever been able to give. He’d learned early what it meant to care too deeply. It was better to close off some areas than to leave himself open to unnecessary pain.
“A weed, huh.” Dempsey nodded. “Just like my Tansy. It’s all in how you look at it. Some folks’ weeds are other folks’ flowers.”
Restless suddenly, uncertain if he’d done the right thing in coming back but knowing he couldn’t have done anything else if he ever wanted to find some measure of truth, he said, “Tell me about old man Quinton.”
Dempsey relit his pipe and looked at Chantry across the table. “He ain’t changed none, son. Still grasping and greedy and ruthless. If you done come back to settle scores with him, you might want to think about that a bit.”
“I didn’t figure he’d changed.”
After a minute, Dempsey said, “He sure did raise a lot of hell around here after you got your mama’s insurance money away from him, took on somethin’ fierce for a while. Badgered me a long time about you. He was spittin’ mad that he couldn’t get to you, but your mama’s parents made it clear they’d give him a peck of trouble if he didn’t let go. Miss Carrie would’ve liked that. Probably the first time anyone ever told Bert Quinton no and made it stick.”
“He’s not likely to forget that.”
Dempsey nodded. “No, I don’t think he has.”
“That’s okay. There’s things I haven’t forgotten either.”
“Just be careful, son. Just be real careful.”
It wouldn’t do much good to tell him that he didn’t care what Quinton did. Not now. Not like he had once. But he knew how Quinton worked, too, and knew that he wouldn’t just come after him. He’d go after those Chantry cared about. Those who were vulnerable.
“Tansy taking good care of you now?” he asked, and saw from Dempsey’s expression that he knew why he was asking.
“She does right by me. Has these last couple of years. Keeps after me to leave here, but I been in Cane Creek all my life and don’t really want to go anywhere. I like this little house, and I like it here where it’s quiet. Land all around me
. . .
it’s a good place to be. Suits me. A man’s got to know where he fits in. If he don’t know that, he don’t never feel quite right.”
That explained it pretty well. That’s how he felt. Not quite right. Out of step. Like he had no place to be, no place to go where he’d feel part of things. He should be used to it by now, but somehow he wasn’t.
“Yeah,” he said to break the silence that fell, “guess I can understand why you’d want to stay here.”
“No you don’t.” Dempsey grinned. “That’s all right, boy. Sometimes I don’t really know if I’m just bein’ a foolish old man set in my ways or if I really do like this place. Whichever, it don’t seem to matter that much.”
“Maybe it matters to Tansy.”
“That’s what she says. So, you ain’t never talked to her since
. . .
she left?”
Tansy hadn’t just left. She’d fled for her own life. If Bert Quinton had found out who the father of her unborn child was, she’d have ended up dead. He wouldn’t make the same mistake he’d made the last time, Chantry was pretty sure about that. Quinton would have gotten rid of all the evidence this time.
He shook his head. “No. Wanted to. Just never could find her.”
That was true. After graduating from high school he’d joined the Marines, not wanting to be indebted to his grandparents for anything, not wanting to stay in Memphis, but determined to make his own way. The Marines offered opportunity and it seemed right somehow, finishing what his father had started. While stationed near Chicago, he’d looked for Tansy but never found her. It’d left him feeling unsettled for a long time. Tansy was the closest thing to a sister he had.
“She’d probably really like to see you,” Dempsey said, and Chantry nodded. Maybe. If she did, she’d find him. There was a time for everything, he’d learned. He just had to wait.
“I’d like to see her, too,” he said, then stood up. “Guess I better check into the motel. I don’t have a reservation, but it didn’t look too crowded when I passed.”
“Cane Creek with a motel. Ain’t that something? Belongs to Dale Ledbetter, y’know. Built it a few years back, made ole Quinton so mad I thought he was gonna bust something important for a while. He nearly did, but came through it fine. Guess he’ll be like that dog of yours. Immortal.”
Dempsey stood up, came around the table, and walked Chantry out onto the front porch. It was early afternoon, summer heat shimmering in the air, a desultory breeze stirring young soybean plants, baking the earth. Drawn like a magnet, his eyes went back to his childhood home. Ruined. Like so much else in his past. Only a few things had survived intact, and he’d do what he had to do to keep them safe. Trouble was, it meant putting them at risk first. Like wading into a hornet’s nest.