called upon by fate, he gave the last full measure of devotion. When a plain woman with waist-length hair rises from the front pew and begins to sing ”Amazing Grace“ without accompaniment, I realize there are tears in my eyes.
The singer is wearing a cotton dress that looks hand-sewn from a Simplicity pattern. As she sings about toils and snares, I relive the moments when the Asian face was illuminated in the window of the Lexus, when the holes appeared in the door below that face, and then me turning and seeing Sonny standing in his combat stance with his pistol, returning fire in the face of an automatic weapon. Sonny Cross was no movie actor with nothing to fear, but a man of flesh and blood facing his last seconds on earth with remarkable courage. That brave last stand was what sent the Lexus fleeing down the road. In retrospect, it almost certainly saved my life.
And what did Sonny Cross say as he lay dying on the ground? Did he scream, ”Call an ambulance!“ Did he beg me not to let him die? No. He told me to check on his sons, to make sure they hadn’t been hit. Then he told me to make sure that the wife he’d divorced knew that he was sorry, that he was thinking of her at the end. Today those boys and that ex-wife sit in the wooden ”family box“ at the side of the funeral parlor, their faces rigid with the stoic resignation of Appalachian hill people. Only the youngest boy has the glitter of tears in his eyes. There’s a man in the box, too, elderly but big, with the rawboned hands and red skin of a day laborer. His face is a more weathered likeness of Sonny’s. The father, I’ll bet.
When the hymn is done, the pastor motions for the pallbearers to come forward. Eight deputies rise as one and lift the casket from its bier. Sheriff Billy Byrd stands at their head, his rigid jaw making plain that he’s more than ready to deliver the righteous retribution that the pastor demanded during his service. As the casket leaves the parlor by a side door, I rise with the rest of the mourners and walk out into the sunlight.
Unlike the City Cemetery, Greenlawn Memorial Park has existed for only fifty years. It’s a more conventional graveyard, sited on rolling hills in the blue-collar area of Morgantown Road. People of all denominations may be buried here, so long as they’re white. There are probably more Baptist ”residents“ here than anything else, originating from the staggering aggregation of Baptist churches in the state. It always struck me as telling that Mississippi has the highest per capita number of churches in the nation but the lowest literacy rate. Yet somehow, out of this strange marriage of extremes, we produce some of the greatest artists in the world.
About thirty people have gathered around Sonny’s open grave: family members, cops, an honor guard from Camp Shelby. There’s no pretense here. The pastor quotes some scripture; the honor guard fires its salute-seven rifles, three shattering volleys; then, as the echoes fade, a strange new sound floats across the hills.
I turn toward the sound and squint. Standing on a hill about sixty yards away is a lone piper wearing a tartan kilt and a black beret. Again the tune is ”Amazing Grace,“ but this time it carries a stark and lonely beauty that accomplishes what words and gunfire cannot: it pierces our veil of denial and makes us one with the departed, even as we find comfort in the sound. When the piper finishes, the honor guard folds the flag and delivers it to the mother of Sonny Cross’s children. She may be his ex-wife, but no one is arguing legalities today. True widowhood has little to do with the law.
The crowd breaks up swiftly, and soon only the family is left by the grave. The big, red-faced man stands talking to Sonny’s widow. He’s wearing an ill-fitting suit, almost certainly the only one he owns. Cross’s sons stand a few yards away, looking awkward and uncomfortable as they watch the cars in the lane drive away. As I study them, the oldest of the two seems to recognize me. He lifts his hand in a little wave, then walks toward me. I meet him halfway and offer my hand.
”You were there when my dad died,“ he says.
”That’s right, Sonny,“ I say.
”They call me Junior.“
”Probably not after today. I think you’re going to be Sonny from now on.“
A look of utter seriousness takes possession of his face. Then, slowly, pride replaces it.
”I know this is tough,“ I tell him. ”My wife died of cancer, and she was a lot younger than your dad.“
This gets the boy’s attention. ”Really?“
”Yeah. It takes a long time to get over something like this. In some ways you never really do. But it gets better.“
The boy bites his lip and kicks at a stick on the ground.
”If you guys need any help, I want you to call me. My name is Penn Cage. I’ll be glad to help you out. That’s what your dad would have wanted.“
”Okay.“
”Has the sheriff asked after you boys? Is the department doing anything for your mother?“
Anger tightens little Sonny’s face. ”The sheriff’s a son of a bitch. He’s making out like my dad did something wrong. Not in public, you know, but with us. He said my dad took things from work he wasn’t supposed to take.“
I swallow hard and try to hide my interest. ”I don’t think your dad respected the sheriff much when it came to police work.“
Sonny nods firmly. ”That’s why he worked alone so much. He told me that.“
My pulse quickens. This eleven-year-old knows much more than I would have expected. ”Sonny, did you know I was working with your dad?“
He nods again.
”He told me it was up to me to finish the job. To catch the guys he was trying to get. Do you understand?“
”Yes, sir.“
”I know the sheriff has probably asked you what I’m about to ask. But I’m not the sheriff, you know what I mean?“
”I think I do.“
”I figure your dad must have had a special place where he kept his work stuff.“
The barest hint of a smile lights the boy’s eyes. ”They been searching our place for two whole days.“
”But they didn’t find anything?“
”Nope.“
I start to speak again, but a deep voice overwhelms my own. It’s the red-faced man from the funeral. ”You boys get back to your mama,“ he orders.
Sonny and his brother instantly scamper toward their mother. This man is obviously accustomed to being obeyed. He walks toward me with a slow gait, his blue eyes focused on mine. I hold out my hand as he reaches me, and he shakes it carefully, like a man who knows he could hurt someone by simply closing his hand.
”Hello, Mr. Cage,“ he says.
”Are you Sonny’s father?“
”That’s right. Your daddy was my doctor back when I worked for Triton Battery.“
I’m thankful for this. I’ve yet to meet a former patient who doesn’t have fond memories of my father. ”I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Sonny.“
Mr. Cross takes a slow breath, then lets out a deep sigh. ”You were with him when he died, they said. That right?“
”Yes, sir. I was.“
”Did it really happen the way you told the sheriff?“
”Yes.“
”Sonny done his duty?“
”Mr. Cross, I never saw anything like it.“
The big man grimaces, then nods twice as though settling something in his own mind. He’s shown no more emotion than a man making sure his son finished cutting someone’s grass as promised, but I sense that inside he is boiling with emotions that will never be outwardly expressed.
”I saw you talking to Sonny, Junior,“ he says.
”He was saying that his father didn’t like the sheriff much.“
Mr. Cross pokes at the dirt with his booted foot. ”Billy Byrd’s a showboat. He cares more about newspaper headlines than he does about enforcing the law. That’s one way to be, I reckon. It’s not my way. Sonny’s neither.“
