The Dead Don't Dance (14 page)

With my voice echoing off the river, I began to notice how quiet it had gotten, how everyone was listening to me, and how much I had said. Being tired and hungry does strange things to a person.

Pastor John sat back, took off his glasses, wiped them with his white handkerchief, and looked at me through his now-naked eyes. He smiled, nodded his head, and muttered, “Huh-huh,” as if he was talking to somebody I couldn't see. Then he slapped me on the knee and said, “Son, welcome back. You let me know if you need anything.” He stood up and put his hand on my shoulder. “And Professor, I miss your grandfather. Seeing you reminds me of him. And it's a good remembrance too. I think he'd like it very much.”

Everybody had long since quit talking and was listening to the two of us. I guess our voices carried a good bit under those oaks.

“Son, you give my child all the work you want to. If she doesn't give you what you want when you want it, you let me know.” He patted me on the shoulder and started making the rounds to check on his flock.

Amos got up quickly, brought his plate, and sat down next to me. “Listen here, you little squirt. I didn't bring you out here to put that doctoring mumbo jumbo on my pastor.” He smiled and pointed his own chicken leg in my face. “You got to learn to tone it down.”

“What? I say something wrong?” My face was covered with chicken grease.

“It wasn't necessarily what you said as much as how you said it. And the fact that you said it at all. All that bit about ‘process' and ‘your job.' You should have heard yourself.”

“Amos, you're half the reason I got this job. Now, are you going to let me do it, or do you want to do it for me?”

“Naw.” Amos slipped into his southern drawl. “I think you got it covered there, Professuh.”

“Good. You arrest people, and I'll teach them how to think so that you don't have to arrest them.”

Amos got up and said, “I'm going back for more. You eat all you want. Talking all uppity like that probably worked you up a pretty good appetite.” Amos wiped the smear off his lips and then turned and hollered, “Amanda, make sure that boy eats 'til he can't move.”

Before thirty minutes passed, Amanda had handed me two more topped-over plates. I felt like a tick and had to unbutton my jeans. I knew I gained eight pounds right there in that folding chair. Blue too.

The crowd thinned, and I helped Amos clean and clear tables. We carried them inside the church and stacked them against the wall in the narthex. As I was heading to my truck, Pastor John thanked me for my help, and Amanda gave me two more plates wrapped in cellophane and spilling over with food. I guess those folks were trying to tell me something.

On the top of the first plate she had written
Professor
and on the second
Blue
. Along with the plates, she handed me a milk jug of sweet tea. At this point, I had drunk so much tea and had to pee so badly that I nearly gave it back. Thinking better of it, I tucked it under my arm, and Blue and I headed for the truck. I drove until I was out of sight, then pulled over next to where the river bumps up next to the road. I got out, ran to the bank, yanked open my shorts, and peed for a minute and fifty-five seconds. A new personal record.

I drove in the drive and heard Pinky grunting, squealing and kicking the inside of her stall. When I had filled her trough, she grunted at me as if to say, “Took you long enough. Where you been?”

Nighttime and crickets found me rocking on the front porch, thinking about Maggie, my class, and how uncomfortable I had become in my own house. Home was quiet, and I didn't feel like walking inside. I was unable to put my finger on it, and my skin began crawling as if it were covered with poison ivy. Then it hit me. A stranger, silent and invisible, had moved into my home, taken Maggs's place, and begun to rearrange everything that was sacred to the both of us. Everywhere I turned, Memory had already been there.

I raced inside and searched the house but never got closer than the tail-end of her shadow. When I finally cornered her in the bathroom, I slammed the door and screamed from the hallway, “Pack your bags and get out! I don't want you here. Not today. Not ever!”

I had never lived with, much less slept with, any other woman, and I wasn't about to start now. “Maggie's coming home! You hear me? I said she's coming home.”

I slammed the screen door, and Blue and I walked through the cornfield to the river.

chapter fourteen

J
UNK MAIL WAS SPILLED AROUND THE BASE OF THE
mailbox when I got around to opening it the following afternoon. I dug it out and stuffed it in my arms like firewood. Buried in the back of the heap was a conspicuous envelope. The VISA bill.

