Death's Half Acre

CHAPTER 28

There are two conversations.

The other one is the other one.

—Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson

Hey,” Dwight said when I got home a little before six that Thursday evening. He was frying chicken strips to top a green-beans-and-rice dish he had invented.

Before he could say anything else, Cal piped up. “Blue’s dead, Deborah. We found him in the lane when we came home.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” said Dwight, turning the chicken strips to brown them evenly. “I don’t know if he was hit by a car first or just died of old age.”

“Does Daddy know?”

He nodded. “We took him over to the house and I dug the grave.”

“How’s he taking it?”

“Okay, I guess. After all, it’s not the first dog he’s had die.”

True. Nonetheless, when I went to change clothes and he said that supper would be ready in about ten minutes, I told them to go ahead without me. “I think I’ll run over there for a little while.”

Five minutes later, I was driving through the rutted lanes to the homeplace, absently scratching at the bandage on my arm. Despite all the blood, it had only been a flesh wound and was healing very nicely. I would have a scar, but the doctor assured me it wouldn’t be too noticeable.

I seemed to have lucked out all around. Ten days now since Candace Bradshaw’s flash drive had been found and the contents transcribed, and it would appear that there was absolutely nothing about Talbert, Daddy, or me on it. Nothing that wasn’t already public knowledge anyhow.

(“The wicked flee when no man pursueth,” the preacher murmured.)

If I had thought it through a little more carefully, I probably could have handed it over to Dwight as soon as I found it and saved myself a lot of grief. Daddy was not going to talk about it, Talbert had no reason to, and I’d certainly never told a soul nor written anything down for Candace to find when she rifled the law firm’s records. Besides, if what I’d heard about her the last few weeks was true, she wasn’t all that clever about extrapolating from incomplete data.

I was trying not to extrapolate too much myself, but I had put in a few hours at the computer that week and I had questions for Daddy that had nothing to do with Blue’s death.

He was sitting on the porch swing when I got there and Ladybelle was sprawled on the wooden floor nearby. She stood up as I approached. I know we give human attributes to our animals much too easily, but I swear it seemed to me that her tail did not wag as vigorously as usual.

“Hey, Daddy,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy. “I was real sorry to hear about Blue.”

“Yeah, I reckon his heart just wore out. Twelve years old last Thanksgiving.”

He sighed and moved over so I could sit down beside him on the swing, but I took the top step instead so I could pet Ladybelle, who put her nose under my hand to get me to scratch her ears.

There were almost two hours of daylight left and we could easily see the graveyard down the slope from the porch, where family members have been getting buried for over a hundred years. My mother’s there and so is the mother of the older boys. Inside the fence there are formal stones, stones with proper names and dates, but outside the fence is a long row of rough stones, some no bigger than a football, others big enough to sit on. None of them are chiseled, but there are names in black paint and every spring, when my brothers and I get together to clean off the weeds and trim back the rosebushes, someone will get out the can of black paint to touch up the letters, and we’ll start remembering the various animals that have shared our lives.

“I guess you put him down there?”

“Yeah. Dwight dug the grave hole and Andrew fetched a rock from the creek.”

I remember when Blue arrived. He was a Christmas present from Andrew, who traded two of his rabbit dogs to a breeder down in South Carolina for the little blue-speckled puppy. Daddy swore he was never going to have another house dog after the redtick he’d had for eight years was bitten by a cottonmouth, but it had been six months and Andrew rightly figured he was ready.

When Andrew handed him that puppy on Christmas morning, Daddy handed it right back.

“Didn’t I say I won’t gonna have another house dog?”

But by the time the fruitcake and coffee went around for the last time that night, the pup was sound asleep in his lap and when Andrew said, “You want me to take him on home with me?” Daddy said, “Naw, ain’t no need to wake him up.”

I should have realized that he would take Blue’s death in stride. When you’ve seen that many well-loved dogs arrive as puppies, live a dog’s long life, then die, I guess it gives you perspective.

I was pretty sure that there would be another new puppy to keep Ladybelle company before the year was out, and that the cycle would continue.

I leaned back against the rail post to face Daddy and said, “Guess you heard about your friend losing all the assets of his church.”

He gave me a wary look. “My friend?”

“McKinney. The preacher at the Church of Jesus Christ Eternal.”

