Shadow Country

How final, those small incisions in cut stone. No inscription-what would his siblings have chosen? What would a watchful society have permitted? Rest in Peace? Of course not. Rest in Hell? A Texas headstone Papa had admired would have suited him, too: Here lies Bill Williams: He done his damndest. Beside him lay his Mandy-Jane Dyal Watson, interred in 1901. No inscription either. Mama’s request. Her dates brought an odd prickling to his temples. In a quarter century he had visited her just once, in a cold north wind on the November day of Papa’s descent into the ground beside her.

With no river breeze to stir its dusty foliage, the burning banyan writhed and shimmered. Its thick leaves were black, the shell paths hot blinding white, no note of color anywhere, only the slim gray-green figure bent to a headstone. In the pitiless shine on the white monoliths, in a hot scent of wild lime and baked limestone, the air was cindered with black midges. He sank down in near vertigo, only dimly aware of the figure turning toward him.

Nell was there when he came clear again. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He waved her away, disgusted. She hooked her arm in his to balance him erect and led him back into the shade and tugged him down onto a horizontal stone. “Won’t bother ’em a bit,” she smiled, patting the marble. “I’m fine,” he repeated. She was taking his pulse at the wrist. “Of course you are,” she said.

Nell felt his brow as she sorted out just what she wished to say. “Be honest. Would you have phoned me if Carrie hadn’t urged you?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Why? I mean, why should I believe that?”

Why do you care, Mrs. Summerlin? He took her hand. “Oh, I think you know.”

Nell’s nod was vague, her hand cool and inert. What did that nod mean? And the dead hand? In a moment she released him and sat straight again and probed into her linen bag. “Enough of that old stuff. I have your History. Will you sign it?” He was taken aback by her crisp manner. Yet she sat close as he inscribed her copy. “L. Watson Collins! I’m so proud of you.” She marveled at the printed book and his inscription, For My Dear Miss N. “I always hoped-” But she cut herself off.

“Hoped what, Nell?”

“Hoped you might return one day, that’s all.”

“After that old man of yours was gone, you mean?”

She stared at him, sitting up straight again. “That’s unworthy of you, Lucius.”

“Yes, it is. I hope it is. Unworthy of me, I mean. I’m sorry. But is it true?”

She nodded. Disarmed, he reached to touch her cheek.

“Don’t.” She shook him off. Though her tears had risen, none had fallen. She did not trust him and why should she? He did not trust himself. What if, fecklessly, he led her on, opened her heart again, did her more harm? He feared his own weakness perhaps even more than she did.

Pressed like a leaf in Nell’s copy of his History was a faded envelope addressed to Rob. Though the list was missing, his note was still inside.

Lost Man’s River

22 May, 1923

Dear Rob,

I’ve entrusted this packet to a friend, to hold for you in case you should return.

Rumors about the enclosed list of members of the Watson “posse” have made the Island people very leery of “Ed Watson’s boy,” to the point where it might be dangerous to be caught with it. But Ed’s boy is actually quite harmless, I’ve discovered, having neither Papa’s hardihood nor his Celtic code of honor, if these are what’s required for bloody revenge.

This list is all I have to show for life at present. As the one person it might interest (other than those listed) perhaps you will know what should be done with it. Having wasted years putting this damned thing together, I’m beginning to think I only persevered for the rare experience of actually completing something, however useless.

Please come back. The Hardens at Lost Man’s River will know where to find me. Ask for “Colonel” (as I’m mostly called in this neck of the woods-not a friendly nickname, just a jibe at my “fancy” manners). I think of you often, hoping you are safe somewhere and happy. I pray you have more to show for life than I do and that I will see you again before the smoke clears.

With love, sincerely,

Your brother Luke

P.S. I believe this list to be complete and accurate to the last name.

Nell said, “He never received this letter, you know.”

“Nor the list. Which you misplaced. In the excitement of getting married, I believe you wrote.” Again, his tone was colder than he felt. “You never found it, I suppose.”

“I never lost it. You must have guessed that. Please, Lucius. We were all terrified you might be in danger, and that list was all the proof your family needed.”

“Oh, come on! I’d already abandoned all that nonsense, as this note makes clear.”

Nell shrugged, saying she’d never read it; she had no right. “But when I saw your list, I got frightened so I went to Carrie. Poor Carrie became frightened, too, and turned it over to Eddie, telling him he must go find you at once. But Eddie only said, ‘And then what? He won’t listen to me. He’s never listened to me!’ Eddie took the list to Sheriff Tippins, who would not return it, claiming he needed it for evidence-can you imagine? In his mind, your father’s death was an unsolved crime.”

“In my mind, too. Still is.”

“Evidently, the sheriff claimed your list had been taken from his desk. We worried so about who might have wanted it.” She gazed at him. “Your letter seemed so sad.”

“I believe you just told me you had never read this letter.”

“That’s what I told you, all right. Another shameful lie.” Nell’s hurt and anger were rising to meet his. “I told a white lie knowing you’d feel embarrassed because I had learned shameful secrets which of course I’d known for years-I was your lover, for goodness sake!-that you missed your long-lost brother and were incapable of killing for honor or revenge.”

Yet from a safe distance, as a sniper, he had killed certified enemies, unlucky youths as young and frightened as himself, executed one by one as they popped up and down out of their trenches like bird heads from behind a log at a huge turkey shoot. Sanctioned slaughters century after century in the ultimate lunacy of the only insane animal ever loosed upon Creation. And finally that last weedy kid who brought him to his senses even as he destroyed him, that defenseless boy taking a crap at such close range that he could smell him…

Nell was peering at him. “Listen,” she murmured when he only stared, not quite present. “No more secrets, all right? I want to tell you something. A few days ago, I drove down to Caxambas to thank you for your book, get you to sign it-my excuse for seeing where this L. Watson Collins lived. You were gone, which was just as well. But someone was there, struggling to write something he’d promised you-”

“The long-lost brother. He’s all right, then.”

“No, he’s not all right. He seemed very discouraged, way out on that salt creek with no auto and no food to speak of and the place a mess. He looked just dreadful. I felt sorry for him. I told him that until you came back, there was plenty of room at Mr. Summerlin’s. He could finish what he was writing there without having to bother about trying to feed himself.”

“He accepted?”

“Yes, he did. Why not?”

“You live there alone?”

“There’s a house servant who comes in-”

“I see.”

“I wonder if you do.”

“Enlighten me, then. A few years ago, you were so concerned about appearances that you felt you had to marry that old man-”

“Not one word of that is fair. Be careful, Lucius.”

“Sorry. Mr. Summerlin. Anyway, I assume it was quite proper-”

“What right have you to assume anything? It’s none of your darned business. Isn’t it a little late for you to worry about my reputation?”