I hated that thing and moaned every time I saw it. I'd been paying it down since I took Maggs on that little surprise trip eighteen months ago. She had always wanted to do two things: fly to New York City and see
Riverdance.
It so happened that
Riverdance
was premiering in New York at that time, so late one night, after Maggs had gone to bed, I did some searching on the Internet and ended up booking flights, room reservations, and tickets.

I was busting at the seams to tell her, but managed to keep it a secret for two weeks. When the alarm went off that Friday morning, I poked her in the ribs and said, “Honey, pack your bag. Plane leaves in three hours.”

Maggie lay there and pulled the covers back over her head while I showered. When I came back, I grabbed the covers at the foot of the bed and yanked.

She jerked up and said, “Dylan Styles, you know this is my only morning to sleep in. Now go away and leave me alone.” Her hair was going everywhere, and she had a big sleep mark imprinted in her left cheek. She slammed the pillow over her head and motioned to the light switch.

So I pulled the
Riverdance
tickets out of my pocket along with the plane tickets and slipped them under her pillow. That got her out of bed.

We spent the weekend in New York City and saw the show from the third row, front and center. I had as much fun watching Maggie's face as I did the show. The next day we walked the streets like Dumb and Dumber, strolled through Central Park, toured Ellis Island, stood at the foot of the Empire State Building, and rode the elevators to the top and waved at the Statue of Liberty. Maggie loved every minute of it. Fourteen hundred and sixty-nine dollars later, we came home.

I opened the envelope, and the number at the bottom of the page said I had paid for the first twenty-four hours. Now I needed to pay for the second. I tossed the bill on the floorboard and bumped the stick into drive.

I drove past Pastor John's church, onto the hard road,
up the hill at Johnson's pasture, where I crossed the railroad tracks midway. I made it into town just as Frank, the owner of Frank's Hardware, taped a “Back in Ten Minutes” sign to the front door.

Ten minutes is about the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee, so I headed across the square, bought a paper, and sat down in the corner of Ira's Cafe. Just as I slid into the booth, Amos saw my truck and parked his squad car. He pointed his toothpick at me and walked through the front door.

“Morning, Ira,” he said to the lady cooking eggs behind the counter.

“Mornin', sugar. You sit down there with Mr. Quiet, and I'll be there in a minute.”

Amos slid into the booth across from me. “Hey, buddy, what's up?”

I pointed across the square to the hardware store. “I'm waiting on Frank so I can buy bolts for the harrow.”

Amos looked over his right shoulder. “Frank left another ‘ten minute' sign?”

“Yup.” I rummaged through the money section of the paper.

“How's our girl?” Amos asked.

“Same. I'm going there now. Soon as Mr. Back-in-TenMinutes finishes helping Ms. White with her latest emergency.”

“That's the trouble with this town. Everybody knows your secrets.”

“Tell me about it.”

Ira walked up to the end of the table and kissed Amos on the cheek. “What you gonna have, sugar?”

Amos looked at me. “I just love the way she calls me ‘sugar.'” Then he looked up at Ira. “Give me three over medium. No, four. I'm hungry today. A couple of biscuits and some of that good honey that George steals from his neighbor.”

A guy wearing a white T-shirt and flipping pancakes hollered over his shoulder, “They're my hives.”

Amos turned and hollered back. “Yeah, but the bees are eating from his flowers.”

George hollered again. “At least that's what he told the judge. I can't control where my bees go. It's not like I can train them.”

Amos laughed.

Ira turned to me. She was a fixture in this town and had worked at this cafe for as long as I can remember. Consequently, she knows everybody and everything about everybody too. If you tell Ira something, you might as well announce it on CNN, because the world of Digger will soon know about it. She was also the most colorful person in town, and everything she wore always matched. Shirt, skirt, shoes—all the same color. She looked like a walking color swatch. Today she was lime green.

“Good morning, Ira,” I said.

“Good morning, honey. How you doing, Dylan?” She leaned down and gave me a big wet kiss across my forehead.

“I'm fine. Thank you,” I said, wiping my forehead.

