CHAPTER 12
The hard freeze forced the graveyard manager, Burke Ismond, to bring out the heavy equipment early in the morning to dig a grave for Anthony Tolliver.
As he'd known Anthony, he mused that, even in death, the town drunk was a pain in the ass.
The Episcopal service was attended by Sister Jane, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Betty and Bobby Franklin, and Donnie Sweigert and Clay Berry, the latter two feeling they ought to show up because Anthony did, from time to time, work for Berry Storage.
The sky, a hauntingly brilliant blue, only intensified the cold at the gravesite. The temperature, at nineteen degrees Fahrenheit, underscored the coldness of death.
After the simple, dignified service, the mourners walked together back to their respective cars.
“He had a good sense of humor, even when his whole life fell apart,” Bobby spoke. “These things take over a person.” Bobby knew whereof he spoke because of his eldest daughter, Cody.
“Some are born strong; some are born weak. That's as near as I can figure.” Sister inhaled the bitingly cold air. “Once upon a time he was handsome, full of energy, and a good dancer.”
“Janie, I expect you and I are the only ones left who remember Anthony like that. By the time Edward and I married and we moved back here, Anthony was a lost cause.”
“Must be terrible to die alone and unloved.” Betty thought of his fate.
“Millions do. What was it Hobbes wrote, âThe life of man is brutish, nasty and short,' ” Bobby quoted. “Not that I like the idea, mind you. But Anthony didn't live in Beirut or Sarajevo. He lived right here in central Virginia. I can't help but think he had more chances than millions of others in devastated places. We'll never understand what goes on in a brain like his.”
“Just as well.” Donnie Sweigert finally said something.
“Why?” Betty asked.
“ 'Cause if you know how they think, maybe you start to think like they do.” He put his ungloved hands in his pockets. “He was okay. I didn't have any problems with him. He knew if he was on the job that day, he was sober that day. What he did at night with his paycheck was his business.”
“What surprises me is how long he lived, considering how much he drank. He probably didn't have any liver left.” Clay remembered how rail thin Anthony was in the last years of his life. “Man must have had an iron constitution to keep going.”
“Guess he did,” Bobby replied.
Clay shook his head. “This sounds awful, but maybe it's just as well he drank what he drank. He would have died of cirrhosis, no doubt, and it's an awful death. At least he didn't linger, and we might take comfort in that.”
“I'd take comfort in it if it had been his idea.” Sister's voice was firm. “Yes, he was a falling-down drunk much of the time, but he still had a spark of life in him. I know he didn't commit suicide.”
“Maybe he just grabbed the wrong bottle.” Donnie shrugged. “I feel sorry for him.”
“We all do, and I thank you all for coming here. At least he had a few people to mark his passing.” Sister met each person's eyes. “Thank you.”
As people gratefully slipped into their vehicles to start their motors and the heaters, Clay remained behind. “Sister, allow me to pay for this. I should have thought of it in the first place, and I apologize.”
“He was an old friend.”
“Well, he worked for me when he could work. Why don't we split it? I really should do something. I've had too much on my mind. I apologize again for not seeing to this when he died.”
“All right. We'll share.”
Clay bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “You're the best.”
“Best what?” Her eyes brightened.
“Best master, best person. Best.”
“I don't know about that, but every now and then the Good Lord gives you a chance to do something for someone else. I wish I could have done for him while he lived but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Yeah. Thing with the Anthonys of this world is you've got to cut them loose before they take you down.”
“That's true.”
“I'll call Carl Haslip, send half the cost directly to them.” He kissed her again and opened the door of her truck. “Crazy world, isn't it?”
She smiled. “Sometimes. Mostly, I think it's us who are crazy. The foxes seem to do all right. Never heard of a fox drunk or at a psychiatrist's office.”
Clay laughed, shut her door, and then headed for his SUV.
CHAPTER 13
Failure haunted Sam Lorillard. Turning around, he'd constantly bump into ghosts from his past. Hauling a mare up to Middleburg to be bred, he'd pass through graceful brick gates, drive to the breeding shed, and unload the mare. He'd notice that the stable colors were green and yellow, and that would remind him of a stable at the track. Or he'd drive down to the feed store to pick up a small item, passing estates along the way where he'd once worked, disgraced himself, and been canned.