“He ain’t my friend.”

“He was calling you Brother Kezzie when you introduced us the other day at the courthouse.”

“That was just preacher talk.” His voice turned stern. “You trying to tend to my business, Deb’rah?”

“No, sir, but did you know that most of the documents that pass through the register of deeds office are online?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means that I can sit at my computer at my house and look up the deed holders of every piece of property in the county.”

He frowned. “Anybody can do that or just judges?”

“Anybody,” I said.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. The swing rocked gently back and forth, making a small squeak.

“I gotta get up there with my oil can,” he said.

I didn’t respond and the silence stretched between us.

I blinked first. “So how come he signed over to you practically everything he had? What did he think he was getting in return?”

Daddy didn’t answer.

“If you got his land fair and square, how come he doesn’t just tell people he sold it to you?”

“You see any dollar amounts on them deeds?”

“Just the one dollar everybody says when they don’t want to tell how much money’s changing hands.”

“Well, then. He must know about that computer stuff, too, and how people can go poking their noses in other people’s business so easy. If it didn’t worry him, I don’t know why it’s worrying you.”

“I’m not worrying, Daddy, and I’m not trying to mind your business, but when I see you with a shark like Faison McKinney—”

“Oh, he won’t much of a shark, shug. More like a little ol’ goldfish. Besides, if you read them deeds, then you seen I didn’t keep none of the ones he give me.”

“I know. But why would he bankrupt himself and his church for nothing?”

“Well, now, maybe he felt like he was getting a good trade.”

A sudden thought chilled me. “You have something on him? You blackmail him into giving back those deeds?”

“I’m done talking about this, Deb’rah. You got questions, you go ask that preacher.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy. But I thought maybe he’d fast-talked you into thinking he could help you get straight with the Lord.”

“Me and the Lord’s doing just fine.” His tone was mild, but it was clear he did not plan to talk about land deeds or Faison McKinney any more. He stood up and said, “Let me get the paint ’fore it gets dark.”

He stepped inside the house and was back a few minutes later with a rag, a can of black paint, and a small trim brush.

As we walked down the slope with Ladybelle at our heels, the sun was still three fingers above the western horizon and the sweet smell of wild crab apples hung in the air.

The stone that Andrew had brought for Blue’s grave was about the size and shape of a five-gallon bucket. Daddy sat on a nearby rock and pried up the lid of the paint can.

With the rag, he brushed the dirt away from a fairly flat area on the stone and dipped his brush in the paint.

“Do you believe in a life after this?” I asked him from my perch on a rock that marked the grave of Aunt Sister’s ugly pet goat. “In heaven?”

“Wings and halos and streets of gold?” He smiled and shook his head. “Naw, that never made much sense to me.”

“What do you believe in then?”

He shrugged. “Just because I don’t believe in heaven don’t mean I believe there ain’t nothing after this. We can’t never know, can we? I used to study on it, ’specially when your mama was dying. Now I’ve quit worrying about it. If being alive’s a accident, then we’re the luckiest accident in the universe, ain’t we?”

He finished lettering Blue’s name and the day’s date, then capped the can and leaned back against the fence to watch the sun slip lower. A light breeze brushed our faces and ruffled his white hair.

“You ever think about them stories your mama used to read y’all? Stories from all over the world about old gods?”

“The myths?” I asked, surprised that he recalled them.

“I reckon. One of ’em was about a chief in one of them cold countries where they have mead halls. Adam wanted to know what a mead hall was. Your mama said it was where they had big feasts, with singing and laughing and beer made with honey.”

I smiled, having no memory of this.

“Anyhow, somebody asked the chief if there was anything after this and the chief pointed to a moth up near the roof timbers that’d got in and was flying down the length of the mead hall. He said that moth was like life. It comes in out of the darkness, it stays awhile to see the feasting and laughing and song-making and storytelling and then it flies back out into the darkness. We can’t see in the darkness, but the moth flies on like there might be something better a little further on out there.”

“Is that what you believe, Daddy?”

He stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of a scuffed brogan and smiled over at me. “Well, shug, I got to say it makes more sense than angel wings and streets of gold.”

The sun sank below the horizon in a blaze of reds and purples and oranges. “But for right now, this is one mighty fine mead hall, ain’t it?”