“You don't look fine. You look like somebody peed in your cornflakes.” Did I mention that Ira was brutally blunt and had spent ten years married to a sailor?

“Thanks, Ira. I'll just have a biscuit, please.”

“Okay, honey. Y'all give me a few minutes. I got to make some more biscuits.”

Amos and I small-talked for ten or fifteen minutes, until Ira showed up with a plate of ten or twelve eggs and another plate of about a dozen hot, steaming biscuits. She slammed down both plates, poured two more cups of hot coffee, and did not leave a check on the table. She looked at me.

“Dylan, don't you get your butt out of my booth until you and Mr. Cue-ball here eat everything that I've put on those plates. You understand me, mister?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. There was enough food on our table for five people.

Amos smiled, picked up a fork, and split a biscuit. “Well,” he said, stuffing a buttered, honey-dripping biscuit into his mouth, “I think I made
America's Scariest Police Chases
last night.”

“What happened?” I piled eggs on a biscuit.

“Well, I pulled this guy over for speeding about ten o'clock, and he decided he didn't want to be pulled over. He was driving a big, four-door Lexus. Before I knew it, we were going about 120 down I-95. Then he hops the median and starts racing down the back roads at the same speed. Mac at the motor pool said this morning that I just about burnt up the engine and definitely ruined a good set of tires. Anyway, this guy bangs his Lexus around a good bit and then parks it in the middle of Old Man Packer's duck pond. You should have seen that thing fly through the air after he hit that hay bale.”

Amos stuffed some more eggs into his mouth. “The driver managed to swim out and spent last night in jail, but his car is totaled. Some people amaze me. There I was, just giving the guy a hundred-dollar speeding ticket, and he hauls off and wastes an eighty-thousand-dollar car and a night in jail. Not to mention what Judge Hand will do to him when I give my report. This is a crazy world we live in, Dylan.”

“What'd he say when you pulled him out of the pond?”

“Nothing. He just stood there looking at eighty thousand dollars' worth of splash and bubbles. Never even loosened his tie. Looked like a respectable fellow too. I handcuffed him and placed him in the back of my car. When I asked him why he ran, he gave me some lip about how the police were always picking on him. I asked him if he thought seventy-two was too fast in a fifty-five zone. And you know what the guy said?”

“No. What'd he say?”

“He said, ‘It depends on the person.' I said, ‘Sir, the law is no respecter of persons. It is what it is.' He didn't like that. Got real quiet. Then he started talking about his lawyer, and anyway, he's in jail, and I'm here eating breakfast. How come you're not saying much?”

“'Cause I'm eating my fifth biscuit.”

Amos smiled with honey dripping off his chin. “They're good, aren't they?” He pointed his butter knife toward the kitchen. “She's sweet as pie and can cook like nobody's business, but that woman can cuss like nothing I've ever heard. I guess thirty-odd years waiting tables in this place with that guy will do it to you.”

“Tell me about it.”

After forty-five minutes, Frank reappeared in his window, fixed his hair in the reflection, peeled the sign off his door, and unlocked the bolt.

I nodded my head. “Frank's back.”

“All right. I got to go. Judge Hand is expecting me. I'll pay Ira. You hug Maggie for me.”

“I'll do that.”

And it was at that moment that the guilt set in. Guilt caused by the fact that for almost forty-five minutes I had not thought about Maggie, or the death of my son, or the fact that my wife was a vegetable in the hospital, eating from a tube and urinating into a bag.

The guilt landed on my stomach like lead. I walked out the front door, turned right down the alley next to Ira's Cafe, and vomited five biscuits, six eggs, and a pot of coffee. I wiped my mouth on my shirtsleeve and steadied myself against the brick wall. A second wave coursed through me, further emptying my stomach. I wiped the messy tops of my boots against my jeans, drove to the hospital and forgot why I needed to see Frank.

I slipped quietly into Maggs's room, and Blue jumped up on the bed, nestling his nose in at her feet.

“Hey, Maggs,” I whispered in her ear. I would have given the farm to hear her voice.

“Hello, Professor,” Amanda whispered as she walked into the room and interrupted the silence.