At first the rehab center had felt like prison. When he finally faced himself, he had felt like hell. After weeks of intensive therapy, he began to believe he could do it, he could stay dry, he could fight this curse in the blood. The center then felt less like prison and more like a school to teach survival.
Alcoholism stalked the Lorillards, selecting its victims with savage relish. Rarely did the more phlegmatic succumb to the siren call of gin, bourbon, or vodka, or perhaps those more modern allures, heroin and cocaine. The victims were bright, personable, possessed of talent. Sam's mother, at the end, had looked like a stick figure. She died not even knowing who she was. Her uncle drank himself to death in his little house. When they finally found his body on the sofa and picked him up to remove him, he'd languished there so long his skin sloughed off.
Generation after generation, one or two more Lorillards battled the bottle, drugs, or pills. Most smoked.
As near as anyone could tell, this proclivity arrived from France with the first Lorillard in 1679. It flourished among both black and white Lorillards. Some overcame it even before the days of clinics, Alcoholics Anonymous, and drug rehab. They learned never to take one drink, not one drop, nor to fiddle with any other substance that made their bodies soar with pleasure, only to be smashed to earth. Those Lorillards showed great strength of purpose. Nowadays when Sam felt that terrible thirst come over him, that parching of the throat coupled with the memory of sweet bourbon and the warm buzz it gave him, he'd remember the family curse.
In Sam's generation, Timothy Lorillard, white, had owned a large company that produced picture frames. He'd lost everything. Another cousin, Nina Davis, black, went cold turkey after the birth of her first child. She never looked back. Maybe working as a nurse in the local hospital snapped her awake, too.
Sam knew it could be done, and he prayed constantly: “Dear Lord, give me the strength to do some good in this life, what's left to me.”
Anyone who had known Sam from his drinking days would burst out laughing at the thought of the rebellious man praying. He prayed grooming horses. He prayed while drinking a cup of coffee. He prayed each time he saw his brother; he most especially prayed then because he thought he would kill himself before letting his older brother down. When Gray had endured his divorce, Sam couldn't help him because he couldn't help himself. When Gray had broken down and cried because he did love his wife, and because he couldn't believe the condition of his brother, what did Sam do? He took another drink.
When he felt himself ravaged by guilt, he'd tell himself, “I can't change the past. The past is past. I can only live in this minute and do the best I can. I can forgive myself. I forgive myself.”
He walked along the railroad track, rails gleaming in the night, ribbons of steel reflecting the sparse streetlights from the raised road above, a chill squiggled down his spine. This is where his brother had finally found him, hauled him up by the collar, threw him in the SUV, driven his drunken ass all the way to Greensboro, North Carolina, to the special place there for people like Sam, people who ran Fortune 500 companies as well as filthy people who sprawled on baggage carts at the station.
The temperature dipped to twenty-nine degrees, signaling the end of the thaw. Ahead, the Chinaman's hat light hung over the door into the station. The drunks couldn't go in here; the station master chased them out. The stench of the men offended customers.
Addled as he had been when he used to end up here, Sam remembered the pleasant odd hum of the rails when a train was coming. The vibrations started a mile off. He could hear the hum as the train drew closer. Many times on an unruly horse, his senses had saved his butt. They had saved him even when he hit bottom. He had pulled Rory Ackerman off the track when he fell asleep and a train was coming. Drunk as he'd been, Sam possessed a sixth sense.
That sixth sense now brought him back.
Rory, huddled behind a cart, back to the wind, looked up, blinked. “Sam.”
“How you doin', man?”
“Doin',” the large man, coal black hair, heavy beard, shrugged. His eyes, black as his hair, were cloudy. Cleaned up, shaved, Rory would be good-looking, although it was hard to imagine it now.
“Where're the rest of the boys?”
Rory snorted, “Salvation Army, bunch of goddamned pussies.”
“Been cold. Got to warm up sometime.”
“I'd rather be cold than have the Bible rubbed off on me. They're down there cleaning up 'cause there's a service for Tony and Mitch.”
“Hadn't heard about a service.”
Rory stared up at him. “Why would you? You ain't one of us no more.”
“I'll always be one of you,” Sam said with a simple dignity. “I'm not better; I just decided I wanted to live. Wish you would, too.”
“For what?” Rory said this without bitterness or self-pity. “I'm good for nothin'.”
“We're all good for something.”
“You. You good for horses. You got something. I didn't even get out of junior high.”
“Some of the dumbest people I know have an education.” Sam laughed.
