“I can call her and see.”
“Good. I’ll wash up and shave. I feel sort of grungy.”
“Brush your teeth too. Your breath has hair on it… Do you really think we need bars on the doors and windows? Alarms? Did you see that bill?”
“No, I haven’t seen the bill. But right now, the way I feel, I wish I could put this house on Mars.” I got up and started out.
“Richard. I still don’t like that couch. It looks like it was designed by that guy who did the sets for Alien.”
“It goes tomorrow,” I said.
· · ·
After dinner, we picked up Jordan and got him to bed early, and Ann and I made love. It was good. Our sex life had never turned bitter, but it had turned quick, spaced between too many obligations and performed far too often when we felt the least like it.
But this wasn’t like that. It was like the old times when we couldn’t wait to get at each other. It reminded me of college and the back of my old battered ‘61 Ford; worn out when I got it, worn out more by my neglect. We used to do all our loving in the backseat of that car at the drive-in because we both had strict dorms and roommates. I remembered that Ford with the sort of reverence a monk reserves for a shrine.
I lay there with Ann asleep on my arm and looked at the space between the curtains and saw one of the burglar bars banded against the window glass like a strip of cancer across a pale eye. I looked at the bar until I made it go away. I made everything go away. I imagined us in the backseat of the old Ford with pieces of ripped roof cloth dangling down like limp stalactites. It was a cold December night, not the dead of July, and Ann and I had the old patchwork quilt across us and the Ford’s windows were all frosted.
I lay there believing that for a long duration, traveling backwards by mental time machine to a time when all was right with the world and I thought Ann and I would live forever and that our future would always be as bright as the chrome on a brand-new Buick.
9
So the next day the alarms were installed and the couch went back and Ann and I picked a new one. And by the next day I was able to tell myself it was time to get on with life, and it was foolish of me to consider seeing Russel buried. That wouldn’t make things any better, and I just might see his old man, and I didn’t need that.
But on the other hand, what if no one went to the funeral but the grave diggers? That didn’t seem right either. Even the executioner would be more welcome, I thought. I had at least seen his face, and it was a face that would be branded on my memory forever.
Still, I wasn’t going. And I wasn’t going all the while I drove over there, telling myself I was only driving by. And I wasn’t going when I parked under some oaks across the blacktop from the graveyard, and I wasn’t going when I got out of my car and leaned on it, looked across at the burying.
It wasn’t funeral weather. It was hot and gummy. The oaks I was under didn’t provide much relief. It was as if they were dripping hot ink instead of shadow, but I knew if I stood out of that shadow, out in the bright sunlight, it would be even worse; molten honey. For this kind of business it should have been rainy and cold and the graveyard should have been full of people dressed in black, at least some of them crying. But it wasn’t like that for Freddy Russel.
What he got were two grave diggers, and a hired preacher waiting impatiently beside the cemetery fence in a bright, black Buick with the door open fanning himself with what looked like a church tract, which was probably its best use.
The grave was already dug, most likely the day before, and there was a contraption over the hole that was used to crank the coffin down. One of the grave diggers wore a Hawaiian shirt with red and yellow parrots on it. He and the other man were laughing about something, probably an off-color joke about preachers, and they worked very fast, cranking at the rig, lowering Freddy down. For all they cared the coffin could have been empty.
When they had the coffin in the hole they waved the preacher over, and the preacher stood by the grave and cracked his Bible and started reading. When he finished, he said a few words, and damn few at that, and wrapped it up with an “amen.” The whole thing had all the conviction of a hooker’s lovemaking. The preacher checked his watch and made for the Buick, cranked it, and he was out of there. Probably had a late free lunch somewhere.
I was about to follow suit when an old, blue Ambassador drove up next to the cemetery fence and a big guy got out and stood beside it watching the grave diggers toss dirt on the box. He lit a cigarette, turned and saw me. He looked to be in his late fifties, slightly paunchy, but handsome in a workingman sort of way. He stood there smoking his cigarette and staring at me, then he gave up on the smoke, put a heel to it, and started across the road.
As he neared, I saw that he was older than I first thought. Perhaps his late sixties. But it hadn’t hurt him much. His face had the look of a comfortable, old shoe, and there was something about the way he walked that defied age; weary confidence preceded him like the figurehead of a great ship.
“You’re Dane aren’t you?” he asked as he came to my side of the road.
My pulse quickened. I knew who he was, though he wasn’t the fantasy image I had conjured two days before.
“Yeah, you’re Dane,” he said, answering his own question. “You know me?”
“I’ve got a hunch,” I said.
“I know you. I’ve made a point of it. When I came to town, first thing I did was ask around. People told me what I wanted to know. Said you got your picture in the papers a lot. Good citizen stuff. I went to the newspapers and asked to see their morgue, said I was interested in local history, said I was a writer researching a book. I saw your picture in quite a few issues. Big man here in LaBorde, Dane. And by the way. You take a good picture.”
“It won’t make it any better for you, but I didn’t want to kill your son. I had to.”
“You’re right. I don’t feel any better. Good of you to come out though, so you could see the shit go into the hole. Real nice of you.”
“He broke into my house, for God’s sake. He had a gun. He tried to kill me. I shot him in self-defense.”
“I don’t think that sounds like him. He was my only son.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That tidies it up. I feel better already, you having said you’re sorry. You have a son, don’t you?”
I felt a tingle at the base of my skull, as if some kind of cold borer worm were working itself inside my head.
“Ought to be about four now. I read the birth announcement. Nice name, Jordan. And I like your wife’s name too. I had an aunt named Ann. She got hit by a truck.”
“Russel, listen to me-”
“People around town I’ve talked to say your boy looks a lot like you, that he’s really something. God, wouldn’t it be awful if something happened to him?”
“Is that some kind of threat, you sonofabitch?”
“Not at all. I was just saying it would be awful if something happened to him. It could, you know? Look what happened to my son.”
“Maybe if you’d been a better father, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“You have no idea what kind of father I was.”
“I can imagine. You stay away from my son. My family. Hear me?”
“Don’t shit yourself, Dane. I was just pointing out how horrible it would be if something happened to your little Jordan. Little kids don’t always watch what they do. You have to be very careful with them. They get hurt easy. Killed sometimes.”
“Come near my family, and I’ll kill you.”
He smiled at me and got out a cigarette and lit it. He pushed the pack toward me. “Smoke?” I noticed his hands were exactly like my father’s. Thick and square and powerful. It made me uncomfortable.
“I meant what I said, Russel.”
