pounds heavier. And Roby had driven back out to Mule Camp and made the delivery to Johnny Divine.
Then Johnny had instructed Roby to go to the home of the deceased’s family and help ease the grief.
Roby hadn’t understood then, but now he knew plenty enough.
Enough to hold out his hand when Johnny Divine passed him the wrinkled sheet of paper.
'Would you please, sir?' Johnny Divine said. 'My eyes aren’t so good anymore.'
Roby read the name that ran across the top of the document. Glenn Claude Isenhour.
Roby didn’t know Isenhour, but he had a feeling he would soon be his second cousin. A member of the grieving family.
'You wouldn’t mind reading it aloud, would you?' Johnny said.
Roby cleared his throat and held the paper higher so that it caught more of the moonlight. He tried for a mixture of solemnity and energy with his voice, as if he were a news anchor.
'Glenn Claude Isenhour, age 72 of
1235 Pleasant Valley Road, Barkersville, died Thursday morning, September 18, at PickettCountyHospital following a long illness.
'Mister Glenn Claude Isenhour was born on December 27, 1930, to the late Otis Cornell Isenhour and the late Beulah Florence Cook Isenhour. Mister Isenhour was a veteran of the Korean War.
'Mister Isenhour was preceded in death by his wife, Sally Ruth Ridgehorn Isenhour. He is survived by a daughter, Mary Ruth Eggers, and a son, Glenn Claude Isenhour, Jr.; two grandchildren, Glenn Claude 'Trey' Isenhour, III, and Emily Faye Isenhour; and a number of nieces and nephews.
'Funeral services for Mister Glenn Claude Isenhour will be conducted Saturday afternoon at 2 o’clock at the Clawson’s Funeral Home Chapel, officiated by the Reverend Barnaby Clawson. Burial to follow in the ShadyValleyBaptistChurch cemetery.'
Roby paused, aware of his voice being the world’s only sound, as if the walls of the old garage, the surrounding forest, and the soft dark hills were all listening.
'Go on,' Johnny Divine said. 'You’re getting to the good part.'
'The family will receive friends at the viewing Friday night before the service from 7 until 8 p.m. At other times, the family will be sitting at the home of Mary Ruth Eggers,
4752 Old Cove Road. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to V.F.W. Post 1393, Barkersville. Clawson’s Funeral Home is in charge of the arrangements.'
Johnny sat back in his rocker as if he had just finished a heavy meal. 'Mister Glenn Claude Isenhour.'
'Do you know him?' Roby asked.
'I’ve made his acquaintance recently.'
Roby looked longingly back at his truck.
'Don’t be in such a hurry,' Johnny said.
How did he know? He couldn’t see.
But there were other kinds of sight. Some that saw through to the bone even in pitch-blackness. Some that looked right into your heart.
'I have a problem,' Roby said.
'So I heard. Jacob told me all about it.'
'What should I do?'
'Well, you wouldn’t want Jacob to show up for Judgment with only four-fifths of his soul. So you’d best find a way for that last family member to get a piece of the pie.'
'What if I can’t?'
The cane tapped at the ground, steadily, four beats, five beats, then stopped. 'You’ll find a way. Or you might just end up on the wrong side of this suitcase yourself.'
'I’ve got the Ridgehorn viewing, then I’ll have to run over to the Isenhour sitting. I reckon the pie will be ready by tomorrow.'
'Oh, sure. Beverly Parsons knows better than to let us down. Her daughter’s leukemia didn’t go into remission of its own accord. Unless you happen to believe in miracles.'
Roby was sick of miracles. He’d seen too many, the bad kind, nothing holy or inspiring about them. He looked around at the trees, at the kudzu that draped them and smothered them. He wondered if anything could be worse than this endless cycle of sittings, his constant posing as a relative of the deceased, his strange and endless mission. He’d been privy to too many family secrets for families that weren’t his.
Roby peered into Johnny Divine’s pale, sightless eyes. 'How many more, Johnny? How many times before I’ve paid what I owe?'
'I didn’t set up this game of living and dying. I got caught in the middle myself. You think I like sitting out here by this spooky damned garage in the dead of night, miles from nowhere?'
Roby had never considered the strange man’s motives. Barnaby Clawson made an earthly profit, Roby and Beverly Parsons benefited in their own selfish ways. The dead counted on these strange transactions to aid their journey to a mysterious Judgment in a plane beyond this one. But Johnny Divine seemed tied to both worlds, the one of battered suitcases and broken-down garages as well as the one of shadows and spirits.
Though Roby had been raised a Baptist, he’d learned new rules of the road since meeting Johnny Divine. God and the devil had no place here. Unless Johnny Divine was one or the other. Or both.
In a moment of angry bravery, Roby stepped forward until he was a few feet from the old man. 'Tell me, Johnny. When you died, who ate your pie?'
The old man’s breath came like the stale stench of a grease pit. 'Who says I’m dead?'
Roby could only nod. He looked down at the suitcase. He could have looked inside it any time over the past few hours. He could have looked inside the suitcase during any of his dozens of other courier runs. If he wanted answers, he could have found them. Not all, but some.
Even one answer would be too many.
'I’ll give Jacob your regards,' Roby said.
'Tell him to come on out and see me sometime,' Johnny said.
Roby headed for the truck. He believed that, if he turned, he would find that Johnny Divine had drifted off with the night mist. The garage would be gone. The suitcase and its contents would have never existed.
He started the truck and pulled onto the dirt road. He didn’t glance even once into the rear view mirror.
XI
Jacob Davis Ridgehorn may have been a simple man, a farmer and construction worker, but you would never have guessed it from the attendance at the viewing.
The chapel at Clawson’s Funeral Home was crowded and smelled of cologne, flowers, and Baptists. A line was out the door as neighbors, distant relatives, and local public figures took their turns viewing Jacob in the casket. As they filed past, each person would mutter a few words, say a prayer, or give a somber bow. Then the line led to the members of the immediate family, who shook hands or hugged those who came to pay their last respects.
Or next-to-last, in the case of those who would be attending the funeral itself.
Roby stood with the widow, offering support, keeping her supplied with tissues. Normally the oldest son or daughter ought to handle the chore, but Roby had eased his way into the family cluster and by the widow’s side. Buck and Alfred wore their suits as if they were strait jackets, looking stiff, the flesh of their necks straining over their white shirt collars.
The widow was in a dark blue dress. It was bad luck to wear new clothes to a funeral, and she didn’t own anything in black. Marlene was in a skirt and a blouse that was unbuttoned too far down for such an occasion. She’d been avoiding Roby, staying quieter than usual, keeping to herself. Sarah wore the same print dress as she’d worn for the sitting. Anna Beth wore a yellow sweater and a brown, knee-length dress and shoes that had thick, sloping heels.
They all looked out of place, uncomfortable. But the guest of honor, Jacob, looked as if he had been born for this very moment. His lips and eyes were relaxed, his forehead unwrinkled. Every strand of his gray, thinning hair