Rory laughed, too. “Hey, got a smoke?”
“Yeah.” Sam handed him a weed. As Rory fumbled in his pocket for a match, Sam lit the cigarette for him with a two-dollar blue disposable lighter.
“Least you haven't gone totally pure.”
“I can only give up one vice at a time. Calms my nerves.”
“Yeah.” Rory inhaled, closing his eyes. “What you doin' here, man?”
“Wondering what really happened to Tony and Mitch. Don't guess anyone told Ben Sidell but so much.”
“Mmm, he's okay, but still, he's a cop.” Rory shifted, turning up the collar of his shirt, an old muffler, caked with dirt around his neck, an ancient down jacket over that.
“You warm enough?”
“Yeah. Worse time is just before sunup.”
“I remember.”
“Mitch and Tony drank some bad shit; that's all I know. I think they drank it at the same time. Took longer to find Mitch, who was frozen stiff. Like a board.”
“Did you see anyone give them a bottle?”
“No.”
“Were they working? Enough for the next bottle?”
“Yeah. They'd go down to the S.A.â” He used the initials of the Salvation Army. “âshower, shave, get some clothes that didn't stink, get a job for a day or a week or however long they could hang on.”
“Where?”
Rory shrugged. “Tony was a pretty big guy. I know he delivered feed for some guy over in Stuart's Draft. He'd catch a ride over. Never said who was driving. He'd stay over there sometimes. Unload furniture for Clay Berry sometimes. Tony mucked stalls with Mitch, too. Mitch knew all the horse people. They're all the time needin' someone. 'Cause they get hurt a lot, I guess.” Rory half smiled. “Not you.”
“I've bought my share of dirt.” Sam hunkered down to be eye level. “Rory, if you want to change, I can help.”
Rory's eyes flashed for an instant. “Change for what? Who's gonna hire me iffin' I do?”
“If you're willing to work, I'll help you there.”
“You saved my white ass once. I never did squat for you.”
“We had some laughs.”
“Yeah, yeah, we did.” Rory softened. “How'd you do it, man?”
“I ran out of excuses.”
“Well, I got a few left.”
“When you run out, let me know.” Sam handed him a folded sheet of paper with his phone number on it at home and at work. Inside the paper was a five-dollar bill. He figured Rory would buy a bottle or two of vile cheap stuff with the money on Monday, but, well, he couldn't walk away without giving him something.
“Thanks.” Rory saw the money inside the folded paper.
“Oh, yeah, if you think of anything else about Mitch or Tony, let me know.”
“I will. Weird.” Rory stubbed out his cigarette, which he'd smoked down to his nicotine-stained fingers. “Your brother living with you?”
“No. The home place is so bad he can't stand it.”
“Gray always was the kind of guy who buffed his nails.” Rory laughed uproariously. “Expensive suits. Expensive women.”
“He's rented a cottage at Chapel Cross. He's looking for a place. If you do want some help, I got a room for you after.”
A mixture of gratitude and even a flicker of hope crossed Rory's once attractive features. “You're okay, Sam. You're okay.”
“Here.” Sam handed him the rest of a pack of Dunhills, red box.
“Shit, man, you must be living good.”
“My boss has more money than God. He doesn't mind that I smoke, but he says he can't stand the smell of cheap cigarettes, so every Monday morning, he puts a carton of Dunhill reds in the tack room. Funny guy. He's a real hardass son of a bitch, but he has a kind of sweet streak.”
“Who?”
“Crawford Howard.”
“Heard of him. Owns Beasley Hall. Beastly Hall.” He laughed sarcastically. “Guess he does have more money than God.” Rory examined the beautiful pack, a rich red edged in gold. “No filters. Anyone who smokes filtered cigarettes or lights, you know, man, no balls. No balls. I don't even respect women who smoke that shit. All they get is additives. Worse for them than real tobacco.” Rory said this with some enthusiasm.
Sam smiled. “Yep. You know, if you were a few shades darker, Rory, you'd be a real bro'.”
Rory laughed, a genuine laugh. “Sam, you always were full of it.” Then he stopped and said slowly, “You look good, Sam; you look good. I'm proud of you.”
As Sam walked back to the ancient Toyota, parked up on Main Street, he sent up a little prayer that the good Lord would help Rory find his way. And he prayed for Tony and Mitch. Something wasn't right, his sixth sense warned.